“I agree,” said Morathi. “How do you plan to find him when so many thousands of others have failed?”
“I have been studying the attacks of his warriors, in great detail,” Alandrian explained. “At first they appear capricious, striking east and west, north and south without pattern. But there is a pattern there, I have seen it before.”
“Really?” said Morathi, leaning forwards with interest, one hand stroking her delicate chin. “What have you seen?”
“In Elthin Arvan I became a keen hunter; the forests there teem with game,” Alandrian said, cautiously taking a step forwards. “Some chase boar, others prefer deer, but I was not interested in those things. I much preferred to hunt those that also hunt. If you can best the hunter at his own game, you have truly proven yourself.”
“A trait I find most appealing at the moment,” Morathi said with a smile, her eyes alight with a glimmer of silver fire. “Please, carry on.”
“The Shadow King hunts like a wolf,” Alandrian announced with a grin. “It is difficult to discern, but it is there. Nagarythe is his territory and he patrols it regularly, putting his mark on one area before moving on to the next. In any given year he could strike anywhere, but it has been six years now and his thoughts are known to me. The attack near Galthyr is an aberration created by us and I must discount that from my thinking. After his next attack we will know where he has been and, more importantly, I know where he will have moved to. We will strike swiftly, take him unawares.”
“All of this sounds very worthy, but what is it that you need from me?” Morathi asked.
“Nagarythe is too large an area for your sorcerers to cover with their scrying powers, especially when looking for something constantly moving,” Alandrian explained. “I can only estimate the Shadow King’s presence in a general area, too large to sweep by conventional means without alerting him to our presence. Between my theory and the abilities of one of your sorcerers we should be able to locate the Shadow King with precision.”
“And how will you deal with him once you know where he is?” Morathi inquired, sitting back and crossing her arms again.
“If you would indulge me for a moment, majesty?” Alandrian asked, receiving a nod of assent in return.
He left the hall briefly and returned with two other elves, females so alike as to be twins. They wore breastplates and vambraces of gold chased with rubies carved with runes of Khaine, which flickered with a bloody light. Their silver hair was drawn back into long tresses bound with sinew and circlets of bone; bright blue eyes stared out of masks of painted blood. Each carried numerous blades: several daggers at their belts and in their boots; pairs of long swords hanging from their waists; matched scimitars upon their backs; boots and fingerless gloves armoured with spikes and blades. Even their fingers were hung with rings armed with curving talons of gilded iron.
“Two of Khaine’s most promising slayers,” Alandrian announced with a proud smile. “I present my precious daughters, Lirieth and Hellebron.”
Morathi stood and walked forwards again, her expression appreciative. She nodded, gauging the two warrior-maidens closely.
“Yes,” Morathi purred. “Yes, they would be very fine weapons indeed. You need someone to guide them to the target.”
Morathi turned and looked at her disciples, before gesturing to one of the females. She was short and slight in comparison to Alandrian’s assassins, her dark hair cut at the shoulder. Her skin was even paler than the queen’s and her hair was shot through with streaks of icy silver, giving her the appearance of a winter spirit. She regarded the Khainites coolly, lips pursed, eyes analysing every detail.
“This one is the best at scrying,” Morathi announced. “Get her close and she will be able to find the Shadow King for you. Step forwards, dear, and introduce yourself to the prince.”
The sorceress did as she was bid, giving a perfunctory nod of the head.
“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Prince Alandrian,” she said, her voice as cold as her demeanour. “My name is Ashniel.”
Alith’s laughter was echoed by a few of the other shadow warriors, but many did not share his sanguine view on his close encounter upon the cliffs. Both Khillrallion and Tharion had voiced concerns that Alith was becoming reckless, though they had couched their misgivings in more polite terms.
Some of the survivors of the ambush Alith had sent further east, to recuperate from their wounds and spread the word of what had happened; Alith was aware that the druchii would try to claim some form of victory from the affair and wanted his continued survival to be widely known. The others he had brought to this haven and some of the shadow-walkers had been summoned for an impromptu conference, at one of several sanctuaries the shadow warriors had created across Nagarythe.
