[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  Rhianna looked comfortable enough, but Yvraine held on for dear life, her face pale and her knuckles white as she gripped Irenya’s reins in terror.

  “Do not hold on so tight, Mistress Hawkblade,” said Eldain. “Let Irenya walk the path. Don’t try and guide her.”

  “Easier said than done,” said Yvraine, her eyes flicking back and forth from the path to the drop at her side. “I told you, I prefer to trust my own two feet.”

  “You’re riding an Ellyrian steed, Mistress Hawkblade. She’d sooner let a druchii on her back than allow you to fall.”

  “I will take your word for it, but I have no head for heights.”

  “You will be fine,” said Eldain. “Just don’t look down.”

  Yvraine’s head snapped up and she glared at him for giving such elementary advice, but it kept her attention focused on him rather than the drop. The climb to the top of the cliffs took almost an hour, by which time the sun had risen and cast a long golden glow across the cliffs.

  Eldain’s steed crested the top of the cliffs and he ran a hand through his unbound hair as he stared in wonder at the land of Saphery. Though he had travelled here on numerous occasions, the magical wonder of this kingdom still left him speechless.

  Sweeping plains, as rich and welcoming as any in Ellyrion, stretched out in undulating waves, golden and green and reaching all the way to the ring of the Annulii Mountains in the distance. A rippling haze of magic hung over the land and glorious forests dotted the landscape, alive with birdsong and the lazy droning of insects. The air was heavy with the smell of magically ripened crops, which immediately conjured images within Eldain’s mind of endless summers and days spent collecting the fresh harvest.

  A temple of Ladrielle, its walls fashioned from the same white stone as the cliffs, rose from the edge of a field, its tumbled walls deliberately arranged so as to resemble a noble’s folly, its statues artfully arranged to give the impression that they harvested the sheaves of corn themselves.

  In the far distance, the White Tower dominated the landscape, reaching into the azure skies to such a height that its construction would have been impossible without the magic of the elves to raise its magnificence towards the heavens.

  “It looks as though we can just ride up to it,” said Eldain.

  “And we will,” said Yvraine, riding past him, her relief at having reached the top of the cliffs apparent. “Whether we get there or not is another matter entirely.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “She’s just teasing,” said Rhianna as she passed him.

  “For all our sakes, I hope so.”

  Without needing to be told, Lotharin set off after his fellow mounts and his longer strides soon caught up to Rhianna’s steed.

  “I still wonder why your father sent for us both,” he said as he rode alongside Rhianna.

  “So do I, but I just don’t know. Yvraine said it was an urgent matter.”

  “Do you have any idea why he would want us to come to the White Tower instead of his villa? Perhaps his divinations have shown him that we are in danger?”

  Rhianna shook her head, her eyes unconsciously darting towards the far south of Saphery, where the Silverfawn villa lay beyond an outthrust haunch of the mountains. Rhianna had grown to womanhood within its tall, fiery walls and the alliance between her family and that of Eldain’s had been sealed with bonds of friendship and loyalty stronger than ithilmar.

  Eldain had visited Rhianna’s home with his father and brother on several occasions, but the Tower of Hoeth had never been more than a faint glow over the horizon. To now lay his eyes upon such a magnificent symbol of elven mastery over the physical world was intoxicating.

  Rhianna’s father was a mage of great skill and renown, famed for his mastery of the magic of fire and celestial divination, but the energies required to create such potent architecture was beyond the ability of all but the Loremasters, and Eldain doubted even they could recreate such a feat of arcane engineering.

  “It is impossible to be sure with father,” said Rhianna. “But if we were in any danger surely he would have come to us instead of asking us to travel to him.”

  “Then perhaps his foretelling has revealed something.”

  “Possibly, but we will have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  “I suppose so,” said Eldain, frowning as he caught sight of movement in the waving crops.

  He looked closer, seeing a tiny, thin-limbed creature of glowing light weaving in and out of the crops, its every footstep leaving an imprint where a budding shoot of fresh corn pushed its way clear of the ground. The closer he looked, the more of the tiny creatures he saw, each one dancing to an unheard tune through the sheaves of corn.

  “They are uleishi,” said Rhianna, guessing what he was looking at. “Magical creatures who tend to the crops and ensure the harvest is bountiful.”

  “I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  “They mostly keep to Saphery,” said Rhianna. “It’s said that they were created as a side effect of the spells used in the creation of the White Tower. Isn’t that right, Yvraine?”

  Yvraine nodded and said, “Yes, they are mostly harmless little things, but they love mischief and it is common for them to steal into a house and bang pots or mess the place up if they are not happy with the care the crops are receiving.”

  “So why don’t the mages get rid of them? Surely they have the power.”

  “Probably,” agreed Yvraine, “but it’s said that if the uleishi were ever to leave Ulthuan then its fate is sealed.”

  “What do they do?” asked Eldain.

  “No one knows, but no one wants to take the chance of finding out what happens if they ever stop.”

  Eldain watched the glowing little sprites capering through the long grasses until they were lost from sight and fresh wonders demanded his attention.

