[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Morathi flexed her fingers and arched her back as the dark magic flowed into and through her. It pulsed along her nerves, setting every sense alight. With centuries of practice, she calmed herself, forcing the magic to her bidding, shaping it with her words and thoughts.

  The assassins had their faces turned up to her, eyes closed. She thrust out her hands, bolts of black energy leaping from her fingertips into the eyes of the Khainites. Each thrashed and screamed, falling to the floor with flailing limbs as the sorcery poured into them, fusing with their bodies.

  When the spell was cast, Morathi slumped back into a chair, panting and spent. With a fingertip, she wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, eyes closed, breath coming in ragged gasps. She touched the fingertip to her tongue, and tasted the sweet residue of magic on her skin.

  Groaning, the assassins recovered, each holding his head, cursing and swearing at the pain. Morathi opened her eyes and stood up. She walked along the line of supine elves, towering over them imperiously.

  “You shall know such pain as I feel at Imrik’s continued life,” she told them. Stepping over the last, she turned back down the line. “The pain will lessen with every step closer to your prey, and will grow with every step further from him. I have laid my mark upon you and you shall not know sleep or thirst or hunger until Imrik is dead. Look at me!”

  The assassins raised their heads and looked at Morathi with eyes like red glass. A black rune smouldered upon the brow of each, burnt into flesh by sorcery. They winced and writhed, unable to escape the throbbing pain within their heads.

  “Kill him and you will know pain no longer,” said Morathi. She pointed a finger to the door. “The more swiftly you complete your task, the sooner you shall know peace again. Go now to Chrace! Find Imrik! Slay him!”

  ——

  The Road to Chrace

  The wind was fresh from the east, bringing scatters of rain onto the pale wooden decking, casting droplets from mast and sail onto Carathril as he stood at the rail. He had crossed the Inner Sea many times during his duties to Bel Shanaar but he had not yet come to terms with the Phoenix King’s death, and in all of those previous voyages he had never felt such urgency and such responsibility.

  The sky was heavy with autumnal cloud, matching the herald’s dismal mood. Around him, the sailors adjusted the triangular sails at the orders of their captain, squeezing every last measure of speed from their ship. To the bow and stern, and at the mastheads, lookouts kept watch for ships, fearful that another vessel might be under the sway of the Naggarothi or the cultists. On the deck were two hundred seasoned marines; the famed Sea Guard of Carathril’s home city of Lothern.

  Ahead and to starboard appeared an isle with shallow shores. Grey haze hung about its coast, and coloured lights danced in the sky above. Carathril moved to the port side, not wishing to look upon the Isle of the Dead. It was on that slip of land that Caledor Dragontamer had cast the spell of the great vortex, forever trapping himself and his fellow mages at its heart.

  Growing up in Lothern, Carathril had heard all of the sailors’ tales. Some claimed the mages could be seen as ethereal figures with arms reaching to the heavens, frozen in time at the moment of their triumph. It was said that the last syllables of that mighty enchantment were still carried on the breeze; that Caledor’s final words would come to an elf while he slept if his ship strayed too close to the shore.

  Carathril had no desire to test the truth of the tales and he heard sailors and Sea Guard whispering prayers to Mannanin, god of the waters, asking for safe passage and a route clear of the Isle of the Dead.

  Due north they sailed after, cutting between the chain of islands that curved across the Inner Sea. For three more days they carried on without pause, and saw no more than the occasional sail on the horizon.

  They came into view of the Inner Sea’s northern reaches. A forest-swathed shore marked that boundary, broken by the mouths of many rivers. Of all the realms of Ulthuan, it was this one that Carathril had never seen. Avelorn, home of the Everqueen. The thought of it sent a tremor through Carathril, of excitement and quiet fear. A land of boundless forest, Avelorn had always been the heart of elven society. Tor Anroc had been the political capital of Ulthuan, but it was Avelorn that was the elves’ spiritual centre. There were some philosophers who claimed the forefathers of every elf had been raised beneath that endless bower of leaves and branches.