Alith held court in a farmhouse a short distance from the town of Toresse in the south of Nagarythe; a place that had once been populated by a mix of Naggarothi and Tiranocii and had suffered greatly as a result while Prince Kheranion had lived. Many of the inhabitants had been killed or enslaved as “half-breed” and all discontent had been violently put down by the prince’s soldiers. Like many other brutalised towns and villages, Toresse had become a centre of quiet dissent against druchii rule that had found new hope with the coming of the Shadow King. The owner of the farm moved around the table with loaves of bread and cuts of lamb, casting awestruck glances at his guest.
“I am the rat that nips the fingers of those who try to catch me,” joked Alith, searching through the wine bottles on the table seeking to refill his goblet. “There is nothing more frustrating for our foes than success snatched away at the last moment.”
“Our foes might call the deaths of more than a hundred warriors a success,” Tharion said sombrely. He gave a maudlin shake of the head and stared into his half-empty cup. “We have grown arrogant with our success, believing ourselves untouchable.”
Alith’s humour dissipated and he directed a frown towards Tharion.
“Every cause demands sacrifice,” said the Shadow King.
Tharion looked up and met his lord’s stare with a bleak gaze.
“No cause is furthered by pointless sacrifice,” he said. “Just ask the thousands that have burned on the pyres of the cultists.”
“You compare me to the leeches that have sucked the life out of Nagarythe?” snarled Alith, hurling aside his goblet. “I have asked no elf to risk any more than I risk myself. I do not send my followers out to die while I remain safe behind castle walls. I gave you all a choice, one that you freely accepted. I repeat that now, to you and every shadow warrior. If you no longer believe in our cause, if you feel you can no longer fight the war we must fight, you are free to leave Nagarythe. If you remain, I expect you to fight for me, to follow me as your rightful king. I demand much, I know, but it is nothing less than I demand of myself.”
“You misunderstan—” began Tharion but Alith cut him off.
“Now is the time to strike again!” he declared, turning his attention away from Tharion to address the others in the room. “While the druchii pat each other on the back and tell each other how close they came to catching the Shadow King, we will visit upon them a fresh humiliation, a punishment for their hubris.”
“Their hubris?” muttered Tharion.
“Forgive him, lord,” cut in Khillrallion before Alith could reply. The shadow-walker took Tharion by the arm and pulled him up. “He has been most distressed by the thought that you might be taken from us, and he is not used to strong wine.”
Tharion snatched free his arm and smoothed out the creases in his shirt sleeve. He looked at the assembled shadow warriors, somewhat unsteadily, and then focussed on Alith.
“We fight for you, Alith,” Tharion murmured. “You are the Shadow King, and we are your shadow army. Without you, there is no us. Are no us? Whatever. Don’t get yourself killed trying to prove something you’ve already proven.”
Tharion pushed his way across the room followed by glances from the others,
some angry, others sympathetic. The slam of the door brought a disconcerted silence, many looking to Alith, some avoiding each other’s gaze out of embarrassment.
“He’s just a little drun—” began Khillrallion.
“He is in danger of becoming a mother hen, a smothering hen even,” said Alith. “I am no helpless chick, and neither are my brave, my very brave shadow warriors. That is the nature of the hunt. Succeed and eat, fail and starve.”
Alith rounded on the others, anger written across his face.
“Do you think I want my followers to die?” he snapped. “Did I ask for our families to be butchered and our homes destroyed? I did not choose this life, it chose me! The gods and the druchii have made me what I am, and I will be that thing because our people need it. I do the things I do, terrible things, we do the terrible things we do, so that those that come after us might not have to do the same.”
Alith ripped off his woollen shirt and turned his back on the shadow warriors, showing them the scar of the whip blow he had suffered in Anlec. He turned back to face them, pointing to more wounds upon his body and arms, those from the flight at the cliffs still livid.
