[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  From what Asperon could see, the defensive architecture of the fortress’ flanks consisted of little more than a hastily prepared defensive ditch and turreted blockhouse. A wall of less than a hundred paces safeguarded the route onto the arched span of the fortress, but it was low and unprotected by outworks or high towers.

  Yet more druchii warriors marched onto the plateau before the fortress and Asperon laughed as he saw the panic sweeping the silver armoured elves on the wall at the sight of such a host. He could taste their panic on the air and shouted, “You see, the Asur’s complacency and arrogance will reap them bloody ruin!”

  More carnyx sounded, the skirling sound heralding the death they would inflict upon their enemies. He reopened the cut on his palm and reached up to smear his blood upon the standard of his house to offer those who would fight and die beneath it to Khaine.

  A rumbling tremor of weapons clashing on shields echoed from the mountains and Asperon could see the desperate scramble on the wall ahead of him as archers and spearmen rushed to fill the ramparts.

  The advance began as a steady trot, the druchii walking briskly with their spears raised, then became a jog as spears lowered and ranks of crossbowmen formed up behind them.

  Asperon could see faces pale with fear and drank in that fear as the wall drew nearer. His heart thudded in his breast and his fingers flexed on the wire-wound grip of his sword.

  He saw a sword with a silver blade chop downwards and a singing volley of arrows arced from the wall in a white rain.

  “Shields!” shouted Asperon and his warriors dropped to their knees and lifted their left arms above their heads. A whooshing thwak of displaced air sounded and a hundred arrows slammed into them, but most smacked harmlessly into his warriors’ shields. A few screamed in pain as a lucky arrow found its mark, but most quickly rose to their feet unharmed.

  Though they had sacrificed speed to stop and raise shields, he saw that they had suffered least amongst the advancing army, with many druchii corpses simply trampled by their charging comrades in their hunger to reach the wall.

  Insane courage was all very well, but it was pointless if you reached the enemy with too few warriors to kill them.

  A staccato ripple of crossbow strings filled the air with black bolts and Asperon laughed as he saw a dozen enemy warriors pitched from the walls. Blood stained their pristine tunics as they fell. More bolts slashed towards the blockhouse as they set off towards the ditch before the wall and gate. Blue-fletched shafts slashed down, though many fewer than before thanks to the relentless hammering of crossbows.

  An arrow punched through the helm of the warrior next to him and blood spattered Asperon’s face as the warrior fell. He licked the droplets from his lips as the druchii warriors ahead of his own hurled their ladders against the wall.

  Swords flashed and blood was spilled as the Asur fought the warriors at the tops of the ladders. Screams and ringing steel cut the air and warriors toppled from the ramparts, skulls cloven or chests sliced open. The wall was not long and Asperon halted his warriors as he scanned its length, his experienced eye seeking out the weakest section of the defences against which to lead his warriors.

  Then something unbelievable happened.

  The gates of the blockhouse were opening.

  Had they carried the wall so swiftly that some brave warriors were even now within?

  “With me!” he shouted and sprinted for the gate. His warriors followed without hesitation and Asperon screamed with inchoate elation as he pictured being the first noble of Naggaroth to plant a standard in the Emerald Gate.

  His euphoria turned to horror as he saw the column of knights with tall, gleaming helmets of silver galloping from the fortress. Dust billowed at their passing and Asperon felt his innards clamp in terror as he saw the warrior in golden armour that led them. He carried a blazing sword, like a sliver of the sun bound within a length of shimmering steel, and rode a white steed adorned with glittering scales of gem-encrusted barding.

  Golden wings swept back from his helm and though he had never before laid eyes upon this warrior, he instinctively knew him, for his identity was a curse and the terror of the druchii.

  Tyrion, Defender of Ulthuan…

  Tall banners of white streamed behind the cavalry and their silver lances lowered in unison as they charged out. Elven soldiers armed with spears and long swords spread out behind the cavalry, cutting into the disorganised ranks of the druchii as they milled at the base of the wall.

