Eldain passed beneath the flowers and picked his way carefully down to the settlement.
Captain Bellaeir was pleased to see them again, for it sat ill with him to have a crew idle when there were seas to cross and magical winds to be caught in the sails. His sailors had made friends with the other crews berthed in the harbour and news and rumours from across Ulthuan had quickly passed between them.
Yet more druchii ships had been spotted off the southern coasts of Ulthuan, but had apparently made no forays to shore. The skies above the Annulii were thick with birds crossing from one side of the island to the other and it was said that the magical currents roaring through the mountains were becoming more powerful.
More and more creatures were coming down from the mountains, drawn there by the dangerous currents of magic, and hunters from Chrace were fighting a near constant battle against unnatural monsters preying upon the inhabitants of the northern kingdoms.
Vaul’s Anvil rumbled and smoked as though the smith god himself was displeased and one crew claimed to have been caught in a storm in the seas around Avelorn, a sure sign of dark times ahead. Most of the other crews had scoffed at such a tale, but upon seeing the battering the ship had taken and the blackened scars of lightning impacts, they had retreated to their own vessels to ponder this evil omen.
More worrying, however, was the news that the druchii had landed on the western coast of Ulthuan. No one seemed to know exactly where, but as Eldain recalled Mitherion Silverfawn’s warning of terrible danger descending on Ellyr-Charoi, he feared the druchii were even now marching upon one of the gateway fortresses that protected Ellyrion.
All across Ulthuan, citizen levies were being armed for war and portents of doom were being reported from Yvresse to Tiranoc. As they had ridden through Cairn Auriel, Eldain had felt the potent fear of its inhabitants upon the air like a contagion.
Captain Bellaeir had taken the liberty of purchasing supplies for the journey, though he had not liked the news of their destination.
“The Gaen Vale?” he said with a frown. “Not a place for the likes of us.”
“No,” agreed Eldain, “but we have no choice. The Loremaster himself has despatched us.”
Bellaeir nodded absently and looked out to sea. “I have sailed the waters of the Inner Seas for many years, my lord. When Finubar the Seafarer became the Phoenix King I saw the ironwood ship carrying him to the Shrine of Asuryan and followed long enough to see the great flame. In my youth, I sailed as close as any have dared to the Isle of the Dead and I saw the day of my own passing.
“But in all my years as a seafarer, I have never once thought to venture near the Gaen Vale. The warrior women of the Mother Goddess jealously guard its shores and no male dares to set foot on that island. Any that try are never seen again.”
“Then you and I will be sure to remain on board the Dragonkin while Rhianna and Yvraine go ashore,” said Eldain.
Bellaeir sighed and left Eldain standing at the quay, directing Rhianna and his crew in getting the horses on board safely. They were intelligent beasts and none of them relished the prospect of being cooped up in the cramped hold of the sloop for several days.
Eldain couldn’t blame them and shrugged apologetically as Rhianna’s horse caught his eye and glowered at him. He saw Yvraine standing with her arms wrapped around herself, watching the sailors leading the horses onto the ship. The wind blowing in off the sea tousled her platinum hair and she was clearly not looking forward to another sea journey.
He made his way across the quay to stand beside her and said, “It seems you loathe travelling by sea as much as our mounts, Mistress Hawkblade.”
“Can you blame me?” she said.
“I know why the horses dislike it,” said Eldain. “In Ellyrion they are used to the freedom of the steppes, but why do you hate it so?”
Yvraine shrugged. “I do not like placing my fate in another’s hands. I prefer to be master of my own destiny.”
“Can any of us claim that?” asked Eldain. “Does the will of the gods not shape our future?”
“I do not know. Perhaps it does, but I make my own choices and live by my own code.”
“Does that code include killing my brother?”
Yvraine shielded her eyes from the low sun and said, “If that is what it takes to keep Ulthuan safe. Do not think to stop me.”
