Elves The Omnibus by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2020-04-07T16:06:11+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BLOOD OF ULTHUAN

The black ark filled the horizon, a shard of Ulthuan now filled with evil and twisted to serve the druchii. The castle fortresses worked into the cliffs had been abandoned as the black ark ground its way deeper into the straits, crushing them to rubble against the sea walls. Every warrior of Lothern now stood on the glittering ramparts of the Sapphire Gate, ready to face an army of druchii that drew closer with every breath.

Every day had seen the black ark draw nearer to the sea gate, but today would see it close enough for the killing to begin. Black clouds swirled in a vortex above it, spreading out over the mountains to either side like oil in water. Every now and then, Tyrion would catch fleeting glimpses of a monstrous winged form in the darkness, a figure in purple-limned armour astride its serpentine neck.

The Witch King himself had come to see Lothern humbled, and Tyrion longed for the chance to cross blades with the ancient foe of Ulthuan. The sea battered the cliffs of the black ark and crashed against its lower reaches, but what could the waves do to so towering an edifice as a mountain in so short a time? Tyrion felt the sea’s anger as it sought to eject this thorn from the flesh of Ulthuan, and shared its frustration that it was powerless against it.

Powerless? No, that was not right.

He could have the power, but he chose not to wield it.

Tyrion gripped the hilt of Sunfang tightly, feeling the conflicting pulls on his heart as deep aches in his soul. His beloved Everqueen was beyond his sight in Avelorn, wounded and in need of his comfort, while Lothern would surely suffer greatly without his presence. Yet the greatest pull on his heart was that which turned his eyes to the north whenever his attention wandered or his focus slipped.

In those moments, he would see the storm-lashed isle in the cold, grey northern seas and feel the pull of that blood-bladed sword. Countless thousands had died over that hostile scrap of rock, their bones littering its desolate shale, their blood soaking its gritty black sand. All for possession of a weapon that could destroy the world. How ridiculous such a notion was. Why would anyone kill to possess a weapon that was doom incarnate?

Yet he would draw it and drive the druchii from Ulthuan if only he could be sure that he would set it back into the dripping altar as Aenarion had done. Tyrion knew he was strong, but was he strong enough to resist the lure of such a powerful weapon once it had been unsheathed? He didn’t know, but the world would be a grimmer place were he to find out.

He heard someone call his name and shook off thoughts of the Blighted Isle.

‘What?’ he said.

‘The island again?’ asked Belannaer.

Tyrion nodded. ‘Am I so transparent?’

‘The Sword of Khaine is a mighty and terrible artefact,’ said the Loremaster. ‘And you are the greatest warrior of the asur.

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