[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  “I am sure we are quite safe,” she said, abandoning her position and rising to her feet in a smooth motion. For all his misgivings about her youth and inexperience, Eldain could not help but be impressed by her lithe grace and poise.

  “You have made this crossing once before, so do you have any idea where we are?”

  “I think so,” she said, pointing to a smudge of brown and green on the northern horizon.

  “What’s that?” said Eldain, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Is that the coast of Avelorn? I didn’t think we would come this far north.”

  “We haven’t,” said Yvraine. “That’s the island of the Earth Mother.”

  “The Gaen Vale?”

  “Yes, a long and beautiful valley of wild flowers, apple trees and fresh mountain springs. It is a place of beauty and growth, where every elf maid is expected to visit at least once in her life.”

  “Have you?”

  “No,” said Yvraine. “I have not yet had the honour of setting foot on her blessed soil, but I know that one day soon I shall visit the great cavern temple of the Mother Goddess and hear the words of her oracle.”

  “It sounds like a beautiful place.”

  “I am told it is, but, sadly, it is a beauty you will never know, for no males are permitted within the valley on pain of death.”

  “So I have heard. Why does the Mother Goddess not allow the presence of males?”

  “Birth and renewal,” said Yvraine, “are the province of the female. The life giving cycle of the world and the rhythms of nature are secrets denied to males, whose gift to the world is destruction and death.”

  “That is a harsh assessment,” said Eldain.

  “Prove me wrong,” she said, and Eldain had no answer for her.

  “Rhianna was to travel to the Gaen Vale,” he said, watching as the island vanished over the horizon as the captain called out more orders and the ship angled its course to starboard.

  “Why did she not?”

  “I would prefer not to speak of it,” said Eldain, once again picturing Caelir’s face. Rhianna had planned to travel to the Gaen Vale not long after she and Caelir were to be wed, but his death had put paid to such plans. After her wedding to Eldain, the subject had never come up and he wondered why she had never again spoken of travelling to the temple of the Earth Mother.

  He turned away from Yvraine, his thoughts soured, and walked towards the vessel’s prow without another word. He nodded respectfully at the crew and passed the foresail, its silken fabric rippling in the fresh wind that propelled them across the sea.

  Eldain watched Captain Bellaeir nod to himself as they passed the last of the rocky spikes and tiny atolls that dotted this part of the Inner Sea. Sensing his scrutiny, the captain inclined his head towards Eldain as he leapt nimbly from the bowsprit.

  “How long before we reach Saphery?” said Eldain.

  “Hard to say, my lord. The sea around here is unpredictable,” said Bellaeir.

  “In what way?”

  Bellaeir gave him a sidelong glance as though he were afraid he was being mocked, but decided he was not and said, “We’ve been at sea for four days, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, given fair seas and a trim wind, I’d expect to make Saphery in maybe another four, but out here… that’s not how things work. You know that, don’t you? You cannot tell me that you haven’t felt the pull of the island…”

  “I have felt… something, yes,” said Eldain.

  “The seas have never been the same since the invasion of the fat Goblin King,” spat Bellaeir and Eldain felt his own bitterness rise at the mention of the goblin invasion that had laid waste to the eastern kingdom of Yvresse.

  “Grom…”

  Though Eltharion of Tor Yvresse had eventually defeated the Goblin King, a great many of the ancient watchstones that bound the mighty forces that kept Ulthuan safe had been toppled by the goblins’ unthinking vandalism, and the cataclysmic forces unleashed had been felt as far away as Ellyrion.

  “Indeed, though do not speak his name aloud, for the echoes of the past still cling to the ocean,” said Bellaeir. “The Sea of Dreams is now a place of ghosts and evil memory, for the magic that once kept us safe fades and the terror of the past lives again in our dreams.”

  Eldain said nothing as the captain touched the Eye of Isha pendant around his neck and made his way back to the steersman. He knew what the captain spoke of, for he too had felt the unnatural sensation of time slipping away from him, and the brooding shadow of ancient things pressing in on his thoughts.

  How long they had truly been at sea and how long the remainder of their journey would take was a question not even the most experienced captain could provide an answer to. The passing of days and nights seemed to have no bearing on the senses here and it took an effort of will to even feel the motion of time, for their course was taking them close to one of the most mysterious places of Ulthuan.

  The Isle of the Dead.

  Eldain fought the urge to cast his gaze southwards, but the allure of the powerful magic was impossible to resist. Mist gathered at the horizon, lit from within by unearthly lights that glittered and flitted like corpse candles. Within the mist a shadow gathered, a dark outline of a forgotten land with a deathly aura that seemed to reach out and take his soul in a grip of ice.

  He found his steps taking him towards the gunwale and he gripped the sides of the ship as a great weight of legend welled up within him, as though the island sought to remind him of the tragedy that had seen it sundered from the world.

  In ages past, the island had been a place of great power, a lodestone of magical energies that drew the greatest mages of Ulthuan to its shores that they might bask in its power.

  But at the dawning of the world, the Isle of the Dead had become much more than this, it had become a place of desperate hope, a place where the world had been saved and the fate of the elves sealed.