  “Halt!” shouted Asperon. “Form a shield-wall!”

  Even as he gave the order, he could see it was already too late.

  His warriors were spread out, scattered as they raced to the opened gate, and easy prey for mounted warriors.

  He snatched a shield from the warrior next to him and raised his sword as the pounding of hooves on stone swallowed them and the charge slammed home with a deafening thunderclap of splintering lances and screams.

  Blood spurted as glittering lance blades spitted their ranks and the fiery sword of Tyrion clove warriors in two with golden sweeps that melted through armour and seared flesh. The charge of the Asur cavalry punched through the disordered ranks of Asperon’s warriors and trampled them into the ground, leaving scores of broken bodies in their wake.

  He picked himself up from the ground, blood pouring from a deep gash on his forehead and white agony flaring as splintered bone jutted from his elbow. His shield was useless and he heard the screams of warriors dying before the relentless slaughter of the Asur.

  An ululating note sounded from a silver trumpet and the cavalry expertly wheeled on the spot as they prepared to charge once more. The golden warrior at the head of the silver knights aimed his sword at him, and Asperon welcomed the challenge of the gesture.

  If he were to die this day, then what better way to end his days than in combat with the infamous Tyrion himself?

  A beam of radiant sunfire leapt from Tyrion’s blade and Asperon’s flesh was burned from his body in a firestorm with the power of a star dragon’s breath.

  Hot, sulphurous fumes clung to the rocky walls of the underground passageway like gauzy curtains and wisps of hot steam drifted lazily from vents cut into the floor.

  A dim red glow, like cooling lava, seemed to come from the rocks themselves, and banked braziers added their own smoke and heat.

  The sound of distant song came from somewhere far below and its musical cadences were unlike anything heard elsewhere on Ulthuan. The songs sung here were ancient beyond understanding, the rhythms and harkening melodies unknown in the world above save by those who dared to venture below the mountains of Caledor and learn the songs of awakening.

  The songs of the dragons…

  The mists parted like a smoky yellow curtain before a warrior who delved deep into the labyrinthine passages of the mountains, the songs of valour and tales of peril echoing within his soul like a lone voice in an empty temple.

  His name was Prince Imrik, and of all the waking denizens of the caverns below the Dragonspine Mountains, none carried themselves with a fraction of the martial nobility and courage as did he. His countenance was fair, his long white hair bound with iron cords and his strength of purpose was like the furnace heat that stirred below the peak of Vaul’s Anvil.

  The blood of Caledor Dragontamer flowed in his veins and his lineage was of the proudest noble house of Ulthuan. In him, it was said, the strength of Tethlis the Slayer was reborn and the might of his sword arm was unmatched, save perhaps by that of Prince Tyrion.

  Red light shimmered like fresh blood on Imrik’s armour, an engraved suit of ithilmar mail that was as light and flexible as silk, yet was impervious to sword and fire. His cloak billowed in the heat of the passageway and the swiftness of his stride, for bleak news had come from Lothern and all the might of Ulthuan was being roused to war.

  The passageway widened out into an impossibly deep cavern, though it was next to impossible to gauge its exact dimensions because hot, aromatic smoke ob
scured its farthest reaches. A distant rumble, like the breath of the world, vibrated the air at a frequency beyond the comprehension of most mortals, but to Imrik it was as clear as a note wrung from the great dragonhorn at his side.

  It was the breath of slumbering dragons.

  The songs of awakening grew louder as Imrik entered, and his soul took flight as he saw the multitude of scaled, draconic forms clustered around scalding vents that plunged into the deepest heart of the volcanic mountains.

  Fire roared and seethed in the air, held aloft by the songs of the fire mages who sang to the slumbering dragons. He heard the songs in his heart and cast his gaze around the chamber to see if any of the mighty creatures were close to waking.

  Powerfully muscled chests rose and fell in time with the chants of the mages, but the dragons’ hearts beat a slow refrain, a beat that had slowed as the molten heat of the mountains had cooled and the magic of the world diminished.

