[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  “She is safe,” said the oracle. “This is not her time to learn of the future. It is yours.”

  “The future…?”

  “Yes, for is that not why you journeyed here, child? To know of things hidden and things as yet unknown?”

  Rhianna felt a mounting terror as her feet carried her towards the smoking stone at the centre of the cave. This wasn’t what she had come for; she didn’t want to know the future.

  All she wanted was to find Caelir…

  “They are one and the same, child,” said the oracle, her voice rising in power and authority as she spoke words of ancient power:

  “The New Moon is the white goddess of birth and growth;

  The Full Moon, the red goddess of love and battle;

  The Old Moon, the black goddess of death and divination.”

  Powerless to resist, Rhianna placed her hands upon the stone and looked into its hollow core as the darkness of the cavern rose up around her. Her spirit felt as though it was being pulled down into the smoke and the hot breath of the gods engulfed her.

  She screamed a wordless cry of anguish as images thundered through her, flashing swords and howling blood-hungry warriors, Caelir, Eldain and a wondrous forest kingdom of magic and beauty—not the natural magic of the Gaen Vale, but the artful enchantments of elves…

  Fire swept over her and it seemed as though the cavern filled with roaring, searing flames that burned the paintings from the walls and seared the flesh from her bones. A whirling vortex of terrifyingly powerful energies swept over her and she was aware that she was no longer alone. A circle of mages surrounded her, their hands describing complex mystical symbols in the air and chanting words of ancient power.

  Their bodies were wasted and gaunt and their eyes spoke of a suffering that never ended, an enduring agony that stretched from times forgotten to times unknown.

  Amid the phantom mages she saw a laughing, raven-haired druchii princess, her beauty bathed in blood and her eyes full of an age’s malice. She moved through the chanting mages like a dancer, spinning and leaping with a curved dagger in each hand. With each leap, a blade swept out to cut the throat of one of the mages and as each one died, the chaos around her surged in power.

  “Stop it…” she cried. “Please stop it!”

  “No, child,” said a voice that sounded as though it came from a far distant time and place. “Like all things a woman must suffer, this cannot be stopped. Only endured.”

  The image of the murderous princess faded and Rhianna wept in relief as she saw the enchanted forest once again and the shimmering form of a woman so beautiful she could only be the Everqueen of Avelorn. The bright light enveloping her was a soothing balm upon her soul and she let out a great, shuddering breath.

  No sooner had her racing heartbeat calmed when a black rain began to fall and Rhianna cried out as the dark waters stained the purity of the Everqueen’s robes. Her face withered as the rain melted away everything that was good and pure of her, and as Rhianna watched, a bright red spot of blood appeared at her breast.

  “No, please… no!” said Rhianna as the bloodstain spread like a blossoming rose.

  As the Everqueen faded, the land sickened and died, the grasses turning black and the trees cracking and wilting as the life was drained from them.

  With the last of her strength, the Everqueen looked up and her eyes locked to Rhiahna’s.

  “Come to me, my child,” she said. “He needs your help. Save him and you will save me!”

  Rhianna closed her eyes and screamed as she saw a spreading bloodstain on her own chest. She felt the pain of a wound, the same sharp, piercing agony she had felt when the druchii crossbow bolt had pierced her shoulder so long ago, and her hands flew to her breast.

  As her hands left the omphalos stone the pain vanished and her sight returned to normal. She slumped to the ground, her breathing ragged and her mind filled with the residue of what the oracle had shown her.

  The darkened cave snapped back into view and she saw the oracle step around the stone to stand above her. Rhianna looked up, a glimmer of light shining beneath the woman’s hood, and she screamed again as she saw her face transform.

  In an instant, her face changed from that of a youthful elf maid to one of full womanhood and then to that of a deathly crone, ravaged and withered by time. Even as she watched, the cycle repeated itself over and over and Rhianna scrambled away, desperately pushing herself to her feet.

  She turned from the oracle and fled the cavern temple of the Mother Goddess.

