Tyrion thrashed.
Alarielle woke in the damp darkness, with the sound of Tyrion moaning
painfully. Her heart bled in sympathy - and maybe more. And in shame.
How was is that her powers, once so great, had dwindled to such a stage
that she could no longer even cure her protector of the venom that slowly
pulsed through his veins? It was a simple thing to do, really, expelling
the foul intruder from Tyrion.
But now even the simplest of cantrips, even creating a light, was beyond
her.
Why could this be? Had Isha abandoned her, for failing somehow? It had to
be so, for no other power could combat that of Isha. And it would not be
Isha's fault. The fault had to be her own, and had to have come from the
cowardice she had displayed in fleeing from the Evercourt. Had she stood
firm and trusted in Isha, maybe she could have won the day, and not doomed
Elenia and Naideth and Hestaire and the rest to death.
She had failed them, and she had failed Isha.
It was not a pleasant thought.
Tyrion thrashed wilder, now saying something, and Alarielle watched as one
foot smacked fairly painfully into her own leg.
She coloured. How could she have been so selfish, consumed by her own
doubts, when Tyrion needed her.
She rose lightly and picked her way over to him, then laid one long-
fingered hand on his brow.
It was hot and clammy. Of course. The poison was killing him slowly, and he
would likely be dead before Alarielle reached safety. A fact that made
ashes in her mouth.
"Heshe, heshe," she whispered, a lullaby traditionally said to soothe elven
infants. "Heshe."
Tyrion's eyes opened. They were bleary and weak, but still gazed at her
intently. Tyrion's willpower was keeping him active.
"What?" he said again, weakly.
"You were raving," she said sensitively. "Again." Her hand shifted to
caressing his dirtied and tangled golden mane.
He did not reply. Alarielle withdrew her hand and sat back, pulling her
torn cloak tighter around her. Tyrion's cloak, really - the elflord had
given it to her so that she might preserve her dignity and modesty as the
flight disintegrated their clothing.
Tyrion sat up. He opened his mouth, about to say something.
Alarielle waited expectantly.
Tyrion shut his mouth again, and pulled himself to his feet. Lamely, he
said, "Since we're both awake, we should press on."
They both picked up their gear - Alarielle's consisting of her beautiful
staff and Tyrion's the plain and unadorned ithilmar longsword.
A twig snapped.
"What was that?" Tyrion hissed. His sword was bared in his hand, drawn with
such speed that to Alarielle it seemed to simply appear there.
Alarielle cowered. She did not reply.
Then Tyrion sprang forward, blade swinging. "Run, Alarielle! The druchii
are upon us!"
There was a clash of swords as Tyrion struck at an assassin who dropped
from a high branch. Alarielle started. She could hear the sound of two more
dark elves running in, but the sound of Tyrion fighting the first blocked
most of the sound and made it impossible to tell what directions they came
from.
Like a frightened deer she stood still, barely breathing. Then a black
shadow hurtled into vision.
Alarielle fled.
She could hear clearly the sound of twigs breaking under her feet, and
those of the other assassins. A cry of death rang out from behind her.
The dark elves had killed Tyrion.
And she sprinted frantically, simply trying to avoid her inevitable fate.
A hand grabbed her arm. Wild with fear, she tried to punch her assailant,
but the dark elf simply took the weak blow. She could vaguely see a twinkle
of moonlight through the forest canopy reflecting off polished steel, a
drawn blade. The dark elf flung her and she sprawled heavily to the ground,
helpless as the dark elf drew back the sword for the kill.
Another shape flew through the air and landed in front of her, between her
and her death. Another gleaming sword caught the first.
The moon had shifted slightly, and now the light shone down from directly
overhead, revealing to the frightened elflady where she was. She lay in a
small clearing, at the feet of Tyrion and an assassin. Tyrion was bloodied
but his face was contorted in concentration as he parried the dark elf's
attacks. The dark elf made a sidestep and swung, taking advantage of the
elflord's hindered feet - hindered by the presence of Alarielle directly
behind him. It was an impossible attack to parry correctly, and to do so
would leave Tyrion's guard wide open.