“These injuries are as nothing to the suffering our people endure!” he raged, scattering the bottles with a sweep of his arm. He looked upwards but in his mind’s eye did not see the beamed ceiling but rather the everlasting heavens where the gods were said to dwell. “A cut, a bruise, what do they mean? True torment is in the spirit. The spirit of a whole generation crushed by the evil of the druchii. What more must I give to spare them what I have experienced?”
Alith stooped and picked up a bottle from the floor. He brought it down on the edge of the table, smashing it. Staring again at the gods only he could see, he raised the broken pottery to his chest.
“Do you want more blood, is that it?” he cried out. “Perhaps you want me dead? Like my mother and father. No more Anars. Would that satisfy you?”
Khillrallion grabbed his lord’s arm and wrenched the broken bottle from his fingers, tossing it aside. He said nothing and simply laid his arm across Alith’s shoulders, pulling him close. The Shadow King pushed him away and half-turned before stumbling and falling to his knees.
“Why me?” Alith sobbed, burying his face in his hands, blood streaming as his fresh wounds reopened.
The other shadow warriors gathered close, patting Alith on the shoulder and laying comforting hands on his head.
“Because you are the Shadow King,” said Khillrallion, kneeling next to his leader. “Because nobody else can do it.”
The following morning no mention was made of Alith’s outburst. The discussion amongst the shadow warriors after Alith had departed had been one of solidarity with their leader. They knew they could never share the burdens he had chosen to bear, and had reaffirmed their faith in each other and the Shadow King. Some had remarked that it was all too easy to think of the Shadow King and forget the Alith Anar that was obscured by the title: an elf barely into adulthood who had lost everything and taken it upon himself to become the spirit of vengeance for all of them.
After breakfasting, Alith called his band to him and took them south, coming upon the waters of the Naganath before midday. From the concealment of a boulder-strewn hillock, Alith pointed westwards, to a stone bridge that arced over the river, a fortified tower at each end. The river was narrow and fast, less than two hundred paces wide.
“The Ethruin crossing,” Alith told his warriors with an impish smile. “It is the most direct route between Anlec and Tor Anroc. In the summer the closest crossings are two days west or a further day and a half east. In the winter the ford at Eathin Anror is impassable, adding another day to the journey if one wishes to go by the eastern route. Imagine Morathi’s irritation when next an army marches south only to find the bridge gone?”
“Irritation, lord?” said Tharion. “Two garrisoned towers seem a tough nut to crack only to cause some irritation.”
“You’re missing the point, Tharion,” said Alith. “I want the druchii to come after me. It was a close thing at Galthyr, but I have learnt the lesson. Our enemies will divert valuable resources to finding me. They are used to the attacks of the shadow warriors, but the Shadow King well he is the source of all their frustrations. I want to mock them. I want them so mad that they’ll do whatever they can to find me. When they do that, they will make a mistake and we will exploit it, whatever it turns out to be. Imagine having to double the garrison on every crossing in Nagarythe. Every storehouse and grain barn will need guarding. While they scrabble around for the Shadow King, the other shadow warriors will roam free and cause anarchy.”
“You think that being deliberately petty will rile them even more?” asked Tharion.
“I wanted them scared, but their near-success will allay some of that fear, for a while at least,” said Alith. “That being the case, I must select a different shaft for my bow, one that will not strike deep but will strike many times. Like the persistent wasp, I shall sting them again and again, each wound not sufficient to kill, but enough to infuriate. If they think they can get the better of the Shadow King, I will prove them otherwise. Just when they think I’m done, I’ll be back, again and again, stinging them until they cry. They can swat and flail until they are screaming and breathless, and still I’ll come back!”
“I understand,” said Tharion. “One other question, though.”
“What?” replied Alith.
“How do we make a bridge disappear?”
Alith was heartily sick of the stench of fish. It was in the fisherman’s smock he wore, in his hair, under his fingernails. He sat in the shadow of the fishing boat’s sail as it slid gently along the Naganath towards the Ethruin bridge. Druchii soldiers stood at either end of the span, checking the occasional carts and wagons that crossed the border. More warriors could be seen drilling close to the northern tower.
