Caladris shook his head fiercely, but the knight was already ordering his swordmasters to advance.
There was immediate confusion. The soldiers who had been following the prince’s order to pull back paused at the sight of Kalaer forming a defensive line.
There was no sign of the griffon, so Caladris held his staff aloft and briefly lit up the bridge with a flash of light. “We must fall back to the temple,” he cried. “The swordmasters will buy us time!”
Captain Althin and the others nodded in reply and continued to rush back across the narrow bridge, dragging their wounded with them as they went.
Kalaer led his swordmasters to the narrowest point of the bridge-like neck of rock. It only took ten of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, to block the way of the advancing rat ogres. Without a single word of command, the rows of elves formed their long, two-handed swords into a bristling, gleaming thicket of steel.
As the twitching giants loomed up over them, the terrible scale of their deformity was fully revealed, but the elves showed no sign of fear and began swinging their swords in a series of graceful, deadly arcs. Despite being crushed so close to each other, they sliced into the monsters with incredible speed and accuracy. Decades of training gave them an almost preternatural ability to sense each others’ movements and they weaved around each other with a silent, easy grace.
The rat ogres roared with frustration as the spinning, gleaming figures danced easily out of reach. Fresh wounds began appearing over their thick hides and however they lunged at their slender opponents, they were unable to land a single blow.
A broad shape glided through the darkness and one of the rat ogres reeled backwards, slamming into the others as it tried to stem the blood that suddenly erupted from its thick neck.
“The prince,” cried Kalaer, with a grim smile, as the griffon sank its claws into its struggling prey.
The wounded rat ogre let out a low, liquid groan as Stormrider drew his lance from its neck and thrust it deep between its shoulder blades.
“For the Phoenix King!” cried the prince, as the monster crashed down onto the skaven at its feet. There was a chorus of screams as it slammed onto the bridge with a final, guttural belch.
Before the other skaven could surround him, the prince launched his griffon back into the air, with the rat ogre’s blood trailing from his lance like a pennant. “For Aenarion!”
The swordmasters were unable to hold back their smiles at the sight of the dead rat ogre, but Kalaer’s face remained stern. As the creature fell it created a brief gap in the wall of crudely stitched flesh, revealing the incredible size of the horde rushing towards them. “There are so many…” he muttered, lowering his sword for a second.
For the first time in his life, Bladelord Kalaer began to feel afraid.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Captain Ulthrain rushed across the deck of the Pride of Finubar. “What do you mean?” he cried, struggling to raise his voice against the flapping of canvas and the howling of the wind.
“Look,” replied his navigator, pointing out into the fierce storm. “We have a new friend. And see how fast she’s moving.”
The captain shielded his eyes from the spray and looked out across the tumbling white-tops. Several ships were following in their wake. Most of them he could name quite easily, but one left him slack-jawed with shock. It was far behind the rest of the fleet, but hurtling across the ocean with impossible speed. Its tall sails were swelled by an unnatural wind, blowing in direct contradiction to the prevailing weather. As the mysterious vessel powered relentlessly towards them, it seemed to be travelling on the breath of Asuryan himself.
“The prince’s eagles must have sent messages further afield,” he cried. “There’s no need to be alarmed. That ship is clearly from Ulthuan—look at its colours.”
The navigator squinted at the distant banners. It was hard to see clearly through the spray, but he thought he could just about make out the design: a white sea hawk on a blue field. “Aye,” he cried back. “I had no concerns as to their fealty. I’ve just never seen a ship move like that.”
The captain nodded and looked back at the navigator with a glint in his steel grey eyes. “Can you feel it, Meniath?” he asked, with a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
The navigator frowned. Then he wiped his sodden hair from his face and smiled back. “Yes, captain. I feel it. Something’s in the air.”
The captain gripped him by the shoulder. “We’re on the edge of history,” he cried. “I’ve felt the gods watching over us ever since Prince Stormrider ordered us to set course for this island. Whether for good, or ill, I do not know, but this day will be inscribed in the annals of our people. I’m sure of it.” He looked back at the fast-approaching ship. “Something momentous is about to happen.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We cannot win,” breathed Caladris as they dashed through the temple gates.
