02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  Its limbs jerked and twisted in a horrid parody of life, and Menethis turned away from the vile creation, but a broken voice called out to him from across the river. Suspecting some druchii trickery, Menethis paid the sound no mind, but it came again, and though it was the last gasp from a ruined throat there was a familiarity to the sound that was unmistakable.

  He looked back at the Executioner’s banner in horror as he realised it was no mannequin, but a living being nailed to timbers, one who had been horrifically disfigured through unimaginable torments only the insane could devise. His eyes had been put out, his limbs broken and every portion of his anatomy burned and flensed with skinning knives, yet this was a living being Menethis recognised.

  It was Alathenar.

  “Isha’s mercy…” hissed Menethis.

  The warriors to either side of him glanced over at his reaction, and Menethis knew he should reprimand them for such a lapse in focus, but he could not tear his eyes away from the horrors wrought upon the archer’s body. How could he even know Menethis was here? Had he somehow sensed his former comrade’s presence, or had he simply been repeating a familiar name ever since his capture?

  The archer’s lipless, toothless mouth worked up and down, crying out for Menethis, and he felt his heart moved to pity despite Alathenar’s treachery. No one deserved such a fate, and Menethis pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. He pulled back on the string, sighting down the length of the arrow, letting his breathing slow and imagining the path it would take. His focus shifted from the arrowhead to the mewling wreckage of the archer’s body.

  Menethis loosed between breaths, watching as his arrow arced out over the river. The point glittered in the weak sunlight as it slashed downwards. Alathenar turned what was left of his ravaged features to the sky, as though sensing his torment was about to end.

  The arrow buried itself in Alathenar’s throat, and the archer’s head slumped over his chest as he died. A bawdy cheer went up from the Executioners, and Menethis hated that he had provided them any sort of pleasure.

  “I give you peace, Alathenar,” Menethis said, “but I do not forgive you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BLOOD OF ULTHUAN

  The black ark filled the horizon, a shard of Ulthuan now filled with evil and twisted to serve the druchii. The castle fortresses worked into the cliffs had been abandoned as the black ark ground its way deeper into the straits, crushing them to rubble against the sea walls. Every warrior of Lothern now stood on the glittering ramparts of the Sapphire Gate, ready to face an army of druchii that drew closer with every breath.

  Every day had seen the black ark draw nearer to the sea gate, but today would see it close enough for the killing to begin. Black clouds swirled in a vortex above it, spreading out over the mountains to either side like oil in water. Every now and then, Tyrion would catch fleeting glimpses of a monstrous winged form in the darkness, a figure in purple-limned armour astride its serpentine neck.

  The Witch King himself had come to see Lothern humbled, and Tyrion longed for the chance to cross blades with the ancient foe of Ulthuan. The sea battered the cliffs of the black ark and crashed against its lower reaches, but what could the waves do to so towering an edifice as a mountain in so short a time? Tyrion felt the sea’s anger as it sought to eject this thorn from the flesh of Ulthuan, and shared its frustration that it was powerless against it.

  Powerless? No, that was not right.

  He could have the power, but he chose not to wield it.

  Tyrion gripped the hilt of Sunfang tightly, feeling the conflicting pulls on his heart as deep aches in his soul. His beloved Everqueen was beyond his sight in Avelorn, wounded and in need of his comfort, while Lothern would surely suffer greatly without his presence. Yet the greatest pull on his heart was that which turned his eyes to the north whenever his attention wandered or his focus slipped.

  In those moments, he would see the storm-lashed isle in the cold, grey northern seas and feel the pull of that blood-bladed sword. Countless thousands had died over that hostile scrap of rock, their bones littering its desolate shale, their blood soaking its gritty black sand. All for possession of a weapon that could destroy the world. How ridiculous such a notion was. Why would anyone kill to possess a weapon that was doom incarnate?

  Yet he would draw it and drive the druchii from Ulthuan if only he could be sure that he would set it back into the dripping altar as Aenarion had done. Tyrion knew he was strong, but was he strong enough to resist the lure of such a powerful weapon once it had been unsheathed? He didn’t know, but the world would be a grimmer place were he to find out.

