02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  Finlain sent Finubar’s Pride racing towards the unnamed ship wrecked upon the new island, aiming his prow for the narrow gap between it and the eastern scarp of the straits. Hammer of Vaul came with him, and he waved to its captain as they sailed on this gloriously mad course. Despite what he had said to his men, Finlain knew this was a desperately risky gambit. No matter how skilled a sailor, the odds of winning a victory against such numbers was practically zero, but this fight was not about victory, it was about making a statement.

  In the centre of the fleet, Lord Aislin’s ship rode the crest of the waves, a host of glistening, bottle-green wyrms breaking the water either side of his prow. The creatures of the far ocean had come at Aislin’s command, predators of the deep with the strength and ferocity to sink even the largest ships. The Sea Lord’s blue sail caught the last rays of light in the straits, and it shone like the skies at the centre of the Sea of Dusk.

  More mists oozed from the sea, coiling over the gunwale as it cloaked the asur ships from the sight of the enemy. Finlain held to his course, knowing that he could afford no mistakes in his heading or else be dashed upon the rocks.

  “Steady as she goes, Meruval!” he yelled, his voice deadened by the mists.

  “Aye, captain,” returned his helmsman, as Finubar’s Pride cut the waters of the straits.

  “Eagle’s Claws ready?”

  “Ready, aye, captain,” came the shouted reply.

  The wind caught the sails and Finubar’s Pride leapt forward, keeping her prow low to the water as she cut the waves like a knife. A druchii bolt flashed overhead, grazing the mainmast, and spinning off into the mist.

  “They know we’re here,” said Finlain.

  The rocky island of tumbled blocks and dripping seaweed emerged from the mist. Finlain saw a fallen statue of Isha lying on its side, with seawater dripping from her granite eyes like tears. Behind the statue the sagging hull of the wreck hid his ship from the druchii, and Finlain glanced over his shoulder to see that Hammer of Vaul was still with him. Up ahead, rising like the sheer face of a mountainside, the black ark smouldered like the sea volcanoes that rose without warning in the southern oceans. A wall of water went before the black ark like a surge tide, bearing all manner of detritus from the bottom of the ocean in its oily foam.

  Light glimmered evilly from the many towers and garrets built haphazardly on the scorched flanks of the black ark, and the dull hammer of iron on iron echoed from within. Hideous screams and bloody chants to Khaine accompanied the metallic cacophony, and Finlain knew he took a terrible risk in coming this close to such an abominable creation.

  Across the straits, druchii sorcery battled with asur magecraft as the mists conjured by the sea-mages of Lord Aislin were dissipated by roiling clouds of fire. Blazing ships foundered in the channel, and burning elves hurled themselves from the decks of their doomed vessels rather than be consumed by the flames.

  The druchii’s advantage in numbers was now paying off, as Kithre Seablaze found himself trapped against the walls of the straits. Swifter raven ships pushed north into the straits as more heavily-laden galleys engaged Seablaze’s vessels. In such close confines, the deadly rams affixed to the hulls of the raven ships were next to useless, but the druchii had other means of taking the elven ships.

  Corvus boarding ramps with heavy iron spikes in the shape of barbed beaks slammed down on the decks of the elven ships, shattering gunwales and embedding themselves firmly in the timbers of the deck. Corsairs in scaled cloaks charged onto the elven vessels, and the slaughter was prodigious as these merciless killers butchered the crews of the eagle ships. With nowhere to run, two elven ships were run aground, their hulls broken to splinters and their crews dashed upon the rocks by the powerful waves.

  Lord Aislin’s ships cut a wedge through the centre of the druchii line, Eagle’s Claws sweeping the crew from the decks of raven ships with volley after volley of arrows. His sea-mages dragged two raven ships beneath the waves in a crushing, whirling vortex of water, while another was left becalmed as its crew were bewitched by the glamours of oceanid song that rose from the haunted deeps.

  Fire fell from above in blazing lumps of pitch as the castles on the cliffs burned, and flames caught the sails of the close-packed druchii ships. Those that could not fight the fires were sunk by their fellows, and the sea filled with screaming Corsairs who fought to reach a spar of broken timber before the weight of their armour dragged them to their deaths.

