Into those swords, fell magic had been woven. Strange poisons dripped from their points, venoms capable of killing a warrior over a period of many days, making sure that he died in screaming agony.

Tyrion’s heart sank. He had faced these women-warriors before in the cold dark lands of Naggaroth. These were witch elves, among the deadliest fighters of a deadly breed.

The women blocked their path away from the tournament grounds. Tyrion had no idea what they were doing out here. Perhaps they were already scouring the woods for high elf survivors fleeing the battlefield. He gestured for Alarielle to hold her ground.

The witch elves came closer, half surrounding them in a great semicircle. Tyrion did not like the way their leader looked at him at all. He liked the way she looked at Alarielle even less.

‘Hail, brother,’ she said. ‘You seem to be going the wrong way.’

Her bright, mad eyes studied Tyrion. He smiled easily and said, ‘we were just looking for a private place to do some celebrating.’

The witch elf smiled, showing small, sharp teeth. ‘Is that so?’

Tyrion reached out and took Alarielle’s hand and squeezed it. ‘That is so.’

The witch elves moved closer, and it was all that Tyrion could do to keep from drawing his blade. That would give them away as nothing else would. No dark elf bore a sword like Sunfang. The magic of that ancient blade would mark him as a stranger among the druchii.

The leader reached out and stroked Alarielle’s cheek. The Everqueen shivered a little at the contact. ‘She is certainly a pretty one. I can understand why you would feel that way. On the other hand, now is not the time to be leaving the battlefield.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Tyrion. ‘Perhaps we should head back and report to our units.’

‘And what unit would that be, my pretty boy with the so-strange accent?’ The witch elf was suspicious. He knew that he did not sound very much like an inhabitant of Naggaroth even when he tried. He was always going to have the accent of Lothern overlaying the mountain twang of Cothique he had picked up as a boy.

‘We are with Captain Ichmael,’ Tyrion said.

The witch elf laughed, a high-pitched crazed tittering that set cold fingers running up and down Tyrion’s spine. She reached out and stroked Tyrion’s chin now. Her nails were long and sharp and enamelled black. She tilted her head to one side and her eyes narrowed. ‘Captain who?’

Tyrion did not miss the faint gesture she made with her left hand or the response that the other witch elves made. They had begun to circle behind Tyrion and Alarielle and within heartbeats the two of them were surrounded. Somewhere in the witch elf leader’s crazed mind a mad suspicion had bloomed.

Tyrion drew Sunfang in one eye-blurring motion. The sword blazed to life, flames flickering along its length.