He did not like Alanrias, but could not deny the truth of his words. Glorien’s foolishness had cost them all dear, had seen brave elves die and brought them to the edge of defeat. His half-hearted attempt to win back their favour by taking to the walls was an insult to the warriors who had died in his name.
This was the true face of Glorien Truecrown, a petty martinet, a strutting popinjay who saw war as a means of advancement. To have fought on the walls of the Eagle Gate would be just the posting to secure influence and prestige for his family. No matter that it would be bought with the lives of warriors who had spilled their precious elven blood under his command. Behind this tide of anger, part of Alathenar rebelled at what the dark voices were telling him, but the greater part of him embraced it.
Alathenar’s expression turned to stone and he said, “I cannot do the deed with one of my arrows. Nor even yours, Alanrias. We cannot be implicated.”
“We have thought of that,” said Alanrias.
The Shadow Warrior moved aside his cloak to reveal what he had brought to their plotting. It gleamed in the moonlight, the stock fashioned in polished ebony and the wound strings woven from a coarse horsehair. Alathenar reached out to touch it, but his fingers stopped short of the iron bolt resting in the groove of the weapon. It was a weapon of brutal yet elegant design.
A druchii hand crossbow.
Alathenar’s fingers slipped around the weapon’s handle. It felt natural, as though the weapon had been crafted just for him.
“Tomorrow then,” he said.
Morathi let the drained body fall from her grip, the blood dripping from her fingertips as the last of the spell faded away. It had been a tiny thing, requiring only the blood of a single sacrifice, for the daemons of hate were simple to conjure, and needed little encouragement to venture into the realms of the living.
Brought forth beneath the light of the Chaos moon, and loosed on the winds of magic, it had been a matter of moments for the daemonic spirits to ease their way through the cracked and broken defences of the fortress. Wards that had kept her sorcery at bay for weeks were now virtually exhausted, simplicity itself for creatures of Chaos to overcome.
She felt the surge of hatred within the fortress, and laughed.
Warriors who had been brothers moments ago now traded hurtful words, and tiny grievances now swelled to monstrous insults. It would be short lived and swiftly forgotten, but potent while it lasted.
“Is it done?” asked Kul, licking his lips with anticipation.
“It is,” confirmed Morathi. “Though how a single moment of hatred will serve our cause is beyond me. By morning the asur will not remember their sudden anger.”
“Do not be too sure,” said Kul. “A moment of weakness matched to an instant of hate, and the course of a life can be changed forever. My divine master is patient, and swift to snare any soul that lowers its defences, even for a second.”
“And you think this brief hatred is enough?”
“Once the dark prince has a claim on a heart, there is no escape,” hissed Kul. “You of all people should know that. Your bloody-handed god is jealous of his followers, but Shornaal cares not from where the souls come. Only that they be ripe for corruption.”
Kul laughed and strode away from Morathi.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “This ends tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
BLACK SWANS
Ellyrion opened up to him, its rolling fields endless and its skies huge. The land before him was a thin strip of golden corn, the heavens an unending bowl of blue skies and streamers of silver clouds. Eldain’s ride across the land of his birth was a revelation, like he was seeing it with new eyes. Eldain had believed he and Lotharin had ridden every path of Ellyrion, but his senses were alive with the pleasure of discovery.
Every hill and forest seemed new and freshly risen, each dawn as though it had been wrought just for him. Eldain had no idea why his homeland should welcome him as it did, for the kingdoms of Ulthuan kept no secrets from one another. What the land knew in Avelorn, it knew in Ellyrion and Saphery and all the other realms of the asur.
Eldain had taken an indirect route to Ellyr-Charoi, keeping clear of the main settlements and pathways. He slept by streams gurgling towards the Inner Sea, and ate plants that grew on their banks, rising each morning more refreshed than before. He had lost track of the days, but knew he could not be far from his home. His clothes were travel-stained and had begun to smell, but Eldain didn’t mind. This ride was what it meant to be an Ellyrian, free from the constraints of society and its rules.