  He heard someone call his name and shook off thoughts of the Blighted Isle.

  “What?” he said.

  “The island again?” asked Belannaer.

  Tyrion nodded. “Am I so transparent?”

  “The Sword of Khaine is a mighty and terrible artefact,” said the Loremaster. “And you are the greatest warrior of the asur. A hero of the line of Aenarion. Who else would it call to?”

  Tyrion nodded towards the black ark as it ground its way along the straits of Lothern towards the Sapphire Gate.

  “I fear what will happen if I do not answer its call,” said Tyrion. “Yet my greater fear is of what will happen if I do answer it.”

  “Then I am reassured,” said Belannaer. “Only the foolish dream of such dangerous power; the wise know when not to meddle.”

  “I am not wise, Sire Belannaer,” said Tyrion.

  “You are wiser than you know, my friend.”

  Tyrion shrugged, uncomfortable with such compliments, and said, “Thank you, but I do not wish to speak of it further. Let us change the subject.”

  “As you wish,” said Belannaer.

  “Did my brother ask you to counsel me?”

  Belannaer smiled. “I am here to offer counsel to any who will heed it.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It is, just not the one you were looking for.”

  “You mages and your secrets…”

  “I keep no secrets, Tyrion,” said Belannaer. “I am here as a representative of the White Tower. No more, no less.”

  Tyrion said, “Very well, I will press no further. But I would value any counsel you would give. Like how we will stop the druchii from sweeping over us when that rock is upon us.”

  “You will stop them with heart and courage,” said Belannaer. “Every warrior on this wall is looking to you to show them how a prince of the asur fights. Finubar may be king, but you are the one they would wish to be. Remember that as you fight.”

  Tyrion shook his head. “No one should wish to be me.”

  “In this instance, the truth of being Tyrion does not matter, it is the idea of Tyrion that is paramount. Every warrior here knows of your exploits; the rescue of the Everqueen, the duel with Urian Poisonblade, and the battle against N’Kari. You are a hero, whether you see it or not, and you must live up to that ideal.”

  “So the legend of Tyrion becomes more important than who I really am?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  Tyrion said nothing for a moment, then gave a mirthless chuckle. “You do not offer comforting counsel, Loremaster.”

  “I offer the truth,” said Belannaer, “and that is sometimes unwelcome.”

  Further discussion was prevented by the arrival of the Phoenix King and his retinue of White Lions. Korhil was easy to spot, his lion-pelted shoulders and braided hair bobbing above those of his fellow warriors. Finubar’s scarlet armour shone like polished ruby, and he carried his helm in the crook of his elbow so that all might see his mane of silver-blond hair streaming in the wind coming in off the straits.

  “My king,” said Tyrion with a curt bow.

  “Tyrion,” said Finubar. “And Sire Belannaer, I trust you and your mages stand ready to defend my city?”

  “We do, my lord,” answered the mage, resting his hand on the pommel stone of the sword of Bel-Korhadris. “Wi
th spell and with sword if need be.”

  “Good, good,” said Finubar. “If only all my subjects were so loyal.”

  “Sire?” said Tyrion.

  Finubar stood at the edge of the battlements, looking out at the dark clouds gathering above the black ark. Shards of lightning split the gathering gloom and the spread wings of a mighty dragon could clearly be seen silhouetted against the actinic light.

  “We face Ulthuan’s greatest foe, and yet there are those among my people who do not answer the call to fight. Prince Imrik seals himself in the volcanic caverns of the mountains and refuses to ride his dragon into battle. And messages to Eltharion are answered only by empty silence. I fear the Warden of Tor Yvresse has fallen too far into despair to lead his warriors in battle ever again.”

  “I know Eltharion,” said Tyrion. “He is a cautious warrior, it’s true, but I cannot believe he will allow Ulthuan to fall without fighting in its defence.”

  “Then perhaps you should go to Tor Yvresse and convince him to come,” snapped Finubar.

