by Dan Abnett
THE TOWER OF Talthos Elios was built inside the four sides of a large, open courtyard. It rose into the grey sky, above the drab walls and black-leafed trees, like a finger of ice. A glassy, perfect structure, the work of the gifted and blessed of Tiranoc’s dispossessed offspring centuries before. The curtain walls that faced the outside world were thick and solid, without windows. This was a fortress from the outside, but a haven within. The walls that overlooked the courtyard had many windows and doors and even balconies and internal verandas. Gilead began regularly to take up a position on one of the tower’s first floor balconies and watch the business of the day unfold below him.
This was where the lord’s warriors would practice their combat skills, exercising and sparring with blunted weapons. Gilead began to long for their company and to share his skills with them.
Late one afternoon, Lord Gadrol joined Gilead and they began to talk of the world outside the tower, and the endless duty of the Elios line. The barrow lay in the dark combe beyond the walls and the warriors of the tower patrolled the woodlands. They alone guarded the barrow-breach, an ancient wound in the order of the world and one now recently reopened. It was a hard and unforgiving duty. Gadrol welcomed any help he could get.
Three or four months after being brought to the castle, Gilead was in the courtyard with the other warriors, revelling in the staged battles and the camaraderie. His body had become soft with recovery and with lack of exercise, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
By the half year, he was spending fewer nights carousing with the household and longer days honing his body to its former levels of combat-fitness. He often laughed, in the early days, as he failed to parry a shot from his sparring partner, or lunged too late and fell over his own feet. But as time passed the value of his warcraft came back to him, and with it his old fighting skills. Once more he could wield a sword in either hand, he could move with the kind of dancer’s grace that had always characterised his defensive strategy and, finally, late one afternoon, he became shadowfast.
He had spent all day sparring in the courtyard with the Elios warriors who had become his friends and allies. Suddenly Gilead sensed an attack from behind, then another to his left. It was a regular habit of the warriors to ambush each other in this manner, for battle awareness or, at the end of a long day, for fun.
Gilead’s adrenalin began to pump hard. He disarmed the elf before him, spinning his opponent’s wooden stick high into the air before catching it deftly and boxing the elf on the ears in a resounding double blow. While the practice pole was still in mid-air, he had spun round, dropping the warrior behind him with a swing to the legs. A second blow to the back of the knees sent Gilead’s unsuspecting assailant sprawling across the cobbled courtyard, landing him face down with a severe crack to the head. The third elf had no time to fight off the advance of two twirling, spinning staffs. He did not see them coming. One cracked his sword arm at the shoulder and the second beat, point first, hard into his sternum, winding him. Then the first staff came back, wrapping itself around his neck. Gilead had almost strangled the bewildered, broken wretch before he relaxed and let the elf drop, gratefully, to the cobbles.
One moment Gilead had been struggling furiously against one sparring partner. The next he was in three places at once; defending himself simultaneously on three fronts; disarming and felling three fine warriors in no time, with no apparent linear progress. Shadowfast, as of old.
On the ground lay three spent warriors, breathing hard and reaching for the wooden weapon-substitutes that had been broken or confiscated in Gilead’s onslaught. He looked at them for a moment, aghast, then began to laugh, throwing his head back in a hearty roar.
He was close to his old pitch of ability. He longed now for more than practise. To face the ever-present incursions of darkness from the barrow, with these brave warriors at his side.
In the meantime he, somewhat sheepishly, helped two of his combatants to their feet. The third was carried away, unconscious. They all took several days to recover sufficiently to rejoin Gilead and their fellows in the exercise yard.
THE SKIES NEVER cleared and the foliage grew ever more dense around Fithvael, but the trail was hot with gore and ichor, and the tracking was easy.
The wounded foe had but one purpose: to return whence it had come. It made no attempts to cover its tracks or move with any stealth. Camouflage was unnecessary for both the pursued and its pursuer, since nothing was visible in the depths of the densely wooded landscape. Fithvael was careful, though, not to be heard and at regular intervals he ate and rested, building his strength.
