[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Thunderous applause erupted from every elf in the clearing and from thousands more unseen in the forest’s depths. Eldain joined in, bruising his palms with the vigour of his clapping. He surged to his feet, convinced the towering forms of the Ulthane were about to march from the trees with their thunder-forged swords held high.

  Lilani uncoiled from the ground, vaulting into the air and landing on an overhanging branch. She loosed a wild shout of joy, an exultant cry that was taken up by all the gathered elves until it seemed the entire forest was yelling with one voice.

  Only when three bronze-armoured Maiden Guard entered the clearing did the thunderous noise begin to diminish. All heads turned to the grim-eyed warrior maidens as they marched past the exhausted Narentir. Eldain watched them also, knowing in a heartbeat that they had come for him.

  Lirazel came at their head, her silver-bladed lance held at her side as she fixed him with a steely-eyed gaze that left no doubt as to what would happen if he tried to resist. Eldain had no intention of resisting, for he knew where they would be taking him.

  Lilani dropped to the leafy floor of the clearing beside him and clutched his arm tightly. She leaned in close and whispered urgently in his ear.

  “Remember Narentir’s words. Do not forsake hope. Never give in to despair.”

  With those words she sprang away, vanishing from sight amid the gradually dispersing crowd of elves. With the taleteller done, their whims and fancies carried them away like leaves in an autumn wind.

  Lirazel halted before Eldain, and her eyes held the promise of winter in their amber depths. Something awesome shimmered beneath her skin, a fragment of a presence incalculably ancient and merciless. The elemental power of Avelorn lurked within this warrior of the Maiden Guard, and Eldain felt his heart hammering in his chest at its nearness.

  “I know why you are here,” he whispered. “You will have no need of lances or bows.”

  “Then let us begone from these minstrels and troubadours,” said Lirazel in a voice that echoed with the weight of ages and an unbroken line of life that stretched back to the birth of Ulthuan itself.

  “For we are the Everqueen,” said Lirazel. “And we would know the truth of you, Eldain Éadaoin.”

  Dawn was creeping into the eastern horizon, bringing an end to the welcome respite from the fighting brought by darkness. Beyond the walls of the Eagle Gate, the fires of the enemy burned with queerly shimmering flames, lighting the white stone of the Annulii with writhing shadows. Menethis almost tripped on the steps leading to the Aquila Spire, exhaustion making him as clumsy as an orc.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a bed.

  Injured warriors brought food and water to those who defended the ramparts, and healers worked their way along the wall, using what little magic remained to them to seal sword cuts and mend broken bones. Their powers gave strength to weary limbs, but such boons came at a cost, and every one of the fortress’ healers stumbled like a dreamwalker, their own reserves of energy drained by the effort of tending to so many. Though he knew little of magic, Menethis knew the healers were at the limits of their endurance.

  “Much like the rest of the garrison,” he whispered, before chiding himself for the disloyal thought that came hard on its heels. He straightened his tunic and did his best to smooth down his hair. They may be under siege, but Glorien tolerated no laxness of behaviour or appearance.

  He reached the top of the stairs and knocked on the reinforced door. The wood was scorched where a bolt of rogue magic had burned it. From inside the tower, Menethis heard a clatter of metal, and wondered what new foolishness Glorien was attempting.

  “My lord,” he said. “It is Menethis. May I enter?”

  “Menethis! Thank Isha, yes, come in, I need you!”

  Menethis pushed open the door and entered the cramped tower. Intended as a perch for the commander to watch an unfolding battle before drawing his plans, it had become Glorien’s refuge from the horrors below. Stacks of books were strewn on the wide table, unrolled scrolls lay in limp piles, and balls of crumpled parchments rolled across the floor as Menethis opened the door.

  Glorien Truecrown stood before a full length mirror, its edges wound in silver wire like interleaved vines. He wore his wyvern skin boots and a mail shirt, over which was a finely cut tunic of softest cream. Glorien once claimed he had hunted the wyvern himself, and Menethis had made admiring sounds, though he knew the lie for what it was.

