Shrieks of pain echoed in the corridor as the purity of the magic burned their flesh and he fought against the pain of his wound as he doubled his efforts to press the door shut. The glowing blue orb of the warning beacon pulsed in readiness in front of him, but while the door remained unbarred, it might as well have been on Ulthuan for all the good it did him.
A gnarled hand of hard flesh hooked around the edge of the door, the bloody claws tearing across his chest.
Coriael flinched in pain and his weight on the door eased a fraction…
Arms corded with sinewy muscle forced their way through the wider gap, and with the extra leverage the door was hurled open. Coriael sprawled on the floor, wracked with pain, but knowing he had one last duty to perform before these depraved monsters killed him.
He crawled towards the warning beacon, but even as he reached for it a heavy weight pinned him to the ground as the winged monsters landed on him.
Coriael screamed as clawed hands tore into him.
His world ended in pain as fanged mouths fastened upon his flesh.
Moonlight spilled over the peaks of the Annulii, bathing the rocky headlands and sandy bays of northern Tiranoc in silver as the fullness of night drew its veil over the world. The shimmering haze Coriael Swiftheart had seen in the twilight faded and as the sea reflected the light of the moon, a vast fleet of ships emerged from the haze.
Sleek, dark-hulled Raven ships with hooked rams and black sails carried hundreds of dark elf warriors and great wooden longships with high dragon prows bore the warriors of Issyk Kul. Hundreds of ships sailed into a sheltered bay known as Carin Anroc that thrust inland at the border between Tiranoc and the Shadowlands.
With the watchtower of Tor Anroc neutralised, stealth and cunning were sacrificed for speed. Though the warning beacon had been silenced, it would not take long for the defenders of Ulthuan to become aware of the invaders in their midst.
The first dark elf ships slid up the shingled bay and armoured warriors leapt into the shallows. They rushed ashore, blades bared and their cruel eyes eager for bloodshed. Ship after ship slid up the beach and scores of warriors assembled before the whips and shouted orders of their leaders.
Cloaked warriors led dark steeds from the holds of their vessels and rode out to watch for any enemy scouts as phalanxes of warriors clad in long mail shirts—called dalakoi—and golden breastplates waded through the surf. These warriors bore the feared draich, a mighty executioner’s weapon, and a pall of dread came before them as they marched onto the beach.
Heavy hulled ships lowered ramps of thick timber and a host of dark armoured knights rode green skinned reptilian beasts onto the beach. Far larger than the mounts of their cloaked brethren, these scaly skinned creatures were muscular and vicious and their powerful jaws were filled with jagged fangs. The knights carried barbed lances that glittered in the moonlight and the thick, growling heads of their mounts swung back and forth as they tasted the air for blood.
Disassembled machines worked from gracefully curved spars of ebony and gold were lifted from the holds of other vessels, together with barrel-loads of deadly missiles—long bolts that more resembled heavy, iron lances and hundreds of smaller, lighter darts.
A black shape wheeled in the air high above the assembling army, a beast of darkness that bore the mistress of this host through the night. Its outward form resembled a powerful winged horse, and its sleek outline was like the essence of night bound into physical shape. Its burning, predatory eyes glowed red in the darkness and a jagged thrust of bone jutted from its skull.
Morathi straddled the night-hunting pegasus with her wicked lance held high for all to see. Against the blackness of her mount, her skin was like marble, smooth and pale and beautiful. A corslet of gleaming black leather and plate protected and exposed her flesh in equal measure and she was attended by a darkly glittering host of malevolent spirits that gathered about her in a cloak of woven mist.
Pledges of lust and adoration arose from the warriors below at the sight of her, but Morathi ignored them, soaring high on the magical energies blowing from the Annulii Mountains and smiling as she contemplated the undoing of her enemies.
Issyk Kul, her ally for the time being, landed his own ships further along from those of the Hag Sorceress, marching through the waters and onto the sand with his many bladed sword raised. Behind him a naked familiar led a towering steed with red flesh and heaving flanks that glistened with blood and exposed musculature. A silver saddle was sewn onto its back and its sapphire eyes blazed with ecstasy as the salt water bathed its exposed viscera in fire.
