[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  “Follow Morathi,” said the Everqueen. “Stop her.”

  Simple commands, yet Eldain had not the faintest idea as to how they would obey them.

  The first part had been easy. Two of the eagles stooped their wings, and Caelir and Rhianna had eagerly leapt upon their backs. Eldain had only reluctantly climbed aboard Elasir’s back, for he was a rider who preferred his mounts to remain earthbound. No sooner had he settled himself on the back of the eagle than it lifted with a deafening cry, spreading its wings and powering high into the sky.

  I am Elasir, Lord of the Eagles. Be calm and grip the feathers of my neck.

  The voice was powerful and layered with wisdom gathered from across the world. Eldain obeyed instantly, and felt the noble bird’s amusement at his nervousness.

  Your companions have no fear of flying on Aeris and Irian, came the gently chiding voice of the eagle, nor should you. I will not let you fall.

  “Rhianna is a mage of Saphery, she is used to such strangeness. And Caelir, well, he relishes this kind of thing.”

  Few earthwalkers earn a chance such as this.

  “Believe me, I know that, and I am grateful, but I will be glad when I am back down.”

  I doubt that, said the eagle, and Eldain wondered what he meant.

  The ongoing battle at Tor Elyr had faded behind them in the mist, and Eldain felt a pang of guilt at leaving before the outcome was decided. Even with the magical forces of the Everqueen, the army of Lord Swiftwing was still in dire straits. Neither force would emerge from the battle without grievous losses, but it was clear that the outcome of the battle held little meaning for Morathi.

  The Inner Sea was a churning blue shimmer of breaking waves and foaming crests. Eldain remembered crossing that sea on the Dragonkin, and it had been like a mirror, smooth and untroubled by much in the way of waves. Captain Bellaeir had complained that the seas were troubled, and Eldain wondered what he would make of them now.

  Scraps of islands passed beneath them, tiny dots in the expanse of sea that looked like shapes on a map instead of actual landscape. To the north, Eldain saw a smudge of smoke on the horizon from the ever-smouldering volcano on the Gaen Vale. Only reluctantly did he allow his eyes to be drawn to the shimmer in the air before them that masked their destination.

  The Isle of the Dead.

  No one with any sense sought to travel to that doomed rock, for it was a place of mist and shadow, grief and loss. Eldain forced himself to look at the seas around the island. Where the rest of the ocean was unsettled and threatening, the waters around the Isle of the Dead were calm and smooth, as though painted on the surface of the world by an ancient artist. A grey and craggy smear of land was just visible through the mists that hugged the shoreline, and Eldain was reminded of Narentir’s tales of the Ulthane and the lost island they guarded.

  Did anything similar protect the Isle of the Dead?

  No, the island has protection of its own, came the voice of Elasir.

  Eldain nodded and said, “Yet it still needs us to fly to save it?”

  I did not say those defences were on the island.

  Eldain could not argue with that logic, and watched as the island grew larger on the horizon. They flew into the mist, and Eldain felt the clammy touch of it. His breathing grew shallow, for the air here was cold and without life, like a mansion left empty by the death of its owner. It tasted of abandonment, a place where nothing has stirred the air for centuries, and nothing ever would.

  Even their presence left no mark.

  The beating of the eagles’ wings did not stir the clouds, and their cries back and forth to one another did not echo. Caelir shouted over to Eldain, but his words were swallowed in the dead space between them. Here and there, he saw glittering lights and distant glows in the mist and cloud, but no sooner were they noticed than they faded away.

  “What are they?” he asked, knowing Elasir would understand.

  Souls who approached too close and were trapped by Caledor’s great magic. Do not look upon them too long or your heart will break with sadness.

  Eldain took that advice and averted his gaze whenever he saw the flickering corpse-candles. Instead, he concentrated on the lost island that faded in and out of perception as the eagles flew ever deeper into the deathly mist. It had been thousands of years since this land had last known the tread of elves, caught forever in a timeless, deathless embrace of powerful magic.

  Just thinking of the Isle of the Dead was enough to settle a lump of cold dread in his stomach, for it was a place of incredible heroism and awesome tragedy. The fate of the asur had been sealed and saved on this island, as had the lives of the mages who made the ultimate sacrifice in joining Caledor.

  Elasir began to drop through the air, his wings folding back and dipping as he lost altitude and began his approach to the island. Eldain swallowed as the clouds enveloped them once more. He could see nothing but the cloying mist and the dim lanterns of the souls trapped by the island’s magic. Would he be such a light for some future traveller to see? The idea terrified him, and his mouth went dry at the thought of being trapped here for all eternity.

  Then they were clear of the clouds, and the Isle of the Dead spread out before him.

  A bleak shoreline of tumbled boulders rose from the sea, leading to shingled beaches of polished stones and thence to forests of leafless trees. Though the sea around the island was like a polished mirror, it pounded the rocks of the island itself. Booming waves hammered the island, and Eldain felt the sea’s fury at being kept from these shores for so long.

  Elasir brought him in low, coming in fast over the shoreline. Broken swords with black blades and skull-topped pommels drifted in the surf, and the bones of long-dead monsters lay half-buried in the sand. The eagle landed high up the beach, and Eldain dropped to the black sand with a relieved sigh.

