Opening the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, Alith was confronted by the sight of his father and grandfather fighting back-to-back, wielding swords wrested from their foes. Meanthir and Lestraen lay bleeding upon the floor, possibly dead, and three of the envoy’s warriors were also slain.
Taking up his bow, Alith shot one of the attackers in the thigh, saving his grandfather from a cut aimed towards his shoulder. In the space this created, Eoloran leapt forwards and thrust his blade past the guard of another warrior, cutting him across the arm. Other elves loyal to the Anars came rushing in from the opposite wing of the house, carrying swords and daggers taken from the walls of the great hall. Caenthras arrived, wielding a long spear, and drove its point into the back of one of the elves fighting Eothlir.
There came a deafening crash of glass from the eating hall and Alith turned to see dark-garbed soldiers breaking through the high windows, blades in hand. He shot the first to climb through, but two more jumped in swiftly behind the slain elf. Alith loosed another arrow but with a dull ring it merely caught a glancing blow on the golden helm of his target. Even as Alith whipped another arrow from the quiver across his back, the warrior turned and rushed towards him.
Jumping aside from the outthrust sword of his foe, Alith strung the arrow and loosed it in one fluid motion, the arrowhead punching through the elf’s breastplate. Wounded, but not killed, the warrior gave a hoarse shout and swung his sword at Alith’s neck. Alith swayed backwards but the point of the blade slashed across his tunic and a line of blood welled up from his wounded chest. Biting back a cry of pain, Alith whipped the tip of his bow into the face of his opponent, who fell back with a hand to his eye.
Tharion appeared at the doorway with a two-handed sword and chopped the elf’s legs from beneath him, before giving a cry of alarm. Turning, Alith saw three more warriors advancing towards him, while a fourth made for the fire blazing in the great hearth. He saw the warrior snatch up a branch from the fireplace and take a step towards the tapestries hanging on the wall opposite the windows.
Without a thought, Alith nocked an arrow and took aim between the advancing elves. Breathing out slowly he loosed the arrow, which buried itself in the neck of the elf with the brand. The flaming branch fell from his dead grasp and thudded harmlessly on the stone floor.
The heir of Anar had barely time to loose another shot, which pierced the shoulder of his target, before Caenthras and Tharion were leaping forwards with their weapons, roaring ancient battle cries. Alith was struck by the ferocity of the two ageing princes; veterans of Aenarion’s army and skilled warriors both.
Caenthras’ spear took one of the dark-clad elves in the throat, who jerked like a puppet without strings before collapsing in a heap. Tharion parried a blow aimed towards his legs and spun his wrists to bring his heavy blade down across his foe’s sword arm, severing it at the elbow. A backhanded strike hurled the elf back with his breastplate rent open, his lifeblood gushing over his black robes.
The clatter of hooves on cobbles attracted Alith’s attention and he dashed to the windows. He saw Heliocoran wrestling with a tawny steed, trying to swing himself up into the saddle. As Alith climbed through the window, careful to avoid the slivers of shattered glass still protruding from the frame, Heliocoran mastered his mount. With much whipping of the reins, he turned his horse across the courtyard towards the main gates.
As the herald raced away, Alith’s aim was obscured by the line of fir trees on either side of the roadway leading from the gate, and he leapt for the porch. Gripping the scrolled top of a column with one hand, he swung himself up onto the portico. From here, he could see the length of the courtyard to the gateway.
A soldier in the colours of House Anar stumbled from the gatehouse ahead of the messenger, blood dripping from a wounded leg. Heliocoran stooped low in the saddle and swept his sword across the warrior’s chest as he sped past, felling him with a single blow.
Alith knelt on the roof of the portico and took aim. The clashing of swords and cries of battle below him drifted out of his thoughts as he focussed his mind and body on the dwindling figure of Heliocoran.
He imagined himself in the woods, stalking a boar or deer. He adjusted his line of shot for the wind sighing against the left side of his face, and raised his bow a touch so that his shot would not fall short of his rapidly fleeing prey.
