Despite Tharion’s earlier belief, the druchii did not withdraw their exhausted, bloodied armies from the fighting in the east. The reinforcements from the colonies were simply added to their numbers and Morathi’s commanders pushed them even harder. Nagarythe was made a little safer by this aggression, though the rest of Ulthuan suffered for it.
The shadow warriors patrolled the borders but did not attack unless necessary. Tharion wanted no attention to be paid to the shadow army, their lack of activity reinforcing the belief that the Shadow King’s death had led to their dispersal. It gnawed at his pride to allow the druchii to gloat over this, but pride was an easy sacrifice when so much was at stake.
In the spring of the eighth year of the shadow war, a child was born in Elanardris, the first since the war had begun. There was little celebration, for everybody’s mood was mixed. That new life had come to a land once desolate was a blessing, but there were many that wondered what sort of life, what manner of world the young girl would see when she grew older.
More newborns followed in the coming years. Tharion wondered what type of people they would grow into. He passed on Alith’s edict that all youngsters were to be raised in the traditions of the Anars and when old enough would be trained in the craft of the shadow warrior. They would learn to hunt and fish, to wield sword and bow, and speak the secret words of Kurnous. Though there was no present end of the war in sight, Tharion hoped daily that such endeavour would prove unnecessary. He wanted nothing more than the children of Elanardris to grow up strong and full of pride, and in peace.
The new lord of Elanardris also worried what character of person would be made by this upbringing. Raising children with hate for the druchii clawed at his conscience, but he had made a promise that the Shadow King’s teachings would be passed on. The symbols of vengeance and shadow became the sign of Elanardris. They were painted on cave walls and carved into the bark of trees. Amulets and brooches were fashioned in their shape. This concerned Tharion, reminding him of the cults they fought against, but he could not deny the people their right to express their fear and their hope, to cling to these symbols in the wake of Alith’s passing.
The years passed slowly, each brief summer a time of worry when druchii armies were on the move; every winter a tortuous hardship when food was scarce and the winds blew cold from the north and the snows heaped upon the roofs of the bivouacs. Some of the shadow warriors took families, others vowed to remain alone. They kept vigil over the land of the Anars, hidden watchers ready to slay at a moment’s notice. Their deadly skills were little used, the unforgiving mountains as much of a deterrent to any druchii interest as a wall of spears and a forest of bows.
With each year the memory of the Shadow King was celebrated with a hunt. The shadow warriors chased deer through the woods of the mountains, and offered up a share of their prey to Kurnous and the Shadow King.
With each year, Tharion tried to remember the Shadow King less and Alith Anar more, but it was difficult. His exploits were told around the campfires, and as bedtime stories to the youngsters. The elf who had been a legend while he lived quickly became a myth after his death. Some of those that lived in Elanardris did not even know that he had a name, calling him only by his title. Tharion tried to keep alive the memories of the elf behind the myth, but he sometimes felt like he was swimming against the tide. These people were desperate and a character out of fable was more comfort to them than a mortal of flesh and blood who had once dwelt in the lands they now occupied. It gave them succour to believe that some spirit watched over them. The more knowing of their number declared that the Shadow King was a wolf not a shepherd, more likely to be bringing vengeance in Mirai than he was to be watching over a flock.
It was a harsh existence but the folk of Elanardris endured, listening for news of the wider war while they kept themselves hidden. A stability of sorts grew in the area, the shadow society developing new traditions and codes, new beliefs and practices. Nobody knew who first coined the phrase Aesanar—the New People of Anar—but it helped that they had a name for themselves. Tharion was bestowed the title First Lord of the Aesanar by the people he ruled, his position a regency for when a new claimant to the title of Shadow King would emerge. Pragmatic and resourceful, the Aesanar healed and grew, waiting for the day when one would arise to lead them back into the war; waiting for the day the shadow war would begin anew.
In the thirteenth year of the civil war, nine years since the flag of the Anars had fallen at Dark Fen, that day came.
By firelight the shadow-walkers met once more in the shadows of the old manse. Tharion had called them together at the request of Casadir. The shadow-walker had been reluctant to explain why, saying only that he had met a messenger with important news that they should all hear. Casadir explained this briefly to the assembled shadow-walkers, and impressed upon them the need for secrecy.
All turned as one as a dark figure led a horse into the circle of light, a cloak of raven features upon his back.
“This is Elthyrior, the raven herald,” announced Casadir. There were scattered whispers; Elthyrior was part of the Shadow King legend. Many present had met him before, but several had not.
“Tell us of what you have heard,” said Casadir, sitting down and waving a hand to the space on his right. Elthyrior whispered something to his steed, which wandered out onto what had once been the grand lawn of the summer garden, and then the raven herald sat cross-legged next to the shadow-walker.
“A new power reigns in Anlec,” the raven herald announced, a statement greeted with gasps of shock. “The druchii talk with reverence of him, a ruler they call the Witch King.”
“Who is this Witch King?” asked Tharion.
“I do not know,” said Elthyrior. “None that I have questioned or overheard can say for sure. Some believe it is Hotek, the renegade priest of Vaul that fled Caledor several years ago. Others believe Morathi has adopted Prince Alandrian and granted him rule in return for his slaying of Alith Anar.
