What a galling way for a prince of Ulthuan to die…
Not in battle, not at the claws of some ancient nemesis, but falling from a great height.
The ignominy of it angered Tyrion more than the thought of his own death.
“Extend your arms, Tyrion!” shouted Eltharion’s voice above him.
Tyrion heard a screeching roar and felt a booming rush of air above him. He did as Eltharion commanded, and the griffon’s ebon-hard claws seized his arms. His plummeting descent slowed and smoothed out as Stormwing took his weight and flew over the empty quays and the hastily assembling defenders of Lothern.
Eltharion brought Stormwing down into the port, coming in slow and allowing Tyrion to drop the last yard to the paved quay before setting the griffon down. Tyrion’s heartbeat was racing at his brush with death, and he turned in gratitude to Eltharion.
“My thanks, brother,” said Tyrion.
Eltharion shrugged and said, “It was nothing. I was there.”
Tyrion gripped Eltharion’s hand. “I owe you my life. That is not nothing. You understand?”
Eltharion shook his head, and Tyrion despaired of ever reaching his friend again. All understanding of the bonds of brotherhood engendered by decades of friendship had been scoured from his soul, and only an empty shell that wore the face of Eltharion remained.
“What happened in that tower?” whispered Tyrion. “What price did you pay?”
“You of all people should know better than to ask such a thing,” snapped Eltharion.
“What do you mean?”
“You are of the line of Aenarion,” said Eltharion, “accursed to the last generation by his blood and forever drawn to battle and death. Your soul is still yours for the moment, but mine is already forfeit.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will,” said Eltharion. “And on that day you will know what it means to be cursed.”
Eltharion took to the air on Stormwing’s back, but Tyrion did not watch him go.
Instead, he stared at the great gap where the Sapphire Gate had once stood and at the towering immensity of the black ark. Whatever power Malekith had used to unmake the great sea gate was spent, but its work was done, and the route into Lothern was open.
Iron portcullises at the base of the black ark clattered upwards and a crimson-sailed fleet of raven ships and troop galleys surged out towards the quays of Lothern.
Tyrion turned and ran to stand alongside his king.
Lord Swiftwing watched the battle for Tor Elyr from the spired ramparts of his castle and felt despair like the morning he had learned he would never ride again. He wore his ithilmar breastplate and carried his winged helm in the crook of his arm. His family blade was sheathed at his side in a scabbard specially modified to fit around his lopsided waist, and an azure cloak flapped in the wind that whistled around the high tower.
Casadesus stood beside him, and the mood was grim as they watched the mist lifting from the river and saw the scale of the enemy facing what remained of his army.
The southern flank was buckling under the weight of the enemy attack, and the horde of tribesmen was massing to charge the thin line of spears in the north. The noose was closing on Tor Elyr, and no amount of heroics would change the inevitable outcome of this battle.
In the centre of the army, amid a troupe of cavorting blade-maidens, was Morathi.
Seated astride her winged steed of darkness, the hag sorceress had taken no part in the fighting, which surprised Lord Swiftwing, for history told that she was a leader who relished the chance to get her hands bloody.
“Why do you not fight?” whispered Lord Swiftwing. “What are you saving your powers for, she-witch?”
The wind blew cold, and Lord Swiftwing pulled his cloak tighter about himself.
“You should go from here, my lord,” said Casadesus. “I have a ship waiting at the lower docks. It is fast, and the druchii will not catch it.”
“Go?” said Lord Swiftwing. “Go where?”
“To Saphery perhaps,” said Casadesus. “There are no reports of fighting there. You would be safe and could rally support to retake Tor Elyr.”
Lord Swiftwing shook his head. “You would have me flee? You should know me better than that, Casadesus.”
“I would have been disappointed if you had said yes,” agreed Casadesus, “but I had to ask.”
“I understand, old friend,” said Lord Swiftwing. “How could I look myself in the mirror knowing I had fled my city and left my warriors to die? No, if this is to be the last day of Ellyrion, then I will die with my land. You should go, there is no reason for you to die too.”
