03 - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “I cannot risk discovery,” said Elthyrior. “Treachery is the greatest weapon the Naggarothi have in their arsenal at the moment. Can you vouch for all of your soldiers? Are you certain that none of them are connected to the cytharai cults?”

  Carathril admitted to himself that he did not have such confidence, but would not say as such to the raven herald. The Sea Guard were loyal to Eataine, and he had come to the conclusion that even if one or two had been corrupted, there was little they could do whilst surrounded by enemies.

  “I can tell that you understand me,” said Elthyrior.

  “It is with betrayal and suspicion that Morathi and her followers strike their deadliest blows, and we would be foolish to trust anyone but ourselves in these times.”

  “You are right,” Carathril said with a nod. “I am seeking Imrik of Caledor. A few princes survived the massacre and seek to choose a new Phoenix King to succeed Bel Shanaar.”

  “Imrik is a good choice,” said Elthyrior.

  “I have not said that Imrik has been chosen,” said Carathril.

  “No, but that would explain why seven assassins seek him not more than a day from here,” replied the raven herald.

  “What?” Carathril almost cut Elthyrior in his moment of shock. He pulled the dagger back from the other elf’s throat. “What assassins?”

  “Khainite, the deadliest kind,” said Elthyrior. “I have followed them for the last five days, since I came across their trail. If you turn east, you will be following in their footsteps. Move swiftly, I fear they already know where to find Imrik.”

  “We have to leave at once!” Carathril threw aside his blanket and got to his feet.

  “Please wait until dawn,” said Elthyrior. “It is not far off. And keep my appearance here a secret.”

  “I will,” said Carathril. “Before you leave, can you tell me what happens in Nagarythe? What does Morathi plan? Any news you have would be invaluable.”

  “Not all of Nagarythe is under Morathi’s control,” said the raven herald. “The House of Anar resists her. You travelled through their lands on leaving Phoenix Pass, though you did not know it. They will hold back Morathi as long as they can, but they cannot hold forever. Already I fear the cults control Tor Anroc, from what Alith learnt before he fled. It would not be safe for you to travel there, nor any herald of the other princes. The first blows come spring are likely to fall upon Ellyrion and Chrace.”

  “And would you have kept this information to yourself had our paths not crossed?” said Carathril, wondering just how much Elthyrior knew about the events that were unfolding.

  “It is because I bear this news that our paths have crossed,” the raven herald replied, which did not allay Carathril’s suspicions but he decided not to press the matter.

  “Which way must we head to catch the assassins?” he asked instead.

  “Due east at dawn for half a day,” replied Elthyrior, standing up. He dipped his head in a nod of respect. “I fear from there the assassins’ path will be all too clear.”

  “You will follow them also?”

  “No,” replied the raven herald with a shake of his head. “I am already out of Nagarythe and the situation changes quickly. Now that Morai Heg has sent you to me, I will return and watch Anlec for the next move of Morathi.”

  “Thank you for coming to me,” said Carathril.

  The gloom of the lamp disappeared, leaving the tent in darkness. Carathril heard not a rustle of feather nor the flap of the door, but knew within a heartbeat that the raven herald had gone. He waited for a while, collecting his thoughts, which had been sent into a whirl by Elthyrior. When he was certain the raven herald was away from the camp, he lit a lamp, pulled on his breastplate, vambraces and sword belt.

  Leaving the tent, he saw that the sentries around the camp had not moved, and the glow of the fires illuminated the mountainside for some distance. Carathril walked over to the closest picket.

  “Anything strange?” asked the herald.

  “Nothing,” the sentry replied. “Not even the birds have disturbed us.”

  Shaking his head at the mysterious ways of the raven heralds, Carathril moved to one of the fires where he sat until the first glow of dawn appeared in the east. He sent one of the Sea Guard to fetch Neaderin.

  “It’s too cold for such an early start,” said the captain as he warmed himself by the fire. “What could be so urgent?”

  Carathril had wondered how he would explain his change of mind without mentioning Elthyrior. He did not want to lie to Neaderin, but nor could he reveal the raven herald’s visit.