The elves congregated in the courtyard that surrounded the inner sanctum and looked at each other in shock. None of them had expected this. They were the heirs of Aenarion. How had they found themselves fleeing from such verminous rabble? Dozens of them carried wounds but it was the sting of defeat that twisted their faces with such anguish. There were nearly a hundred sea guard still standing but the collapse of the wall had shocked them all deeply and they peered back through the falling dust in confusion. They were flanked by almost as many of Eltheus’ riders, but they too looked unsure what to do next. There was no chance of a cavalry charge on such a narrow, uneven strip of rock and they had been forced to leave their horses in the stables and fight on foot.
Captain Althin strode across the uneven flagstones to Caladris’ side. His face was white with pain and the sea drake on his shield had vanished behind a spray of blood. “Can’t you help them?” he asked, gesturing back along the isthmus to the embattled swordmasters. His voice trembled with an unusual note of passion. “They can’t hold back those creatures indefinitely. Surely all your wisdom and scholarship can be of some use?”
The mage shook his head and frowned, but gave no reply. He was clearly lost in thought and barely seemed to register Althin’s words.
“Will you do nothing, then?” Althin snapped, grabbing Caladris’ robes. “Are you afraid?”
Caladris snatched back his robes and glared at the captain. “No, soldier,” he snapped. “Not afraid; just endowed with a little reason.”
“How dare you,” growled the captain, striding forwards with a rattle of armour. “You scholars are always so quick to denounce the rest of us as fools.” He flexed his sword hand, obviously itching to fill it. “I have put up with…” His words trailed off as he remembered himself. He looked around at the shocked faces of his soldiers and shook his head. “Forgive me, mage,” he said, stepping back with a stiff bow.
Colour rushed into Caladris’ cheeks and he glared down his aquiline nose at the captain, but when he replied, it was in carefully controlled tones. “If I go out there now I will be certainly be able to aid Bladelord Kalaer. Maybe even for several minutes. Then, when the creatures realise my power, their warpfire will tear me apart and, after butchering you and the others, they will stroll unhindered into the temple.” He pointed at the convoluted pile of spires and buttresses crouched behind them. “Do you,” he hissed, “have any idea of what that would mean?”
“Then what?” growled the captain, straining to lower his own voice to the same level as the mage’s. “We just wait here and watch Kalaer die?”
“I must speak with the prince,” muttered the mage, seeming to forget all about the captain. His eyes widened as his thoughts reached a terrible conclusion. “There’s only one hope now.”
Caladris dashed back towards the crooked arch that led into the courtyard and looked out along the bridge of rock. The dust from the ruined wall was starting to settle and he could clearly see the swordmasters’ blades flashing in the moonlight. “My prince,” he whispered, lifting his sentience up above t
he battle and into the clouds.
He gasped in horror as he looked out from behind Prince Stormrider’s eyes. From his lofty vantage point, the prince was surveying the full weight of the army rushing towards them. Countless thousands of the hunchbacked wretches were boiling and scampering across the island towards Kalaer’s narrow, silver line of defence. It was not just the numbers of skaven that made Caladris gasp, however—it was the awful invention of their war machines. Huge, wooden wheels trundled over the foothills, powered by glowing rocks of warpstone and the frantic energy of thousands of rats; massive, motorised iron spheres hurtled down crevasses, laden with terrifying arrays of whirring blades; teetering, rune-inscribed pulpits lurched from the forests, swinging smoke-billowing censers, and countless other arcane machines approached from every direction, flashing through the dark like baleful, rattling spirits.
“What hope do we have?” thought the prince, sensing the mage’s presence in his mind. “There are so many of them.”
“What of the rest of the fleet?” replied Caladris.
Prince Stormrider steered his mount up through the clouds and pointed his lance at the beaches to the west of them.
Caladris gasped in delight as he saw a group of tall ships approaching the jagged coastline. “They’re here!” he thought. “Then surely we’re saved.”