  Tyrion knelt by his twin’s bed and held his hand, watching his thin chest rise and fall, each breath a victory for his magically ravaged body. When he and his Silver Helms had ridden into the forest surrounding the Tower of Hoeth, he had been shocked rigid by the devastation he had seen, unable to comprehend what power could unmake something so powerful as the Scholar King’s tower.

  He had ridden hard and without pause, but when he had seen the ruin of his brother, Tyrion wished he could have pushed Malhandir to even greater speeds. Even before his wounding, Teclis had been slight and reliant on the power of magic to sustain him, but now he was a shadow even of that.

  “Do I really look so terrible?” asked Teclis.

  “No,” said Tyrion. “I am just tired from the ride south. You are looking better.”

  “Ah, Tyrion, my dear brother,” smiled Teclis. “You have too good a heart to be much of a liar. I know how I must look and I know that it pains you that you cannot fight it.”

  Mitherion Silverfawn had explained as best he could what had happened to Teclis and Tyrion had kept vigil by his twin’s bed, holding his hand and praying to Isha to grant him the strength to survive.

  “I will hunt down this Caelir and kill him,” promised Tyrion.

  “No!” said Teclis, pushing himself onto his elbows with a grimace of pain. “Promise me that you will do no such thing, my brother!”

  “But he nearly killed you! And who knows what else the druchii will have him do?”

  “He is as much a victim as I,” said Teclis. “We must not hate Caelir for what has been done to him. I need you to promise me that you will not harm Caelir if your paths should cross.”

  “I cannot do that,” said Tyrion, rising to his feet. “He is an enemy of Ulthuan and deserves only death.”

  “No,” said Teclis, reaching up to grasp his arm. “Please, Tyrion. Listen to me. You are a great warrior and your name carries great power. In the days of blood that are coming, your presence will be needed to steel the courage of all around you. If you give yourself over to this quest for vengeance, others will look for your leadership and they will falter when you do not provide it. You have a duty to Ulthuan and that duty does not include revenge!”

  Tyrion looked at the urgency in his twin brother’s face and took a deep, calming breath. He sat back down next to Teclis and said, “I promised the Everqueen I would heed your counsel.”

  “And you can never disobey her,” smiled Teclis.

  “No,” said Tyrion. “It is the curse of males to be forever in the thrall of beauty.”

  “Some things are worth being in thrall to.”

  “I know,” said Tyrion, his earlier anger forgotten. “Very well, if you will not have me hunt Caelir, what would you have me do, sail to Ellyrion and lead the defenders of the Eagle Gate? Rumours from the west say that the Hag Sorceress herself leads the armies of the druchii.”

  “She does,” said Teclis. “I have felt her power on the winds of magic.”

  “Then I will go to Ellyrion,” spat Tyrion, “and cut the vile heart from her chest!”

  “No, for there are warriors there with the seeds of greatness within them and Ellyrion must look to its own defence for now. The hammer of the druchii will land elsewhere, and it is there that your courage will be needed most.”

  “Tell me, brother, where will this hammer strike?”

  “In the south,” said Teclis. “Upon Lothern.”

  BOOK FOUR


  Avelorn

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sea of Blood

  Of all the marvels of Lothern, the Glittering Lighthouse was one of the most famed and most magnificent. Rearing up from the sea atop a rocky isle to the south of Ulthuan, it was a great beacon filled with thousands of lamps that tradition held could never be extinguished. Mighty fortresses clustered at its base, each bastion equipped with scores of bolt throwers and garrisoned by hundreds of Sea Guard warriors.

  Designed to protect the Emerald Gate that led to Lothern itself, the fortifications blended seamlessly with the cliffs and rocks of the island in a manner both lethal and aesthetically pleasing. The Emerald Gate itself was a mighty arched fortress that spanned the gap between the jagged fangs of rock that formed the mouth of the Straits of Lothern. A gleaming gate barred the sea route to Lothern, though such was the skill of the gate’s designers that it could be opened smoothly and quickly when the need arose.

  The fleets of the Asur roamed freely around the southern coasts of Ulthuan thanks to its protection, for should any vessel be threatened, it could flee to the coverage of the war machines mounted on the walls of the lighthouse and the Emerald Gate.

