[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER “TIME OF LEGENDS” NOVEL

  SHADOW KING

  Sundering - 02

  Gav Thorpe

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This one is for the loving fathers of the world!

  The most tragic tale from the Time of Legends tells of the fall of the greatest houses of the elves and the rise of three kings: Phoenix, Witch and Shadow.

  There was once a time when all was order, now so distant that no mortal creature can remember it. Since time immemorial the elves have dwelt upon the isle of Ulthuan. Here they learnt the secrets of magic from their creators, the mysterious Old Ones. Under the rule of the Everqueen they dwelt upon their idyllic island unblemished by woe.

  When the coming of Chaos destroyed the civilisation of the Old Ones, the elves were left without defence. Daemons of the Chaos Cods ravaged Ulthuan and terrorised the elves.

  From the darkness of this torment rose Aenarion, the first of the Phoenix Kings, the Defender.

  Aenarion’s life was one of war and strife, yet through the sacrifice of Aenarion and his allies, the daemons were defeated and the elves were saved. In his wake the elves prospered for an age, but all their grand endeavours were to be for naught.

  The warrior-people of Nagarythe found little solace in peace and in time would turn upon each other and their fellow elves.

  Where once there was harmony, there came discord. Where once peace had prevailed, now came bitter war.

  Heed now the tale of the Sundering.

  PART ONE

  The Child of Kurnous

  Strife in Nagarythe

  A Trailing Shadow

  The Treachery of Malekith

  ——

  The Young Hunter

  In the days of the first Phoenix King, Aenarion the Defender founded the realm of Nagarythe in the harsh north of Ulthuan. Under his reign the Naggarothi—as Aenarion’s people were called—studied long the arts of war and forged a formidable army to defeat the daemons of Chaos.

  At Anlec, greatest fortress of the elves, Aenarion held court with his queen, Morathi, and they brought into the world their son, Malekith. Aenarion fell at the very moment of his victory and the rule of Nagarythe passed to his son. Prince Malekith formalised the promises of his father and secured the lands and wealth of the many princes who had fought by Aenarion’s side. Yet, ever a warrior and a wanderer, Malekith departed for new wars in the colonies.

  Second only to the great Caledor Dragontamer in Aenarion’s esteem was Eoloran Anar, the Phoenix King’s standard bearer. To his stewardship Malekith gave the lands of eastern Nagarythe in the hills and mountains of the Annulii. In Aenarion and Malekith’s name Eoloran would rule, and there was peace and prosperity for an age.

  Eoloran was a wise prince and was content to raise the power and privilege of House Anar without conflict, though he sent his son Eothlir to fight in the colonies for a time so that he might know something of war. His wife having died in the war with the daemons, Eoloran became reclusive, though always ready to answer the calls of the lesser nobles of Nagarythe. Other, more ambitious princes grew in renown and the deeds of Eoloran faded from memory except within the halls of Elanardris.

  With Malekith gone from Nagarythe to conquer new realms for the elves, the seed was sown for division. Jealous of the power granted to Eoloran, though he did not wield it often, Morathi wove tangled politics to isolate the Anars from the rest of Ulthuan while all the while strengthening her grip upon Anlec and Nagarythe. It was not a topic Eoloran wished to discuss with his family, who were left to wonder what the ancient elf planned to revive his family’s fortunes, or if he had any plan at all. He forbade any of the Anars from visiting Anlec and instead was content to petition his fellow lords with letters reminding them of their support from the Anars in centuries past and their ancient vows to one another. Eoloran’s son, Eothlir, tried as best he could to maintain the status of House Anar, but he knew that there was a change coming. He could not define what it was that alarmed him; it was a flicker in the corner of the eye, a sound on the edge of hearing, a distant scent on the wind that cautioned him.

