savour of a wizard’s soul when you devour it.’
‘I think the master of the tower is expecting us,’ said Elrion.
Of course, he would be expecting them, for he was a mage. He had probably seen their approach at leagues of distance through his scrying crystal. It was a pity the tower was not closer to the entrance to the elder paths; then they could have taken him completely by surprise. Then again that would have deprived N’Kari of much of the pleasure of battle and slaughter. One always had to take a balanced view of these things.
N’Kari doubted being forewarned would do the defenders much good in the end. His forces were too numerous now and there was no chance of reinforcements reaching the elves unless they used the same means as N’Kari did to transport their forces, and they had not the knowledge or the courage needed to do that.
Some of his troops possessed the wit and the skill to begin to construct crude siege machines – catapults and covered battering rams. They had cut down the trees from sacred groves to make them, and one or two of the cultists had even managed to imbue them with magic to improve their utility. It would only be a matter of time before the gates or the walls surrounding the tower were breached and his followers were within. All he had to do was give the order and the battle would begin.
N’Kari paused for a second to savour the moment. As he did so a tall figure appeared on the battlements and began incanting a spell. It was an order of magnitude more potent than anything being woven by the apprentices. The master of the tower had decided to take a hand. A ball of pure magical energy arced towards the nearest siege machine, blasting it to blazing fragments, searing the flesh from its crew and leaving only vitrified bones standing there for a heartbeat before they collapsed.
N’Kari was not amused. He had been about to give a rousing speech to his followers, to act the part of the great leader. It would seem their opponent for the day did not intend to give him time to play that role. So be it. He would find his amusement in other ways, by tormenting the soul of the one who had robbed him of that fleeting pleasure.
‘Attack,’ N’Kari shouted, shifting his form to something like his natural and most beloved one. He was rewarded by screams of terror from the walls. You could usually rely on magicians to recognise a daemon when they saw one. It seemed like some of those on the walls had some idea of N’Kari’s capabilities. Perhaps he would spare a few of the most abject of them, if they grovelled enough.
Then again, perhaps not.
‘You’re very good, doorkeeper, and you’re getting better all the time,’ said Korhien. He was actually breathing heavily from the workout. He leaned on the practice sword and he stared at Tyrion. ‘You have made a lot of progress in the past weeks.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say it,’ said Tyrion. He glanced away. More and more porters were arriving, bringing decorations and food for the upcoming ball. ‘I feel like I am getting better but I have nothing to judge my progress against.’
‘I have,’ said Korhien. ‘And you can take my word for it – there have been very few warriors who have learned how to use a sword as quickly or as well as you have. You have an uncanny ability with weapons. It’s as if you were born to use them.’
‘Maybe I was,’ said Tyrion. ‘But I think that is true of most elves who live in these times. We are all born to use weapons whether we like it or not. It is an age of war.’
‘That it is, doorkeeper. Although I doubt that you have much of an idea of what that really means just yet.’
‘I’m sure that I will have before much longer,’ said Tyrion.
‘I hope not,’ said Korhien. ‘You’re a bit young yet to be going to war.’
‘It is what I have dreamed of since I was a child.’
‘You will find that the experience does not bear much relation to what you have dreamed about. These things never do. It is one thing to read about them in stories or to hear warriors tell tall tales around a campfire. It is another thing entirely to chop an elf into pieces or stick a sword through his