01 - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  The druchii ships surged after them, hatred driving them after the fleeing elven ships.

  “Well, they’re definitely coming…” said Meruval.

  Finubar nodded, watching with grim satisfaction as the elven ships on the flanks of what had once been their line surged forwards into the newly formed gap between the pursuing Raven ships and troop galleys that was widening by the second.

  “They’re reacting exactly as Lord Aislin predicted,” said Meruval.

  “Let’s hope they continue to do so,” said Finlain.

  Avelorn. Magical kingdom of the Everqueen and most ancient of the elven realms.

  Every tale Caelir could remember of the enchanted forest realm had spectacularly failed to capture the beauty and sense of wonder he felt in every breath he took of the heavenly fragrances that hung heavy in the air. Everywhere were wonders for the senses; sights to beguile, scents to savour and sounds to revel in.

  Music and song followed the company through the forest, some of Caelir’s own creation and some of the forest itself. An air of barely suppressed excitement had seized the group as they crossed the river at the outskirts of the forest and Caelir had felt a potent sense of the ancient magic that lurked beneath the bewitching glamours of this land.

  The air gossiped with news of their passing and tales of their songs, and each time they had crested a rolling hill or entered a different season of the forest, its inhabitants were ready to greet them with wine and requests for entertainment.

  The journey northwards had been one of excitement and awakening for Caelir, and he had relaxed into a routine of talking and laughing with his fellow travellers during the day then enjoying the luxury of hot food and a soft bedroll at night. The rugged splendour of the Finuval Plain had eventually given way to the forested outskirts of Avelorn and Caelir had performed for the travelling company several times upon the rag, discovering yet more talents he had not previously been aware of. He recited long forgotten epics of Aenarion, played haunting laments from the time of Morvael and sang arias from the creation operas of Tazelle with Lilani.

  The presence of such beauty kept the cares of the world at bay, and the blood and death that had surrounded Caelir since his awakening seemed to recede into the hindmost part of his thoughts.

  Days passed in a blur of song and wonder and each time Caelir had thought his capacity for amazement exhausted, he would see yet another marvel to render him speechless with delight. In sun-dappled glades he saw elf maids clad in shimmering gowns of mist on the backs of unicorns; great, golden feathered eagles soared above the forest canopy and as they had descended into a shadowed dell, he heard the creaking, heavy footfalls of what Lilani told him was one of the ancient forest’s treemen.

  The dancer was a lover of rare vigour and nor was she shy in telling others of his prowess. On nights when the dreamwine flowed and ardent performances fired the blood of the company, they would take other lovers in the heat of passion and petty concerns such as jealousy and morality became irrelevant when art of such beauty and meaning was in the air.

  Such behaviour was at odds with the disciplined life of the Asur Caelir remembered, but he could not find it in himself to think of it as wrong.

  He had spoken of this as the company penetrated deeper into the Everqueen’s forest, and in answer, Narentir had spoken to him of the group’s philosophies. They sat together on the padded seats of one of the wagons as Lilani rode beside them on Caelir’s black steed and listened with wry amusement to their conversation.

  “It’s really quite simple, my dear boy,” said Narentir. “To deny yourself the pleasures of the senses is to deny your soul its nourishment. Why would the gods have given us this capacity for sensual pleasure and enjoyment if not to use it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I’m much of a philosopher.”

  “Nonsense, dear heart,” said Narentir, putting his arm around Caelir. “Life is hard and every year it gets harder. Norse raiders attack from the sea and every day new horrors are unleashed upon the world. But none of that concerns us.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No, for we are not heroes or warriors, are we? We are dancers, poets, musicians and singers. What possible use could we be in times of crisis? Folk such as us do not fight wars; we celebrate those who do in songs and poems. Without people like us, there would be nothing worth living for. A bland and tasteless world it would be without songs and singers to give them voice. So why let the cares of the world hang from our shoulders when there are elves like that golden fellow we saw with the splendid silver knights to bear them for us?”

