02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  “The commander of a fortress is its heart,” said Alanrias. “And no living thing can fight without its heart. You know this to be true, archer.”

  “I know those words could see you executed,” said Alathenar.

  “The warriors of this fortress look to you to lead them, not Truecrown,” replied Alanrias. “I know what must be done to win this day, and I see from your eyes that you know it too.”

  Alathenar bit back a furious retort. He wanted to chastise the Shadow Warrior for his sedition, to reprimand him for his lack of loyalty, but he could not find the words. The realisation tasted of ashes in his mouth, and he felt the splinter of ice harden his heart.

  For he knew Alanrias was right.

  * * *

  With every mile he rode, Caelir expected death. With every mile that passed without it, he wondered why. He had slain the Everqueen. The fact of that deed was evident in the grey sky, the weeping rain and the sagging branches of every tree. The life had bled out of the forest, the magic that had sustained it for an eternity now ended in one treacherous dagger thrust.

  His clothes were plastered to his body in the rain, an impractical mix of silks and satin that looked like they belonged to some courtly nobleman, not a horseman of Ellyrion. The rush of memory was still raw and rough edged, his abused mind struggling to cope with the return of a life unremembered. He thought his skull might burst with the torrent of images, sensations and vivid recall that flooded his senses. He could remember the succulent taste of roast stag, hear a forgotten sound of crystal bells and feel the lost warmth of a mother’s embrace.

  Caelir fought to hold onto the present, blinking tears and raindrops away as he rode madly through the depths of Avelorn Forest. Blurred shapes passed him, oaks, ash, and willow. He heard chittering voices, capering sprites and the ancient creak and groan of creatures older than the elves as they moved unseen in the darkness. To ride like this was madness; a hidden burrow or a concealed root could trip his horse and break its leg. This beast was no Ellyrian mount, but one of Saphery, its coat lambent and silky with magical residue. The black steed he had ridden to Avelorn…

  Lotharin!

  Yes, Lotharin, that was Eldain’s mount. His brother had scoffed at the naysayers who said that a black horse would bring its rider ill-fortune. He remembered the vision he had experienced in Anurion the Green’s overgrown villa on the coast of Yvresse, that of a dappled grey stallion galloping through the surf.

  Aedaris…

  On the heels of that memory came the pain of knowing that his beloved Aedaris was dead, her flanks pierced by druchii bolts in the dockyards of Clar Karond. He recognised the mount that bore him now, a powerful mare by the name of Irenya, who galloped with sure and steady grace through the haunted forest. Once she had borne a retainer of his father’s villa, but that warrior had died…

  More memories intruded, Rhianna, Kyrielle, Lilani and all that had happened since his return to Ulthuan. Caelir wept to know that he had been used as an instrument of murder, but the guilt he felt was tempered by the knowledge that there were few alive who could have withstood the tortures and unclean magic that had been worked upon his flesh and spirit.

  “You should have killed me, Eldain,” he wept. “Better dead than left to the druchii.”

  His horse flicked its ears in annoyance at the name of the dark kin from across the ocean, and Caelir rubbed its neck as it ran. Trees and lightless arbours flashed past him, and Caelir could not fathom why the forest had not killed him.

  He sensed its hostility in every looming tree, every grasping branch that whipped him as he passed. Yet for all their bitter spite, they did not stop him, did not unhorse him and seemed to close up behind him as though reluctantly aiding him. The steed rode paths of the forest unknown to even the Maiden Guard, traversing the secret ways known only to the trees and denizens of Avelorn who had made their home here before the coming of the elves.

  Caelir had no idea where the paths of the forest were leading him, or where his horse was taking him. In truth, he didn’t care. There was nothing left to him now, no refuge, no friends and no loved ones to take him in or offer him succour. Caelir was alone in the world and every place of goodness and decency would surely reject him. In such times where could anyone go?

