[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “For the Everqueen and Ulthuan!” yelled Tyrion, leading the Silver Helms towards the ramparts. That the castle would fall was inevitable, but Tyrion would make its doom so bloody for the druchii that this battle would live in their memories for all eternity.

  On the Blighted Isle, the Sword of Khaine simmered with anticipation in its dripping, reeking altar.

  CHAPTER THREE

  VOICES FROM

  ANCIENT DAYS

  Birdsong had returned to Avelorn, though Eldain hardly noticed. He wandered the shadowed groves and garlanded arbours of the forest, letting its twisting paths guide his steps rather than any conscious thought of a destination. Sunlight and joy had drained from the enchanted forest, but it had not been extinguished.

  The Everqueen had survived Caelir’s blow, though none yet knew what damage had been done to her. Eldain knew well how the weapons of the druchii could cause such hurt as to leave the body intact but destroy the life within. His own father had fallen to such a weapon, his wasting flesh lingering long after his spirit had withered and died.

  Eldain had not thought of his father in some time, and the guilt of that was another cold nail hammered into the hard muscle of his heart.

  How much could any soul endure before it became too heavy a burden to bear?

  Plants and trees bent their backs away from him and the path turned him around, this way and that, as he roamed at random through the leafy depths. He had no idea where he was, and that was dangerous in a place like Avelorn. No one, not even the Everqueen or her Maiden Guard, knew the full extent of what lay at the forest’s heart. To stray with such lack of care in a place of magic was reckless beyond words.

  Eldain looked up from the path, hearing voices raised in song. Not a lament, this was a song of love triumphant and the joyous union of souls. Notes struck from a lyre of glorious timbre drifted through the trees and where they fell, the leaves shone a vivid green, and grass once withered bloomed anew. It was music to lift the heart and refresh the soul. Anger touched Eldain. What right did anyone have to sing such songs in times of woe? The more he listened, the more the music and joyous lyrics seemed to mock him, as though chosen with deliberate irony.

  His fists bunched at his sides, and he set off in the direction of the players, seeing drifting forms in gossamer-thin robes of silk through the foliage. Riotous colours fluttered in the spaces between the trees and bushes. Eldain saw elves of both sexes, none wearing the white of mourning as they danced and swayed to the wondrous tunes of the musicians.

  A figure stepped from behind a tree before he could intrude on the recital, a female elf of striking appearance. Clad in a twisting weave of auburn silk and crimson damask, her body was lithe and hard with wiry cords of muscle. Her hair fell about her shoulders in golden tresses, and Eldain recognised the dancer that had stood beside Caelir and who been brought before the Maiden Guard.

  “Whatever you are about to do, think again,” she said, her voice hard and pitiless.

  “They mock my pain,” hissed Eldain.

  “No, they celebrate the Everqueen’s survival,” said the dancer. “There’s a difference.”

  Eldain nodded in understanding, ashamed he had allowed music and laughter to enrage him so. He gripped the branch of a tree, feeling thorns prick his skin and the leaves shake in irritation at his touch.

  “You and the forest are not friends?” asked the elf maid, seeing a drop of blood on his arm.

  “I have no friends,” said Eldain. “Least of all in Avelorn.”

  “I am Lilani,” said the dancer with a seductive purr. “I could be your friend.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I knew your brother,” said Lilani. “You look a lot like him. Sadder, though.”

  “I saw you beside Caelir when the Everqueen…” began Eldain. “How did you know him?”

  “We met crossing the Finuval Plain,” she said, linking her arm with his and leading him towards the musicians and dancers within the grove. “He and I were lovers for a time.”

  Eldain was taken aback at her frank admission, but knew he shouldn’t have been. Avelorn was a realm where the normal rules of conduct and etiquette were proudly flouted. What would have shocked the polite society of Lothern or Tor Elyr was a daily occurrence within the Everqueen’s realm.

  “I didn’t know that,” he said, hating how prudish his words sounded.

  “Why would you?” she said.

