[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  “Eltharion has come!” shouted Tyrion.

  Korhandir’s leap was slick with blood. Druchii spearmen shouted with every thrust of their spears, pushing the bridge’s defenders back with every step. Barbed spears bit flesh and tore armour, and even a touch of their blades was agony, for they snagged skin and ripped wounds wider.

  A thin line of elven warriors was all that stood before the druchii, and Eldain could sense their despair as they took yet another step backwards. The rippling blood banner writhed upon its cross pole, as though feeding on the carnage being wrought in its shadow. Ghostly laughter drifted at the edge of hearing, and Eldain tasted bile in the back of his throat as he rode through the terrible sprawl of ruptured bodies.

  The bodies of slain elves lay together in death; but for their armour it would have been impossible to tell asur from druchii. That thought alone made Eldain want to weep, for what had divided them all those thousands of years ago but one individual’s arrogance and lust for power? Could such a sin be worth thousands of years of war and death? That his race, so proud and aloof and superior had allowed themselves to be caught up in such a terrible cycle of hatred astounded Eldain.

  We make lofty claims to be an elder race, greater than any other, yet we hold to ancient wrongs like spoiled children…

  Ahead, Mitherion Silverfawn strode to the centre of the bridge, streamers of raw magic feathering the air with translucent fire. The mage walked with purposeful steps, and the cloaks of the dead flapped and billowed in his wake. Eldain felt the build up of powerful magic, and urged Lotharin to greater speed.

  The line of elven spearmen finally broke, and they turned to flee before the triumphant druchii. The hideous banner cackled gleefully as black-bladed spears stabbed and spilled yet more blood. A host of druchii warriors broke from the ranks and ran towards Mitherion Silverfawn, eager to claim so valuable a trophy. Yvraine’s four Sword Masters stepped to meet them with their great, silver blades looping around them in shimmering arcs. Trained and schooled by the Loremasters of the White Tower, the Sword Masters fought with a grace and precision the likes of which even legendary heroes like Laerial Sureblade or Nagan of Chrace would have struggled to match.

  Yvraine and her fellow warriors wove a silver path of destruction through the druchii, slaying any who came near Mitherion Silverfawn with graceful strokes of their blades. They wielded their mighty swords with an ease that only decades of training could provide, ducking, swaying and leaping over the weapons of their enemies like acrobats. In less than a minute two score druchii lay dead, cut to pieces with contemptuous ease.

  Seeing that the Sword Masters would not be taken by such futile heroics, the druchii line advanced en masse with their barbed spears lowered. But the Sword Masters had no intention of fighting an entire battle line of spears. Without any command being spoken, Yvraine moved her warriors behind Mitherion Silverfawn as he unleashed the full power of his magic.

  A coruscating stream of blue fire poured from his outstretched hands to engulf the druchii. Iron weapons melted, flesh boiled from bones and the screams of the enemy warriors were mercifully brief. Shrieking bodies tumbled from the bridge, blazing fireballs that not even the waters of the river could extinguish. The banner of writhing blood went up like an oil-soaked rag, an incandescent plume of fire that screamed like a child as it died.

  The druchii line collapsed as the dozens of warriors disintegrated like ashen statues, and the cries of terror that came from those who saw their comrades immolated was music to Eldain’s ears. The druchii reeled as the cackling blue flames danced over the crystalline structure of the bridge, and Eldain spun his spear up to point at the druchii.

  “Now, Starchaser!” he yelled. “With me! For Ulthuan and the Everqueen!”

  Lotharin leapt forwards, and Eldain clung tight to the reins as his faithful mount carried him over the smouldering, blackened ruin of the druchii. Starchaser’s Reavers followed him, a thundering wedge of vengeful horsemen with lowered spears. The druchii saw them coming, but their line was scattered and broken, easy meat for cavalry.

  The Reavers punched into the reeling druchii, spears thrusting and swords slashing. Eldain stabbed his spear through the neck of a warrior whose armour and cloak smouldered with blue flame. Even before the druchii fell, Eldain was moving on, plunging the leaf-shaped blade into the panicked mass of enemy warriors. A sword sliced up at him, but Lotharin sidestepped and lashed out with his hooves, hurling the druchii champion from the bridge.