  Imrik knew there had been a time when the sight of dragons riding hot thermals rising from the Dragonspine Mountains had been commonplace, but such a vision had not been seen in hundreds of years. In these threatening times, only the younger dragons commonly awoke, though even they were a shadow of the former glory of Caledor and its famed dragon riders.

  Naysmiths at the court of Lothern bemoaned the slumber of the dragons as indicative of the slide into ruin of the Asur, but Imrik had never surrendered to such melancholy. Long had he studied the ways of dragons and no mortal could claim to know this most ancient of species better than he.

  Imrik made his way around the circumference of the cavern, careful not to disturb the rites and chants of the singing fire mages. Many of these chants would have begun months, if not years, ago and none knew better than he the folly of interrupting a dragonsong.

  He made his way to the centre of the cavern where a great brazier burned with a white gold light. Mages in scarlet robes and with long hair that fell like cascades of flame from their scalps surrounded the brazier, speaking with heated voices that crackled with a fire the equal of the conflagration before them.

  The debate ceased as Imrik drew near, though he could see the golden light of Aqshy smouldering in their eyes. Ever were the hearts of those who studied the fire wind bellicose.

  “My friends,” said Imrik. “The Phoenix King sends for our aid. What should I tell him?”

  “The dragons still slumber, my lord,” said a mage known as Lamellan.

  “How many awake?”

  “None save Minaithnir, my lord,” said Lamellan. “His soul burns brightly and the hearts of the younger dragons stir with thoughts of war, but the dreams of the great dragons are too deep to reach. We summon the heat that burns at the heart of the world with songs of legendary times and glorious deeds, but the memories are cold, my lord…”

  “The fire of the dragons is gone?” said Imrik. “Is that what you are trying to say?”

  “Not gone, my lord,” said Lamellan. “But buried deep. It will be years before the ashes are wrought into flaming life. Too late for us now.”

  “You are wrong,” said Imrik, pacing around the brazier and his pale eyes reflecting the fire that burned at its heart. “The age of glory can never be forgotten, by elf nor dragon. By such means are the dragons of Caledor roused from sleep. The druchii once more set foot on our beloved homeland and the Phoenix King has sent missives pleading for our aid. Lothern is besieged and the Hag Sorceress herself leads an army at the Eagle Gate!”

  “My lord,” protested Lamellan, “you know as well as I that to reach the heart of these noble creatures takes great time and effort.”

  “Time is the one thing Ulthuan does not have, my friend,” said Imrik. “Our fair isle would have fallen into darkness long ago without the might of the dragons. They are as much a part of Ulthuan as the Asur, and I will not believe that they will fail to heed our call to arms in this time of woe.”

  He could see his words were fanning the flame of Aqshy that burned in the hearts of the fire mages and stoked the warlike embers of their souls to greater effort.

  “Ulthuan is under attack and requires all the martial power it can assemble. Go! Sing the songs of ancient days!

  “The dragonriders of old must soar the skies again!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Anathema

  The pyres burned long into the night, illuminating the battered white wall of the Eagle Gate with hellish light and thick with the aroma of roasting meat. Warriors with plates of armour fused to their flesh by magic capered around the giant bonfires, their scarred bodies jerking as though they were not theirs to command.

  And perhaps they are not, thought Issyk Kul as he watched the sensuous dances and orgiastic feasting. The flesh-suited madmen capered in time to the beat of Hung drums, and chants in praise of Shornaal soared with the sparks spat from the fires.

  His own body was slathered in the blood of his latest kill, and the exquisite high he had achieved with his latest partner in violation had been sublime. The elves of Ulthuan were far superior subjects to the poor specimens who dwelt in the cold wastes of the far north. To those used to a life of misery and hardship, torture meant little, but to effete souls raised in a land of plenty and who had never known the brutality of life beyond their pampered existence, it was a nightmare that enhanced Kul’s pleasure tenfold.