  Rivers bearing water so clear it was almost invisible flowed through Saphery and though the sun was high and cast pleasant warmth over them, shining mists occasionally rose from the ground, gathering in miniature tornadoes that swept across the landscape, leaving no damage in their wake, but a glistening trail of moisture and crystal laughter.

  Herds of animals so strange he had not a name for them could be seen on the horizon with every turn of the head, creatures that must surely be of magical origin, but which attracted no undue attention from Rhianna and Yvraine. He saw more of the magical sprites, a pack of them following his course for several miles, darting between Lotharin’s legs until they grew bored with the lack of sport and vanished in a cloud of giggling light.

  As they crossed one of the wide, shallow rivers that wound sedately from the Annulii to the Inner Sea, Eldain caught sight of a commotion upstream and watched as a host of translucent, blue-skinned nymphs with hair of foaming spume cavorted in the water, splashing and teasing one another. Realising they were observed, the nymphs disappeared beneath the surface of the river and Eldain saw them racing downstream towards him, their giggling features alive with amorous mischief.

  He urged Lotharin from the water as the nymphs passed behind him and their playful laughter carried on downriver.

  “Is everything in this land magic?” he said to himself.

  As though in answer to that very question, a chill wind stole upon him and he blinked as a glittering phalanx of ghostly Silver Helms rose up from the ground, sunlight reflecting blindingly from the polished plates of their ithiltaen helms. If Rhianna or Yvraine saw them too, they gave no sign and though these wraiths appeared to have no hostile intent, Eldain found their presence far from reassuring.

  “Who are these warriors?” whispered Eldain. Each time he attempted to focus on one of the silent riders, the warrior would vanish, as ephemeral as morning mist, only to reappear moments later.

  “We ride along one of the lines of power,” was Rhianna’s explanation for this spectral army’s presence and Eldain tried to be reassured by that. Eldain had lived all his life in Ellyrion and
though it too was bathed in eternal summer and power flowed through the land, it was a power that was part of the natural cycle of things and which did not manifest itself in such overt, disturbing ways.

  Well, disturbing to him at least.

  At last it seemed that the route they must travel to the White Tower differed from the course of the long dead Silver Helms and they faded from sight without a sound. Though their presence had been unsettling at first, Eldain felt a strange reassurance in the knowledge of their existence. He had no doubt that should he have intended any harm to Saphery, then the wrath of these spirits would have been turned upon him without mercy.

  He bade the silent warriors a wordless farewell and turned his attention to the looming shape of the White Tower ahead of them.

  By the position of the sun, Eldain judged that they had been travelling for at least four hours, yet the tower appeared no nearer. In fact it seemed farther away if anything.

  Perhaps the magic of Saphery was distorting his perceptions or perhaps the sheer size of the tower was creating an optical illusion of distance.

  The three riders journeyed in companionable silence, allowing the quiet of Saphery to lull them into the peaceful rhythm of contented travellers. Eldain felt his eyes grow heavy and blinked rapidly as he felt the gentle brush of a presence within his mind. The touch was not invasive and, curiously, he felt no threat or alarm at its arrival.

  He sensed a familiarity in the touch, as though whatever power seeped into his mind was that of a friend, an old and trusted companion with whom uncounted dangers had been faced, adventures shared and terrors overcome.

  Eldain looked over to Rhianna and saw the same slack smile on her face as he was sure was upon his. Yvraine alone looked untouched by whatever was occurring, her stoic, sharp features concentrating on the tower ahead…

  With a start, Eldain realised he could no longer see the tower in the distance.

  He spun in the saddle, but no matter which direction he looked, all he could see were the verdant fields of Saphery, dust devils of corn ears billowing above the fields of gold. He looked up towards the sun, but it was directly above him and no shadows were cast to give him an idea of which direction they rode.

  Soaring white peaks rose up on every horizon, as though they were trapped within a great plain surrounded by a ring of mountains, but a distant part of Eldain’s mind knew that such a thing was impossible…

  Though he could feel the reassuring sway of his horse beneath him and knew that it was as surefooted a mount as any rider could wish for, Eldain wondered where it was taking him, for he could see no landmarks and no sign of the Tower of Hoeth.

  The Tower of Hoeth…

  Was this the tower’s defences rising up to ensnare him?

  “Yvraine?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Yvraine, guessing his question before it was even asked. “The tower has sensed our desire to approach and is judging our intent.”

  Panic began to rise in Eldain’s chest, but even as it grew, he felt the soothing touch of the presence within his mind. Now knowing what it was, he relaxed into its embrace and allowed it to roam freely within his skull, the contentment and peace that had come to him over the last week or so of travel overshadowing all other thoughts and memories.

  Eldain smiled as he felt the presence withdraw from him and his vision swam as illusions he had not previously been aware of faded from his eyes and the reality of Saphery arose once again.

  Like a sleeper gradually realising that he has woken in a strange place, Eldain looked about himself as though seeing his surroundings for the first time.

  The White Tower loomed large in his vision, its colossal verticality staggering now that he saw it without the camouflage of illusions. Though it was still a mile or so away, Eldain could now make out details upon its white walls: arched windows, crimson banners and golden, rune-etched carvings that wove their way up the entire length of the tower.