Morathi watched as Kul vaulted into the metal saddle of the fleshy steed and raised his sword high above his head. He threw back his head and issued a long, whooping howl as he swung his sword like a madman.
At this signal, scores of men dropped into the sea from the longboats. These were leather-tough men of the far Northern Wastes, their hard flesh sculpted by the rigours of battle and slaughter. Warriors in dark armour, furred cloaks and horned helms marched ashore, their curved swords and mighty axes hungry for slaughter and degradation in their god’s name.
Beasts with shaggy, horned heads loped alongside these warriors, their anatomies hugely muscled and furred by the fusion of man and beast. Snorting monsters with curling horns sprouting from their skulls bullied smaller, red furred beasts ahead of them with bellowed grunts and thumps of spiked clubs.
Great ramps were hurled from the sides of larger vessels and a dozen warriors clambered over the sides, each group hauling a chained abomination behind them.
Howling roars echoed through the night as huge, misshapen masses of flesh were dragged onto the land, their many gnashing mouths snapping shut at anything that came close. The beasts shambled forwards on grossly swollen and twisted limbs with weeping sores clustered in pockets of flab and sinew at the joints. Their bloated bodies were thick with heavy cartilage and clawed limbs, too many for any natural creature, and none possessed any obvious head or primary means of discerning the world around them.
Whatever manner of creatures they had once been, each was now a monster spawned by the mutating power of Chaos, little more than a terrifying living engine of destruction and slaughter. Other ships began disgorging yet more of these deformed monsters, horrifyingly distorted and warped creatures that defied understanding or description. Monstrous hulks of distended flesh, their bodies were horrors of thrashing claws, fused heads, elastic limbs and spurting tentacles.
It was impossible to know whether their hideous wails were of rage or pain, but whatever the reason for their ululations, the winds blowing from the sea carried them far inland.
Issyk Kul rode his loathsome steed along the length of the beach, howling like a rabid wolf as his army came ashore. His horse reared, like a great heroic statue of pink marble come to life, and the blood that ran down Kul’s arms from the barbed hilt of his sword was like oil in the moonlight.
Such silver radiance from the heavens was both a help and a hindrance, for though it made the night landing easier, it also made the many ships and hundreds of warriors easier to spot.
Time was of the essence and it was with cruel efficiency that the forces of Morathi and Issyk Kul pushed from the beaches and up the craggy slopes to the land of the elves.
The invasion of Ulthuan had begun.
* * *
This high above the Annulii, the winds were charged with magical energy, bearing the three eagles aloft with only the barest minimum of effort. Warm air from the Inner Kingdoms rose from the eastern flanks of the mountains and met the cold barrier of wind blowing inwards from the sea. Mingled with the waves of raw, powerful magic, the resultant thermals made racing through the skies an exhilarating experience, though the mighty birds of prey appeared to care little for the sensation.
The eagles flew abreast of one another, though the bird in the centre of their formation was clearly the mightiest of the three, his feathers a stunning mixture of gold and brown except for hi
s regal head, which was covered with feathers of purest white. This was Elasir, Lord of the Eagles, and greatest of his race.
His kind had soared the magical currents of the world before the rise of the race of men, and the Phoenix King himself knew the eagle’s proud countenance. Even the Loremasters of Saphery took heed when the eagles spoke.
Elasir angled his flight, dipping his left wing a fraction and descending as he followed the curve of the mountains. Together with his brothers, Aeris and Irian, eagles as regal and proud as he, Elasir flew southwards with powerful beats of his sweeping wings, anxious to return to the eyries around the Eagle Gate as soon as possible.
After slaying the druchii assassin, Elasir had flown north to Avelorn to take counsel from the birds and beasts of the forest realm, for their knowledge of hidden things was great. Elasir had told the counsel of the death of Cerion Goldwing and the doves had promised to carry the news of his passing throughout Ulthuan. Then the ravens had spoken of grim omens and the scarlet pheasants of the Everqueen had pronounced prophecies of great doom upon Ulthuan before urging Elasir to return home with all speed.