  The defenders of the wall still held, though he knew it was simply a matter of time until they broke. And when that moment came, he and what remained of his followers would debase the remainder and make bloody ruin of this isle.

  He turned from the wall and made his way through the campsite towards the neat lines of the druchii camp, shaking his head at such rigidly enforced order. The camp of his warriors was a battered and broken landscape dotted with piles of broken weapons, excrement and dead or insensible bodies. Order was anathema to Kul and he allowed, and encouraged, his warriors to indulge every sordid desire, so long as they were able to fight upon the dawn.

  A bloody procession of chanting zealots, chained to one another by flesh hooks piercing the meat of their arms, danced around him. He acknowledged their devotion to the Dark Prince by gathering up the chains that bound them all and jerking them savagely, ripping the iron hooks from their flesh and drawing shrieks of bliss and blood from their lips.

  Kul dropped the chains and left his torn followers behind as he approached the sentry line of druchii warriors. Morathi kept her followers carefully segregated from his own, lest the entire army devolve into a heaving, bloody mass of perversion and slaughter.

  The guards recognised him and stepped aside to let him pass and Kul could taste their fear of him. Mingled with that fear was a colossal arrogance and condescension, for these were warriors of a race that looked upon humanity from the perspective of those that had almost held the world in their grasp.

  He resisted the urge to draw his sword and cut them down for such presumption and naivety. The evidence of their foolishness was clear for all to see, for was not the surface of the world crawling with the maggots of humanity? Such arrogance was misplaced when you were forced to eke out an existence in the coldest, bleakest place imaginable.

  Everywhere within the druchii camp he could see ordered ranks of flimsy tents that wouldn’t last a night on the steppe, yet were thought to be fit to bring on campaign.

  Druchii warriors gathered around campfires and the noise of low conversations buzzed in his ears like an insect trapped in a bottle. Only recently had warriors arrived that Kul thought the equal of Morathi, a troupe of long-limbed she-elves clad in gleaming leather and fragments of flexible armour. Wild-haired and sumptuous, he had thought them dancers or courtesans until he saw them slay armed prisoners in ritual combats of spectacular violence.

  Those same warrior women now stood guard around Morathi’s tent, a monstrous pavilion of purple and golden silk that billowed as though it had breath. A trio of the manic she-elves paced before the pavilion’s entrance, scenting the blood that dried on his skin.
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  As he drew near, two peeled off to the side while one remained defiantly before him. The two circled him, moving slowly, but with exquisite grace as they ran fingers over his hard muscles and scraped blood from his flesh with their fingertips.

  “Are you going to get out of my way?” said Kul to the she-elf before him.

  “Maybe,” said the elf woman, exposing her teeth and Kul fought the urge to break his fist against her jaw. “Maybe we will demand a price for your passage.”

  “What price?”

  The she-elf thought for a moment and said, “Send ten of your finest warriors to us.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can kill them, of course.”

  “And why would I do such a thing?”

  “They will be honoured with bloody deaths,” said the elf. “And it would please us.”

  Kul nodded, for he knew this was no negotiation, simply a price to be paid. “I will send them to you in the morning. Kill them and give me their hearts when you are done.”

  “Very well,” said the elf. “When we have their blood, you may have their hearts.”

  Without seeming to move, the she-elf slipped aside and the three of them bowed extravagantly to him. His business with them was over and he ignored their mocking obeisances as he entered Morathi’s tent.

  Inside, the luxury of the Hag Sorceress’ domain had been transported from Naggaroth and reassembled here. Velveteen throws were draped over an ebony chaise longue and carved busts no doubt thought exquisite stood on black marble plinths. More of the insane she-elves lounged around the perimeter of the tent, sharpening knives, turning bloody trophies over in their hands or sipping goblets of ruby liquid.

  Gold brocade hung from the ceiling and a low fire burned in the centre of the pavilion.

  A great black cauldron of beaten iron hung on graceful black spars over the fire, the metallic reek of blood coming from the gently steaming red liquid that filled it to the brim.