  Captain Finlain watched the battle raging across the width of the straits, and felt his heartbeat quicken. They had sunk their own number of druchii vessels at least, and many more were aflame or sinking. Yet for all that, the asur fleet now numbered only seven vessels. Even as he watched, Finlain saw Kithre Seablaze’s vessel ride up onto a fang of rock at the base of the western cliff. The hull of his vessel broke apart like matchwood, and its crew spilled like seeds into the dark waters.

  “Meruval!” shouted Finlain. “On my word!”

  The seas bucked and heaved at the base of the black ark, and Finlain saw its lower ramparts and donjons through the mist and sea spray. Shouting druchii warriors pointed at them as they emerged from the mist, but before they could do more than shout a warning, scores of arrows flensed the lower walls of the black ark.

  “Come about!” cried Finlain. “Now, Meruval, now!”

  Finubar’s Pride heeled hard to starboard, the ship leaning down into the water and exposing its silver underside to the black ark as it spun around to make a perfect course change of ninety degrees. Hammer of Vaul followed her round, and the two vessels surged forward into the flanks of the druchii fleet, borne aloft on the thundering bow wave driven before the seaborne mountain. Finlain gripped the ropes tied to the mast to keep his feet as Finubar’s Pride rode the waves faster than she had ever done before.

  Crossbow bolts smacked into the deck, and Finlain looked over his shoulder to see druchii crossbowmen racing to the ramparts of the black ark.

  “Keep our backside clear!” ordered Finlain, and his best archers took up position on the quarterdeck. Arrow after arrow flew from their bows, any druchii who dared show their face punched from his feet by the volley. Finlain turned and ran to where Meruval wrestled with the tiller, his face contorted with the effort of holding their course. The prow of Finubar’s Pride was aimed towards the sea, and the power of the wave they rode was like nothing Meruval had sailed before.

  Finlain threw himself at the tiller, adding his own strength as they guided their vessel into the druchii fleet.

  A raven ship trading arrows with the Mist Maiden was the first to feel their wrath.

  Finubar’s Pride slammed into the druchii ship, her reinforced prow smashing through the raven ship as though it were a child’s toy and not a ship of war. The vessel broke in two and the screams of its crew were short lived as the oncoming wave swallowed them.

  Two more ships were smashed to pieces in this way before Finlain was forced to give the order to turn Finubar’s Pride to the north. His archers loosed until they had no more shafts in their quivers, and his Eagle’s Claws exhausted their supply of heavy bolts a moment later.

  The surface of the ocean was awash with broken timber, burning ships and drowning sailors. Castles burned high on the cliffs, and savage lightning crackled from the sorcerers’ towers of the black ark. A towering column of fire erupted beside Finubar’s Pride, and Finlain watched in horror as Hammer of Vaul was struck dead centre by one of the giant balls of flaming pitch. Immediately, the vessel was ablaze from bow to stern, and Finlain knew there was no saving her.

  “Captain!” cried Meruval. “Help me.”

  Finlain shook off his sorrow at the loss of his fellow captain’s ship, and bent his efforts to helping Meruval control their wild course. Iron bolts thudded into the quarterdeck and mast now that the druchii in the black ark could target them without fear of reprisals.

  “Time to get out of here,” advised Meruval.

  “Agreed,” said Finlain,
and they hauled the tiller around until they were aimed to the north and the gleaming blue glare of the Sapphire Gate. Using the power of the wave surging ahead of the black ark, the vessel shot away from the vast mountain, passing the rocky island of the wreck. Viewed from this angle, Finlain could see the faint outline of the runic carvings worked into this side of the newly revealed prow.

  Morelion.

  Finlain felt a stab of hope at the sight of the name, for it was that of the firstborn twin of Aenarion and Astarielle. In the ancient war against the Chaos powers, the daemons of the Dark Gods had fallen on Avelorn in a tide of bloody claws and slaughter. The Everqueen had been slain and Morelion and Yvraine thought lost to the daemons, but an ancient forest spirit of Avelorn had kept Aenarion’s children safe and eventually returned them to their people.

