02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  It filled him with light, and he saw the pulsing lines of magical energy running through the world, a rainbow hued storm that roared across the face of the landscape. These iridescent colours disturbed not a blade of grass or so much as a single leaf, yet they flowed through every living thing, leaving behind a measure of their essence. Eldain gathered that power within him, shaping it into a wordless cry of supplication.

  He loosed that power not with words, but through the might of his steed, letting it carry his message to the Ellyrion herds through the thunder of its hooves upon the earth. Lotharin ran faster than he ever would again, blowing hard as he leapt a wide streambed. Irenya could not match his leap, and Caelir turned her towards a shingled ford as Eldain and Lotharin rode ever onwards. The river of colour faded from sight, and he let out a cry of loss as his mortal eyes lost the sight of his homeland’s magic.

  Yet as the blinding light of magic faded from his sight, he saw that he no longer rode alone. Dozens of horses surrounded him, duns, blacks, greys, whites, dappled and bay, piebald and silver. Herds from all across Ellyrion galloped over the plains beside him, and more were coming with every passing moment. They emerged from forest shadows, from hidden gullies and sheltered dips in the land. They answered the call of one of the sons of Ellyrion, and they came in their entirety.

  Eldain watched with tears in his eyes as the Great Herd formed around him. The silver horseleaders ran with Lotharin, unspoken communication passing between them. Caelir and Irenya were behind him, galloping in the midst of a host of white-gold horses. Caelir waved at him, and Eldain’s heart surged with joy to see so many had answered his call. Billowing clouds of dust hid the true numbers of the herd, but the beating war drum of their hooves and the snorting bellows of myriad herds told Eldain that more than enough had come.

  At last, Lotharin could run no more, and Eldain gently eased the horse into a wide turn that bled off his speed. Lotharin’s flanks heaved and bellowed, and Eldain knew his steed had run himself to the edge of destruction. Even a horse as mighty as Lotharin had his limits, and they had reached them.

  The Great Herd followed his lead, slowing until Eldain and Caelir sat in the midst of a thousands-strong herd of proud steeds. His brother rode alongside him, both he and Irenya blown and exhausted. Yet the thrill of the wild ride across the face of Ellyrion had left its mark on them both. The mare’s eyes shone with delight, and Caelir’s face was that of an excited child.

  “Brother,” gasped Caelir. “Not even Tyrion and Malhandir could have ridden like that.”

  Eldain reached out and gripped his brother’s shoulder.

  “The ride of our lives, eh, Caelir?” he said.

  “No one has gathered a herd like this in ten lifetimes,” swore Caelir. “Even the first Ellyrians never knew such joy.”

  “We called and they came,” said Eldain. “And now we ride for Tor Elyr.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE GLITTERING HOST

  Considered by many of the asur to be the most beautiful city in Ulthuan, Tor Elyr nestled on the shores of the Sea of Dusk within a placid bay of mirror-smooth water. Glittering castles of silver rose from forested islands of smooth marble, each like sheer pinnacles of ice crafted by a master sculptor. Tapered domes of azure and gold capped these towers, and finials bearing pennants of emerald and ruby snapped in the wind blowing off the sea.

  A web of crystal bridges linked the hundreds of island castles, grown from the living rock by spellsingers of old, and a handful of crimson-sailed ships plied the waters beneath them. Tendrils of mist coiled around the base of each island, and faint songs of lament echoed from the peaked castles as the mothers and wives of Tor Elyr sang to the gods to watch over those who rode to war.

  High atop a carven balcony, the lord of Tor Elyr, Arandir Swiftwing, listened to the songs of his city and pondered on the vagaries of time. The asur were a long-lived race, yet their survival might yet come down to a matter of days. In the end, didn’t everything depend on timing? A warrior might deflect an enemy’s blow, and a heartbeat later could be struck down by another or dodge aside at the last moment.