But Tyrion refused this. He could not fail. He flung himself back
acrobatically, curving over Alarielle and landing hand near her. Alarielle
could hear him grunt in pain as he struck the ground.
But the irregular maneuver brought him a moment's rest in which the
assassin gaped.
Tyrion's feet struck out in an arc, catching the assassin. Alarielle
scrambled out of the way as the assassin fell, though using his skills to
lessen the force of the drop.
Then Tyrion was on his feet again, the assassin already rising. He swung, a
torrent of wild blows that forced his foe to remain down and concentrate on
parrying.
The assassin was so intent on this that he never noticed Tyrion
repositioning his feet, until suddenly the sword stopped and Tyrion's boot
swung instead.
The assassin screamed in agony, and Tyrion's next blow promptly ran him
through.
Vuthil stood at the edge of the clearing, watching Ethak and Tyrion's vicious fight with pleasure. Soon it would be time to kill the young elf and the Everqueen too. He fumbled briefly in his pockets, reaching for the black sphere that the Dreaded One had given him so long ago after the fall of Avelorn. Finding it, he gave a sigh of satisfaction and looked admiringly at its flawlessness. Then he spun and hurled it into a tree. The thing shattered in a shower of black shards, and causing a black cloud- blacker by far than the darkness around him. Gradually it spread into the shape of a circle. And through it, Vuthil could see the iron helm of the Witch-King Malekith the Dreaded One himself. "You have taken your time, yes, assassin?" came Malekith's grating whisper "One of my men betrayed me and tried to kill me. It slowed us down greatly," Vuthil retorted. "How.shortsighted of him. I trust you showed him the error of his ways?" "His bones are rotting in the forest." "Good." Malekith's eyes blazed behind the helmet. Vuthil imagined them as two red points of light. In fact, Vuthil thought, they probably were, and that disturbed him. "Now, you have the Everqueen?" "The warrior who protects her fights like a daemon. He's killed both of my of my men." "Are you afraid, assassin?" Malekith taunted. "Never!" Vuthil boomed. "I think you may need some help. I shall arrange for it. My emissary will be with you shortly to collect the Everqueen. The other, I give to you - as a reward for your services, let us say." Vuthil bowed. "You are most gracious, Dreaded One." Malekith hissed, "And if you fail me now, I shall hand you over to my messenger. I do not think that you would enjoy the torments a daemon would put you through." Vuthil said, "A daemon?" "Yes. You say this warrior fights like a daemon. Let us find out, hmmm?" Then the cloud faded and was gone.
Tyrion stumbled away from the corpse of the assassin to Alarielle. "Keep running," he gasped. I think there's still one more of them out there." Vuthil said, "Yes, there is." The assassin stood at the edge of the clearing. He paced slowly, circling Tyrion and Alarielle. "So, you killed both the assassins," Vuthil said. Tyrion did not reply, but took a two handed grip on his blade and turned to face the assassin. Disturbed. Vuthil had not even drawn his sword yet. The dark elf was within striking distance now, but Tyrion did not attack. "I'll have to tell you, the Dreaded One is very upset about that. He doesn't like it at all." Tyrion spoke. "And what does the Witch-King intend to do about it?" Swords slashed. Vuthil sneered over now-locked blades, "He says I can do whatever I want with you." He applied pressure on the swords, flinging Tyrion to the ground. The elf scrambled back as Vuthil paced forward. Vuthil struck heavily. Tyrion rolled out of the way and back to his feet. "Ah, a moving target!" Vuthil sneered. "You have increased my fun ten- fold!" Vuthil struck again, two powerful blows that should have cleft Tyrion in half. The elf crouched down low, ducking the first, and then flung himself high in the air, above the second. "Very acrobatic!" Vuthil jeered. Tyrion panted hoarsely. "I'm glad you're impressed," he said dryly. "Oh, I am," Vuthil said, and swung again, forcing Tyrion to step back further. "Tired, are you?" Tyrion taunted. "Or maybe afraid?" Vuthil laughed as he stalked Tyrion. "Young idiot, you have much to learn. A Master Assassin is afraid of nothing." And he struck again, making Tyrion run to the side. This time, though, Tyrion had miscalculated. He darted smoothly