  “I think that we shall take too long if we go around the mountains,” said Carathril. “Imrik must be crowned Phoenix King as soon as possible, before the Naggarothi respond to events at the Isle of the Flame. With winter coming, it would be better if Imrik left Chrace sooner rather than later. We will head directly east.”

  Neaderin gave Carathril a hard look, displeased with this news. The herald had expected some resistance and decided that he was in no mood for a debate.

  “I am the appointed commander of the expedition, and I have made my decision,” he said, standing up. “I want the company breakfasted and camp broken now. If there is anything you need me for, I shall be making my preparations to leave.”

  With that, Carathril turned and left the astonished Sea Guard captain and walked back to his tent, trying not to hurry.

  ——

  A New Legend

  The wind had died down and the snow abated, but the late afternoon air was chill as Koradrel led the hunting party back towards the road to Tor Achare. Space had been made on one of the sleds for the bodies of the elves that had been killed by the manticore; another was laden with the hide, head and claws of the beast, for artificers to make suitable trophies.

  “It seems we are not alone,” said Imrik, pointing to the west.

  A thin column of smoke could be seen against the setting sun, drifting up from the forested slopes of Anul Anrian. Koradrel looked to the west, brow knotted in a frown.

  “That’s a large fire for a camp,” he said, signalling to one of the guides to join him. The elf jogged to join his prince. “It could be nothing, but go and take a look. It may be that some monster has caused the blaze.”

  The scout trotted off from the path, disappearing quickly beneath the pines that lined the mountainside on either side of the trail.

  “What manner of beast could set such a fire?” said Imrik as the two continued on, the caravan of sleds not far behind.

  “Who can say?” replied Koradrel with a shrug that set his lion cloak swinging. “There are all kinds of creatures in these mountains that defy definition; things warped by Chaos and sustained by the vortex.”

  “How far to the camp?” asked Imrik. He was feeling tired and his chest was bruised from the manticore’s attack.

  “Not far,” Koradrel said. He pulled a small clay bottle from a pouch at his belt and unstoppered it. The Chracian passed the bottle to Imrik with a smile. “This will keep you warm for a while longer.”

  “Charinai?” Imrik said, sniffing the bottle’s contents. He took a swig of the spiced spirit, which warmed his mouth and throat to leave a pleasant taste of autumn fruits. “I hope you have more.”

  “There is a bottle in my pack somewhere,” Koradrel replied with a grin. “We can celebrate our kill properly once we reach the campsite.”

  Imrik passed the liquor back to his cousin, feeling invigorated by the brew. He glanced again to the west and hoped the smoke was something mundane; he did not feel in the mood for another encounter with Chrace’s bestial denizens.

  The Sea Guard spread around the clearing, spears and shields held at the ready, forming a cordon around the smoking ruins of a cabin. Carathril approached with sword unsheathed, eyes scanning the surrounding treeline for any sign of the perpetrators.

  “Here!” Neaderin called out from beside a smaller pile of charred wood, most likely an outhouse of some kind. Two
crows flapped away from something at Neaderin’s feet, startled by his shout. The captain’s voice was tense, and he stepped away from whatever he had found, shoulders hunched.

  Carathril crossed the clearing quickly. He stopped dead as his eyes fell upon Neaderin’s discovery, his stomach twisting in revulsion.

  He was not sure how many bodies there were in the ash, but the size of some of the bones meant that children had been slain. What remained of the burned flesh was hacked and gouged, scattered into the flames. There was blood in the snow. A lot of blood. A short distance away, where the crows had been, entrails had been laid out. The interference of the carrion birds had not dislodged the gory pattern so much that it could not be recognised: a rune of Khaine.

  Carathril shuddered as he remembered the places he had seen such depravity before; in the cult lairs of Lothern and the fortress of Ealith in Nagarythe.

  “Naggarothi,” said Carathril. “Assassins sent after Imrik.”

  “How can you be sure?” replied Neaderin, not looking back towards the grisly scene. “This could be the work of Chracian cultists.”