  In his years of service to the Phoenix Throne, Carathril had never been despatched to the court of the Everqueen, and he had never received a visitor from Avelorn. The Everqueen, Yvraine, daughter of Aenarion and Astarielle, did not concern herself with temporal affairs. Hers was a timeless guardianship, of the isle and its people as a whole. Yet Carathril knew that the Everqueen would be aware of the tumult engulfing her island; other messengers were on board to visit her court and inform Yvraine of the decision to elect Imrik.

  To one of the broad rivers sailed the ship, entering the waters of Avelorn as dusk fell. The trees crowded close to the bank on each side, willows that dipped long fronds into the water. Clouds of bats set out from their roosts, dark swathes against the setting sun. Things screeched and howled and roared in the twilight, and Carathril was glad he was on the ship and not the shore.

  The river was broad and easily navigable, so they sailed on through the night. As the moons rose, the character of the forest changed again. In the silvery light of Sariour, the trees seemed to dance and whisper in the wind, their secret messages echoing across the waters as a susurrant background noise. The river was teeming with life: fish and frogs and lizards could be seen skimming the placid waters in the patches of moonlight that broke through the cloud. The call of nighthawks and the howls of wolves sounded from every direction and Carathril found sleep impossible.

  By dawn, they came to a great bend in the river, turning westwards towards the peaks of the Annulii that could be just about seen rearing in the distance over the canopy of trees. In the light of the dawn, animals came to the waterside to drink. Here and there, the trees opened up into broad glades where herds of deer grazed and foxes stalked through the long grass.

  Carathril was convinced he saw other movement too, in the gloom beneath the forest canopy. Not birds or beasts, but the trees themselves seemed to shift. He knew that Avelorn was alive, and from the oldest tales had heard of the treemen that protected the forest; it was a different matter to see such creatures in the shadows, spirits of bark and leaf that creaked and groaned like trees in a strong wind.

  A little after noon, they came to a jetty. It was not made of timber, but of the massive roots of a tree extending into the river. A company of armoured warrior-women waited on the shore nearby: the Maiden Guard of Avelorn. Seeing them, the captain steered the ship towards the natural wharf and put the ship alongside the twisting roots.

  The captain of the Maiden Guard came to the ship, spear in hand and shield on the other arm, her golden hair falling in waves from beneath her green-gold helm, her eyes a bright green that pierced Carathril’s soul. When she spoke, her voice was distant, her eyes unfocussed as if she looked upon something else. Carathril imagined the sighing of leaves and the gentle tumble of water over rocks.

  “The whole forest speaks of your coming,” she said. “I am Althinelle, glade protector and captain of the Maiden Guard. Who is your leader?”

  The ship captain waved to Carathril, who hesitantly moved along the rail to address Althinelle.

  “I am Carathril, of Lothern, lately of Tor Anroc,” he called down to her. “I have heralds aboard for the Everqueen and am destined upriver for the mountains of Chrace.”

  “We have hoped that you would come,” Althinelle replied. “Our queen is most distressed. She feels a darkness swallowing Ulthuan and would know its cause.”

  “The Phoenix King Bel Shanaar is dead,” Carathril told her. “Prince Malekith dared the wrath of Asuryan to replace him and was found wanting. The flames consumed him and the shrine all but toppled.”


  “Grave news,” said Althinelle. She nodded. “Send down your heralds and I will take them to Queen Yvraine. You may pass on up the river. For what purpose do you travel to Chrace?”

  As the sailors threw rope ladders down to the wharf and the heralds climbed over the ship’s side, Carathril hesitated to reply; out of practice rather than suspicion. There could be no hint of the cultists or Naggarothi in Avelorn; the Maiden Guard would ensure the forests were kept free of any cytharai taint.

  “Prince Imrik of Caledor is to be found there,” said Carathril. “Many princes were massacred by Naggarothi at Asuryan’s shrine, and Imrik is to be named Bel Shanaar’s successor. We must find him and escort him safely to the Isle of the Flame.”

  “Very well,” said the Maiden Captain. There was a hint of amusement in her tone. “We shall send word to the companies at the borders of Chrace to keep watch for your return. The Everqueen will grant safe passage to her future husband. Isha’s blessings be upon your life.”

