[Ulthuan 01] - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  He looked above him as he heard warriors pushing into the chamber behind him, spying a scuff mark on the eaves of the tower’s roof. So the assassin had come over the mountains and lowered himself inside.

  “He’s gone over the mountains!” he shouted into the tower, before sheathing his sword and taking a deep breath. Alathenar bunched his legs beneath him and leapt straight up, grabbing hold of the edge of the roof. He swung himself up and over the edge in one swift motion, clambering up the ridged edge of the conical roof.

  He leaned his back against the tower’s finial and lifted his bow over his head. Hooking the quiver to his belt, Alathenar spared a glance back down to the wall of the fortress, seeing shouting warriors who pointed over at the cliffs of the pass. He followed their extended arms in time to see the shadowy form of the assassin as he bounded from the rocks and made his escape.

  Arrows flashed through the air, but the assassin possessed some dark sense for them and either ducked back into cover or effortlessly dodged them.

  Alathenar selected the finest, truest shaft from his quiver and kissed the arrowhead before nocking it to his bow and taking careful aim.

  His target was at the extreme edge of his range, but he had his new bowstring and he silently offered a prayer to the Everqueen that her handmaids did indeed possess some magic. The assassin wove a ragged pattern through the rocks and Alathenar cursed as he quickly realised that there was no way he could predict his movements to aim ahead of him.

  Suddenly he smiled as he saw a narrow cleft in the rock ahead of the fleeing figure and saw that his weaving course was leading him unerringly towards it. He took a breath and held it as he gauged the range to the cleft and how quickly the weaving assassin would take to reach it.

  “Kurnous guide my aim,” he said.

  Alathenar let out his breath and at the end of his exhalation loosed the arrow from his bow. He watched as the blue-fletched shaft arced into the morning sunlight, reaching the zenith of its flight before dropping in an almost leisurely arc.

  “Yes!” he said as his arrow slashed down and punched through the assassin’s shoulder. The dark shape stumbled and fell, but even as Alathenar watched, he picked himself up and made off once more.

  Alathenar pulled another arrow from the quiver, already knowing that he could not hope to hit the assassin before he was out of sight. Sure enough, the figure disappeared from view before he could loose.

  He lowered his bow and wept angry tears as he looked down to see the warriors of the Eagle Gate cover the face of Cerion Goldwing with a white cloak that slowly turned to red.

  Alathenar the Archer let out a terrible cry of loss and anger.

  And high above the mountains, it was heard.

  From the top of the Warden’s Tower it was possible to survey the entire city of Tor Yvresse and Caelir soon appreciated the scale of the destruction wrought by the invasion of the Goblin King. Despite the work of the city’s inhabitants, their domain still bore the scars of war, ruined mansions, fire blackened stretches of wall and abandoned parks where nature had been left to run riot.

  He watched the inhabitants of the city going about their business, guessing that the city had originally been built to house at least twice the number of folk it currently sheltered. He and Kyrielle stood on the tallest balcony that overlooked the city higher even than the tower palaces built upon the city’s nine hills. Wind whipped the sea beyond the harbour into tall, foam-topped waves of blue and snapped the mournful banners upon their flagpoles, but not a breath of it touched them in the tower.

  Upon meeting Eltharion, the Warden of Tor Yvresse had bid them dismount and leave their guards before following him within his tower. Its interior was as bleak as the exterior was imposing bare walls and simple furnishings speaking of an occupant who cared nothing for beauty or ornamentation and whose ascetic tastes would make those of a Sword Master’s seem vulgar.

  Eltharion had said nothing more beyond his introduction and beckoned them to follow him upstairs to his chambers. Caelir inwardly groaned at the sight of so many stairs, having seen how tall the tower was from the outside, but barely had his feet set foot on the first than it seemed he was stepping onto a landing at the very top.

  Looking back down the centre of the tower, he saw the ground hundreds of feet below.