All was as it had been for the last fifteen days. The druchii were content to let the flotilla of boats pass up and down the river, as they had done so for hundreds of years. The white-painted vessels warranted barely a glance, so familiar were they. All of the boats were from Toresse. Their owners did not know what Alith had intended, but had been willing to aid the Shadow King if it meant discomfort for their overlords.
As the boat lowered its mast and passed under the bridge, Alith slipped over the bulwark into the water, along with the other three shadow warriors hiding amongst the crew. They swam swiftly to the brick bank beneath the bridge and pulled themselves out of the water. Removing several of the blocks to reveal a hiding place, Alith pulled out wool-wrapped bundles of tools: broad chisels and mallets with cushioned heads.
The four of them pulled themselves up by means of a web of narrow ropes that had been constructed under the bridge, hung from hooks that had been screwed into the mortar of the bridge itself. Taking up their places, backs to the water rushing below, they continued their work, carefully chipping away at the mortar, the soft taps of their muffled hammers hidden by the gurgle and swirl of the Naganath. When a stone had been sufficiently loosened, they brought out wooden wedges, knocking the supports into place to keep the bridge intact for the time being.
In this painstaking fashion Alith and his followers had taken apart the bridge block by block, using the wedges and the natural pressure of its arch to keep the structure in one piece. The ropes that held them out of the water were also passed through holes cut in the thick ends of the wedges, allowing them to be pulled free at a later time.
Nearly two-thirds of the bridge had been thus prepared for demolition, by small teams of shadow warriors working in shifts from dawn until dusk. It was muscle-aching and mind-numbing work, lying virtually immobile in their rope cradles, repetitively working away at a finger’s length of mortar at a time.
Until midday Alith and his companions laboured, when the fishing fleet returned and they were picked up, another team of shadow warriors replacing them. The boats were moored at Toresse and Alith stepped onto the
quay to find Khillrallion waiting for him. The shadow-walker was pensive.
“Bad tidings, friend?” Alith asked.
“Perhaps,” said Khillrallion. “The two of them turned off the road that led into the town and made their way along the reed-strewn bank of the river. Tharion is missing.”
“I saw him only this morning, as I left on the boats,” said Alith. “He cannot have gone far.”
Khillrallion’s expression was part-grimace and part-smile.
“I sent some of the others to look for him, but though he was late to the lesson he has learned the arts of the shadows well. There is no sign of where he has gone.”
“Sometimes we all need some time alone,” Alith reasoned.
“Not Tharion,” Khillrallion argued. “He has never been shy in speaking his mind amongst others, and has no problem confiding his woes to me. He feels his age and a misplaced guilt over the fall of Elanardris.”
“Misplaced?” said Alith. “None of our guilt is misplaced, we all must accept that we played a part in the downfall of the Anars, even if our intentions were the opposite.”
“I would suggest you do not say such things to Tharion, if we find him,” said Khillrallion. “Since Cerin Hiuath he has been preoccupied with the dynasty of the Anars. He is of a far older breed than you and I, one of your grandfather’s generation. We all despise what has become of Ulthuan, but it is only those that were there when she was saved from the daemons who really feel what has been lost. They gave their blood once to save our people, and they thought they did so in order that we who came later would not have to.”
“But why has this affected him now?” asked Alith. He sat down at the river’s edge and Khillrallion sat beside him. “For six years we have fought the druchii.”
“You have become the Shadow King but Tharion can only see you as Alith Anar, grandson and son to two of his closest friends, the last of their line. For you Elanardris is now a memory, the shadow war has become your new legacy. For Tharion, that lineage, that tradition, is still embodied in you. You are not the Shadow King you are the last of the Anars. He does not trust the Caledorians or the Chracians or any of the others to restore that which has been lost in our lands. Only while you live can he still cling to the hope that the glory of Elanardris, all of Nagarythe, might be restored. He fears that if you die, all hope dies with you.”
02 - Shadow King Page 41
