[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  “I can see the ocean,” said Anurion. “This is a memory you already have. We must go further. Think, boy! Think back!”

  Daroir let the currents of his memory carry him onwards, the deepest depths of his mind dredged for meaning and recall. Images flashed across the shallows of memory, cold faces with cruel eyes shrouded in shadow, rough hands holding him fast as he wept at being hurled deliberately into the sea.

  No sooner had he tried to focus on the image than it sank from sight and he cried out in frustration.

  “Let the new life take root, boy,” said Anurion, the effort of holding the magic in check telling in the tremor of his voice. “Do not force it, let it come naturally.”

  As much as he tried to take heed of the mage’s words, Daroir found it increasingly difficult not to struggle for meaning in the morass of images that danced just out of reach and meaning. A grey mare galloped past as the sea receded and he let out an anguished cry of recognition. He knew this horse, it… it had…

  Aedaris…

  He knew he should know this name, but its meaning eluded him and as the horse galloped away he saw that it ran free and joyous across a swathe of corn-ripened fields at the foot of a great range of white mountains. He knew this land and his heart swelled with love for… his home?

  He tensed as he saw a dark shadow arise to envelop the landscape, a spreading shadow from the west that slowly passed over the fields and forests, turning them to ash as it went. Ancient malice and centuries of bitterness poisoned the rivers and rendered the land barren and he could do nothing to prevent it.

  “This is no memory,” said Anurion and Daroir knew he was right.

  “No,” he said, “it is a warning.”

  “It is indeed, boy, but of what?”

  Daroir struggled to answer, but felt his inner vision carried off once more before he could answer. The tone of this memory changed to one of pain and he twisted in Anurion’s grip, a fire building in his shoulder and hip. Though he could still feel the soft ground beneath him, hot, sharp pain stabbed into him and he looked down to see the spectral outline of dark crossbow bolts protruding from his body.

  Blood ran from his body and he heard a soft voice whisper in his ear…

  Goodbye, Caelir…

  As though a pitcher of freezing water had been upended over him, his head snapped up and his hands tore free of Anurion’s with a cry of a drowning man desperate for air.

  “No!” he cried, seeing a face so like his own drift before him even as it vanished into the mists of his memories.

  The images of his devastated homeland and the crossbow bolts faded from his mind as the power that flowed through him from the sapling was withdrawn. He collapsed like a boneless fish, his back thumping onto the soft grass and his eyes misting with tears of anguish, betrayal and anger.

  The pain of the phantom wounds was still strong and he reached down to place his hands where the bolts had pierced him. The skin there was unbroken, though his body was bathed in sweat and his flesh felt hot to the touch.

  He felt a hand on his forehead and looked up to see Kyrielle’s face above him, her eyes speaking eloquently of her worry. Her skin was cool and he felt his strength flood back into his body as the remembered pain of his wounds faded into memory.

  “Are you all right?” she said. “Do you remember me?”

  He nodded slowly, pushing himself upright as fresh vigour filled his limbs like the rush of having just ridden a fine Ellyrion steed across the steppes. He smiled to himself as he realised that he remembered galloping hard with a grey mare beneath him and the wind in his hair.

  “Well?” said Anurion and he looked across at the mage, not surprised to see a full-grown tree in the centre of the clearing where once had stood a dead sapling. “Has your memory returned?”

  Kyrielle’s father’s face was ashen, his eyes listless and hollow. The pendant that had once shone with light now lay in fragments amid the roots of the tree and the crackle of magical energy hung in the air like the aftermath of a lightning strike.

  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure. I have images and parts of things that might be memory, but it’s disjointed and… there are things I know are memories of mine, but I can’t connect them.”

  “It is as I feared,” said Anurion. “Memory is more than simply the recall of events, it is these things connected by context and experience. Without this, they will remain like tales told to you by another. Vivid certainly, but without the connection to make them real they will never be anything more. My power has unlocked the doors to your memories, but it is not sufficient to force it open and allow that which will connect them to you to return.”