  “Please convey my gratitude and regard to the Everqueen,” said Carathril.

  Althinelle laughed, the sound touching joy into Carathril’s heart.

  “Be assured that Yvraine knows of your gratitude and regard, Carathril of Lothern, lately of Tor Anroc.”

  The Maiden Captain stepped back. Just as he turned away, Carathril saw something strange; Althinelle’s eyes looked blue not green. He shook his head and dismissed the idea as an illusion of the strange forest light. The whole experience left him feeling light-headed and he retired to his cabin to lie down.

  He did not intend to sleep, but since he had rested little since the massacre at the shrine, his eyelids felt heavy and he passed into a deep slumber. When he woke, he saw through the cabin window that it was late evening.

  He felt refreshed and strong, and for some reason the cabin was filled with the smell of wild flowers.

  The wind came in howling gusts down the valley, bringing an early touch of winter from the peaks. Flurries of snow dusted from the ridges and shoulders of the mountains above and the moons were hidden by a thick bank of cloud.

  Despite the gloom, Elthanir could see perfectly well. He followed the winding trail with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat, springing from rock to rock, weaving between the branches of the overhanging bushes and steering easily past outcrops, his feet upon the edge of the shelf, a precipice dropping steeply down to his right.

  He did not feel the cold, not the ache of limbs from many days travel, or the hunger that would have gnawed the stomach of an ordinary elf, or the parched dryness of his throat. Only the burning occupied him; the fire behind his eyes that pushed him onwards.

  The others followed in silence. None of them had spoken since they had left the palace of Anlec, each consumed by his curse, his inner pain.

  As another flurry of wind dusted his cloak and hood, Elthanir stopped at a turn in the path, where it dropped down sharply towards the valley floor. He looked north and recognised Anil Arianni and Anul Sethis, twin peaks that soared above the others, joined by a sharp ridge.

  He knew the mountains well, for they marked the edge of Nagarythe. He stared up at the pass known as the Chracian Gate and knew that in a few days the burning pain would end.

  The party emerged from the edge of the pine forests onto the highest slopes of Anul Sarian. The snow was light, Imrik’s boots barely leaving a mark as he forged up the mountainside, his broad-headed hunting spear over his shoulder. Ahead the trackers had stopped in the shelter of a cluster of snow-crusted boulders, bows in hand.

  “Looks like we might get lucky today,” Koradrel said, following behind Imrik. “Perhaps something a bit more challenging than a stag or bear.”

  “With luck,” replied Imrik, glancing over his shoulder.

  Both princes were clad in hunting leathers and fur-lined cloaks, the hoods pulled up against the cold breeze. Their woollen leggings were bound with thongs, and knee-high boots protected their feet. Each wore heavy gloves riveted with rings of iron, and breastplates over their padded clothing.

  “If nothing comes of this, we shall have to make camp,” said Koradrel, pointing to the sun disappearing to the west, his breath steaming the air.

  “No lodges nearby?” said Imrik.

  “Half a day’s walk to the south,” replied Koradrel. “There are caves on the north-eastern slopes, with room for all of us.”

  The group consisted of twenty elves in all; the two princes, four guides and fourteen retainers leading the packhorses carrying the tents and supplies. All were armed with bows and spears and the huntsmen carried long axes and wore armour. On one of the sleds was mounted a small bolt thrower, a smaller cousin to the repeater machines used in battle. The others were heaped with food, nets, blankets, firewood, spare clothes, lamps and torches, axes for felling trees and shovels for digging pits, wire and chains for snares and traps, and bundles of fresh spears and arrows. In any other kingdom, such a party might look as if they were ready for battle, but in Chrace they were simply essential supplies for a hunting trip.

  Imrik considered battle safer, and every elf in the group was alert, watching the cloudy skies, peering into the shadows beneath the pine trees, eyeing every rock and bush.