  The first Caelir was aware of how far he had ridden was when he heard the sound of rushing water, and smelled the scent of the Inner Sea. His head came up and he saw the forest thin ahead of him; thick, ancient-bodied trees giving way to younger, more vigorous saplings hungry to break the borders forced upon them by elfkind. Though still many miles before him, the escarpment of the Annulii reared up in a towering white cliff that soared beyond the clouds. The majestic peaks of the distant mountains were shawled with tumbling streams of raw magic drawn to Ulthuan by the long lost mages of Caledor Dragontamer.

  He rode from the trees, seeing a wide river before him and knowing it as the Arduil, the watercourse that marked the boundary between Avelorn and Ellyrion. A small ship rode high in the water, a mid-sized sloop with runes etched into its prow that named it Dragonkin.

  Its crew were already aboard, and the ship was ready to make sail, but its captain made no move to take her out, as though waiting for something or someone to return. Caelir rode to the edge of the river, and the captain of the ship came over to the gunwale. His skin was ruddy from a life spent upon the waters, and his keen eye took in Caelir’s unusual garb with a curious glance, which surprised Caelir. This was Avelorn, and this seafarer must have borne stranger travellers than he to the Everqueen’s realm.

  “My lord,” said the captain. “I dreamed I would see you again. Yet I dreamed you older, not younger.”

  Caelir knew in that instant how Eldain had come to Avelorn, and shook his head.

  “You mistake me for another, friend captain,” said Caelir, turning his horse away. “When you see my brother again, ask him if it was all worthwhile.”

  “You are not Lord Éadaoin?”

  “No, nor will I ever be,” said Caelir, riding away towards a point where Irenya could cross the river. Caelir glanced over his shoulder. The crew of the boat were watching him, and he gave the captain a wave. No such gesture was returned, and Caelir guided his mount down the muddy slopes of the bank and into the river. The riverbed was barely a yard and a half below the surface, a depth that would have been impassable to any ships but those of the asur.

  The water was cold, icy from its journey down the flanks of the Annulii, yet Caelir welcomed its frozen touch. He rode into the centre of the river and stopped, feeling the water churn with the agitation of nymphs beneath the surface. They called to him with tiny splashes and gurgles, capering around his horse’s legs with fearful burbles.

  “I have no tears left to spare,” he said, and they sped off upriver with hurt splashes.

  Caelir paused a moment before resuming his crossing, bathing in the cold magical energies of Ulthuan’s waters. He tipped his head back and spread his arms, letting the touch of the river wash him clean of the dark enchantments surrounding him. He closed his eyes and let loose an almighty shout, a primal scream of loss, anger and catharsis.

  All that had been done to him poured out in his cries, and he yelled till he was hoarse.

  When it was done, he tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks and rode towards the far shore. Like Avelorn, low clouds smothered Ellyrion’s beauty, the enduring summers that warmed its wide, trackless steppes and unbroken wilds banished in the face of the grief that engulfed the land of Ulthuan.

  Even shrouded in sorrow, Ellyrion was a tonic for the spirit. A wind blew across its face, carrying the scent of the wild herds, the open plains and the long grass that waved in gentle breezes that caressed the skin like a lover.

  Caelir rode from the cold waters and onto the soil of Ellyrion, feeling the land welcome him as a prodigal son. In the shadows of the mountains lay Ellyr-Charoi, the marble-walled villa where he had grown to manhood and learned the ways of the horse lords from his father
. This was where he belonged, in a wild, untamed land where elf and steed roamed free and answerable to no one.

  Ellyrion was a golden kingdom, and no sorrow could dim its radiance for long.

  The clouds parted somewhere far to the south, and a single brilliant beam of sunlight broke through to shine on a distant city of crystal castles, silver bridges and fabulous, soaring towers of gold and silver.

  It was the most beautiful thing Caelir had ever seen.

  “I am home,” he said.

  * * *

  In all his long life, Prince Tyrion of Ulthuan had never known weakness like this. Though he had been wounded before, by those few foes skilled enough to penetrate his defences, the pain that was now his constant companion cut deeper than any sword thrust or axe blow.

  This was a wound of the spirit.

  He clung tightly to Malhandir’s reins as a wave of pain washed over him, and only his superlative mastery of his own body kept him in the saddle. His aquiline features, so noble and yet so harsh, were now drained of colour and his eyes held the emptiness of a corpse long lain within its tomb.

