Eldain didn’t know and nor did he know yet which he would prefer.
He looked over his shoulder to where Rhianna and Yvraine sat huddled in conversation beside the mast and suppressed a flash of annoyance. Since swimming back to the Dragonkin, neither woman had elaborated as to what had happened on the island of the Gaen Vale. Rhianna had simply told Bellaeir to sail for Avelorn.
The mood of the ship had lightened the further from the Gaen Vale they sailed and Rhianna had come to him one night as they sailed beneath the starlit sky with her arms open.
“You understand I am forbidden to speak of the island,” she had said.
“I understand,” he said, though, in truth, he did not.
“Can you tell me anything at all?”
“Just that we have to go to Avelorn.”
“Is that where Caelir is?”
“It’s where he is going.”
“Why? Do you know?”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Not for certain, but I am beginning to think that what happened at the Tower of Hoeth was just the beginning. Whatever Caelir was sent back to do is just beginning.”
“That’s a reassuring thought.”
“It’s not his fault,” said Rhianna. “You heard what the Loremaster said. Caelir is as much a victim here as anyone else.”
He nodded, but had not answered, and took her in his arms as the ship sailed onwards.
“Save him and you save me…” she whispered in the darkness.
“What’s that? A quote?”
“No, something I heard. Something important.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She burrowed deeper into his embrace as a chill gust blew in off the water and a red shooting star flashed south across the blackness of the sky. They stayed that way, like a statue of embracing lovers, as night turned to day and the sea transformed from a dark mirror of the heavens to a glorious green.
Morning brought the coast of Avelorn into view and the sight of land that he could actually walk upon raised Eldain’s spirits immeasurably. He made his way from the vessel’s prow to the tiller, where Captain Bellaeir sat enjoying the stiff breeze blowing from the kingdom of the Everqueen.
“Captain,” he said, resting his arm on the raised gunwale.
“My lord,” nodded the ship’s master. “Isha willing, I’ll have you in Avelorn in a few hours.”
“That sounds good,” said Eldain. “I mean no disrespect when I say this, but it will be good to set foot on land once more.”
Bellaeir nodded. “Spoken like a true Ellyrian, my lord. But you are right, it will do us all good to be off the seas for a spell.”
The sentiment surprised Eldain and he said, “Really? I thought you would be happy to spend your whole life at sea.”
“Normally I would be,” agreed Bellaeir, “but there are dark currents stirring in the waters and they are full of sadness. I don’t know where, but somewhere elves are dying at sea.”
Eldain heard the pain in Bellaeir’s voice and decided not to press the point as the captain guided them towards the river’s mouth.
Towering trees rose up from the edge of the land, sprawling forests that stretched eastwards as far as the eye could see in vivid splashes of green, russets and gold. Misty with distance, the blue crags of the Annulii were a far distant smudge on the horizon, a barrier between the kingdom of the Everqueen and war torn Chrace.
The Dragonkin eased past the forested headlands and Eldain narrowed his eyes as he saw a froth of white water bubbling where the placid waters of the river met the sea.
“Water sprites,” said Bellaeir as he saw Eldain’s expression. “We call them keylpi and they are playful things mostly, but don’t get too close to them.”
As the ship drew nearer, Eldain saw the suggestion of white horses with flowing manes cavorting in the depths of the bubbling water and fancied he could hear their whinnying neighs of amusement in the foam that surrounded them. The sprites moved alongside the ship and Eldain saw ghostly horses of shimmering light galloping beneath the surface, their manes flowing with the current and their tails a fan of white bubbles behind them.
The urge to ride such a beast was almost irresistible, and his Ellyrian soul ached to climb upon its back and ride the waves, but such creatures were said to be capricious entities, as likely to drag him to his death as they were to grant him an exhilarating ride.
Eldain could hear the stamping hooves of their own horses in the ship’s hold and knew they must also be sensing the siren song of the magical water horses. He turned away from the keylpi, hearing their displeasure as a crash of water against the side of the ship. A wave splashed over the gunwale and Bellaeir laughed as Eldain was drenched in water.
