He reached the top of the stairs, the upper landing slick with blood, and he dived through the door, rolling as he landed and rising with an arrow pulled taut to his cheek.
The chamber was empty, though the stink of viscera and violence was fresh in his nostrils. Quickly, Alathenar scanned the room and found it empty. He slung his bow over his back and drew his sword as he saw a dented goblet in a pool of bitter wine below the chamber’s only window. Carefully he edged towards the opening, his blade extended before him.
Behind him he could hear shouting voices and he knew that the assassin was long gone from this place of murder. Swiftly he swung himself through the window and caught his breath as he found himself on a narrow stone sill, hundreds of feet above jagged rocks that would kill him as surely as the assassin’s blade.
He looked above him as he heard warriors pushing into the chamber behind him, spying a scuff mark on the eaves of the tower’s roof. So the assassin had come over the mountains and lowered himself inside.
‘He’s gone over the mountains!’ he shouted into the tower, before sheathing his sword and taking a deep breath. Alathenar bunched his legs beneath him and leapt straight up, grabbing hold of the edge of the roof. He swung himself up and over in one swift motion, clambering up the ridged parapet of the conical roof.
He leaned his back against the tower’s finial and lifted his bow over his head. Hooking the quiver to his belt, Alathenar spared a glance back down to the wall of the fortress, seeing shouting warriors who pointed over at the cliffs of the pass. He followed their extended arms in time to see the shadowy form of the assassin as he bounded from the rocks and made his escape.
Arrows flashed through the air, but the assassin possessed some dark sense for them and either ducked back into cover or effortlessly dodged them.
Alathenar selected the finest, truest shaft from his quiver and kissed the arrowhead before nocking it to his bow and taking careful aim.
His target was at the extreme edge of his range, but he had his new bowstring and he silently offered a prayer to the Everqueen that her handmaids did indeed possess some magic. The assassin wove a ragged pattern through the rocks and Alathenar cursed as he quickly realised that there was no way he could predict his movements to aim ahead of him.
Suddenly he smiled as he saw a narrow cleft in the rock ahead of the fleeing figure and saw that his weaving course was leading him unerringly towards it. He took a breath and held it as he gauged the range to the cleft and how quickly the weaving assassin would take to reach it.
‘Kurnous guide my aim,’ he said.
Alathenar let out his breath and at the end of his exhalation loosed the arrow from his bow. He watched as the blue-fletched shaft arced into the morning sunlight, reaching the zenith of its flight before dropping in an almost leisurely arc.
‘Yes!’ he said as his arrow slashed down and punched through the assassin’s shoulder. The dark shape stumbled and fell, but even as Alathenar watched, he picked himself up and made off once more.
Alathenar pulled another arrow from the quiver, already knowing that he could not hope to hit the assassin before he was out of sight. Sure enough, the figure disappeared from view before he could loose.
He lowered his bow and wept angry tears as he looked down to see the warriors of the Eagle Gate cover the face of Cerion Goldwing with a white cloak that slowly turned to red.
Alathenar the Archer let out a terrible cry of loss and anger.
And high above the mountains, it was heard.
From the top of the Warden’s Tower it was possible to survey the entire city of Tor Yvresse and Caelir soon appreciated the scale of the destruction wrought by the invasion of the Goblin King. Despite the work of the city’s inhabitants, their domain still bore the scars of war, ruined mansions, fire blackened stretches of wall and abandoned parks where nature had been left to run riot.
He watched the inhabitants of the city going about their business, guessing that the city had originally been built to house at least twice the number of folk it currently sheltered. He and Kyrielle stood on the tallest balcony that overlooked the city, higher even than the tower palaces built upon the city’s nine hills. Wind whipped the sea beyond the harbour into tall, foam-topped waves of blue and snapped the mournful banners upon their flagpoles, but not a breath of it touched them in the tower.
Upon meeting Eltharion, the Warden of Tor Yvresse had bid them dismount and leave their guards before following him within his tower. Its interior was as bleak as the exterior was imposing, bare walls and simple furnishings speaking of an occupant who cared nothing for beauty or ornamentation and whose ascetic tastes would make those of a Sword Master’s seem vulgar.
Eltharion had said nothing more beyond his introduction and beckoned them to follow him upstairs to his chambers. Caelir inwardly groaned at the sight of so many stairs, having seen how tall the tower was from the outside, but barely had his feet set foot on the first than it seemed he was stepping onto a landing at the very top.
Looking back down the centre of the tower, he saw the ground hundreds of feet below.
Upon reaching the top of the tower, Eltharion and Anurion had retired to speak in private while he and Kyrielle had been left to their own devices in the tower’s receiving chamber. Some effort had been made to make the interior of the tower less foreboding, but it was a token effort and only made the rest of their surroundings more depressing.