The sadness of Cerion Goldwing’s death still sat heavily upon Elasir and the slaying of his assassin had done little to ease it. Revenge was a motive beneath the Lord of the Eagles, but natural justice had been served by the druchii’s death and for that reason it had given him pleasure. The commander of the Eagle Gate had been a friend to his kind and had always displayed the proper respect their ancient lineage demanded.
Yes, Cerion Goldwing would be missed, for he had been a warrior of honour and humility.
A sudden shift in the currents of magic brought an acrid scent to the mighty eagle and Elasir cocked his head as he sensed a rank odour of hate carried on the wind.
Brothers, do you sense what I sense? asked Elasir, his words forming within their minds.
We do, they said in unison.
Druchii, added Aeris.
Corrupted ones, said Irian.
Elasir could taste the foulness of the air, knowing now that the birds of Avelorn had spoken true.
Come, brothers, we must know the nature of this threat and carry warning to the Asur.
And kill the corrupted, said Irian.
Yes, kill them. Tear their flesh and pluck out their eyes! cried Aeris.
Elasir felt the same hatred for these terrible foes as keenly as his brothers, but could already sense that the threat below was too great for them to defeat on their own. He dipped his wings and pulled them in close to his body as he swooped down through the air and angled his course westwards.
The Eagle Gate would have to wait.
Eloien Redcloak reined in his grey mare as she tossed her mane with unease, ears pressed flat against her skull. He knew his mount well enough to know that she had senses superior to his own and that if she believed something was amiss, she was usually right.
Something was abroad this night and he raised a fist to halt his patrol of ten Ellyrion horsemen, their exquisite skill the envy of all save the knights of the Silver Helms.
Steep fangs of stone rose around them and knifeback ridges of wind-eroded rock surrounded them. The moon was almost directly overhead and few shadows were cast, which would make spotting any movement easier, though the undulating terrain made it difficult to see much beyond a hundred feet or so. With a gentle pressure of his knees, he directed his mount forwards, her hooves making no sound as they traversed the stony ground.
He did not yet know the source of his steed’s unease, but lifted his bow from its leather sling and nocked an arrow to the string. His warriors followed his example and Eloien scanned the landscape around them, letting his own senses spread out into the night as he sought to pinpoint the source of his mount’s unease.
Further ahead, the ground rose up in a gentle slope before falling away sharply in a great cliff that dropped to the sea and he slid silently from his saddle. Eloien slithered forward on his stomach, not wishing to silhouette himself against the skyline, and peered through the scrubby grass at the cliff’s edge.
“Asuryan’s fire!” he hissed, shock overcoming his natural caution.
On the beaches far below, a fleet of invasion mustered, the coast thick with boats of a shallow enough draught to be drawn up the sand. Warriors in dark armour formed up into disciplined regiments on the beach and the breath hissed from him as he saw druchii banners raised alongside those of foolish humans who gave praise to the dark gods.
He slipped quietly back down the slope to where his reavers awaited him, their faces tense as they sought to read his expression. Without a word, he climbed back into the saddle and settled his cloak over his horse’s ramp.
Fallion Truespear, his clarion and closest friend said, “Well? What did you see?”
“Druchii,” said Eloien. “And corrupt men.”
“Druchii?” said Fallion. “Then let us take the fight to them, Eloien!”
He shook his head. “No, these are no mere raiders, this is an army of invasion.”
The awful nature of the threat spread through the troop of reavers and Eloien let it sink in for a moment before saying, “We ride for the Eagle Gate to take warning to its castellan.”
Fallion opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, an iron bolt flashed through the air and punched through the back of his helmet. The clarion toppled from the saddle and Eloien realised with sick horror that his mount’s unease had been at something far closer than the enemy warriors on the beach.