  Eldain shrugged, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like more of a dullard than he already felt. Lilani led him into a wide clearing, across which had been spread a riotously garish spread of blankets. Elves lay sprawled throughout the clearing, drinking dreamwine from crystal goblets that sparkled like ice in the evening twilight.

  A goblet appeared in his hand, though Eldain could not recall anyone passing near enough to have given it to him. Within the goblet, the dreamwine swirled like a miniature whirlpool of glittering quartz and mist. He hesitated to taste it, remembering when he had drunk a similar vintage with Rhianna before leaving for Naggaroth.

  “You’ve drunk dreamwine before, haven’t you?” said a fluid voice before him.

  Eldain looked up into the eyes of the elf poet the Maiden Guard had spoken to in the wake of Caelir’s attack.

  “I have,” agreed Eldain, turning his wrist and upending the goblet. “And it didn’t agree with me then either.”

  “What a dreadful shame,” said the poet as the dreamwine floated away like a whispered secret. “And a terrible waste. Good dreamwine is hard to come by, especially now. Still, I am sure the wind will enjoy it, though what the wind dreams of only fools and eagles know.”

  “You are Narentir?” said Eldain.

  “How wonderful to be recognised,” said the poet, clapping his hands in delight. “You have read my work?”

  “No,” said Eldain. “I saw the Maiden Guard drag you before them.”

  “Ah, yes, an unfortunate business,” said Narentir, turning away from him and threading his way through the lounging elves. Lilani followed him, taking Eldain with her, and he found himself powerless to resist. Her beauty was intoxicating, her touch magical and exhilarating.

  Narentir stopped beside a brightly painted wagon and lifted out a gleaming breastplate and a sword encased in a scabbard of sapphires and rubies.

  “Your brother, for I see by the proud jaw, aquiline nose and brooding eyes that you are related to our erstwhile companion, has caused us quite a considerable amount of trouble. Merely for the crime of knowing him, the members of our happy troupe were subjected to many hours of objectionable questioning by the Everqueen’s protectors, though, given her current condition, I use that description laughingly.”

  Eldain took his arm from Lilani and nodded. “I am Caelir’s brother, yes.”

  “Well of course you are, dear boy,” said Narentir, casting his gaze up and down. “Though I fear young Caelir alone inherited the family talent for song and rhyme.”

  “He performed for you?”

  “For some more than others,” grinned Narentir, with a sly look at Lilani. The elf maid did not blush or show any sign of embarrassment at the poet’s lascivious comment. Eldain ignored Narentir’s unabashed tone and looked around the gathering of elves.

  “How long did you travel with Caelir?” asked Eldain, as a pair of musicians again began to play their instruments. This time, the music was melancholy, bittersweet and full of regret. Eldain felt his anger at these performers abate, for what had they done except take Caelir in as a travelling companion?

  With a start, Eldain realised that the clearing had begun to fill without his noticing. Dozens of elves had silently slipped through the gloaming, appearing in the gaps between the trees in greater and greater numbers until hundreds had gathered around the colourful stage of blankets.

  “He came upon us at the northern extent of Finuval Plain,” said Narentir, apparently oblivious to the swelling numbers of observers. “A curious fellow, a
nd no mistake, but I saw the soul of a rake and a rogue in him, a fellow traveller on a whimsical road that leads everywhere and comes from nowhere.”

  Narentir sighed. “How I was mistaken, for though Caelir was all those things and more, a darkness was hidden within him and I, in my innocence, failed to see it. Woe unto the poet that he should always seek the best in others.”

  A single note of music chimed, and Narentir smiled with theatrical zeal.

  “But, alas, I must take a turn as a poor player before my audience, for in times such as these, what is left to us but tales of valour to rekindle hope and stir the hearts of those who will defend us?”

  Eldain turned to Lilani, the poet’s overblown manner beginning to irritate him. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  She nodded and said, “Come. Sit with me awhile and you will see.”