“You tried to send me away once before, and I seem to remember telling you that I was where I needed to be, my lord.”
“Duty?”
“Duty,” said Casadesus.
“It will be the death of us all,” said Lord Swiftwing, watching as a small Reaver band rode across the frozen river with rank upon rank of druchii marching after them. Red mist trailed from their lathered horses, but how they came to be on the other side of the river was a mystery. Though if there was one thing that could always be said of Ellyrion Reaver Knights, it was that they would always cause havoc from the direction least expected.
“A river in Ellyrion turned to ice. Who would have believed such a thing was possible?” said Lord Swiftwing. “The druchii do not fight with any notions of honour, though I should not be surprised at such a thing. It is hard to believe they were once like us.”
“They were us,” said Casadesus. “But I agree, it is hard to credit.”
A shimmering light rippled the horizon to the north, and Lord Swiftwing saw the graceful arc of a glorious rainbow. A shimmering curtain of stars glittered beneath it, though he had no idea what could have caused such a wondrous display.
“What magic is this?” he wondered. “Ours or theirs do you think?”
“Who can say?” replied Casadesus. “Ellyrion is a land of mystery.”
“There is truth in that,” agreed Lord Swiftwing, turning away from the battle and placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. “But that is one mystery that will need to remain so for today.”
“My lord?”
“Ready my chariot, Casadesus,” said Lord Swiftwing. “I may not be a Reaver Knight this day, but I will take to the field of battle as my last act.”
“Will you permit me to be your spear-bearer, my lord?”
“I would be honoured,” said Lord Swiftwing.
The crystal spires of the city glittered like the icy stalactites in the Dragon Caves of the Frostback Mountains. Issyk Kul had killed a mighty creature of ancient days in those caverns, dragging its monstrous skull down onto a spike of ice and earning the favour of the dark prince in the process.
His flesh burned with the need to defile, to violate and to debase. This battle had given him precious little chance to honour his god in the proper manner, and the few tortures he had managed to inflict on the green shaman had only served to inflame his passions further.
Blood coated his chin where he had drunk the blood of a dying elf-maid, and his hands were slick to the elbow where he had reached into the chest of an injured warrior to remove his still-beating heart. Petty debaucheries in which even the lowliest devotee of Shornaal would happily indulge, but trifling and dull to him. He needed to violate something innocent, to destroy something beautiful and to corrupt something pure.
His warriors bayed for blood, for battle and for the sheer noise of it. A deafening symphony of discord arose from the horde, a wailing, braying, honking, skirling wall of sound that was music to his ears. The blaring cacophony, the smell of sweat, blood, fear and exultation were a potent mix, and the striking colours of the landscape and sky and city all combined in a scintillating chorus of sensation.
His horse pawed the earth, its flesh hot and raw and heaving with the need to trample warm bodies beneath its clawed hooves. It had feasted on elven meat, and bloody saliva dripped from between
its chisel-like fangs. The very air of this island was pain to its exposed flesh, but the beast welcomed it as a fellow creature of Shornaal.
The invasion of Ulthuan had been like no other campaign, for the sheer potency of war waged on a land of magic was like nothing he had experienced before. He had led the northmen’s wolfships over the Sea of Claws to the Empire, but its rain-lashed shores held little appeal for him. The men that called that land home were dull, mud-caked grubbers of the earth, who knew nothing of the wonders of the true gods.
He could feel the aching need of his warriors to be unleashed, but held them in check a moment longer. The wall of spears before them was thin and fear came off the silver-armoured warriors in delicious waves. Against his horde, they would break and run at the first charge. Horsemen rode at the flanks of the battle line, and Kul licked his lips as he saw the warrior he and Morathi had broken in the haunted dungeons of Naggarond.
The young elf had been a playful pet, and had taken a long time to break, but when he had, oh… the degradations he had enjoyed, the torments he had begged for. To have endured so complete a debasement and still retain even a scrap of sanity spoke of a measure of denial or fortitude that Kul could only admire.
