[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  Sat astride the neck of Minaithnir, Imrik flew towards the Witch King, his lance glittering like captured starfire and his dragonhorn sounding a high note of challenge. The Witch King answered his challenge and angled his dark mount towards Imrik.

  Tyrion watched the two dragons climb as they flew at each other, but it was Malekith’s beast that climbed higher. His dragon drew in its wings and its long neck extended as frills of scales opened at its throat. Before the monstrous dragon could unleash its noxious breath, Imrik’s horn sounded again and the Witch King’s mount convulsed as though struck. Its wing beats faltered and in that moment of pain, Imrik leaned low over his saddle to drive the shimmering point of his lance deep into its belly.

  The dragon roared in agony as the starmetal of the lance pierced its scaled hide and tore into its body. Its claws raked Minaithnir’s flanks, but it was an attack of flailing spite. Malekith hauled his dragon away, as Imrik drew back his lance for another strike. Once again the lance stabbed home, gouging a long scar down the dragon’s rump.

  Malekith struck with his sword and only Imrik’s superlative reflexes saved his life. The dragons broke apart, but as Imrik circled Minaithnir for another tilt at the Witch King, his opponent was already flying towards the Straits of Lothern.

  Tyrion cheered as Malekith fled, willing Imrik to turn and ride him down. Younger dragons chased the Witch King, mage riders hurling shimmering fireballs of incredible power. Though wounded and defeated, their quarry was still incredibly dangerous. Just as the fire mages’ magic was enhanced, so too was his. Malekith froze dragons and their riders to sculptures of ice with a glance and sheared the wings from others with chopping gestures of his bladed gauntlets.

  The pursuit of the Witch King was abandoned, and Malekith’s dragon limped away to the south through the straits, its wings dipped and a drizzle of hot blood falling from its torn belly to the black ark below.

  The harbour was alight from one side of the bay to the other with blazing ships, and the druchii trapped on the quayside watched with growing terror as the dragons turned towards them. Fire scoured them from the quaysides, and the water boiled to steam around their legs. Some of the druchii attempted to swim to the black ark, but it was an impossible goal, and their armour dragged them to the bottom of the ocean. The defenders of Lothern cheered and embraced one another as the dragons did in moments what they could not have done in a hundred lifetimes.

  “We are saved!” cried Finubar as the dragons burned the druchii from Lothern.

  “We are indeed, my king,” said Tyrion, putting up his sword as Imrik flew over the burning waters of the bay with his silver lance raised in salute.

  Rhianna cradled Caelir, wiping blood from his face and letting her tears fall onto his face. Eldain knelt at Caelir’s side and took his hand. The wound gouged in his chest was deep, and blood flowed from between his splintered ribs. Caelir’s Ellyrian armour had offered no protection against Morathi’s dread lance, and his heart had been all but plucked from his chest.

  His brother was dying in front of him, and there was nothing he could do.

  Only one person could save Caelir now, and she was far away in Ellyrion.

  “Alarielle of Avelorn!” he yelled, hoping against hope that she might somehow hear his desperate plea over the miles that lay between them. “I beg of you, help my brother!”

  Caelir groaned and his eyes fluttered open.

  “Eldain?”

  “I’m here, Caelir,” he said. “Do not move. I will save you, I promise.”

  “You should not make promises you can’t keep, brother,” said Caelir. “I thought you’d have known that by now.”

  “I will keep this one, and you will not die. You won’t dare. Not now.”

  “Remember,” hissed Caelir, painfully. “I have a habit of disappointing you.”

  Eldain shook his head. “You never disappointed me, little brother. I was so very proud of you. Always.”

  Rhianna wiped Caelir’s brow and wept tears like shimmering diamonds. Eldain looked into her eyes and he felt the last shreds of animosity melt away in the face of Caelir’s ending. The power of her battle with Morathi still clung to her, a haze of white light that danced just beneath her skin with a luminous glow.

  “Can you save him?” asked Eldain.

  “I have not the power,” she said.

  “Here, in this place, you do not have the power?”

  “I am not the Everqueen,” said Rhianna.