  The druchii fled from the blades of the Reavers, but there was no mercy to be had, and no way to escape the speed of an Ellyrian steed. None survived to reach the end of the bridge. Eldain circled his horse as Mitherion Silverfawn waved to him. The mage’s skin was pallid and his features drawn by the expenditure of such powerful magic. Unleashing the fiery conflagration had cost him dear.

  “Eldain, you should not be here!” said Mitherion.

  “And yet I am,” countered Eldain. “You still think the bridge will fall?”

  “I know it will,” said Mitherion in exasperation. “Do you think something as obvious as a charge of the Reaver Knights would prevent it? Look, the druchii are already gathering crossbows and swordsmen.”

  Eldain swore as he saw the truth of Mitherion’s words. Hundreds of druchii were moving towards Korhandir’s Leap, bearing spears, crossbows, and swords. Too many for their small Reaver band to fight.

  “Our charge was glorious,” said Laurena Starchaser, riding alongside and voicing Eldain’s fear, “but we will not hold against so many without more warriors.”

  Eldain turned to Mitherion Silverfawn. “Is your magic spent?”

  “Not yet, but what power I have left will not keep the druchii from crossing.”

  “More warriors will come,” said Eldain. “We will hold the druchii here until they do.”

  Mitherion shook his head. “If you stay on this bridge you will die. You must ride!”

  “Retreat?” said Eldain. “After we fought to drive the druchii away?”

  “I did not say retreat,” said Mitherion. “I said ride. Ride on, Eldain, it is the only way!”

  “Ride on? Into the druchii army? Have you lost your mind?”

  Mitherion gripped Eldain’s hand, and he felt the coruscating heat of the magic fire within the mage. Eldain saw the desperation in Mitherion’s eyes, the aching need to be believed.

  “Trust me, Eldain, you must cross the river and destroy the red giant,” said Mitherion. “It is the only way you live.”

  “Red giant? What are you talking about?” said Eldain, snatching his hand back and turning Lotharin towards the druchii. At least five hundred warriors were marching towards the bridge, a force many times beyond what he would ever think of riding straight towards. He saw no red giant among them, and wondered what foolishness had taken hold of the mage.

  He caught Starchaser’s eye, and she gave an almost imperceptible nod of acceptance. Whatever he ordered, she and her riders would obey.

  “Death surrounds us,” she said. “One way to face it is as good as another.”

  “Better to face it head on then,” said Eldain.

  Ithilmar-tipped lances split the Executioners apart. Caparisoned in blue and white and gold, the Silver Helms of Galadrien Stormweaver smashed through the close packed ranks of the heavily-armoured druchii. Bravest of all the riders in Ulthuan, the Silver Helms were called headstrong by some, reckless by others, but all agreed that they were the most magnificent warriors of the land. Only the Dragon Princes of Caledor could lay claim to superiority, but such was the arrogance of those riders that their boast was largely discounted, save by those who had seen them in battle.

  Stormweaver leaned hard into the stirrups and drove his lance through the breastplate of a druchii warrior. The blade tore free of his victim and he lined up another target. The druchii swept his unwieldy sword around in an effort to smash the head from Stormweaver’s lance, but it was a move of desperation. He looped the lance tip around the
draich and its tip plunged into the warrior’s belly. Stormweaver lifted the screaming warrior off the ground, letting his own weight tear him from the blade, and enjoying the sound of his scream.

  The Silver Helms bludgeoned their way through rank after rank of druchii, and Stormweaver saw a banner go down, trampled into the mud beneath his clarion’s horse. The white mounts of the Silver Helms were bred to be stronger than almost any other horse in Ulthuan, and fought with as much pride and power as their riders.

  The Executioners fought back, and Stormweaver had to grudgingly admit that they were not without skill. He saw Irindia plucked from his horse by a well-aimed strike to the belly, and Yeledra thrown to the ground as her horse was beheaded in a single stroke. These were just the last gasps of hate, not real courage, and they were far too late to alter the outcome of this charge. Scores of druchii were ground to smashed bone and ground meat beneath the hooves of the Silver Helms’ mounts, and those few that remained were aghast at such swift slaughter.