  He pushed himself upright, pleased at the lithe power and youthful energy he once again felt in his limbs.

  “I saw my homeland,” he said.

  “As did I,” said Anurion. “Ellyrion if I am not mistaken.”

  “Yes. And I saw it destroyed,” he said. “A creeping shadow of evil from the west swallowed it and brought about its ruin.”

  “Might that be the warning you felt you had to take to Teclis?” said Kyrielle.

  “I think it might be, yes.”

  Anurion pulled himself to his feet, using the tree that had grown between them for support. “Then to Teclis you must go. He is the greatest mage of Ulthuan and what I have begun, he will finish. You must journey to the White Tower of Hoeth and tell him what you have seen. An evil threat gathers against Ulthuan and we must unlock the rest of your memories to uncover the nature of that threat. Only Teclis or the Everqueen have the power to do that.”

  Kyrielle reached out to help her father as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  “Daroir,” she said. “Help me, he’s weak!”

  He reached out to take hold of Anurion’s arms and smiled suddenly.

  “That’s not my name,” he said. “I remember now…”

  “Then what is your name, boy?”

  “My name is Caelir,” he said.

  BOOK TWO

  Saphery

  CHAPTER SIX

  Threats

  Pazhek had never put his faith in omens, but as the sun set behind him, bathing the bleached white stone of the mountains in blood, he smiled in anticipation of the kill he was soon to make. Though the sun was now gone, the sky was still too light to move, the hateful brightness of the day preventing him from departing his hiding place below a tumbled rock that formed a natural overhang.

  He waited patiently for the light to drain from the great valley, allowing shadows to form and darkness to creep back into the world like a guilty secret. His fuliginous robes merged with the night until only the glint of malice in his eyes was visible.

  Satisfied that it was dark enough for his purposes, he slid from his place of concealment. He slithered over the top of the rock on his belly, careful to hug the edge of the valley and keep himself pressed flat. It had been fourteen nights since he had swum ashore from the magically shrouded Raven ship, moving under cover of darkness and never allowing impatience to force his pace.

  Such caution was essential; the slightest hint of his presence would spell his doom, for golden winged eagles watched from the skies and shadow-cloaked hunters stalked the mountains. These Shadow Warriors were the descendants of the Nagarythe and scions of the deadly Alith Anar, skilled hunters—the best the enemy had—but they were not the equal of one trained at the Temple of Khaine since birth to master the art of death.

  Pazhek moved with all the skill his race possessed, but even the most graceful dancer of Ulthuan had not the poise and liquid grace of the assassin. His black-clad form moved like a shadow, moving from perch to perch as though the mountains themselves reformed themselves to match his movements and hasten him on his way.

  A pair of short, stabbing swords were wrapped in cloth across his back and a curved dagger hung at his waist. These were not the assassin’s only weapons, for his entire body was a weapon, fists that could seek out an enemy’s vulnerable regions t
o incapacitate or kill with a single blow, feet that could shatter bones and an array of deadly poisons concealed within a number of small pouches on his belt.

  Pazhek had killed since he had been stolen away from his crib during the insane debaucheries of Death Night, raised by the dark beauties of the temple to learn the secrets of Khaine: the martial arts, the power of poisons, how to move without sound and to slip through the night unseen. The assassins were the agents of the Witch King, heartless killers who owned the darkness and slew his enemies without mercy.

  The night closed in around Pazhek and though the land of Ulthuan was alien to him and its air reeked of magic, he slipped effortlessly over the peaks towards his destination. His passage was maddeningly slow, but so skilful was it that even a scout standing within a yard of him would have been hard pressed to discover him.

  The night wore on, his shadowy form slipping through the rocks and crags of the mountains, his innate sense of spatial awareness telling him that he was almost where he needed to be. If the maps he had been shown in Naggarond were correct, it would be close to dawn when he reached his target.