“Not quite,” thought the prince, pointing his lance a little further inland at another huge column of skaven rushing to join the main force. This new army was almost as big as the initial one and was placed directly in the way of the elven reinforcements. At their head was another ruinous war engine: a huge, wheeled scaffold, from the top of which dangled an enormous bronze bell.
Caladris’ heart sank. Three grey-robed figures were huddled beneath the bell and he felt their malignant power as clearly as he felt the wind on the prince’s face. “They have great sorcery at their command,” he thought. “And that bell—there’s something terrible about its manufacture. It was forged in agony and death.” He shivered. “I fear it more than anything else here, my prince.”
“Then I must stop it!” cried Stormrider, raising his lance and steering Sharpclaw down towards the lumbering engine.
“No! Wait!” thought the mage. “There’s only one way we can stop such a multitude.”
The prince reined in his mount and allowed it to hover for a moment, steadying himself as the sickly breeze buffeted them. “Speak your mind quickly, Caladris.” He gestured back at the tiny group of swordmasters holding the bridge against such impossible odds. “We have very little time.”
“Remember what I told you about the Phoenix Stone?”
“I remember you told me that it had no use as a weapon, yes.”
“That’s true. As a thing unto itself, it’s useless; but think of what it holds back.”
The prince shook his head. “What are you suggesting? You told me that the amulet safeguards a weak link in the vortex. Are you saying that we unleash the daemonic hordes? Our ancestors died to hold back those forces.” He rose up in his saddle and cried out to the wind. “Have you lost your senses, Caladris? That’s just what we came here to prevent!”
Way down at the temple gates, Caladris grimaced at the prince’s words. “I beg you to understand me, lord. I’ve not lost hold of my reason. My plan is not to remove the amulet, but to join my mind with it and channel the powers it holds in place. If I can tap into such a well, even for just a fraction of a second, I would have more power at my command than you could imagine. I could lay this entire horde to waste.”
The prince groaned with despair. “It’s madness, Caladris. Can’t you see? Your mind would be torn apart.”
“It’s our only hope, prince. But Kalaer would need to hold the skaven back long enough for me to complete the necessary wards. That’s why you must leave the bell and fly to the bridge instead. With you by his side, I’m sure that Kalaer could hold them back for long enough.”
The prince looked down again at the huge column of skaven reinforcements and saw that there was no hope other than the slender chance that Caladris was offering. He groaned again and slammed his lance against his golden armour with a clang. “Can you really do such a thing?”
“You have my promise,” thought Caladris as he opened his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bladelord Kalaer died with a howl of disbelief.
As the grunting rat ogre tore his body in two, the blade-master’s greatsword stayed locked in his grip, as though he were unable to accept that he had fallen to such an unworthy foe. The creature held Kalaer’s broken torso at arm’s length, spraying blood across the other elves as it lifted the corpse over their heads. Then it hurled the elf from the bridge, sending him tumbling down towards the distant waves below.
The remaining swordmasters continued to fight with the same silent determination as before, but as Kalaer fell to his death, they realised they would be soon to follow. The narrow strip of rock had prevented the skaven army from throwing its full weight against them, but even so, their muscles were screaming with exhaustion. For every skaven they hacked down, another scrambled to replace it. They had already killed countless hundreds of the things, but they knew it was hopeless. All that was left for them to do now was to die with as much dignity as possible.
The rat ogre that had slain Kalaer strode towards the other swordmasters, sending dozens of skaven plummeting to their deaths as it lumbered towards the elves. It drew back the mangled piece of iron it was using for a club and tried to swing it down towards its foes, but the crush of bodies around its feet was so great that the monster stumbled forwards with a grunt.
Several of the elves danced gracefully along the edge of the piece of metal and plunged their blades deep into the monster’s crudely sewn chest. Then they shoved it from the bridge, consigning it to the same abyss that had just swallowed Kalaer.
As the rat ogre tumbled from view, Stormrider’s griffon banked down from the heavens once more. As his mount glided over the heads of the struggling combatants, the prince leapt down amongst the struggling elves. “You cannot die yet,” announced the prince calmly as he ran towards the elves. “This bridge must hold.”