“I am told that he is blessed by all of the cytharai. I have heard that no weapon can harm him, and he learnt sorcery from Morathi herself. Some of the druchii say the Witch King will be the scourge that wipes away their foes and hails the great victory of Nagarythe.”
Elthyrior’s emerald gaze swept across the shadow-walkers, each of them intent upon his words.
“We all know that reality and myth can sometimes be blurred, but I have heard grave claims about this Witch King,” Elthyrior warned. “Perhaps a more telling question would be ‘what is the Witch King?’. ‘His gaze shreds skin and flesh from bones’, one captive told me. ‘He burns with the fire of our hatred’, said another. All say one thing: he is the true ruler of Nagarythe and soon he will reign over all of Ulthuan!”
“Camp tales and fireside stories, no doubt,” said Tharion. “Perhaps Morathi fears the war has turned against her, and has conjured up this Witch King to instil fear and obedience in her troops.”
“While there may be some truth to that, I fear the best we can hope for is exaggeration,” said Elthyrior. “So widespread is this rumour, and so vehemently is it believed, I have no doubt that some new druchii lord has emerged to lead the armies of Nagarythe.”
“What can we do about it?” asked Anraneir. “Tharion, would you lead the shadow army against this new tyrant?”
“If it is agreed that we will act, then I will lead,” said the First Lord. “But I am no Shadow King. I do not claim to have the strength and the cunning to outwit such a foe.”
“Without the Shadow King, are we truly the shadow army?” asked Yrain, newly granted the title of shadow-walker. She looked at her comrades with an impassioned expression. “The Shadow King has power, to rally the weak and put terror in the hearts of the druchii. Does it matter who bears the title?”
“It matters if he cannot deliver,” said Casadir. “I would not take up that mantle. To be a leader is one thing, to be a ruler is another. The Shadow King must be more than these things. He must
be wrath and vengeance, unyielding and eternal. To be a living symbol, an incarnation of what we all fight for, what we all believe in…”
“Is there any elf here who could be such a thing?” Tharion asked. For a moment Casadir smiled, a flicker of amusement that soon disappeared. He shook his head, dismissing any claim he might make.
None answered, each looking at his companions to see if any volunteered. A few shook their heads, either disappointed by this reaction or dismissive of the idea that a new Shadow King could be found.
Elthyrior stood up suddenly, hand reaching to his sword. His gaze was fixed upon something outside the light of the fires, close to the manse building. Some of the shadow-walkers readied their weapons; others looked around nervously.
The flames of the campfires flickered, losing strength. One-by-one they died until only a single flame remained, barely lighting Tharion and those close to him.
“What is it?” hissed Anraneir.
Rustles and panting could be heard coming from the darkness. Golden eyes flashed in the starlight. The shadow-walkers turned this way and that, seeking ghostly shapes that appeared and disappeared in a blink of the eye.
The clouds above the mountains broke, bathing all with the silvery light of Sariour in full bloom. Where there had been darkness and shadow, now stood a figure swathed in black, face hidden within a deep hood. It stood immobile, arms crossed, head bowed.
All around the camp, wolf howls split the air.
“Who are you?” Tharion demanded, sword in hand. “What do you want?”
“I am the Shadow King,” said Alith Anar, pulling back his hood, “and I want vengeance.”
—
Return to Anlec
Uproar erupted, cries of disbelief mingled with shouts of celebration and exclamations of shock. The shadow-walkers crowded close, mobbing Alith. Gigantic wolves prowled the periphery, their barks and yaps adding to the noise.
Elthyrior stood apart, watching the proceedings with suspicion. He caught Alith’s eye and the Shadow King waved away his followers, telling them he would speak shortly. As Alith strode through the long grass, the shadow warriors set to relighting their fires, the air alive with the hubbub of surprise and elation.
“A trick?” said Elthyrior when Alith reached him.
The Shadow King shrugged and smiled.
“A new myth,” he said. “Only Casadir knows the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” asked Elthyrior, expression stern. “It is not right that you deceive your followers in this way.”
Alith indicated for Elthyrior to walk with him and the two left the camp. The Shadow King and the raven herald picked their way along an overgrown path of marble and sat in the charred remnants of the summer house.
“It is a necessary deception,” Alith said, plucking the bloom from a moonwreath that was growing over the remains of the outbuilding. “One that I did not begin.”
Elthyrior raised a doubtful eyebrow.
“Truly,” Alith continued. “I was set to confront Alandrian and his Khainite witches, but Khillrallion struck me over the back of my head. Dazed, I could not stop him taking the moonbow and masquerading as me. Casadir had me halfway up to the roof before I regained my senses. Khillrallion and the others bought my freedom with their lives. It would have been dishonour to have thrown away that which they had so willingly given, and so I ran with Casadir. He is the only other soul that knows what happened.”
“That does not explain your disappearance for the last seven years,” said Elthyrior. “You abandoned your people.”
