“Yes,” said Yvraine. “My first mission was to bring you to Saphery, but when we reached the Tower of Hoeth and the beasts of magic attacked, I feared failing Master Silverfawn more than my own death.”
“I never knew…”
“Like you, I have a duty, but if I fail in mine, people die and that is a heavy burden for any shoulders.”
“And how do you cope with such a burden?”
Yvraine smiled. “I strive to do my duty to the best of my ability and through doing so, I learn a little more about myself. All any of us can do is our best and let the gods take care of the rest.”
Rhianna found herself admiring the youthful Sword Master more and more, pleased that she had been right to defend her against Eldain’s opinion that there was no wisdom in wielding a sword for the Loremasters.
She shook off her sadness and felt the healing touch of the Gaen Vale flow through her as she forgave herself for believing Caelir to be dead. A warm, golden light built behind her eyes and she said, “Thank you.”
No sooner had the words left her than a shadow fell across them and a skyclad elf maid carrying a moon-coloured longbow emerged from the undergrowth. Yvraine’s hand instinctively reached for her greatsword before she realised where she was and that her weapon was still aboard the Dragonkin. Rhianna rose to her feet in surprise at the maiden’s sudden appearance.
The elf maid’s skin was unblemished and startlingly white, her blonde hair reaching down to the backs of her knees. Her features were thin, elliptical and Rhianna thought she was perhaps the most beautiful person she had ever seen.
“The oracle consents to see you,” said the maiden. “You must follow me.”
Alathenar drew and loosed yet another arrow as the enemy horde came at them once again. The arrow thudded home between the neck plates of a warrior armoured in heavy plates of iron and he collapsed in a heap before the charge. Alathenar loosed arrow after arrow, his fingers and forearm raw from the volume of shafts he sent slashing into the enemy ranks. The day was less than four hours old, yet the defenders of the Eagle Gate had already seen off three separate attacks.
“Don’t they ever stop?” he hissed as he loosed his last arrow and snatched up a fresh quiver from the ground.
“Apparently not,” said Eloien Redcloak, his shorter bow reaping a lesser, yet no less deadly tally than Alathenar’s. The magic of the Eagle Gate’s mages had saved the reaver’s life, but Alathenar knew he should not be fighting, for his wound was not yet fully healed.
Despite this, Eloien had immediately taken his place on the wall and refused any notion of riding to Ellyrion; this enemy had killed his warriors and he had vowed to exact a measure of retribution for their murder.
Alathenar had liked his spirit and kept a wary eye on the reaver, fighting back to back with him on several occasion. Both immediately recognised the warrior spirit in the other and Alathenar could feel bonds of friendship forming as they often did between warriors in battle.
“Be ready with that sword of yours, Redcloak,” advised Alathenar. “We’re not going to stop them before they get to the walls.”
“Have no fear of that, archer. Just be sure to leave enough for me.”
Alathenar wanted to believe the Ellyrian’s words were a jest made of bravado, but saw the grim set to his jaw and knew that no levity remained within the reaver.
The welcome crack-twang of the bolt throwers unleashing was audible over the baying of the corrupted humans as they charged the walls of the Eagle Gate again. A score of the debased followers of the dark gods were mown down like wheat before the scythe as the lethal hail of darts thudded home.
The valley floor was carpeted with the dead and wounded, bodies trampled underfoot as the howling champions of Chaos drove their followers forward with whips and threats. A tide of armoured warriors surged towards the walls, armed with roped grapnels and long ladders. Their raucous war chants rang from the sides of the valley and Alathenar knew he had never heard voices so filled with hate.
Blue white rods of molten light leapt from the walls, immolating a dozen tribal warriors in a searing explosion of winged flames, and volley after volley of deadly accurate arrows sliced through armour and flesh as the defenders sought to keep the enemy from the walls.
“Ladders!” shouted Alathenar as an iron-topped ladder thumped into the wall in front of him, sending sparks flaring from the stonework. He stepped away from the battlements as a gold banner was raised and a disciplined line of warriors armed with swords stepped forward, glittering weapon points aimed at the tapered embrasures.