“I told you not to get too close,” said Bellaeir.
Eldain shrugged and went below to change his clothes, and when he emerged the water sprites were far behind them. The Dragonkin had passed from the Sea of Dusk and into the River Arduil, the waterway that marked the border between Ellyrion and Avelorn.
To the west, golden plains basked beneath an indolent summer sky and a sudden stab of homesickness pierced Eldain as he pictured his home of Ellyr-Charoi. He saw the white-walled villa nestling between the two waterfalls, the heights of the Hippocrene Tower, the Summer Courtyard and the sweet smelling pines that shawled the landscape around it.
He missed his home. He longed to see it once again and to share it with Rhianna before leaving it forever.
Eldain shook off these reminiscences and turned from the land of his birth to face the kingdom of Avelorn.
Shaggy with dense and sprawling forest, the sound of distant music drifted on the air and twinkling lights seemed to dance in the forest’s depths. Colourful birds nested in the treetops and a sense of powerful magic threaded between the smooth trunks.
The forests of Ellyrion had a youthful splendour to them, but Avelorn was of an age beyond reckoning, its farthest depths home to creatures that had dwelled there even before the coming of the Asur; eagles, treemen and slumbering things whose names had been forgotten.
The forest had an eternal quality to it, an ageless majesty that not even invasion and war could diminish. The druchii had tried to burn the old forest, setting fires amid groves that had been planted when the world was young, but even they had failed to diminish its grandeur.
Trees that had stood sentinel over the Everqueen’s realm towered above them like grim watchtowers and Eldain felt a brooding hostility from the forest’s edge, as though their shadows cast a grim warning to any who harboured evil thoughts in their heart.
Eldain shivered and the Dragonkin sailed on.
The sounds of battle echoed within the Aquila Spire and Glorien Truecrown could not shut it out no matter how hard he tried. He concentrated on his books, desperate to find some clue as to how to defeat the foe that daily hurled itself at the walls of the Eagle Gate. The bloodshed was prodigious and hundreds of the followers of the dark gods were dying every day; pierced by arrows, hurled from the walls or cut down by graceful blows from swords and spears.
Thus far the druchii had not attacked, save by sending in the disgusting flying creatures that filled the air with their unmusical screeches and swooped on the crews of the bolt throwers. Morathi was content to batter the humans against the wall and her monstrous ally, the great tribal warleader with the standard revering the Dark Prince, seemed eager to let her.
Screaming tribesmen erected mounds of their fallen and made sport of the flesh before burning them in great funeral pyres and conducting their filthy worship in full view of the fortress. The sight of such unclean devotions had made Glorien sick and driven him to his books, his precious books, to seek a solution.
But he had found nothing, despite days of searching, and the brawling sound of battle from beyond the locked door and shuttered windows of the tower continued unabated.
Glorien had sent desperate petitions for more warriors to Tor Elyr,
but his mages reported that a terrible sea battle had been lost at the gates of Lothern and all musters of the citizen levy were being sent to Eataine. Some were gathering in Ellyrion, but not enough and not with enough speed to take the pressure off the warriors fighting on the bloody ramparts.
Casualty lists spoke of a hundred dead warriors already, with almost twice that injured. Many of those would not live to fight again and those that might would not heal in time to make any difference. The healers worked day and night, but they were too few and the enemy was sending them victims too quickly.
A sharp rapping came at the tower’s only door and Glorien flinched at the sound.
“My lord, I must speak with you,” said a voice he recognised as belonging to Menethis.
Glorien rose from behind the desk and said, “Are you alone?”
“Yes, my lord. There is no one with me.”
“Very well,” said Glorien and unbarred the door.
