[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Alith pondered this without comment. He had endured some of Tharion’s stubbornness and old-fashioned thinking out of a sense of duty to the veteran. In truth he tried not to dwell on the ageing elf too much, for Alith could not think of Tharion without also thinking of Eoloran, possibly dead, more likely languishing in some cell in Anlec. In all he had found it better not to think too much about the past, only the promise of revenge held by the future.

  Alith thought about Tharion’s concerns, as voiced by Khillrallion. Perhaps he was too possessed of being the Shadow King that he had forgotten who he was beneath the title. But that person lived in constant pain, surrounded by dark memories and feelings of impotence. The heir of the Anars had been powerless; the Shadow King was powerful. It brought its own woes and pain, but they were as nothing compared to the agony that awaited him once he had fulfilled his oath. What then? Alith asked himself. Who would he be when the shadow war was over? Perhaps Tharion would know.

  “Find him for me,” Alith said quietly, laying a hand on Khillrallion’s arm. “Tell him that I need him with me, and I have something very important for him to do.”

  Tharion had still not been found when the time came for Alith to enact the second part of his plan. It was dusk, thirty days since the peril of Cerin Hiuath, and the Shadow King was poised to prove that he was not dead. Alith and his warriors were concealed amongst the trees and rushes that bordered the river east of the bridge. The boats and their crews were at the Toresse quays, ready for the signal to come downriver.

  As darkness fell, several lights could be seen to the north, in woods that bordered the Anlec road. Flickering red and thin columns of smoke betrayed the presence of several fires. Their presence did not go unnoticed by the watchers in the guard towers and soon the trumpets were calling the garrison to order. Spear and sword companies were mustered at the north end of the bridge, their commander shouting excited commands. With a tramp of feet, the force marched to investigate.

  When they were out of sight, Alith and the shadow warriors slipped out of hiding, bows ready. The towers would not be completely abandoned, but Alith knew he had enough warriors to deal with those druchii that remained.

  The Shadow King led his fighters to the north tower, approaching the bridge silently. A cluster of figures stood atop the battlement gazing to the north. As at Koril Atir, the shadow warriors soundlessly scaled the walls of the tower. The druchii had hung chains festooned with barbs and spikes beneath the battlements to prevent such a move. Alith and the others bound their hands with cloth and pulled them gently aside to allow each other to pass.

  Once on the rampart, it was a matter of a single volley to fell the guards, though two let out piercing cries of pain as they died. Alith had considered this and ran to the south side of the tower.

  “Come quickly!” he cried out across the river. “We caught some of the Shadow King’s scum! The others are getting away! Quick!”

  Alith split his warriors, sending some into the tower to ensure every room was clear, keeping the rest atop the tower. It was not long before the gate of the other guard house swung open and a stream of several dozen warriors emerged onto the bridge.

  “Wait until they’re close,” Alith told the warriors crouched behind the embrasures even as he waved the druchii to hurry up.

  When the enemy were halfway across the bridge, Alith gave his shadow warriors the nod. They rose up behind the battlement and unleashed a storm of arrows at the druchii, cutting down half of them. They turned tail, fleeing towards the far end of the bridge, only to be met by another contingent of shadow warriors that had swum across the river to cut off their retreat.

  As the last of the sun’s rays glimmered and then disappeared, Alith had control of both ends of the bridge. Looking to the east, he saw white shapes ghosting down the river: the sails of the fishing fleet. After mooring their ships, the crews swarmed over the bridge with more lengths of rope, which they tied to the net already hanging under the bridge. The elves crowded the banks of the river, a dozen to each rope. Alith took his place, gripping the rope tight.

  “Heave!” he bellowed, pulling with all of his weight.

  The wedges resisted at first, but after a moment there was a shift as the elves strained on the ropes. First one wedge fell free, and then another. Alith exhorted his company to a greater effort and with one pull the supports were dragged free. With a drawn-out grinding, the keystones fell into the river and the whole bridge collapsed after, sending up a splash that spattered Alith with water. Waves lapped over the banks, wetting Alith’s feet.

