‘You mean about the, ah, bones?’ Thungrimsson asked, gesturing. He grimaced in distaste as he asked it.
‘No, I mean about this year’s turnip festival in Talabheim. Yes, the bones,’ Ironfist said.
‘They’re true enough. The whole land is surrounded by battlements of bone. It’s sealed off tighter than King Thorgrim’s vaults.’ Thungrimsson traced the border of Sylvania on the map. ‘The rangers can’t find a way through, not that they tried very hard.’
Ironfist sat back in his chair with a sigh. He tugged on his beard and let his gaze drift across the high alcoves of the library, where the watery light of hooded lanterns illuminated stone shelves and pigeonholes, each one stuffed with books, tomes, scrolls and papyri. The library was one of his great pleasures, when all was said and done. It had been built carefully and over centuries, much like the rest of Karak Kadrin. ‘Well, what are you thinking, hearthwarden?’ he asked finally, looking back at Thungrimsson.
‘It is a shame about the turnip festival,’ Thungrimsson said. Ironfist growled wordlessly and the other dwarf raised his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I’m thinking that Sylvania has been a boil on our hindquarters for more centuries than I care to contemplate. Whatever is going on in there bears keeping an eye on, if nothing else. And we should send word to the other holds, especially Zhufbar. The blood-drinkers have attacked them before.’
Ironfist gnawed on a thumbnail. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to muster a throng and smash his way into that blighted land, axe in hand. There was something on the air, something that pricked at him, like a warning only half heard. There were other threats to be weighed and measured, but Sylvania was right on his hearthstone. He had been patient for centuries, waiting for the humans to see to their own mess. But the time for patience had long since passed. If the zanguzaz – the blood-drinkers – were up to some mischief, Ironfist was inclined to put a stop to it soonest.
His eye caught a golden seal on one of the more recently arrived message tubes. He recognised the royal rune of Karaz-a-Karak, the Pinnacle of the Mountains, the Most Enduring. He flicked the tube open and extracted the scroll within. He frowned as he read it. When he was done, he tossed it to Thungrimsson. ‘We’ll have to settle for keeping watch. At least for now. The Grudgebearer has called together the Council of Kings.’
Thungrimsson’s eyes widened in surprise as he read the scroll. ‘Such a council hasn’t been convened in centuries,’ he said slowly. His eyes flickered to the scrolls and maps. He met Ironfist’s grim gaze. ‘It’s worse than we thought, isn’t it?’
Ironfist pushed himself slowly to his feet. He tapped the map again. ‘It seems I’ll be able to alert my brother-kings as to the goings-on in Sylvania in person,’ he said softly.
Tyrion’s palms struck the doors of the meeting chamber of the Phoenix Council like battering rams, sending them swinging inwards with a thunderous crash. Eltharion of Yvresse winced and made to hurry after his prince.
The latter’s haste was understandable, if not strictly advisable. Then, the Warden of Tor Yvresse had never been fond of haste. Haste led to the mistakes and mistakes to defeat. A slim hand fastened on his arm. ‘Give him a moment. He’s making an entrance.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Eldyra,’ Eltharion grated, brushing the hand from his arm. He turned to glare at the woman who followed him. Eldyra of Tiranoc had once been Tyrion’s squire; now she was a warrior in her own right, albeit an impetuous one. She was a vision of loveliness wrapped in lethality. She had learned the art of death from the foremost warrior of their race, and her skill with blade, bow and spear was equal to, or greater than, Eltharion’s own, though they had never put that to the test.
‘No, you’re afraid he’s going to kill someone.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Better to ask whether I care,’ she said pointedly. ‘The idea of our prince taking off the head of that pompous nitwit Imrik fills me with a warm and cheerful glow.’
Eltharion shook his head and followed Tyrion into the council chamber. Tyrion had interrupted the aforementioned Imrik, Dragon Prince of Caledor, in mid-speech. The Phoenix Council had been discussing the same thing they’d been discussing for months – namely Imrik’s assertion that Finubar had ceded his right to the Phoenix Crown.
The Phoenix Council had been paralysed for months by disagreement among its members and disillusionment with the current wearer of the crown. Finubar had sealed himself in the Heavenlight Tower in order to divine the cause of the recent disasters that had beset Ulthuan, at a time when his people most needed his guidance. Eltharion could not help but wonder what was going through his king’s mind; the longer Finubar sat isolated in his tower, the more that discontent spread through the halls and meeting chambers of the elven nobility. As Chrace and Cothique were overrun by daemon-spawn, and their peoples scattered or exterminated, Finubar had yet to reappear, and had, so far, allowed only one to impinge upon his solitude – Tyrion’s brother Teclis. Teclis had come out of that meeting certain that Tyrion must take command of Ulthuan’s armies.
Tyrion, however, had taken some convincing. Not that Eltharion blamed him for being preoccupied. He and his companions had only just returned from the citadel of abomination known as Nagashizzar, where they’d failed to rescue Aliathra, firstborn daughter of the Everqueen, from her captor, Mannfred von Carstein. Aliathra had been captured earlier in the year by the vampire while she had been on a diplomatic mission to the High King of the dwarfs at Karaz-a-Karak. Dwarfs and elves both had been slaughtered by Mannfred in pursuit of Aliathra, and when word reached Ulthuan of her fate, Tyrion had been driven into as wild a rage as Eltharion had ever seen.
The reason for the sheer force of that rage was known to only two others, besides Eltharion himself. Eldyra was one and Teclis the other. The three of them shared the weight of Tyrion’s shameful secret, and when he’d made it known that he intended to rescue Aliathra, Eltharion, Eldyra and Teclis had accompanied him. But the expedition to Nagashizzar had been a failure. Mannfred had escaped again, and taken the Everchild with him.
Teclis’s spies, both living and elemental, had confirmed that the vampire had taken Aliathra into the lands of men, and Belannaer, Loremaster of Hoeth, had sworn that he could hear the Everchild’s voice upon the wind, calling from somewhere within the foul demesne known as Sylvania. Failure ate at Tyrion like an acid, making it impossible for him to focus on anything else. He had been planning for a second expedition when Teclis had forced him to see sense. Now his rage at Aliathra’s fate had been refocused, and for the better, Eltharion hoped.
‘Our lands are in turmoil, and you sit here arguing over who has the right to lead, rather than doing anything productive. No wonder the Phoenix King hides himself away – I would as well, had my advisors and servants shamed me as you now shame him,’ Tyrion said as he stalked into the chamber, the stones echoing with the crash of the doors. Clad in full armour, armed and flanked by the armoured forms of Eltharion and Eldyra, the heir of Aenarion was an intimidating sight. At least if you had any sense.
‘Ulthuan needs leadership. Finubar is not fit to be king. Not now, not when we are on the precipice of the long night,’ Imrik growled. He glared at Tyrion as fiercely as one of the dragons his homeland was famous for. ‘Speaking of which, where were you? First Finubar locks himself away in his tower, and then the Everqueen vanishes to gods alone know where. The Ten Kingdoms heave with the plague of ages and you, our greatest champion, were half a world away!’