Caelir, that was his name, and Kul imagined skinning him alive and taking his flesh for a scabbard in which he would sheath his many-bladed weapon. A lone warrior with a horned helm and a cloak of thick bearskin broke from the horde with an ululating scream of hatred, but a white-feathered arrow punched through the visor of his helm before he had covered more than ten yards.
The elven spears trembled, and Kul let their fear grow. His anticipation built until finally he could stand it no longer.
He raised his sword and loosed a battle howl of lustful rage. It was answered by his horde, and they sprinted forwards in a mass of axes, swords, shields and clubs. Kul rode with them, keeping pace with his warriors to better savour the raging swell of emotions that surrounded them. This would be a charge like no other, a charge of blood, noise and joy. The air hazed with the sheer violence of the spectacle assaulting Kul’s senses.
“Yes!” he yelled. “Yes, Shornaal, yes!”
The sky behind the elven battle line shimmered like the lights that burned on the northern horizon when the Chaos moon waxed full. The rounded hill crowned with menhirs like the herdstones around which the forest beasts would gather was aflame with colour, and a dazzling rainbow soared from its centre. The stones raised atop the hill blazed with magic, and the runes cut upon them shone like the fires that burned in the hottest forges of the Kurgan metal-shamans.
Glittering rain fell like sparkling snow, and a rumble of thunder rolled across the plains of Ellyrion as a searing crack split the sky. It crackled and spat, like a blazing lightning bolt tapped in the moment of its birth. The charge of the horde faltered at such a sight, and Issyk Kul felt a rush of powerful magic. The crack spread wider, tearing open like a curtain at a window, and the overpowering scent of wild blossoms, new wood and fresh-grown grass gusted from beyond its light.
Shapes moved through the glow, large and small, capering and lumbering, and Issyk Kul spat a mouthful of blood as he tasted the raw power of unfettered life magic. Songs and music sounded from the hilltop, festival-wild and redolent with the promise of rebirth and the cycle of living things. It was a hatefully melodious counterpoint to the blessed din of his horde’s noise, and Kul’s anger grew.
The rainbow faded, and the light on the horizon vanished as suddenly as it had come.
In its place was an army of magic, a host of whip-limbed dryads, capering fauns with barbed tridents and glittering carpets of sprites that covered the hillside and the land to the north. Towering over the curved waystones came trees with vestigial faces and limbs of creaking, groaning timber. These wooden giants lumbered down the hillside, followed by a glittering host of wild creatures of all shapes and sizes.
Wild boars, silver-tailed wolves and huge bears with golden fur came alongside a garishly attired host of elves armed with bows, spears and swords. Flocks of birds erupted from a sky that had been empty moments before: ravens, doves, hawks, red-breasted falcons, starlings, white-tailed jays and a host of birds of myriad species and plumage.
Soaring over the flocks were three golden-winged eagles, wide of pinion and noble in bearing. They flew like the sky was their own private kingdom, and Kul dearly wished for a horn bow like those carried by the Hung horsemasters to bring them down. An eagle with a white-plumed head soared higher than his brothers, and Kul remembered this bird killing his warriors before the walls of the Eagle Gate. Kul instantly dismissed the birds as he laid eyes upon a vision of ancient, eternally enduring perfection at the centre of the magical army.
It was an elf-maid, but an elf-maid like no other.
The purest white light streamed from her supple limbs, like sunrise on northern ice or the shimmer of gold in a streambed. Hair the colour of ripened corn fell about her shoulders like a waterfall, and her face was a vision of perfect beauty.
Eyes of hazel flecked with gold. Full lips and a smile that forgave him all his violations.
Kul hated her with a passion.
By virtue of her race, she was innately more beautiful than Kul could ever be, and the fires of his jealousy burned hotter and fiercer than ten lifetimes worth of hatred.
There could be no doubt as to her identity.
This was the Everqueen of Avelorn.