  Narentir took centre stage on the blankets, clad in his gleaming breastplate and with his gilded scabbard belted at his side. He wore a cloak of brilliant blue, which billowed around him, though not a breath of wind stirred the leaves and grass of the clearing. A winged helm sat upon his head, such as might be worn by an elven prince of a forgotten age. The ensemble should have been ridiculous, for Narentir was clearly no warrior, but Eldain found himself picturing the poet as a great hero, a leader from distant times who none now remembered, save in song.

  “Let me tell you of a time long passed, when gods walked the earth and mighty heroes were as common as gemstones upon the fingers of an Eataine princess. Let me tell you of the doom of the Ulthane and the glorious time of their rebirth. Let me tell you of ultimate evil unleashed, and the bright heroes of legend who stood against it!”

  Despite himself, Eldain felt himself caught up in Narentir’s words. Flitting will-o’-the-wisps bobbed through the clearing, casting a diffuse glow over the gathered elves. Eldain saw every face enraptured by the poet’s presence, the cadence and rhythmic flow of his delivery perfectly capturing the spirit of the age.

  Narentir prowled the stage of rugs, his arms spread wide and his head thrown back as he told the epic of Aenarion, when the land of Ulthuan had burned with the touch of daemons from beyond the great gateway. Hearts thrilled to the tales of battles fought in the shadow of impending destruction, and though all knew the outcome—for the legend of the Defender was taught to every child upon their mother’s knee—tears were spilled and breath caught at each twist in the tale.

  At last Narentir came to the tale of Caledor Dragontamer, Aenarion’s greatest and most trusted friend and architect of the final victory against the daemons. Eldain felt Lilani press herself to him in fear as Narentir told of how the great Chaos powers laid siege to the Isle of the Dead to prevent Caledor from completing his great ritual to deny the daemons their source of power.

  Eldain found himself able to picture the limitless hordes of daemons battling to overcome Aenarion’s brave defenders. As Narentir leapt and spun, slashing the air with graceful sweeps of his sword, Eldain saw the epic confrontation between the mighty daemon lords and the Phoenix King. He flinched with every depiction of that incredible battle, and when the poet was done, Eldain wept as he heard of how Caledor and his fellow mages had drained the world of volatile magic, leaving the daemonic host powerless and dying, like fish stranded by the tide. The price of that success was beyond imagining, for Caledor and his fellow mages were now trapped forever in a vortex of powerful magic upon the Isle of the Dead. They now existed in a place beyond time and beyond the reach of mortals.

  Eldain shivered at the mention of that accursed island. He remembered the shifting mists and bitter taste of old magic as the Dragonkin had sailed close to its unnatural boundaries. The sea around the Isle of the Dead was gloomy and bleak with timeless melancholy, and Eldain swallowed a sudden bilious nausea at the thought of that doomed island out of time.

  He blinked, listening as Narentir recounted the last flight of the mortally wounded Indraugnir, greatest of dragons, who carried the dying Aenarion to the Blighted Isle. A respectful hush fell across the audience, and heads bowed at the memory of the fallen Phoenix King. He and Caledor had been the greatest of the asur. Their selfless deeds ensured the world would live on, though none beyond the shores of Ulthuan would ever know of their incredible sacrifice.

  Yet as the tale wound to its well known conclusion, Eldain saw that Narentir was not finished. His tale had more to reveal, and like all good tales, it grew in the telling.

  “Greatest master of magic though he was, not even Caledor could tame such forces as were unleashed by the first masters of the world,” sang Narentir. “Though his great ritual drew the storms of magic to Ulthuan that they might be drained from the world, not all enchantments can be so neatly caged.”

  Narentir prowled the stage, his sword now sheathed and his hands grasping the air as though struggling to contain some unseen power that flitted just beyond his grasp.

  “Cracks there were in the world, for the devastation wrought in the great cataclysm that brought Chaos to the world was like nothing seen before or since. Wild magic seeps into the world through those cracks, like water through a crumbling weir. In enchanted groves, spellbound forests, mist-wreathed marshes or mystical caves, that magic lights the world around it, gives it life and fills the hearts of all those who look upon them with joy, though they know not what beguiles them. But not all such cracks are places of wonderment, some are gateways to the terrible powers that almost destroyed the world, and such places must be guarded by those with hearts as pure and strong as the first dawn.