away - into the assassin's corpse. He stumbled, and caught his balance. But now Vuthil was upon him, attacking with all the skill of a Master Assassin, raining blows from angles Tyrion had never thought possible. But Tyrion's sword swung at an equal pace, taking the attacks. His face was pale, but he held off the enraged Vuthil. Tyrion had learnt what Hallar and Elenia had always known. Simple skill is never enough. A warrior needs a focus for his skill. And Tyrion had found his focus. He would not let any assassin harm Alarielle. Vuthil's foot swung, trying to trip Tyrion. The high elf sprang up and struck the assassin cleanly in the stomach with both feet, sending the dark elf sprawling. But even on his back, Vuthil was a dangerous foe. His sword slashed once, ripping through the muscles on Tyrion's sword-arm. With a howl of pain and a spurt of blood, Tyrion dropped the sword and staggered back, clutching his lacerated right arm close to his stomach. Vuthil came to his feet and began to stalk him again, slowly, mockingly. They paced around the glade and Alarielle grew frantic with fear, for surely Tyrion was doomed. Vuthil charged. Tyrion saw the assassin come, bent over nearly double, longsword at one side. But he refused to move, tensing for the right moment. It came. Tyrion struck down with his foot, praying he had not miscalculated, for to do so would be to doom himself. But he had not. His foot struck the pommel-stone of his discarded sword, making the blade jerk upwards. Up into Vuthil's stomach. There was a spray of blood as the sword stunk into the dark elf's stomach and continued. Vuthil jerked upwards but the surprise blow had already happened. Still Vuthil stood, his lifeblood spurting out on to Tyrion. "You may have won, but I'll be damned if I go without you!" Vuthil gasped. Tyrion began to move. Vuthil's left hand grabbed him. The curved sword swung back to take his head. Then Vuthil gasped and collapsed, dead. Tyrion nearly fainted with shock. He had done it, defeated his foes and slain his enemy - with a trick, admittedly, but still a victory. And he was alive. Numbed, he picked up his gory sword as another form hurtled into him - though this time a much more pleasant one. "You won!" Alarielle cried, clutching Tyrion tightly around the waist. "I shouldn't have," he murmured, stumbling over to a tree with Alarielle's help and collapsing at its base. "Do you know why I won?" He finished the statement. "Because I couldn't bare to see any of them harm you." Alarielle turned and looked at him, wide-eyed. "Yes," he said peacefully. "I love you, Alarielle." Then the clearing shook. Huge footsteps, coming towards them. Tyrion scrambled to his feet again. "By Asuryan!" he spat. "What now?" Then the trees parted and the two saw it. It was huge. Probably three times the size of Tyrion, who was accounted tall amongst Elves. A monstrosity of muscles and flesh. Strangely, sickeningly sensuous, but Tyrion felt no attraction to its, rather repulsion and fear. Four delicately hideous arms waved, two ending in smooth-shelled crab claws. A daemon. Tyrion waved his sword at it, still clutching Alarielle around the waist with the left. "Foul creature of chaos!" he cried as loud as he could. "Withdraw or taste elven steel!" Then it spoke. There was no way that Tyrion or Alarielle could describe that voice. It was horrifyingly sexual. It was repulsively attractive. It was a bass rumble and a grating squeal. It was guilelessly tricking. It was Chaos. "N'Kari spits on your grave, proud one." The daemon came forward, daring him to attack. He took his arm out from around Alarielle. She kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, too." Tyrion's heart felt light in his chest, but the feeling faded when he looked at the monstrosity that he would fight. "I shall die a happy elf, then!" he roared. "Defend thyself, spawn!" He charged, blade spinning. One swipe by a daemonic claw and he felt himself hurtled through the air. He struck a tree heavily, and felt those ribs that had not been shattered by the blow snap like brittle twigs. The daemon N'Kari loomed. One humanoid hand grasped him and rose him up to eye level for the daemon, crushing him painfully as it did. "Die, arrogant fool," the daemon said, and twisted its hand lightly. Even from the ground, Alarielle could hear the sound of her beloved's neck breaking. Then the daemon hurled the corpse to the ground. It