  Already the ship crews were jumping aboard their vessels, ropes still in hand, dragging the stone blocks out of the river’s depths. As each block was hauled over the bulwark, a slipknot was loosened and the stone fell free onto the deck. The fisherman had assured Alith that the twelve boats would be sufficient to move the stones upriver, where they would be dropped back into the river, hidden but never forgotten.

  The Shadow King turned to the warrior behind him, a youngster named Thirian.

  “Time for some heavy lifting,” Alith said with a wink.

  With a mixture of disappointment and relief, Khelthrain led his warriors back down the road. Whoever had lit the campfires had decided to flee rather than face his soldiers. On the one hand it was a shame that the insurgents had eluded him; on the other, Khelthrain was glad he had not faced the terrifying apparitions that so many other captains had fallen prey to. Not wishing to be out in the wilds while there remained the potential of ambush, he had quickly turned the column around and headed back to the safety of the towers. It was in generally light spirits that he marched along the road to his guardhouses, mentally composing the report of the incident he would have to send to Anlec. The orders had been explicit: any sighting or possible sighting of the so-called shadow warriors was to be passed on, with specific details of time and place.

  The reassuring presence of the two towers rose up in the starlight and Khelthrain’s thoughts began to turn to his bed. It was a pity that he would be sleeping alone, unlike some of those lucky wretches who had garrisons in the towns and cities, but at least he was out of the way and rarely bothered by the rulers in the capital. Ambition had never been high on Khelthrain’s priorities, and a certain degree of middle-rank obscurity suited his nature.

  Something seemed wrong as they approached the northern tower. Khelthrain wasn’t sure what was amiss. He could see several figures standing immobile atop the battlements and the gate was closed. Then it struck him. He could see the glitter of the river beyond the gatehouse where he should have seen dark stone.

  Khelthrain stopped dead in his stride, the warrior behind him clattering into his back, almost knocking the commander from his feet. The warrior bent to help him and then straightened, eyes wide with surprise.

  “Captain?” he said hesitantly. “Where is our bridge?”

  There were dozens of maps of Nagarythe arranged over three tables. Alandrian paced between them with a sheaf of parchments in one hand.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to a village where grain intended for horse fodder had been stolen.

  A functionary, barefoot and clad only in a black loincloth, stepped forwards with a quill and a pot of red ink. He delicately marked a cross on the map at the indicated place, adding it to the many such marks already made.

  “And here,” Alandrian continued, indicating an attack on a patrol out of Ealith.

  “Oh, wait…” the prince whispered. He stopped and read the next report again, letting the others shower to the floor. “Oh, yes. You’re a cunning bastard, aren’t you?”

  “Prince?” said the servant.

  Alandrian ignored him, striding to the map of the Naganath area. He stared at the chart for some time, his mind firing fast. He traced a finger eastwards along the Naganath. No, there was nothing there. The Shadow King wouldn’t be dull enough to take another bridge. But he would go eastwards. Always after his most daring escapades he went east, back towards the mountai
ns. It was like a homing instinct.

  Alandrian brought another map to the top of the pile, of the area north and east of Toresse. He scoured the landmarks and settlements, seeking something of significance. A yellow circle caught his eye.

  “This?” he demanded, gesturing to the servant. “What is this? At Athel Yranuir?”

  The functionary peered at the map, brow creased in thought.

  “It is a tax house, prince,” he announced. “Tithes are gathered there before being brought by armed column to Anlec.”

  “And when is the next collection due?”

  “Give me a moment, prince, and I will find out,” said the servant.

  While he was gone, Alandrian stared at the map. The servant’s information would confirm it, but Alandrian already had a strong suspicion about the Shadow King’s next move. Eastwards he would go, away from the torrid time he had suffered at Galthyr, away from his joke at Toresse. But he wouldn’t go too far east before striking again, not while he was still riding high from his prank.

