A WARHAMMER NOVEL
DEFENDERS OF
ULTHUAN
Ulthuan - 01
Graham McNeill
(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
BOOK ONE
Nepenthe
CHAPTER ONE
Survivors
Thunderous booms echoed from the cliffs as the surf crashed against the rock and exploded upwards in sprays of pure white. The icy, emerald sea surged through the channels between the rocky archipelagos to the east in great swells, rising and falling in foam-topped waves that finally washed onto the distant shores of a mist-shrouded island.
Amid the great green waves, a splintered shard of wreckage was carried westward towards the island, the last remnants of a ship that had fallen foul of the obscuring mists and shifting isles that protected the eastern approaches to the island. Clinging to the debris was a lone figure whose golden hair was plastered to his skull and tapered ears, and whose clothes were torn and bloodied.
He clung desperately to the wreckage, barely able to see as salt spray stung his eyes and the hammer-blows of the waves threatened to tear him from the wood and drag him to his doom beneath the water. The flesh of his fingers and palms was torn as he gripped tightly to all that remained of the ship he had sailed in.
Clinging to the hope that the sea would bear him to the island’s beaches before his strength gave out and water claimed him for its own, he kicked feebly as he was pitched about like a rider on an unbroken colt. His every muscle burned with fire and blood streamed from a swollen gash on his forehead, the dizziness and nausea threatening to part him from the wreckage as surely as the waves. The sea was carrying him towards the island, though the glittering mists that shrouded its cliffs seemed to distort the distance between him and his salvation; one minute promising imminent landfall, the next dashing those hopes as the land appeared to recede.
Not only did the mists confound his sight, but also, it appeared, his hearing. Even amid the tumult of the waves, he fancied he could hear the slap of water on the hull of a ship behind him as it plied the treacherous channels. He turned his head this way and that, seeking the source of the sound, but he could see nothing save the endless expanse of ghostly mists that clung to the sea like a lover and the tantalising sight of the white cliffs.
He swallowed a mouthful of sea and coughed saltwater as his body shook with exhaustion and cold. A dreadful lethargy cocooned his limbs and he could feel the strength ebbing from his body as surely as if drawn by a spell. His eyelids felt as though lead weights had been attached to them, drooping over his sapphire blue eyes and promising oblivion if he would just close them and give up. He shook off the sleep he knew would kill him and ground his torn palms into the splintered edges of the wood, the pain welcome and necessary even as he threw back his head and screamed.
He screamed for pain and for loss and for an anguish he did not yet understand.
How long he had been in the water, he did not know. Nor could he remember the ship he had sailed on or what role he had fulfilled as part of its crew. His memory was as insubstantial as the mists, fragmentary images scudding across the surface of his mind without meaning, and all he could remember was the cruel sea battering him with unthinking power.
The ocean lifted him up, high atop a roaring curve of water before slamming him back down into yet another bottle green trough, but in the instant he had crested the wave, he spied the landscape of the island through salt-encrusted eyes once more.
Tall cliffs of pearl-white stone crowned with achingly beautiful greenery were closer than ever before, the echoes of powerful waves splintering to crystal shards at their base now deafening. Fresh hope surged in his blood as the mists parted and he saw a golden curve of beach beyond a spur of marble rock.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside him and he kicked desperately as he struggled against the tide to reach the soil of his home. He gritted his teeth and struggled with the last of his strength to reach the salvation of the shore. Angry at being denied its prize, the sea fought to retain him, but he plumbed the depths of his desperation and courage to break its embrace.
Slowly the bow of beach grew larger, sweeping around the edges of a rocky bay upon which numerous watchtowers and lighthouses were perched. He felt his strength fade as he passed into the more sheltered waters of the bay and pulled himself further onto the timbers of his lost ship as the currents carried him onwards.
His vision dimmed. He knew he had pushed his tortured body too far and he had nothing more to give. He lay his head down on the smooth surface of the timber and felt his limbs relax as consciousness began to fade. He smiled as he watched the coastline of his homeland draw nearer, tall poplars and hardy grasses marching down to the shoreline from the cliff tops high above.
Winged shapes pinwheeled in the sky above him and he smiled as the sea birds filled the air with their cries, as though welcoming him home once more—though he could not recall why or for how long he had been gone. His mind drifted as the current carried him towards the beach and it took him several minutes to register the soft impact of his makeshift raft against the shore.
He lifted his head to spit saltwater as his eyes filled with tears of joy at the thought that he had returned home. He wept and pulled himself from the timbers that had carried him through the cold green waters of the sea and rolled into the shallow surf.
To feel the soft sand beneath him was ecstasy and he gouged great handfuls in his bloodied fists as he clawed his way to dry land. Inch by tortuous inch, he dragged his sodden frame onto the beach, each herculean effort punctuated with wracking sobs and gasps of exhaustion.