  Though the asur fleet was scattered and sunk, Finlain did not despair, for as Morelion had survived impossible odds to fight again, so too would Finubar’s Pride.

  “Blood of Khaine!” hissed Meruval, making Finlain flinch with the invocation.

  “Watch your tongue,” said Finlain. “I’ll not have the murder god’s name spoken aloud on my ship.”

  “Apologies, captain,” said Meruval. “But look!”

  Finlain followed Meruval’s outstretched hand, and was almost moved to give voice to the bloody-handed one’s name himself.

  Her navy blue sail ablaze, the Mist Maiden sailed into the heart of the druchii fleet with two raven ships locked alongside her, their corvus boarding bridges wedged tightly in her decks. The sea around the ships churned with blood as sea wyrms tore at hideous monsters loosed from the bowels of the black ark, and purple lightning set the water ablaze with magical fire. Elven warriors fought in the leaping shadows of the flames, and Finlain saw the magnificent form of Lord Aislin as he swept the curved blade of his ithilmar sword through the Corsairs attempting to capture his vessel.

  For a brief moment, Finlain dared hope that the Sea Lord might yet break free of the druchii vessels. But as the water churned with strange lights and a groaning roar of something beneath the ocean, that hope was cruelly dashed.

  Something vast and scaled broke the surface beneath Mist Maiden, and her keel broke like a dead sapling as she was lifted out of the water. Like a kraken of the deep, the monster had eyes the size of chariot wheels and row upon row of ivory teeth in an obsidian gash of a mouth. Its fangs closed on the Mist Maiden’s hull and the ship exploded in a welter of smashed timber and elven bodies.

  The creature fell back into the water with a thunderous boom of crashing waves, and Finlain blinked away tears of anger and sorrow. He turned from the Sea Lord’s death and let the fierce winds and pounding waves carry Finubar’s Pride towards the postern of the glittering sea gate ahead.

  “The straits are lost,” said Meruval accusingly, as though unable to believe the words. Finlain nodded, too grief-stricken to answer. Only the Sapphire Gate now stood between the druchii and Lothern.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FIRST BLOOD

  Caelir drew in the reins of his horse at the foot of the domed hill to the north of Tor Elyr. Its summit was crowned by a ring of white stones, each taller than two elves, and cut with sigils of ancient power. In days long since passed, it was said that the mages of Ulthuan could travel to other dominions with a single step through such portals, but none now lived who were powerful enough to walk between worlds.

  His Reaver Knights were eager for action, hungry to take the fight to the druchii, and Caelir liked that aggressive spirit. A Reaver Knight needed a reckless streak, yet one tempered with iron control. It was a contradiction of wildness and discipline that only a very few could understand or master. Above his warriors, a line of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers were being loaded with arrows, and Caelir waved to the warriors that crewed them.

  Across the river, the enemy host milled and stamped, beating axes and swords against iron-bossed shields. It was grim theatrics, designed to intimidate, and against another army of mortals it might have worked, but directed at the asur, it was failing miserably. The braying of horns echoed over the river, and Caelir felt his pulse quicken as the enemy moved towards the river.

  Though they were but mortals, the warriors across the river were powerful and wolf-lean, bred tough by a life spent on the verge of extinction. Living in the harsh tundra of the north meant that only the strongest, most ruthless survived, and only by a man’s strength and power could he be measured against his foes. Clad in beaten plates of iron, wolf and bear pelts, these northern savages had a primal ferocity that could not be underestimated. Though crude, a club to the head would kill you as surely as the finest blade. They howled a guttural refrain, a deafening war-chant that was discordant, melodious, ear-splitting and hideous all at once. It spoke of delirium, the loss of control and the pleasure that could be had from surrendering all restraint.

  Caelir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, feeling the clashing sounds touching some deep part of his soul. He recognised the urge to allow desire to overrule control, and hated that he shared even this scrap of connection with the enemy. The northern warriors did not advance; content simply to bang their swords and shields, lift their bloody banners high, and hurl vile taunts across the wide river.

  Instead, the beasts charged.

