CHAPTER FIVE

LOST SOULS

 

 

Eldain awoke from troubled sleep by the lapping banks of a river. He felt refreshed and unhurt. He had expected neither after the Everqueen had stripped him of his armour of self-denial. Eldain had thought the light of the Everqueen would burn him to cinders in punishment for his terrible crime. He could not think of a single reason why she might spare him. A memory of fire lingered in his mind, a vast portal and a silent sentinel, but he could make no sense of it.

He pushed himself to his feet, looking around to gain a sense of where he was. Across the river was an impenetrable wall of trees, their leaves shimmering with their own inner light, a luminosity that could have but one source. Though the river was shallow here, Eldain knew it would be suicide for him to re-enter the woods of Avelorn. He had been cast from beneath its magical boughs, and to return there would be the death of him.

To the west, the Annulii scraped the clouds from the sky and gathered them like cotton haloes around their magical summits. He turned to the south, already feeling his heart lighten at the thought of what he would see.

Ellyrion.

Land of his birth, it opened out before him like a mother’s embrace. Its golden fields and wild steppe spreading as far as the eye could see. The sight of so wild, so untamed, so free a land made Eldain weep. He had no right to be here. No right to see so fantastical a land and certainly no right to receive its welcome. He had betrayed one of its sons, and as he had been banished from Avelorn, so too should he be banished from every kingdom of Ulthuan.

Yet, as much as he knew he deserved to feel no sense of welcome or homecoming, its presence was as potent as any he had known. This land had been birthed in an age beyond Eldain’s imagination, and would endure long after he was dust in the wind. It had no need to pass judgement upon anything as petty as the affairs of the mortal creatures that crawled upon its body like ants on a fallen tree.

Ellyrion was his home, and it welcomed him as its son.

His joy was short-lived as he thought of his likely future. Beyond Ellyrion he would receive no welcome. He would be shunned as a pariah, hated for what he had done, and a bleak mood settled upon him as he thought of how far he had fallen since the heady days before the raid to Clar Karond. He was alone, and would be alone forever.

Forever was a long time for one of the asur.

Would he be able to bear the weight of the centuries alone? Could he stand to face the long years locked behind the walls of Ellyr-Charoi, withering and diminishing with every passing century? The Everqueen had spared him, but death would have been preferable to such a grey end to a life. To lessen with the years, growing dim and haunting the ruins of his villa until it too collapsed into forgotten rubble at the foot of the mountains.

His would be a life measured by despairing centuries and spent in eternal regret.

That was to be his fate, and Eldain accepted it.

It was a long walk to Ellyr-Charoi, but no sooner had he taken his first step south, than a familiar scent came to him as the wind shifted. Eldain knew that scent better than anything, hearing the welcome sound of hoof beats on good earth. He turned to the long grass of the west in time to see a black horse galloping towards him with fierce joy in every step.

“Lotharin!” he cried, running towards the midnight steed.

The last he had seen of his faithful mount had been when Caelir had ridden him from the Tower of Hoeth. He had assumed the horse now roamed within the borders of Avelorn, but no steed of Ellyrion could be kept long from its homeland. Eldain had known Lotharin since his birth, both elf and horse growing to adulthood with a bond closer than any mortal rider could ever hope to understand.

“I have missed you, old friend,” said Eldain. The horse nuzzled him, and Eldain rubbed its neck. Lotharin’s coat was freshly brushed and shone with fresh vitality.

“Time in Avelorn has done you good.”

The horse tossed its mane, and Eldain saw that no matter what he had done, Lotharin would always be with him. Nothing could break the bond between an Ellyrion horseman and his steed, and Eldain thanked Asuryan that he had been lucky enough to be born in such a wild, passionate land.

He vaulted onto the horse’s back, needing no saddle, bridle or reins.

Though he rode to his eternal doom, Eldain welcomed this last ride upon so fine a mount as Lotharin.

“Come, Lotharin,” said Eldain. “Homewards. To Ellyr-Charoi.”

 

The sun felt good on his skin, and Tyrion turned his face towards it, hoping its golden rays would send him a measure of his beloved Everqueen’s warmth. Druchii blood coated the golden scales of his armour, and his azure cloak was stiff with the stuff. Sunfang lay unsheathed across his lap, though not a drop stained its gleaming blade. The caged fire within its heart burned any impure blood away.