  The first warning of the attack came as low, lightning-split thunderheads rolled in from the south and a dusky mist drew in around the lighthouse. Its dazzling halo of lanterns faded until it was visible as little more than a soft glow from the watchtowers of the Emerald Gate nearly a mile away.

  A looming shape, like a mountain shorn from the land and set adrift on the sea, hove into view, the wreckage of a silver ship smashed against its flanks.

  A host of smaller trumpet blasts sounded from the lighthouse and magical lights flared in the gathering night as the elven lookouts recognised the mountain as one of the feared Black Arks of the druchii.

  Cries of alarm passed from bastion to bastion and warriors rushed to the ramparts and Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers were loaded with deadly bolts. A host of enemy war machines known as Reapers, an evil corruption of the noble bolt throwers of the Asur, opened up from the ark and loosed hails of barbed iron darts from on high. Hundreds of shafts slashed through the air and, without protection from above, dozens of elven warriors were skewered and half a dozen bolt throwers were smashed to splintered ruin.

  Coruscating fireballs of dark magic streaked from the crooked towers of the ark and exploded against the tower of the lighthouse. Streaming like horizontal rain, the purple fire of druchii sorcerers hammered the marble bastions of the island, searing flesh from the living and melting stone like wax.

  Great rents were torn open in the fortress walls of the island and many brave warriors died as they were carried to their deaths by the collapsing walls. The Black Ark crashed against the island of the Glittering Lighthouse with the force of continents colliding, and a host of timber boarding ramps slammed down on the rock. Hundreds of druchii warriors stormed from the interior of the colossal black fortress, their sword blades reflecting the light of the beacon above them.

  Fierce battle was joined as the Seaguard of Lord Aislin rushed to plug the gaps torn in their defences by the druchii magic. Screams and the clash of blades echoed over the sea.

  For all the carnage wreaked by the druchii, the defenders of Lothern recovered quickly from their surprise and fought back with all the skill and ferocity of their race. Hundreds of war machines opened up on the Black Ark and druchii were swept from their rocky battlements by a rain of lethal darts.

  Magical bolts of white fire conjured by the lighthouse’s mages erupted across the face of the Black Ark and the rock vitrified into glistening glass wherever it touched. The fighting on the Glittering Lighthouse waxed fierce as Lord Aislin’s soldiers fought face to face with their ancestral enemies and neither side was in the mood to offer quarter.

  The Emerald Gate groaned as the huge bronze valves to either side of the huge, arched fortress began to turn and, though it seemed impossible for such immense portals to move at all, they smoothly swept open to reveal the Straits of Lothern and a shimmering fleet of ships.

  The elven fleet slipped easily through the bottle green waters, surging into the open ocean to engage the enemy. Hundreds of ships sailed through the gate, white sails bright in the evening sun and decks glittering with armed warriors. Such a fleet was more than capable of destroying a Black Ark and the warriors of the Emerald Gate held their fire as they watched the ships of the elven fleet sail out to do battle.

  But as the mist parted before the lighthouse, it soon became apparent that the Black Ark had not come to make war on Lothern alone.

  Captain Finlain watched with trepidation as the mist parted before Finubar’s Pride and he saw the full scale of the approaching druchii fleet. A tightening of his jaw was the only outward sign of his concern, for he did not want his unease to pass to the crew. Though it was hard to be certain, Finlain estimated that nearly three hundred ships cut through the waters towards the Emerald Gate. Raven warships armed with fearsome Reaper bolt throwers and hooked boarding ramps led the advancing fleet in a wedge formation with the point aimed straight for his ship.

  Behind the leading warships came a host of wide galleys with high sides and a multitude of decks. No doubt these ships were packed with druchii warriors and Finlain longed to get in amongst these lumbering vessels, where his newly mounted Eagle’s Claw would wreak fearsome havoc. But Lord Aislin’s plan had another role for Finubar’s Pride…

  A host of fighting ships followed behind the druchii troop galleys in line abreast, but his lookouts high on the mainmast had already reported that too wide a gap had opened between the galleys and this last line of ships to make it a truly effective rearguard.