Lit only by flickering lanterns, the herald was all but swathed in darkness and he was a moment from escape, but Alith could see his position clearly in his mind’s eye.
With a whispered prayer to Kurnous, Alith loosed the arrow. The black-fletched missile streaked into the darkness, its point glimmering with firelight from the torches upon the walls of the courtyard. He heard a cry as it struck home. Heliocoran slumped upon his steed but did not fall, and then passed out of sight through the gatehouse.
Three of the fleeing messenger’s warriors staggered out from the entrance hall onto the roadway beneath Alith, and he loosed three arrows in quick succession, taking them down with a single shot each. Eoloran, Eothlir, Caenthras and others ran out, stopping when they saw there were no more foes. Eoloran looked over his shoulder at his grandson.
“Did any of them escape?” Eoloran demanded.
“I hit Heliocoran, but I do not know if the wound is mortal,” Alith confessed.
Eoloran cursed, and signalled for Alith to climb down from his vantage point.
“That is the last of them,” said Eothlir. “More will come. How soon, we cannot know. It seems that House Anar has chosen a side.”
Though his father’s face was grim, this pronouncement brought pride to Alith’s heart. Since he had been born, House Anar had been content to play no greater part in the affairs of Nagarythe. All of that had changed. Morathi had as much as declared war on House Anar, and Alith was pleased that his idleness would soon come to an end.
He was Naggarothi, after all, and battle was in his heart and glory called in his blood.
Now was the chance for him to prove his worth and earn the renown that surrounded his family; a renown he had felt had not yet been his to rightfully share.
He hid a smile as he lowered himself down to the tiled ground below.
—
The Prince Returns
Nearly a year had passed since the attack on the manse; many days filled with frenetic activity and tension. Eoloran and Eothlir were afraid that the warriors of Anlec would come upon them at any time, falling upon Elanardris before its defences were made ready. Riders made haste to all corners of the Anars’ realm, to lesser princes and commanders, to muster their soldiers at the ancestral home and ready for battle. Other princes, from House Atriath and House Ceneborn, both long allies of the Anars, chose Elanardris to make clear their defiance of Anlec.
For all the fears of House Anar, the threats of Heliocoran did not materialise into action. All of the summer, autumn and spring, troops loyal to Eoloran came and camped upon the hills that surrounded the mansion, nearly ten thousand in all. The standard of House Anar fluttered atop the manse, white with a golden griffon’s wing upon it, and from the banners of the regiments assembling at the call of their lord.
Yet Alith was disappointed. Fully half of their troops had not responded to the call to arms. Many had turned back the messengers and bid them return to Eoloran to convey their refusal to act against Anlec. This grieved Eothlir too, for Alith could see the strain written upon the face of his father when these messages were passed on.
Alith guessed, as did Eothlir and others, that these dissenters had succumbed to the bribes and threats of Morathi. None could say if their part was simply to step aside from their duties, or if there was some darker plot to be uncovered. Would Eoloran’s own turn against him? Would they raise arms against their former master? It was this uncertainty that taxed the counsels of the Anars as they made ready. From where was the greatest threat—the legions of Anlec or traitors close at hand?
The great hall of Elanardris was full of
elven princes and lords, all trying to speak at once. Alith sat in the corner close to the empty fire grate and let the babbling pass him by. He heard his grandfather’s voice raised, calling for quiet.
“I did not ask you all to come here for us to fight with one another,” Eoloran declared. He was sat at a table set across the hall, flanked by Eothlir and Caenthras, a few of the other Naggarothi princes stood behind him. “Already there is enough division in Nagarythe, we need not add to it.”
“We demand that action is taken,” called out one elf, a lesser noble of southern Nagarythe called Yrtrian. “Morathi has taken our lands and forced us from our homes.”