  “The harvest taxes will be collected in four days’ time, my prince,” the servant announced as he entered. “A contingent of knights will be moving out of Ealith tomorrow.”

  Alandrian closed his eyes, blocking out everything save his knowledge of the Shadow King. Four days was not a long time to prepare. Would the Shadow King be able to put together an ad-hoc plan at such notice? Did he even realise the opportunity that awaited him?

  It didn’t matter. If Alandrian was the Shadow King, that’s where he would be. He knew it.

  “Please send word to Lady Ashniel, and to my daughters,” Alandrian said; his eyes snapping open. “Ask them to prepare for a ride. We have a wolf to catch.”

  “Shall I also send warning to the troops at Ealith and the garrison of Athel Yranuir?” the servant inquired.

  Alandrian looked at the servant as if he had suggested that the prince dance naked around the room singing children’s songs.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Why spoil the fun?”

  There was an aesthetic pleasure in the contrast between gold and red: gold of coin and red of blood. Alith wiped a thumb across the face of the coin, smearing the crimson across the rune of Nagarythe imprinted upon it. Blood money, he thought, smiling at the joke.

  He tossed the coin to Khillrallion, who was sweeping piles of money from the tables into a heavy sack. Another five shadow warriors did likewise in other counting rooms while a further twenty-five kept watch, stationed on the tiled roof and at the narrow arrow slits that served as windows.

  Alith strode to one such embrasure, checking the time. The sun had set and the Chaos moon was already easing above the mountains, its sickly glow heavy behind the gathering clouds. The tax collectors were on their way; he had learnt as much from the gasped confessions of the druchii who had guarded the money. He glanced towards their bodies, faces and mouths glistening from molten gold that had been poured down their throats as punishment for such greed. It was unlikely the knights would arrive during the night, giving the shadow warriors plenty of time to take everything and disappear.

  Rain pattered on the stone road outside, and Alith peered again into the gloom, irked by some sense he could not quite define. He had been on edge since coming to Athel Yranuir. The town was unremarkable save for the counting house, neither a safe haven for the shadow warriors nor dominated by the druchii. Alith had noticed the elders’ hall showed signs of perversion to Khaine—bronze braziers in the archways and bloodstains upon the steps—but he had seen no other signs of the cults’ sway.

  The attack had gone just as he had planned and not a single shadow warrior had been wounded. There was no reason for his disquiet, and Alith dismissed it as understandable paranoia following his experience at Cerin Hiuath. In some ways he welcomed the thrill of uncertainty. It added an edge of excitement that he had not felt in some time, a feeling of being alive.

  Between the darkening skies and the growing downpour, Alith could barely see the other buildings around the tax house. He looked out across the market square and could dimly see the elders’ chambers on the far side. To the left stood a row of craftsmen’s stores, their fronts enclosed by blue-painted boards. To the right were wine-houses and stables. The former were empty, having been closed at Alith’s first appearance. The people of Athel Yranuir would not hinder the shadows warriors, but they would not help, and had vanished as soon as the fighting had begun. Alith could not blame them; most folks feared reprisals from Anlec for aiding the shadow warriors.

  “We’re almost finished,” announced Khillrallion. Alith turned to see him hefting a laden sack onto a pile beside the main door.

  “Good,” said the Shadow King. “There should be wagons and horses at the stables. Send Thrinduir and Meneithon to fetch two.”

  Khillrallion nodded and left the room. Alith heard him relaying the order and turned back to the square, ill-at-ease. He glared at the concealing rain, wondering what it was that his eyes could not see but his heart could feel. He cast his gaze higher, seeing the tops of the enormous evergreen forest that surrounded the town, which shared its name. Perfect cover for his forces to use if the knights arrived from Ealith. He was worrying about nothing.

