02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill

  Stormwing spun away from the dragon, and Eltharion fought to stay upright as his faithful griffon used every ounce of its speed and agility to outmanoeuvre the Witch King’s mount. He pulled Stormwing into a tight turn, one wing stooped, the other spread wide. Malekith passed beneath him, and Eltharion slashed down with his sword. The blade bit into the Witch King’s armour, but slid clear before tasting flesh. In return, Malekith’s sword stabbed up into Stormwing’s belly, opening a long gouge that drew a shriek of pain from the noble creature.

  The two creatures spun around one another, clawing and tearing. Stormwing was the more agile of the two, twisting aside from the dragon’s powerful jaws and slashing talons. Yet what the dragon lacked in speed, it made up for in sheer power. Stormwing looped over the dragon’s neck, and a slicing talon tore out the mighty creature’s right eye. The dragon roared and thrashed its heavily muscled limbs in agony. A slicing blow from its hind legs cut deep into Stormwing’s flank, gouging down to the bone. Stormwing screeched and Eltharion held on tight as the griffon bucked in pain.

  In such a close quarters fight, there could be only one winner, and it would be the dragon.

  “We have done all we can for now, old friend,” said Eltharion.

  Stormwing folded his wings and dropped away from the dragon, diving hundreds of feet before levelling out over the walls of the sea gate. Flights of arrows flew from the defenders’ bows towards the dragon. Most bounced from its thick scales, but a lucky few pieced its body where the battle with Eltharion had torn them loose. The enraged dragon turned about and was flying after him, its wings pounding the air and scattering the fighters on the wall below with the force of the downdraught. A flurry of iron bolts zipped past Eltharion and he swung his mount lower, passing within ten feet of the ramparts.

  The cliff wall was fast approaching. He was running out of space.

  A sibilant voice sounded in his head, and it was a voice he knew to trust implicitly.

  Fly to me, Eltharion! By the western cliff!

  Eltharion obeyed instantly, turning in a sharp bank and roll manoeuvre as he flew back the way he had come. The dragon matched Stormwing’s turn, but Eltharion could hear his mount was blowing hard now, a sure sign of imminent exhaustion.

  “Fly just a little more, brother,” said Eltharion.

  The griffon extended its wings and flew westwards as the Witch King’s dragon roared in anticipation of the kill. They sped over the wall, through a mist of arrows and bolts, weaving through the air and jostling for position. Eltharion scanned the walls for any sign of his friend, and spotted the star-cloaked mage exactly where he had said he would be.

  Loremaster Belannaer stood swathed in a cerulean cloak of moon-writ runes and read aloud from a heavy golden book, its kidskin covers embossed with the motif of a rising phoenix. His voice was ancient beyond reckoning and the words he spoke were of Asuryan and the creation of the world.

  Eltharion drew Stormwing in, and the griffon spun as the Witch King and his dragon closed. The dragon’s wings boomed wide as it slowed its flight, and no sooner had Malekith reared up to strike down at Eltharion than Belannaer unleashed a coruscating vortex of pure white fire from the tip of his crescent-topped staff. The flames enveloped the Witch King and his dragon, but instead of bellows of agony, there came only gloating laughter.

  The flames vanished in a heartbeat, and Eltharion saw the Witch King’s shield glowing with a blistering light where it had swallowed the full force of the magical fire.

  Stormwing landed on the ramparts of the sea gate, and Eltharion saw Belannaer stagger away from the wall as though struck. The Loremaster held himself upright with the aid of his golden staff and though he was greatly weakened, he kept reading from his magical tome.

  “In Vaul’s name, I unweave the winds of magic, their colours to be unmade, their enchantments to be undone!”

  The air between Belannaer and Malekith buckled with unleashed force and the Witch King’s shield shattered into a thousand fragments. The dark plates of his armour cracked, and searing lines of magical fire clawed his light-starved flesh. The Witch King roared in pain, and pulled his draconic mount away from Belannaer’s magic. As the dragon pulled up and away, its long neck rippled with peristaltic motion.

