[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  Dimly he thought he could hear the sound of hooves on rock and through his dimming eyes he saw a host of dark riders galloping towards the battle.

  He struggled to rise, but had no strength left and could only watch as the druchii riders drew near.

  Then Eloien gasped as he felt strong claws grip his body and lift him upwards.

  The ground fell away and cold wind rushed past his face as the angry cries of the druchii below faded with distance. Eloien looked up and saw the white-headed eagle as it bore him into the skies of Ulthuan.

  Rest, warrior, said a noble voice in his head. I have you now.

  Eloien closed his eyes as the eagles carried him to safety.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Memories

  In the aftermath of the battle around the Tower of Hoeth, Eldain found little time to process the fact of Caelir’s survival. With the re-establishment of the binding spells that channelled the magic of Saphery through the tower and into the wards, peace had once more settled on the land of magic.

  Fires still smouldered and dark scars cut through the forest where it had burned trees to the ground with its magical potency. The Sword Masters gathered the bodies of the slain and covered each warrior with their own bloodstained cloaks. Tears and songs of lament echoed through the violated forest as each new body was discovered and Eldain helped wherever he could.

  He kept himself busy to avoid lingering on what he had seen, unable to believe that his younger brother was in fact alive. Together, he and Yvraine carried the body of a Sword Master towards the tower while Rhianna sat at the edge of the forest where Caelir had vanished. Her head was bowed and Eldain could not begin to imagine what she was feeling.

  “You should go to her,” said Yvraine.

  “And say what?” demanded Eldain.

  “You do not need to say anything.”

  He nodded and helped her lay the body they carried next to the others.

  A chill entered Eldain’s soul as he appreciated the true cost of the battle.

  So many dead…

  Row upon row of dead Sword Masters and mages, so many it was inconceivable. The Sword Masters were amongst the greatest warriors of Ulthuan and to see so many of them dead shocked Eldain to his very core.

  “Excuse me,” he said and turned away, making his way towards Rhianna, his steps leaden.

  His wife’s outline seemed shrunken, as though part of her had fled on the back of Lotharin with Caelir. He wondered if Caelir’s choice of steed had been deliberate or was it simply that the fates had decided to mock Eldain by having his brother escape on the back of his betrayer’s horse?

  He knelt beside her and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Rhianna?”

  “He is alive, Eldain,” she said without turning. “How can that be?”

  “I do not know,” replied Eldain, unsure of what answer she sought.

  She turned to face him and he saw tears in her eyes.

  “You told me he was dead, Eldain,” she said. He searched for any accusation in her tone, but found none, simply a need for answers. Answers he could not give.

  He knew he had to speak and said, “I… I thought he was. It happened so fast. We rode out of Clar Karond and his horse was killed beneath him. I rode back for him, but he was hit by druchii crossbow bolts and he fell.”

  “But did you see him die?”

  Eldain shook his head and closed his eyes, reliving that bloody night as they had charged through the dockyards of Clar Karond and burned scores of druchii ships at their moorings. Flames clawed at the sky and smoke blotted out the moon as fire raced through the docks. He remembered Caelir’s hand reaching up to him, the glint of firelight on the pledge ring Rhianna had given him.

  “The druchii were everywhere,” he said. “I saw Caelir fall with druchii bolts in him. I wanted to go to him, but if I had stayed they would have killed me also.”

  Rhianna heard the pain in his voice and the haunted memories of that night. She reached up to take his hand in hers and the force of the guilt that rose in him made him want to snatch it away from her.

  For the grief he saw in her eyes was not just for herself; it included him.

  An overwhelming urge to confess his crime arose within him, but he resisted the urge to tell her the truth. As much as the guilt weighed heavily upon him, he still desired what his betrayal had won him and he hated himself for such weakness.

  He had not ridden back for Caelir, but had abandoned him to the druchii…

  He had as good as murdered Caelir to win back the woman he loved.

  The woman his brother had stolen from him.

  Such self-deceit had kept the worst of the guilt at bay, but confronted with the reality of his crime he found he could not justify what he had done, no matter how many times he told himself that he had acted out of love.

  He looked up as he heard footsteps approach, half expecting to see Caelir coming towards him to claim his vengeance with a bared blade.

  Instead he saw a tall mage with long golden hair bound by a silver circlet inset with a gem at the forehead. His robes were a cobalt blue and he wore a wide belt of gold and gems at his waist. Behind the mage stood Yvraine, her greatsword once again sheathed over her back.

  Eldain nodded in recognition and rose to his feet before the mage.

  “It gladdens my heart to see you, Eldain,” said the mage.

  He bowed and said, “You honour me, Master Silverfawn.”

  The mage turned to Rhianna as she rose to her feet and fresh tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Father,” said Rhianna.

  Once clear of the forest, Caelir pushed hard for the north, aware that even now there might be pursuers hunting him. After the initial mad dash of escape, he had taken more care to disguise his route, but there was little need; the black steed he rode was as surefooted and eager as any he could remember riding and left virtually no sign of their passing.