  In the time of Aenarion, the first Phoenix King of Ulthuan, the gods of Chaos had walked the earth and fought to claim the world as their prize. Hordes of daemons and foul beasts of Chaos had destroyed all before them and the horrific followers of the Ruinous Powers had finally besieged Ulthuan. Aenarion had led his people in battle for decades to keep his lands safe, but even he could not defeat a foe that was constantly reinvigorated by the monstrously powerful magical currents surging across the face of the world from the ruptured Chaos portal in the far north. Thousands of elves died in battle, but for each twisted daemon they slew, a host of diabolical enemies arose to fight anew, and doomsayers wailed that the End Times were upon the world.

  Eldain remembered his father telling him of Caledor Dragontamer, Aenarion’s great companion and greatest of the high mages of old, and how he had conceived of a means by which the hordes of Chaos might be denied their power. In defiance of Aenarion’s wishes, Caledor gathered a great convocation of mages upon the Isle of the Dead and a spell of great power was begun, a spell to create a mighty vortex that would drain the magic from the world. Though the mightiest daemons of Chaos sought to thwart Caledor, Aenarion fought them with the Sword of Khaine, the mightiest weapon in all the world, and held them at bay long enough for Caledor’s mages to complete their spell…

  Great was the destruction wrought by its completion: oceans toppled and lands sunk beneath the waves as the mages’ spell took effect. Death and destruction followed in its wake, but the mages of old had triumphed, drawing the excess magic of the world to Ulthuan and denying the daemons of Chaos its sustaining power.

  Like fishes stranded on dry land, the daemons were without the means to remain in the mortal world and the mortally wounded Aenarion was able to lead his warriors to victory, though he was soon to pass from the ages of the world.

  Though the spell had saved Ulthuan, it was to have terrible consequences for Caledor and his mages, who were trapped forever on the Isle of the Dead.

  Eldain shivered as he remembered these stories from his youth,
stirring tales of sacrifice and heroism that had been told down the ages since the time of the first Phoenix Kings. None now travelled to the Isle of the Dead, for the titanic energies unleashed by Caledor had destroyed time itself there and left it adrift within the currents of the world, forever unseen and unknowable.

  It was a place of ghosts and memory, legend and sorrow.

  He felt a hand slide into his and he smiled as Rhianna appeared at his side, following his stare out into the haunted mists at the edges of the Isle of the Dead.

  “They say that if you were able to reach the Isle of the Dead you would still see the mages of old, caught like flies in amber as they chant the ancient spells that preserve the balance of the world,” said Rhianna.

  Eldain shivered at the thought, overwhelmed at the idea of elves trapped forever in time and bound by ancient duty to eternally preserve a world of men that had no knowledge of them and no understanding of the awesome sacrifice that had been made in its name.

  “Why would you ever want to go to the Isle of the Dead?”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Rhianna. “I’m just saying what you would see if you did.”

  “I do not like passing so close to such a place,” said Eldain. “I feel a terrible shadow envelop my soul at the very mention of its name.”

  “The most powerful magic ever conceived was unleashed here,” said Rhianna. “The sea and the air have long memories. They know what happened and they retain the knowledge of the debt we owe to those who saved our world. You can feel it with every breath you take.”

  “And you?” said Eldain, well aware that her magical senses were far superior to his.

  Rhianna bowed her head and Eldain was surprised to see tears glistening on her cheeks. He released her hand and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “I can still feel their presence,” she said. “I can feel the sadness all around me. The mages knew that Caledor summoned them to their doom, but they went anyway. Even as they chanted the words of the spell to create the vortex, they could feel their deaths and knew that they would be ripped from time and trapped for all eternity. I can feel it inside me and I know that doom also.”

  Eldain pulled her tight and said, “There is no doom upon you, Rhianna. While I draw breath, I give you my oath that I will let nothing happen to you.”

  “I know you won’t, but some things are stronger than oaths.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like fate,” said Rhianna, staring into the shadow-haunted mists of the Isle of the Dead.

  The rustle of the softest breeze stirred the leaves above Daroir’s head, its balmy fragrances helping to soothe his fears of what was to happen here. He sat cross-legged on the warm grass, naked but for a plain loincloth and with the palms of his hands pressed to the ground. The feel of the earth beneath him and the sense of peace in this part of Anurion’s palace flowed through him, as though the land of Ulthuan sought to prepare him.

  He sat in the centre of a clearing (or a room, it was sometimes hard to tell the difference in Anurion’s palace) that was as close to the ideal of harmony as Daroir could ever have imagined. Statues of elven gods ringed the edge of the clearing—Asuryan, Isha, Vaul, Loec, Kurnous and Morai-heg. Each was rendered in silver and gold, worked into the landscape with such skill that they appeared as hidden voyeurs rather than adornments.

  Kyrielle sat next to him, her face lined with concern. She held a silver goblet worked with precious stones and a silver ewer filled with an aromatic liquid that steamed gently sat beside her.

  “You are sure you want to go through with this?” she said.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “What I told your father was the truth. Without my memories I am nothing. What kind of a life is that?”