  Or a poison-tipped crossbow bolt might slay a beloved steed so swiftly that she could not prevent herself from rolling over her rider and crushing him beneath her weight…

  As always when he thought of Sarothiel, Lord Swiftwing’s hand strayed to his twisted and misshapen hip. Slain beneath him in a skirmish with druchii raiders seeking to plunder the northern herds of Ellyrion, his steed had rolled on top of him and smashed his pelvis. The healers had been unable to reknit the bone, and his muscles had reformed wrongly around the ossified mass.

  Thirty years later, he still walked with a painful limp, and his days of riding out with his warriors were over.

  He hated the Fates of Morai-Heg that she had cursed him so. A lord of Ellyrion who could not ride. It would be funny if it were not so painful to think about.

  Lord Swiftwing pushed aside these bitter memories, and stared into the west. The storm-wreathed Annulii dominated the horizon, and though the mages advised it best not to stare too long into the clouds of magic, he could not tear his eyes from the seething cauldron of power that thundered between their peaks.

  Morathi’s army was marching on his city from those mountains.

  Impossible as it was to believe, the Eagle Gate had fallen, and the three hundred survivors of that disaster painted a bleak picture of the power and size of that host. Lord Swiftwing could defend Ellyrion against Morathi’s army with more warriors, but the Phoenix King had all but emptied Tor Elyr for the battle at Lothern.

  He had baulked at the idea of sending the majority of his warriors to Lothern, but Finubar had assured him that none of the gateway fortresses could be taken. Tor Elyr was quite safe, Finubar had said, and Lord Swiftwing felt his lip curl in a sneer at the thought of the Phoenix King’s empty promises.

  “That’s what you get when you choose a king who thinks only of lands far from home,” he whispered, as the light moved from afternoon to the gloaming. He disliked this time of day, for it was a shadowy cloak that concealed assassins or spies, and returned to the candlelit warmth of his chambers.

  As befitted a noble of Ellyrion, his quarters were clean and sparsely decorated, with only a few trophies taken in his time as a Reaver Knight hanging on the walls. Numerous bookshelves sagged under the weight of treatises on mounted warfare, with one such essay penned by no less a figure than Aenarion himself. Admittedly, his tactical writings dealt with fighting from the back of a dragon, but the fact that the Defender’s hand had touched that scroll was reason enough to treasure it. These days, warriors of Ulthuan were fortunate if they had even seen a dragon, let alone fought from the back of one.

  He paused by a table heaped with hastily scrawled despatches and idly flicked through them, carefully reading those that caught his eye, and discarding those that did not. Much of what he read was concerned with the current muster of citizen soldiers. With the majority of his city’s warriors now fighting at Lothern, Lord Swiftwing had been forced to spread the net of his levy far wider than at any other time in Ellyrion’s history. He had mustered an army and sent its most experienced warriors with his best general into the west to relieve the beleaguered defenders of the Eagle Gate.

  But what a difference a few days could make.

  Barely had the relief force departed Tor Elyr than word had come that the fortress was lost. Galadrien Stormweaver had returned the previous evening, and Lord Swiftwing had watched the general’s dejected riders climb the crystal bridge to Castle Ellyrus, the gateway to Tor Elyr. A warrior named Menethis of Lothern had brought three hundred warriors who had escaped the slaughter at the Eagle Gate to Tor Elyr this morning. It was a paltry force, but any additions to Lord Swiftwing’s army were welcome, especially as they were veterans.

  And Asuryan knew, he needed veterans!

  Nearly eight thousand citizen soldiers were now under arms in Tor Elyr, yet Lord Swiftwing knew that number concealed
the fact that many of these would normally be considered too young or too old to fight in the battle line. With nowhere near enough horses in his stables, most of these soldiers would need to fight on foot, which was anathema to warriors of Ellyrion.

  A door opened, and a gust of wind blew out a handful of candles. Irritated, Lord Swiftwing glowered at the venerable elf that entered his chambers with a wooden tray bearing a steaming goblet of honeyed wine and several bottles of warmed oils.

  “Casadesus, you are as clumsy as an ogre,” snapped Lord Swiftwing.

  “My apologies, my lord,” said Casadesus. “I shall endeavour to ease the winds around your tower before I enter next time.”