  Caelir remembered the armoured warrior with the winged helmet as he had ridden by them several days ago, and the strange feeling of accomplishment that had swept through him when they had ridden past still lingered in his memory. Only later had he realised that the warrior had been none other than Prince Tyrion and he wished he had savoured the sight of such a legendary figure.

  “But surely everyone has to contribute to the greater good,” protested Caelir, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “The citizen levies for example.”

  Narentir shook his head. “Dear boy, can you see me as a soldier?”

  “Maybe not now, but you must have spent some time in the levy.”

  “I did, I did, that’s true. I spent a loathsome summer in the ranks of the Eataine Levy and I was a terrible warrior. More dangerous to my comrades than the enemy I shouldn’t wonder. Each of us has a place in the world, Caelir, and to try and fit where one does not belong is wasteful. When I realised this fact, I gave myself over to absolute pleasure and gathered like-minded souls about me to seek gratification in all things.

  “Of course some small minded types disapproved of wantons such as us, declaring we were little better than the Cult of Pleasure.”

  Caelir’s eyes widened at the mention of the dark sect begun by the Hag Sorceress many thousands of years ago. Its devotees had indulged their every sordid whim and desire, plumbing depths of insanity never imagined, and evil stories of their excesses were still told as cautionary tales to the young.

  “I see you’ve heard the name, dear boy, but we are nothing like those terrible monsters, merely poor players who wish to wring each moment dry of sensation and indulge in our passion for the arts. I ask you, do we look like the sort to engage in blood sacrifices?”

  Caelir laughed and said, “No, you certainly don’t.”

  “Thank you,” smiled Narentir. “And since we clearly were unwanted in Lothern, we decided to make for the one place on Ulthuan I knew we would be welcome.”

  “And what do you plan to do now that you are here?”

  “Do, my dear Caelir?” said Narentir. “I do not intend to do anything at all, I simply intend to be. To sing songs and tell wonderful tales, to make love beneath the stars and to become part of the Everqueen’s court.”

  “And become one of her consorts…” said Lilani.

  Narentir laughed and said, “Perhaps even that, my dear, perhaps even that. For this is Avelorn and who can guess what miracles are possible beneath its boughs?”

  The druchii galleys were monstrous ships, high sided and dark hulled, constructed in the hellish shipyards of Clar Karond. The vessels ran low in the water, such was the weight of warriors they carried, and displayed none of the usual grace of elven hands, even druchii ones, for they had been constructed with the bloody toil of slaves. These were simply hulks, fashioned to bear troops to another land and not to bring them back.

  The Eagle ships that had sailed on the flanks of the elven line were wolves in a herd of slumbering sheep, their speed and manoeuvrability enabling them to slash through the lines of ships and attack with virtual impunity. Druchii crossbowmen shot iron darts from behind shield-lined gunwales, but the Eagle ships danced across the waves beyond their range.

  Heavy silver bolts from Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers smashed through the timbers of the troop galleys, wreaking havoc in the decks below as they
speared dozens of warriors at a time. Hails of smaller bolts swept the decks of the druchii ships and they ran red with rivers of blood.

  Elven mages hurled rippling sheets of fire from the forecastles of the Eagle ships and the tarred wood of the hulks burst into flame. The gathering storm clouds reflected the light of battle as a hateful orange glow and only the rain saved many of the hulks from instant immolation. The druchii ships attempted to sail close to one another for protection, but against the speed and skill of the elven captains there was nothing they could do but suffer the hails of blue-fletched arrows and lethal bolts that punched through their hulls and slaughtered their warriors.

  The Eagle ships wove between the wallowing troop galleys like predators of the wild, denying them any respite from the killing. Flames leapt from ship to ship as flaming sheets of sail were caught on hot updraughts and set light to other ships.

  Timber groaned and split as a druchii hulk split apart and spilled its complement of warriors into the sea. Druchii screamed as they fell into the dark, flame-lit waters, splashing frantically as their armour dragged them to the bottom of the ocean.