Here and there, he would see herds of wild horses grazing or drinking at a pool of crystal water. Most of these herds ignored him, but others would gallop over and ride alongside for a time, conversing with Lotharin in a series of whinnies and snorts. It felt good to be with the herds of Ellyrion, and brought back a particularly fine memory from his youth.
“You remember it too, don’t you?” he said, as Lotharin tossed his mane and stamped the ground. His mount broke into a run at his words, and he laughed as the joy of that day returned with the potency only a memory of the asur could render.
He had ridden out with Caelir when they had been no more than twelve summers old, taking their still-wild steeds out into the plains to gallop alongside the Great Herd. Once every few decades, the countless wild herds of Ellyrion would gather somewhere on the plains, drawn by some nameless imperative to run together in a thousands-strong stampede of fierce exultation.
Every son of Ellyrion longed to ride with the Great Herd, to mingle with the powerful beasts as they joined together in one thunderous ride to glory. Only the best riders dared join with the herd, for these steeds were wild and cared nothing for the safety of the mortals in their midst. Many an experienced rider had been crushed to death beneath the thundering hooves of the Great Herd. Eldain and Caelir took their horses out by the light of the moon and rode north from their home to the burned copse where Laerial Sureblade had slain Gauma, the eleven-headed hydra.
Here they followed the tracks of the lowland steeds, and joined the smaller herds as they crossed a confluence of rivers that foamed white as though desperate to be part of the ride. Eldain remembered seeing hundreds of horses all around them, the numbers growing with every passing moment as the white herds of the south were joined by the dun and dappled beasts of the mountains. The greys of the north and the piebald mounts of the plains galloped in, proud and haughty, to be met by the silver herdleaders of the forests.
Here and there, a black steed galloped in splendid isolation, honoured and shunned in equal measure by its equine brothers. Soon the plains were filled with thousands of wild horses in a mighty herd that stretched from horizon to horizon, and the blood surged in Eldain’s veins to be riding with such a host.
Beside him Caelir whooped and yelled, standing tall in Aedaris’ stirrups and waving an arm over his head like a madman.
“Sit down!” Eldain had yelled. “You’ll be thrown and killed!”
Caelir shook his head and vaulted onto his horse’s back, his limbs flowing like water as he bent and swayed to compensate for the wild ride. Dust billowed in thick clouds as the Great Herd galloped for all it was worth. The earth shook and the pounding beat of unshod hooves on the hard-packed earth was like the storms that boomed and rolled over the Annulii when the Chaos moon waxed full.
Eldain saw groups of Ellyrian horsemen riding through the herds, listening to their laughter and hearing their passionate cries. A herd of dun mares jostled him and he hauled the reins to the right, but pulled into the path of a group of pale stallions with the light of madness in their eyes. Lotharin was struck from both sides, and Eldain fought to stay on his back. Like Eldain and Caelir, their steeds were youthful and much smaller than these powerful beasts.
He felt the panic in his mount, and struggled to disentangle himself from the stallions. The horses had their head, and he was enclosed from all sides. Lotharin was tiring fast and to slow in such a desperate g
allop would be suicide.
“Eldain!” shouted Caelir, and he looked over to see his brother sat astride Aedaris once more. “Ride to me!”
Eldain pulled Lotharin through the barging, heaving mass of horses towards his brother, but Lotharin’s strength was fading fast. Sweat stung Eldain’s eyes and his muscles burned from the effort of keeping upright. Caelir was less than five yards to his right, but a bucking mass of wild horseflesh occupied the space between them.
“Jump!” shouted Caelir. “Lotharin can break free if he does not need to worry about you!”
Loath as Eldain was to abandon his horse in the midst of this pandemonium, he knew Caelir was right. An Ellyrian steed would die to protect its rider, but that loyalty would see them both killed here.
Eldain kicked his boots free of the stirrups and leaned over his mount’s neck.
“Run free, my friend, and I will see you after the ride is done,” he said.
Lotharin threw back his head and whinnied his assent. Eldain sprang onto Lotharin’s back, the black horse a lone spot of darkness amongst the pale grey stallions. Caelir fought to hold Aedaris steady at the edge of the heaving mass, holding his hand out to Eldain.
“Jump, brother!” Caelir yelled.