  It was the Season of Frost, in the one thousand and forty-second year of the reign of Phoenix King Bel Shanaar. At the home of the Anars, the wind had turned north and brought with it the chill of winter down from the mountains. Snow flurries drifted from the highest peaks in long, fluttering streamers of white. The furthest reaches of the pine forests were dusted with snow as the bitter weather crept down the mountainsides day by day. Maieth was wrapped in a long shawl of dark blue wool as she stood in the gardens of the Anars’ manse. Eothlir, her husband, placed an arm around her and smiled.

  “There is a warm fire within, why do you stand outside in the cold?” he asked.

  “Listen,” she said. They both stood in silence, and the only sound to be heard was the sighing of the wind. Then, faintly, there was a call, the croak of a crow.

  “A single crow in winter,” said Eothlir. “A bad omen, do you think?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Though no more an omen than a houseful of sudden guests come here from Anlec seeking sanctuary.”

  “It is but a temporary arrangement,” said Eothlir. “One day Prince Malekith will return. He will rein in Morathi’s excesses. We must be patient.”

  “Excesses?” laughed Maieth, with bitterness not humour. “Butchery and perversion are not ‘excesses’!”

  “There are those who protect her, you know that,” said Eothlir. “But there are as many who see her rule as tyranny and resist her.”

  “When?” demanded Maieth, pulling herself free from her husband’s arms to stare at him. “For many years they have done nothing; we have done nothing.”

  “She is the mother of the Prince of Nagarythe, the bride of Aenarion; it would be treason to move against her directly,” said Eothlir. “For the moment it is sufficient that we rule our lands and keep them free of her taint. If she tries to take our power overtly, she will find greater resistance than she expects.”

  “And what of Tharion, Faerghil, Lohsteth and the others who now sleep in our beds, afraid of returning to Anlec?” asked Maieth. “Are they not also princes of Nagarythe? Do you realise that they once thought that Morathi would never be so bold as to go against them directly?”

  “Would you have me a traitor and usurper?” snapped Eothlir. “Or worse, would you be a widow, and your son fatherless? In Anlec, Morathi holds sway, but here in the mountains her reach is short. She may try to pick us off one-by-one, but as long as we are united, she cannot move against us. Fully a third of Nagarythe’s armies are abroad with Malekith. Another third owe allegiance to my father and his allies. Morathi cannot conjure soldiers from thin air, no matter her powers of seeing and scrying.”

  “Your father holds half of the warriors in Nagarythe, and yet what does he do?” said Maieth with scorn. “He hides here and writes letters. Are we not all sons and daughters of Nagarythe? Our armies should be camped outside the gates of Anlec, demanding restitution from Morathi for the wrongs she has done our people.”

  “And what of Malekith, Aenarion’s heir, our rightful ruler?” said Eothlir, grabbing his wife by the shoulders. “Do you think he will look kindly upon those that raise arms against Anlec without his consent? Would he welcome those that threaten his mother? I tell you now, my father would die of shame to be thought of as a traitor, and so he rallies support in the only way he can.”

  “Hush now,” said Maieth quickly, embracing her husband.

  Turning, Eothlir saw a young elf, no more than thirty summers old, walking down the wide steps from the mansion. He was dressed in hunting leathers edged with dappled fur and bound with leath
er thongs, and in his hands he held a slender black bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “More practice, Alith?” called Eothlir, disentangling from his wife’s arms. “You already know that there is not a lord in the mountains that can match your eye and hand.”

  “I know nothing of the sort, Father,” said the boy sombrely. “Khurion says that his cousin from Chrace, Menhion, can strike a pinefowl in flight at a hundred paces.”

  “Khurion says many things, my son,” said Maieth. “If we believe all that he claims, then his cousins, all four of them, would be the match for any army in the world.”

  “I know that he exaggerates,” said Alith. “However, I have made a wager with him, to call his bluff. In the spring I will contest with Menhion, and I shall uphold the honour of House Anar. Until then, I must practise further while the snows still hold back.”

  “Very well, but be back before dusk,” said Eothlir.