  A figure appeared behind them, and Eldain saw Caledor Dragontamer standing over them.

  He looked down at Caelir and grimaced.

  “She always did have a penchant for needless cruelty,” he said.

  “You!” said Eldain, surging to his feet. “You have the power to save my brother. Please, you have to help him.”

  Caledor shook his head. “He is beyond saving, Eldain. His hurt runs deeper than you know. His soul is torn and bleeding. Even the Everqueen could not save him.”

  “I cannot accept that,” said Eldain.

  “It is not up to you,” said Caledor, extending a hand towards Rhianna. “Come, my dear. It is time for you to fulfil your destiny. The world does not have time for grief.”

  “What are you doing?” said Eldain.

  “What needs to be done,” said Caledor. “I am powerful and have held the vortex from collapsing, but I cannot hold it on my own, and I do not have long before he returns to vex me.”

  “You are not on your own,” stated Eldain, suspecting the truth of Caledor’s purpose. “You have your cabal.”

  “One of them is dead. A mage named Rhianos Silverfawn. Morathi cut his throat with a dagger forged from the golden metal once used to construct the great gateway above the northern polar regions. My ritual is complex and precise. It needs all the mages to keep it in balance. One had died, and one must take his place. Who better than his descendant?”

  Eldain knelt with Caelir as Rhianna stood before Caledor.

  “The Everqueen spoke of this moment,” said Rhianna.

  “I warned her not to,” said Caledor. “She has a loose tongue.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Rhianna, no!” cried Eldain. “Whatever he wants you to do, don’t do it!”

  “I have to, Eldain,” said Rhianna. “You know what will happen if I do not. Ulthuan will be destroyed, and the rest of the world will soon follow. I think I have known that this moment was coming for a long time.”

  “You can’t do this!” shouted Eldain. “Caledor Dragontamer would never demand such a sacrifice! He was a hero!”

  Caledor’s face hardened to granite. “A hero? No, Eldain, he was a mage who sought to stop the daemons, that is all. And I did demand such sacrifices, Eldain. That is exactly what I did all those years ago. I told my cabal that they would never leave the Isle of the Dead, that they would be forever bound to my ritual. It was a sacrifice they all made willingly. And now Rhianna Silverfawn, daughter of Mitherion Silverfawn and descendant of Rhianos Silverfawn makes that same sacrifice.”

  “No, please! You cannot take her!”

  “He is not taking me, Eldain,” said Rhianna. “I go of my own free will.”

  Tears spilled down Eldain’s cheeks, and he reached out to Rhianna with a bloodied hand.

  “Don’t leave,” he begged. “Don’t leave me alone!”

  “We are all alone, Eldain,” said Caledor. “It is the one truth I have come to realise in this place. We may gather many friends and loved ones to us throughout the long years, but we all walk alone in the end.”

  “Rhianna will not walk alone,” said Caelir, grunting in pain as he pushed himself to his feet. “I will walk with her. Until the end of time, the way it was always meant to be. The way I would have pledged to you had we been wed.”

  “Caelir, what are you talking about?” cried Eldain.

  Caelir coughed a wad of blood and held himself upright only with Eldain’s help.

  “If I return to the world beyond
the vortex I will die,” he said. “Here I will live forever.”

  “You would stay here?”

  “With Rhianna, brother,” said Caelir, gripping his shoulder tight. “We will not be dead, we will be everlasting. You know it is the only way.”

  Eldain bowed his head and nodded, remembering the words Death had spoken to him on their journey through the empty forest.

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

  “This is not giving in,” hissed Caelir with the last of his strength. “This is our victory.”

  “Come,” said Caledor. “It happens now or it does not happen at all.”

  Eldain released Caelir, and Rhianna and Caledor carried him to where a loose robe of silver weave lay discarded on the reflective ground. Eldain watched them go, Caledor’s shoulders becoming more stooped the further away he went.

  Rhianna and Caelir embraced, two souls entwined at last, and Eldain cried tears of sorrow and tears of joy as the light of the vortex swallowed them up. They were gone, but not dead. Trapped forever in the vortex, they would live in a perfect moment of union for all time, and Eldain envied them that eternal bliss.