Days had passed since his arrival at the castle, and, as he had predicted, the druchii had indeed attacked with greater skill and cunning after their first, abortive, assault. He had been proved right, though he took no pleasure in that. The Naggarothi were descendants of the asur. Of course they would be skilled.

More of the dark-cloaked warriors were even now assembling beyond bowshot, together with heavy bolt throwers and monsters that roared and bellowed behind hastily thrown up walls of boulders. Soon there would be a force thrown at the castle that not even he could fight against.

Already Tyrion had given Finubar more time than could be expected. The Phoenix King had sent word that the Sea Guard and Lothern citizen levy was taking position on the Emerald Gate, but every minute Tyrion could give him was vital. It was a heavy burden Finubar had placed upon him, but such was the way of kings, to ask great things of those that served them.

“Resting when there are druchii still to slay?” said Belarien, returning from the crumbling keep with two platters of bread, cheese and fruit. He sat down beside Tyrion, and set the food down on his lap.

“I am trying to, but you are making it difficult,” answered Tyrion.

“We shall sleep when we are dead, eh?”

Tyrion tried to smile. He had said those same words before the battle at Finuval. Rescued from a mighty daemon prince of Chaos by Teclis, he had gone on to fight the Witch King’s greatest assassin in single combat though his spirit had almost been lost in the abyss. Then, those words had been defiant, now they sounded hollow. Belarien saw the emptiness in Tyrion’s eyes and was immediately contrite.

“Apologies, my lord. I spoke without thought.”

“No need,” said Tyrion. “I should watch what I say in future if I cannot stand my own words quoted back at me. And you are right. I will sleep when this is done.”

“How is the pain?”

“Happily lessened,” said Tyrion. “Alarielle yet lives, and grows stronger. I can hear the birds of Ulthuan sing again. She will recover, and each day I feel her pain less and less.”

“Then why the grim mood?”

“We face an enemy who will soon gather enough force to overwhelm us. Is that not reason to be grim?”

“You’ve faced worse odds than this and prevailed,” said Belarien. “I know, I was there for all of them and I still bear the scars.”

Tyrion said nothing. How could he tell Belarien of the dark siren song of the Widowmaker? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the black, blood-veined altar and the smoking blade buried in its heart. The bones of the dead and the yet to be slain rattled around it, unquiet in their death and looking to him to give their deaths meaning. Every blow he struck against the druchii was a pale shadow of the destruction he could wreak with the Sword of Khaine in his hand. With its power he could end the threat of the Witch King forever, take the war across the sea and destroy their blighted homelands in one bloody sweep.

He let out a breath, knowing these were the Widowmaker’s thoughts, not his own.

They were not lies, these thoughts. Lies would be easier to dismiss. The sword would give him all the power it promised, but it was power that could never be given back. Aenarion had learned that lesson too late, dooming his lineage to forever be bound to that black blade of murder and bloodshed.

Belarien knew the stories of Aenarion as well as any in Ulthuan, but he could never really understand the terrible attraction the Sword of Khaine had for Tyrion.

“My lord?” said Belarien.

Tyrion was saved from answering by the glorious note of a hunting horn. Cheers went up from the garrison, as a group of warriors marched into the castle through the Autumn Gate in the western wall. Tyrion rose to his feet as he saw the shimmering sea-serpent banner that went before these axe-wielding killers, each one clad in tunics of sumptuous cream and embroidered with golden thread and fire-winged birds. Their helms were bronze, and about their necks were mantles of brilliant white fur, taken from the bodies of the deadly lions that hunted the mountains of Chrace.

 

Led by a giant with a pelt cloak so voluminous that it seemed impossible it could have come from a single beast, the White Lions escorted a singular warrior clad in scarlet dragonscale armour and a shimmering cloak of mist and shadow.

“The Phoenix King,” said Belarien.

“None other,” agreed Tyrion, pushing himself to his feet and sheathing Sunfang. As highly regarded as he was, not even Tyrion would dare stand before the Phoenix King with a bared blade. Korhil, the towering master of Finubar’s bodyguard, would never allow it, and the mighty, double-bladed axe slung at his shoulder was a potent deterrent against such foolishness.

Tyrion went to meet Finubar, the Seafarer as he was known, and bowed as the White Lions parted smoothly to allow their king to meet his greatest champion.

“My king, you honour us,” said Tyrion.

“My friend, how many times do I need tell you that you should not bow to me?”

“A king must always be bowed to, or else none shall know him as a king.”