  Upon reaching the top of the tower, Eltharion and Anurion had retired to speak in private while he and Kyrielle had been left to their own devices in the tower’s receiving chamber. Some effort had been made to make the interior of the tower less foreboding, but it was a token effort and only made the rest of their surroundings more depressing.

  Food and wine had been set out for them, and so they had sated their thirst and hunger before moving out to the balcony to admire the view and await the Warden’s decision.

  “This isn’t what I expected at all,” said Caelir.

  “Tor Yvresse?”

  “Yes. I remember the tales told of the city and the return of Eltharion, but I expected a city of great heroes. I did not think to find it so… deathly.”

  “As my father said, a great many elves died in the war, but our children are few and it is a sad fact that fewer and fewer of us are being born every year.”

  “Why would that be?”

  Kyrielle shrugged. “I do not know. Some say that our time on this world is now a guttering flame and that soon it will be over. All things have their time in the sun. Perhaps the world is now done with our kind.”

  “What? Surely you don’t believe that?”

  “How else would you explain our fading?”

  “Perhaps the power of the elves does wane, but our time will come again, I know it.”

  “Are you so sure? How many empires of men have risen and fallen in the turning of the world?”

  “Men are fireflies, their lives flicker and burn for but a moment,” said Caelir. “They live their lives as though in a race, never building anything of permanence. How can you compare the Asur with such barbarians?”

  “We are not so dissimilar, my dear Caelir. Perhaps we are on the same path, but are simply taking longer to walk it.”

  Caelir turned to Kyrielle and placed his hand on her shoulder. “This doesn’t sound like you, what is the matter?”

  Kyrielle said, “Nothing is wrong with me, silly boy. I think it is just being in Tor Yvresse. There are evil ghosts of memory here and they stir the darkest thoughts in me. I will be fine.”

  “I have felt them too, Kyrielle, but we cannot let the evil of the past blight our lives in the here and now. The Goblin King was defeated and Tor Yvresse saved, surely that is cause for celebration?”

  “Of course it is, but with every invasion, every battle, we are lessened. Every year the druchii grow bolder and so long as the Isle of the Dead draws the magical energy of the world to Ulthuan, creatures of Chaos will forever be drawn to our fair isle. We are clinging to life by our fingernails, Caelir.”

  “Maybe so,” said Caelir, “but is that reason to give up and let go? Maybe we are a fading race, I don’t know, but if that is true I will still fight to the end to hold on to what we have. I do not know what will happen in the future, but I will not meekly accept despair into my heart. So long as I draw breath I will fight to protect my home and my people.”

  Kyrielle smiled at him and he felt his spirits rise until he caught sight of the pledge ring on the hand resting on her shoulder. A fleeting image of a beautiful elf maid flashed behind his eyes, her eyes sad and her hair a flowing river of gold.

  “What’s wrong?” said Kyrielle, seeing the shadow pass over his features.

  “Nothing,” said Caelir, taking his hand from her shoulder and turning away.

  He was saved from further questions when he heard footsteps approaching from the tower. Anurion the Green stood before them, his features giving nothing away as to the outcome of his discussions with Eltharion.

  “Well?” said Kyrielle. “Does he grant us leave to travel over the mountains?”

&nbs
p; “Not yet. He wishes to speak to Caelir first.”

  “Me? What for?” said Caelir, suddenly nervous about meeting such a dark, yet heroic figure as Eltharion the Grim.

  Anurion said, “Because I believe he thinks you a mystery and Eltharion is not one who enjoys mysteries as much as I. He has been told all that I know of you and he wishes to speak to you himself. When he asks questions, be truthful in all things. Do you understand me, boy?”

  “I understand you, yes,” said Caelir. “I am not a fool, but I still do not see why he wishes to speak with me.”

  “Listen to me, Caelir, and listen well. Eltharion is the Warden of Tor Yvresse and none pass over the mountains to the Inner Kingdoms without his leave. If he wishes to speak to you then you do not refuse him.”

  Caelir nodded and made his way across the receiving chamber towards the leaf-shaped archway that led to Eltharion’s private chambers. The doors were shut and he knocked softly, unwilling to simply barge in.