“If Caelir threatens Ulthuan, I will wield the blade myself,” said Eldain, surprised at the lack of feeling such an utterance caused within him.
“Then we understand one another,” said Yvraine, returning her attention to the horses.
“It would appear so.”
An awkward silence fell until eventually Yvraine said, “Isha willing, your horses will soon know the freedom of the steppe again.”
“You sound as though you’re not sure they will.”
“Perhaps I am not,” agreed Yvraine. “You heard what Lord Teclis said. The druchii are abroad and war is coming. None of us may see our homelands again.”
“Are you worried you might not see Saphery again?”
“No,” said Yvraine, shaking her head. “It is the fact that I am leaving Saphery when war is coming that disturbs me. I should be with my brethren defending the White Tower as I swore to do.”
Eldain smiled grimly. “If Lord Teclis is right, then all of us will have to fight soon. I do not think it matters overmuch where we make our stand.”
“It matters to me.”
“Then for all our sakes I hope your blade fights where it is most needed,” said Eldain.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Confluence
The morning sun rose higher, long shadows of dawn retreating before the advancing day and illuminating the valley before the Eagle Gate. Since the eagles had brought the wounded reaver and news of the advancing enemy, Glorien Truecrown had done all his books had recommended before battle.
Three riders had set off on the fastest steeds to Tor Elyr to bear news and request reinforcement, and scouts had been despatched to watch for the arrival of the enemy. Arrows had been stockpiled on the walls and every weapon checked and rechecked. The few mages attached to the Eagle Gate had spent the night in meditation, gathering their strength and powers for the coming battle.
He had personally inspected every inch of the wall and gate for weakness and had been relieved to find nothing out of place. As sloppy as Glorien had considered Cerion Goldwing’s leadership, he could find no fault with the defences.
At midmorning the Shadow Warrior, Alanrias, returned and Glorien met him at the gate.
The news was not good.
“They will be here in an hour, maybe less,” gasped the hooded scout, blood coating his grey cloak where an iron bolt had pierced him. “We harried them from Cairn Anroc, but the druchii of the Blackspine Mountains are skilled hunters and many of us were slain. Dark riders range ahead of the army, fighting running battles with reaver bands from Ellyrion.”
“Where are these reaver bands now?” asked Glorien, seeing no horsemen behind the scout.
“Most are dead, though some will have escaped into the mountains.”
Glorien thanked Alanrias and sent him to the healers before returning to the walls with Menethis at his side, trying not to let the fear that threatened to overwhelm him show in his long strides and confident mien. Together, they walked the length of the wall and Glorien took heart from the steely determination he saw in every warrior’s face. He dearly wished he felt the same confidence as these soldiers, for he had never yet faced an enemy in battle…
He attempted to converse with the warriors, as he had seen Cerion do on many occasions, but his words were awkward and stiff and he gave up after a few attempts. Instead, he took heart from the sheer solidity of the fortress, its sweeping white walls high and impregnable, its towers proud and inviolate. Hundreds of elven warriors manned the defences and he was as knowledgeable as any noble who had commanded its walls.
Caledor had built his fortresses well and never
once had a guardian fortress fallen to an enemy. That thought alone gave Glorien hope.
That hope sank in his heart as the sun climbed higher and the enemy host came into view.
They marched along the centre of the valley, thousands of dark elf warriors in disciplined regiments, carrying long spears and serpent banners on poles topped with silver runes. Armoured warriors with executioners’ blades slung over their shoulders advanced next to them in grim silence, banners scribed with the blasted rune of Khaine held proudly before them.
A ripple of horror passed along the wall as a trio of huge, black-scaled beasts with many serpentine heads were herded onwards by sweating beastmasters armed with long tined goads. Acrid smoke seeped from the fanged mouths of the monsters and their roars echoed from the valley sides as they snapped and strained at the chains that bound them.
Glorien’s eyes widened as he saw a group of prisoners herded before the monsters, their garb and fair hair marking them as warriors of Ellyrion.