“Prince Tyrion quotes Caledor the Second,” said the broad-shouldered White Lion at Finubar’s side. “Even as he shows respect, he mocks.”

The words were said without anger, and Tyrion smiled. “Ah, yes, I always forget that you Chracians actually know how to read and write, let alone study history.”

“Careful, Tyrion,” warned Finubar with a smile. “Korhil’s blood is still afire after he slew the champion of a druchii witch cult yesterday.”

“He is welcome to test that lumbering tree-cutter against Sunfang any time he wishes.”

“Tree-cutter?” growled Korhil. “Chayal would find your neck before you could pull that shiny toothpick from its sheath.”

Tyrion smiled and said, “It is good to see you, Korhil.”

The White Lion bellowed with laughter and swept Tyrion into a crushing embrace. Rightly it was said that Korhil was the strongest elf of Ulthuan, and Tyrion felt his ribs creak in the powerful embrace.

“Enough,” said Finubar. “As much as I always enjoy your games, there is little time for them now.”

Korhil released Tyrion and stepped back behind his king. Tyrion drew in a breath and stood tall before his friend and his king. Finubar was handsome and had the look of one whose eyes were always seeking the next horizon. His blond hair was almost as pale as the cloaks of his White Lions, and the green of his eyes matched the thousands of gems set within the gate that led to the Straits of Lothern.

“How goes the fighting here, Tyrion?” asked Finubar. “The castle on the far side of the Emerald Gate yet resists. Thanks to a few scattered survivors of the battle before the gate, no force of any significance has managed to land on the southern coast. It is here the druchii will bend their every effort.”

“Then they fare better than we do, my lord,” said Tyrion. “Every day the druchii bring up more warriors across that damned bridge of boats. Tell Aislin to send those scattered survivors to destroy the bridge and we may hold this castle.”

Finubar sighed. “You know Aislin, my friend. Not even the counsel of a king will sway his thoughts. He and Kithre Seablaze rally whatever ships will answer their call from the Inner Sea, thinking to sail out and win this war in the water before the Emerald Gate.”

“Then he is a fool,” snapped Tyrion.

“Choose your words with more care, Tyrion, Aislin is still a prince of Ulthuan, and Seablaze is his protégé,” warned Finubar. “And we will need their ships if the Emerald Gate is ever yielded.”

“Which it must be if this castle falls,” said Korhil.

As if to prove the point, the hatefully discordant blare of a druchii war horn echoed from the mountainside. Its echoes faded, only to be replaced by the cold-hearted chants of advancing warriors and the bellows of blood-hungry monsters.

Tyrion smiled grimly at Korhil. “Time to put that axe of yours to good use,” he said.

Korhil glanced at Finubar, who nodded.

“Could you use us on the walls, Prince Tyrion?” asked the Phoenix King.

“Always, my lord,” said Tyrion.

 

The attack was led by the beastmasters. Two iron-scaled abominations, each with a writhing mass of serpentine necks and snapping, biting heads, stalked ahead of a host of marching warriors in lacquered armour of crimson. The monsters’ bodies were dark and rippling with iridescent scales, their eyes glossy and reflective. Teeth like swords of yellowed horn dripped blood and venomous saliva.

Driving the pair of monstrous beasts forwards with cruelly barbed goads, the beastmasters loosed ululating cries from strange horns and yelled jagged words that could only be commands.

“Khaine’s blood,” hissed Finubar, drawing his starmetal sword. “Hydras!”

Tyrion could not take his eyes from the king’s weapon, its blade curved in the manner of southland warriors, and golden like the last arc of sunset. The blade had been a gift from one of the coastal potentates of Ind, a land of exotic spices and strange ritual. Finubar had saved the life of the king’s daughter, and had received this wondrous blade in return. No smith trained in the Anvil of Vaul could unlock the mysteries of its creation, but the power of the magic worked into its blade was beyond question.

“Some heavy meat for Chayal to cleave,” grunted Korhil, unfazed by the sight of so terrible a pack of monsters. His White Lions hefted their heavy axes, resting them on their shoulders with nonchalant ease.

Tyrion took a calming breath as the dark presence of the Sword of Khaine eased into his thoughts. With that blade in his grip, these beasts would be carved into bloody chunks in moments. He forced thoughts of murder from his mind and sought the peace Teclis had taught him, the state of mind that allowed him to fight unencumbered by doubt, free from anger and able to find the space to kill with complete precision.

