[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  His eye was drawn to a fourth figure, a little way behind the others. She wore a heavy purple robe tied with a belt studded with diamonds. In the light of the Chaos moon her skin took on a pale green tone, the white streaks in her hair standing out in the darkness like lightning strikes. Her face…

  Her face was known to Alith. The eyes were whirling orbs of magic and the expression one of cold indifference. But her lips, thin, and her delicate nose and chin were all too familiar.

  Alith fell back from the window with a groan of pain, the sight of Ashniel like a physical wound in his gut. Alith stumbled to his knees, moaning wordlessly.

  “I told you not to look,” rasped Khillrallion, grabbing Alith by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet. There was panic in the Shadow King’s eyes, the look of a child suddenly finding himself lost and alone.

  Alith took a step towards the door, mindless, and Khillrallion hauled him back.

  “You can’t go out there,” said the shadow-walker. “They’ll cut you to pieces.”

  “I want the Shadow King!” a deep voice called from outside. “Nobody else has to die.”

  Alith was regaining something of his composure but was still unsteady on his feet.

  “It is her, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  Khillrallion nodded. There was nothing he could say. Alith closed his eyes, steeling himself, and then looked out of the window again. The prince and Ashniel were still there; the two Khainites were nowhere to be seen.

  “Be on your guard,” snapped Alith, his instincts taking control. “Watch the door and the roof!”

  A tense silence descended, broken only by the rattle of rain on the rooftiles and the splash on the square outside.

  Alith went from one arrow slit to the next, trying to find where the Khainites had gone. It was not long before Khillrallion called him back to the front of the building.

  Outside, the Khainites flanked the prince once more. At their feet knelt two children: one a boy, the other a girl. They gripped their captives by the hair, pulling back their heads, curved daggers at their throats.

  “I want the Shadow King,” the prince called again. “These will only be the first two if you do not come out.”

  Alith snatched the moonbow from its quiver and took a step towards the door before Khillrallion tackled him from behind, both of them tumbling to the floor.

  “You cannot go out there!” the shadow-walker repeated as Alith kicked himself away and got to his feet. Several of the shadow warriors had closed in, standing between their lord and the doorway. Their expressions betrayed their agreement with Khillrallion.

  “Have it your way!” came the pronouncement from the square.

  Alith leapt to the window in time to see arcs of blood streaming from the two children, the Khainites’ blades flashing in the rain. Spilled blood merged with the puddles as the small bodies were dropped like rag dolls.

  “Shall I have them fetch two more?” the prince taunted. “Perhaps some even younger this time?”

  “No!” wailed Alith. He wheeled on the shadow warriors, lips curled back in a snarl. “We cannot allow this!”

  The shadow warriors by the door looked resolute.

  “We’ll deal with this,” said Casadir, pulling back the heavy bolt.

  “If they want the Shadow King, they shall have him,” Alith said, fitting an arrow to the string of the moonbow. “Kill the Khainites first. Leave the sorceress to me.”

  Alith looked out of the window as the door was thrown open. Arrows sped through the darkness. In a whirl of shining metal, the Khainites swung their blades and cartwheeled away, the arrows ricocheting from their swords. At a nod from their master, they came forwards at a run.

  More arrows sliced through the rain to meet them. With supernatural speed, the pair somersaulted and swirled, dodging every missile. They reached a full sprint and would have been at the door in moments. Several of the shadow warriors leapt out into the square to meet their charge while Casadir swung the door shut behind them. The clang of the bolt rang heavily in Alith’s ears, like the locking of a condemned elf’s cell.

  Alith felt the bite of every cut with a gasp as the Khainites sliced through the four shadow warriors without breaking stride. Throats were slit, tendons severed, limbs lopped away. It was over in a heartbeat, the remains of Alith’s followers lying at the Khainites’ feet, blood running in rivulets across the flagstones. One of the Khainites lifted a dagger to her mouth and licked the blade clean. She turned to her companion with a feral grin.

  “More dog than wolf,” she said.