He spun his horse as a volley of crossbow bolts slashed from the darkness and unseen shadows detached from the rocks around them. Screams of elves and horses sounded as iron bolts hammered into them. A shaft buried itself in his horse’s neck and pitched him from the saddle as her legs buckled beneath her.
He leapt free of the dying beast and landed lightly on his feet with his bow drawn and an arrow ready to loose. A druchii shadow melted from the darkness and leapt towards him, a curved blade slashing for his groin.
Eloien let fly with his arrow and the attacker fell with a goose-feathered shaft buried in his throat. He dropped to one knee and loosed another shaft at a leaping figure that sprang from the rocks. The arrow punched low into the figure’s stomach and the warrior doubled up in mid-air before crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
He spun, searching for fresh targets and brought down another three of their attackers before a crossbow bolt ricocheted from the boulder beside him and slashed through his bowstring.
The clash of blades rang clear in the darkness and Eloien saw that his few remaining warriors would soon be overwhelmed. More than a dozen of the druchii—though it was hard to be sure, so seamlessly did they blend with the shades of night—still fought and at least five of his reavers were dead.
A hooded killer came at him with his blade bared and Eloien stepped to meet him, swinging the useless bowstave in a hard upward arc. The blow connected and as his attacker reeled, Eloien spun around him and drew his sword in one smooth motion. Silver ithilmar flashed and an arc of blood jetted from the druchii’s opened throat.
More bolts flashed and Eloien’s anger boiled within him as he heard the screams of horses. The druchii were targeting their mounts to prevent word of their landing from escaping.
Three more druchii killers ran towards him and Eloien relaxed into a fighting crouch, blade outwards and left arm cocked behind him. He swayed aside from the first attacker’s blow, spinning and chopping the hard edge of his palm against the druchii’s throat.
His foe collapsed, clutching his shattered windpipe as Eloien blocked the sweeping sword blade of his second attacker. A blade whistled over his head as he dropped to the ground and scythed his leg out in a wide arc.
The two druchii fell, their legs chopped out from under them. Eloien leapt forward, driving his sword through the chest of the first, but before he could turn to dispatch the second, searing pain exploded within him as a cold blade plunged into his back.
Eloien stagger
ed and fell forward onto one knee, bright stars of pain bursting before his eyes. He turned as blood poured down his back and managed to block the druchii’s next blow, but knew he could not block another. He raised his sword, the blade feeling as though weighted with iron bars. The sound of fighting diminished and he knew his warriors were dead.
Cruciform shadows flashed over the moonlit ground as he looked up into the faces of his killers. Perhaps a dozen of the cruel-eyed druchii remained standing, their blades bloody and their ivory skinned faces twisted with hatred.
He struggled to hold onto his sword as the hooded druchii that had stabbed him advanced slowly towards him, malicious intent writ large on his features.
A screeching cry ripped the darkness and to Eloien it sounded like salvation.
The druchii looked up in panic…
But before they could move, the eagles were amongst them.
Three died without knowing what had killed them, ripped in two by powerful claws or sheared to the bone by the snap of a powerful beak. Eloien laughed, despite the pain, as the great eagles tore through the druchii, killing with the swift economy of seasoned hunters.
The druchii scattered, but the eagles were too swift, tearing limbs from bodies or crushing skulls with massive beats of their wings. In the centre of the slaughter, Eloien saw a magnificent eagle with a golden-feathered body and a head of purest white.
Eloien had seen charging Silver Helms, the thunderous might of a host of Tiranoc Chariots and the glittering host of the Phoenix King’s army arrayed in all its glory, but he had never seen a sight more welcome or awesome as this mighty eagle as it slew the druchii.
Even as he formed the thought, he saw the warrior that had been on the verge of killing him level his ebony crossbow at the eagle.
“No!” cried Eloien.
With the last of his strength, he hurled his sword at the druchii, the point burying itself between his shoulder blades. The druchii screamed foully and dropped to his knees, clawing at the blade jutting from his back. He toppled and Eloien slumped onto his side, relieved beyond words that he had prevented the cloaked warrior from harming the eagle.
[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan Page 19