struck like a discarded rag doll, and Alarielle tried not to look at the mass of red that had been Tyrion's chest. Then the daemon advanced upon her. She cowered in fear, knowing she could not outrun the thing, or out-fight it, or hide from it. One hand, still wet with Tyrion's blood, caressed her cheek. She cringed in abject terror. "Xaph ult-thul ytan heithaman!" A beam of blue light struck the daemon with great force, flinging it away from Alarielle. "Who dares.!" the daemon roared in fury. Another newcomer entered the clearing. "I dare," a weak-sounding but powerful voice came. The daemon moved for the figure, but the elf was ready. As Alarielle marveled despite herself at the incredible speed of the daemon, the elf snapped out some more harsh elven syllables. N'Kari howled again, but now could not move. The elf strode towards the daemon. "Begone from this place, spawn of Chaos!" the elf said, and slapped his hands, screaming another spell. Pinpoints of light appeared around the daemon. It could only howl in pain as they moved inwards, slowly killing it. Soon, the once-great beast gave a final scream that blasted through both the elves' eardrums and was gone, leaving only an evil vapor. The elf came towards Alarielle. "Highness! Where is my brother?" Now she could recognize the elf from descriptions Tyrion had given her before his death. Teclis, the mage twin. "Look," she said, and pointed in despair. Teclis looked at the corpse of his heroic brother and began weeping. For a time the two simply stood there, holding each other up, letting out their grief at the death of the one they both had loved. Then Teclis straightened. "Can you handle the body?" he said. Alarielle rose her bowed head. "I am not going to leave him here for the carrion-eaters." "I can take his body," she said proudly, and moved to heft it over her shoulder. It was heavy, and his blood stained her clothes unpleasantly, but this was a burden she would let no other carry. Together, the two elves left the clearing.
Later. It was nearly dawn, and the bodies of the two assassins had just been found by the predators that live in all places. They moved inwards now, and began their feast. Another form entered the glade. A hunched and dark form. He whispered a word, and the foremost wolf burst into black flames, killing it instantly. The rest panicked and fled, leaving him alone. Malekith surveyed the scene of his failure slowly. Then a smile came to his withered lips, tugging his scarred face uncomfortably. He would make the high elves regret this day.
Vuthil stood at the edge of the clearing, watching Ethak and Tyrion's vicious fight with pleasure. Soon it would be time to kill the young elf and the Everqueen too. He fumbled briefly in his pockets, reaching for the black sphere that the Dreaded One had given him so long ago after the fall of Avelorn. Finding it, he gave a sigh of satisfaction and looked admiringly at its flawlessness. Then he spun and hurled it into a tree. The thing shattered in a shower of black shards, and causing a black cloud- blacker by far than the darkness around him. Gradually it spread into the shape of a circle. And through it, Vuthil could see the iron helm of the Witch-King Malekith the Dreaded One himself. "You have taken your time, yes, assassin?" came Malekith's grating whisper "One of my men betrayed me and tried to kill me. It slowed us down greatly," Vuthil retorted. "How.shortsighted of him. I trust you showed him the error of his ways?" "His bones are rotting in the forest." "Good." Malekith's eyes blazed behind the helmet. Vuthil imagined them as two red points of light. In fact, Vuthil thought, they probably were, and that disturbed him. "Now, you have the Everqueen?" "The warrior who protects her fights like a daemon. He's killed both of my of my men." "Are you afraid, assassin?" Malekith taunted. "Never!" Vuthil boomed. "I think you may need some help. I shall arrange for it. My emissary will be with you shortly to collect the Everqueen. The other, I give to you - as a reward for your services, let us say." Vuthil bowed. "You are most gracious, Dreaded One." Malekith hissed, "And if you fail me now, I shall hand you over to my messenger. I do not think that you would enjoy the torments a daemon would put you through." Vuthil said, "A daemon?" "Yes. You say this warrior fights like a daemon. Let us find out, hmmm?" Then the cloud faded and was gone.
