“Will we get to see much of Tor Yvresse do you think?” he said.
“That depends on father, I suppose,” said Kyrielle. “I know he is keen to get you to the White Tower and Teclis.”
“I know, but surely we can take a day to explore?”
“I do hope so. There are many things I would like to show you. The Fountain of Mist, Dethelion’s Theatre, the River of Stars…”
“Perhaps we can come back after the White Tower.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”
Caelir smiled to himself and returned his attention to the city ahead, its magnificent walls looming above them as they followed the road that led to its tall gate of shimmering gold. Black banners fluttered from its towers and the spears of the warriors on its walls glittered like a thousand stars.
He looked up as he heard a beat of powerful wings and Anurion’s pegasus gracefully landed behind them, its wings spread wide as it came to earth once more. The magical beast’s wings folded neatly along its flanks and the archmage rode up to them without pause.
Caelir could see from his face that he bore ill-tidings and grimly awaited his pronouncement.
“Father?” said Kyrielle, also recognising the import of her father’s expression.
“The currents of magic are alive with tidings and portents from all across Ulthuan,” said Anurion. “The druchii have attacked the fleet of Lord Aislin off the coast of Tiranoc. It is said that a Black Ark sank two ships, though a third was able to escape.”
“The druchii…” said Caelir.
“We must make all haste in getting you to Teclis, boy,” said Anurion. “If this is connected to the vision you saw of the darkness engulfing Ellyrion, then the attack of the dark elves may well be the opening moves in an invasion.”
Caelir nodded in agreement, all thoughts of exploring the city of Tor Yvresse with Kyrielle vanishing from his mind at Amnion’s mention of Teclis. “I think you are right.”
He kicked his heels into the flank of his steed. “Let us hasten to Tor Yvresse.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Warden
Tor Yvresse, city of Eltharion…
From his initial awe, Caelir felt a strange mix of sadness and disappointment as they drew closer to the greatest city of Yvresse. What from afar had seemed mighty and regal looked faded and neglected when seen at close range. Though the high walls were no doubt steadfast and strong, the number of warriors manning them seemed woefully few for such a vast stretch of battlements.
The road leading to Tor Yvresse was deserted and their company was the only group of travellers abroad. The golden gate of the city remained closed and Caelir could feel the suspicious glares from the soldiers on the walls as they watched them approach.
An eerie silence clung to the landscape around the city and though he had no memory of travelling to such a metropolis before, he found it strange and not a little unsettling that he could not hear the bustle and vigour of a city the size of Tor Yvresse beyond its walls.
As they drew to within a hundred yards of the walls, the gate swung smoothly open and a disciplined regiment of spearmen emerged, marching in perfect step to take position in the middle of the road. Their spear tips shivered as they halted before the gate and a line of archers appeared at the embrasures of the white wall above them.
An officer at the centre of the spearmen stepped from the front rank and raised an open palm before him.
“In the name of Eltharion, I bid you halt, and demand your business within the city of Tor Yvresse.”
Caelir was about to reply when Anurion rode forward on his pegasus, his face thunderous and crackling, flickering arcs of power rippling along his robes.
“I am Anurion the Green, Archmage of Saphery and I need not explain myself to the likes of a common gatekeeper. I demand entry to this city.”
The officer blanched at Anurion’s obvious power, but to his credit, he did not back down. Instead he simply took another step forward and said, “I mean no disrespect, my lord, but Lord Eltharion requires us to demand the business of everyone desiring entry to our fair city.”
“My business is my own,” said Anurion, but his tone softened as he continued. “I do however wish to speak to Lord Eltharion, so convey my request for an audience to him forthwith.”
Caelir hid a smile as the captain of the gate attempted to reassert some of his authority by straightening his uniform and saying, “I shall convey your requests to the Warden, but must ask as to the identities of your companions. All must be made known to the city guard before being admitted to Tor Yvresse.”
“Very well,” said Anurion, turning and gesturing vaguely towards Kyrielle and Caelir. “This is Kyrielle Greenkin, my daughter, and this is her companion, Caelir of Ellyrion. The rest of our company are my household guards. Do you require me to identify them all?”
The officer shook his head and said, “No, my lord, that shall not be necessary.”
Anurion squared his shoulders and urged his mount onwards as the officer rejoined his men and turned them about smartly. The line of archers above vanished from sight and the spearmen marched back within the city walls.
Caelir and Kyrielle followed Anurion, their armoured guards riding alongside them.
Caelir nodded respectfully to the captain of the gate as he passed him, hoping to restore a measure of the dignity Anurion’s tirade had stripped from him. The officer returned the gesture gratefully and Caelir turned from him to savour his first sight of the fabled palaces and mansions of Tor Yvresse.
The light grew as they neared the end of the tunnel through the thick walls and Caelir felt himself holding his breath as he caught sight of domed roofs, silver arches and wide, tree-lined boulevards.