  Onwards the Silver Helms plunged into the druchii, killing with every yard gained from the lofty heights of their saddles. Gods of the battlefield, the Silver Helms slew and crushed all before them, revelling in their preeminent power and skill. The noise was incredible, like a drunken mortal hammering every plate of metal in a smith’s forge with clumsy missteps.

  An Executioner leapt to meet him, sword swinging low for his horse’s legs. His steed leapt over the blow, lashing out with its hind legs to shatter the druchii’s skull with a sharp blow from its hooves. Another cloaked druchii stabbed his murderous blade towards Stormweaver’s chest, but a jink of the reins stepped him away from the blow. Too close for a lance strike, Stormweaver released the reins and drew his sword in one, fluid motion. Stormweaver wheeled his horse in around the Executioner and slashed his blade down onto his neck, hacking down past the druchii’s collarbone and into his lungs.

  The Executioners could take no more and turned to flee from the silver horsemen in their midst. Some threw down their weapons to aid their escape; others clung to them in the mistaken belief that they would live to fight with them again.

  What had, moments before, been a desperate struggle of blades now became a slaughter as the Executioners fled from the storm of blades and lances. But their flight only brought more doom down upon their heads. Dozens were hacked down in the first moments of their panic, others run down beneath the heavy horses of the Silver Helms, yet more skewered on the tips of still-sharp lances.

  As much as he loved the moment of the charge, this was the moment Stormweaver relished the most; riding down a defeated foe. Every horseman dreamed of the enemy broken and fleeing before him, easy prey to the glorious rider with fire in his heart. The Silver Helms ran amok, slaying and laughing and singing as they unleashed furious wrath upon their dark kin.

  Stormweaver pictured his warriors pursuing the druchii all the way back to Eagle Gate and beyond. Riding over them until only a handful remained alive to reach their black ships on the coast.

  “No mercy!” shouted Stormweaver. “Drive them into the river!”

  The Silver Helms followed his lead and broke apart into hunting groups as they slew the druchii with wild abandon. Stormweaver led the massacre, riding for the river and plunging his lance into unprotected backs. This was joy! This was vengeance!

  He heard heavy cracks of splintering ice and splashes from up ahead, and imagined the Executioners’ desperate struggles as the weight of their armour dragged them under the water. As his lance sliced clear of another dead druchii, he looked up to see how few remained.

  His elation turned to horror as he saw the titanic scaled beasts climbing from the river.

  “Hydra,” he said, as the nearest monster spread wide its jaws and unleashed a burning stream of volcanic ichor.

  It was the last thing he ever said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DESPAIR

  Like a golden arrow loosed from Asuryan’s silver bow, Eltharion cut through the air on Stormwing’s back with his glittering runesword held before him like a lance. The Witch King had not seen him, and only when the griffon slowed its descent with a thunderous boom of spreading wings did the master of the druchii look up. Malekith hauled the chains looped around his dragon’s maw and its vast form banked quicker than anything of such size should be able to move.

  Yet still it was not fast enough.

  Stormwing’s forepaws took hold of the membranous frill where the dragon’s wing met its body, and his rear claws raked the underside of its belly, drawing a wash of brackish blood. Eltharion’s sword looped out and bit into the pauldrons of the Witch King’s armour. The runes worked into the blade shone with trapped moonlight as the sword came free, and Eltharion twisted in his saddle to avoid a strike from Malekith’s ensorcelled black blade.

  The dragon bellowed and its long neck twisted around to tear at Stormwing. Ichor-dripping teeth like dagger blades snapped on empty air as the griffon pushed off the dragon’s body and the aerial combatants broke apart.

  Wild cheering greeted the arrival of Eltharion, but he cared nothing for their jubilation. With the element of surprise now gone, this fight had just become far more dangerous.

  “Up, Stormwing!” he cried. “Height is everything.”