  For another three hours, Pazhek ghosted through the high peaks of the mountains until he could see a dim glow rising behind the craggy horizon above him. He did not let the excitement of having arrived hurry his movements. Such a moment was when an inexperienced assassin could let the thrill of the moment overwhelm him into making a mistake, but Pazhek was too skilled and detached to allow himself to make such an elementary error.

  With as much patience and care as he had employed since his stealthy arrival on Ulthuan, Pazhek warily moved to the edge of the ridge above and found a cleft in the rock to peer through to avoid silhouetting himself against the skyline.

  A pale white glow filled a wide valley below him, the soon to rise sun already seeping over the eastern horizon with the first golden hints of its arrival. Stretching from one side of the valley to the other, a high wall of silver-white stone reared up to block the route through the mountains. High elf warriors manned the walls of this great fortress, gathering sunlight winking from hundreds of spear tips, swords and bows and glinting upon mail shirts and plates of ithilmar armour.

  But the most prominent feature of this mighty fortress was the jutting head of a great stone eagle that reared from the centre of the ramparts. The arc of its spread wings was cunningly fashioned into the structure of the wall to provide artfully curved bastions and its majesty gave the fortress its name.

  The Eagle Gate.

  Raised in the time of Caledor, the Eagle Gate was but one of the gateway fortresses built in the Annulii Mountains to defend the passes that led to the Inner Kingdoms. In the thousands of years since, not one of Caledor’s fortresses had fallen and each was garrisoned by some of the finest warriors of Ulthuan. A single gate of azure steel was the only way through the wall, but anything that dared approach this fastness would be pierced by a thousand arrows before they had covered half the distance between the turn in the road and the gate.

  Sculpted towers reared from the great wall, streaming blue pennants snapping from their finials and ringed with graceful parapets upon which sat fearsome war-machines. Pazhek knew only too well the carnage these machines could wreak, having seen such weapons hurling silver bolts the length of a lance that could punch through the heart of a dragon or sending withering hails of lighter, but no less deadly darts with terrifying rapidity.

  But a fortress was more than simply weapons and warriors; it had a living, beating heart that sustained it as surely as the strength of its garrison. Tear out that heart and the fortress would die.

  In the case of this fortress, Pazhek knew that the heart of the Eagle Gate was its commander, Cerion Goldwing.

  Using the long shadows of the imminent dawn, Pazhek made his final approach to the fortress with murder in his heart.

  The land of Yvresse was harsh and unforgiving, very different from the balmy, eternal summers of Ellyrion, though Caelir was forced to admit that the land had a rugged splendour that spoke to his adventurous soul of living in the wild and facing things head on. The folk of Yvresse were known as quiet, dignified souls touched with sadness, for their land had been ravaged by the coming of the Goblin King less than a century before.

  Though the land had suffered terribly at the hands of the goblins, it was a hardy realm and its rivers now flowed clear again and new forests hugged the soaring mountain peaks once more. Only the previous day they had crossed an icy river of crystal water across a shallow ford and Kyrielle had told him that this was the Peledor Ford where elven scouts had first engaged the Goblin King’s army.

  The river had been choked with goblin dead, and the water polluted for years to come with their foul blood. But the land of Ulthuan was strong and sustained by powerful, cleansing magic. What had once been a tainted, evil river now flowed strong and clear to the sea, the regenerative powers of the land having washed itself free of the invader’s taint.

  Here and there, they passed isolated watchtowers, but they encountered no other travellers, for Yvresse was a land of jagged rock and sheer cliffs and mist. Few dwelled here and though Kyrielle had told him that the scouts of Tor Yvresse would be abroad, he saw no sign of them.

  He and Kyrielle rode on the backs of fine steeds provided from the stables of Anurion’s villa, while Anurion himself rode a winged pegasus, the magnificent beast circling above them even now as it stretched its wings and Anurion surveyed the landscape ahead of them. Caelir had never seen such a magical creature, its grace, intelligence and beauty unlike anything he could have imagined. Even the famed steeds of his homeland could not compare to this exquisite mount.