“I am the master of my soul,” he whispered under his breath. “Aenarion’s curse is not my curse. I wield my blade in the service of my kind and my home. No thought of selfish gain, no lust to rule, no urge to slay shall guide my arm. I am Tyrion, and I am the master of my soul.”

He felt Korhil’s gaze, but ignored him, feeling his heart slow and his senses sharpen to the point where he could pick out the individual faces of every single druchii warrior in the advancing army.

“They are so like us,” he said.

“They are nothing like us,” said Korhil, and Tyrion blinked, not realising he had spoken aloud. He did not allow Korhil’s gruff voice to distract him from achieving oneness with his sword. Its grip grew hot in his hand, and he smiled as though welcoming a long lost friend.

“Eagle’s Claws!”

At Tyrion’s command, the castle’s bolt throwers spoke with one voice, and three long shafts streaked towards the hydras. One plunged into the flank of the most eager hydra, yet even the power of such a weapon could only drive the point a hand span through the creature’s scaled flesh. Another skidded clear and the third was snatched from the air by a darting, draconic head and bitten in two.

“They’ll not be stopped by bolts,” said Korhil.

“No,” agreed Tyrion.

More bolts leapt from the war machines, swiftly followed by a volley of goose-feathered shafts from the archers leaning over the parapet. Volley after volley billowed up into the sky as archers in the courtyard loosed over their comrades’ heads. These fell among the druchii warriors, but most thudded home in heavy wooden shields or bounced away from burnished helms. A hundred, two hundred, three. Enough arrows to fell these invaders thrice over hammered down, but barely a handful died. Answering flurries of repeater crossbow bolts clattered against the walls. Iron-tipped bolts shattered on the hard stone, but screams of pain told Tyrion that many were finding their mark.

Tyrion lifted a sapphire blue amulet from around his neck and kissed the smooth stone. Encased within the blue gem were woven strands of golden hair, preserved like flies in amber, and he felt it respond to his touch.

“Be with me, queen of my heart,” he said. “Watch over me this day.”

Arrows hammered the druchii line, and more were falling as the enemy cast down their shields and heavily armoured warriors ran towards the walls bearing scaling ladders. The first hydra was limping badly, two heavy bolts jutting from the rippling swathes of muscle around its neck. The second beast was being driven at the gateway, and its heads coiled back over its shoulder.

Tyrion knew what would come next.

“Get down!” he yelled.

The many heads of the hydra shot forward with their mouths gaping wide. Ashen smoke and fire belched from the guts of the monster in a torrent of volcanic destruction. Like a frothing wave of evil red light, the fiery breath of the hydra broke against the walls of the castle. Sulphurous flames billowed over the ramparts and asur warriors screamed as their tunics caught light. Flames rippled along the wall as the first beast exhaled its volatile breath of fire and fumes.

Asur warriors dropped from the walls, blazing from head to foot as the monster’s fiery breath consumed them. Tyrion coughed and spat as black smoke roiled around the parapet, instantly turning day into night. Sunfang shone brightly, a beacon in the darkness, and he vaulted to his feet as he heard the smack of wood on stone.

“To arms! The enemy is upon us!”

A druchii helmet appeared in the embrasure, and Tyrion removed it with a brutal thrust of his blade. The headless body dropped from the ladder, as another druchii warrior clambered up to take its place. He died screaming, and Tyrion leapt into the gap between the merlons, bringing Sunfang’s blade down in a two-handed sweep.

The ladder split asunder, spilling armoured warriors into the seething haze of fire and smoke that boiled at the wall’s footings. Tyrion watched the druchii die, trying to maintain his equilibrium in the face of so much death. He turned from the destruction he had wrought as yet more ladders thudded into the length of the wall. Druchii leapt over the parapet and formed fighting wedges to allow the warriors behind them to gain the walls.

Swords and axes clashed as the ancient enemies spilled bitter blood. Beside him, Belarien slew druchii with cold, economical thrusts and slashes. Without the skill of Tyrion, his friend killed the druchii with the classic sword strokes of one schooled by the best. There was no flamboyance to his killing, simply the efficient blows of a killer.

Finubar fought with his golden sword, slaying the druchii as quickly as they climbed the walls. The Phoenix King was a fine swordsman, but his talents were those of peace, not war, and the White Lions were called upon to protect their liege lord on more than one occasion.