  The dusty plain before the mountain castle was thick with druchii dead, their plum-coloured cloaks stained with ignoble blood. Though this had been little more than a skirmish, a prelude to the slaughter to come, it felt good to kill again, and shed the blood of those who dared invade his homeland and strike down his loved ones.

  Such terrible lust to kill was not born within Tyrion, but far to the north upon the Blighted Isle, where the ancient blade of Aenarion reared proud from its blood-soaked altar and called to the cursed descendants of that legendary hero. The pleasure Tyrion took in slaughter was the Sword of Khaine’s gift to him, driving his blade home and giving him the strength he needed to slay his enemies.

  In times of peace its song was a curse, in times of war a boon.

  Tyrion hated that its keening wail of murder made him feel so alive, yet what other power could keep his grief and pain at bay?

  Every instinct screamed at him to abandon Lothern and ride with dragonspeed to the forest realm of his beloved Alarielle. He was the Everqueen’s champion and he was far from her side at her hour of greatest need. She lay on the cusp of death, yet he could do nothing for her. So fleet was Malhandir that Tyrion could be in Avelorn by nightfall, yet his promise to Alarielle bound him to the defence of Lothern with chains of duty stronger than the finest ithilmar.

  He had promised her that he would heed his brother’s counsel, and Teclis had bade him fight alongside the Phoenix King’s warriors in their desperate battle against the druchii invaders. King Finubar and his White Lions fought with the warriors of Eataine on the ramparts of the Emerald Gate, and he had entrusted Tyrion with securing the castles on the rocky shoulders of the mighty portal that blocked entrance to the Straits of Lothern.

  “Keep my flanks secure, Tyrion,” Finubar had urged him as they parted in the shadow of the great statues that towered over the wondrous port. “If the druchii take but one of the castles then the Emerald Gate must be yielded. I would not see it so, my friend.”

  “Nor I, my king,” Tyrion had promised. “I will hold it as long as I can.”

  The memory faded and Tyrion slumped over Malhandir’s neck as his strength ebbed, like the tide around the bloody, bone-choked shores of the Blighted Isle. His vision blurred and he pictured the plain of bones and the smouldering black sword of his ancestor. Even over so great a distance the Sword of Khaine called to him with promises of the power to win victories undreamed.

  Tyrion shook his head, eyes closed and teeth gritted together to resist its call, for damnation and ruination would fall upon any who drew the cursed blade.

  Belarien rode alongside him, his sword wet with enemy blood. They had fought as brothers since the last great invasion of the druchii, and spilled blood together on the blasted plain of Finuval. They had sailed the great oceans of the world and seen its wonders side by side. Only Teclis, it was said, was closer to Tyrion than Belarien.

  “My lord,” cried Belarien as Tyrion swayed in the saddle. “Are you wounded?”

  “By this rabble?” hissed Tyrion, ramming Sunfang back in its red-gold scabbard. “Not unless I have lost every skill I once possessed.”

  The battle Tyrion and Belarien’s Silver Helms had fought before the gate of the castle had been brief and bloody. The druchii had been poorly led, overconfident and scattered by their ill-disciplined charge. Easy pickings for the finest heavy cavalry in the world.

  His ancient blade had drawn deep from the well of druchii blood, and reaped many souls to send to Morai-Heg. Yet no sooner had they crushed this first attack beneath the glittering hooves of their steeds than Tyrion had felt the dagger thrust as though it had plunged into his own heart.

  “Lead us within the walls,” hissed Tyrion. “Now!”

  Belarien waved to the Silver Helms’ clarion and a shrill note was blown from an icy trumpet that rallied the triumphant riders to their prince. Steeds of dappled grey formed up around Tyrion, their flanks gleaming with their own inner light. Tyrion spun his horse, taking up position at their head as the Silver Helms moved off. No commands, no vulgar blows from a whip or raking violence of spurs had been needed, for these steeds understood their masters’ will as though rider and mount shared one mind.