Eldain swayed on Lotharin’s back, gauging the right moment to leap. One misstep and he would fall through the press of horses and be crushed beneath their hammering strides. The horses were turning now, leaning into a sharp left turn. It was now or never.
Eldain jumped, hurling himself from Lotharin’s back and into the air. He came down on the bouncing shoulder blades of a white stallion and sprang onwards, twisting to come down behind Caelir. His brother gripped him as he slid back, and they rode clear from the crescendo of galloping horses.
Caelir rode until they were cantering on the fringes of the Great Herd, content to watch the majestic sweep of the mass of horses as they let loose their untamed hearts and shared the joy of a wild ride with their brothers and sisters. Eldain slid from Aedaris’ back at the foot of a jutting scarp of rock, knowing that Caelir wasn’t yet done with the Great Herd.
“Go,” he said. “Ride with the herd; I know you want to.”
“Without you, Eldain?” laughed Caelir, though Eldain could see the fierce desire in him to ride back into the herd. “Where would the fun be in that?”
“Don’t be foolish, how often does the Great Herd gather? Go!”
Caelir loosed a wild yell and Aedaris reared up before charging headlong into the swirling mass of dust and thundering horses. Eldain watched him go, proud to have so fearless a brother and, he could now admit, a touch jealous that he would not get to spend the day amid the frantic, pulse-pounding energy of the Great Herd.
As night fell, and the Great Herd began to break up into myriad smaller groups, Caelir rode Aedaris to the rock where Eldain had watched the ebb and flow of the mad stampede. Sweat-stained and exhausted, Caelir was nevertheless exultant, his cheeks ruddy with excitement and joy. His mount’s flanks were lathered with sweat, but he too was overjoyed to have been part of something so ferocious. Lotharin followed his brother’s horse, similarly drained, but equally joyous.
Together they had ridden back to Ellyr-Charoi, and Eldain spent the entire journey hearing of the magnificent sights at the eye of the herd, the swirling mass of horses and the madness of the jostling, barging, crashing herds. Eldain revelled in his younger brother’s tales, laughing and yelling with each telling of Caelir’s reckless stunts. Dawn was lighting the eastern horizon by the time they passed through the gates and allowed the equerries to take their horses from them.
Though that ride had been many years ago, Eldain still remembered it like it was yesterday. That all too brief moment of sheer, unbridled joy as he rode with the Great Herd was like nothing he had ever experienced before or since. It was a golden memory, and he silently thanked the land for its boon. Lotharin gave a long whinny of pleasure, and they rode on in companionable silence. The horses of the wild herd that had accompanied him for many miles now turned and galloped for the mountains. Eldain waved them on their way.
“Farewell and firm earth,” he said, as the last horse vanished over an undulant hill fringed with pine. At the foot of the hill, a jutting rock carved by childish hands into the shape of a rearing horse poked from an overgrown tangle of thornspines, and Eldain smiled as he recalled carving it for Rhianna, the first summer she had come to visit from Saphery.
Time had weathered the poor carving, and obscuring plant life had grown up around it, making it look like an ambush predator was dragging the horse down. Eldain shivered at the image that conjured, and tried not to think of it as an omen.
He was close now, that carving had been made when they were little more than children and not permitted to venture far from the villa. Eldain cut south until he found a hill trail that led south, a hidden pathway that none save an Ellyrian would know. Eldain saw it had been travelled recently, the hooves of a horse not native to Ellyrion having come this way. For an hour he followed the trail, winding through the high gullies and forest lanes until he emerged onto a rolling hillside of lush green grass.
Below him lay a glittering villa set within a stand of orange-leaved trees that nestled between two waterfalls.
Ellyr-Charoi.
Home.
Light was fading from the sky by the time Eldain reached the villa, and the evening sun reflected from the many gemstones set within its walls. Azure capped towers surrounded a central courtyard, and the tinted glass of their many windows shone with a rainbow of colours. Autumnal leaves drifted on the winds around the villa, and withered vines climbed to the tiled copings of its walls.