  A breastplate of ithilmar hung from Glorien’s chest, its straps loose and flapping as the commander of the Eagle Gate spun around, trying in vain to buckle himself into his armour.

  “It’s so frustrating,” said Glorien, as Menethis entered.

  “My lord?”

  “This armour. Whoever designed it must have been a blind idiot. It’s impossible to put on, Menethis. Is that not the most foolish thing you’ve ever heard? Armour that can’t be worn!”

  “A noble of Ulthuan should have his squires to armour him, my lord,” said Menethis. “He would not be expected to gird himself for war alone.”

  “Of course,” said Glorien, with a relieved sigh. “Squires. Of course. I completely forgot about squires. It’s this warrior’s life; it drives all thoughts of civilised behaviour from your head. I required your help, so why were you not here? Remiss of you not to attend upon me, when I needed you.”

  Menethis bit back a harsh retort and said, “I was on the walls, my lord. The druchii and their barbarous allies sorely press us.”

  “Fighting, yes,” said Glorien. “And that is why I need you. If I am to fight, then I must be armoured in the proper fashion. A prince of Ulthuan must shine like the sun when he goes to war.”

  Menethis forgot his anger in a heartbeat, and he took a step towards Glorien.

  “You fight with us now?”

  “Of course,” said Glorien. “Whatever gave you the impression I wouldn’t?”

  Menethis looked at the scattered books and scrolls, the words of ancient warriors and scholars on the arts of war. For as long as the enemy had been before the walls of the Eagle Gate, Glorien had buried his head in the pages of his beloved books, seeking solace and inspiration from their inked wisdom. Until now, Menethis had thought it panic that had kept Glorien locked within the tower, but had it been prudence after all? Had Glorien found what he sought in the words of these long dead warriors?

  “Nothing, my lord,” said Menethis. “It lifts my heart to know you fight with us. Your warriors will fight like Aenarion reborn with you at their head.”

  “No doubt,” said Glorien. “Now help me into this damned armour.”

  Menethis lifted the carven breastplate, a wondrously sculpted artefact with more than a hint of the enchanter’s art woven into its metal. It was light, and Menethis felt the magic tingling at his fingertips as he strapped it to Glorien’s body. As he added each piece of armour, Glorien at last began to resemble the noble elven warrior he needed to be.

  Menethis glanced down at the scattered books.

  “If I might enquire, my lord,” he said. “Which author finally convinced you it was time to don armour and draw your sword?”

  “None of them,” said Glorien with a dismissive glance towards the books that had held him prisoner within the tower. “Last night as I slept amid these treatises on war, the truth was revealed to me in a great dream.”

  Menethis had heard of the gods sending dreams to their chosen champions, but Glorien hardly seemed a likely candidate to be such a warrior. But then, the ways of the gods were mysterious, and who could say what made them chose one individual over another?

  “You believe it was a true vision, my lord?”

  “I do, Menethis, for I dreamed of a Phoenix King of old.”

  That was certainly auspicious, for dreams of ancient kings were often heralds of great deeds. It was said that Finubar had dreamed of Caradryel the night before his coronation in the Flames of Asuryan.

  “Which of the Phoenix Kings did you drea
m about?” asked Menethis, lifting a gleaming pauldron of silver and gold from the armour rack in the corner of the tower.

  “I dreamed of Tethlis.”

  “Tethlis?” said Menethis, his hand hovering over the buckle. “The Slayer?”

  “Indeed,” answered Glorien. “In my dream I found myself upon the mist-wreathed shores of a black island, the rocks and sand awash with blood and bones. It was quite the most frightful place I have ever seen.”

  “The Blighted Isle!” gasped Menethis, making a protective ward symbol over his heart.

  Glorien nodded. “I should have been deathly afraid, but I was at peace. I felt no fear as I saw a figure farther up the shore. And when he beckoned me, I felt compelled to obey.”

  “And you believe this was Tethlis?”