  The two took up defensive stances next to each other, one fixed on the doorway, the other looking to the warriors on the roof.

  “Can we have some more playthings?” the Khainite with bloodied lips called out.

  “This has to end!” said Alith, crossing quickly to the doorway.

  “Yes it does,” agreed Khillrallion. Behind Alith, the shadow-walker glanced at the others and received nods of understanding.

  “Can I keep one as a pet?” asked Lirieth, darting a quick glance over her shoulder towards her father.

  “Bring me the head of the Shadow King and you can have whatever you desire,” Alandrian replied.

  He felt a chill and looked to his right. Ashniel was standing beside him. The rain around her was turning into snowflakes, freezing on her skin, tiny icicles hanging from her long eyelashes, her hair rimed with ice.

  “It’s true what they say in Anlec, isn’t it?” said the prince. “You really are a cold-hearted bitch.”

  Ashniel turned a haunting smile towards him but said nothing.

  The door to the tax house slammed open again and the shadow warriors poured out, some with bows in hands, others grasping swords. Lirieth and Hellebron spun around each other as they deflected the hail of arrows, cutting through the shafts in flight.

  Ashniel stepped forwards and threw out a hand. Alandrian felt the warmth leeched from his body as the air around her churned with ice and blackness. A storm of snow-white shards flew from her fingertips, scything into the shadow warriors. Frozen droplets of blood tinkled to the ground where the chill wind slashed through flesh, skin turning blue from cold at their slightest graze. Bows dropped from numbed fingertips and arrows splintered in the air.

  Under the cover of the arrow volley the other shadow warriors had charged forwards, meeting the Khainite sisters blade-to-blade. Iron chimed against iron, but the fight was over in moments, Lirieth crouching low to cut the legs from her foes while Hellebron struck high, decapitating everyone within reach. The scene more closely resembled a butcher’s yard than a town square by the time they had finished. Lirieth stooped and with a flick of her wrist, cut free the heart from one of her victims. She sheathed her other weapon and flicked the still-warm organ to her free hand. With a pout, she raised it above her head, squeezing hard, blood streaming down her arm and splashing onto her face.

  “Praise Khaine!” she shrieked.

  There was a flicker of movement at the doorway. A cloaked elf appeared with a silvery bow in hand. Quicker than the eye could follow, he loosed an arrow. The shaft took Lirieth in the throat, ripping her from her feet, sending her sprawling onto the wet flagstones.

  Hellebron screamed, a sound of pure rage, and leapt forwards. Another arrow sang through the air but she cut it aside. She dodged the next with a spinning leap, her long bound bringing her within striking distance of her foe. Her left hand lashed out, its blades barely missing the face of her enemy. The right hand found its mark, plunging a slender sword under the ribs of her prey, its point erupting in a fountain of blood from his right shoulder. Blood bubbled from his lips as Hellebron ripped the blade free and twirled, slashing head from neck.

  Flicking droplets of blood from her blades, she sheathed her weapons and prised the magnificent bow from the elf’s dead fingers. Hellebron turned and held her trophy towards Alandrian, who clapped appreciatively.

  “I think we best make that a gift to Morathi,” said
the prince and Hellebron’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. Alandrian pointed to the shadow warriors who had been incapacitated by Ashniel’s enchantment. “You can do what you like with those.”

  Alandrian’s eye was drawn to a pair of shadowy shapes fleeing across the rooftop. Ashniel raised her hand to unleash another spell but the prince stopped her.

  “Let them go,” he said. “Let them take the news to the others. The Shadow King is dead!”

  ——

  Strength of Elanardris

  The mood amongst the shadow warriors was shock and dismay. Summoned by Tharion, they had come here, to the ruins of Elanardris, to hear what the future held for them. Many were at a loss without Alith’s leadership and there were whispers of doubt that the shadow army could continue without him.

  Tharion sensed a shift in the war. The news of the Shadow King’s demise quickly spread. With one act, the balance of favour had moved, the druchii regaining their former aggression, sensing weakness in their foes. Their sweeps of the wilderness for the shadow bands became bolder, while the shadow warriors, who had long believed in the myths of their own invulnerability, became more timid. They had survived and prospered with their daring, but now they were too often surrendering the initiative to their foes. The momentum of the war was changing.