The White Lions fought like the grim hunters they were, each hacking blow measured and merciless. Their axes clove through druchii armour with ease, and they bellowed coarse Chracian insults at their slain enemies. Korhil’s axe wove a silver web of destruction around him, the twin blades crashing through armoured plates, breaking bones and slicing flesh with horrifying ease.

Even as he slew enemy warriors, Tyrion couldn’t help but be impressed. Korhil was a giant, broad shouldered and more powerful than any elf Tyrion had known, and he wielded his axe with a speed that belied his massive form. A duel between them would be a dance of blades to savour.

A druchii blade scraped over Tyrion’s chest, and he spun around, driving his elbow into his attacker’s face. A bronze cheek-guard crumpled and the warrior staggered. Sunfang plunged through a crimson breastplate and the warrior screamed as the weapon flared with power, burning him alive from the inside.

Tyrion kicked the charred corpse free of the blade and danced down the length of the wall, finding the spaces between the fighting to stab, cut, slash and chop as he went. He flowed into the gaps, always with enough time and space to take the killing blow. Belarien followed him, but could barely keep up with his incredible skill and speed.

The castle wall shook and the fighting stopped for the briefest second as a trio of monstrous heads on sinuous necks appeared over the battlements. One darted forward and an elven warrior was snatched up in its jaws. He screamed briefly before the teeth bit through his armour. Fire spewed from the jaws of the other heads, and an entire section of the wall was suddenly empty as Tyrion’s warriors burned in the searing fire.

“With me!” shouted Tyrion, charging along the ramparts towards the beast as its forelegs, each the thickness of a tree, grasped the stone of the parapet. A dozen elven warriors followed him, readying long-bladed lances to fight this giant creature of nightmare. It hauled its bulk up and onto the walls, screeching as its masters jabbed its hide with their barbed goads. The rampart crumbled beneath its weight, cracked masonry falling to the base of the wall.

Tyrion sprang onto a piece of crumbing stone and leapt towards the nearest head.

Sunfang flared with dazzling brightness as Tyrion brought the magnificent blade around and clove through the beast’s neck. The head flew clear of the stump of neck, and the monster roared in pain. Tyrion landed lightly and rolled, slashing his sword across the beast’s chest. Blood frothed from the wound, and the rampart split as the beast’s claws tore at the walls.

Elven lances plunged into the hydra’s body and drew spurts of stinking blood, yet even as the blades plunged home, wounds already inflicted stopped bleeding and the scaled hide reknit. Tyrion swayed aside as a head snapped down, bringing Sunfang down like an executioner’s blade. Another head was severed, and Tyrion knew that this wound would never heal. No living thing could withstand so incredible a blade.

“Tyrion!” cried a voice amid the monster’s screaming roars of pain, and he spun around as the second hydra hauled its enormous body onto the walls. Flames rippled around its body, hazing the air with the hellish heat of a forge of the damned. Finubar and Korhil appeared in the swirling morass of smoke, as a heaving breath of fire and heat erupted from the hydra’s reeking jaws. Tyrion threw his arm up before him as the battlements were engulfed.

The flames roared and heaved like an ocean of fire, and Tyrion wept at the sound of elven screams as his warriors died around him. Their bodies burned like warlords of the northmen on their pyres, consumed by the monster’s infernal breath. But the armour of Aenarion had been forged in the depths of Vaul’s Anvil, quenched in the blood of the mightiest dragons of ancient times and shaped with hammers touched by the smith god himself. No magical by-blow’s fire could defeat its protection, and Tyrion stood like an invulnerable god before its hellish breath.

Tyrion saw Finubar and Korhil further along the wall, sheltering in the lee of the sagging parapet and swathed in the Phoenix King’s dragonscale cloak. Korhil rolled away from the king and beat out smouldering embers in his cloak before swinging his axe to bear once more. The hydra’s heads swayed above them, hissing; jelly-like ropes of saliva drooling from its smoking jaws.

Finubar ducked a snapping bite and thrust his blade into the hydra’s mouth. He uttered a word of power and molten light filled the hydra’s skull, streaming from its eyes in golden fire before the head exploded in a welter of boiling blood and bone. Korhil swung Chayal in a mighty, two-handed sweep, cutting another head from the hydra’s body with one blow.