“Oh no…” he whispered as one of the prisoners stumbled and was snatched up in the jaws of one of the hydra creatures. His screams carried in the cold air and Glorien watched in horror as the beast’s many heads fought over the body, ripping it to shreds in a feeding frenzy.
Already blood was being spilled and the reptilian cavalry of the druchii snorted and clawed the ground as they caught its scent. The dark nobles who rode these beasts wore elaborate armour of ebony plate and carried tall lances, the dread symbols of their houses borne proudly on kite-shaped shields.
Flocks of winged creatures wheeled above the advancing army, leathery fiends of repulsive feminine aspect, filling the air with loathsome screeches.
Alongside the druchii, a horde of corrupt men marched with raucous cries while beating their axes and swords upon their shields. Whipped madmen capered before the horde, deviant slaves sewn into flesh suits fashioned from flayed elven skin.
Barbaric tribesmen bellowed and shouted, their bodies glistening with oil and gleaming with plates of metal fused to their flesh by unnatural magic. As brutal as these men were, Glorien felt his blood run cold as he saw the champions who commanded them, warriors who had sworn their souls to the dark gods and whose runes were carved into the meat of their bodies.
Each champion was surrounded by his own bloodthirsty band of followers: muscular beasts that walked on two legs, mutant horrors of indefinable form, outcast warriors touched by the warping power of Chaos and gibbering shamen uttering forbidden doggerel.
Thousands of warriors filled the valley and Glorien watched as the terrifying host halted just outside the extreme range of his bolt throwers.
“So many…” he said, his throat dry and his stomach knotting in fear.
Menethis said nothing, but pointed a trembling finger to the centre of the enemy horde.
Two figures rode towards the Eagle Gate, one an alluring woman atop a dark steed with sinewy wings of night, and the other a monstrously powerful man riding an enormous, skinless horse with its saddle and bridle fused to its exposed musculature.
“What should we do, my lord?” asked Menethis.
Glorien licked his lips and said. “Nothing yet. Let me think.”
The two riders stopped and Glorien knew they were well within range of every one of his archers. He knew he could order them killed, but such a dishonourable act was beneath him. Men and druchii might behave without respect for the honourable conduct of war, but Glorien Truecrown was a noble of Ulthuan.
Instead, he took a deep breath and hoped his voice would not betray his awful fear.
“These lands are the sovereign territory of Finubar, Phoenix King of Ulthuan and lord of the Asur. Leave now or die!”
The silence of the valley was absolute, as though the mountains themselves awaited the response of the enemy leaders.
The druchii woman threw back her head and laughed, a bitter, dead sound, and the giant on the glistening steed shook his head, as though he could taste the fear in Glorien’s voice.
Glorien flinched as the woman’s dark steed spread its wings and leapt into the air, its red eyes like fiery gems and its breath a snorting cloud of evil vapours. Though she wore no saddle and held no reins, the woman showed no fear as the evil pegasus carried her through the air towards the fortress.
“Archers!” shouted Glorien. “Stand ready!”
Six hundred bows creaked as every archer on the wall drew back his string and stood ready to loose. Glorien would not kill an enemy who came to parlay, but this reckless ride was something different altogether.
Now that she was closer, Glorien could see that this was no ordinary druchii female, but one of incredible dark beauty, her pale flesh slender and taut and her hair a thick mane of shimmering darkness. She gripped the flanks of her mount with her thighs and Glorien knew he had never seen a more powerfully erotic sight.
“My lord?” said Menethis. “Shall I order the archers to loose?”
Glorien tried to answer, but he could not form the words, his soul ensnared by the unearthly allure of this dark femme. His lips moved, but made no sound and he was struck by the sheer absurdity of fighting this woman.