Fithvael came upon the broken body of the foe less than an hour’s gentle ride from his last halt. Cautiously, he dismounted and stood beside the body. He could feel its warmth and sensed that it was still pulsing. If it was not dead, then it could still lead Fithvael to his quarry.
The old elf remounted and the mare took a step or two backwards, then Fithvael reared her, letting out a fierce war cry of his own as the mare whinnied and snorted in surprise and stamped her front feet hard. The noise seemed massive in the still and quiet of the forests but the wight was not roused. Fithvael reared the mare again, dancing her in a circle around the fallen thing, crashing amongst the undergrowth and clanging his long sword and dagger together over his head. The single-minded elf did not perceive the risk of raising hell in an area rife with Chaos. His only thought was to drag this sorry half-corpse back to consciousness.
The dark one whimpered, then screamed, convulsing in the filth of torn undergrowth and damp, peaty earth around him. Fithvael dismounted, still crashing his weapons together and letting out his ancient war cry. It could feel neither fear nor motivation. It couldn’t, wouldn’t stand. Then it ceased to writhe. It glared up at Fithvael, ichor still finding an oozing path through the thick, crusting scabs around its dozen or more wounds. He saw it wanting nothing, except to kill him.
It couldn’t even do that.
Fithvael turned his back on the beast, bitter and angry that his plan had failed. Then rage crept into his eyes and overtook him. His long sword entered the fallen thing’s chest a split second before the dagger reopened the fatal wound in its neck. Death was instant now, but Fithvael took no pleasure in it.
The old warrior had no choice but to continue his quest in any way possible. He assessed, as best he could, the direction the beast had been taking and decided to follow its course. He moved faster now, more urgently. His dream kept flashing in his mind, images of the forest-wights intercut with the knowledge that, in his nightmares he had been too late. Too late to save his friend. Too late to rescue Gilead and renew their partnership.
Fithvael fought his feverish mind… and lost. He began to crash through the forest, heedless of the noise he made and the trail he left. Forgetting that woodland was his natural home, his natural ally, the elf tore a path through the forest, destroying as he went. The ground was churned up beneath the now frantic hooves of the frightened mare, and all but the largest of the trees were hacked aside out of his path.
His mind would not see an end to the struggle, so when the elf suddenly found himself in a steep, sheer pass of black conifers it was a moment before his sword arm rested and he reined in and calmed his mount.
His paranoia turned to glee. In the distance before him, Fithvael could see the tall, glinting sides of a structure. Taking refuge in the lea of the trees, he stopped and looked again. A fortress, a tower, a dank place of evil, this was the monstrous place where he would find his friend. This was where the foe had been making for.
THE TOWER OF Talthos Elios glowed with magnificence. Pennants and banners were raised in the great hall. Gold and silver cloth adorned the benches and grander courtly chairs around the long table, which groaned under the weight of the food that covered it. Meat, fowl and game of all kinds were arranged amongst wide dishes, standing on tall feet, which were heaped with mountains of spices, fruit and bread.
There was to be a grand feast day on the morrow and
the Lord Gadrol and his fair daughter Niobe were arranging everything. It was a special occasion and Gilead was to be the guest of honour. He had resided at the castle for a year, so tomorrow was to be his anniversary and his formal inauguration into the court. He was to become one of them and to have so illustrious a warrior join their cause delighted all at the castle. They had every reason to celebrate.
Gilead, too, was ready to celebrate and eager to become a full member of this society. They had so much to offer: companionship, a good cause… and then there was Niobe. The reason he was here. The beautiful elf maiden had restored Gilead’s health, ministered to his needs when he was mourning Fithvael, been constant companion and confidante. She had even made a radiant new suit of gold and blue for Gilead to wear on his feast day.