  Aeris and Irian landed a moment later, and Caelir vaulted from the back of his mount, his face flushed with excitement.

  “That was incredible, Aeris,” he said, running his hands along the eagle’s flank as he would an Ellyrian steed. “I don’t think I’ve known anything like it.”

  The eagle ruffled its feathers, and Eldain felt its pride. Rhianna slid demurely from the back of Irian, adjusting her mage’s robes as she turned to face them. She bowed to her eagle, and whatever words passed between them were for her and Irian alone.

  We will take to the air now, said Elasir.

  “You will not come with us?” asked Eldain.

  We cannot. Mortals cursed this place, and only mortals may walk its paths.

  “So how do we get back?” asked Caelir.

  We will be here, replied Elasir, and Eldain caught the note of hesitation in his words.

  Caelir looked around the dismal beach. Grey fingers of mist eased from the forests higher up on the scrubby bluffs overlooking the beach, and the surf spread yet more weapons and bones over the sand. Caelir picked one up, its hilt still sticky with blood and the blade razor-sharp. A skull-rune was stamped on the pommel stone, and Caelir threw it away in disgust.

  “I thought this place was supposed to be timeless,” he said.

  “It is,” said Rhianna.

  “Then why does the sea still surge and recede? Why does the mist writhe in the trees?”

  “The island is cut off from the rest of the world,” said Rhianna. “If anyone could see us, we would appear to be standing still. Time flows around us here, not with us.”

  A faint tremor shook the beach, and stones rattled as they were carried down to the water.

  “What was that?” asked Caelir.

  “Morathi,” answered Rhianna.

  “We’d best get a move on,” said Eldain, setting off for the bluffs overlooking the shore.

  Beyond the beach, the island was just as bleak and desolate. It had all the hallmarks of a battlefield, for the dunes were formed from piles of skulls and heaps of rotted armour. The noise of the sea receded, and the island became utterly quiet. The forest w
as unnaturally silent. No birds nested in the leafless trees, no burrowing animals made their lairs amid their roots, and not a breath of wind stirred the skeletal branches.

  “What was this place?” asked Caelir as they followed a path that wound a serpentine route through the trees. “I mean, I know the stories of what happened here, but what was it before then?”

  “I do not know,” said Eldain, glancing nervously between the narrow trunks at the scraps of mist that seemed to be following them. “I have only ever known it as the Isle of the Dead.”

  “It was where the asur were born,” said Rhianna. “This is where Asuryan made the first of us. It was once a place of creation, the cradle in which our race was first given form.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Rhianna hesitated. “I am not sure. I feel it as though I have always known it, though the thought never occurred to me until now. It feels like… like memory.”

  “We should hurry,” said Eldain, glancing over his shoulder. “I believe we are being followed.”

  Caelir drew his sword. “By who? Morathi?”

  “No,” said Eldain. “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it drawing near.”

  Eldain scanned the trees, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow as he saw the sinuous form of a slender figure ghosting between the trees. Dark of eyes, and with black fingernails and black hollows for eyes, he knew he should know this figure, but could not place its identity. He knew him, he did recognise him, but from where?

  Eldain searched the recesses of his memory, but could not think of this figure’s name. There was something dreadfully familiar to the cruel cast of his smile, the empty blackness of his gaze and the spidersilk weave of his dark robes.

  “Stand forth and make yourself known!” he yelled, but the mist and the trees swallowed his words. He heard mocking laughter and spun around as it seemed to come from all around him. Only then did he notice that he was alone.

  Caelir and Rhianna were nowhere to be seen.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Eldain stood alone in the dark forest, and the mist gathered around him. The lights he had seen in the clouds were all around him, sparkling and dancing as though amused at his ire.

  “They are pleased to see you,” said a voice from the trees.

  A tall elf, slender and thin-limbed, walked from the trees, his robe rustling softly around him as he walked. He wore a pale ivory mask, and Eldain saw he had mistaken the features painted onto its surface as the elf’s true expression. Long white hair gathered at his shoulders, and a jade amulet in the form of a black-bladed sword hung at his neck. The name of Khaine was stitched into his robes with silver thread, and Eldain saw variations on that theme in the hems and cuffs of the figure’s attire.

  “Why are they pleased to see me?” asked Eldain, trying not to show fear as he recognised the elf. “They don’t know me.”

  “Oh, but they do,” said Death. “They have nothing to do but watch the comings and goings of the world. You have amused them greatly, for they have seen your path lead you inexorably to this place. And they do so love to welcome new souls to their ranks.”

  “New souls?” asked Eldain. “Am I dead?”

  Death cocked his head as though considering the question. “Not in the way you would consider it, but for the purposes of our conversation you might as well be dead.”

  “I think I am still alive,” he said.

  “In that your heart still beats and you have breath, then I suppose you are,” conceded Death with a noncommittal shrug. “In that you are part of the world and its grand pageant, you most certainly are not.”

  “Is this even real?” asked Eldain.

  Death sighed. “Another one who wants to argue about the nature of reality… what is this obsession you mortals have with reality?”