A roaring warrior with a monstrous axe appeared and Alathenar sent an arrow through the eye slit of his helmet. The man screamed and toppled from the ladder, but even as he fell, another warrior clambered up and Alathenar’s arrow thudded uselessly into his raised shield.
All along the length of the wall, struggling warriors in fur cloaks and dark helmets fought to gain a foothold on the ramparts and the bloodshed was horrendous. Artisan-fashioned steel met steppe-forged iron in a clash of brute strength and martial skill.
Eloien stepped in close to the parapet and stabbed his sabre through a bare-chested warrior with a skull-fronted helm. Another warrior appeared and Eloien clove his sword through his shoulder, hacking the arm from his body. The tribesman fell from sight and Eloien reared back as a monstrous creature with the head of a snarling bear hauled its bulk over the pale stone of the wall.
Alathenar loosed an arrow that ricocheted from the braying creature’s skull as it reared above the ramparts and Eloien lunged forwards to stab his blade through the beast’s jaws.
The monster howled and bit down, snapping the reaver’s blade. Another arrow hammered home in its chest, penetrating barely a handspan before snapping against the stone of the wall.
Eloien rolled beneath a sweep of its massive clawed hand and with a muscular scramble the beast was on the ramparts. Blood drooled from its jaws and Alathenar saw that its fangs were so monstrous and distended that it could not possibly close its mouth.
Screeching wails of the winged she-creatures sounded above him, but he could only hope the great eagles who had brought warning to the fortress could defeat them. He put the aerial battle above the fort from his mind as the mighty beast unlimbered a great hammer from its back and swung it in a wide arc.
Elves were smashed asunder by the blow, broken and dead as they flew from the wall to land in the courtyard far below. Alathenar threw himself flat to avoid the huge hammer’s head and Eloien pressed his back against the wall.
The reaver swept up a fallen sword and slashed it across the monster’s hamstrings.
The thick sinewy cords were like wet rope and the blade scored across the backs of its legs without cutting them, but his attack had given the defenders on the wall an opening. Two warriors armed with spears charged from either side and plunged their long polearms into the beast’s flanks.
It roared in pain and Alathenar rolled onto his back, holding his bow side-on and offering a prayer to Kurnous as he loosed a pair of shafts at the beast’s head. Both shafts struck home and gushing blood jetted from its torn throat.
The straining spearmen used their weapons to push the monstrous beast from the wall and Alathenar rolled to his feet as the sounds of battle rushed in to fill his senses.
Desperate clashes between elves and men and creatures that defied description ran the length of the wall. Warriors with swords defended the ramparts, while archers filled the skies with shafts and brought down the disgusting winged creatures that harried the crews of the bolt throwers.
Spearmen periodically surged forward to hurl the enemy back and flames of magic leapt back and forth; the blinding white of elven magic and the dark, purple fire of druchii sorcery.
Mystic sigils of protection worked into the stone of the wall dissipated the worst of the enemy magic, but each rune smoked and hissed as the dark arts of the Hag Sorceress gradually burned through their strength.
Periodically the
wall would shake as the horrifying beasts the corrupted humans had brought to the battlefield hammered the gate below. Such monstrous by-blows of the dark gods were virtually immune to pain and only a multitude of shafts could bring them down.
Ladders were cast down by straining warriors and magical fire, and grapnels were cut with single sword strokes, elven steel easily parting the crudely woven human ropes. Spearmen thrust forward in linked ranks, pushing the enemy back from the wall and the battlements became slippery with the blood and viscera of the dead.
“We have them now,” said Eloien, his chest heaving with the exertion of battle. “They’re fighting to live now, not to win.”
Alathenar nodded. “Maybe so, but it’s not over yet!”
He pointed towards further along the wall where a tribal war leader in a suit of dark armour had formed a fighting wedge and was pushing the defenders back with wide sweeps of a mighty greatsword. Dozens of warriors waited behind him and it would only be a matter of time until the enemy swept the defenders away.