“And who is this ‘we’ that can make such demands?” Caenthras answered sternly. “Those who did not resist the cults that grew up under their noses? Those who stood idly by while Morathi’s agents eroded their claim to lordship? Where were these calls for justice a year ago when Morathi declared the Anars traitors to Anlec?”
“We have not the means to defend ourselves,” said Khalion, whose domain bordered Elanardris to the west. “We place our trust in the greater houses, which we have supported with taxes and warriors for many centuries. Now has come the time for that support to be returned.”
“Warriors and armies?” laughed Eoloran, silencing all. “You would have me march to Anlec and throw down the rule of Morathi?”
There were a few calls for just such a thing to happen and Eoloran held up his hand to quieten them.
“There is no means by which our armies can match those of Anlec,” said the lord of House Anar. “Not against a land filled with hostile cultists and those enthralled to Morathi’s power. I have offered sanctuary to you all, and that offer comes with no price. Yet it also comes with no guarantees. For a year Morathi has been content to stay her hand, burdening our greater houses with the turmoil of lesser families, knowing that as she grows stronger, our ability to act grows weaker.”
Eothlir stood and scowled at the assembled nobles.
“If Morathi moves more directly against us, we will fight,” he announced. “Despite that, we cannot, we will not, start a war with Anlec. The lands in the mountains are still safe haven for any that would escape the tyrannies of Morathi, and here we shall stand resolute. It is not for the Anars to cast away the hopes of the future through rash action. We have faith in Malekith and await his return. Under his rule, your titles and rights will be restored and you will be glad of the protection you received.”
“And when will that be?” demanded Yrtrian. “Has any here heard word of Prince Malekith these past years? He cares not for our woes, if he even knows of them.”
This started a fresh round of shouting and recrimination, and Alith stood up with a sigh and eased his way out of the hall. Such had been the bickering for four seasons, since the confrontation with Heliocoran. The Anars had waited for the first blow to land, but it had not come. For a year they had patrolled their borders and taken in those fleeing the plight that had engulfed the rest of Nagarythe, and it seemed that the self-appointed Queen of Anlec was content to allow her enemies to hide in the mountains. Alith chafed at the inactivity but could see that there was little the Anars could do to mount an offensive against Morathi’s stranglehold on power.
As he had often done during such bickering conclaves, Alith left the nobles to their arguments and went to his chambers to take up his bow and arrows. Seeking solitude, he quit the manse and headed up into the mountains. Alith did not know for what he searched, and trod the old game trails guided by whim, heading ever eastwards, deeper into the mountains.
His greatest lament was that he had seen little of Ashniel in the past year. Caenthras had been wary of allowing her to leave the confines of his mansion and Alith had been spared little opportunity to visit her as he played his part as heir of the Anars. In his bedchambers he had a chest filled with letters she had sent, but their polite affection gave him little comfort.
Conflicted between depression and anger, Alith sat himself down upon a rock close to a babbling stream and dropped his bow upon the ground. He looked up into the summer sky, where white clouds scudded across the sun. In just one year everything had changed, and yet nothing had, and he could see no way by which the current stalemate would be broken—not in any way that would be good for the Anars.
A flicker of white caught his eye and Alith snatched up his bow and stood. Amidst the tumbled rocks and bushes a little further down the brook he spied an antlered head dipping to the waters. It was the white stag he had seen outside the shrine of Kurnous.
Padding softly along the bank of the brook, Alith sneaked from boulder to bush to boulder, closing in on the magnificent beast. It stood at the water’s edge, head held high. It looked towards him and Alith shrank back into the shadow of an overhanging outcrop. The stag seemed unperturbed and lazily walked down the mountain back towards the forest.
Alith followed at a distance, careful not to approach too closely lest he startle the beast, but always keeping it in view. Their path took them under the eaves of the pine trees, ever eastwards into lands that Alith had not yet explored. As he stalked the stag Alith realised there were few landmarks to guide his passage and feared for a moment that he would get lost in the endless trees. The fear soon disappeared when he came upon a clearing not large but big enough for the sun to break through overhead. Whatever happened, Alith would be able to make his way westwards towards Elanardris.