  His path took him through the rocky lowlands of the Annulii foothills, along narrow paths and craggy defiles shaggy with gorse and flowering plants of all colours and descriptions. This close to the mountains, even the undergrowth was ripe with magical energies and Caelir could see why Anurion was fascinated by such fecund growth.

  Anurion…

  Tears fell from Caelir’s face once again as he thought back to the terrible, bloody events at the Tower of Hoeth.

  Kyrielle Greenkin was dead and he had killed her.

  If not by his own hand then by dragging her into the disaster that was his life.

  The image of her melting features as the life had been sucked from her would haunt his dreams for as long as he lived and he knew he could never make amends for depriving the world of her bright spirit.

  The gardens of Anurion the Green would flourish a little less brightly without her and he vowed to plant a flower in her memory when he reached his destination.

  Avelorn.

  The realm of the Everqueen was his only hope now, for her magic was bound up in Ulthuan’s magical cycle of healing and renewal. When the Everqueen laughed, the sun shone brighter and when she wept thunder rolled across the heavens.

  What Teclis’ magic had unleashed, hers must surely undo…

  Time passed, though he could not say how much, for he had no right to look up and gaze at the face of the sun. The mountains rolled past on his right and clouds gathered over the Sea of Dreams on his left and though it was surely beyond the horizon, it seemed as though he could see a thin line of emerald green forest ahead of him.

  He rode as though the arrow of Morai-heg herself were aimed at his heart, wanting to put as much distance between himself and the White Tower as possible.

  The carnage itself was terrible, but that had not been the worst of it.

  The sight of the elf warrior who could have been his twin had shocked him to the core, for who could he have been? Was he even real? Was Caelir? Could “Caelir” be some evil doppelganger of this brave hero who fought to defend the Loremaste
r’s tower?

  Might Caelir be some creation of magic designed to infiltrate the secret sanctums of the Asur and unleash destruction? As much as the idea horrified him and the evidence bore it out, he did not think it likely, for there were too many images burned in his mind that were too real, too resonant to be anything other than genuine memories.

  Who then was this warrior? His brother…?

  Just thinking the thought made it seem real and the more he turned the idea over in his head, the more likely it became. Though it seemed the most likely explanation, it did not explain the terrible fear and anger that welled up within him as he thought of this warrior being his brother. Why should the thought of a brother cause such conflicting emotions within him?

  And the woman…

  He had no conscious knowledge of her, but he had seen her face when he had spoken to Kyrielle and felt the first stirrings of attraction towards her. He looked at the silver pledge ring that glinted on his finger. Was she the maiden who had given him this token of love?

  Such thoughts were too painful and he pushed them aside as he concentrated on the ride ahead. He had a long journey ahead and still had one last obstacle to overcome before then.

  The battlefield of Finuval Plain.

  Mitherion Silverfawn’s chambers within the Tower of Hoeth had escaped the destruction unleashed at the top of the tower. Filled with long benches strewn with astrolabes, lens grinders and all manner of instruments for celestial observation, it resembled a workshop more than a place of mystical study. Thick tomes of magic lay open, apparently at random, throughout the laboratory and a hundred or more scrolls were strewn about the room alongside dozens of inkwells.

  Charts of astronomical movements and phenomenon hung like war banners from the walls, each a mass of spirals and looping orbital patterns.

  Though not at the summit of the tower, a great glass ceiling rippled above them like the surface of a lake. Though impressive, Eldain realised it could not possibly be a window, for it showed a star-filled night sky.

  Mitherion made his way towards a long bench upon which sat a silver object that resembled a globe made from hundreds of thin loops of silver wire bound together with scores of brass-rimmed lenses. The object floated above a shallow concave disc of gold and spun gently on its axis as lenses slid through the silver wires, apparently at random.

  Eldain and Rhianna followed him into the chamber, and Eldain could not help but sense a distance between them now that she knew Caelir was alive. The touch she had given him beyond the walls of the tower had not been repeated and though he ached to reach out and hold her, he suspected the gesture would not be returned.

  “Father,” said Rhianna. “What happened here?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Mitherion.

  “Does it have something to do with why you summoned us here?” asked Eldain, lifting a pile of books aside to find a place to sit.

  Mitherion nodded as he checked the silver globe device and said, “Perhaps. I am not sure, but your arriving here just as disaster strikes does seem rather auspicious.”

  “Auspicious? We were almost killed.”

  “True,” said Mitherion, wagging his finger at Eldain. “But you are still alive. And the poor unfortunate who arrived with Anurion the Green claimed his name was Caelir. Rather a coincidence wouldn’t you say? But it could not have been the Caelir that I once knew.”

  Eldain stood and began to pace through the disorder of Mitherion’s chambers. “We saw him. Outside the tower. It was him.”

  “Caelir Éadaoin. Your brother,” said Mitherion, glancing at his daughter. “You are sure?”

  “It was him, father,” nodded Rhianna. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  “But how could he be alive? I understood he died on Naggaroth.”

  “So did we all,” said Rhianna and Eldain winced at the unspoken, nascent accusation.

  Mitherion returned his attention to the silver globe and adjusted several of the lenses before concentrating on an open book that lay beside him.

  “Most curious…”

  “What is?” asked Eldain.

