As the passageway progressed, it degenerated into a broad expanse of loose rocks that seemed to be an underground hill of some kind. Caladris allowed more light to pour from his staff and saw that he was in a vast natural cavern and that the undulating incline stretched far away into the distance. It seemed that the whole building was built on top of a wide subterranean peak. There was a clear path leading to the pinnacle; a trail of gleaming white bones led up to a shallow crater at the top of the slope. As Caladris clambered past the remains, he considered what terrible forces could have led to the deaths of these poor souls. He could not dwell on the morbid subject for long; the voices in his head were growing to such a volume that he feared his mind would soon collapse beneath the torrent of jumbled curses.
As Caladris reached the crater he hesitated and considered the terrible power of the artefact he was about to behold. Then, remembering Kalaer and the prince, he steeled himself and stepped forwards, peering into the shallow stone crucible.
It was empty.
Caladris cried out in alarm. “I’ve come to the wrong place,” he gasped, placing his hand over the crater and filling it with light. As his fingers moved over the rock, the light flashed on a smooth surface which dazzled him briefly with its brilliance. He stooped closer and peered into the hole. Almost indistinguishable from the black stone that cradled it was a small obsidian amulet. If the light hadn’t glanced across it in such a way, the thing would have been invisible to the naked eye. Caladris held his breath and reached out to touch the small, unassuming-looking thing.
As the mage’s fingertips brushed against the amulet a powerful nausea wracked his body. He collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain and vomited violently into the darkness. “By the Gods,” he groaned as a shocking pain knifed though him. For several minutes he could do nothing but cry out in fear as his body juddered and twisted into a foetal curl.
Once the fit had passed, Caladris wiped the vomit from his mouth and sat up. His head felt sickeningly light and every muscle in his body ached, but he knew he had to move. The voices in his head were now a screaming cacophony of snarls and screeches. He somehow managed to find the strength to climb weakly to his feet and as he leant against the pinnacle of rock he looked with newfound respect at the Phoenix Stone. “I must try,” he groaned and edged closer. This time, he reached out with his mind instead, searching the surface of the amulet with his thoughts and easing himself into the fabric of the rock. The nausea washed over him again, but this time he clung fiercely onto the edge of the crater and managed to stay on his feet.
He shook his head at the enormity of the task. Even by just letting his thoughts glance over the stone, he could immediately sense the huge weight of hatred bearing down on it. It felt as though all the evil in the cosmos was straining against this one, tiny amulet. He realised with disgust that the voices screaming in his head were the daemonic beings held back by the Phoenix Stone. They were clawing at his mind and demanding with every ounce of their will that he unshackle them. He tried to block them from his thoughts and delved a little deeper into the amulet. Then he rocked back on his heels and retched again. It was impossible. The loathing that flooded his mind was overwhelming. “I can’t,” he groaned, dropping to his knees and letting his head fall against the rock. “It’s too much.”
As Caladris realised the full consequences of his failure, tears began to roll down his face. He thought of Kalaer and the prince, sacrificing themselves at his request. The prince had put all his faith in him and now he had failed. He slumped forwards and allowed the light to fade away, hiding his shame beneath a deep shroud of darkness.
Caladris was so wracked with guilt, that for a few seconds he failed to notice the sounds emerging from the shadows. Then he stiffened and held his breath. Someone was approaching. He heard several pairs of feet moving up through the darkness towards him.
He grabbed his staff and whirled around, flooding the chamber with light.
“By Asuryan,” he gasped as he saw the nightmarish shapes that were clambering up the rocks. The ancient bones he had passed had somehow reassembled themselves and were lurching awkwardly towards him, like a group of dusty, rattling marionettes. As the light of his staff flashed over the bleached, gleaming bones it was reflected in fierce flames that burned in their eye sockets.
“Stay back!” he cried, jabbing his staff towards the horrors.
To his amazement, the skeletons clattered to a halt. Then one of them stepped forwards and held out a crumbling three-fingered hand.
Realisation washed over Caladris. Ancient remnants of elven armour still hung from their torsos, and rusted circlets rested on their shattered brows.
“You’re the Ulthane,” he whispered, lowering his staff.
The skeletons gave no reply.
Certainty gripped Caladris. As the storm of hatred and corruption battered at the edge of his mind, he felt the purity of the Ulthane’s souls shining out like a beacon. He lowered his staff and held out his hand.
The strange figures continued to clatter towards him. As Caladris’ eyes widened with awe, they formed a circle around him and placed their gnarled, ivory digits on his trembling shoulders.
Visions flooded the mage’s mind. He saw the Ulthane as they once were: proud, beautiful and doomed, fighting back unimaginable foes and pouring their souls into the obsidian amulet. With their memories came incredible power. Caladris felt it racing through his veins and flooding his heart with unbelievable vitality. Light poured out of him with such ferocity that he became incandescent with power, burning like a sun as he turned back to the crater.