The stag stood in the sunlight, basking in its warmth. The elf moved closer and saw that the black mark upon the beast’s chest was no random pattern but a crude representation of Kurnous’ rune. Clearly the stag was some omen or guide sent by the god of hunters.
As before, the white stag suddenly started and bounded away northwards. Alith rose up and gave chase but was barely into the clearing before the deer disappeared from view amongst the lengthening evening shadows.
Stopping, Alith glanced around the clearing and his eye settled upon a shadow just under the eaves to the west. Without thought Alith fitted an arrow to his bow and loosed the shaft at the apparition. The shadow swayed for a moment, seeping into the darkness, and the arrow sped into the woods beyond. The shadow reappeared, more clearly a figure. In a heartbeat Alith nocked and loosed another arrow, but with similar failure to hit his mark. The silhouette had simply merged with its surrounds as the missile had passed.
“Wait!” the figure called out in elvish, its voice deep, tinged with the accent of northern Nagarythe. “I would not have you waste more of your fine shafts.”
Alith bent another arrow to his bow nonetheless and watched warily as the tenebrous apparition emerged into the sunlight. He was dressed all in black with a cloak and hood of feathers concealing his body and face. The stranger showed his open palms and then reached up to pull back his hood.
The elf had skin as white as snow and emerald eyes that shone in the sun, his face framed by long black hair free of any tie or circlet. His expression was solemn as he glided slowly forwards, his hands held up in a sign of peace. Alith’s quick eyes noted the empty scabbard at the elf’s belt but he did not relax the tension on his bowstring.
“Alith, son of Eothlir, heir of the Anars,” the stranger said, his voice low and quiet. “My name is Elthyrior and I bear important tidings.”
“And why would I listen to an elf that skulks in the shadows and stalks me as if I were his prey?” demanded Alith.
“I can only offer my apologies and hope for your forgiveness,” said Elthyrior, lowering his arms to his sides. “I have not spied upon you out of spite, but only to observe and keep you safe.”
“Keep me safe from what? Who are you?”
“I have told you, I am Elthyrior. I am one of the raven heralds, and I was guided to watch you by my mistress.”
“Mistress? If you are an assassin of Morathi, strike now and let us settle this.”
“It is Morai-heg that claims my loyalty, not the Witch Queen who sits upon an usurped throne in Anlec,” said Elthyrior. “The cro
w goddess came to me in a dream one night many years ago, before you were even born. In the mountains she sent me to find you, the child of the moon and the wolf, the heir of Kurnous. The one that would be king in the shadows and hold the future of Nagarythe in balance.”
Alith pondered these words, but they meant little to him. In myth, there was no child of the moon and the wolf, for Lileath and Kurnous had parted without son or daughter. He knew of no other king than Bel Shanaar.
“I do not understand why you think I am the one you seek. What message does the crone goddess have for me? What fate has she seen for my line?”
Elthyrior did not speak for a moment and ghosted softly towards Alith until he was stood but two paces from the tip of the youth’s arrow.
“My message comes not from the Queen of Ravens, but from Prince Malekith.”
Clouds had gathered at the peak of the mountain, obscuring the sun and chilling the wind. Alith fixed his eyes upon Elthyrior to discern any malign intent. The raven herald returned his stare without hostility, awaiting Alith’s response. The two stood as such for some time, Alith warily eyeing Elthyrior.
“You have spoken with Prince Malekith?”
“Last night, on the northern border of Tiranoc at the Naganath River,” said Elthyrior.
“Surely we would have heard ere now that the prince had returned,” said Alith with a frown.
“In secrecy has he come back, or so he thinks,” said Elthyrior. “Even now he marches north to reclaim Anlec.”
“Then the Anars and their allies will march with him!”
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