  “Unlikely,” said Carathril. “Had we found such a thing in Tor Achare, I would be tempted to believe you. Here, in the wilderness, it seems too much of a coincidence. These unfortunates were tortured before they were slain. This is a tree-feller’s lodge. The only other thing this poor family would know is where to find the best pine groves.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Neaderin. “There is no sign of any trail leaving the clearing. Whoever did this covered their tracks.”

  “Or left none,” said Carathril, remembering the strange ways of the raven heralds. If such secrets were known to the assassins, Imrik was in grave peril.

  At that moment, there was a call from one of the Sea Guard, who had fanned out to search the treeline. Neaderin and Carathril ran over to see what had been discovered.

  “Your assassins made a mistake,” said Neaderin, bending to one knee as the Sea Guard pointed at a patch of snow sheltered between the roots of a tree. Carathril saw a few drops of red on the white.

  “They headed north-east,” he said. “There’s nothing else, call your company back. We must hurry if we are to warn Imrik.”

  The soldiers rallied to the clearing at the call of their captain and headed out after the assassins, armour jingling as they ran into the woods.

  The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains and the sky to the east was a deep blue, the first stars visible, the crescent of Sariour appearing over the horizon. Elthanir knew his prey was close. The pain in his head had almost abated, leaving just a dull ache to nag at his thoughts. He could smell wood smoke on the light breeze, coming from a fire to the north. That concurred with the woodcutter’s confession.

  Sensing this too, the other assassins spread out as they moved through the close trunks of the pine trees. Elthanir began a whispered mantra, the incantation of a spell that drew in the magic of the vortex. Sorcery swirled around him, bending and shifting, seeping into his body.

  Glancing at the others, he saw them doing the same. One moment seven black-clad figures stalked into the shadow; the next they were gone.

  Stepping so lightly his feet left no mark upon the fallen needles and mulch, Elthanir stalked northwards. Owls hooted and small mammals scurried past, paying no heed to his presence as he slipped between the trees, pulling a recurved short bow from the quiver across his back and quickly stringing it as he walked. Ahead, he saw the distant twinkle of orange that was the camp-fire. He slid an arrow into place, its tip glistening with poison made from the black lotus. The assassin moved so he could see the fire a little better. There were half a dozen large tents, and hunters clad in lion-pelt cloaks moved about the camp. He settled down against a tree to wait for his victim to show himself.

  There was laughter, and scattered verses of song. The Chracians were in high spirits. Elthanir could not remember what it was like to know such joy; the only pleasure he felt came from the act of killing and the infliction of pain.

  The last rays of the sun streamed through the branches ahead, mingling with the smoke of the fire. A tent flap cracked and a tall elf emerged, clad in armour, a sword at his hip. He wore no lion cloak and Elthanir recognised him immediately: the Caledorian! Hatred welled up inside the assassin, remembering the agony he had felt, the image of his victim burned into his mind.

  Imrik wandered away from the fire, heading to Elthanir’s right. He moved from his position, flitting from shadow to shadow, disturbing nothing, the roosting birds overhead oblivious to his presence. He caught sight of his quarry again, standing in a small clearing, looking up into the clear skies.

  Elthanir sighted on the prince, raising his bow. He gently pulled back the string, enjoying the tautness in his hand, revelling in the moment of death. With a satisfied smile, he loosed the arrow.

  Imrik enjoyed the touch of the fresh air on his cheek after the heat of the camp. The clouds had cleared and he looked up at the stars, remembering the constellations as they had been taught to him by his mother. As he turned his gaze downwards, his eyes caught something close to the edge of the clearing. It was a line of paw marks in the shallow snow, each several times as large as his hand. It was unmistakeably the trail of a white lion.

  Just as he looked up, he saw a glint in the air. Reacting without thought, Imrik threw himself to one side, hand pulling his sword free in one fluid gesture, the blade flashing up to slice the arrow in half as it passed within a hand’s breath of his shoulder.

  Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned and shifted again, this time a dagger spinning end-over-end out of the shadows. Imrik deflected it with the flat of his blade.