  “I know it was,” said Glorien. “He was exactly as I remember him from the Phoenix Gallery in Lothern. I walked towards the king, and the mist parted. I saw corpses all around me, thousands of them, maybe more, but still I was not afraid. In some places the dead host lay a hundred deep. Blood streamed from their ruined bodies and into the sea, and I knew that the bloody lance in Tethlis’ hand had seen every one of these warriors slain.”

  “A dream of Tethlis is one of ill-omen, my lord,” breathed Menethis. “None know for sure how he met his end on that dread island. Found dead at the foot of the Altar of Khaine, some say his own warriors cut him down, lest the Sword of Khaine twist his soul into that of a bloody-handed tyrant who would lead Ulthuan to its doom.”

  Glorien shook his head. “I have heard those tales, but I do not believe them. No elf of the asur would turn his weapon on his betters.”

  “Tethlis’ rages were well known, and I have heard stranger things than a leader cut down by his own warriors. Tell me, my lord, did Tethlis speak to you in this dream?”

  Glorien’s mouth opened, and he cocked his head to one side, as though struggling to remember an elusive fact. He started to speak, but could not find the right words. At length, he said, “I heard no words, but the Phoenix King bade me draw my sword, for the enemy was upon us. The mist gathered around us, and within it I saw ghostly apparitions, shadowy warriors closing in on us with bared blades. Though I could not remember unsheathing it, my sword was in my hand. The Phoenix King and I were back to back as the foe let loose a terrible yell and charged towards us.”

  “What were they? Druchii?” asked Menethis.

  “I do not know,” said Glorien. “I could not see them clearly. But we fought them, Tethlis and I, killing them with cut and thrust, lunge and riposte. We fought for an age, and when the foe was done, Tethlis turned to me, and his gaze bored into me with eyes of fire. His command was clear, and I knew the time had come for me to wet my sword in druchii blood in the waking world. I have studied my books long enough, Menethis, and there is little I do not know on the theory of war, but it is time to stand with the warriors of the Eagle Gate and let them see me fight alongside them.”

  Glorien saw the look in Menethis’ eye before he could mask his surprise and said, “I admit I was… wary of standing in the battle line with weapon in hand, but the druchii’s axes will fall on my neck whether I remain in this tower or on the walls.”

  Menethis looked upon Glorien with new eyes, seeing the proudly straight back, the strength in his bearing that had always been there, but which fear had masked. Clad in his battle armour of gold and silver, and with a shimmering helm of ithilmar upon his head, he was the image of the heroes of song and verse. The transformation was nothing short of miraculous, and Menethis wondered that he had not seen the young prince’s potential before now.

  “Your warriors will be joyous at your presence, my lord,” said Menethis, and meant it.

  Glorien smiled, and Menethis felt his heart swell with pride. He had despaired of this moment ever coming, fearing that the death of Cerion Goldwing had doomed the Eagle Gate.

  But with this dream, true vision or not, perhaps they had a chance.

  “Dawn is almost upon us, Menethis,” said Glorien, “and it is time for me to take my place on the Eagle Gate as a warrior.”

  “A new dawn,” said Menethis. “A time for fresh beginnings.”

  Menethis opened the door to the Aquila Spire, and Glorien stepped onto the top step. The first rays of sunlight caught the gold of his armour, glittering like the fires of the phoenix, and Menethis felt the exhaustion that hung around his neck like a tombstone fall away from him.

  Glorien marched down the steps, and the faces of the asur turned towards him, recognising that something had changed, but not knowing what. Menethis saw hopeful looks passed from warrior to warrior, following each glance as the news of Glorien’s arrival flew around the fortress.

  This was hope reborn. This was the fire of victory lit in every heart.

  But Menethis’ step faltered as he saw the brooding countenance of a hooded warrior crouched in the gloom of the parapet. Alone among the garrison, this warrior’s face remained impassive, and Menethis quailed at the unflinchingly hostile stare of this dark-cloaked archer.

  Though he could not see the warrior’s face, there was no doubt as to his identity.

  Alanrias, the Shadow Warrior of Nagarythe.