  In addition to Kyrielle and Anurion, a dozen hand-picked guards rode with them, their armour bright and their long lances glittering in the sun.

  Kyrielle wore a long gown of pastel green, her auburn tresses unbound and falling to her waist. Caelir smiled at her and she returned the smile. He felt better than he had in days, the muscles of his limbs feeling powerful and young; the oppressive fog clouding his mind lessened now that he knew his name.

  Anurion had dressed for travel, with his billowing robes substituted for a practical tunic of pale green and a long cloak that appeared to be woven of autumnal leaves. He carried a staff of slender wood, its tip crowned by intertwined thornvines.

  In the time since Anurion had attempted to undo the magic that imprisoned his memory Caelir’s vigour and energy were restored and though he could remember no more than his name and homeland, he felt that it was simply a matter of time until he was restored.

  They had set off later that day, making their way southwards towards the city of Tor Yvresse and the route across the mountains.

  Caelir soaked up the dramatic scenery of Yvresse, basking in its wild majesty and periodically galloping off whenever they encountered a stretch of flat ground simply for the thrill of riding hard through an unknown land. The wind in his hair, the beat of hooves on the grass and the freedom that came of being at one with a steed was as close to a homecoming as he could have wished for.

  The horse he rode was a fine, snow-white beast of Saphery, its coat a shimmering dust of white and though no doubt a prince amongst steeds in its stable, it was nothing compared to the regal power, strength and agility of an Ellyrion mount.

  Kyrielle and the warriors would attempt to match his incredible feats of horsemanship, but none of them had been raised in a land where the young were taught to ride as soon as they could sit in the saddle.

  Whatever else he had forgotten, he had not lost his skill as a rider.

  Just being on a horse again lightened Caelir’s mood and he laughed as he urged his steed on to greater displays of skill.

  The shadows lengthened and a sombre mood came upon the company as they drew near the ruins of an ancient citadel built into the side of the mountains. Its once slender towers were now fallen to ruin, the great mansion at its centre gutted by fire. Once impregnable walls were shattered, its stones cast d
own and the great basalt causeway that led to its vine-choked gateway littered with fallen rubble.

  Fallen guardian statues lay toppled in the dry moat, their sightless eyes staring with forlorn anguish at what had become of their former home. Caelir thought the scene unbearably sad and felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

  He turned to Kyrielle and said, “What is this place? Why has it been left in such ruin?”

  It was Anurion who answered him, his voice heavy with emotion. “This is Athel Tamarha, once the keep of Lord Moranion and outpost of Tor Yvresse.”

  “What happened here? Was it the Goblin King?”

  Anurion nodded. “Yes. The goblins came ashore further north, at a place called Cairn Lotherl, but it did not take them long to find a target for their wrath. No one knows how the Goblin King heard of Tor Yvresse, but hear of it he did, and his army burned and destroyed all in its path as they sought to find it. Fields of magical crops unique to Yvresse were trampled beneath iron-shod feet, never to be seen again, and any settlements in the goblins’ path were razed to the ground. On their way south they found Athel Tamarha and, thinking it Tor Yvresse, they attacked.”

  Caelir urged his mount from the route they had been following and rode towards the cracked remains of the causeway. Understanding a measure of his sorrow, both Anurion and Kyrielle followed him, carefully directing the hooves of their steeds through the rubble.

  Caelir passed beneath the broken arch of the gateway, riding into the fire-blackened courtyard where the ghosts of the Goblin King’s invasion lingered. Splintered gates and doors hung on sagging hinges and everywhere he looked, Caelir could see the devastating fury of the goblin attack. Broken sword blades, snapped shafts of arrows and shattered shields lay strewn about, the detritus of war forgotten and abandoned.

  “They knew not what they did,” said Anurion, surveying the wreckage from the back of his pegasus. “When the goblins came, only boys and old men defended the walls of Athel Tamarha and they say that when Moranion saw the green horde from his tower he knew that his home was lost.”