“Do you think Malekith will reach Galthyr?” asked Caenthras, looking up from the map table where he had been staring at the charts since Alith had arrived. “By what route will he march to the port? In whose hands will he find it?”
Aneltain shrugged.
“I cannot answer those questions, any more than you can,” said the prince. “I entered Nagarythe for the first time only days ago. These are not my lands; I know nothing of their people. I will say that if any of us can escape the clutches of the cultists, it is Malekith. His army is strong and the march not overly long. The prince himself is the greatest warrior and most skilful commander I have ever seen. His personal fleet waits at Galthyr and I hope that the city’s rulers remain opposed to Morathi.”
“That is a rare hope in these times,” said Eothlir, becoming serious. “Yet it is heartening to think that it is not the Anars alone that would resist the power of Anlec.”
“Will Malekith return?” asked Caenthras, staring intently at the Ellyrians.
“Not before spring, I would say,” said Eoloran. “Though he has not suffered true defeat as yet, this attack seems to have been… hasty, I would say. One does not merely walk up to Anlec and knock on the gates to be allowed entry.”
“We must do what we can to pave the way for that glorious return,” said Eothlir. “Morathi knows Malekith’s intent now, and all surprise is lost. We have raised our weapons against Anlec as well, and we do not know when the return blow will come.”
“We should harass a few more of Morathi’s armies, keep her busy while Malekith regroups,” said Caenthras. “When Malekith returns, he should not face a united, well-composed foe.”
Alith was worried by these words and the look of consideration on Eoloran’s face. The Anars had suffered little in the battle that day; Elthyrior’s warning had to relate to matters not yet known to Alith.
“That would be unwise,” said Eothlir, much to Alith’s relief. “Now that we have truly stirred up the wasps’ nest, we should seek sanctuary in Elanardris.”
“From what little I heard from the raven heralds, that would seem the best course of action,” said Aneltain.
The mention of the raven heralds drew Alith’s attention immediately, and also that of his grandfather.
“Raven heralds?” said Eoloran, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What dealings have you had with those dark riders?”
Aneltain was taken aback and gave a defensive shrug.
“They act as Malekith’s scouts and brought us to Ealith by secret ways,” replied the Ellyrian. “Word came to us at the citadel that armies from the north and west and south were converging at Ealith to trap the prince and destroy his army. I fear that House Anar will fare no better if you remain out in the open.”
“Already we have helped Malekith,” Alith said, directing his words towards his father and grandfather. “The army we have crushed today will not threaten Malekith, and we have bought him time to make his retreat, as was Caenthras’ suggestion. Our losses are comparatively few as yet, but if we remain here that might not hold true for long. And who can say what forces will march on our homes once Malekith has slipped away?”
Eoloran sat down behind the map table and rubbed the side of his nose, as he was wont to do when deep in thought. He closed his eyes, seeming to block out the rest of the world as he contemplated his decision.
“We return to Elanardris,” he said, eyes still closed.
Alith stopped himself from crying out with relief. The anxious energy that had filled him since his meeting with Elthyrior drained away and he suddenly felt very tired. He excused himself from the continuing discussions and made his way to his tent, exhausted but happy. Elanardris would remain safe and soon he would see Ashniel again.
—
Clothed in Darkness
It seemed to Alith that the winter wind was more bitter than any that had come before. It brought swirls of snow down from the mountains, but it was not just the cold that clawed at Alith, it was the feeling of being trapped.
From the high mountain path, the young Anar looked south and west across Elanardris. He could see the manse, the gardens swathed in snow. Smoke drifted from the house’s three chimneys, billowing southwards on the stern breeze. Beyond the manse, the meadows and hills were laid out in a pattern of dark walls and hedges cutting through the white blanket. The white-walled farmhouses and guard towers could barely be seen, located only through their brightly tiled roofs and the telltale wisps of smoke.