Eldain took a deep breath and tried to feel something other than foreboding at the sight of his home. Ellyr-Charoi grew from the earth, wrought with great cunning by its builders to merge seamlessly with the landscape and become part of its surroundings. As was the fashion of Ellyrian dwellings, it was elegant and understated, without the riot of gaudy decorations common to Ulthuan’s more cosmopolitan cities.
He rode slowly down the path until he reached the overgrown track over a gently arched bridge. So many memories jostled for attention. Sitting on the bridge with Rhianna and throwing in flower petals. Racing Caelir to the bridge on their new steeds. Cheering as his father rode to join a warrior host setting out for Naggaroth.
Weeping as the white-clad mourners brought his mortally wounded father home.
The gates were open, and the wind blew through like a moan of grief, whistling through cracked panes of glass on the tallest towers and filling the air with dancing leaves of gold and rust. No one challenged him as he rode into the courtyard, where once warriors had stood sentinel on the walls with bows bent and arrows nocked. Those faithful retainers were long gone, and Eldain felt the villa’s abandonment settle on him like an accusing glare.
He slid from his horse’s back and turned slowly, taking in the neglected villa’s disrepair. Where once an autumnal air had held sway, now winter was in the ascendancy. The fountain at the heart of the Summer Courtyard was empty of water, and only dead leaves filled the pool. A marble-tiled cloister bounded the courtyard, and Eldain made his way towards the elegantly curved stairs that led from the courtyard to his chambers at the top of the Hippocrene Tower. He climbed the first step, and paused as he heard the brittle sound of fallen leaves crumbling beneath a riding boot.
Knowing what he would see, Eldain turned around.
Caelir stood by Lotharin, clad as Eldain remembered him from Avelorn. Like him, he was travel-worn and tired, but unlike Eldain, Caelir was armed. He carried a slim-bladed sword with a blue sheen to its edge. Eldain recognised it as their father’s sword, the weapon he had borne to Naggaroth on the eve of his death.
“Caelir,” said Eldain. “I hoped you would be here.”
His brother took a step towards him, and ran a hand down Lotharin’s lathered flanks.
“A true horseman would see to his mount before anything else,”
said Caelir. “But then we both know you are no son of Ellyrion, don’t we brother?”
By morning the armies of Morathi and her mortal allies had launched two major attacks upon the Eagle Gate. Both attacks had been repulsed, though the defenders had suffered heavy losses, for the Hag Sorceress had held nothing back from these assaults. Flitting she-bats swooped from the skies, bellowing hydras unleashed breaths of fire, and rock-shielded bolt throwers hurled enormous, barbed shafts at the fragmenting walls.
Morathi herself took to the air, unleashing black sorceries from the back of her midnight pegasus, and every magicker in the fortress bent their efforts to keep her at bay. Her spiteful laughter rang over the battlements, driving her warriors to ever greater heights of suicidal courage.
It sat ill with Menethis to think of the druchii as possessing so noble an attribute as courage, but there was no other word for it. The blood in their veins came from the same wellspring as did his, and for all their other hateful qualities, courage was, unfortunately, not a virtue they lacked. Yet it was not the equal of asur courage, he knew, for its origins lay not in duty, honour or notions of self-sacrifice, but in fear.
The mortal followers of the dark prince attacked with reckless disregard for their own lives, many of them seeming to welcome the stabbing blades of the elves. The towering warrior in the flayed-flesh armour bellowed his challenges from the top of each ladder he climbed, killing any who came near him with chopping blows of his many-bladed sword.
Three times he had gained the rampart, and three times he had been hurled from the walls, only to rise from the ruin of broken ladder and splintered bodies to seek a new way up. The deformed monsters dragged towards the fortress in chains battered its crumbling walls, and the musk of their excretions drifted over the battlements in nauseating waves.
Yet for all the ferocity of these attacks, Menethis sensed a growing sense of something else behind the dark helms of the attackers. He wanted to believe it was desperation, for the walls of the Eagle Gate had held far longer than he would have thought possible. Designed to be impregnable, the garrison had been steadily run down over the years until only a token force remained. The warriors fighting and dying here were now paying for that foolishness with their lives.
02 - Sons of Ellyrion Page 10