  “Enter,” said a cold voice and an icy dread settled on him as he obeyed.

  Pazhek let loose a string of the foulest curses he knew as he stumbled on yet another rock and fell to his knees. Where before the mountains had risen to meet his tread and hasten him on his way, now every rock was loose beneath him and every patch of scrub tangled his foot at every turn.

  His shoulder ached abominably, the arrowhead still lodged painfully beneath his shoulder blade. He still couldn’t believe that he had been hit, for he had employed all the techniques of evasion taught to the Adepts of Khaine and had been beyond the furthest extent of bowshot…

  Or so he had believed.

  He had bound the wound as best he was able and taken an infusion of weirdroot to dull the pain before retracing his steps through the mountains. The Shadow Warriors would even now be on his trail and he was under no illusions as to the likelihood of his escape now that he was leaving a trail of his own blood behind him. But he would lead them a merry dance through the mountains and when they came for him he would kill and maim as many as he could before they brought him down.

  He had applied a coating of poison to his blades, a mixture of manbane and black lotus, a concoction that would drive its victims mad with pain and delusions of their worst nightmares.

  Let them come, he thought, I will give them cause to remember the name of Pazhek.

  He smiled as he thought of the death of Cerion Goldwing. Though it was not an elegant death it had been a very visible and bloody one that the garrison of the Eagle Gate would not soon forget.

  A shadow flashed over the ground and he spun, swords raised before him.

  He saw nothing, no sign of pursuit, but knew that such things were meaningless, for his enemies would not come upon him directly, but with guile and cunning. He turned and carried onwards, his breath heaving in his lungs, all stealth forsaken in favour of speed.

  If he could somehow reach the coast and find a place of concealment then he could await the time when his people would come for him.

  Another shadow crossed the ground and he stopped, breathless and desperate as he backed against the cliff. Once again he saw nothing and as a screeching cry echoed from the mountainsides, he suddenly realised his error.

  Pazhek looked up in time to see a great, golden shape plunge from the skies.

  Its wings extended with a boom of deceleration and hooked talons slashed towards him.

  He cried out and tried to raise his blades, but the mighty eagle was faster, its extended talons snapping closed over his arms and lifting him into the air. Pazhek screamed as the ground fell away, dropping his swords as the eagle crushed the bones in his wrists.

  “Assassin,” said the giant bird of prey as each beat of its wings carried them higher and higher. “I am Elasir, Lord of the Eagles, and you have spilled the blood of a friend to my kind.”

  Pazhek could not answer, the agony of the bird’s razor talons grinding his bones and slicing his flesh too great to bear. He twisted in its grip, the ground spinning thousands of feet below him as he fought in vain against the strength of his captor.

  “And for that you must pay,” said the eagle, releasing its grip.

  Caelir pushed open the door and stepped into a vaulted chamber of cold light and distant echoes. Where the rest of the tower was bleak and displayed none of the character of he who dwelled here, this room gave dark insight into the mind of Eltharion.

  Racks of weapons and framed maps of Ulthuan, Naggaroth and all the known world lined the walls. Alongside them were grim trophies set on wooden plaques and mounted around the circumference of the room, the heads of vicious monsters, orcs and men.

  The golden sunlight of Ulthuan streamed in through a great aperture formed in the roof, below which an elaborate saddle-like arrangement of leather straps and buckles was hung upon a wooden frame. The illumination did not warm the chamber or reach the farthest corners, as though its occupant did not desire to feel the light on his skin.

  Eltharion paced beneath the opening in the roof, the sunlight only serving to highlight the pallid cast of his flesh and the shadows beneath his cheekbones. His expression was grim, as Caelir had expected, and he turned to face him with barely a glimmer of interest in his icy, sapphire eyes.

  “So you are the one washed upon the shores of my land?” said Eltharion.

  “I am,” said Caelir, bowing respectfully. “It is an honour to meet you, my lord.”