With the souls of the Ulthane reaching through him, he grasped the Phoenix Stone firmly in both hands and poured himself into it. He fell like a comet through the writhing, screaming shadows that surrounded him and allowed himself to become one with the powerful tides of magic that surrounded them. As his thoughts entwined themselves with the impossible rush of energy, Caladris began to laugh with relief and ecstasy. Finally he had the strength to hold back the cries of the daemons and begin the complicated set of incantations that would bind him to the stone.
Time became abstract as he quickly muttered his spell and drew burning shapes in the stale air. Only seconds had passed, but he felt as though Ulthane had been with him for centuries, lending him all their wisdom and strength so that their ancient vows would not be undone.
As the spell neared its completion, something tugged at the edges of Caladris’ mind, something metallic and harsh that rippled through the dazzling runes he had drawn. He tried to ignore it, desperate to complete the ritual now that he was so close, but the disturbance grew in magnitude, scattering his thoughts and causing him to cry out in frustration. He reluctantly pulled himself back from the swirling abyss and turned his focus on the jarring intrusion. It was a bell. Tolling like the end of the world. Doom, it cried, shattering his spells with its rolling, ominous tones. As the sound pounded against Caladris’ mind, he clutched at his temples, forgetting his purpose and dropping to the ground with an agonised scream.
The mage’s staff clattered away across the stones and the chamber was flooded with darkness once more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Morvane winced at the sight of his master’s suffering. The mage’s twisted body was trembling with pain as he rose up from the white marble floor and his hands were clasped firmly down over his ears.
“Can I help?” thought Morvane, reaching out towards the frail figure with his mind.
The mage did not answer as he looked out once more at the clear, Sapherian skies, but seemed to speak to someone else instead. “Brother,” he muttered, letting his voice carry across the sea breeze. “They have so little time. You must silence the bell.” The ancient mage nodded in answer to a silent reply. “I understand, but you must abandon them to their fate. The sacrifice is unavoidable. Only the white heat of Sunfang could silence such music.”
At the mention of Sunfang, Morvane let out a gasp of shock. He rose to his
feet just in time to catch his master as he toppled back from the window.
“I sent him too late,” groaned the mage, freeing himself from his acolyte’s grip. “The bridge will fall before my brother can reach them.” He shook his head as he looked around the bright, sunlit chamber, as though seeing it for the first time. “What have I done?” he whispered. “What have I done?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Crush-kill!” screamed Warlord Verminkin, levelling his halberd at the few remaining elves. The tolling of the great bell had driven his army to new levels of frenzied bloodlust, but it filled him with dread. Such powerful magic was only wielded by grey seers and he could not allow them to reach the stone before he did. “Slash-hack!” he howled, clambering up on the backs of his stormvermin and kicking furiously at their crested helmets. He shook his head in disbelief. The elf-thing in the golden armour was holding back the entire army almost single-handed. A few wounded soldiers were standing with him, their backs pressed to his as their long, two-handed swords flashed back and forth; a few feet further along the narrow bridge of rock, there were a couple more, firing their remaining arrows into the advancing horde. “Kill them,” he roared, punching the metal of his own helmet in frustration, unable to believe that such a tiny group were in danger of mining his carefully laid plans.
He looked back at the horde trying to cram onto the narrow bridge. None of the faces rushing towards him seemed familiar. Then, to his absolute horror, he saw the scab-encrusted snout of his treacherous chieftain, Spinetail. “Traitor!” he screamed, pointing back at the advancing skaven. He kicked out at his stormvermin again, but this time he turned them back towards Spinetail. “Stop him!” he cried, shoving his guards back away from the elves. “Kill the traitor!”
The sound of the awful bell pealed out again as the frenzied skaven turned on each other. Verminkin and Spinetail hurled orders at their clanrats, but the whole scene quickly degenerated into complete chaos. As the air reverberated with the sound of the unholy bell, the skaven army tore into itself in an orgy of slashing claws and flashing teeth.
“Ratchitt!” cried Warlord Verminkin, trying to heave his bulk out of the toiling mass of swords and fangs. “Kill him!” he screamed, spying the engineer crouched on a rock at the side of the bridge. “Use your pistol, you worm-runt!”
The engineer nodded eagerly in reply and drew the strange, long-barrelled gun from his robes, lifting it up with obvious excitement.
Verminkin turned back towards Spinetail and grinned triumphantly. “Die, you filthy traitor! I’ve been waiting for—”
His words became a confused mumble as blood suddenly filled his mouth. He looked back at Ratchitt in confusion and saw the engineer was not pointing his gun back along the bridge, but at him. The sound of its blast had been lost beneath the tolling of the approaching bell, but as Verminkin looked down at his chest he saw a blackened, fist-sized hole in his breastplate.
