02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Eldain spun in the saddle, seeing druchii approaching from all sides.

  All sides but one.

  Eltharion brought Stormwing in over the centre of the sea gate. The aerial duel with the Witch King had brought the fighting to a halt as all eyes turned to watch the awesome clash of might and magic. His armour torn open and his dragon wounded, the Witch King had flown high into the boiling clouds. The sight of Eltharion’s triumphant entry to the fighting galvanised the defenders to push the druchii from the walls for the time being.

  Tyrion and Korhil stood to either side of Finubar as he went to greet the Warden of Tor Yvresse. The Phoenix King was still weak from the druchii sorcery that had slain his White Lions, but Tyrion knew it was more than luck that kept him alive. Finubar was the mortal vessel of Asuryan’s fire, and the Creator God did not suffer weaklings to guide his chosen people.

  The griffon’s claws gripped the edge of the wall and he folded his wings back with regal poise. Tyrion saw the beast was lathered with sweat and its eyes filled with pain.

  Tyrion and Eltharion had once been close, but ever since the Goblin King’s assault on Yvresse, they had barely spoken. Tyrion had learned the particulars of the battle from those who had fought the goblins, but Eltharion had always refused to speak of it. Whatever had happened in the Warden’s Tower at the height of the fighting had changed Eltharion in terrible ways. His grim demeanour was understandable; his lands had been ravaged and his family slain, but the haunted lifelessness of his eyes was hard to bear.

  Tyrion’s old friend now shunned company, avoided his boon companions and brooded alone in his sullen city of ghosts. As timely and welcome as his arrival had been, Tyrion found it hard to be glad that the Warden of Tor Yvresse now fought with them.

  “Eltharion,” said Finubar, as the grim-eyed warden dismounted and dropped to the ramparts. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”

  Eltharion nodded curtly. “My king was in danger. I had to come,” he said, and Tyrion heard the hollowness of the sentiment immediately.

  Finubar embraced Eltharion warmly, a gesture that looked forced and awkward to Tyrion, but which was greeted with a rousing cheer from the defenders of the Sapphire Gate. As the two warriors broke the embrace, Tyrion saw the simmering anger behind Finubar’s facade of camaraderie. Yes, Eltharion had come, but he had taken his sweet time about it and brought precious few warriors with him. Aside from a handful of rangers, it was clear the armies of the eastern realms remained within the walls of Tor Yvresse.

  “As king of Ulthuan, I am glad to have you,” said Finubar, ever the diplomat.

  “Stormwing is injured,” said Eltharion. “I would ask your healers see to his wounds.”

  “Of course,” said Finubar, waving to a nearby archer. “Immediately.”

  Tyrion stepped forward. “Sire Belannaer?” he asked. “I saw the dragon…”

  Eltharion shook his head. “He is dead.”

  “Are you sure?” pressed Finubar.

  “I am sure,” said Eltharion. “I saw the flames consume him. He is dead.”

  Tyrion wanted to strike Eltharion for announcing the death of one of the White Tower’s greatest Loremasters with so little emotion. Coming so soon after Belarien’s death, Tyrion’s anger surged to the surface. Before he did anything rash, Korhil took hold of his arm and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  The sound of hunting horns echoed from the sides of the cliffs, and shouts of warning came from the watch-towers as the iron boarding ramps cranked down from the black ark.

  “Druchii!” shouted Korhil, running to the edge of the ramparts. “Stand to! Archers!”

  Finubar nodded to Eltharion and Tyrion, then drew his sword and ran to muster the defenders. Warriors flocked to the Phoenix King as arrows and bolts flew between the black ark and the Sapphire Gate once more.

  Eltharion turned to follow the king, but Tyrion grabbed his arm and said, “Why did you really come?”

  “Lothern is ready to fall, where else would I be?”

  “Platitudes like that may appease Finubar, but I know you better,” said Tyrion. “Tell me.”

  Hostility and aching loneliness swam in Eltharion’s eyes, but it was soon replaced by cold resentment. Tyrion saw a cruelty in his old friend that he liked not at all.