Menethis entered with unseemly haste and Glorien caught a glimpse of the fighting behind him. Once again, a host of ladders had been thrown against the wall, a trail of dead and wounded bodies scattered over the ground before it. Arrows and bolts filled the air as flocks of winged beasts circled above the towers, and desperate combats surged and withdrew like a dark tide along the length of the ramparts.
Glorien slammed the door shut as soon as Menethis was inside, unwilling to look upon the fighting raging below.
“What is it Menethis?” said Glorien. “I am very busy here. I am looking for a way to win this fight and I cannot do it with constant interruptions.”
“My lord, the situation below is desperate.”
“You think I don’t know that?” said Glorien, indicating the piles of books scattered on the desk. “The answer is in here, I know it.”
“With respect, my lord, it is not,” said Menethis, taking his arm firmly and pointing at the shuttered window. “It is out there on the walls with the warriors who are fighting and dying to defend this fortress.”
Glorien threw off his second in command’s grip. “Ah, yes… but I found a passage in the works of Aethis. Here, look, it’s in Theories of War.” Glorien scanned down the page until he found the specific passage he was looking for and held it up before him. “Here, listen to this. ‘Any competently commanded fortress can expect to withstand a siege for an indefinite period of time so long as its garrison is well supplied, courageous and the enemy has not more than a three to one superiority of numbers.’ So you see, Menethis, everything hinges on the courage of the warriors. Only they can let us down, since we are well supplied, yes?”
“That was written a long time ago, my lord and Aethis was no soldier, he was a poet and a singer who fancied himself as a great leader. He never fought in a single battle.”
Glorien said, “I know all that, but he was a thinker, Menethis, a thinker. His ideas are astounding. I know that if I can just—”
“My lord, I beg you!” cried Menethis. “You have to come out and fight with our warriors. Morale is practically nonexistent and it is only the likes of Alathenar and Eloien Redcloak that are holding us together. You need to be seen, my lord! You need to fight!”
“No, no…” said Glorien, returning to sit behind the desk and placing his hand upon the scattered tomes. “My books tell me that if the commander of an army should fall, it is disastrous for morale. No, I’ll not expose myself to such danger until the time is right!”
“That time is now, my lord,” said Menethis.
Soaring high above the bloody fighting on the Eagle Gate, Elasir and his two brothers swooped across the mountains as they sought out enemy warriors to attack. The skies above the fortress were clear now, for they had driven off the twisted harpy creatures, though the golden feathers of all three were bloodied and torn. Elasir himself sported a ragged scar, red and angry, across his white crown.
Though battles such as the one now being fought in the mountains were not to their liking, they had nested in the high eyries and lent what aid they could to the defenders of the Eagle Gate. As battle raged they would swoop low over the walls, tearing off heads and slashing limbs with their claws and beaks.
Druchii crossbowmen tried to bring them down, but the eagles were too swift for them to hit and the cry of the eagles soon became the terror of the Asur’s enemies. At the sight of the diving eagles, men would scatter in panic and druchii would desperately try to gather enough crossbows to fill the sky with bolts.
Elasir turned and extended his wings, slowing his flight as he spied a foe worthy of their strength.
Approaching the gate, he said, bringing his wings back in and turning in a tight circle.
His brothers had also spotted the danger and angled their course to match his, tucking their wings in close to their bodies as they plummeted back down towards the valley.
Drawing close to the gate was a monstrous hydra headed monster with iridescent scales, roaring and tearing the ground as a pack of straining druchii drove it forward with barbed tridents and vile curses. Its multiple heads writhed on long, sinuous necks, and sulphurous smoke billowed from each set of snapping jaws. Long spines like blistered growths sprouted from its back and a viscous slime seeped from weeping sores along its flanks where heavy iron plates had been fastened to its body with long chains and barbed hooks.
Volleys of arrows bounced from its armour or stuck in its flesh, but the monster was impervious to such minor wounds. Shouted cries echoed from the walls as war machines were brought to bear.