Alathenar vaulted onto the saw-toothed ramparts to get a better view and nocked another arrow to his bow. He saw crossbowmen below taking aim and knew he did not have much time.
He waited until the warrior’s sword was raised above his head and whispered, “Guide my aim, Arenia my love,” and loosed a pair of shafts, one after the other. Both sliced through the mail at the warrior’s armpit to punch through his ribs and pierce his heart.
Alathenar leapt down as a flurry of crossbow bolts clattered against the wall and the war leader fell to his knees, a jet of blood pouring from beneath his helmet.
The elven warriors he had kept at bay surged forwards, their speartips stabbing and driving the remainder of the enemy from the walls. The last of the ladders was cast down and archers moved to the walls to slay as many of the enemy as possible as they fell back to their camp.
A ragged cheer chased the corrupted ones away and elven warriors sagged against the stone of the ramparts as they realised they had won another respite.
“That was an incredible piece of archery,” said Eloien, cleaning his sword on the tunic of a dead tribesman.
Alathenar said. “I have my true love’s hair woven into the string.”
“Does that help?” asked Eloien, lowering himself to the ground with a wince of pain.
“I like to think so.”
He sat on the rampart as the reserve groups of warriors made their way up from the courtyard to take the place of those who had been fighting. The bodies of fallen elves were carried away to the rear wall of the fortress while those of the foe were hurled unceremoniously over the walls. Buckets of water sluiced the worst of the blood away and stretcher-bearers carried injured warriors to the infirmary and the surgeons’ arts.
“Shall we get down from this wall and have some water?” said Eloien.
“That sounds good,” agreed Alathenar. “All too soon it will be our turn to fight again.”
“And when will it be your glorious leader’s turn?” asked Eloien, nodding towards the imposing crag of the tall tower at the end of the wall.
Alathenar did not reply, but privately had wondered the same thing.
When would Glorien Truecrown leave his precious books to come down from the Aquila Spire and fight with his warriors?
Their guide led them through the wondrous valley of the Gaen Vale and the natural beauty of the landscape enchanted Rhianna with every step she took. All Ulthuan was a marvel of nature’s genius, but here it was allowed its reign unfettered by the handiwork of the elves. Wild groves of apple trees and waterfalls filled the air with pungent scents of good earth and fresh water, and the magical creatures—unicorns, pegasus and griffons—that roamed freely through the forests were unafraid of them.
The deeper they journeyed into the high sided valley, the more of its fey inhabitants they saw, dancers and archers who practised their arts in groves so glorious Rhianna felt her heart would burst at the splendour of them.
White marble temples sat in overgrown arbours, priestesses of the Mother Goddess pouring wine and honey on the sacred places as they gave praise for the fertility of the land. Kneeling maidens of Ulthuan received instruction from the inhabitants of the island and everywhere Rhianna looked, she could see welcoming smiles of acceptance at their presence.
From somewhere she acquired a floral wreath and the sound of haunting earth music came from ahead, as if to draw them onwards, though the island had no need of such blandishments, for their approach was a willing one.
Their guide had said little since she had surprised them, though, in truth, neither she nor Yvraine had desired to talk, so caught up in the wonders of the isle were they. The elf maid’s body was hard and toned through a lifetime of duty and Rhianna had to force herself to keep her eyes from lingering too long on the sway of her muscular back.
Their path led them up through an archway formed from the overhanging branches of looming trees. Through the gently waving canopy she could see the tall peak at the centre of the island, streams of mountain water pouring down its flanks like trails of tears.
A wide stream tumbled energetically over a cascade of pebbles worn smooth over thousands of years and Rhianna felt her pulse quicken as they emerged from the forest and she saw a dark cavern ahead.
The path curled up towards the flanks of the peak through a procession of votive statues and piles of offerings to the Mother Goddess. Sparkling mist clung to the rocky ground before the cavern and shimmering rainbows arced from the glistening stones.