  Eltharion shouted a warning and Stormwing leapt into the air as a black torrent of lethal fumes and searing bile erupted from the dragon’s jaws to envelop the Loremaster. Eltharion could only watch in horror as Belannaer’s body erupted in incandescent flames that burned hotter than the forge of the Smith God himself until nothing remained.

  * * *

  The mist rolling in from the river thinned as it reached the riverbank, and Caelir saw vast blocks of marching warriors emerge from its edges. They were big men, thick of limb and wide of shoulder; each armed with a great felling axe that dripped with amber sap. The flesh of their bodies was sliced open from head to toe, and barbed thorns were snagged on their armour or embedded in the meat of their arms and thighs.

  They came on in a screaming host, beneath a forest of crude banners and braying war horns. A thousand warriors, and then a thousand more emerged from the mist, a multitude of warbands, sword-packs and axe-brothers. Caelir felt his courage sink to his boots at the sight of so many warriors.

  Riding tall in the centre of the host was Issyk Kul, his shoulder guards draped with a fresh cloak of torn emerald robes and pale flesh. Stretched over the warlord’s spiked pauldrons, Anurion the Green’s face gave voice to a silent scream, while the emptied skin of his body flapped as a grotesque rag of bloody flesh.

  “Gods above!” hissed Caelir. “Anurion…”

  He fought down his rising panic as he tried to think of some way they could hold the northern flank. The Reaver bands numbered fewer than five hundred riders, and the spear hosts barely a thousand. The fighting around Korhandir’s Leap had drawn in too many warriors, and the north was now dangerously exposed.

  And that weakness had been exploited.

  The spear hosts angled themselves to meet the oncoming horde of tribesmen as the clear notes of elven battle horns trumpeted. The sound gave Caelir hope, and he smiled wryly as he thought of the tales Narentir had told of Aenarion in the performance circles of Avelorn. The poet always sang of hope in the darkest hours, of how heroes never gave in to despair and always clung to the hope of victory. He would spin spellbinding tales of all the great heroes of Ulthuan: Aenarion, Caledor Dragontamer, the sword-mages, Firuval and Estellian, and of course Tyrion and Teclis.

  One night Caelir had asked Narentir why he never told the tale of Eltharion, for it was an epic tale that surely best exemplified his belief in holding on to hope in the darkest hour.

  Narentir had shaken his head and said, “Dear boy, you are young and beautiful. Some stories should not be told too often, for the soul is heavier for hearing them.”

  Caelir had sensed evasion and said, “Save your fancy words for the circles, poet. Tell me. Why do you not speak of Eltharion?”

  “Because I choose not to,” said Narentir. “He is a warrior of great sadness and anger. Not someone about whom one should speak without his leave. Dear Caelir, you met Eltharion in Tor Yvresse, and even you must have realised that about him without someone like me having to explain it to you.”

  “I met him, yes,” agreed Caelir. “He seemed sad more than angry.”

  “And with good reason.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Once,” said Narentir. “And before you ask the question I sense is rushing towards those exquisite lips of yours, it is not an experience I care to relive, so do not ask.”

  Caelir had cajoled him all night, but Narentir would not be drawn on the matter. Events had overtaken them, and Caelir guessed he would never get the chance to learn the reasons for the poet’s reluctance to speak of Eltharion.

  “You were a fool, Narentir,” whispered Caelir. “A wonderful, brilliant fool. I wish you were here to tell me there was still hope.”

  On the ride to
Tor Elyr, Caelir had chided Eldain for not believing there was still hope.

  How na�ve he must have sounded. How childish.

  The enemy had crossed the river, and there was no hope of holding them back.

  Eldain and Lotharin rode onto the western bank of the river, and Starchaser’s Reavers followed close behind. It was glorious madness to be on this side of the river, with enemies all around them, but where else should an Ellyrian Reaver Knight be but deep within enemy territory with the threat of death all around?

  He had a handful of warriors against an army, which were the odds an Ellyrian liked.

  But where to lead them?

  “The red giant,” said Eldain. “Gods, Mitherion, what in Isha’s name did you mean?”