  “Are you sure?” Alandrian asked again.

  Ashniel nodded once, her face showing a glimpse of irritation. Alandrian looked away, unable to meet the sorceress’ gaze. Her eyes had become glistening orbs of black, which reflected an exaggerated version of Alandrian’s face when he looked into them: a Cyclopean mask of scar tissue.

  “He is there,” she said calmly. “He is touched by Kurnous and he leaves a trail upon the winds. It passes quickly but I can sense it. Your assumption was correct.”

  “Do we get to kill him now?” asked Lirieth, baring teeth filed to points and capped with rubies.

  “I want to taste his blood,” said Hellebron, panting with excitement. “I’ve never tasted the blood of a king shadow or not.”

  “He’ll taste like wolf meat,” laughed Lirieth. “Isn’t that right, magic-weaver?”

  Ashniel turned away with a sneer while Alandrian smiled at his daughters’ enthusiasm. Truly they had embraced the changes of these new times and he was certain they would both enjoy great success and power in the regime that was rising to rule Ulthuan.

  He didn’t understand much of it himself, being of a far older breed, but he knew opportunity when it came and had exploited this one to its full potential. Morathi had brought her priests and sorcerers to Athel Toralien and it had irked Malekith, but when the prince had left for his campaign in the northlands Alandrian had seen the wisdom of allowing them to flourish. He had been careful to curb too many excesses, wary of allowing the colony to devolve into the kind of barbarism Yeasir had warned was gripping Anlec.

  That foresight had paid off. The Cult of Khaine was fast-growing, second in power only to Morathi’s court. His daughters were well placed to ride the bloodthirsty stallion trampling upon the heads of the other sects of Ulthuan. In the shorter term, they had developed skills that were profoundly useful in this current matter.

  “Yes, you can kill him soon,” the prince said. While there were advantages to bringing in the Shadow King alive, dead was safer for all involved. One did not bring Khainite assassins to take prisoners.

  Rain began to fall, splashing through the needle canopy above. In the darkness, the lights of Athel Yranuir shone between the trees. A murmur from Ashniel caused him to turn.

  “I sense he is getting ready to leave,” the seeress said, staring through Alandrian at some otherworldly sight. “We must move now.”

  Alith worked with the others, carrying the bags of gold from the treasure house to the carts in the square. His hair was plastered across his face, his clothes sodden and chafing. It seemed an inglorious end to what should have been one of the great tales of the shadow warriors. He shrugged and exchanged a smile with Casadir as they passed in the doorway.

  “It rains on the druchii as well,” re
marked the shadow warrior.

  “They have roofs to cover them tonight,” replied Alith. “We’ll be sleeping in the woods.”

  “I wouldn’t have it…” Casadir’s voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. Alith looked over his shoulder into the town square to see what had alerted him.

  Four figures approached through the rain, walking calmly towards the shadow warriors. They were hard to make out, but there was something about their demeanour that fired Alith’s instinct for danger.

  “Everyone inside!” he hissed, waving the shadow warriors into the trove.

  The shadow warriors barred the door and Alith called out the orders, positioning his warriors at the casements and sending them up the spiral stairs to the roof tower.

  “Oh…” exclaimed Khillrallion, looking out of one of the windows. “That’s not good.”

  “What is it?” Alith demanded, stepping to the window.

  “Best not to look,” said Khillrallion with a haunted expression, standing between Alith and the embrasure. They jostled from side-to-side until Alith shoved Khillrallion out of his path and strode up to the narrow opening. He gazed out into the night to see what had caused Khillrallion’s consternation.

  He saw a druchii in the ornate silver armour of a prince, sword in his left hand, a shorter blade in his right. He was flanked by two outlandish maidens, Khainites by their dress and weapons. Water sparkled from bared metal, the edges of their blades glinting menacingly. For all of their fearsome appearance, Alith did not quite understand Khillrallion’s discomfort.