  Thunder boomed overhead and a flash of lightning briefly painted the sky in blue. The first spots of rain fell and Finlain could feel the swell beneath his ship gathering in strength.

  Finlain smiled and Meruval the navigator said, “What can you possibly find amusing in all this?”

  “The druchii are fearsome warriors, but they are no sailors,” replied Finlain.

  “How so?”

  “These vessels are clearly new, yes? Normally they make war upon the sea from these damned floating fortresses, but they’ve yet to learn how to fight properly on a ship of war.”

  “And we’ll teach them a lesson in how it’s done, is that it?” said Meruval, angling the Finubar’s tiller a fraction to keep her in line.

  “Indeed we shall,” said Finlain.

  He glanced left and right, satisfied that his fellow captains were following Lord Aislin’s hastily assembled battle plan. For all its ad hoc nature, Finlain had to admire the admiral’s instinctive grasp of what the druchii attempted and how it might be countered.

  The elven ships sailed into the worsening weather to meet the druchii, manoeuvring perfectly into line abreast with the ships on the flanks sailing slightly ahead of the centre. As the distance closed between the two fleets, Finlain spared a glance to his left where the sounds of furious battle carried over the seas from the fighting on the slopes of the Glittering Lighthouse.

  “Asuryan grant you strength, my brothers,” he whispered, knowing that, for the moment, the warriors there were on their own. Flaring explosions of magical light and the tinny shriek of swords seemed pitifully quiet for what must surely be a desperate struggle to the death.

  He shook off thoughts of that battle and focused on the bloodshed and horror in which his own ship and warriors were soon to be embroiled. The decks of Finubar’s Pride were crammed with Sea Guard in glittering hauberks of ithilmar mail and her sails snapped and billowed in the blustery winds.

  “They’re coming on fast,” said Meruval.

  “Good,” nodded Finlain. “Their hatred will drive them on faster than any storm wind.”

  His experienced eye watched the advancing wedge of druchii ships surge forward as their crews tacked into the wind with more skill than he would have expected and he cautioned himself against underestimating the druchii sailor
s.

  The threatening wedge of dark ships was pulling ahead of the main body of galleys, no doubt hoping to punch through the thinner line of elven ships and scatter them before turning to savage them like a pack of wolves.

  You’ll think you’re about to get your wish, he thought as he nodded to Meruval.

  Closer now, the druchii ships resembled the long, dark birds for which they were named. Their prows were hooked and a boarding ramp with heated iron spikes stood ready to hammer into the deck of its prey. The glow of the lighthouse shimmered on hundreds of blades and Finlain shuddered as he imagined these warriors penetrating the defences of Lothern.

  The druchii ships were almost upon them and Finlain knew he had to judge the next moment with exacting precision. Too soon and the druchii would realise his intent, too late and they would be overwhelmed and destroyed.

  White foam broke against the sleek hulls of the Raven ships, sending high sprays of dark water over their decks, and Finlain could see Reaper crews preparing to loose their deadly volleys of black darts.

  He turned to Meruval and said, “Now, my friend.”

  The navigator swung the tiller around and Finubar’s Pride heeled violently to port. Either side of her, the entire centre of the elven fleet seemed to pirouette upon the sea. Crewmen raced to haul lines and swing the sails around to catch the same winds the druchii flew upon and the deck became a flurry of activity.

  Finubar’s Pride plunged into a trough of green water, a rush of the sea pouring in over her deck at such a violent manoeuvre, but Finlain wasn’t worried about that. Within moments, his ship was aimed straight back at the Emerald Gate, the sails booming as they filled with strong southerly winds and a hard rain began to fall.

  Like colts freed from the stable, Finubar’s Pride and a hundred other ships raced back towards Ulthuan with the Raven ships right behind them.

  “Well done!” cried Finlain as he heard the ratcheting whoosh of the Reaper bolt throwers loosing. He looked over his shoulder and saw the long, wickedly sharp bolts arcing through the rain towards them and then splash into the sea less than a spear length behind them.