  Terrible perversions of nature, these hybrid abominations were taller and more powerfully built than all but the mightiest tribesmen. Their bodies were covered in rank, matted fur and most carried heavy clubs or crude axes. No two were identical, but each bore the unmistakable trait of some forest beast, be it mastiff, bull, fox, bear or wolf. They walked on two legs in imitation of the noble creatures of the world, but nothing could disguise the horror of their condition. Caelir almost felt sorry for them.

  The beasts plunged into the river, howling and braying as its purity burned their Chaos-tainted flesh. Where a mortal warrior would be dragged to the bottom of the river, the beasts swam with powerful strokes, and hundreds of shaggy-haired monsters drew near the gently sloping banks of the river. Archers positioned on the northern flank of the army let fly with a volley of arrows, and the river ran with blood as they slashed down into the warped flesh of the beasts.

  Another volley hit home, and another, but the beasts’ hides were thick and their flesh leather-tough. Some sank beneath the river, but many more pressed on through the waters to the far bank. Raucous cheers from the tribesmen drove them on, and Caelir saw that arrows alone would not stop the beasts from reaching the riverbank.

  “With me!” shouted Caelir, hauling on the reins and urging Irenya to a gallop.

  His knights followed instantly, riding north in a curving loop to come upon the beasts at an oblique angle. Caelir stood tall in the saddle, and craned his neck to see that numerous other Reaver bands had followed his example. Perhaps five hundred riders thundered across the plain as blocks of spearmen advanced to fill the gap they had just left.

  The first of the monsters had reached the shoreline and were dragging their hulking bodies onto dry land. They shook their fur free of water and bellowed their challenges as more arrows thudded home. Caelir saw a towering monster with the head of a horned bull and a breastplate of beaten iron strapped to its body snap a pair of arrows from its stomach and roar its hate at those whose bodies were unblemished.

  The Eagle’s Claws on the hill unleashed flickering volleys of arrows, and several beasts fell, pierced by a host of shafts. Scores of monsters had gained the riverbank, as Caelir raised his left fist and chopped it down to his hip.

  As one, the Reaver Knights wheeled their horses, changing direction in an instant and riding towards the monsters. Caelir hauled back on his bowstring and loosed at the bull-headed monster. His arrow plunged into its side, but it seemed not to feel the impact. Arrows flashed past him as his fellow knights let fly, but only a handful of the beasts fell. Many hundreds of the terrifying monsters had assembled on the banks of the river, and were advancing towards the glittering elven lines with a b
estial, loping gait.

  “Fly, Irenya!” shouted Caelir. “Ride like never before!”

  Though Aedaris had been the faster horse, Irenya was still a proud steed of Ellyrion, and she rode as if all the daemons of Chaos were on her tail. The ground thundered beneath her, and Caelir loosed three more shafts before exerting pressure with his left boot and swinging his mount around.

  Less than a hundred yards separated the beasts and the asur battle line, and Caelir led his Reavers into that gap. He twisted in the saddle, drawing and loosing arrow after arrow with swift economy of movement. His arrows plunged into eye sockets and open mouths, the only vulnerable areas of soft flesh on the beasts’ bodies.

  “Turn about!” yelled Caelir, as Irenya pirouetted and reversed her course.

  The gap between the elves and beasts was shrinking rapidly, and Caelir hoped he hadn’t left it too late to ride out. He looped his bow around his shoulder and flicked his spear free of the leather thong holding it to his saddle.

  A wolf-headed beast leapt for him, and he rammed the spear into its throat. The beast howled and fell beneath Irenya’s hooves. Shimmering speartips slashed and stabbed in a terrifying scrum of bodies. Howls and grunts filled the air as the beasts fought to drag the Reavers down, but such was the speed and agility of their steeds that not a single knight was slain. Blood sprayed and his arm ached with the effort of driving his spear into iron-hard flesh. This close to the enemy, Irenya was a weapon too, her hooves caving in skulls and chests with every stride.

  Then they were clear, and Caelir whooped with the sheer bliss of riding free. His weapon and armour were drenched in bestial blood, but he was alive. They had ridden into the jaws of death and spat in the eye of Morai-Heg before riding out. His heart beat a racing tattoo within his chest, but no sooner had he brought Irenya to a canter than the charging beasts struck the elven line like a hammer-blow.