  “Well? Is it real?”

  “Real is such an ambiguous term, Eldain,” said Death. “This is as real to you as it needs to be, but others would doubt it were you to tell them of it. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Real or not, I have nothing to say to the likes of you,” said Eldain, turning away.

  Death was at his side in an instant, walking beside him as though they were old friends out for a convivial stroll in the forest.

  “The likes of me?” said Death, sounding almost hurt. “That was uncalled for, especially as we have so much to talk about.”

  “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “What do you imagine Death and a mortal would talk about?” said Death, lacing his hands behind his back. Eldain saw they were beautiful hands, craftsman’s hands. The nails were black, but not painted black. They were the black of the void, nails that could mould the warp and weft of reality in ways unknown to those who did not have the power of a god.

  “Am I going to die?” asked Eldain.

  “Of course,” answered Death. “All living things must die.”

  “Even Morathi?”

  “Even Morathi,” laughed Death. “She can avoid me for only so long. She thinks she ‘cheats’ me every time she emerges from that tinker’s cauldron, dripping with the blood of babes and innocents, but she is not immortal. Not yet. She only postpones the inevitable. Even this is just another parlour trick to delay my touch upon her flesh.”

  “She is going to destroy the world,” said Eldain, feeling more at ease talking with Death, though the nature of the experience was still confusingly surreal. “That hardly seems like a parlour trick, as you call it.”

  “Exist as long as I have existed and even the mightiest deeds will seem trifling to you too.”

  “Even the end of the world?”

  “Even the end of worlds.”

  Though Eldain knew this was a realm of magic and deceit, he was quick to spot the lie.

  “If that were true, why are you here now? Shouldn’t this bore you?”

  Death shrugged and said, “I have an affection for this world, and I have grown fond of the grand players in its performances. Some are mad, some are deluded and others are so very nearly gods that it amuses me to watch them weave their plans as though they will last forever. As to why I am here, some mortals need their endings to be witnessed. Otherwise their lives will pass unremarked, and that would be a terrible tragedy.”

  “Are you speaking of me?” asked Eldain.

  Death laughed. “No, Eldain. At best, you are a minor player in this world’s drama.”

  The masked figure put a hand on Eldain’s shoulder and said, “Yet even the minor players may make the greatest of differences.”

  “How?”

  “By accepting the inevitable,” said Death. “By knowing when to give in.”

  “That sounds like grim counsel,” said Eldain.

  “You are talking to Death, you know.”

  The path they were following led out through the trees, and Eldain saw they had come to a wide plain of black sand that had turned to obsidian in the fires of some ancient cataclysm. Lightning-shot mist gathered on the plain, swirling around its perimeter in a ceaseless vortex. Crackling lines of power raged in the depths of the howling mist, and pillars of light stabbed into the sky from its centre. Eldain had the sense of unimaginable power being drawn to this place, lines of convergence that had taken a lifetime to map and devise. The air was rich with magic, and he felt his blood sing with its proximity. His flesh tingled with the desire to drink that power and reshape itself into new and ever more wondrous forms.

  Only with an effort of concentration was he able to force that desire down.

  Thousands of carved waystones were strewn around the exterior of the vortex, some toppled, some still standing, but all rendered glassy by whatever infernal heat had vitrified the plain.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “You know what it is,” said Death. “Every part of your body can feel where you are.”

  “This is where Caledor Dragontamer enacted his great ritual,” said Eldain. “This is where Caledor d
ied.”

  Death laughed again, and there was real amusement in the sound.

  “You are half right,” agreed Death. “This is indeed where Caledor drained the magic from the world. But died? Perhaps. It is hard to tell sometimes, I have not been kind to the old elf and his mind is not what it once was. In any case, it is a moot point, for this is where I will leave you, Eldain Éadaoin. Just remember what I told you and you may yet leave this place alive.”

  Eldain wanted to ask more, but the world blurred around him and Death had vanished.

  In his place were Caelir and Rhianna, both with the same expression of surprise he was sure was plastered across his features. They looked into the vortex of magical energy, elated and horrified in equal measure that they had reached their destination.

  “Eldain! Rhianna!” cried Caelir, sweeping them both into a powerful embrace. “I lost you both. I was lost and alone in the forest, but then I felt someone else beside me.”

  “Who was it?” asked Eldain.

  “Our father,” replied Caelir, as a tear ran down his cheek. “We rode through the woods of Ellyrion, and he told me that he loved me and was proud of me. We spoke for hours, and I said all the things I wished I had said to him while he still lived.”

  “I saw an old man,” said Rhianna. “I did not know him at first, but then I recognised him from a colour plate in one of the books my father keeps in the Tower of Hoeth.”

  “Who was he?” asked Caelir.

  “His name was Rhianos Silverfawn, and he lived a very long time ago.”

  “He was an ancestor of yours?” said Eldain. “How long ago did he live?”

  “In the time of Caledor Dragontamer,” said Rhianna. “He was filled with sadness to see me, but before he could say any more, he vanished and I found myself at the edge of this obsidian plain.”

  “Who did you see, brother?” asked Caelir.