  “But if something should go wrong… My father said that you might lose even the few memories you have now? Is a past life you remember nothing about worth that risk?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “But what if it is just pain that awaits you? What if it was you who used magic to bury those memories? Did you consider that?”

  Daroir reached up to stroke her cheek, the silver pledge ring glinting on his finger. “That may be the case, but if it is so, then I need to stop running and face the past. But if it was not then I need to reclaim my past to undo the wrong done to me.”

  He smiled and said, “I will be fine. I promise you.”

  “And if you get your memories back… what about me? Will you forget me?”

  “No, Kyrielle, I will not,” he said. “You saved my life and no one could forget such a debt.”

  She nodded and Daroir looked up as Anurion the Green entered the clearing in which they sat. The archmage was clad in a shimmering green robe tied at the waist with a golden belt and bore a sea-green pendant around his neck that shone with a magical inner light. His soft features were hardened and his hair pulled back tightly over his head. He bore a long sapling of slender, dead wood, the furthest reaches of its twig-like branches bare of leaves or growths.

  The archmage approached him slowly, his eyes dancing with magic and Daroir knew that the mage had been preparing himself for this since the previous night. A crackling nimbus of power played about Anurion’s head and for the first time, Daroir felt the touch of unease flutter in his stomach.

  Was he ready to risk an absence of memory? If Anurion was correct and the powers binding his recollections into an impenetrable fog were too strong, what would be left of him afterwards… a drooling simpleton? An adult with no more capacity for reason than a newborn? The thought terrified him, but then the alternative was no better and his resolve hardened once more.

  “Are you ready?” said Anurion, his voice sonorous with power.

  Daroir nodded.

  “Say the words,” said Anurion.

  “I am ready.”

  “There can be no turning back once we begin,” said the mage. “It will be painful for you and you may see things you would wish you had not, but if we are to succeed, then you must be able to bear such sights. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” said Daroir, hoping he had the strength to see this through.

  Anurion nodded and lowered himself to the ground before him. He placed the sapling between them and the earth opened up to receive it. Thin roots snaked from the base of the sapling, twisting and worming their way into the dark earth.

  “Give me your hands,” said Anurion. “And close your eyes.”

  Daroir did as he was bid, placing his hands in those of the mage and pressing his eyes tightly shut. Anurion pulled his hands towards the sapling and wove both their fingers along its length.

  “As the branch was once dead, so too are your memories,” said the mage. “But as the power of creation flows through it once more, a measure of the new blooming life will pass into you and I will use that energy for growth to bring your memories back into the light.”

  Daroir nodded without opening his eyes and said, “I understand. I am ready.”

  They sat in silence for a measure of time that Daroir measured in the beats of his heart and just as he wondered when Anurion was going to begin, he felt a precious, fleeting sense of things moving at a speed almost too slow to be noticed.

  The ground beneath him grew warm, as though a powerful current of energy moved through it, drawn to this place by Anurion’s magic. A wondrous sense of peace reached up from the ground to envelop him and the harmonies of nature suffused his entire body, spreading calming waves of contentment through him.

  Was this the power of creation at work?

  He could feel the heartbeat of the world, a glacially slow pulse that began in the centre of everything and reached out to touch every living thing, whether it knew it or not. Tendrils of white power reached up from the depths of somewhere incalculably old, the faintest wisps of its beauty brushing against the new-formed roots of the sapling.

  Daroir wept as he saw the starved roots flourish at the touch of this bounteous, healing magic, cracked wood becomin
g green and vibrant, dried sap running like honey along the veins of the dead sapling.

  Lines of power intersected here in this clearing and it was no accident that Anurion had sited his palace here. Daroir now felt the essence of Ulthuan, the titanic energies that sustained it and kept it safe from harm. To be near such power was intoxicating, and as it flowed into his hands sudden terror seized him at the thought of touching such colossal, elemental magic.

  He wanted to pull away, but Anurion’s warning that this ritual, once begun, could not be stopped returned to him and he summoned all his courage to hold on.

  The energy flowed along his arms and he could feel the lethargy and aches that had plagued him since his awakening vanish, washed away in the healing balms of the world. It reached into him, filling his chest with such powerful forces that he gasped in astonishment as he struggled for breath.

  “Hold true, boy!” said Anurion, his voice sounding as though it came from across an impossibly distant gulf of space and time. He struggled to retain his focus as the white light filled his body and reached up his chest, flowed into his neck and onwards into his head.

  “Now we begin,” said Anurion.

  Daroir gasped as the scent of the ocean filled his nostrils and his senses told him that his lungs were filling with water. He fought for calm as he saw the heaving expanse of dark, mist-shrouded water all around him.

  “No!” he cried out in panic, but strong hands held him firm.

  “You are safe!” said a strong voice. “Where are you?”

  “I am in the sea, I am drowning!”

  “No, you are not,” said the voice and the name Anurion leapt to the forefront of his mind as he fought down the impulse to thrash his arms and kick his legs. The scent of the trees and plants around him reasserted themselves and though he could feel the water around him, he knew it was not real.

  He fought to control his breathing, letting the vision of his memory carry him onwards.