The eagles dived towards the hydra as its heads snapped forwards at a shouted command enforced by a barbed goad. A tremendous stream of liquid flame erupted from every mouth and the ramparts were bathed in searing fire. Elven warriors screamed as the creature’s blazing excretions set them alight and gobbets of blazing sputum drooled down the wall.
Heavy bolts from Asur war machines stabbed through the air towards the beast. Some ricocheted from the armoured plates while others penetrated its massive body with spurts of black ichor.
Elasir sensed the Chaos taint within its flesh and knew the beast would not stop until every last drop of blood had been wrung from its body. He let loose a terrifying cry and opened his wings with a great boom and swung his claws around beneath his body.
Crossbow bolts slashed the air, but none came close to the diving eagles.
The hydra’s nearest head twisted in the air like a snake as it heard their cry. Its jaws opened wide, but Elasir was already upon it. His iron hard claws raked across its skull, ripping through flesh and tearing into its dark, soulless eyes.
The head bucked under the assault and tore free from his claws in a wash of blood. The eagles surrounded the hydra in a flurry of beating wings and powerful claws, tearing at its heads with vicious slashes of their beaks. Flames bloomed and Elasir heard Irian cry in pain as his feathers caught light.
Druchii warriors flocked around the beast, and Elasir dropped to land on the nearest, tearing his head off with a casual flick of his beak. Blood fountained and the eagle launched himself at the others as they levelled crossbows of dark wood.
Some ran and lived. Others stood their ground and died.
Elasir leapt back into the air and with powerful beats of his wings he came upon the hydra from behind. His golden brothers still fought the madly twisting heads, two of which lay limp and dead while three others fought with manic energy and terrible fury.
The lord of the eagles lunged forwards and fastened his claws on the base of one of the necks still fighting. The hydra bucked as it felt him land on its body, but his claws were dug into its hide and it could not dislodge him. Elasir’s beak slashed into the meat and bone of its neck, slicing through it with three swift blows.
Druchii warriors swarmed around the beast, but were forced to keep their distance by the madly thrashing melee. Bolts filled the air and Elasir felt one score across his chest. Aeris opened the throat of another head and Irian blinded the last with a vicious sweep of his razored beak.
/> Helpless, the creature trampled druchii and men underfoot as it thrashed in its death agonies. The beast was as good as finished, and its final, frenzied moments would see yet more of the enemy dead.
The time had come to leave.
Fly, my brothers, cried Elasir, spreading his wings and taking to the air as yet more druchii ran towards the battle with crossbows. Fast or not, the lord of the eagles knew that with so many bolts in the air, at least some were sure to hit their targets.
Leaving the dying hydra behind them, the three eagles flew to safety.
Alathenar slumped against the parapet, drawing his thighs up to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees. His body ached from exertion and a score of cuts he could not remember receiving.
The valley seemed abruptly silent now that the clamour of fighting had faded. To Alathenar’s ears, days had two states: one of screaming steel and one of just screaming. As the sun dipped into the west and long shadows crept into the courtyard of the fortress, the sounds transitioned from the former to the latter as wounded warriors were carried from the walls and the routine of clearing the enemy dead began.
He was too exhausted to move and simply nodded as a wounded elf with his arm missing below the elbow handed him fresh quivers from a pannier slung around his neck.
Victual bearers made their way along the wall and Alathenar gratefully took a battered silver goblet of cool water and a hunk of waybread. Only when sluicers came to clean the wall of blood did he force his battered frame upright and make his way to the courtyard.
Eloien Redcloak was already there and arguing with the fortress’ master of horses, but gave up and walked away when he saw Alathenar descending the cut stairs.
“Still alive then?” said the reaver.
“Just about,” agreed Alathenar. “What was that about?”
“The fool wants to run the horses down to Ellyrion, but I told him we need them here.”
“For when we have to abandon this place and run,” finished Alathenar.
“Just so.”
“So you are not hopeful that we’ll hold.” It wasn’t a question.
01 - Defenders of Ulthuan Page 29