  Casadesus had served Lord Swiftwing for the entirety of his adult life, since before the ascension of Finubar to the Phoenix Throne. He had borne Lord Swiftwing’s banner when the Ellyrians rode to war, they had watched friends pass away and, as was the way of things, they had grown old together. Lord Swiftwing’s wife was long dead, his daughter apprenticed to a mage at the Tower of Hoeth and his sons abroad somewhere in the Old World. Casadesus was the only family he had left, and no one got under Lord Swiftwing’s skin like family.

  “Whatever happened to the notion of bondsmen showing respect?” he grumbled.

  “I suspect the same thing that happened to nobles having nobility.”

  Lord Swiftwing grunted and said, “You should have gone to Saphery. Or Yvresse. It’s not safe in Ellyrion anymore.”

  Casadesus shook his head. “I am where I need to be, my lord.”

  “I released you from your service to me a century ago, there is no need for you to stay.”

  “I remain here for the same reason you do, my lord,” said Casadesus, placing the tray on the table and handing Swiftwing the goblet.

  “And what reason is that?”

  “Duty, my lord. You have yours and I have mine. Now, drink the wine and sit down.”

  Lord Swiftwing knew better than to argue, and took a long draught of the warmed wine. It was sweet and cloying, just the way he liked it, and the medicinal powders sprinkled through it gave it a grainy texture. Immediately, he felt its soothing balm and lowered himself onto the specially carved chair that allowed him to sit with the least amount of discomfort.

  Casadesus sat on a stool opposite and lifted Lord Swiftwing’s leg to rest upon his knees. He grunted in pain, but knew better than to complain. Slowly and with deft finger strokes, Casadesus worked the warmed oils into the knotted muscle tissue of his leg. Alchemists and healing mages had produced a poultice that eased the pain of his wound, though it could never undo the damage. Every night, Casadesus would massage his ruined leg, and every morning he would be able to walk without pain until the effect of the poultice wore off.

  “I hear Stormweaver is back,” said Casadesus, working his thumbs deep into the muscle of Lord Swiftwing’s thigh.

  “That he is,” agreed Lord Swiftwing.

  “Then it is true? The Eagle Gate has fallen?”

  “You already know the answer, so why ask the question?”

  “I was taught to only trust first hand information, not rumour or hearsay.”

  “Yes, the Eagle Gate has fallen, and yes, Stormweaver has returned,” snapped Lord Swiftwing. “Anything else?”

  “I wondered if you had received any responses to the messages you sent to King Finubar and the Warden of Tor Yvresse,” said Casadesus without looking up.

  Lord Swiftwing sighed. “No, there have been no responses, and nor do I expect any. Finubar has stripped my city of warriors and is not about to send them back when his own city is threatened. As to Eltharion, he broods in his miserable city of shadows and pretends the rest of the world does not exist. His land is free of invaders, yet he sends no warriors to me or to Finubar!”

  Casadesus paused in his massage. “Tor Yvresse is a city of ghosts, my lord. There are fewer warriors in Lord Eltharion’s city than in Tor Elyr. If our situations were reversed and he sent us a request for aid, would you send him any troops?”

  “With so few warriors left to defend my city? No, I would not,” said Lord Swiftwing with a wry smile. “There you go using logic again. Did I not tell you that it is unwise to point out the flaws in a noble’s reasoning?”

  “You did, but I chose to view that as advice rather than an order.”

  Before Lord Swiftwing could respond, a single note from an elven war horn blew from one of the northern islands. Both men looked up as other horns joined it, the glorious trumpeting growing in power until a chorus of triumphant music was blowing from every tower of Tor Elyr.

  Casadesus helped Lord Swiftwing to his feet, and together they made their way out onto the balcony overlooking the city and the endless plains beyond. The pain in his leg was forgotten as Lord Swiftwing gripped the stone balustrade and his heart leapt with excitement at the sight before him.

  “I don’t believe it…” gasped Casadesus.

  Lord Swiftwing wept tears of joy, knowing he would never see so fine a sight in all the days left to him. The wide open plains before the city were awash with horses, thousands of wild animals galloping towards the gate in a thundering herd of many colours. At their head rode two warriors, one mounted on a midnight-black steed, the other upon a dun mare.