  “You really want to know?” asked Eltharion.

  “I do.”

  “I remembered something a poet once said to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing I will ever tell you,” said Eltharion, pulling his arm free and walking away.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BATTLE’S END

  Menethis watched in disbelief as the monsters destroyed the Silver Helms. Three monsters with writhing masses of heads tore them apart with snapping bites and gouts of hellish red fire vomited up from their bellies. Alongside these scaled monstrosities, deformed abominations of flesh, bone, gristle and raw meat fought with lunatic fury. Snapped chains whipped from barbed collars, and mouths opened randomly in the elastic, warping flesh of the hell-spawned beasts.

  The slaughter was so swift that Menethis could scarce believe it had happened at all. One moment, Stormweaver’s Silver Helms were slaughtering the Executioners, the next, monsters had emerged from the mist and destroyed their salvation. Menethis watched a hydra snatch up a horse in its jaws and bite it in two. Half the beast went down the monster’s gullet, the rest spat back into the killing. A Silver Helm, unhorsed and pouring blood from where his arm had once been, staggered back from the slaughter, but one of the spawn creatures swept him up in a gelatinous tentacle and swallowed him whole.

  “Isha save us, sweet mother of mercy,” said a spearman behind him.

  “Be silent,” ordered Menethis.

  With the timely arrival of the Silver Helms, Menethis had rejoined his spear host on the gentle slopes before Tor Elyr. Once in sight of the spires of the city, the citizen soldiers had steeled their courage, and banded together around their banner. Menethis had discovered them marching back to join him, and not since he had stood on the walls of Eagle Gate had he felt such humbling pride.

  “Raise spears,” he said, knowing it was futile. If such warriors as the Silver Helms could not fight such monsters, then they had little chance. That did not matter, for they had sworn to defend this land, and nothing could be gained by running save a few wretched moments of life. That they had no chance of prevailing was immaterial.

  That they stood with courage unbroken before such beasts was all that mattered.

  The mist at the river began clearing and Menethis saw the full might of the druchii army across the river. Despite the numbers their host had killed, the druchii still outnumbered them. No matter that they had fought with bravery and strength beyond what anyone could have expected; they were still doomed.

  The vortex of storm clouds above the black ark seethed with elemental power, swirling and gathering strength with every passing moment. Torrential rain fell in soaking sheets, washing the ramparts clean of blood, and Tyrion’s robes were plastered to his skin. Sunfang hissed like an ingot fresh from the furnace in the downpour.

  Deafening peals of thunder echoed from the cliffs and blinding forks of lightning burned crackling traceries across the sky. If this was to be the end of Ulthuan, then the heavens were providing a fitting accompaniment. Tyrion turned aside an overhand cut with his dagger and spun around the druchii swordsman, plunging Sunfang into his lower back. The warrior grunted in pain and fell to the blood-wet flagstones of the gate.

  Two thousand elven warriors fought on the Sapphire Gate, faced with who knew how many druchii. Tens of thousands might lurk within the black ark for all Tyrion knew.

  Let them come, he thought. Let them come and I will kill them all!

  He almost smiled at the thought, welcoming the intrusion of the Sword of Khaine this time. Belarien was dead, as was Loremaster Belannaer. Who else was to die before this was over? Alarielle? Teclis? Finubar?

 
Tyrion?

  Strangely, the thought of his own death did not trouble him, but the thought of losing those closest to him filled him with such dread that he had trouble breathing.

  Two dozen druchii swarmed down the boarding ramps, howling their hatred. Arrows pierced a handful and sent them plummeting to their doom, but the rest came on without pause. They hurled themselves onto the gate, only to be met by cold steel and courage. Swords clashed and armour rang with the bitter songs of battle, and for the fifth time this day, the ancestral enemies of Ulthuan and Naggaroth fought to the death.

  A broad-shouldered warrior in overlapping bands of plate led these warriors, and arrows bounced from his armour. Armed with an axe-bladed polearm, he landed on the ramparts and spun his weapon around until it was aimed at Tyrion.

  “The Tower of Grief will have your head!” promised the warrior, his voice muffled by the form-fitting helm of bronze he wore.