Food and wine had been set out for them, and so they had sated their thirst and hunger before moving out to the balcony to admire the view and await the Warden’s decision.
‘This isn’t what I expected at all,’ said Caelir.
‘Tor Yvresse?’
‘Yes. I remember the tales told of the city and the return of Eltharion, but I expected a city of great heroes. I did not think to find it so… deathly.’
‘As my father said, a great many elves died in the war, but our children are few and it is a sad fact that fewer and fewer of us are being born every year.’
‘Why would that be?’
Kyrielle shrugged. ‘I do not know. Some say that our time on this world is now a guttering flame and that soon it will be over. All things have their time in the sun. Perhaps the world is now done with our kind.’
‘What? Surely you don’t believe that?’
‘How else would you explain our fading?’
‘Perhaps the power of the elves does wane, but our time will come again, I know it.’
‘Are you so sure? How many empires of men have risen and fallen in the turning of the world?’
‘Men are fireflies, their lives flicker and burn for but a moment,’ said Caelir. ‘They live their lives as though in a race, never building anything of permanence. How can you compare the Asur with such barbarians?’
‘We are not so dissimilar, my dear Caelir. Perhaps we are on the same path, but are simply taking longer to walk it.’
Caelir turned to Kyrielle and placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘This doesn’t sound like you, what is the matter?’
Kyrielle said, ‘Nothing is wrong with me, silly boy. I think it is just being in Tor Yvresse. There are evil ghosts of memory here and they stir the darkest thoughts in me. I will be fine.’
‘I have felt them too, Kyrielle, but we cannot let the evil of the past blight our lives in the here and now. The Goblin King was defeated and Tor Yvresse saved, surely that is cause for celebration?’
‘Of course it is, but with every invasion, every battle, we are lessened. Every year the druchii grow bolder and so long as the Isle of the Dead draws the magical energy of the world to Ulthuan, creatures of Chaos will forever be drawn to our fair isle. We are clinging to life by our fingernails, Caelir.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Caelir, ‘but is that reason to give up and let go? Maybe we are a fading race, I don’t know, but if that is true I will still fight to the end to hold on to what we have. I do not know what will happen in the future, but I will not meekly accept despair into my h
eart. So long as I draw breath I will fight to protect my home and my people.’
Kyrielle smiled at him and he felt his spirits rise until he caught sight of the pledge ring on the hand resting on her shoulder. A fleeting image of a beautiful elf maid flashed behind his eyes, her eyes sad and her hair a flowing river of gold.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Kyrielle, seeing the shadow pass over his features.
‘Nothing,’ said Caelir, taking his hand from her shoulder and turning away.
He was saved from further questions when he heard footsteps approaching from the tower. Anurion the Green stood before them, his features giving nothing away as to the outcome of his discussions with Eltharion.
‘Well?’ said Kyrielle. ‘Does he grant us leave to travel over the mountains?’
‘Not yet. He wishes to speak to Caelir first.’
‘Me? What for?’ said Caelir, suddenly nervous about meeting such a dark yet heroic figure as Eltharion the Grim.
Anurion said, ‘Because I believe he thinks you a mystery and Eltharion is not one who enjoys mysteries as much as I. He has been told all that I know of you and he wishes to speak to you himself. When he asks questions, be truthful in all things. Do you understand me, boy?’
‘I understand you, yes,’ said Caelir. ‘I am not a fool, but I still do not see why he wishes to speak with me.’
‘Listen to me, Caelir, and listen well. Eltharion is the Warden of Tor Yvresse and none pass over the mountains to the Inner Kingdoms without his leave. If he wishes to speak to you then you do not refuse him.’
Caelir nodded and made his way across the receiving chamber towards the leaf-shaped archway that led to Eltharion’s private chambers. The doors were shut and he knocked softly, unwilling to simply barge in.
‘Enter,’ said a cold voice and an icy dread settled on him as he obeyed.
Pazhek let loose a string of the foulest curses he knew as he stumbled on yet another rock and fell to his knees. Where before the mountains had risen to meet his tread and hasten him on his way, now every rock was loose beneath him and every patch of scrub tangled his foot at every turn.
His shoulder ached abominably, the arrowhead still lodged painfully beneath his shoulder blade. He still couldn’t believe that he had been hit, for he had employed all the techniques of evasion taught to the Adepts of Khaine and had been beyond the furthest extent of bowshot…
Or so he had believed.
He had bound the wound as best he was able and taken an infusion of weirdroot to dull the pain before retracing his steps through the mountains. The Shadow Warriors would even now be on his trail and he was under no illusions as to the likelihood of his escape now that he was leaving a trail of his own blood behind him. But he would lead them a merry dance through the mountains and when they came for him he would kill and maim as many as he could before they brought him down.
He had applied a coating of pois