Finally, something worth defiling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BREAKING THE NOOSE
Narentir felt his stomach lurch as the magic faded, and his mouth dropped open at the sight of the enemy horde below. Thousands of savage warriors draped in animal skins, beaten pig-iron armour and horned helms advanced upon a perilously thin line of elven spearmen. Narentir had served his time in the citizen levy, and was no warrior, but even he could tell that the northern tribesmen would smash through the spear hosts with one charge.
He clutched the spear Lirazel had given him as though it was a dangerous serpent that might turn on him at any moment. A heavy shirt of mail weighed on his shoulders, and how anyone expected him to fight while carrying such an extraordinary weight was quite beyond him. Narentir had explained this to Lirazel, but no amount of protest had changed her mind.
“You are one of the asur,” she had said. “You will fight for Ulthuan. There is no other option.”
That had been the end of the discussion, and though he knew he was quite useless as a warrior, he had marched with the Everqueen’s army to a long line of waystones hidden in a mist-shrouded valley deep in the heart of Avelorn. Here, the Everqueen bid her army make camp, and there they had remained for Isha knew how many days, until, as the sunlight began to fade, the same wordless summons that had awakened the denizens of her forest to her presence now brought them to battle readiness.
“Remember to point the sharp end at the enemy,” said Lilani, startling him from his memory and putting a reassuring hand on his arm. “Stay close to me, and you will live through this.”
Narentir took a deep breath and said, “I believe you, my dear, though the gods alone know why.”
“Because you are in love with me,” she said.
“Obviously,” replied Narentir. “But so is half of Ulthuan, and you can’t be right about them all, now can you?”
“Maybe not, but you will live through this,” said Lilani. “And you will tell tales of this day for hundreds of years.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said, and Narentir took comfort from her certainty.
Cruciform shadows passed overhead as the three eagles banked low over the army of Avelorn. A chittering, cackling mass of sprites and faeries swarmed towards the tribesmen, as flocks of birds swooped down and obscured them in a mass of feathers. The elves of Avelorn followed them, all the dancers, poets and singers of the Everqueen’s realm come together to fight for the land they celebrated in song and verse. Leading them was the Maiden Guard, a solid core of marble-
limbed elf-maids with sculpted breastplates and long spears of bronze.
Narentir was carried along by the stream of bodies, one hand clutching his spear to his chest, the other holding on to Lilani’s arm. Despite the dancer’s assurance that he would live, fear took hold of him, and his mouth dried at the thought of facing one of these dreadful barbarian warriors in combat. The bloody heave of battle was for heroes and killers, and he was assuredly neither. He told tales of heroes, he was not a hero himself.
He might die on this hillside.
This could be his last day on Ulthuan.
Narentir turned to Lilani and looked deep into her eyes.
“You’ll look after me, my dear, won’t you?” he said, almost begging.
“Count on it, Narentir,” she replied.
Eldain led Starchaser and their Reavers around the rear of the elven army at the gallop. They had left the druchii army behind and now swung around the battered survivors of the attack over the river. The centre still held, and it was strong, but the flanks were buckling under the pressure.
The druchii stranglehold on Tor Elyr was closing ever tighter, and if this were to be the end, then he would face it by Caelir’s side. He could not know for sure that his brother still lived, but the same intuitive belief that Caelir had not died on Naggaroth told him that he still fought on.
Tor Elyr rose up before him, beautiful and shimmering like a dream. How long would it take the druchii and the tribesmen of the north to bring it down? How quickly would this unthinking enemy reduce a city that had endured for centuries to ash and broken glass?
Eldain pictured its marble castles aflame, its silver towers sagging in the awful, intolerable heat of tribal revel fires. He saw its beautiful inhabitants crucified from the highest spires, their blood staining the white cliffs, and the flocks of carrion as they flew in lazy circles, bloated by the feast of flesh below.
Great sorrow replaced the anger in Eldain’s heart at the thought of such wanton destruction and needless murder. Against such bitter hate, what chance did any of the races of the world stand? When such forces of darkness were ranged against all that was bright and pure, how could anything of goodness endure?