  Almost immediately, the raging anger of the vortex began to subside as Rhianna took up the role she had been born to play. Ancient plans and temporal designs laid down long ago finally came to fruition as the cascade of magical energy once again began to drain from the currents of the world.

  Caledor turned back to Eldain, and the great hero of the asur had once again assumed his mantle of frailty. Eldain wanted to hate him, to spit curses at him for what he had lost, but the words would not come.

  “You should go, Eldain,” said Caledor. “The vortex is sealing and Lord Elasir waits to carry you back to Ulthuan. If you remain much longer, you will be trapped like me, cursed to live forever as a deathly revenant neither alive nor dead. A wraith of ancient days.”

  “What is there left for me on Ulthuan?” said Eldain.

  “More than you know,” said Caledor.

  “Everything I love is gone.”

  Caledor smiled. “Not everything.”

  EPILOGUE

  Grief hung over Ulthuan for a long time after the victories of Tor Elyr and Lothern. The fire of the dragons consumed the druchii fleet in less than an hour, and as the black ark attempted to extricate itself from the Straits of Lothern, the dragons attacked it with all their fury. It could not last long against so mighty an assault, and its ramparts and crooked castles were cast down by creatures older than Ulthuan itself.

  Tyrion led a host of Silver Helms into the mountains, driving the few druchii survivors back over the rocky peaks to the shoulder fortresses at the Emerald Gate. The warriors of the asur offered no mercy to their foes, and beneath a banner of the Everqueen, Tyrion charged across the pontoon bridge linking Ulthuan to the Glittering Lighthouse.

  At battle’s end, Eltharion took his leave of the Phoenix King and returned to Tor Yvresse to count the cost of the invasion among his own people. He said farewell to no one, and as Tyrion watched him fly away, he felt nothing but sorrow for his old friend.

  In Ellyrion, the dead were gathered and mourned, every rider and citizen carried to their final rest as aching laments were given voice by the singers of Avelorn. A poet who had fought in the battle composed an epic verse as the sun rose on a new day, dedicating it to a young elf of his former acquaintance. Of the druchii who had fought at Tor Elyr, there were no traces. The fire of Teclis had been thorough, and only grief remained to speak of their invasion.

  Thus were the druchii driven from Ulthuan.

  The magic of the vortex pulsed through the veins of the world for many weeks, but as geomancers and mages spread through the land, toppled waystones were lifted and new ones established in freshly-mapped areas of mystical confluence. Slowly, and with great pain, the damage done to Ulthuan was healed.

  The island would never be quite the same, for it was not in the power of those who lived in the world to undo every hurt done to it. Only those who had built the world were capable of such feats, and they were long gone. As with all damaged things, what could be done to keep life going was done, and the scars would simply have to be borne.

  Nor were those scars confined only to the land of Ulthuan.

  Too many lives had been lost for the asur to ever forget this war.

  Good lives and bad had been spent in the defence of their island, miracles worked and dark wonders played out. The Eagle Gate was rebuilt and Menethis of Lothern appointed its castellan. Lord Swiftwing had offered him command of a company of Silver Helms, but Menethis had, instead, asked for Eagle Gate.

  Lord Swiftwing stepped down from his role as master of Tor Elyr, and word was sent to the Old World for his sons to return home. The Great Herd returned to the wilds of Ellyrion, though many bonds of companionship had been forged in the battle, and many were the people of that land who would go on to become fine Reavers in time.

  The Everqueen returned to Avelorn, and her army of fauns, dryads and treemen went with her. Her entourage of poets, dreamers and dancers went with her, and from amongst them was picked a young dancer named Lilani, who became a warrior of the Maiden Guard and one of Lirazel’s most trusted captains. The revellers of Avelorn travelled north in a grand carnival of light and magic, and wherever they passed, the land bloomed in gold and green. Ellyrion was already a land of eternal summer, but the coming of the Everqueen made the sun shine a little brighter, the warm winds more welcome and the rivers just a little fresher.