“Ratchitt,” he gurgled, before tumbling back off the bridge and spinning away towards the waves and rocks below.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“We must reach the temple,” cried Captain Ulthrain as he dragged his sword from another screeching skaven. The elven reinforcements had barely made it down onto the beach and they were already mired in the bewildering, fluid mass of the skaven army. The ships’ gangplanks had poured a host of proud warriors onto the island’s unforgiving rock: archers, spearmen, silver-helmed nobles and riders from the Ellyrian plains had all rushed down onto the beach, eager to join the fray. Even by moonlight, they could see the beleaguered temple. The peninsula was less than half a mile along the coast from where they had landed and the structure looked close enough to touch, but as the dread tones of the bell rippled through the frantic vermin, the elves found it impossible to advance. Captain Ulthrain realised with horror that if he didn’t do something, they might all be butchered within sight of their own ships.
“Captain,” gasped a soldier fighting next to him. “Look.”
Ulthrain looked back out to sea and cried out with delight.
The strange ship that had been following them had reached the shore. Before its ivory prow had even scraped the shingle, a barded, snorting warhorse leapt into the waves and galloped up onto the beach. Its grim-faced rider was clad in gleaming blue and gold armour and carrying a four-foot long sword that blazed with white hot runes. He wore a dragon-crested helmet with tall ivory wings and a crimson gem mounted above the nose guard. As the knight charged past them towards the skaven, the elves began to mutter a name; it rushed through their ranks almost as fast as the knight himself, swelling in volume and certainty until it became a deafening chant that even rivalled the tolling of the bell. The knight moved so fast that it was hard to make out his face, but his regal posture and beautifully crafted armour were unmistakable.
Ulthrain shook his head in wonder and laughed as he joined his fellow soldiers in their rousing chant. “Tyrion!” he cried, as the figure stormed towards him. “Tyrion!” He cried, repeating the name again and again until the syllables burned in his throat and pounded in his heart.
The knight did not pause to acknowledge the tribute as he sped on, smashing into the frenzied skaven as calmly as if he were still riding through waves. He was moving so fast that by the time the skaven had registered his arrival, he had already carved his way through several ranks of them and reached the side of the struggling captain.
Ulthrain looked up from his sword to see a dazzling vision of elven nobility by his side. Awe gripped him and for a few seconds he could do nothing but stare at the majestic figure. As the other elves surged forwards with renewed fury, Ulthrain tried to regain his composure. He clanged his shield in salute and tried to bow as he fought. “Prince Tyrion?” he gasped, doubting the words even as he spoke them.
The knight looked down at him from his beautiful steed and nodded in reply.
Ulthrain flinched from Tyrion’s gaze. The prince’s eyes burned into him with such terrifying bloodlust that for a moment the captain thought the prince was about to execute him. Then Tyrion turned back towards the skaven and tore into them with a brutal series of sword strikes.
“You will not be able to reach them,” said Tyrion as he dragged a skaven up by the scalp and rammed his sword through its throat. His voice was low and thick with hatred and Ulthrain was unsure if he had heard correctly.
He looked around and saw that his soldiers were now forcing back the skaven in their eagerness to reach Tyrion. Alongside the ranks of gleaming spears and fluttering banners, he saw columns of golden chariots and dazzling squadrons of armoured knights, filling the beaches with light and movement as far as the eye could see. He gasped at the beauty of it. It seemed for a moment as though the sea had spawned an army to rival the hosts of the very first Phoenix Kings. “Lead us, my lord,” he cried, trembling with emotion. “With you by my side we will—”
“I cannot,” said Tyrion simply.
Before the captain had chance to reply, Tyrion drove his horse on into the skaven, letting out an incoherent roar as he charged straight for the heart of the enemy forces.
“Wait!” cried Captain Ulthrain, trying to steer his own mount after the quickly vanishing rider; but it was no use. However hard he fought, the captain could not follow, and with Tyrion gone the elves soon found themselves being once more driven back towards the sea. “My Lord!” cried Ulthrain, hacking wildly at a forest of serrated blades and drooling snouts. The bell tolled again, even louder than before and he groaned in agony, clamping his hands down over his ears. “Tyrion! Don’t desert us!”
Tyrion was deaf to the entreaties of his countrymen, flashing and turning as he slipped silently through the murky ranks. His speed was so great that many of the creatures barely had time to notice his passing, but his movements did not go completely unobserved. His destination was clear: the lumbering, wheeled altar that housed the bell, and the three grey-robed figures perched on its wooden frame. As Tyrion’s warhorse thundered across the black ro
cks towards them, the grey seers screamed furiously at the skaven nearest to them, shoving them towards the elf with their staffs.
Tyrion’s horse leapt clean over the heads of the cringing guards and its hooves clattered onto the wooden boards that surrounded the bell.
This close, the ringing was deafening, but Tyrion paid it no heed as he levelled his sword at the hooded skaven.
The grey seers backed away and simultaneously raised their staffs, sending a crackling stream of green lightning hurtling towards the elf.
Tyrion raised his sword flat in front of his face, as though paying homage to the cringing seers. The runes that ran along the blade flashed even brighter as the warpfire slammed into it and refracted, lancing out across the battlefield in a lethal fan of emerald light. All around the scaffolding, skaven erupted into flames and toppled to the ground, surrounding the tower with a thirty-foot circle of scorched flesh. The screams of the dying were so loud that they could even be heard over the ominous tolling of the bell.
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