  “Come and take it,” answered Tyrion in reply.

  Tyrion’s blade struck first, skidding from the druchii’s breastplate. In reply, the polearm swept down. Tyrion raised Sunfang to block, before realising the blow was a feint. The haft of the polearm suddenly reversed and swept down to smash against the side of his knee. Tyrion leapt over the attack, ramming his dagger at the warrior’s neck.

  The druchii leaned into the blow, and Tyrion’s blade snapped on the flared metal of his helmet. Tyrion landed lightly and ducked beneath a slashing blow of the axe head. He thrust, and it was deflected. He feinted, rolled and leapt, but each time his attacks were intercepted and turned aside by the halberd, its longer reach keeping him at bay.

  More druchii were gaining the walls, pushing out from the space their champion had created. The elven line was bowing, and the druchii kept pouring on the pressure, sensing a chance for a breakthrough. Anger touched Tyrion. He was a prince of Ulthuan, its sworn protector, and some upstart druchii champion was fending him off?

  The halberd swung at him again, but instead of parrying the blow, Tyrion stepped to meet it and hacked the blade from the haft with one blow. The druchii stared stupidly at the broken end of his weapon, and Tyrion gave him no chance to recover. He pushed the broken halberd aside and rammed his sword into the champion’s gut, the enchanted blade sliding between the bands of contoured plate.

  Tyrion pushed the dying warrior to the edge of the wall and lifted him onto the battlements, still skewered upon Sunfang’s blade like a butterfly on a collector’s pin. Behind the faceplate of his helm, the druchii’s violet eyes were wide with agony as the sword’s caged heat boiled his innards.

  “Tell Kouran I will see his tower cast down within the year!” bellowed Tyrion.

  He twisted his sword blade, and the champion fell from the walls, to howls of dismay from his fellow druchii. Thunder crashed across the heavens again, but something in the timbre of the sound made Tyrion look up. Nothing of the storm clouds raging above the black ark could be called natural, but this thunder was unnatural even for such a freakish phenomenon.

  The Witch King dropped from the clouds of torrential rain on the back of his dragon as lightning split the sky with dazzling brightness. The dragon’s left wing was torn and ragged from the battle with Eltharion and Stormwing, but Malekith’s armour bore no traces of that desperate fight.

  Those druchii still on the wall began falling back as though at some prearranged signal. Tyrion watched them go, but instead of elation he felt only an acute sense of danger. Instincts honed on a hundred battlefields were screaming at him that something terrible was about to happen.

  Arcs of powerful lightning played across the Witch King’s body, coiling around his dragon and flaring with a million hues of colour. Variegated light swirled within Tyrion’s sword and armour, and he tasted the bitterly metallic flavour of powerful magic in the air. He ran along the length of the gate, keeping one eye on the motionless form of the Witch King as he drew all the lightning in the sky to him.

  In the centre of the wall, Finubar and Korhil watched the unfolding drama with wary eyes. Korhil’s pelt was bloodied, yet Tyrion was heartened to see that not even an assassin’s venom could lessen the Chracian’s strength and power. Likewise, Finubar had thrown off the worst effects of the druchii sorcery, and his golden blade was wet with blood.

  “I’ll wager this bodes ill,” said Korhil as Tyrion approached.

  “What do you think he is doing?” asked Finubar.

  “Nothing good,” said Tyrion. “The druchii pulled back inside the ark the moment he appeared.”

  “I saw that,” said Finubar, as the coruscating sphere of rampant lightning built around the Witch King until he was almost completely obscured by the whipping cords of power.

  A mage in robes of cream, blue and gold stood at the edge of the walls, staring up at Malekith with frightened eyes.

  Tyrion hauled him to his feet and said, “What is happening? What sorcery is this?”

  “I… I am not sure,” gabbled the mage. “It cannot be what I think it is…”

  “You are not sure? Then what use are you? Did Teclis send us fools or mages?” growled Tyrion.

  “It is magic, but… but of a kind I know only from legend. It has the feel of ancient power, creation magic from when the world was made. Only fragments of it are said to remain in forgotten places lost to the races of this world.”