  Seasons passed, the world turned, and the decline of the asur continued.

  Nowhere was this more evident than in Ellyr-Charoi.

  The leaves blew on…

  Ellyrion basked in the warm, honey-gold light of a drowsy summer, but within the walls of Ellyr-Charoi, only autumn held sway. Eldain sat in the Hippocrene Tower and looked out over the endless plains as the dust gathered on his bookshelves and tables of his domain.

  Golden leaves filled the summer courtyard, and the trough on the eastern wall was blocked once again. Drifts of fallen leaves were heaped at the open gates of the villa, and filled the air with playful swirls as cold winds blew down from the mountains. Leaves rested on the roof of the Equerry’s Hall, and tumbled from the eaves of the stables.

  Dust rolled through Eldain’s study, but he had neither the interest nor inclination to clear it away. Days passed without him moving from his chair, content to watch the passing of the sun and moons across the thin windows of his tower.

  He ate and drank when necessary, but the actions were mechanical.

  He took no joy in wine or fresh meat. The pleasures of the flesh were forgotten, and it seemed as though his heart had turned to stone.

  The leaves blew on.

  He entertained few visitors, for he was not viewed through the same heroic lens as others who had fought in the battles against the druchii. While other heroes were heaped with plaudits, Eldain quietly retired to Ellyr-Charoi to nurse his broken heart.

  Lord Elasir had carried him back to Ulthuan. Aeris and Irian flew with their golden wings dipped in honour of those they left behind, and the mighty eagle left Eldain to his silence. Mitherion Silverfawn and Yvraine Hawkblade had journeyed to Ellyr-Charoi, seeking news of Rhianna, and Eldain told them all that had happened on the Isle of the Dead. Mitherion wept for his daughter, but was consoled by the words Caelir had spoken as he and Rhianna followed Caledor into the vortex.

  Eldain did not invite them to stay, and they did not seek his hospitality.

  They were gone within the day, leaving Eldain to walk the empty halls of his villa.

  The leaves blew on.

  Time became malleable. Eldain tried to stave off the worst of his isolation by taking long rides through Ellyrion on the back of Lotharin. The black steed shared his melancholy, galloping with less and less joy at each ride. At last, Eldain led him to the gates of Ellyr-Charoi and removed his saddle.

  “Ride, my friend,” he s
aid. “Be free. Join the Great Herd and live your life in joy.”

  Lotharin nuzzled him, and all that their friendship had meant passed between them in a single, beautiful moment of connection. The horse tossed its mane and cantered down the overgrown path to the bridge. As Lotharin crossed the gurgling stream, he reared up in salute to Eldain before trotting off into the evening’s light to rejoin the wild herds of the plains.

  Eldain watched him go, knowing the last shred of what held him to this land was gone.

  He shut the gates of Ellyr-Charoi.

  Seasons passed, though Eldain had no idea of how many.

  On the rare occasions he could rouse himself from his study, he would walk the cold halls of the villa like a sleepwalker, moving from room to room as though in a trance. Though he had spent nearly all his life within its walls, the villa was lost to him now. Its rooms were unknown, and places that had once been familiar and homely were now bereft of feeling. He knew its halls and corridors, but he was disconnected to them, as though the villa now belonged to someone else.

  He paused by an empty window as a cold wind gusted through a cracked pane of glass.

  Snowflakes drifted through, dancing in the air for a moment before settling on the floor and melting to tiny spots of water. Eldain opened the window, and saw the leaves that carpeted the courtyard below were now white and frosted. Snow fell in drifting clouds, lying thick and still upon the edges of the high wall surrounding the villa.

  Eldain walked outside, barely feeling the cold, and wondering how snow could fall in a realm of eternal summer. He trudged through the courtyard, not knowing where his steps were carrying him, but knowing that there was somewhere he needed to be.

  He entered the Equerry’s Hall, shivering with cold, and looking upon the dusty emptiness within. The firelit revelries that had once filled this hall were now ghostly memories, and Eldain could barely recall them. He circled the dusty table, and stood before the frosted portrait that hung on one of the long walls.