  Menethis thought of Glorien’s dream of Tethlis and his newfound hope turned to fear.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BITTER TRUTHS

  Eldain had wandered aimlessly through the forest, but the Maiden Guard took a more direct path towards the Everqueen. They marched with grim purpose, and Eldain knew that whatever awaited him at the end of this journey would change his destiny forever. The gloom that had hung over the forest was now lifted, and fresh sunlight shone through the tops of tall trees that lifted their branches towards the sun once more.

  New growths budded on the ends of limbs of wood, and the grass beyond the invisible paths shone with newfound lustre. Lirazel had said nothing to him after her demand that he accompany her to the Everqueen, and Eldain had not attempted to engage her in conversation.

  The crowds that had gathered to listen to Narentir’s tales vanished into the forest, yet he could feel them nearby, as though they watched with accusing eyes from the shadows. The forest was alive again, but it was not the life of Avelorn as it had been; it was rampant, vital and unchecked.

  Wild magic seeped into the roots of Avelorn, and it was responding to that touch with unfettered growth. New blooms choked older plants, aggressive saplings fought for light and the earth churned with competing life. As unrestrained as Avelorn had seemed before, now it reminded Eldain of the tales he had heard of the wild wood of Athel Loren. The growth of the asrai’s domain was kept in check by powerful waystones, but whatever power had held the full power of Avelorn in check was now absent.

  Eldain heard the creak and groan of new wood, the breath of forest creatures as they stalked the undergrowth like hunters. The entire forest had turned hostile.

  No, not hostile exactly, but the power that had once turned the thoughts of the creatures of Avelorn to joy and carefree abandon had become violent and predatory. Even the Maiden Guard walked warily, their bows bent and spear points aimed outwards. Not even the protectors of the Everqueen could travel these paths without caution, it seemed.

  Eventually Lirazel halted before a woven archway of green wood, the sap running along newly formed shoots like glistening amber. The smell of growth and fecund life was almost overpowering, and the scent of life resurgent was a powerful taste in the back of Eldain’s throat.

  “You must enter,” said Lirazel.

  “You are not coming in?” asked Eldain.

  “We need no protection of blades,” replied Lirazel, though the voice was not her own. “The only life at risk is your own. Enter and follow the path.”

  He followed Lirazel’s instruction, and stepped through the archway into a verdant grove of dazzling light. The brilliance blinded him, and his every step was taken without the knowledge of where it might lead. He walked until a powerful sensation that he had r
eached his destination swept over him.

  The veil of light withdrew from his senses, and Eldain blinked in the sudden rush of colour. Everywhere he looked, new blooms sought to outdo one another with the brilliance of their hue. Shimmering roses of glittering ebony wove around tree trunks garlanded with flowers that Eldain had never seen before. Plants of vivid purple, gold, white and azure grew wherever they could, and the sheer mass of growth was like the grandest arboretum ever devised.

  In the centre of it all sat the Everqueen.

  Not Alarielle.

  The Everqueen.

  Eldain appreciated the difference without even realising there had been one until now.

  Clad in a shimmering robe of ice and rainbows, she sat upon a throne of roots and grass that split the ground beneath her and pulsed with the magic that sustained it. Light surrounded the Queen of Avelorn, radiance that sheened the grove in warmth and breathed vitality into everything it touched.

  She was simultaneously clad in her robes of light and magic, and naked. Her ivory flesh was sculpted and perfect; no trace of the wound Caelir had done her visible through the mist of glamours that surrounded her. She was just as Eldain remembered her, but so much more.

  Her golden hair framed a face of such aching beauty that Eldain wanted to drop to his knees and declare his love for her. At that moment he would have cast aside everything he held dear just to be allowed to devote his life to her. With an effort of will he lifted his gaze to the Everqueen’s face, her cold and lethal face.

  Though everything around her exploded with life, her eyes held only the promise of death.

  Outwardly, the Everqueen was exactly as she had been before, but a force more powerful than any known to the asur beat within her breast. Eldain understood immediately that this was old magic, perhaps the oldest in the world. The first heartbeat of creation empowered her, the birth cry at the beginning of the universe sighed from her lungs, and the power to create everything that was or could be shone in the light that bathed her.