  Like Caledor, Chrace was a kingdom of mountains. In the Dragon Spine Mountains, the dragons hunted down any large beast that wandered into their territory. In the Chracian peaks, it was the elves that had to keep watch for marauding monsters. The vortex of Ulthuan raged through these rocky spires, tinging the air with magic, colouring the clouds and the snow with a glistening half-seen rainbow. The powerful winds of magic had drawn all manner of strange creatures to these lands. Some could be reared as mounts if caught young, such as the pegasi, griffons and hippogryphs. Others were beasts of pure Chaos; the manticores and hydras, basilisks and chimeras.

  For centuries they had made their nests and for centuries the highlight of the Chracian calendar had been the monster hunts. The Chracians had honed their beast-slaying skills, mountaincraft and woodmanship to a high art. Several times during his campaigns in Elthin Arvan, Imrik had called upon the expertise of his Chracian allies to rid an area of a troublesome beast.

  The prince liked the Chracians as a people, and though they lived at opposite sides of Ulthuan, there was much in common. Though Chrace lacked the raw grandeur of Caledor, and had no claim to a great founder like the Dragontamer, it had its own natural majesty. The people were sturdy in body and spirit, used to the isolation of winter.

  That they were fierce warriors was beyond doubt. Many of the retainers, like Koradrel, wore the pelts of the famed Chracian white lions. It was considered a testament to adulthood and prowess for a warrior to hunt one of the massive cats, and no elf was allowed to wear the fur of a white lion unless he had slain it with his own hand. Imrik had killed two such beasts on his hunts, but had refused to wear their cloak of honour; he had jokingly confessed to Koradrel on one hunt that he feared such a thing would confuse the dragons and he would get eaten as prey on returning to Caledor. In truth, he did not feel the right to bear such a badge of strength upon his shoulders. He was just a visitor in these lands; a genuine Chracian hunter lived and breathed these mountains every day.

  They reached the position of the scouts and took shelter amongst the rocks. Glad to be out of the wind, Imrik pulled down his hood, took off the band holding back his hair and ran his fingers over his head.

  “You see something?” he asked the closest guide, an elf called Anachius.

  The guide nodded and pointed along the slope. Imrik saw the darkness of a cave mouth, and the ground in front was trampled and free of snow.

  “A lair,” said Imrik with a smile. He tied back his hair and turned to Koradrel. “What is in there?”

  “Let us go and find out,” replied the Chracian, taking his spear from where he had leant it against a rock.

  The group cautiously moved out from the boulders, making barely a sound and leaving only the faintest marks in the snow. Imrik took his spe
ar in both hands, breathing shallowly, eyes intent on the cave ahead. Anachius moved in front of the group with another guide, racing swiftly over the rough ground, their lion-pelt cloaks tied tight around their bodies.

  The hunters stopped about a bow’s shot from the cave entrance while the guides continued ahead. The two elves circled away from the cave, moving through a scattering of rocks. They spent some time examining the ground, pointing at tracks. There followed a brief conversation and then the other guide headed back towards the group while Anachius edged cautiously towards the cave.

  “There is definitely a creature inside, or nearby,” said the guide when he had returned. “There are no feathers that we can see, and the claw marks show that it is a large beast. We found tufts of coarse fur on the rocks, not shed scales, and no sign of burning. The smell of carrion comes from the cave.”

  “So not a griffon or hydra,” said Koradrel.

  “Not a chimera, either,” added Imrik. “Such would not leave meat uneaten.”

  “True enough,” agreed the guide.

  “So what have we here?” asked Koradrel.

  The question was answered by a shout from Anachius.

  “Manticore!” the guide cried out, sprinting from the cave mouth.

  The beast exploded from the cave behind him, the mountainside reverberating with a feral roar. The monster was in rough shape the same as a massive lion, its pelt dark brown and marked with deep orange patches. Two wings like those of an immense bat were curled upon its back and claws like white scimitars scraped across rock as it skidded out onto the slope. Its tail was segmented like a scorpion’s, arching over its wings, tipped with a barb as long as a spear. Most frightening was its face; feline but with disturbingly elf-like features, dark against a huge mane of bright red hair.

  The manticore bellowed again as the elves readied their weapons. Some raced towards Anachius, shouting encouragement. The monster pounced, wings opening, easily catching up with the forlorn guide.