Beyond that, almost at the horizon, the hills of Elanardris gave way to the undulating plains of central Nagarythe. Here the cloud-swathed sky was shrouded by a darker smog, the fires of a huge encampment. The army of Anlec squatted like a brooding black beast on the borders of the Anars’ realm, waiting for the snows to cease. At this distance, and through the snow flurries brought down from the north, even the keen eyes of Alith could make out little detail. The enemy camp spread like a stain over the white hills, lines of black shapes that stretched from north to south.
The druchii, his grandfather had called them: dark elves. They had turned from the light of Aenarion and the lord of gods, Asuryan. Eoloran no longer regarded them as Naggarothi. They were traitors to the Phoenix Throne and betrayers of Malekith, their rightful prince.
Their foes thought the same of the Anars. They considered Eoloran’s refusal to acknowledge the authority of Anlec as a slight against Aenarion’s memory. Alith knew this from the interrogations of prisoners taken after the last battle, when the druchii had attempted to force their way up into the hills. It had been a foolish, desperate assault before Enagruir tightened her wintry grip on Nagarythe. The druchii had been stopped by Eoloran and Eothlir—again, for there had been three such attacks since Malekith had returned—and the dark elves were content to wait for conditions to improve and their numbers to swell further.
Alith’s loneliness had been increased by the lack of contact with Ashniel. Far from giving him the triumphant homecoming Alith had imagined, Ashniel had been moved by her father to one of the lord’s castles higher in the mountains, far from the enemy. Occasionally Alith would receive a short letter from her, in which she professed her regret at their parting and her wish that they would see each other again soon. Alith had little enough time to reply to these letters, for he spent most days up in the mountains keeping watch on the druchii host. Try as he might, he had little leisure to spend composing poetry and declarations of love and knew that such missives as he managed to send were brusque and clumsy.
As these morose thoughts occupied Alith, a lionhawk, her plumage white to camouflage her against the snows, swept down with a shriek from the mountain clouds. She circled around Alith and the group of scouts around him, and then settled on his wrist. Alith listened to her chirping and cawing for a moment, nodding in understanding as the bird relayed the message from Anadriel.
He stroked the lionhawk’s head in thanks before raising his arm and allowing her to fly back to her nest. She would come again when called.
“A rider, on the Eithrin Ridge,” Alith announced to the twenty elves accompanying him. They were all dressed in robes of white trimmed with dark bear fur, enchanted with the greatest blessings of stealth and secrecy known to the dedicants of Kurnous. Even this close, it was hard for Alith to see where elf stopped and snow began. “Anadriel is moving in from the southwest; we shall intercept this spy from the north-east. Quickly now, we don’t want Anadriel to steal our glory!”
Many times the scouts had intercepted druchii warriors attempting to spy upon the Anars’ army and defences. As far as Alith knew, not a single one had escaped to take news back to the druchii commanders. This one was different. It was obvious that nobody would be able to cross the Eithrin Ridge unobserved, especially on horseback, and so the druchii had concentrated their forces to the west and north. Alith’s instinct told him that this uninvited visitor was not a spy, and wondered if Elthyrior had finally been caught out.
However, there wa
s no solid reason to suspect that this stranger was the raven herald. Alith had heard nothing from Elthyrior since their parting before the battle with the Khainites, and guessed only that he had reached Ealith safely and persuaded Malekith to send Aneltain south. Elthyrior could be dead, a captive of Morathi, or hidden in whatever lairs the raven heralds used to avoid the attention of their enemies.
As wintry spirits, the scouts made their way across the snow-covered rock, heading towards Eithrin Ridge. They flitted through the sparse trees, deftly running across the snow, moving sure-footedly over patches of sun-glittering ice. As they made their way down the mountainside, the shadow of Anil Narthain fell upon them and the air grew colder. Alith blew on his fingers as he jogged, keeping them warm so that he would not fumble with his bow if the stranger proved to be a threat. The snow crunching underfoot, Alith and the other archers ghosted southwards, eyes fixed ahead for any sight of the interloper.