  Alith nodded and walked away, slinging the quiver over his shoulder. He knew that his parents thought him distant, morose even. They whispered and fell silent when he was around, but he was observant and keen-eared and knew that all was not well in Nagarythe. The manse was full of refugee princes who had chosen not to support Morathi and her hideous cults.

  He also knew, perhaps even where his father and grandfather did not, that this matter would be settled not with diplomacy but with force. He thought much of his family for avoiding direct confrontation with the rulers of Nagarythe, but he knew that one day he would lead House Anar and he was determined that the manner of the world in which he ruled would be better than that of today. Others would follow him not out of fear, but out of respect; it was never too early to earn respect, though often too late.

  Leaving the formal gardens through a silver gate in the high hedge, Alith strode up into the hills that heaped up higher and higher upon the shoulder of Suril Anaris, the Mountain of the Moon. The whole mountain and its surrounds were the lands of the Anar, granted to Alith’s grandfather by Aenarion himself. Though inhospitable in winter, they were abundant with game and fowl, and the lower meadows still made good pasturing for goats and sheep. These would be his lands one day, and so he walked them as often as possible, getting to know them as he knew the house where he had been born.

  Today he went north and east, along the Inna Varith. The cold river flowed down from caves hidden upon the slope of Suril Anaris and fed the lands of Elanardris with fresh water until it disappeared back underground at the Haimeth Falls many miles to the south.

  Picking his way along the winding bank, Alith watched the silver darting of fish in the clear waters, leaping and swimming through the rocky rapids. Needing to get to the northern side of the river the young elf leapt nimbly from rock to rock, heedless of the torrent sweeping past his feet, unmindful of the slicked stones upon which he stepped.

  From here he found an old track that led further up into the hills, twisting around dark boulders and leafless bushes. It was some time before he came under the eaves of the pine forest, and set foot upon a frosted carpet of needles. Alith’s light tread left barely a mark in the crisp mulch as he broke into a jog, speeding swiftly under the overlapping branches of the trees.

  Alith was guided by an inner sense, attuned to the distant warmth of the sun behind the clouds, the wind upon his face and the subtle slope of the ground beneath him. As clearly as if he had a map, he cut eastwards through the woods, along the flank of the mountainside. In the branches above birds swooped to and fro while four-legged, whiskered hunters snuffled through the patchy undergrowth, unaware of his passing. His route brought him to an outcropping of rock that pushed several hundred feet up through the trees, and at its foot there was a low cave. Cloud had flowed down the mountainside and swathed the clearing with a fine greyness that dulled colours and muted sound.

  Ducking inside the gap in the rock, Alith came to a wider cavern, dark but for the trickle of sunlight through the entrance. He reached out to his right and his hand came upon a torch of bound branches held within a sconce on the cave wall. He spoke a word; a spark lit within the torch’s head and swiftly took flame. With this light, he walked further into the cavern.

  The cave opened into a wide natural nave, shaped over thousands of years. Stalagmites and stalactites had met in ages past, forming glittering pillars much like the columns of a grand cathedral. It was not just a temple in appearance, for Alith had come to one of the shrines of Kurnous, the Hunter God. The glow of the flickering brand danced across dozens of skulls placed in niches around the cave wall: of wolves and foxes; bears and deer; hawk and rabbit. Some were gilded, others inscribed with delicate runes of prayer and thanks.

  All were gifts to Kurnous.

  Though worshipped much more in Chrace, whose hunters were renowned throughout Ulthuan, Kurnous was still acknowledged elsewhere in those communities that had not moved to the ever-growing cities. In Elanardris the Hunter God was held in high esteem, the ways of the wilds not yet swept away with the formality of Asuryan or the other gods.

  It was a feral shrine, with a dirt floor scattered with dead leaves. The walls were painted with hunting scenes, of predator chasing prey. Some were ancient and faded; others were brighter and more recent. Alith knew that others came here, though he had never encountered another hunter visiting the shrine.