  “The Great Herd,” said Lord Swiftwing.

  “How is this possible?” asked Casadesus.

  “I do not know, but Asuryan has smiled on us this day.”

  Though hot steamed filled the air of the cavern, Prince Imrik felt a chill deep in his bones. Clad only in a loincloth, his muscular body was now thin and gaunt, like the starved prisoners he had rescued from a druchii slave ship so many years ago. He sat cross-legged, with his arms hanging at his side and his breath coming in long, soft breaths.

  He had lost track of how long he had been here, for nothing ever changed in the cave of dragons. Their great, slumbering hearts beat ever on with gelid slowness, never varying their cadence or tempo. Sleep had stolen upon him in the times between songs, and his dreams had been filled with the faces of lost loved ones and never-won glories. Each time he would wake and curse the weakness that had seen him sleep. Then he would sing, filling the air with the wondrous sound of dragonsong.

  Minaithnir had taught him these songs many decades ago, placing the words that were not words and the music that was not music directly into his mind. Until now, he had never heard the songs sung aloud, and he wept as he finally gave them voice. Their soft beauty was quite at odds with the creatures that created them, and Imrik dearly wished his race had known of these songs in ages past.

  His eyes closed as he felt the dragonsong draw on his strength for sustenance, for such magical sounds could not be sustained simply by a mortal’s voice. His breathing slowed as the song flowed from him and Imrik felt as though his mind was sinking into a forgotten trench at the bottom of the ocean where monstrous beasts made their lairs.

  The darkness was complete, yet this was as close as he had come to reaching the vast, unfathomable consciousnesses of the dragons. In this deep, dark, unreachable place, their minds roamed free, too vast and too far beyond mortal comprehension to be confined within their skulls. In this place of emptiness, the dragons dreamed of distant stars and the myriad worlds that circled them.

  The dragonsong surrounded Imrik, and he felt the steady heartbeat of something infinitely more colossal than he could ever imagine pounding in the darkness. If the heartbeat of the dragons was infinitesimally slow, this was yet slower. He had no idea to what he was listening, but no sooner had he wondered at its origin than the answer was given to him.

  This was the heartbeat of the world, and Imrik at last recognised the truth of the dragons.

  They were linked with the world in ways too complex to fully understand, but Imrik knew enough of dragons to know that as the world cooled, so too did their hearts. The dragons were as much a part of the world as were its rivers and forests, its mountains and deserts. As one rose, the other rose; as one declined, so too
did the other.

  Imrik felt the colossal presences of the dragons as their minds finally registered his intrusion into their shared dreamspace. As a man might regard a fleabite, so Imrik was to the dragons; an irritant; something so trivial and minor that he was virtually beneath their notice.

  Yet they had noticed him.

  Though he knew his body did not exist in this darkness, he sang the dragonsong with ever more passion, allowing the wordless music free rein within his flesh.

  Take of me what you must, but hear me dragonkin! I am Imrik, and Ulthuan needs you!

  Other minds, still immense, but smaller than the glittering, star-filled presences of the most ancient dragons, darted around him. They looked at him as a curiosity, a diversion to be toyed with and enjoyed for a brief spell while they slept away the ages. It was the tiniest connection, but it was more than he had managed in all the days he had been singing.

  A yellow eye, slitted like a cat’s, opened in the darkness before him. Enormous beyond words, it filled the void, a sensory organ as vast as a landscape. It regarded Imrik curiously, before deciding he was unworthy of attention. The mind’s eye closed and Imrik was once again plunged into sightless oblivion. He screamed his frustration into the void as his hold on the dragonsong faltered.

  No sooner had its ritual rhythms been disrupted than his connection to this dream world was ended. His spirit was hurled back to the world above, and Imrik opened his eyes with a great intake of breath and a cry of frustration bursting from his throat.

  He had been so close!

  Feeling as weak as a newborn foal, Imrik calmed his frayed nerves and slowed the rapid tattoo of his heart. His hands were shaking and his throat was raw with the effort of shaping songs that no mortal was ever meant to sing.

  “You heard me!” he wept. “Why do you not wake?”