  “Such warriors were the Ulthane! Heroes cast in the image of Aenarion and Caledor combined, yet none here know their names, for they desired not fame nor riches nor glory, for they served a higher purpose. The gods had chosen them, granting them power beyond the ken of mortal and asur alike, for they stood watch on the one place Caledor’s spell could not seal, a bloody isle unknown to maps or seafarers, yet which lived in the hearts of men as a dark tale of shipwrecks and lost souls.”

  Narentir paused before Eldain. The poet’s eyes shone with the vibrancy of his tale, as though a portion of that dark time passed from that age to this. Even the shimmering forest lights had dimmed, and the elves gathered around Narentir held their breath as they waited for him to continue. The poet knew his craft, letting the anticipation of his next words build before pressing on with his tale.

  “The gods of Chaos are cunning, and, worst of all, patient. They knew that no creature of this world could fully tame the tides of magic, and they waited for their chance to strike. The Dark Powers sent their minions to that island, and laid siege to it as once they had besieged Ulthuan. With the light of Aenarion gone from the world, they knew of no enemy that could stand before their numberless hordes. Yet for all their cunning, they knew not of the Ulthane, for each among them had shed their former lives and vanished from the pages of history, becoming nameless warriors in the service of order. The Dark Gods could not see them, could not know them, and could not defeat them.

  “Upon the shores of that black island, a battle to save the world was waged. A host of daemons fell from the skies, and an army of leviathans rose from the deepest ocean trenches. The very rock rebelled at their touch and writhed in new and terrible forms. And upon that once-fair isle, the blood ran in rivers, turning the waters red for leagues in all directions, yet not once did the Ulthane falter! Their swords were thunder-forged lightning, their shields ice-wrought mirrors. A hundred daemons fell with every blow, and beneath the Ulthane’s red-lit eyes, no creature born of Chaos could stand but be withered and cast back to its diabolical abode.”

  Eldain could dimly remember hearing legends of the Ulthane when he had been a child, but the memories were hazy and indistinct, like a fleeting dream that escapes recall upon waking. Though Narentir told his tale with vigour and charm, its details were already fading from his mind, as though the memory of the Ulthane dared not linger in the memories of those who heard of them for fear the Dark Gods of the north m
ight learn of their existence.

  “And like Aenarion before them, the Ulthane hurled back the foe, fighting a hundred battles in as many days. Though the foe attacked without mercy, neither did the Ulthane stop to lament their fallen brothers nor pause to take sustenance. Their swords smote mightily, and little by little, the attacks of the monstrous horde lessened until, at last, the Dark Powers abandoned their assault.

  “The battle was won, but at a fearful cost. Barely a handful of the Ulthane remained, and all knew that there could be no return to the lives they had known. Another attack would come, from the daemons or some other foe intent on seizing the incredible power that lay at the heart of the island. The Ulthane gathered at the twisted heart of the island and swore mighty and unbreakable oaths to stand guard upon its shores forever more.

  “Though ages of the world came and went, the Ulthane stood sentinel over the island, summoning up an enchanted mist to keep the island from the thoughts of lesser races and never once relaxing their penetrating gaze. And should a time come where the world needs their blades again, the Ulthane will return, thunder-forged swords and shields of mirrored ice out-thrust to whatever enemy dares to wreak harm upon the world they have sworn to defend. And such times are upon us now, dear friends. The shadow of the Witch King lies long upon the lands of Ulthuan as he and his damnable mother strike at the heart of our fair isle. In this time of woe, shall not the greatest heroes of the age rise to our salvation? Shall not every heart be filled with martial pride and towering fury to drive these invaders away? Though darkness claws at the horizon with iron nails, we must not forsake hope. Though our enemies gather like wolves around a wounded stag, we will not despair, for even the sly wolf knows the stag can fight back. Hold to hope, my friends, for Ulthuan has never yet fallen, and nor shall she fall now!”