The golden, winged helmet of the prince acted like a beacon to the remaining elves and as he pressed forwards, they surrounded him with a dazzling shield of whirling swords. They were not so deluded as to believe they could defeat the entire army, but with the proud, gleaming prince leading them, they felt all the ancient glory of their race swelling their chests and strengthening their sword arms. Death was certain, but so was their place in history.
The prince held his sword aloft and howled victoriously as dozens of the skaven suddenly fell to the ground with white-flecked arrows embedded deep in their narrow chests. He whirled around to see Althin and his sea guard, crouched behind the swordmasters and loosing arrows over their heads. Beside them stood Eltheus and his riders, horseless but hurling their spears across the bridge with grim determination. He yelled back at them. “Fill the sea with their stinking hides. I forbid any of you to die until we’ve cleansed the world of this filth.” As he hacked and slashed at the arrow-infested shapes, the prince called back over his shoulder. “Captain Althin, have you seen Caladris?”
“He had no stomach for the fight,” cried the captain, firing another arrow. “The last I saw of him, he was heading back into the temple.”
The prince nodded. “That boy is braver than you imagine, Althin,” he muttered under his breath. “Braver than any of us.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As Caladris dashed through the empty chambers of the temple, his pulse began to race with fear. “Where would it be?” he muttered, shoving aside drapes and peering down the winding, gloomy corridors. During his long years of study in the White Tower, he had always been fascinated by the legend of the Ulthane. Their forgotten, selfless act spoke to him across the centuries. To die so far from home, and then bind their souls to the very rock, offering themselves as eternal guardians… It humbl
ed him to think of their bravery. But, despite poring over countless texts on the subject, he could not for the life of him remember where exactly the Phoenix Stone was located. His instinct told him to make for the heart of the temple. The elves had positioned their barracks and stables around the outer edges of the building and Caladris imagined that they would like to sleep as far as possible from the ancient rift. As he ran, several barred doors blocked his way, but Caladris barely paused as he blasted them aside with a muttered word and a flick of his wrist, leaving smouldering planks of wood and glowing shards of metal in his wake.
He reached the top of a narrow stairway that led down into the bowels of the rock. The walls here were even more twisted and asymmetrical than the rest of the building and he sensed a current of dark power oozing from the stones. His doubt left him. The amulet lay at the bottom of the stairs, he was sure of it. As he climbed carefully down the uneven steps, he allowed a soft yellow light to shine through his staff. It glimmered off the moist stones and threw long shadows into the cracks, creating the illusion of bloated, elongated mouths leering across the walls.
At the bottom of the stairs he reached another locked door. As before, he muttered a quick spell and stepped forwards. This time, however, his words simply echoed in the shadows. He frowned and closed his eyes, probing the door with his mind. “I’m on the right track,” he muttered, as he sensed a complicated set of magical wards tracing through the grain of the wood. A few short years ago, such ancient sorcery would have baffled him, but Caladris’ powers had recently surpassed even that of the loremasters who taught him. With a nod of approval, he spread his hands over the gnarled wood and sang a faint, mournful tune. The thick, iron locks slid back with a satisfying clunk and he shoved the door open.
The next corridor was even more roughly hewn than the rest of the temple. The elves had made no attempt to disguise the ugliness of this part of the building and as he tasted the heavy, damp air, Caladris had a suspicion that he was the first person to breathe it for centuries. The island’s usual muggy temperature was replaced down here by an even more stifling heat and the mage found himself gasping for breath as he hurried onwards. It was not just the air quality that made him gasp. As Caladris stumbled along the corridor, the rock began to play tricks on him, seeming to lunge and feint as his light washed over it. He clutched his staff a little tighter as a chorus of unintelligible voices began to mutter at the back of his thoughts. Although he could not distinguish the words, the menacing tone made his skin crawl. It felt like a thousand daemons were oozing from the rock, rushing up through his pounding feet and sinking their malice into his feverish brain.
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