Tyrion stumbled away from the corpse of the assassin to Alarielle. "Keep running," he gasped. I think there's still one more of them out there." Vuthil said, "Yes, there is." The assassin stood at the edge of the clearing. He paced slowly, circling Tyrion and Alarielle. "So, you killed both the assassins," Vuthil said. Tyrion did not reply, but took a two handed grip on his blade and turned to face the assassin. Disturbed. Vuthil had not even drawn his sword yet. The dark elf was within striking distance now, but Tyrion did not attack. "I'll have to tell you, the Dreaded One is very upset about that. He doesn't like it at all." Tyrion spoke. "And what does the Witch-King intend to do about it?" Swords slashed. Vuthil sneered over now-locked blades, "He says I can do whatever I want with you." He applied pressure on the swords, flinging Tyrion to the ground. The elf scrambled back as Vuthil paced forward. Vuthil struck heavily. Tyrion rolled out of the way and back to his feet. "Ah, a moving target!" Vuthil sneered. "You have increased my fun ten- fold!" Vuthil struck again, two powerful blows that should have cleft Tyrion in half. The elf crouched down low, ducking the first, and then flung himself high in the air, above the second. "Very acrobatic!" Vuthil jeered. Tyrion panted hoarsely. "I'm glad you're impressed," he said dryly. "Oh, I am," Vuthil said, and swung again, forcing Tyrion to step back further. "Tired, are you?" Tyrion taunted. "Or maybe afraid?" Vuthil laughed as he stalked Tyrion. "Young idiot, you have much to learn. A Master Assassin is afraid of nothing." And he struck again, making Tyrion run to the side. This time, though, Tyrion had miscalculated. He darted smoothly away - into the assassin's corpse. He stumbled, and caught his balance. But now Vuthil was upon him, attacking with all the skill of a Master Assassin, raining blows from angles Tyrion had never thought possible. But Tyrion's sword swung at an equal pace, taking the attacks. His face was pale, but he held off the enraged Vuthil. Tyrion had learnt what Hallar and Elenia had always known. Simple skill is never enough. A warrior needs a focus for his skill. And Tyrion had found his focus. He would not let any assassin harm Alarielle. Vuthil's foot swung, trying to trip Tyrion. The high elf sprang up and struck the assassin cleanly in the stomach with both feet, sending the dark elf sprawling. But even on his back, Vuthil was a dangerous foe. His sword slashed once, ripping through the muscles on Tyrion's sword-arm. With a howl of pain and a spurt of blood, Tyrion dropped the sword and staggered back, clutching his lacerated right arm close to his stomach. Vuthil came to his feet and began to stalk him again, slowly, mockingly. They paced around the glade and Alarielle grew frantic with fear, for surely Tyrion was doomed. Vuthil charged. Tyrion saw the assassin come, bent over nearly double, longsword at one side. But he refused to move, tensing for the right moment. It came. Tyrion struck down with his foot, praying he had not miscalculated, for to do so would be to doom himself. But he had not. His foot struck the pommel-stone of his discarded sword, making the blade jerk upwards. Up into Vuthil's stomach. There was a spray of blood as the sword stunk into the dark elf's stomach and continued. Vuthil jerked upwards but the surprise blow had already happened. Still Vuthil stood, his lifeblood spurting out on to Tyrion. "You may have won, but I'll be damned if I go without you!" Vuthil gasped. Tyrion began to move. Vuthil's left hand grabbed him. The curved sword swung back to take his head. Then Vuthil gasped and collapsed, dead. Tyrion nearly fainted with shock. He had done it, defeated his foes and slain his enemy - with a trick, admittedly, but still a victory. And he was alive. Numbed, he picked up his gory sword as another form hurtled into him - though this time a much more pleasant one. "You won!" Alarielle cried, clutching Tyrion tightly around the waist. "I shouldn't have," he murmured, stumbling over to a tree with Alarielle's help and collapsing at its base. "Do you know why I won?" He finished the statement. "Because I couldn't bare to see any of them harm you." Alarielle turned and looked at him, wide-eyed. "Yes," he said peacefully. "I love you, Alarielle." Then the clearing shook. Huge