  “Attack!” he yelled, spinning on his heel, searching for some sign of his assailants. He saw nothing but darkness. “Assassins!”

  He heard the thud of feet and spun around, sword ready.

  A lion whose shoulder was as high as the prince’s rushed from the woods, fangs bared, its pale fur shining in the starlight. The Caledorian prince met its gaze, looking into deep yellow eyes filled with feral hunger. Imrik leapt aside as the lion raced towards him, just as he expected it to pounce.

  The lion ignored him and ran straight across the clearing. On reaching the trees it leapt, paws outstretched. Blood splashed onto a nearby tree trunk, though from what Imrik could not see. Roaring and biting, the lion struggled with something that seemed to be made of shadow. Cuts opened up in its white hide, adding the lion’s blood to the mess, but a moment later a hand fell into view, ragged bone jutting from it. There was a piercing wail and an elf clad in black staggered into the clearing.

  Alerted by a shout, Koradrel snatched up his axe and ran from the tent he shared with his cousin. He heard the roar of a lion and set off at a sprint towards it, fearing Imrik was being attacked by one of the fabled white-furred beasts. The other hunters surged from the camp behind him.

  He found his cousin in a small clearing a short distance from the camp, sword in hand, circling constantly, his blade sweeping and chopping in what seemed to be a mad slashing at thin air. Something fluttered on the edge of Koradrel’s vision, a hazy mist that parted and reformed at the blade’s passing.

  As he neared the edge of the trees, Koradrel thought he saw something else, a greater darkness in the shadows behind Imrik. There was definitely movement. Not knowing what manner of spirits attacked his cousin, Koradrel slid to a stop and hurled his axe at the apparition closing in behind Imrik. It whirled across the clearing and struck the deeper shadow, stopping in the air. A heartbeat later, the body of an elf collapsed to the snow, almost cleaved in twain from shoulder to waist by the axe blade.

  There were shouts from the other hunters as they encountered more shadowy foes in the woods, and the ring of metal on metal. There were cries of pain as well, and the whicker of darts and arrows cut the air.

  The stupefying effect of the charinai continued to flush from Imrik’s body as he raised his sword to fend off another blu
rred attack towards his throat. As he staggered back the light of the moons broke through the cloud, bathing the clearing in silvery-green light. At that moment, he caught sight of his assailant, a flicker of a figure in the glow of the Chaos moon, swirling with the power of the vortex.

  Imrik lunged without thought to drive the point of his blade towards the assassin’s face. The shadowy attacker leaned away from the attack, a dagger glinting in the moonlight ringing against Imrik’s blade. Even as the moonlight faded behind the clouds again Imrik pressed his attack, slashing his sword left and right, feeling its tip connect with flesh. There was a cry of pain and Imrik thrust high. Blood spattered along the etched blade and the magic of Lathrain flared, white licks of fire erupting along the blade.

  Still swathed in shadow, the assassin flailed across the clearing, his clothing burning with pale flame so that he appeared a hazy silhouette of dark cloud engulfed by white fire, darkness and light swirling and battling.

  Hearing fresh steps behind him, Imrik turned, sword at the ready. Koradrel raced into the clearing and snatched up his axe from the body of another assassin as more lion-cloaked hunters ran from the woods. One of the Chracians fell, a barbed dart in his arm, blood pouring from eyes and nose as the poison quickly took effect. There was a lighter blur in the dark and a savage growl rebounded from the trees; the white lion still prowled the woods.

  “How many?” panted Imrik.

  “Four are dead,” said Koradrel. “I do not know how many still live.”

  “There!” bellowed one of the huntsmen, pointing to the south as a dark shape sped from the treeline, the faint light catching a glint on a raised blade.

  Three of the hunters leapt to meet the assassin; the first toppled to the ground in the next heartbeat, head falling separately. The other two swung their axes high and low and the crunch of breaking bones broke the stillness. A mangled body appeared, slumped on the ground, a curved, serrated blade falling from the assassin’s dead grasp.