It seemed that the gods had lavished all their gifts on him, and left me an ill-made thing.

“I take it that means you won’t be joining me, brother?”
He knew he was being unfair. The gods had given him a gift for magic unequalled in this age of the world, and the will necessary to use that power as it should be used. Still, there were times when he would have gladly swapped all of that for Tyrion’s effortless popularity, his ease and courtesy, his ability to be happy even in the unhappiest of times, and his blazing good health.
“On the contrary, it is my brotherly duty to keep you from drinking alone. The gods alone know what that might lead to.” And there it was, the famous charm, the ability to change the mood of the situation with a smile and a seemingly thoughtless joke. Tyrion reached out for the decanter and poured himself a full goblet. There was no formality there, none of the endless empty ritual that Teclis so despised in elvish social gatherings. It was the casual gesture of the warrior more at home in camp than the Phoenix King’s court, and yet it was exactly the thing his brother knew would put him most at ease. Teclis could understand why there were those at court who compared his brother to Malekith in ancient times, before the Witch King revealed his true colours. He had known his brother all their lives, and even he was not sure how much art went into that carefully contrived artlessness.
Tyrion waved, and Teclis looked up. On the balcony above them, Shienara and her sister, Malyria, waved back. They looked at Tyrion with the mixture of open desire and admiration he had always commanded from women. Useless, of course, as his brother had eyes only for his consort, the Ever-queen. He had not, unlike most elf males, ever been unfaithful.
“What is this early morning toast in honour of?” Tyrion asked.
“The end of the world,” said Teclis.
“That bad?” said Tyrion.
“The end of our world, at least.”
“I do not think the Dark One will overcome us this time,” said Tyrion. It was exactly what Teclis would have expected him to say, but there was a watchfulness about him now, a wariness. Suddenly he looked exactly like what he was, the deadliest elf warrior in twenty generations.
“It is not our dear kinsman and his lackeys I am worried about, it is Ulthuan itself. Someone, or something, is tampering with the watchstones or the power that underlies them.”
“These earthquakes and eruptions are not coincidence then? I had suspected as much.”
“No, they are not.”
“You will be leaving soon then.” It was not a question. Teclis smiled as he nodded. His brother had always understood him better than any other living being.
“Do you want some company on your journey? I am supposed to be leading the fleet northwards, to face the spawn of Naggaroth, but if what you say is true, I am sure the Phoenix King could spare my services.”
Teclis shook his head. “The fleet needs you. Our armies need you. Where I am going, spells will be more useful than swords.”
Teclis slammed his drink down on the fine ivory table. It almost spilled over the parchments that sat there. He had spent most of the night writing them. “Please see that these are copied and delivered to his majesty and the masters at Hoeth,” he told Aldreth. “Now I must go. I have a long way to travel and a short time to do it in.”

 

CHAPTER ONE



With a heavy heart, Felix Jaeger watched the last of the remaining Kislevite warriors place the corpse of Ivan Petrovich on the pyre. The old warrior looked somehow smaller, shrunken in death. His face showed none of the peace that was supposed to belong to those who had entered the realm of Morr, God of Death, but then, Felix supposed, Ivan’s last few moments had been anything but pleasant. He had witnessed his only child, Ulrika, transformed into a vampire, a soulless blood-sucking thing, and he himself had met his death at the hand of her un-dead master’s minions. Felix shivered and drew his faded red Sudenland wool cloak about him.