At last he emerged into the thoroughfares of Tor Yvresse and any disappointment he had felt when drawing close to the city was washed away in a rush of sensation as he saw its towering majesty up close. Elegant mansions, worked with great skill from the rock of Yvresse rose up in sweeping curves, the eye drawn around the graceful colonnades and gilded beauty of the multitude of marble statues that graced each roofline.
Beautiful elves in finery that would not have looked out of place in the palaces of Lothern walked the streets, glancing up with wary interest as they emerged into the wide esplanade before the gateway. Tall and clean limbed, these elves were ruggedly handsome, the equal of their land, and—he noticed—each was armed, either with sword or bow.
For all the finery and fearsome aspect of the inhabitants of Tor Yvresse, Caelir could not help but notice that the streets were nowhere near as busy as he would have expected them to be. Their route carried them along a wide, tree-lined boulevard, the marble-fronted mansions ghostly in their emptiness and the towers that rose above him on the hills seeming to stare down at him with bleak, forlorn gazes.
“This place is empty…” he said, feeling that to raise his voice above a whisper would somehow be wrong.
“Many died fighting the Goblin King,” said Anurion, “and Tor Yvresse wears its grief like a cloak. These deaths hang heavily and the sombre mood of Eltharion carries over into his people. The celebrations and cheers that greeted his victory are stilled and now the city knows neither joy or life.”
Now that Anurion had spoken of it, Caelir could feel the ghosts of the war against the Goblin King in his bones; the distant clash of elf-forged steel against crude blades hammered out in the depths of forgotten caves and the anguished cries of those who saw their ancestral homes burned down around them whispered at the edge of hearing.
The sorrow he had felt in Athel Tamarha was a keen blade that pierced his heart, but this… this was a deeper ache, a constant hurt for the inhabitants of Tor Yvresse, for they had endured only to see the glory of their city fade.
Throughout the city, they saw daily life continue, but the more Caelir saw of it, the more it seemed that people were simply going through the motions of life. It was as though a part of them had died along with th
ose who fell in battle and were just taking their time in lying down.
The physical splendour of the city was undimmed and much had been rebuilt, but where hands and magic had once raised architecture of sublime magnificence with joy, these new edifices were hollow replacements, more akin to monuments to the dead than celebrations of life.
Caelir found the city unbearably sad, like a weight on his soul and he initiated no conversations with Kyrielle, nor did he answer queries put to him beyond monosyllabic answers.
Eventually Anurion called a halt to their journey through the empty city and Caelir looked up to see a great tower, mightier and higher than any other around it. The mountains reared up behind the tower, but a trick of perspective seemed to extend it far beyond the magic-wreathed peaks and Caelir found himself dizzy with vertigo as his eyes travelled its full height.
A web of light seemed to pulse within the pale blue marble of the tower, its length pierced by not so much as a single window except at its summit, where a series of grim garrets and a lonely balcony stared over the city.
At the base of the tower, a single door, plain and unadorned, led within and Caelir found himself strangely reluctant to venture within this haunted, forsaken tower. This was a tower where the blackest magic had been unleashed and a duel that had sealed the fate of its inhabitant had been fought.
As their mounts halted before the tower, the door opened and a slender warrior shrouded in a plain tunic of black and armoured in gleaming plate stepped from the interior. His hair was pale to the point of being silver and his cheeks were sunken, but it was his eyes that chilled Caelir to the very depths of his soul.
Cold, dead eyes that held a depth of bitterness that shocked Caelir with its intensity.
The elf crossed his arms and said, “What business brings you to Tor Yvresse?”
The chill edge to his voice was like the last whisper of life in the mouth of a corpse and Caelir could see that Anurion and Kyrielle were as shocked as he at the warrior’s terrible appearance.
Anurion collected himself and said, “I am Anurion the—”
“I know who you are,” said the warrior. “That is not what I asked.”
Caelir awaited the explosion of temper from the archmage, but it never came.
“Of course,” said Anurion, “my apologies. We seek an audience with the Warden of Tor Yvresse to request passage across the mountains to reach the Tower of Hoeth.”
“I am the Warden of Tor Yvresse,” said the warrior. “I am Eltharion.”
* * *
The interior of the Aquila Spire was pleasantly cool, a fresh westerly breeze blowing in through the narrow window that looked out over the descending slopes of the pass that led to the plains of Ellyrion. The scent of ripened corn was on the wind and Cerion thought wistfully of the times he had ridden those plains with the Ellyrian Reavers many years ago as he tried to lift himself from his gloomy thoughts.
Glorien’s reports were spread out on his desk, and Cerion had despaired as he read his subordinate’s take on the information he had already heard, first-hand, from the taciturn Shadow Warriors as they had returned from patrolling the mountains.
Their leader, Alanrias, had spoken of an ill-omened aspect to the mountains, a warning which Cerion took seriously, for the Shadow Warriors of Nagarythe had a bleak kinship with the darkness that lurked in the hearts of the Asur. When they spoke of such things it was with a degree of authority that could not be ignored.
No mention of this was made in Glorien’s report, only the fact that the scout patrols had found no living thing in the mountains… expressed with a patronising air of superiority in the dismissal of their claims of impending threat.
He rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed the heels of his palms against his temple, hoping against hope that he could somehow circumvent Glorien’s family influence to have a more suitable warrior appointed to be his second in command. The thought of retiring and leaving the Eagle Gate in Glorien’s hands sent a chill down his spine.
Cerion put aside the reports, rising from behind his desk and making his way to the opposite side of the room and a fine, ellemyn-wood drinks cabinet. He opened the exquisitely crafted lattice doors and lifted out a crystal decanter of silvery Sapherian wine made from grapes grown on a strain of vine created by Anurion the Green.
Though it was still early, Cerion decided he needed the drink anyway and poured himself a stiff measure of the potent wine into a polished copper goblet. The breeze blowing in from the east was pleasant on his neck and he raised the glass to his face, enjoying the astringent scent of the wine.
As he raised the goblet to his face, the breeze behind him suddenly died and a shadow passed across the reflective surface of the wine. Cerion spun and hurled the goblet towards the narrow window, where a lithe shadow crouched on the sill.
His throw was wild and the goblet smashed into the stone of the wall, but it was enough of a distraction. The dark figure rolled into the room from the window, a dark blade flashing into its hand. Cerion’s sword leapt from its sheath and he stabbed the point towards the rolling shape.
Faster than he would have believed possible, the dark warrior scissored to his feet, arching his back to avoid his thrust, and landed nimbly on his feet before him. A blade slashed towards Cerion’s neck and he threw himself backwards, only just avoiding losing his head. His sword came up to block another blow, but before he could do more than bring the blade back down, his attacker had another weapon in his hand.
“Intruder!” he bellowed at the top of his voice, hoping that someone would be near the bottom of the steps to hear his cries. “Intruder! Guards!”
“Guards won’t save you, old man,” said the black-clad assassin and Cerion was not surprised to hear the dark, sibilant tones of the druchii issue from his attacker’s mouth.
“Maybe not,” he said, backing towards the door, “but they’ll see you dead with me.”
The assassin did not reply, but leapt forwards once more, the twin blades spinning in his hands as though he were a blade acrobat. Cerion blocked the first blow, but could not stop the second, and the assassin plunged the blade up into his armpit, dark enchantments laid upon its edge parting the links of ithilmar as easily as an arrow parts the air.
Cerion screamed in agony as the sword tore through his lungs and heart, blood pumping enthusiastically from the gaping wound as the assassin tore the blade free. He staggered backwards, the door to the Aquila Spire slamming open as he fell against it.
The assassin bounded forward and held him upright, stabbing him again and again. The blades tore into him with agonising fire, blood filled his senses, and he stared into the cruel eyes of his killer, horrified at the hate and the pleasure the druchii was taking from inflicting such pain. He wanted to fall, the strength pouring from his limbs as surely as the blood was gushing from his ruined body. His eyes dimmed, but he could feel hands keeping him from falling.
He felt fresh air on his skin and the sensation of brightness. His feet were unsteady and blood made the stairs slippery as he was dragged into the light.
With the last of his strength Cerion opened his eyes to see the wall of the Eagle Gate spread out before him, his warriors staring in open-mouthed horror at the sight above them. An archer took aim and swordsmen sprinted along the wall towards the stairs.
“Know this, old man,” said the assassin, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Soon all this will be in ruins and your land will burn.”
Cerion tried to spit a last defiant oath, but his words were no more than hoarse whispers. He felt the assassin’s grip shift.
Something clattered against the stonework of the tower and he saw the splintered fragments of a white shafted arrow twirl away from him.
Then the world spun about him as he was hurled from the top of the steps.
At first, Alathenar had not known what to think when he heard the cry echoing from the mountains and had looked up from his freshly stringed bow in confusion. Smoothly rising to his feet
, he saw that others were similarly alarmed by the sudden cry of pain. Without thinking, he nocked an arrow to his bow and leaned through the embrasure on the wall seeking a target.
Then the cry had come again and he spun towards the Aquila Spire as his keen hearing pinpointed its source. The door to the tower slammed open and he lowered his bow as he saw Lord Goldwing framed in the gloom of the tower.
Then he saw the blood streaming from his body and the shadowy form behind him.
“Assassins!” he cried and sighted along the length of his arrow.
His arrow all but leapt from his bow as he loosed, but his target was already in motion and he cried out as the commander of the Eagle Gate was hurled down the stairs cut in the rock. The bloody body tumbled downwards, end over end, and Alathenar heard the sickening sound of bones breaking.
Lord Goldwing’s attacker vanished into the Aquila Spire and Alathenar swept up his quiver before taking to his heels after him. Anger and grief lent his stride speed and he sprinted past armoured swordsmen who hurried towards the tower. They halted at the bottom of the stairs, kneeling in horror beside the broken body of their beloved commander, but Alathenar already knew there was nothing to be done for him. He vaulted the warriors at the foot of the stairs, bounding upwards towards the Aquila Spire.
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 blood 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.