  Tyrion shared a glance with Korhil at the Phoenix King’s outburst, and the mighty White Lion gestured to the city behind the gate with his eyes. Far below, gathered in neat ranks on Lothern’s quayside, a thousand grim-eyed warriors in pale white armour and cloaks of vivid scarlet edged with golden flames stood beneath a banner of a fiery phoenix.

  Tyrion now understood the cause of Finubar’s discomfort, for these were the Phoenix Guard, the silent guardians of the Shrine of Asuryan. It was said that within the temple was a forbidden vault known as the Chamber of Days, whereupon was inscribed the fates of every Phoenix King that had ever lived and ever would. The Phoenix Guard were privy to the secrets of time, and would arrive without warning to escort a newly-chosen Phoenix King to the fires of Asuryan.

  Or carry a dead Phoenix King to his final rest.

  The ice spread over the water like sickness from a wound. Issyk Kul’s savage warriors charged onto the solid surface of the river, brandishing heavy axes and swords and screaming filthy chants to the Dark Gods. Their horned helms gave them the appearance of daemons, and Caelir knew that was very nearly the case. Every one of the mortals who lived in the frozen north was touched by the warping power of Chaos.

  The warrior hosts of Tor Elyr fought the twisted beasts, rank upon rank of spearmen thrusting their sharpened points into the heaving mass of furred flesh over and over again. It was an unequal struggle, for their foes were many times stronger. But where the beasts fought as raging individuals, the asur host gave battle as a cohesive whole. In perfect unison, elven spears were withdrawn and then rammed forward, each time bathed in the unclean blood of the monsters.

  The arrival of the tribesmen would tip the balance of this flanking battle, but Caelir would not let that happen. The ice had reached the near shore, and Caelir saw Anurion the Green and his mages fighting to hold back its spread down the length of the river. Anurion’s magic caused fresh blooms of grass and flowers to rear from the water’s edge as he brought forth the life-giving magic of Ulthuan, only for it to be withered by the cold and corruption of the dark magic from the tribal shamans.

  This was an aspect of the battle Caelir could do nothing to affect, and he led his charging warriors onto the frozen surface of the river as powerful enchantments were woven, cast, countered and deflected. Any steeds other than Ellyrians would have slipped and fallen on the smooth ice, but there were no more sure-footed mounts in the world.

  The tribal warriors saw his riders coming and loosed a wild cheer, as eager for the fight as the charging Reavers. Caelir tucked his spear into the crook of his arm and picked out the tribesman he would kill first. A barbarian wearing a bearskin cloak and a spiked helm lined with fur. His armour was crudely fashioned from lacquered leather and burned with a curving rune that brought bile to Caelir’s throat.

  The Reaver Knights smashed into the horde with a deafening clatter of blades. Caelir’s spear punched into the tribesman’s chest, tearing down through his heart and lungs before erupting from the small of his back. Caelir’s spear snapped and he hurled away the broken haft. He drew his sword as Irenya smashed a path into the heaving mass of warriors. Blades flashed and blood sprayed the ice as the Reaver Knights wreaked fearsome havoc on the mortals. Armoured warriors slipped and went under the hooves of the Ellyrians, crushed against the diamond hard surface of the ice.

  Irenya spun and kicked out as Caelir fought the northern tribesmen with the ferocity of a berserker. He heard elven voices calling his name, but he ignored them, driving his horse ever deeper into the sweating, stinking horde of savage mortals. Ahead, he could see Issyk Kul, his powerful form dwarfing those around him.

  The warlord saw him coming and grinned with what looked like genuine pleasure, opening his arms as though welcoming home a prodigal son. Caelir screamed his hate and drove Irenya straight at the champion. Kul laughed and goaded his red-skinned beast towards Caelir. Both riders pushed their mounts hard, and as they passed, Caelir struck out with his sword, the blade slicing across the flesh of Issyk Kul. The warlord’s skin was like iron, and Caelir’s blade slid clear.

  In return Kul’s monstrous blade swept out and beheaded Irenya with a brutal overhead cut.