  Tharion knew exactly what was happening: the hunters were fast becoming the hunted again.

  With Alith’s passing command had fallen to Tharion, who had gathered his followers in the ruins at Elanardris as a reminder of what they fought for. Hundreds of them were hunched around the fires, faces drawn, expressions bleak.

  “We cannot allow these reverses to continue to sap morale,” Tharion told them, standing upon what had once been a wall separating the east gardens from the summer lawn. “If the druchii do not fear us, we have failed.”

  “We will continue the fight!” said Casadir, the only shadow warrior to have escaped Athel Yranuir. He looked around at the others, but their support was half-hearted.

  “How do we fight without the Shadow King?” a voice called from the darkness. “Our enemies grow stronger while we diminish.”

  “It is true,” said another. “I have come from Chrace, and the tidings are grim. A new force has arrived in Ulthuan, brought back from the colonies by Morathi. I do not know exact numbers, but tens of thousands of warriors, all of them hardened in many campaigns, have made landfall in Cothique. I fear the kingdom will be under Morathi’s sway by the end of the year.”

  “We must redouble our efforts here, to ensure that Caledor can concentrate all of his warriors on this new threat,” said Casadir.

  Tharion sighed and then frowned.

  “It will not be as simple as that,” he said. “With fresh armies in the east, Morathi’s commanders are likely to bring back much of their existing force to Nagarythe, to rest and resupply for a fresh offensive next year.”

  “More targets for us,” growled Casadir, and there were words of assent from other shadow-walkers.

  “That is true to a certain extent,” said Tharion. “What will be more important will be the thousands of troops coming back to Nagarythe. No doubt they will not stand idle while we continue our attacks.”

  The significance of this began to sink in and there was a disquieted whispering amongst the shadow-walkers.

  “What do you propose that we do, lord?” asked Anraneir. “The returning armies will use Dragon Pass and Phoenix Pass; perhaps we could gather in strength there and attack them on the move?”

  “They will be expecting that,” Tharion said with a shake of his head. “There are less than two thousand of us left, these six years of fighting having taken a steady toll. We could harass the druchii columns without committing our strength, but that will not serve our ends well. A few hundred dead here or there is of no meaning to them.”

  “We can still hurt the druchii, of that I am convinced,” said Anraneir. He shrugged. “I cannot see how, just yet. If we were to bring all of our forces together, we might be able to strike back powerfully once more, but to do so risks discovery and ultimate defeat.”

  “We are growing fewer, that cannot be denied,” Tharion said quietly. “In a war of attrition we have no hope of victory. What else can you tell us from the east, Tethion?”

  “The wider campaign is at a stalemate, unless these new druchii forces turn the tide against us,” the shadow-walker announced. “The enemy possess Nagarythe, Chrace and Tiranoc, and much of Ellyrion and Cothique. Lothern is frequently besieged. Cultist uprisings continue to plague those cities and realms not yet under the sway of Anlec. There is rumour that the mages of Saphery battle with some of their number who have been swayed to the path of dark sorcery.

  “Even the realm of Caledor is not free from the taint of corruption. While the Phoenix King pursues the greater war, the cults have infiltrated his mountain realm to sow discord. Many Caledorians support the king but would look to the defence of their own realm before expending the lives of their kin for the protection of the other kingdoms. Earlier this year, several priests of Vaul were discovered to be in league with Anlec, making magical weapons and armour for the druchii and smuggling them north through Tiranoc. Their leader fled, having stolen the sacred hammer of his god. I am sure that he labours in Anlec now, forging new weapons for the princes of Nagarythe.”

  “Is there no report that might give us hope?” asked Tharion.

  There were shakes of heads and disconsolate sighs all around the fire.

  “Then it is time that I revealed to you why I have brought you all here,” Tharion continued. “I spoke with the Shadow King before he left for Athel Yranuir. I shared with him my doubts and he listened. He gave me instructions, which we will all follow.