  Tyrion gripped tight to Malhandir. The steed felt its rider’s pain and bore him with all swiftness to the safety of the castle. The gate shut behind them, and a volley of arrows hissed from the gleaming ramparts as the druchii gathered for another attack. Tyrion had seen the opportunity to ride out against the last attack, but the enemy would not be so incautious again.

  A squire took Malhandir’s bridle, and Tyrion nodded his thanks. He slid from the saddle, and hissed with pain as the impact of his landing jarred the phantom wound in his heart. He placed his hand upon his chest. Though the golden scales of Aenarion’s armour remained unbroken, Tyrion felt the cold touch of death drawing ever closer to his heart.

  “My lord?” said Belarien, dismounting next to him and handing his steed’s reins off to another squire. “The pain is getting worse.”

  Tyrion took a deep breath, marshalling his strength.

  “No,” he said at last. “It is the same.”

  “I was not asking a question.”

  “I know,” said Tyrion, accepting a goblet of water from a warrior in the livery of the Eataine citizen levy. Belarien removed his helmet, a gleaming silver artefact adorned with a host of battle honours, ribbons and eagle feathers. His thin face was etched with concern for his prince, his pale grey eyes glittering with flecks of amber. He too accepted a goblet, and drained it in one long swallow.

  “Are we not friends enough that you can speak to me truthfully?” asked Belarien. “I saw you almost fall from your saddle.”

  “Malhandir would never allow it,” stated Tyrion.

  “Maybe not,” agreed the High Helm of Tyrion’s riders. “But I saw what I saw.”

  Tyrion saw Belarien would not be dissuaded from his questions, and sighed.

  “You are my dearest friend,” said Tyrion. “But some burdens are mine to bear alone.”

  “Only because you choose to make it so,” pressed Belarien, taking Tyrion’s arm. “Remember you have friends with wide shoulders.”

  Tyrion smiled and said, “I know. Asuryan and Isha have blessed me with my companions in war and peace, but weakness is for mortals, not those upon whom the survival of their race depends.”

  Belarien saw the truth of Tyrion’s pain. “You still feel the Everqueen’s wound.”

  “I do,” admitted Tyrion. “It is like a slow-moving dagger pushing towards my heart. Only with Teclis do I share a closer bond, but his near death at the hands of the traitor Caelir was a swiftly forgotten ailment compared to this weakness. Until Alarielle heals I will share a measure of her pain as she once bore a measure of mine when the forests of Avelorn burned and the assassins closed in.”

  “Then is there nothing I can do?�
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  “I fear not. Every battle host draws its will to fight from its leader, and I must be as strong and powerful as ever to the warriors around me. More so, now that I need them to stand fast in the face of an unwinnable fight.”

  “You do not believe we can hold this castle?”

  On the ramparts, archers loosed volley after volley at the druchii beyond the walls. Here and there, a scream punctured the clear sky as a bolt of black iron from an enemy crossbow felled one of the defenders.

  “You and I will not ride like that again, Belarien,” said Tyrion. “The druchii leader was a glory seeker, but the next assault will be commanded by a more cautious warrior.”

  “And we will hurl his rabble back too,” promised Belarien.

  “Your ardour does you credit, my friend, but this castle was not built to resist anything other than skirmish troops or a probing force. No one foresaw the need for it to be stronger. It will fall eventually, that is certain.”

  Belarien replaced his helm and fixed Tyrion with a determined gaze. “Then we will make them pay for its walls in blood.”

  Tyrion drew Sunfang from its sheath, and the Silver Helm mirrored his movement in one fluid unveiling of glittering silver steel.

  “That we shall,” promised Tyrion, his proud voice carrying to every warrior within the castle. “I promised the Phoenix King that I would hold this place, and no scrap of Ulthuan will be yielded without an ocean of druchii blood spilled in its name.”

  He raised Sunfang high, the weak light catching the radiant blaze of its shimmering blade. For one shining moment, the grief and hideous twilight of the Everqueen’s pain was banished in a burst of brilliant sunlight. The cold fire in Tyrion’s chest was no less diminished, but pain was fleeting, legends would last forever.