He felt a strong grip on his arm and shook it off as he continued to stare at this vision of dark beauty. Nor was he the only one so afflicted, for many of his warriors were similarly struck by the incredible power of this druchii’s rapturous comeliness, easing their strings and staring in wonder at this druchii.
Druchii…
The word screamed in his mind and Glorien gasped in horror as the spell of the woman’s beauty slipped from his mind.
This was no ordinary druchii…
He let out a great breath, as his body threw off the glamours of the sorceress and gripped the white stone of the merlon as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.
Glorien turned to his archers and shouted, “Bring her down! Now!”
Barely half the archers loosed, the rest still enraptured by her evil charisma, and at such close range, Glorien would have expected every warrior to hit his target.
But as the volley of shafts flashed through the air, a crackling haze of magic bloomed around the woman and the arrows fell from the sky as withered, ashen flakes. In response, she aimed her barbed staff towards the fortress and uttered a dreadful chant in the foul language of the druchii.
Howling winds, like the freezing breath of Morai-heg, swept over the battlements and Glorien cried out as bone-numbing cold seized his limbs. The deathly chill of the utterdark burned through him and an icy mist drifted over the battlements.
He heard screams as warriors dropped to their knees in pain, and glittering webs of frost appeared on the stonework of the fortress. Slicks of dark ice formed underfoot as Glorien’s every breath felt like daggers of frost in his lungs.
“I can taste your fear and it pleases me!” shrieked the druchii sorceress with malicious amusement. “An eternity of agony in the Chaos hells awaits those who stand before my warriors. This I promise, for I am Morathi and you are all going to die!”
The warm glow of the torches surrounded him and the applause of the audience filled Caelir with confidence as he made his way to stand in the centre of the rug. Smiling faces wished him well and he dearly hoped that he would not disappoint this gathering with his performance.
Narentir had given him a silver harp and he plucked a few strings experimentally, hoping the skills he had discovered with Kyrielle had not deserted him. The thought of Anurion’s daughter gave him pause, but instead of pain, the memory awakened only pleasant memories and he dearly wished she was here to see him play.
“Come along,” said Narentir, “don’t keep us waiting all night!”
Good-natured laughter washed over him and Caelir smiled as he saw Lilani lounging at the back of the audience, watching him with naked interest.
He closed his eyes and though he knew of many songs, he suddenly realised he didn’t know how to play any of them and a hot jolt of fear seized him as his mind went blank.
Had his unremembered talent deserted him?
The thought of letting down his audience terrified him and though he knew it was the dreamwine talking, he felt as though it would be the greatest failure of his life were he to stand here useless and without the gift of music.
He ran his hands across the instrument once more and then, without conscious thought or effort, his fingers began to dance across the strings. Golden music leapt from the harp to fill the night and Caelir emptied his mind of fear, giving his unknown muse free rein over his hands.
Delighted laughter sparkled from the audience and they clapped in time with the melodies wrung from his instrument. Caelir laughed as the music poured from him, fuelled by the appreciation of his listeners, and he knew that he had been accepted as one of them.
Before he knew what he was doing, he began to sing, the words flowing as naturally as though taught from birth:
Isha be with thee in every forest,
Asuryan at every day revealed,
Grace be with thee through every stream,
Headland, ridge and field.
Glory to thee forever,
Thou bright moon, Ladrielle;
Ever our glorious light.
Each sea and land,
Each moor and meadow,
Each lying down, each rising up,
In the trough of the waves,
On the crest of the billows,
Each step of the journey thou goest.
And then it was over, the words ended and the tune played out. He lowered the harp and let the moment hang, his breath hot in his throat and the excruciating desire to please still hammering in his chest.
Heartfelt cheers and applause greeted his song and Narentir rose from his seat at the edge of the rug. His face was smiling as he said, “Well done, Caelir, well done,” and pulled him into an embrace.
“It was just a simple wayfarer’s tune,” said Caelir, faintly embarrassed by the praise.
“True enough,” said Narentir, “but you sang it honestly and played it well.”
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