It was mid-morning before Alith crested a rise, coming out into the winter sun, and saw the intruder. It was not Elthyrior. Although the elf was some distance away, Alith could see that he was shorter than the raven herald, and he was dressed in a grey cloak beneath which could be seen flashes of golden scale and white robes. The intruder was leading his horse, striding across a long snowdrift that had built up on the flanks of the Eithrin Ridge. Alith signalled wordlessly to the others to spread out and circle to the east to come at the stranger from several directions.
For a short while Alith lost sight of his quarry as the rocky slope dipped sharply and then rose up again. Pulling himself up the steep wall of the snow-filled crag, Alith caught sight of the stranger again, standing some three hundred paces away. He had stopped and was looking around quickly, and for a moment Alith wondered if the intruder had spied one of the scouts.
A keening cry overhead announced the presence of Anadriel’s lionhawk, and only moments later six figures that before had been invisible stood up. Standing in a semi-circle some hundred paces from the stranger, they were dressed in the same style of clothes as Alith’s warriors and had arrows bent to their bows. Alith rose to his feet and dashed across the snow, fitting an arrow to his bowstring.
The stranger had raised his arms and thrown back his cloak, revealing no scabbard at his waist, only the long knife that any traveller in the wilds would be sensible to carry. He was exchanging words with Anadriel and Alith caught the end of a reply.
“…need to speak to Eoloran and Eothlir,” the stranger called out.
Anadriel saw Alith and his scouts approaching from the opposite direction and lifted a hand in brief greeting. The stranger turned slowly to look at Alith. His expression was calm, confident even. He pulled back his hood with deliberate slowness, revealing reddish-yellow hair tied with golden thread. He was certainly not from Nagarythe.
“Name yourself,” Alith called out, stopping some fifty paces from the elf, his arrow aimed at the stranger’s chest.
“I am Calabrian of Tor Andris,” the elf replied. “I bear messages for the lord of the Anars.”
“We know the manner of messages that Morathi would send,” said Alith. He lifted up his bow and arrow. “You know the manner of our replies.”
“I come not from Anlec, but Tor Anroc,” Calabrian said patiently. “I carry missives from Prince Malekith.”
“And what proof do you offer?” demanded Alith.
“If you would allow me to approach, I will show you.”
Alith relaxed his arm and brought down his bow. Letting go of the arrow, he waved for Calabrian to come closer. The messenger lowered his arms and stepped up to his horse. He drew something from his saddlebags and held it up. It was a scroll case. Calabrian walked purposefully, glancing at the other scouts, the case still held clearly in view. Alith signalled for him to stop a few paces away and stepped up to him with an outstretched hand. Calabrian placed the casing in Alith’s grip and took a few paces further back, his eyes unwavering from Alith’s face.
The seal on the case was certainly that of Prince Malekith, and was unbroken. It was light, and so Alith doubted it contained a concealed weapon. Just to be sure, he tucked the case into his belt rather than return it.
“That message is for Eoloran Anar alone,” said Calabrian, stepping forwards. In an instant, Alith was ready, bowstring taut, the arrow pointed towards Calabrian’s heart. The messenger stopped. “I have other assurances, but only Eoloran will understand them.”
“I am Alith Anar, grandson of the lord you seek,” Alith assured the other elf. “I will take you to the manse and there you will meet Eoloran Anar. Be warned, though, that if your claim proves to be false, you will not be treated well. If you wish, we will take you to the border of Elanardris directly and you can return to your master unharmed.”
“My mission is vital, the prince made that very clear to me,” said Calabrian. “I offer myself to your judgement and mercy.”
Alith regarded Calabrian for a long time, seeking some hint of deception. There was none that he could see. A glance over the messenger’s shoulder showed that Anadriel was inspecting Calabrian’s horse and saddlebags.
