‘I am here now,’ Tyrion said. He drew his sword, Sunfang, from its sheath and swept it through the air. The ancient sword, forged to draw the blood of the daemons of Chaos, burned with the captured fires of the sun. Runes glowed white-hot along its length and the closest members of the council turned away or shaded their eyes against the sword’s stinging promise. Only Imrik continued to glare, undaunted.
Tyrion looked at the council, his eyes blazing with a heat equal to that which marked the runes on his sword. ‘You will cease your nattering. You will take up blade and bow as befitting lords of Ulthuan, and marshal your forces to defend the Ten Kingdoms. Any who wish to quarrel further can take up their argument with the edge of my sword and see what it profits you.’
Imrik shot to his feet and slammed his fist down on the table. ‘How dare you?’ the Dragon Prince roared. ‘What gives you the right to speak to this august council in such a disrespectful manner? We are your betters, whelp! Who are you to demand anything of us?’
Tyrion smiled humourlessly. ‘Who am I? I am the Herald of Asuryan, and of the Phoenix King, in whose names I would dare anything. That is all the right I require.’ He pointed Sunfang at Imrik and asked, ‘Unless you disagree?’
Imrik’s pale features tightened and his lean body quivered with barely restrained rage. ‘I do,’ he hissed. He circled the table and strode past Tyrion. ‘Strike me down if you dare, boy, but I’ll not stay here and be barked at by you.’
Tyrion did not turn as Imrik stalked past him. ‘If you leave, prince of Caledor, then do not expect to be included in our councils of war. Caledor will stand alone,’ he said harshly.
Imrik stopped. Eltharion saw his eyes close, as if he were in pain. Then, his voice ragged, he said, ‘Then Caledor stands alone.’ Imrik left the chamber without another word. No one tried to stop him. The remaining council-members whispered quietly amongst themselves. Eltharion looked at them and frowned. Already, they were plotting. Imrik’s star had been in the ascendancy, and now it had plummeted to earth. Those who had supported him were revising their positions as those who had been arrayed against him moved to shore up their influence. None of them seemed to grasp the full extent of the situation. He saw Tyrion looking at him. The latter crooked a finger and Eltharion and Eldyra moved to join him.
‘Thank you for watching my back,’ Tyrion said quietly. ‘But now that the council has been tamed, I need you two to do as you promised. Make ready, gather what you need for the expedition, and set sail as soon as possible.’ His composure evaporated as he spoke, and his words became ragged. Eltharion could see just how much it was costing his friend to stay in Ulthuan. There was pain in his eyes and in his voice such as Eltharion had never seen.
‘You have my oath as Warden of Tor Yvresse,’ Eltharion said softly. He hesitated, and then placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He looked at Eldyra, who nodded fiercely. ‘We shall rescue Aliathra, or we will die trying.’
The three men descended down the dank, circular stone steps, following the woman. She held a crackling torch in one hand, and its light cast weird shadows on the stone walls of the catacombs. ‘The abbey was built to contain that which I am about to show you,’ the woman said, her voice carrying easily, despite the softness with which she spoke. ‘Rites and rituals went into the placement of every stone and every slather of mortar to make this place a fitting cage for what is imprisoned here. And so it has remained, for hundreds of years.’
‘But now?’ one of the men asked. They reached the bottom of the stairs and came to a vaulted chamber, which was empty save for a wide, squat stone sarcophagus the likes of which none of the men had ever seen. It had been marked with mystical signs, and great iron chains crossed it, as if to keep whatever was within it trapped. The woman lifted her torch and let its light play across the sarcophagus.
‘Now, I fear, we are coming to the end of its captivity. Something is loose in the world, a red wind that carries with it the promise of a slaughter undreamt of by even the most monstrous of creatures that infest our poor, tired land. Or those of its greatest heroes, Tancred of Quenelles.’
‘This is what he was after,’ Tancred, Duke of Quenelles, said staring at the stone sarcophagus. His breath plumed in the damp, chill air. Part of him yearned to touch the sarcophagus, while a greater part surged in revulsion at the thought. The thing that lay inside seemed to draw everything towards it, as though it weighed more than the world around it. Tancred felt the weight of his years settle more heavily than ever before on his broad shoulders. ‘This is what Arkhan the Black was after, then, my Lady Elynesse?’
‘Perhaps,’ Lady Elynesse, Dowager of Charnorte, said. Her voice was soft, but not hesitant. She was older than even Tancred, whose hair and beard had long since lost the lustre of youth, though her face was unlined and unmarred by time. ‘Such a creature weaves schemes within schemes, and concocts plots with every day it yet remains unburied.’ She held her torch higher and circled the sarcophagus. ‘This could be but one goal amongst many.’
‘What is it?’ one of the others asked. His hands were clamped tightly around the hilt of his blade. Tancred wondered whether the other knight felt the same pull towards the sarcophagus as he did. Though Fastric Ghoulslayer was a native of Bordeleaux, he had shed blood beside Tancred and the third knight, Anthelme of Austray, in defence of Quenelles in the civil war. The Ghoulslayer was a warrior of renown and commanded a skylance of Pegasus knights, and there were few whom Tancred trusted more.
‘Whatever it is, I’d just as soon it stays in there,’ Anthelme said nervously.
‘And so it shall, if we have anything to say about it,’ Tancred said, looking at his cousin. Anthelme, like Fastric, was a trusted companion, even beyond the bounds of blood. There were none better with a lance or blade in Tancred’s opinion. ‘Our kingdom lies broken and bleeding, and the one who struck that blow will return to capitalise on our weakness. The Dowager has seen as much. Arkhan the Black wanted this sarcophagus and its contents, even as the Lichemaster did in decades past. But we shall see to it that La Maisontaal’s burden remains here, in these tombs, even if we must die to do so.’
‘But surely whatever is in here is no danger to us? The true king has returned. Gilles le Breton sits once more upon the throne of Bretonnia, and the civil war is over. We have passed through the darkest of times and come out the other side,’ Anthelme said. Those sentiments were shared by many, Tancred knew. When Louen Leoncouer had been felled at the Battle of Quenelles by his treacherous bastard son, many, including Tancred, had thought that the kingdom’s time was done.
Then had come Couronne, and Mallobaude’s last challenge. The Serpent had challenged the greatest knights in the land on Quenelles, Gisoreux, Adelaix and a hundred more battlefields, and had emerged victorious every time. But at Couronne, it was no mortal who answered his challenge; instead, the legendary Green Knight had ridden out of the ranks, appearing as if from nowhere, and had met Mallobaude on the field between the armies of the living and the dead. In the aftermath, when the surviving dukes and lords inevitably began to turn their thoughts to the vacant throne, the Green Knight had torn his emerald helm from his head and revealed himself to be none other than Gilles le Breton, the founder of the realm, come back to lead his people in their darkest hour. The problem was, as far as Tancred could tell, the darkest hour hadn’t yet passed. In fact, it appeared that Mallobaude’s rebellion had only been the beginning of Bretonnia’s ruination, the return of the once and future king or not.