  “The shadow army will come together again,” he declared. There were happier murmurs from the shadow-walkers but Tharion cut them off with a gesture. “Not for a battle. We have never been victorious by pure force of arms. Guile and deception are weapons as useful to us as bow and sword, and with guile and deception we must lure the druchii into a position more favourable for us.”

  Some of the elves nodded; the faces of other betrayed incomprehension.

  “The druchii are full of confidence. They have a right to be. If we stand face-to-face against this resurgence, we risk becoming overwhelmed. No, we will not fight that way. We will lie low, bide our time and wait for the right opportunity. The druchii will think they have crushed us. We will allow them this illusion of victory, it is only our pride that is wounded by it. Their eyes will turn elsewhere, to the fresh campaigns in the east, and they will believe Nagarythe safe under their control. Then, and only then, we will strike again, rising up from the shadows to deal a blow to our foes that will make them hate and fear us more than ever.”

  “And where would you have us hide?” asked Casadir. “If we scatter into the populace we risk discovery by the cults, if we continue to live in the wilds as we do now, then why not continue the fight?”

  Tharion stood up and spread his arms, encompassing their surrounds. The tumbled stones of Elanardris glowed ruddily in the firelight, already overgrown by moss and creepers, the once-carefully maintained gardens reverting to wilderness.

  “Here we were born, and here we will be reborn,” Tharion declared. “For some time I have been thinking—thinking about the past and the future. Though Morathi may control the lands of Nagarythe, there are many that suffer under the yoke of her tyranny. There are those who are sympathetic to our cause, amongst the downtrodden folk who labour for Morathi and her minions. Those that can be wholly trusted we will bring here, adults and children alike, and found a new generation of shadow warriors. This war will not end soon and we must look to the future.”

  Tharion began to pace around the fire, meeting the gazes of the shadow warriors.

  “Have no doubts, no matter what happens we will never surrender. It is possible that none of us will see victory in our lifetimes, and so we must lay down the foundations
for our army to continue the fight after we have passed on. While there remains any spirit of defiance to Anlec and resistance to the druchii, our enemies can claim no victory. Elanardris is no more, consigned to bitter history, bare stones and memories of better times the only testament to the dynasty that once thrived here. I will not rebuild the manse, nor replant the gardens. It is not in the bricks and the mortar that Elanardris found strength, but in the blood of its people and the power of the land. These are our lands still, and they need a people to live in them. While we draw breath and struggle, Elanardris will not wholly die.”

  * * *

  By secret means, word was brought to the disaffected and disloyal Naggarothi, those who served out of fear rather than loyalty. They were encouraged to desert, though few ever made it to Elanardris. In ones and twos they came, slipping away from their homes and garrisons under cover of darkness, to meet the shadow warriors in out-of-the-way places. Sometimes whole families came, making the journey on foot through the briars and across the moors, seeking sanctuary in the mountains.

  Wary of infiltration by agents from Anlec, Tharion personally vetted every hopeful, killing out of hand any that caused him the slightest suspicion. There were some, he knew, that were innocent, but the lives of so many depended upon absolute security. It was essential that the druchii remained oblivious to the subtle stream of refugees fleeing their oppression. The slightest notion that all was not as they desired would bring down the wrath of Anlec.

  The old refugee camps had long been swept away by the years and so the shadow warriors and their charges set to building new shelters. Hidden in caves and in the hearts of the mountain woods, they stored food and clothes, blankets and water.

  Under roofs made of woven branches, in shelters made of rockpiles, in hollows behind waterfalls and in reed-covered huts in the marshlands, the new people of Elanardris eked out their existence. Tharion always felt an eerie calm when he visited these places, their inhabitants quiet, thankful for their salvation but extremely cautious. They spoke little of the lives they had left behind, and few cared to speculate on the future. Even the children were quiet; there were few sounds of innocent joy and laughter was a rarity. Survival became the goal; to avoid discovery and see another dawn was measured a success.