Finally, he was clear of the ocean and collapsed onto his side, the breath heaving in his lungs and his tears cutting clear paths through the grime on his face. He rolled onto his back, staring up at a heartbreakingly beautiful blue sky as his eyes fluttered shut.
“I am home,” he whispered as he drifted into darkness. “Ulthuan…”
Ellyr-Charoi, the great villa of the Éadaoin family shone as though aflame, early afternoon sunlight reflecting dazzlingly from gemstones set within its walls and the coloured glass that filled the high windows of its many azure-capped towers. Built around a central courtyard, the villa’s architecture had been designed to render it as much a part of the landscape as the natural features that surrounded it. Its builders had employed the natural topography in its design so that it appeared that the villa had arisen naturally from its surroundings rather than having been raised by the a
rtifice of craftsmen.
Set amid a wide stand of trees, the villa was bounded on two sides by a pair of foaming white waterfalls that had their origin high on the eastern slopes of the Annulii Mountains. The waters of both joined beyond the villa, flowing fast and cold to a wide river that glittered on the horizon. An overgrown pathway led from the gates of the villa to a sweeping bridge of arched timbers that curved over the rushing waters and followed the course of the river through the eternal summer of Ellyrion to the mighty city of Tor Elyr.
Autumn leaves lay thick and still against the smooth stone of the villa and climbing vines curled like snakes across the cracked walls, unchecked and wild. A soft breeze blew through the open gates like a sigh of regret and whistled through cracked panes of glass on the tallest towers. Where once warriors had stood sentinel by the portal that led within and surveyed Lord Éadaoin’s realm from the watchtowers, all that remained now was the memory of those faithful retainers.
Within the walls of the villa, golden leaves danced in the ghostly breaths of wind that soughed through echoing and empty rooms. No water gurgled in the fountain and no laughter or warmth filled its deserted halls. The only sound to break the silence was that of hesitant footsteps as they made their way along a marble-tiled cloister towards elegantly curved stairs that led from the courtyard to the master of this villa’s chambers.
Rhianna looked up from her book as Valeina emerged from the shadow of the leaf-strewn cloister and stepped down into the Summer Courtyard, though such a name seemed now to be at odds with the autumnal air that hung over the open space. The young elf maid carried a silver tray upon which sat a crystal goblet of wine and a platter of fresh fruits, bread, cheese and cold cuts of meat. Dressed in the livery of the household, Valeina had served the lords of the Éadaoin for almost a decade now and Rhianna smiled in welcome as the young girl passed the silent fountain at the courtyard’s centre.
In the year and a half since she had lived in the Éadaoin villa, Rhianna had grown fond of Valeina and valued the times they were able to speak. Inwardly, she knew that she would never have considered such a friendship back in her father’s estates… but a lot had happened since she had left Saphery.
“My lady,” said Valeina, setting the tray down beside her. “Lord Éadaoin’s food. You said you wished to take it to him yourself.”
“Yes, I did,” replied Rhianna. “Thank you.”
The girl inclined her head in a gesture of respect, the boundaries between noble born elf and common citizen still strong despite their growing friendship, and Rhianna needed no mage sight to sense that it sat ill with Valeina in bringing this repast to her instead of directly to the master of the house. Etiquette demanded that no highborn elf of Ulthuan should carry out such mundane tasks as serving food, but Rhianna had politely requested that this meal be brought to her first.
“Will you be requiring anything else, my lady?” asked Valeina.
Rhianna shook her head and said, “No, I’m fine. Won’t you sit awhile?”
Valeina hesitated and Rhianna’s smile faltered, knowing that she was simply using the girl as an excuse to delay taking the meal to its intended recipient.
“I know this is… unorthodox, Valeina,” said Rhianna, “but it is something I need to do.”
“But it’s not right, my lady,” said the elf maid. “A lady of your standing doing the work of the household, I mean.”
Rhianna reasserted her smile and reached out to take Valeina’s hand in hers. “I’m just carrying some food upstairs to my husband, that’s all.”
The elf maid cast a glance towards the stairs that curled upwards into the Hippocrene Tower. Once, a portion of the crashing waterfalls beyond the villa had been channelled down grooves fashioned into the sides of the tower to feed the fountain at the centre of the Summer Courtyard, but now cracked leaves filled the cascading marble and silver bowls instead of glittering crystal waters.
“How is Lord Éadaoin?” asked Valeina, clearly nervous at such an intrusive question.
Rhianna sighed and chewed her bottom lip before answering. “He is the same as always, my dear Valeina. The death of Cae… his brother is a splinter of ice in his heart and it cools his blood to those around him.”
“We all miss Caelir, my lady,” said Valeina, squeezing Rhianna’s hand and naming the grief that had settled upon the Éadaoin household like a shroud. “He brought this house to life.”
“He did that,” agreed Rhianna, struggling to hold back a sudden wave of sadness that threatened to overwhelm her. A strangled sob escaped her, but she angrily caged the sorrow within and reasserted control on her emotions.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right, my dear,” said Rhianna. “Really.”