  “Creation?” spat Tyrion. “The Witch King knows nothing of creation, only destruction.”

  “They are two faces of the same aspect,” the mage gasped. “Creation. Destruction. You cannot have one without the other. As one thing is created, another is destroyed. It is the most dangerous kind of magic, the magic of the Old Ones. It is said its misuse caused the fall of the world in the ancient days before the rise of the elder races.”

  “You speak in riddles,” hissed Tyrion, before throwing the mage back against the wall. He watched as the lightning wreathing the Witch King grew even brighter, like a newborn sun hovering in the straits. Stark shadows were cast by its radiance, but the light was without life or warmth, only raw luminous power.

  “We need to get everyone off this gate,” said Tyrion as he saw the truth of Malekith’s sorcery. “Now!”

  “What?” demanded Korhil. “Madness. The druchii will simply walk onto the gate.”

  “Trust me,” said Tyrion. “In a few moments I do not think there will be a gate…”

  “What if you are wrong?” demanded the Phoenix King.

  “I will stay on the gate.”

  “Alone?” said Finubar. “You cannot hold the druchii back alone.”

  “If I am right, I will not need to.”

  “If you are right, you had better be a damn good swimmer,” said Korhil.

  Finubar nodded and gave the order to abandon the Sapphire Gate. That order was obeyed instantly, and elven warriors ran to the cliffs, where wide steps were cut into the sides of the straits. Sprays of power blazed from the Witch King as hundreds of elves hurried down the curving steps that led down to the quays of Lothern. Korhil and Finubar went with them, and Tyrion stood at the junction of the two halves of the gate.

  He watched the defenders of Lothern fall back to the quays, each sentinel of spear and bow quickly reforming their warriors alongside the unmoving ranks of the Phoenix Guard already arrayed there. The storm winds bellied their banners wide and full, and as the warriors evacuating the wall took up position around them, Tyrion saw they were perfectly placed in this newly formed battle line.

  “They knew,” he said. “They knew this would happen…”

  Then the Witch King unleashed his new and terrible power.

  A streaming fountain of black light blazed from the sphere of lightning, striking the dead centre of the Sapphire Gate. Too bright to look upon, its power did not destroy that which it touched, rather, it unmade it. Tyrion watched through half-dosed eyes as the very fabric of the gate was unwoven. Matter was unravelled, like a loose thread in a cloak that snags on a thornbush. Ithilmar, starwood and sapphires l
arger than a warrior’s fist came apart like snow before the spring, broken down into their constituent fractions and consumed.

  Tyrion staggered as the entire gate slumped and portions of its load-bearing structure were eaten away by this dreadful power. Vast swathes of the gate dissolved into nothingness as the ball of lightning surrounding the Witch King continued to pulse with ancient magic. He ran to the cliffs, now knowing there was no need to stay. The druchii were not going to be coming over the gate, they were going through where it used to be.

  What remained of the gate cracked, and those portions of it that still stubbornly held on to existence now began to split apart. Flagstones cracked beneath Tyrion’s feet as he ran for the cliff-side steps. He leapt to the battlements as the flagstones were consumed by the decay of its material form. Pieces of the gate were disappearing at random, and Tyrion leapt from solid ground to solid ground as the dissolution of the gate increased exponentially.

  Fifty yards lay between him and safety, but it might as well have been five hundred.

  Only fragments of the Sapphire Gate still existed, and what had taken thousands of artisans decades to construct was unmade in moments. Tyrion leapt for one of the last portions of the gate still maintaining its structural integrity, but no sooner did his feet touch the stone than its matter was unmade by the Witch King’s stolen magic.

  Tyrion’s eyes told him there was stone there, but his feet passed through as though it were as insubstantial as the confounding mists wreathing the shifting islets to the east of Ulthuan. Panic gripped him as he tumbled downward, spinning and flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to control his descent.

  Tyrion closed his eyes and let his body find its poise. He rolled and angled his descent towards the sea, but knew that falling into water from such a height was akin to landing on solid rock.