footsteps, coming towards them. Tyrion scrambled to his feet again. "By Asuryan!" he spat. "What now?" Then the trees parted and the two saw it. It was huge. Probably three times the size of Tyrion, who was accounted tall amongst Elves. A monstrosity of muscles and flesh. Strangely, sickeningly sensuous, but Tyrion felt no attraction to its, rather repulsion and fear. Four delicately hideous arms waved, two ending in smooth-shelled crab claws. A daemon. Tyrion waved his sword at it, still clutching Alarielle around the waist with the left. "Foul creature of chaos!" he cried as loud as he could. "Withdraw or taste elven steel!" Then it spoke. There was no way that Tyrion or Alarielle could describe that voice. It was horrifyingly sexual. It was repulsively attractive. It was a bass rumble and a grating squeal. It was guilelessly tricking. It was Chaos. "N'Kari spits on your grave, proud one." The daemon came forward, daring him to attack. He took his arm out from around Alarielle. She kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, too." Tyrion's heart felt light in his chest, but the feeling faded when he looked at the monstrosity that he would fight. "I shall die a happy elf, then!" he roared. "Defend thyself, spawn!" He charged, blade spinning. One swipe by a daemonic claw and he felt himself hurtled through the air. He struck a tree heavily, and felt those ribs that had not been shattered by the blow snap like brittle twigs. The daemon N'Kari loomed. One humanoid hand grasped him and rose him up to eye level for the daemon, crushing him painfully as it did. "Die, arrogant fool," the daemon said, and twisted its hand lightly. Even from the ground, Alarielle could hear the sound of her beloved's neck breaking. Then the daemon hurled the corpse to the ground. It struck like a discarded rag doll, and Alarielle tried not to look at the mass of red that had been Tyrion's chest. Then the daemon advanced upon her. She cowered in fear, knowing she could not outrun the thing, or out-fight it, or hide from it. One hand, still wet with Tyrion's blood, caressed her cheek. She cringed in abject terror. "Xaph ult-thul ytan heithaman!" A beam of blue light struck the daemon with great force, flinging it away from Alarielle. "Who dares.!" the daemon roared in fury. Another newcomer entered the clearing. "I dare," a weak-sounding but powerful voice came. The daemon moved for the figure, but the elf was ready. As Alarielle marveled despite herself at the incredible speed of the daemon, the elf snapped out some more harsh elven syllables. N'Kari howled again, but now could not move. The elf strode towards the daemon. "Begone from this place, spawn of Chaos!" the elf said, and slapped his hands, screaming another spell. Pinpoints of light appeared around the daemon. It could only howl in pain as they moved inwards, slowly killing it. Soon, the once-great beast gave a final scream that blasted through both the elves' eardrums and was gone, leaving only an evil vapor. The elf came towards Alarielle. "Highness! Where is my brother?" Now she could recognize the elf from descriptions Tyrion had given her before his death. Teclis, the mage twin. "Look," she said, and pointed in despair. Teclis looked at the corpse of his heroic brother and began weeping. For a time the two simply stood there, holding each other up, letting out their grief at the death of the one they both had loved. Then Teclis straightened. "Can you handle the body?" he said. Alarielle rose her bowed head. "I am not going to leave him here for the carrion-eaters." "I can take his body," she said proudly, and moved to heft it over her shoulder. It was heavy, and his blood stained her clothes unpleasantly, but this was a burden she would let no other carry. Together, the two elves left the clearing.
Later. It was nearly dawn, and the bodies of the two assassins had just been found by the predators that live in all places. They moved inwards now, and began their feast. Another form entered the glade. A hunched and dark form. He whispered a word, and the foremost wolf burst into black flames, killing it instantly. The rest panicked and fled, leaving him alone. Malekith surveyed the scene of his failure slowly. Then a smile came to his withered lips, tugging his scarred face uncomfortably. He would make the high elves regret this day.