She knew she had not convinced the elf maid and wondered if she’d convinced herself.
Two years had passed since Caelir’s death in Naggaroth and though the sadness was still a bright pain in her heart, chains of duty that were stronger than death bound her to her fate.
She remembered the day she had watched the Eagle ships returning to Lothern after the raid on the land of the dark elves, the hated druchii, the gleaming silver of the Sapphire Gate shining like fire in the setting sun behind them. No sooner had she looked into the haunted eyes of Eldain as he had stepped onto the quayside than she knew that Caelir was lost, the visions of Morai-heg that had filled her dreams with dark premonitions suddenly brought to horrid life.
The druchii had slain Caelir, explained Eldain, and the all-consuming grief he felt at his brother’s loss was as hot and painful as hers. Together they had wept and held each other close, allowing their shared loss to bring them closer that they might heal themselves.
She shook off the memory of that dark day and looked down at the pledge ring on her finger, a silver band with a swirling cobalt coloured gem set amid a pair of entwined hands. Soon after, Eldain had spoken of the promise he had made to his younger brother upon their departure for the Land of Chill; a promise that he would take care of Rhianna should anything happen to Caelir.
They had been wed the following year and the elven nobility of Ulthuan all agreed that it was a good match.
As well they might, thought Rhianna, for she and Eldain had all but been betrothed to one another before she had lost her heart to Caelir after he had saved her from death at the hands of druchii raiders a year previously.
But dreams of love were long gone and she was now the wife of Eldain, lord of the Éadaoin family and master of this villa.
Rhianna slid her hand from Valeina’s and lifted the silver tray. She stood smoothly and said, “I should take this to Eldain.”
Valeina stood with her and said, “He has a good soul, my lady. Just give him some time.”
Rhianna nodded stiffly and turned away, making her way to the stairs and her husband who brooded alone with his grief in the tallest tower of Ellyr-Charoi.
Eldain gripped the edges of the window tightly as he stood before the tall lancet that looked out over the rolling greensward of Ellyrion and listened to the voices drifting up from the Summer Courtyard. Every word was a dagger in his heart and he closed his eyes as he felt the pain of them stabbing home. He let out a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heartbeat by reciting the vow of the Sword Masters of Hoeth.
Though he had never journeyed to the White Tower, where the legendary warrior mystics trained, he still found their mantra soothed him in times of trial, the rhythmic cadences of the words sounding like music in his ears.
Eldain opened his eyes and, taking a deep, calming breath he raised his eyes to the soaring mountains that lay to the west. The Annulii Mountains towered over the grasslands of Ellyrion, stark and white against the pale blue of the sky, their summits lost in the swirling mists of raw magic that flowed between the outer and inner kingdoms of Ulthuan. The reassuring permanence of the mountains was a balm on his soul, and his eyes roamed over their craggy peaks and tree-swathed slopes, picking out paths an
d sacred groves amongst the great spires of rock.
In their youth, both he and Caelir had roamed the land of Ellyrion on the back of steeds they had raised from foals and who had become their boon companions since first they had ridden together, but now Caelir was dead and Eldain’s steps barely carried him from Ellyr-Charoi.
“He has a good soul,” he had heard Valeina say, and he did not know whether to laugh or cry at the words. He turned from the window and paced the circumference of the Hippocrene Tower, his long cloak of sky blue cloth trailing behind him as a cold wind scattered leaves and papers across an exquisitely carved desk of walnut.
The inner walls of the tower were lined with bookshelves and pierced by tall windows at each of the eight compass points, allowing the Lord of Ellyr-Charoi to survey his domain and keep watch on the mighty herds of Ellyrion steeds as they thundered across the plains.
Eldain slumped behind his desk and gathered the papers the wind had scattered. Amongst the reports of Shadow Warriors from the western coasts and missives from the garrison of the Eagle Gate high in the mountains were numerous invitations to dine at the homes of nobles of Tor Elyr, entreaties to the latest spectacle of wonder of Saphery and word from his agents in the port of Lothern concerning his trade investments.
He could focus on none of it for more than a moment and he looked up to face the portrait that hung on the wall opposite his desk. For all the difference between the portrait’s subject and Eldain, he might as well have been looking into a mirror and only more careful study would reveal the differences between the two.
Both wore their platinum blond hair long and confined by a golden circlet and both had the strong, handsome bone structure common to the Ellyrion nobility—a rugged windswept countenance that spoke of a lifetime spent in the open air atop the greatest steeds in Ulthuan. Their eyes were both a crisp blue, flecked with ocean grey, but where the face in the portrait displayed a well-fed, roguish insouciance, Eldain’s features were gaunt and serious. The artist had captured the boyish mischief that always glimmered in his younger brother’s eyes as well as the quality of dashing adventure that always seemed to surround Caelir like a mystical aura. Eldain knew well enough that he possessed none of these qualities.