  The eastern flank of Lord Aislin’s fleet drove many of the ungainly transports towards the cliffs of Ulthuan, where they would be dashed to destruction against undersea rocks.

  The rearguard of the druchii fleet, seeing the horrifying carnage wreaked amongst the galleys, surged forwards and suddenly the Eagle ships were faced with a foe that had teeth and could fight back.

  The Raven ships were larger than those of the Asur, but no less manoeuvrable, and the battle degenerated into a bloody duel of deadly missiles as the two fleets darted between burning galleys and hunted one another in billowing clouds of smoke and ocean spray.

  Thus far, the Eagle ships had had the best of the battle, but the Raven ships were not the simple prey the transport galleys had been.

  Druchii sorcerers froze the water around the elven ships, whereupon they were ripped apart by hails of bolts or boarded by screaming warriors. Vicious boarding actions erupted as druchii assault ramps hammered against the hulls of trapped Eagle ships, and warriors fought to the death on the heaving, blood-slick decks of their vessels.

  Sorcerous fire blasted great chunks from Eagle ships and sent them to watery graves as the sea poured inside their pristine hulls. The attacking rearguard reaped a fearsome tally of Eagle ships, but they were still outnumbered and without the added strength their vanguard provided, the Eagle ships could still win the fight.

  Even through the rain, Captain Finlain could see the walls of flame from behind the pursuing Raven ships. Lord Aislin’s flanking ships would even now be running amok amongst the slower, heavier transport galleys and druchii warriors would be dying.

  The thought made him grin.

  Their feigned retreat had drawn the wedge of the druchii ships forward and he knew it was time to turn and fight. The flanking ships would need their support if this battle were to be won.

  But first the druchii ships at his stern needed to be sunk.

  “How many do you think?” he shouted over to Meruval.

  The navigator threw a glance over his shoulder and said, “Perhaps sixty or so.”

  Finlain nodded, agreeing with Meruval’s assessment. Sixty armed warships was not a force to underestimate, but he had more ships and the best mariners in the world at his command.

  And soon he would have the element of surprise when they turned on their pursuers…

  The rain and wind were growing in power and intensity, but he had sailed the oceans of the world for long enough to know how to make use of such things.

  “Meruval, prepare to turn about!” he cried over the howling winds. “It’s our turn to earn glory and honour!”

  “Glory and honour, yes sir!” returned Meruval as Finlain marched between the eager warriors lining his deck. Their tunics were plastered to their armour by the rain and their silver speartips glittered with diamonds of moisture.

  He nodded to these warriors as he passed, confident that they would smash this druchii fleet and send it to the bottom of the ocean, along with every one of their crews. They were almost within range of the mighty bolt throwers on the Emerald Gate and when they were, he would turn the ships of the elven fleet to face their pursuers as swiftly as they had turned away from them.

  Caught between a suddenly resurgent foe and the lethal bolts of the Emerald Gate, the destruction of the druchii would be swift and merciless.

  Finlain looked up into the sky as he heard a booming crack of air and awaited the flicker of lightning a second later. The skies remained resolutely dark and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement, but he put it from his mind as Meruval shouted from the tiller. “Captain! Come quickly!”

  Hearing the alarm in Meruval’s voice, Finlain sprinted across the deck and flew up the steps to the vessel’s tiller. He looked over the stern of Finubar’s Pride and saw with horror the druchii were turning to rejoin the battle raging between his flanking Eagle ships and the enemy rearguard.

  “What are they doing?” he cried as the Raven ships surged away from his ships.

  “Looks like they’re not taking our bait,” said Meruval.

  “Quick! Turn us about!” shouted Finlain.

  The Finubar’s Pride angled into the sea and her sleek prow cut through a wall of dark water as she began a sharp turn. The other captains in his line had seen the same thing he had and were also bringing their ships about.