“I did not!” snapped Alith. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. “The tide was turning against us, my people needed a calmer head to rule. Tharion had already suggested to me that we create a new haven in Elanardris and I had agreed. I could not have built what he has built. He has given us a future, one that I could not. Though I did not plan it, my death gave us that opportunity, the pretence for peace we needed. The druchii would be all too ready to believe the shadow army was no more. My death gave my people space to recover, to start a new path. Had I lived, Alandrian would have continued his hunt. Twice he nearly caught me, and both times it cost lives, lives very dear to me. I watched Khillrallion cut down and I realised that the greatest danger to my people was me, and the druchii’s hatred of me. I am a symbol, but that works both ways. I am defiance personified, and that rallies the brave to our cause. It also riles the druchii, who lust after domination and control.
“I decided to disappear. I returned to Avelorn for a while and ran with my brothers and sisters again. It was a carefree time, I will admit. But duty nagged at me, and year-by-year I knew I could not find peace, and that while the Shadow King had to die, he could not remain dead forever. I returned to Elanardris last winter and contacted Casadir. He told me of everything that had happened, and only this morning he passed on to me the news that you had arrived.”
“So why return now?”
“You know that answer already,” said Alith, standing and walking to the fallen wall at the front of the summer house. He looked westwards.
“The Witch King,” said Elthyrior.
Alith nodded, not turning around.
“I too heard of this creature. As far as Cothique and Chrace his coming is being proclaimed as the great awakening of the Naggarothi. He fills them with dread and awe in equal measure. I have never heard such devotion uttered amongst the druchii, save for those hopelessly corrupted by the cults. No elf I know could command such loyalty, yet the Witch King rules Anlec and Morathi supports him. I must find out who he is.”
“I fear that we shall all know that before too long,” said Elthyrior. He stood and joined Alith. “I am glad that you are not dead, Alith Anar.”
“Me too,” the Shadow King replied with a grin.
Alith requested that his return be kept secret for the time being. He declined to make any comment on what had happened to him and flatly refused to answer questions regarding his death and resurrection. He simply assured his followers that he had returned to lead them to new victories, still as hungry to punish the druchii as he had always been. There were those that wanted to proclaim his triumphant return across Nagarythe, but Alith bade them to keep their tongues.
“All of Ulthuan will soon know that the Shadow King lives again,” he told them, smiling knowingly but keeping silent when they pressed for further detail.
Alith gave instruction also that the shadow-walkers were to begin restructuring the army, making the shadow warriors ready again for war. This was to be done under the pretence that Tharion was considering launching an offensive against the Witch King, but to be kept quiet to the wider populace of the Aesanar. The shadow army was to meet Alith at the ruins of the manse. When asked when the rendezvous would happen, Alith gave another cryptic reply.
“You will have no doubt when the time to march has come.”
Anlec had never looked so forbidding. Alith had thought it a terrifying fortress the first time he had come here. The druchii had taken its foundations and heaped upon it their warped aesthetic and cruel design. The towers soared higher than ever, the walls hung with silver chains bearing rotting corpses and sharp hooks. Heads were displayed upon long spikes above the gatehouses and the ramparts themselves had been fashioned like rows of slender fangs. Flocks of vultures and crows circled constantly, settling to peck at the disfigured remains on display.
Amongst the purple banners of Nagarythe fluttered standards of red and black, displaying symbols of the cytharai, bedecked with the skulls and bones of those that had displeased the city’s rulers. A thousand fires burned in braziers upon the walls, casting a pall of smoke across the whole fortress.
The sound too was awful. The clamour of gongs and bells and drums sounded constantly alongside the caws of the crows and the screeches of the vultures, as the temples performed their bloodthirsty rituals. Shrill cheers and drawn-out screams could be heard through the din. A stench of charred flesh hung on the
breeze. Dark magic seethed, creating a palpable air of evil that made Alith shudder. He wrapped his plain blue cloak tighter around himself, filled with a supernatural chill.
Alith took a deep breath and ventured forwards, passing through the western gatehouse.
He had come seeking answers: to know the identity of the mysterious Witch King. But he had another purpose, far more personal. For most of his life the druchii had taken from him: his family, his friends, his love and his lands. They had heaped upon him one more insult that he could not allow to pass. They had taken the moonbow.
Her whispers had disturbed his sleep through the long summer nights in Avelorn. While he had hidden out in the shrines to Kurnous in the Annulii, the moonbow’s distant cries of torment plagued his thoughts. He had not spoken of this to Elthyrior, but this was the true reason he had returned. His family were gone. His friends were dead. His lands were wilderness. All of those things he could not bring back. But the moonbow… That he could reclaim.
Within the city, Alith’s confidence returned. With a calm assurance, he made straight for the palace of Aenarion. He wasn’t sure where the moonbow was being kept, but he knew it was in the citadel somewhere. He would take it from under the nose of Morathi, and in that gesture he would announce the Shadow King’s return.
The stair up to the main gates were stained red with blood and guards stood every few steps, cruelly hooked halberds at the ready. Despite the sentries, the doors were thrown open and a steady procession of druchii made their way in and out of the palace. Alith joined the line waiting for entry, ignoring the grim-faced warriors stood to either side. Step-by-step the line moved forwards until Alith passed into the shadow of the citadel.
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