  Eltharion ignored the compliment and said, “Anurion tells me your memories have been magically locked within you. Why would someone do such a thing?”

  “I have no idea, my lord. I wish I did.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Eltharion and Caelir was surprised at his directness.

  “It is the truth, my lord. Why would I lie about it?”

  “I do not know, and that is enough to give me pause,” said Eltharion, walking towards him with his hooded eyes fixed upon him. Caelir had to fight the urge to back away from the Warden of Tor Yvresse, such was the weight of his intimidation.

  “I do not like the unknown, Caelir,” said Eltharion. “The unknown is dangerous and cloaks itself in mystery to better advance its cause. I sense a dark purpose to you, but cannot fathom what danger a callow youth such as yourself might present.”

  “Callow? I am a warrior and have killed our enemies before now.”

  “How do you know? You have no memory.”

  “I… just know that I am no enemy of Ulthuan,” said Caelir.

  “I wish I could be sure of that, but I do not trust you.”

  “Then do you trust an archmage of Saphery?”

  Eltharion laughed, but there was no humour to it, simply a bark of amusement that came from the exposure of another’s ignorance. “One might as well trust the sea or the faith of a woman.”

  “But Anurion the Green vouches for me.”

  “That he does, though even he does not fully trust you.”

  “Why do you believe I am a threat?”

  “It does not matter why I believe it, simply that I do. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to take away your memories and I cannot believe they did so for the benefit of Ulthuan.”

  “Perhaps it was because I knew something of benefit to Ulthuan that my memories were stolen,” said Caelir.

  “Then why not just kill you?”

  “I do not know,” said Caelir, growing weary of having no answers to explain himself with. “All I know is that I am a true son of Ellyrion and would rather die than harm so much as a single hair on the head of any of my kin!”

  Eltharion stepped forward and placed his hands either side of Caelir’s head, looking directly into his eyes with a gaze that frightened him with its intensity.

  “I believe that you think you are telling the truth,” said Eltharion. “Only time will tell if that is enough.”

  “I am telling the truth.”

  Eltharion released his grip and turned away as a mighty screech came from beyond the tower and a powerful beat of wings sent a r
ushing downdraught of air gusting through the chamber. Parchments fluttered like autumnal leaves scattered by the wind.

  A shadow suddenly blocked the light from the aperture in the roof. Caelir looked up in amazement to see a mighty, winged creature drop through and land gracefully within the confines of the tower. Its head and forequarters were like those of a powerful eagle, its hooked beak and clawed forelegs terrifyingly muscled. Behind its feathered wings, the creature’s body was furred and massively powerful, its hindquarters those of a mighty lion. Its pelt was the colour of copper, with dark stripes and spots dotting its fur like the great cats said to stalk the jungles of Lustria and the Southlands.

  Caelir stared awestruck as the mighty griffon paced the breadth of the tower, its head cocked to one side as it glared angrily at him.

  “Stormwing,” said Eltharion by way of introduction.

  Caelir bowed to the powerful beast, the intelligence glittering in its eyes plain to see. “It is an honour.”

  Eltharion turned to lift the saddle-like arrangement from the wooden frame and Caelir now realised that it was exactly that—a saddle. The Warden of Tor Yvresse threw the saddle over the griffon’s back and said, “You are heading to the White Tower?”

  “We are,” said Caelir, still awed at the magnificent creature before him.

  “Then I will allow you to travel to Saphery, for I desire you out of my city. But you will not travel alone.”

  “No?”

  “I will send you on your way with a company of my finest rangers,” said Eltharion. “They will take you through the secret ways of the mountains and escort you to the White Tower.”

  Caelir smiled and said, “You have my thanks, my lord.”

  As Eltharion finished buckling the complex saddle to Stormwing he said, “I do not do this as a favour to you, I do it to ensure you go where you say you are going.”

  “I still thank you for it.”

  “Your thanks are irrelevant to me,” said Eltharion. “Be at the west gate at sunset and do not return, Caelir of Ellyrion. You are not welcome in Tor Yvresse.”