“She will find nothing out of the ordinary,” said Calabrian, without looking around. “A few personal items and those things needed when travelling in the grip of winter; that is all.”
Alith did not reply but simply waited for Anadriel to complete her search.
“All is well,” she called out eventually. “No weapons of any kind.”
“These are dangerous times to be travelling unarmed in Nagarythe,” said Alith, his suspicion returning. “How is it that you could pass without fear through the Anlec host that sits upon our doorstep?”
“I came not directly from the south, but crossed the mountains from Ellyrion,” explained Calabrian.
“A dangerous crossing,” said Alith, unconvinced.
“Yet it is one that I had to make,” said Calabrian. “Though I do not know the detail of Prince Malekith’s message, he left me in no doubt as to its importance and urgency. When I have Prince Eoloran’s reply, I must return by the same route.”
There was earnestness in Calabrian’s expression that convinced Alith.
“Very well,” said Alith, lowering his bow and returning the arrow to its quiver. “Welcome to Elanardris, Calabrian of Tor Andris.”
Alith was not surprised when Calabrian had insisted that only Eoloran, Eothlir and Alith were allowed to be present when Prince Malekith’s message was opened. The messenger had requested that he be brought to the manse in secret, and made it plain that he only trusted the Anars and feared that agents of Morathi were present in Elanardris. Alith left him with Anadriel on the slopes north of the manse while he consulted his father and grandfather.
So it was that in the darkness of the cloud-swathed night, Alith led Calabrian to the summer house that stood in the eastern stretch of the garden. A single lamp burned within as Alith entered and gestured for Calabrian to follow. A ewer of spiced tea sat steaming on the low table in the middle of the single-roomed building fluted cups arranged around it. The smell was sharp and Alith crossed quickly and poured himself a hot drink, warming his hands on the delicate cup.
Eoloran was stood at the window, gazing to the south, swathed in a fur-lined robe of deep blue, calfskin gloves upon his hands and his breath misting in the cold. Eothlir was sat on one of the benches that lined the white walls of the summer house, the scroll case in his hands.
“You said that you would offer further assurances as to the veracity of your claims,” said Eoloran, still looking out into the darkness. “Make them known to me.”
Calabrian cast an appealing glance towards Alith, who poured a drink for the messenger. Sipping gently, Calabrian turned to Eoloran.
“Malekith instructed me to say ‘The light of the flame burns brightest at night’,” said Calabrian, intoning the words with deep solemnity.
Eoloran spun around and glared inquisitively at Calabrian.
“What does it mean?” asked Eothli
r, taken aback by his father’s reaction. When Eoloran replied, his voice was quiet, distant.
“Those words were first spoken by Aenarion. It was before Anlec was built, just after the daemons had ravaged Avelorn and slain the Everqueen. I remember it well. He had vowed vengeance for the death of his wife and the slaying of his children, and in grief had decided to draw that accursed blade. I argued against him. I warned Aenarion that… that weapon was not for mortals to wield. I could see that his rage would consume him, and said as much. Those words were his reply. He left atop Indraugnir that night and flew to the Blighted Isle. When he returned, the Aenarion I had known was no more and a life of bloodshed followed. How do you know this phrase?”
“You will have to ask Prince Malekith,” said Calabrian, setting his empty cup on the table. “He bade me to learn the words but offered no explanation. I trust that you believe my story?”
Eoloran nodded and gestured for Eothlir to pass the scroll case.
“Only Aenarion and I were present when those words were spoken, but it seems reasonable that Aenarion might use them again in the presence of his son,” Eoloran said.
Taking the case, Eoloran examined the seal and, satisfied that it remained intact, broke the circlet of black wax with his thumb. He pulled open the end of the tube and slid out a single piece of parchment. Placing the case carefully on the table, he opened the scroll.
“It is a letter,” said Eoloran. He scanned the elegant script for a moment and then began to read aloud, his voice breaking with emotion.
02 - Shadow King Page 8