  “Caelir’s appearance, if he is your brother, may indeed have something to do with our current troubles.”

  “In what way?” said Rhianna, moving to stand beside her father.

  “In every reading of the stars, I saw symbols that spoke of a figure without a name or a face, a phantom if you will. I did not know to whom this referred, but Caelir would seem to fit this description, arriving as he did with no memory save his name.”

  “He has no memory?” said Eldain.

  “So Anurion said. Apparently he attempted to restore it, but was unsuccessful. Hence why he brought him to see the Loremaster Teclis. A mistake in retrospect…”

  “And what happened?” said Rhianna. “Did Caelir see Teclis?”

  “He did,” nodded Mitherion. “Another mistake I feel, but then the Loremaster does so love to seek answers where ignorance might be preferable. I do not know what happened between Teclis and Caelir, but whatever it was, it unleashed terrible dark magic and upset the balance of power flowing through the tower. And, well, you saw what happened…”

  They let the moment hang in silence as they thought of the dead laid out below bloody cloaks at the base of the tower.

  “Does this have anything to do with why you summoned us here?” said Eldain.

  “It may have everything to do with that,” said Mitherion, rising and pulling yet more books from sagging shelves.

  “And why was that?” said Eldain, his frustration turning to anger.

  Mitherion opened the books, revealing page after page of scribbled notes, cosmological diagrams and calculations beyond understanding. “These are divinations I took over the night skies to the far north of the Old World.”

  “The Northern Wastes!” said Rhianna. “Father, you know that is dangerous.”

  “I know, but I had seen much darkness in your futures. Both of your futures and I had to know more.”

  “And what did you see?” asked Eldain.

  “I saw terrible danger descending on Ellyr-Charoi. Death, destruction and the fire of war.”

  “Then why send for us,” snapped Eldain. “Why not warn us. If our home is in danger then we should be there to defend it.”

  “Against this danger there is no defence.” said Mitherion. “And if I had told you Ellyr-Charoi was in danger what would you have done?”

  “We would have stayed,” finished Rhianna.

  “Exactly.”

  Eldain wanted to argue, but he knew they were right.

  He sighed. “What is this danger?”

  Mitherion said, “That I do not know, but the currents of magic speak of dark times ahead, Eldain. Whatever fate is to come, both you and Rhianna are bound to it. The druchii attack our ships and the ravens of Avelorn bring news of omens seen throughout the land. Something evil is coming, of that I have no doubt.”

  “You are wrong, Mitherion Silverfawn,” said a cracked voice behind them.

  Eldain and Rhianna turned and gasped as they saw the terribly wounded elf borne on a litter between four Sword Masters.

  The flesh of Teclis’ face was raw and burned, poultice-dipped bandages wrapping his skin and covering his thin chest and neck. His robes had been burned from him and he now wore a simple gown of white.

  “The evil you speak of,” said Teclis. “It is already here.”

  The conclave gathered in the ruins of the uppermost chamber of the Tower of Hoeth. The scent of discharged magic was carried on a strong wind, but the enchantments of the tower prevented its force from disturbing those who gathered to hear the Loremaster’s words.

  Only blackened stubs remained of the upper walls of the tower and the clouds displaced by the wind in the clear sky gave Eldain a giddy sense of flying since he was unable to see the ground.

  Seated on his padded litter, Teclis convened them and was attended by his Sword Masters. The Loremaster’s voice was weak and Eldain coul
d see the effort of will it took him to address them.

  The tales spoken of Teclis told of how sickly he had been as a youth and Eldain marvelled that he was able to remain upright after the grievous hurt done to him. Dark magic had ravaged his body, melting the flesh from his bones and he now resembled a skeleton draped in loose flesh and robed to appear in some mannish freak show.

  Despite the Loremaster’s terrible appearance, to stand in such illustrious company was an honour and a terror for Eldain and he kept his gaze lowered, humbled and not a little frightened at the presence of so many powerful individuals. What fate might Teclis pronounce upon him? Did he know of what Eldain had done on Naggaroth?

  Might this be some ritual pantomime to humiliate and punish him?

  Rhianna stood on his right, a subtle distance between them, and Mitherion Silverfawn had a fatherly arm around her shoulders. Yvraine stood to his left and her robes were still smeared with the blood of her fellows.

  A stooped mage in a tattered green robe stood beside Teclis and Eldain wondered what horrors he had recently endured, for his face was a mask of anguish. Other mages, whose names Eldain did not know, gathered around Teclis, though they kept a discreet distance from their green-robed fellow, as though they wished not to be associated with his sorrow.

  Looking at the assembled company, Eldain could see that no one here appeared at ease, for a lingering current of dark magic still hung in the air, a greasy, ashen taste in the back of the throat that tasted like biting on metal.

  Teclis rapped his staff on the ground and all eyes turned to him.

  “We have suffered a grievous hurt this day,” said Teclis, in what Eldain felt was a gross understatement.

  Murmurs of assent circled the room as Teclis continued. “One thought lost to us returns, but instead of joyful reunion, he brings death and treachery. I speak of the one named Caelir and his apparent return from the dead.”