It should not have been possible. One elf could not simply stroll through a formation of druchii soldiers, walk into the presence of its general, slaughter half the command staff and their bodyguards and then walk out again, taking their prisoner and prize with them.

It beggared belief.

It was the sort of thing that happened in old tales, in the legends of Aenarion and Caledor. It did not happen in reality.

Still, this had been a gathering of champions, where a group of the mightiest warriors in Ulthuan had come together to compete for the favour of the Everqueen and to become her champion. If ever there was a place for a hero to emerge from, it was here. It was not something that the Witch King had calculated upon, apparently. He could imagine it becoming the start of a new epic, a myth of the asur, if the elf who had done it got away with it.

He shook his head and his reflection in the mirror did the same, mocking him. He felt like striking the magical thing with his sword, but he doubted it would do any good. This mirror had been forged beneath Naggarond by Malekith himself. The mage-steel frame was marked with dragons and looked as hard as the Witch King’s armour. The glass only appeared fragile. It had been made to survive being taken on campaign with an army. It was, after all, how Malekith kept in touch with his generals when they were in the field and needed his personal supervision.

He thought about his lord and master. Malekith was not forgiving. He despised failures and he punished them; up until an hour ago Dorian would not but have agreed with that policy.

Why preserve the weak?

They needed to be winnowed out so that the strong might prosper. Of course, that had been before he had become a failure himself. Somehow he did not see the Witch King making an exception to his policy in this case. This was failure on a monumental scale. Dorian had imperilled a plan that had been a century in the making.

It was unfair. It had all gone perfectly. Right until the end. They had destroyed the great tournament camp and taken prisoner or slain thousands of the asur. They had captured the Everqueen. She had lain bound on the floor of this vast florid pavilion before him. The god-queen of the asur had been his prisoner.

For all of twenty minutes, he thought sourly. Before a solitary warrior had stolen her away.

As if that was not bad enough, his aides were bringing him news that some others had cut their way out of this trap. A group of elven knights under the banner of Arhalien of Yvresse had fought their way free.

Arhalien was a famous warrior. Was it he who had come back to undo Malekith’s plans, slay Cassandra and lay waste to Dorian’s life?

The Everqueen was a potent symbol to her people, their living goddess, an incarnation of their spirit. While she was free she would provide a rallying point for her people. They would not give in without a fight. It had been Malekith’s master-stroke, capturing her.