  A tail pursuit was far from the ideal way to fight a sea battle, but Finlain saw they had no choice. If the enemy vessels earmarked for destruction at his hands were able to add their strength to the battle raging further out to sea then all was lost.

  Once again Finlain heard the booming crack of air above him, but as he looked up once more, he realised that this was no peal of thunder as he saw a monstrous dark shape flash through the low clouds overhead.

  He ran to the side of Finubar’s Pride as he saw the dark shape drop through the clouds upon the silver ship next to his.

  A terrifying reptilian shape, massive and scaled in darkness, spread its mighty wings and seized the ship’s mast in its taloned hind legs. Timber shattered with a splintering crack as the boat was wrenched upwards and its keel split apart under the strain.

  Finlain’s heart turned to a lump of ice as the colossal black dragon was illuminated in a flash of blue thunder. Its great horned head snapped down and a handful of flailing elves were scooped up in its fanged jaws. Blood sprayed from between its teeth as it bit down and Finlain forced himself to act.

  “Ready the Eagle’s Claw!” he shouted as his archers took aim at the terrifying beast that beat the air into a whirlwind with its wide wings.

  A streaking bolt of violet lightning leapt from behind the dragon’s colossal head and Finlain had a brief image of a giant in dark armour sitting between the spines of the roaring monster. Cold green eyes glittered behind the figure’s helmet and Finlain knew there was only one denizen of Naggaroth who encapsulated such force of hate and malice.

  This was no mere druchii princeling…

  This was the Witch King himself.

  The dragon beat its wings and flew towards another ship, mercifully not the Finubar’s Pride, and its jaws opened wide as a streaming cloud of hissing vapours erupted from its gullet. Finlain could only watch in horror as the ship’s crew fell screaming to the deck, the skin melting from their bones and their lungs burning in the dragon’s corrosive breath.

  Arrows slashed towards the great beast, but its dark hide was proof against such irritants, and its diabolical rider hurled deadly arcs of lightning that set ships aflame with every flick of his clawed hands. Ships burned with magical fire or were smashed to matchwood by the power of the dragon. To their credit, Finlain’s crew were able to loose a silver bolt at the rampaging monster, but the unnatural power of its rider protected it and the bolt burned to ashes before it even struck home.

  A few captains attempted to sail clear of the carnage and reach
the flanking Eagle ships, but the dragon and its hateful rider thwarted every effort, smashing them to ruin and slaughtering their crew. Ship after ship splintered and broke apart under the assault and Finlain saw that nothing could stand against such raw, violent strength.

  “We cannot fight this!” shouted Finlain. “Meruval, get us back through the Emerald Gate.”

  The Witch King and his roaring dragon made sport of Lord Aislin’s fleet and the destruction they wrought on each of their victims allowed a precious few of the remaining ships to turn and sail back towards Ulthuan.

  Along with a handful of Eagle ships, Finubar’s Pride fled the slaughter that was turning the ocean red and Finlain knew that, without support, the Eagle ships still fighting further out would soon be at the bottom of the ocean.

  Through the smoke and fires of battle, Finlain could hear the blood-soaked victory chants of the druchii as they fought through the fortress walls of the Glittering Lighthouse. The shimmering beacon atop the lighthouse flickered for a moment in the storm-wracked darkness, as though fighting to stay alight.

  He closed his eyes in sorrow as the light guttered and died.

  The Finubar’s Pride sailed between the great arched walls of the Emerald Gate and he whispered, “Forgive us…”

  The first battle for Lothern had been lost.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kinstrife

  The mouth of the River Arduil was a gentle bow in the coastline of Avelorn, and Eldain felt his pulse quicken as Captain Bellaeir steered them around the forested headland that separated it from the Sea of Dusk. To walk in the enchanted realm of the Everqueen would be a new experience for Eldain, but even as he felt the breath of magic from the northern kingdom, he reminded himself that they were not travelling here as pilgrims.