  To the south, hundreds of druchii hurried to the ford, which became more passable with every moment as fell magicks were brought to bear to hold back the waters of the river. The spear hosts were already embroiled in battle, and though the line was holding, the druchii could simply hurl warriors at it until it broke. Hundreds of warrior bands of druchii were marching towards the bridge, eager to flank the elven spears, and as much as Eldain dearly wished to oppose them, he knew it was a fight his riders could not win.

  Eldain could not see what was happening in the north, for a thick fogbank obscured all but the distant hill of waystones and the Eagle’s Claws upon its slopes. To left and right, druchii crossbows and bolt throwers unleashed withering hails of arrows. Small bands of crossbowmen were, even now, making their way from the riverbank to take aim. Iron-tipped bolts whickered from the undergrowth, and two of Eldain’s riders were pitched from their saddles. A bolt embedded itself in the thick leather of his saddle horn, and Lotharin reared up as the tip pricked his flesh beneath.

  Eldain angrily tore the bolt free and hurled it aside.

  “Ride north along the riverbank!” he shouted, guiding Lotharin around with pressure on his right knee. His black steed turned on the spot and galloped away from the bridge with Starchaser’s Reavers behind him. Less than a hundred yards to his left, thousands of druchii warriors marched towards the river, so close he could pick out individual faces and shield designs. It was madness to be riding so close to the front of the enemy host, but where else was there to go?

  Eldain felt the snap of druchii crossbow bolts flashing past them, and heard the screams of Reavers as they were cut down. He shouted in anger and took up his bow, loosing shaft after shaft in return. He saw enemy warriors fall, but took scant comfort in their deaths. No matter if each of his riders killed a druchii with every arrow in their quivers, there would still be ten times too many for them to fight.

  “Damn you, Mitherion!” shouted Eldain as he heard another of his Reavers die.

  The ground became harder under Lotharin’s hooves, and Eldain felt the air grow icy, like the depths of winter in Cothique. Ellyrion never knew winter’s touch, and it chilled his soul like nothing else to know that his land could be so touched by the fell influence of the druchii. Cold mist oozed from the river, and Eldain heard the slap of water on ice… the tramp of booted feet on ice.

  Eldain could see nothing save the grey curtain of mist before him. To ride blind was madness, but to ride slow would see them skewered on the bolts of the druchii crossbowmen.

  “Ride sure, old friend,” he shouted to Lotharin.

  The horse tossed its mane and plunged into the mist, the cold wetness of it soaking Eldain through in moments. He could see nothing save vague shapes, dark outlines and hazy silhouettes as Lotharin rode deeper and deeper into the mist. The sounds of hideous chanting came from all around him, mired in the muffled sound of clashing blades, screams of pain, beating war drums and wildly blowing horns.

  Mired in the mist, the battle might already be won or lost for all Eldain knew.

  Something vast, golden and jade loomed in the mist, the towering outline of a warrior. Taller than any elf could ever be, it was swathed in red mist that tasted of burned metal and set his nerves afire with its hateful resonances of pain, murder and fear. Vast blades descended from outstretched arms, and Eldain saw writhing forms leaping and dancing around a steaming cauldron that sopped and sloshed with blood. The taste of the air set his teeth on edge, and brought tears to his eyes.

  “The red giant,” said Eldain, amazed that they had come upon it in the mist.

  The red mist parted, and Eldain saw the lithe forms of near-naked druchii warrior women spinning around the mighty effigy of their bloody-handed god. Each was a dark beauty of sinister allure, and each carried dripping black-bladed daggers in both hands. Khaine himself leered down at the Reavers, and the ruby eyes of the statue pulsed in anticipation of bloodshed. Eldain let fly with his last arrow at one of the women, who leapt over the speeding shaft and bounded towards him like an acrobat.

  Eldain was reminded of the elf-maid Lilani he had met in Avelorn, but where her grace was natural and sinuous, these druchii women had the predatory agility of stalking cats. One of the women vaulted into the air and leapt at him feet first. Lotharin reared up and flailed the air with his hooves, smashing her ribcage and hurling her back. Eldain used the respite to take up his spear as the Reavers rode into the women.

  Two were killed almost instantly, crushed beneath the sheer mass of horses, and another pair were pinned to the ground by a flurry of arrows loosed by archers more skilled than Eldain. The Reavers outnumbered the dancers of Khaine, but they cared nothing for their own deaths and slew for the cruel enjoyment of the deed. Eldain felt something tear along his shoulder, and ducked over Lotharin’s neck as a pair of iron razor-stars slashed by his head.