AS FITHVAEL ADVANCED up the pass, coming ever closer to the tower, the last remnant of caution left the veteran warrior. The tower was derelict, dilapidated. Its walls stood tall and square to the outside world, but as he cast his eyes towards the top of the walls, the stone seemed insubstantial. He couldn’t focus on individual stones; they seemed to move around each other and he could see the sky through them. The lower walls of the edifice were covered in a brackish black slime of moss and lichens. Fithvael placed his hands on the stone, but felt only the softness of the moss. There was nothing solid there. Working his way around the outside walls, Fithvael found the space where a doorway had once been. One huge, black-studded rotten door still hung from one hinge, the other had fallen inward towards what must once had been a courtyard, but was now a wilderness of rock and dead and dying plant-life.
The warrior elf was confused and disappointed. He had been convinced that this was the place. This was surely where Gilead was being held. Yet there was no sign of him or anyone - until a swift, unseen blow felled him from behind.
GILEAD WAS SPARRING in the courtyard, as usual, when the slumped body was carried in. Patrols left from the castle at regular intervals, but since Gilead had been brought here there had been no new arrivals. He was excited to see that the elf guards’ latest expedition had been more successful.
Dropping his wooden weapons and nodding his thanks to his sparring partner, Gilead bounded towards the two warriors who carried another, ragged elf between them. Fithvael was unconscious, one arm around each of the warriors’ shoulders, feet dragging across the courtyard and his head down. Gilead did not recognise his old friend at first. He simply wanted to help this newcomer, this stranger like himself. He threw the body over his shoulder and took him up to his own room, the room where Niobe had nursed him back to health.
Only when Gilead had gently laid his burden on the clean bed, did the elf realise that it was his dearest friend who had been rescued.
‘Fithvael! Fithvael, my old friend… I thought you were dead…’
Gilead called Niobe and Gadrol and the three kept a bedside vigil for the old elf, while he slowly regained consciousness. Gilead could think of nothing more perfect than to have Fithvael join him tomorrow on his feast day in his new home.
As Fithvael’s eyes began to open, Gilead leant over his old friend.
Fithvael sat bolt upright, staring past Gilead’s gently smiling face at the room he found himself in. The walls crawled with putrid vegetation and lice. The furniture was black with decay and the food by his bed was rotten and riddled with squirming parasites. The stench of Chaos was all around him, yet this was indisputably Gilead before him.
‘Fithvael. It is me, truly. You are alive. You are saved. I want you to meet my great friends and rescuers, Lord Gadrol and his daughter, the Lady Niobe. Gods, you must remember Niobe!’
Two hideous… things stepped out of the gloom behind Gilead, leering at Fithvael and malevolently baring their blackened teeth. Startled and cowering, Fithvael blinked terrified eyes - and saw, in that blink, a majestically magnificent room, decorated in elven style. He saw the beautiful young elf woman, Niobe, and her doting father. He saw fresh fruit and herbs and smelt sweet medicinal potions.
But it was a mere blink and when he opened his eyes again the room had resumed its rotten, filthy demeanour. Fithvael embraced Gilead, closing his eyes for a moment, concentrating only on his friend.
Eyes clamped tight shut, Fithvael felt the syrupy ooze of magic around him. He had seen for an instant what Gilead believed to be the truth. But Fithvael would not succumb. He saw Chaos and realised that they meant not to kill Gilead, but to recruit him, to corrupt him as they themselves had been corrupted. To turn to evil one such as Gilead would delight their perverse minds. The wights wanted to harness Gilead’s skill, his knowledge, his tenacity, his bravery. They were elves corrupted by the foul allure of Chaos. To recruit one of their own kind, the best of their kind, was a goal worth pursuing.
Fithvael lay back on the bed, concentrating hard on his quest. He had sworn that he would save his friend, but now he was no longer sure he could. Gilead didn’t see what was truly around him and Fithvael could not defeat so many of the dark things without his old friend’s help.
He took a deep breath. If he couldn’t fight his way out of this situation, he would have to think his way out. He would have to show Gilead the truth.