  But something closer than the tower captured his attention more fully…

  A castle of white and gold that floated in the air above them.

  The most magnificent structures Caelir could remember having seen before now were the island castles of Tor Elyr and the towering statues of the Phoenix King and Everqueen in Lothern, but even their soaring majesty had paled at the sight of the home of the Loremasters. A millennium had passed between the breaking of the ground and its completion over two thousand years ago and the idea of a single structure taking so long to complete had seemed ludicrous to Caelir when he had seen the tower from the mountains.

  But within moments of their arrival at the tower, he appreciated that it had in fact been a mighty achievement to raise such a heartbreakingly wondrous creation in so short a span of time. Craftsmen had laboured for centuries to create the intricate carvings that ran from the tower’s base to its far distant spire and the magic employed in its creation imbued the tower with strength far greater than that of stone and mortar.

  The Tower of Hoeth sat within a sweeping emerald forest, rising up from a colossal crag of shimmering black rock. Flocks of white birds circled the tower’s topmost spire and countless waterfalls plunged from the black rock to foaming white pools arranged in tumbling tiers at its base.

  The air was spliced with the colours of a million rainbows and Caelir could not remember a more perfect sight.

  He and Kyrielle rode side by side, having delighted in the wonders of Saphery as they rode from the mountains to the tower. Over the course of their short journey through the tower’s magical wards, Caelir had seen many unexpected, incredible things and many more that conformed exactly to his expectations of a land steeped in magic: a flying castle that drifted overhead, swirling troupes of wind-borne dancers and spectral dragons riding on streamers of light.

  Though each sight was astonishing and filled him with wonder, he could not shake the nagging feeling that he had seen such sights before and that he had visited this land in the past.

  Anurion flew high above, the outstretched wings of his pegasus throwing a cruciform shadow upon the earth, and their guards formed a ring of silver blades around them.

  Through all the sights they had seen, he had expected a bewildering array of illusions and magical defences, but had seen nothing that might have led him to believe the tower was defended at all.

  Kyrielle had laughed when he had told her this, reassuring him that the tower’s wards had clearly judged him to be a seeker of knowledge and permitted his passage.

  Caelir looked up as a shadow passed over them and Anurion’s pegasus landed in a flurry of scattered leaves before the edge of the forest. A crackling nimbus of power played over the mage and his mount, rippling breaths of magic fluttering his robes and slipping through his steed’s mane like an invisible hand.

  Anurion spoke quickly to his warriors and dismissed them with a gesture. As one, the armoured riders dismounted and began forming an impromptu camp. Clearly they were not to accompany them towards the tower.

  The archmage turned to Caelir and said, “Loremaster Teclis is expecting us, boy. We should not keep him waiting. Hurry your pace.”

  In all the times Caelir had spoken to Anurion before now, he had found the mage, by turns, bizarre and eccentric, short tempered and cantankerous, but never frightening. That now changed as the power gathered at the White Tower surged through Anurion’s veins.

  “Of course,” said Caelir.

  Anurion turned his pegasus without another word and led them into the trees, the leaves and branches of which shivered though there was no wind to stir them. The trees pulsed with the energy of living things empowered beyond their natural growth cycles and Caelir could feel the pleasure Anurion and Kyrielle took in being surrounded by such fecundity.

  A sudden caw made Caelir look up and he smiled as the birds that circled the tower now descended towards the forest in a great host. White-feathered choristers perched on every tree branch to welcome the archmage with song and gave the forest a gloriously festive
aspect.

  Their route climbed through the forest, passing numerous streams and wondrous groves where Sword Masters—alone and in groups—trained with their great blades, sparring, performing incredible feats of balance or meditating while spinning their swords around them with a speed Caelir could never hope to match.

  Each warrior broke from his or her routine as Anurion passed, bowing in respect before acknowledging Caelir and Kyrielle’s presence.

  “Your father is well known here,” he said.

  “He is indeed, though he does not travel to the White Tower often.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “You’ve seen his villa, remember? My father so loves to tinker and create, but there are those who think his work frivolous. Inevitably, father will get into an argument and leave, swearing never to return.”

  Caelir could well imagine the temper of Anurion the Green getting the better of him, but shuddered to think of the consequences of arguments between those who wielded the awesome power of magic.

  At last their course brought them to the summit of the black rock and Anurion climbed from the back of his pegasus and indicated that they do likewise. Caelir slid from the back of his horse and helped Kyrielle from hers as Anurion waited for them to join him at the base of the tower.

  Caelir and Kyrielle approached the fabulous structure, their gaze inexorably drawn up the carved length of the tower. The pale stone utilised in its construction was suffused with incredible power and Caelir could feel the energies coursing beneath his feet and into the tower.

  He had experienced a similar sensation at the foot of Eltharion’s tower, but, as magnificent as was the warden’s demesne, it could not compare to the sheer power and dominance of the Loremasters’ domain.

  “Come on, come on,” said Anurion, moving between them and marching them towards the tower.

  “How do we get in?” asked Caelir. “There is no door.”