  Alith had no such grand offering this day, though in the past he had fashioned such sacrifices for the Wolf of the Heavens. He knelt before the altar—a rocky plinth strewn with twigs, ash and detritus. There was a hole bored into the rock where he set the torch, and then he gathered up a mound of broken sticks and dried leaves. Snapping a single brand from the torch, he lit the small fire and breathed it into greater life. He spoke a few words of thanks and dropped the burning stem onto the miniature pyre.

  Alith then pulled something from a pouch at his belt: a thin sliver of venison from the last deer he had slain, a dozen days ago. He skewered the meat on a forked piece of branch and set it atop the fire where it hissed and spat.

  Alith then sat cross-legged before the altar and took his bow across his knees. With his hands upon it, he whispered a few words to Kurnous, thanking him for the kill he had offered and asking for grace in his hunts to come.

  Head bowed, Alith sat for a while longer in silent contemplation. He tried to put aside his worries and focus on the hunt to come. He pictured himself stood atop the peak of Suril Anaris, the sun bright upon his face, the wilderness laid out before him. He pictured the trails the animals followed; the pools where they drank; the runs where they hunted. From within, the landscape of Suril Anaris opened up before him. There were still many dark patches: places where Alith had not yet travelled.

  After paying due homage, Alith stood and left the cave, the venison still burning behind him. With another word of power he quenched the torch and placed it back in its holder ready for the next visitor; him or another, it did not matter. Stooping low, Alith ducked out of the cave—and then stood frozen.

  Just ahead of Alith, in the thickening mist, stood a stag. It was a monumental creature: its shoulder higher than Alith was tall, with a spread of antlers wider than the young prince’s outstretched arms. Its coat was white, save for a flash of black down its chest. The stag watched Alith with deep brown eyes, neither aggressive nor alarmed.

  The young elf straightened slowly and stared back. The stag bent its head and shook its antlers, scratching at the ground with a hoof. Alith was convinced this was some sign sent by Kurnous, but could not fathom its meaning. The stag was becoming more agitated, and arched back its head and let loose a long bark. Alith took a step forwards, his hand outstretched in a placating gesture, but the stag suddenly looked to the west and then bounded away into the forest.

  Alith turned his gaze to where the stag had looked and saw a figure beneath the eaves of the trees. He was mounted upon a black horse and swathed in a cloak of dark feathers. The rider’s head was cowled and nothing could be seen of his face.

  Unconsciously, Alith
reached for his bow, and turned his head to grasp it from the quiver. As soon as he looked back, the rider was gone. Alith strung an arrow and dashed across the open ground to the edge of the trees where the rider’s horse had been. There was no mark upon the ground, the frosted pine needles undisturbed by foot or hoof.

  Two bizarre events so close together left Alith feeling unnerved, and he glanced around the rest of the clearing but could see nothing. Taking the arrow from his bow, he broke into a run and headed straight back towards the manse, all thoughts of hunting forgotten.

  The heir of House Anar chose not to share his two strange encounters with his family, who had enough to contemplate without the fanciful tales of their son. The experience faded in his memory over the winter and spring until even he was not sure whether it had truly happened or been some kind of waking dream. Thoughts of strange omens and mysterious riders were replaced in the young elf’s mind with more pressing concerns: love.

  The day before midsummer, Alith savoured the warmth of the sun upon his skin. He wore a short sleeveless gown of white silk, his face, arms and legs exposed to the pleasant heat as he lay on his back staring up into a cloudless sky.

  “That is not something I see too often,” said Maieth, sat on the grassy hill next to her son. Behind them the large manse of House Anar, capital of Elanardris, rose up from the slope of the mountain, its white walls bright in the sunshine. Elves were gathered in groups around the gardens, talking and drinking, taking sweetmeats and delicacies off trays from servants liveried in silvery grey.

  “What is that?” asked Alith, turning to his side and resting on one elbow.

  “A smile,” his mother replied with one of her own.

  “I cannot be sad on a glorious day such as this,” declared Alith. “Blue skies, the glow of summer; these things cannot be touched by darkness.”