  A naked elf with dark tattoos garlanding her body balanced on the edge of the slopping cauldron of blood like a witch-hag from the terror stories used to frighten children. Her hair billowed around her thorn-crowned head, and barbed torqs of thornvines wound their way along her legs and arms. Though her body was that of the fairest elf-maid, her face was a loathsome mélange of youth and ancient malice.

  Eldain turned Lotharin toward the witch, feeling his hatred intensify the closer he rode to the looming statue and its dripping blades. The eyes of the effigy burned with the light of a furnace, hot, raging and always in motion. Eldain’s lip curled in anger as he stared at the witch-hag, letting his hate build as she sprang from the edge of the cauldron with a hateful scream that tore at his nerves. It was a name he had never heard uttered from a living being, it was the name carried in the death rattle of those with a knife in their back or a murderer’s hands wrapped around their throat. It was the wordless exultation of murder.

  At that moment, Eldain knew the terror of prey.

  Lotharin reared in panic, and Eldain dropped his spear as the witch queen’s word of power took him back to the days of darkness, when even the elves huddled close to the fire for fear of what might lurk beyond its light. He wanted to reach for his sword, but his muscles were terror-locked in paralysis. Even as she came at him with twin daggers that hissed with venom, he could not move, could do nothing save imagine the pain as she cut out his heart.

  The witch sailed through the air as though in defiance of gravity and Eldain saw her face split apart with the feral grin of a savage killer. Her blades never connected, for a leaf-bladed speartip erupted from her ribcage and plucked her from the air.

  Laurena Starchaser rode past like the Huntress of Kurnous herself, her auburn hair wild and unbound and trailing behind her like a fiery comet. The witch queen slid from her spear, punctured clean through and wailing impotent curses from bleeding lips.

  “Have you forgotten how to fight?” asked Starchaser, circling her horse and whipping the blood from her spear.

  Eldain shook off the terror of the witch-hag’s spell and said, “No.”

  “She bewitched you?”

  “Maybe,” said Eldain, unwilling to dwell on the naked fear he had felt.

  “This is the red giant Mitherion Silverfawn spoke of?” she asked.

  “I believe so.”


  “Then let’s hurry up and destroy it, there are more druchii coming.”

  “Any idea how?”

  Starchaser slid from the saddle and waved the surviving Reaver Knights over. Eldain rode around the statue as Starchaser and another five Reavers put their shoulders to the brass cauldron and pushed. Eldain unhooked his lasso from his saddle and spun the loop once before hurling it up and over the statue’s head. He wound the end of the lasso around Lotharin’s saddle horn, as three other Reavers followed his example. One rope snapped on the drooping blades, and Eldain felt the statue’s smouldering anger as the Ellyrians worked to bring it down.

  “Now, Laurena!” shouted Eldain. “Push!”

  Lotharin strained against the heavy weight of the statue, and Eldain glanced over his shoulder to see the red glow of its baleful eyes spread throughout its metal body. He heard angry shouts of druchii warriors and leaned over Lotharin’s neck.

  “Come greatheart, you are the strongest horse I know,” he said. “If any can pull this damned statue down it is you.”

  Lotharin’s shoulders bunched and he strained at the enormous weight at his back until at last the statue’s base cracked, and it began to fall. Blood sloshed from the cauldron, hissing as it hit the good soil of Ellyrion and rendering it barren for years to come.

  Then the statue tipped past its centre of gravity and fell without effort from the elves. Eldain’s lasso unwound from the statue’s neck, and he coiled it back onto his saddle as the cauldron fell from its mounting and flipped over. The bronze face of the murder god slammed into the ground as the cauldron rolled towards the mist-shrouded river.

  Instead of a heavy splash, Eldain heard the booming clang of metal striking something solid. The sound continued as the cauldron vanished into the mist. Starchaser and her Reavers ran back to their horses as armoured warriors emerged from the mist around the fallen statue. Crossbow bolts flashed through the air as the Reavers took to their heels.