Fithvael lay in bed, refusing potions and food and talking little. He let Gilead talk. And Gilead could speak of nothing but his feast day on the morrow. His inauguration into the community of Talthos Elios. His new life.
‘How long have you been here, my old friend?’ asked Fithvael.
‘A year tomorrow, Fithvael. I am happy that you will sit by my side at the feast. I have been content here, these are good people…’
Gilead talked on as Fithvael lay, deep in thought. Even time was false here. Fithvael had left the battlefield, where he had last seen Gilead, only a single lunar month ago. And now the old elf had only one short day before Gilead would be lost to him forever, bound to Chaos by whatever disgusting ceremony they had prepared for him.
AT DAWN, THE tower was glorious in the sunlight. Banners streamed in the blue, windy air. Horns sounded clarion notes from the battlements. Gilead woke at their sound and smiled.
The day was full of tournaments, displays of skill, friendly contests. Then, as dusk settled, thousands of lamps and candles were lit in the great hall.
Gilead was dressed in the beautifully crafted suit that Niobe had made for him, but Fithvael saw only the old, worn and dirtied battle garments that were his friend’s usual attire. He saw only the filth on his friend’s hands and face, smelt only that the elf warrior had missed as many baths as he had himself.
The population of the tower gathered in the great hall, to the strains of musicians in the gallery and took their places at the long tables.
The feast began. Fithvael felt a mounting sense of doom.
He had tidied himself and sat at Gilead’s right hand at the head table. He kept his face against his sleeve. The piles of rotten, maggot-ridden food were enough to make him nauseous, but the stench of the gathered host was worse. Fithvael used every ounce of self-control when looking around. He was appalled by the sheer weight of numbers of the dark things; sixty or more, in all their grotesque, reeking forms. He wondered that they could believe they had duped him.
The veteran elf watched as Gilead and his party took their hearty appetites to the rotten food. Fithvael smiled at his friend, but all the food on his plate found its way under the table and onto the floor. He couldn’t even bear to sully his clothes by secreting it in his pockets.
Then the speeches began. Gilead stood to toast his friends and his new home with joyous words. Fithvael looked up into his friend’s eyes, and by the light of a thousand candles he saw what Gilead saw. He saw the beauty of the sumptuously decorated room and the glory of the feast before them. As Gilead’s eyes moved across the room Fithvael saw, reflected there, a large party of elf warriors and then the serenity of a lovely elf woman, as his friend’s eyes came to rest on Niobe.
In that moment Fithvael had his plan. He only prayed that it was not too lat
e.
As Gilead resumed his seat, his old friend leaned towards him.
‘Gilead, my true friend, it is time now for my toast,’ he said softly. ‘Promise me only this: look into my eyes and see what I see, see what is reflected there. Be by my side now.’
Gilead looked at him curiously.
‘Promise me!’
With that, Fithvael got to his feet and cast his eyes around the room. He spoke slowly of his love for his friend, but concentrated his eyes, first on the decorations, then on the food, then on the Chaos band and finally on the monster that was Niobe.
Gilead looked into his friend’s eyes.
Looked…
…looked…
As Fithvael came to the end of his speech, he turned to Gilead. The smile had entirely left the other elf’s face.
‘Now stand with me, friend, and let us raise our swords and salute each other.’
Gilead rose, drew a deep breath and raised his sword to his old friend. Emotions were swirling behind his fixed visage. Rage, disappointment, guilt, horror. But rage was the greatest.
The creatures around them, the filthy, decaying remnants of the noble line of Elios, perverted and corrupted by the baleful influence of the very barrow they had chosen to guard, raised their goblets in mock salute, and the two true elves began their attack.
Fithvael ran through three of his nearest neighbours before any of the fiends had even armed themselves. Gilead, already shadowfast, whirling and slicing in several places at once, had reduced a dozen dark things to a heap of spurting, disgorging corpses.