Tyrion turned back to the beast he had first fought, its one remaining head coiled away from him as it dragged more of its bloated body onto the wall. Cracks split the rampart, and Tyrion felt the wall shift beneath him as its foundations crumbled. A mighty foreleg smashed down, but Tyrion had seen it coming and dived beneath the blow. Nimble as a cat, he sprang to his feet and thrust Sunfang up into the beast’s belly, wrenching the sword to open a wide tear. Dark fluids gushed from the wound, drenching Tyrion in stinking, Chaos-touched blood that ran from his armour as water from a fowl’s back.

The beast’s body shuddered, yet its head remained beyond his reach. It spat a mouthful of corrosive bile at him, but Tyrion swatted it aside with his blazing sword. As the creature reared up to slash its front legs at him once more Tyrion aimed his sword at its head and felt the powerful surge of magical energy pulsing in his blood.

“In Asuryan’s name!” shouted Tyrion, and a blazing spear of white light erupted from the sword blade. The hydra screeched in agony as the furnace heat burned the flesh from its skull and boiled the brain in its head. The blackened stump flopped lifeless to the wall, and its body slid from the rampart as its life was extinguished.

Without waiting to watch it fall, Tyrion turned in time to see Korhil and Finubar despatch the second hydra. The White Lion’s axe was drenched with the hydra’s blood and the Phoenix King’s cloak smoked from the heat of the battle. Korhil bellowed a Chracian victory oath, as Finubar shouted for fresh warriors to defend this portion of the castle.

The wall was a blackened ruin, stripped of merlons and embrasures by the attack of the hydras. If the druchii came at this portion of the castle again, there would be no protection for the defenders as they awaited the enemy scaling ladders. Tyrion saw Belarien driving the enemy from those sections of the wall the hydras had not demolished, and breathed a sigh of relief to know that his friend had survived this attack.

The druchii fell back from the battle, limping, bloodied and broken. They had thrown their all into this assault, but they would be back with warriors fresh and eager to swarm over the walls of the castle. Arrows punched through the backs of the fleeing druchii, but they were few and far between.

A crossbow bolt smacked into a stump of rampart, reminding Tyrion that even in victory there was danger. He darted over to Finubar and Korhil, as more elven archers took up position on the wall. Both warriors were spattered with blood, but how much of it was their own, Tyrion could not tell.

“Not so terrible now, are they?” beamed Finubar, between breaths.

“No, but there will be more of them, my king,” said Tyrion. “And this castle is ruined.”

Finubar squared his shoulders, immediately catching Tyrion’s implication. “I will not yield, Tyrion. We fight on. We must.”

“We will not,” stated Tyrion, as the calm spaces in which he had fought faded away.

“You defy your king?” demanded Finubar.

Anger, hot and urgent and bloody filled Tyrion. “I will not throw my warriors’ lives away in a battle I cannot win.”

Before Finubar could speak again, Korhil said, “The prince speaks the truth, my king. The walls offer no protection, the gate is burned and there are few enough left alive to fight for it.”

The Phoenix King said nothing for long moments before letting out a sorrowful breath. He nodded reluctantly as he took in the cost of repulsing this latest attack. Scores of elven warriors were dead, and many more were horribly burned. At best, a hundred warriors remained to defend the walls.

“I know,” said Finubar. “Yet if this castle is lost, then so too is the Emerald Gate. I do not relish my legacy to be the first Phoenix King who allowed the druchii within the Straits of Lothern.”

“You have no choice,” said Tyrion, feeling the pulse of an ancient and malevolent heartbeat keeping time with his own. “War seldom allows us the luxury of doing as we might wish. We must do whatever it takes to survive.”

“We must do more than survive, Tyrion,” said Finubar. “We must triumph.”

The captain of the White Lions stepped between the two warriors, pulling at the fur of his cloak as he put a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “I think I understand what Prince Tyrion is proposing, my king. It’s like when I hunted Charandis. I drew that great lion farther and farther away from the mountains for days on end until his strength was weakened and I could choke the damned life from him. So you see, my lord, we’re giving them the gate, and drawing them into the Straits of Lothern. It’s a killing ground. We draw the druchii in, and hit them from all sides. Even as they come at the Sapphire Gate, every fortress along the length of the straits will be hammering them with bolts and arrows and magic. And if Aislin and Seablaze want to sail out to fight the druchii, they’ve got the perfect opportunity to earn some glory. Trust me, it will be a slaughter.”

Korhil turned to Tyrion and fixed him with his cold gaze. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” said Tyrion with relish. “That’s right. A slaughter.”