  Caelir was hurled from the corpse of his mount as she crashed to the ice. He twisted as he fell, landing on his feet atop a fallen tribesman. Blood flooded from his headless steed, and he stared in horror at the twitching remains. Warriors surged forward, but Kul reined in his horse and waved them away. The raw-fleshed steed radiated heat, and the ice steamed with every step it took.

  “You have returned to join us?” asked Kul, his voice wetly seductive, and Caelir wanted to laugh at the ridiculous question. Tears streamed from his eyes at Irenya’s death, and he hurled himself at the warlord, oblivious to the swirling combats going on around him. Warriors were dying on the ice, his warriors, but all he could see was the gloating form of Kul as he loomed over Caelir’s steed.

  “You killed her!” screamed Caelir, charging at Kul.

  The mounted warlord batted aside Caelir’s clumsy attack, and slammed an armoured boot into his face. Caelir reeled from the power of the blow as Kul dropped from his horse, the beast snarling and stamping the ground in its eagerness to trample him underfoot. Kul thrust his sword into the ice, a black malevolence radiating from the blade and into the ice.

  “Why are you fighting me?” asked Kul, “I made you what you are, little elf. Have you not realised that yet?”

  Caelir spun on his heel, slashing for Kul’s throat, but the blow struck the champion’s armoured forearm as it came up to block. Kul’s fist hammered Caelir’s chest and something cracked inside. He dropped to one knee, struggling to catch a breath. Issyk Kul shook his head and reached up to remove his helm, hanging it from his saddle horn. The warlord retrieved his sword from the ice and swung it around his body, as though loosening up for a mildly diverting sparring session.

  “You were nothing until we remade you,” hissed Kul, his repulsively handsome face more disappointed than angry. “A pathetic life wasted on petty cruelties and dabblings on the fringes of true excesses. You called yourself free, but you were just as much a prisoner of the grey chains of life as the rest of your dull kind. I did you a favour, and you welcomed it.”

  “No!” screamed Caelir, surging upright and stabbing his blade at Kul’s groin.

  Kul stepped aside and thundered his knee into Caelir’s side. A right-cross slammed Caelir to the ice, and his sword skittered away from him. He scrabbled across the ice to retrieve it. Kul followed him with long strides and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

  Caelir twisted in his grip, but Kul was too strong for him.

  “Pathetic,” sneered the warlord, and Caelir spat in his face.

  Kul laughed and dropped him to the ice. “That’s more like it. Show me your hate and passions! Accept the ecstasies of the dark prince and you will know true freedom!”

  Caelir’s sword lay within his reach, and he
swept it up, scissoring himself to his feet in a blur of motion. He stepped in and drove his blade into Kul’s belly, but the blade snapped as though he had stabbed it into the side of a mountain.

  “The dark prince protects his favoured sons,” sneered Kul at Caelir’s attack. “And if you choose to deny his seductions, then it is time to be rid of you.”

  Kul’s sword sang for Caelir’s neck, its many blades glittering like icy shards of blood.

  The chill winds blowing from the far bank carried the foul odour of the cold ones: rotting meat, stagnant water and oily, scaled bodies that shunned the light. It caught at the back of Eldain’s throat, and he retched at the rank, dead taste.

  “Isha’s mercy, how can they stand it?” he spat.

  Eldain rode towards the crystal horses at the end of Korhandir’s Leap in time to see the black knights thunder onto the bridge with terrifying speed as they dug razor-tipped spurs into the reptiles’ flanks. The crystal bridge shook with the force of their charge, and the knights raised a crimson banner as they lowered their lances.

  Arrows bounced uselessly from the scaled hides of the cold ones, spinning off into the dark waters of the river below. A shimmering skin of freezing fog crept across the water and Eldain saw that some of the arrows skittered across the surface of the river instead of sinking.

  “The riders!” shouted Eldain. “Kill the riders!”

  His Reavers wheeled their mounts and stood tall in their saddles, bringing their bows to bear on these armoured knights. Flurries of arrows sped towards the black knights and a handful fell as particularly skilful or lucky archers found a gap between breastplate and helm, but it was not enough to stop the charge.