  The griffon beat its wings furiously, and Eltharion looked over his shoulder to see the Witch King’s dragon surging towards him. Thousands of feet below, the Sapphire Gate was a thin line of white marble, blue gemstones and golden ornamentation set in the midst of pale rock. The dragon’s jaws spread wide and Eltharion knew what was coming next.

  He leaned left and exerted pressure with his knee, and Stormwing obeyed instantly. A seething geyser of noxious black gases vomited up from the dragon’s belly. It went wide, but the caustic reek of it caught in the back of his throat. Stormwing tucked one wing into his body, twisting and stooping down onto the rising Witch King.

  Eltharion looked into the shimmering emerald glow of Malekith’s eyes, remembering the last time he had seen that dread iron mask. Looking upon him from a cold tower of bleak obsidian, the Witch King had prophesised an agonising death for Eltharion. Moments later, the poisoned blade of a druchii witch cut him, and he had hovered at the edge of life for days.

  By rights he should have died, but the ghost of his father had called him back to fight for Ulthuan against the rampaging horde of the Goblin King. If that had been the worst the Witch King could do to him, then Eltharion welcomed this fight.

  Malekith’s armour was black as midnight and Eltharion’s keen eyes could make out the runic script worked into the plates of star iron. The Witch King thrust a clawed gauntlet towards Eltharion and a booming voice echoed from within his horned helm. It was a single word, yet a word that should never be uttered or heard by any mortal.

  Shrieking pain blitzed around Eltharion’s body, and he screamed as every nerve in his body was bathed in fire. His vision greyed and he felt his heart spasm fit to burst. Blinding lights exploded before his eyes, and it was all he could do to retain a grip on his sword. Sensing his rider was incapacitated, Stormwing screeched and banked to the side as the dragon roared in to the attack. Its jaws snapped. Hind legs swung up to claw, and its enormous wings beat the air to pummel the griffon into a spin.

  Stormwing twisted out of the way of the dragon’s teeth, and dipped his wings to avoid a lethal clawing. Buffeting turbulence spun him around, but he pulled his wings in tight and aimed himself towards the earth. The dragon followed him round, slower and less agile than the griffon, yet murderously powerful.

  Eltharion gritted his teeth and fought through the pain, letting it bleed from his body as he and Stormwing plummeted back to earth. The Witch King was right behind him, and the dragon’s onyx eyes glittered with terrible appetite. Its jaws drooled acidic saliva and Eltharion could see it was building another gullet of toxic breath to exhale. He jinked Stormwing left and right as the Witch King hurled crackling arcs of purple fire from his iron gauntlets. The Sapphire Ga
te rushed up to meet him and Eltharion pulled Stormwing left and dug his heels into his feathered flanks.

  The griffon spread his wings and the force of deceleration almost tore Eltharion from the saddle. He risked a glance over his shoulder in time to see the crimson jaws of the dragon upon him. Stormwing rolled and looped around underneath the dragon as the two creatures passed within a few feet of one another. The dragon’s tail slammed into the griffon, and Eltharion felt his mount’s pain as he fought to right himself.

  He pulled Stormwing around in a tight turn, swooping back to the fight as a black sword sang for his neck. He brought his runesword up and a blazing rain of sparks flew from the two weapons as they struck. Stormwing fought to keep out of reach of the dragon’s claws as he and Malekith traded blows. With every clash of iron, Eltharion felt the destructive power of the dark sorcery worked into the Witch King’s blade.

  But his sword had been fashioned by the first Warden of Tor Yvresse and its enchantments were too strong to be overcome by the pretender’s magic of unmaking. Time and time again their swords clashed as Stormwing and the dragon twisted and spun and climbed and dived as though engaged in some bizarre mating dance.

  Their battle was fought with blade and spell, and every blow was followed by a blast of white fire or crimson lightning. Stormwing’s feathers were burned from his shoulder and portions of the dragon’s neck were fused to glass by the lethal magic. Eltharion knew his magic was nowhere near as powerful as that of Malekith, and he was nearing the limit of his endurance. The Witch King’s blade hammered down again, and Eltharion felt its cackling glee as it devoured a portion of the magic empowering his runesword.