Their guide halted while they were still a hundred yards or more from the entrance.
“I can go no further,” she said. “You must travel on alone.”
Rhianna looked towards the cavern mouth, its yawning darkness wide and fearful now that she knew they faced it without the protection of one who dwelled amongst its wonders.
“The oracle is within?” asked Rhianna.
“She is,” confirmed the maid. “Now go. It is perilous to waste her time.”
With that warning, the elf maid turned and vanished into the forest as effortlessly as she had appeared, leaving them alone and uncertain before the cavern temple of the Mother Goddess.
The mountain loomed over them, powerful and frightening now that they stood at its base and saw the raw, hard-edged ruggedness of it. From a distance it had appeared regal and majestic, but here, its stone was dark and threatening.
“We should move on,” said Yvraine, when Rhianna didn’t move.
“Yes…” said Rhianna.
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know… I just feel a little frightened now, but I am not sure why.”
Yvraine looked from Rhianna to the cave mouth and said, “I understand what you mean. I thought everything on the island would be like what we’ve seen before, but…”
“But it’s not, is it?” finished Rhianna.
“No,” agreed Yvraine. “This is different. Dangerous. But we should have expected this.”
“How so?”
“So far we have only seen the beauty of the island, but for everything of beauty there is a balancing darkness; day and night, good and evil. For everything wondrous in nature, there is cruelty to match. Nature is a bloody world of death and rebirth. So it is here too.”
“Now I really don’t want to go in.”
“It is perilous to waste her time,” said Yvraine, repeating the elf maid’s warning. “I do not think we have a choice.”
“No, I suppose not,” agreed Rhianna, setting off with fresh resolve towards the cave mouth.
They climbed the path and as they reached the darkness of the cave Rhianna smelled the aroma of dark, smoky wood, as though a fire smouldered deep within the mountain. She caught the aroma of white poppy, camphor and mandrake, and her vision blurred for a moment as she took a breath of the aromatic smoke deep into her lungs. Rhianna saw flickering lights ahead and as she stepped into the cave, she saw bowls of oil on the floor, blue flames dancing
just above the rainbow-sheened liquid.
The cavern walls were adorned with a multitude of paintings of the moon, new-blooming roses and writhing serpents. She walked deeper into the cavern, walking with the oil bowls to either side of her. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, but even so, there was a darkness here that her elven eyes could not penetrate. The oil lamps created no smoke, yet she felt a cloying thickness to the air as though spider webs ensnared her every step.
Momentary panic fluttered within her and she looked over her shoulder to check that Yvraine was still with her.
She was alone…
Yvraine was nowhere to be seen and even the light at the cave mouth was gone, as though a great door had come down to block off the outside world. Rhianna fought down her rising unease and forced herself to continue, following the route of the dancing blue flames as it led her deeper into the painted temple.
The deeper Rhianna went, the more she became aware of a soft tremor to the earth, like an infinitely slow heartbeat, powerful and yet impossibly distant. She could feel it in the earth and in the air, as though the pulse of the world was all around her, and its rhythmic cadence eased her spirits.
The passageway widened and Rhianna emerged into a smoky cavern, at the centre of which sat a thick stone with a carving of a knotted net across it. Pungent smoke drifted from the top of the stone and standing behind it was a hooded figure dressed in a long white robe and who carried a staff made from the branch of a willow tree.
“Welcome, Rhianna, daughter of Saphery,” said the figure and the voice was powerfully feminine. Rhianna tried to reply, but the thickness of the smoky air coiled in her throat and she could not form the words of a reply.
The woman beckoned her forwards and pointed to the stone. “At the birth of the world, the Emperor of the Heavens sent a phoenix and a raven to fly across the world and meet at its centre. Upon the omphalos stone is where they met and through it, the oracles of the Mother Goddess can speak to the kingdom of heaven. Though whether they understand the reply is another matter.”
“Where is my friend?” said Rhianna, her voice muffled and weak. “Where is Yvraine?”