01 - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  His eyes locked with those of Caelir and he felt the familiar guilt stir within, welcoming it like an old friend. He knew it was perverse to keep the portrait of his dead brother—and his wife’s former betrothed—hanging before him where he would be forced to see it every day, but ever since his “triumphant” return from the land of the druchii, he had forced himself to confront the reality of what had happened on Naggaroth.

  Every day it ate away at him, but he could no more deny himself the guilty torment than he could stop the beat of his heart.

  Eldain looked up as he heard Rhianna’s footfalls on the steps leading up to his chambers. Even had he not heard the conversation below, he would have recognised her tread. He forced a smile to his full lips as she came into view, holding a silver tray laden with sweet smelling morsels.

  He took a sharp intake of breath at her beauty, each time finding some aspect of her to savour anew. Her waist length hair spilled around her shoulders like a run of honey and her delicate oval features were sculpted more perfectly than any artist could hope to capture with the finest Tiranoc marble. Her long blue dress was threaded with silver loops and spirals and her soft eyes flickered with hints of magical gold.

  She was beautiful and her beauty was yet another punishment.

  “You should let Valeina do this,” he said as she set the tray down before him.

  “I like coming here,” said Rhianna with a smile, and he could hear the lie in her words.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said, moving towards the window and staring into the distance. “I like the view. You can practically see all the way to the forest of Avelorn.”

  Eldain tore his gaze from Rhianna and looked down at the tray of food she had brought and reluctantly lifted a piece of bread. He had no appetite and dropped it back onto the tray as Rhianna turned from the window and said, “Why don’t we go riding today, Eldain? There’s still plenty of light left in the day and it’s been too long since you rode Lotharin.”

  The mention of his faithful steed made Eldain smile and though the midnight black horse roamed the plains with the wild herds that ran free throughout the kingdom of Ellyrion, the merest thought would summon him back to Ellyr-Charoi at a gallop, such was the bond they shared.

  He shook his head and waved his hand at the scattered papers upon the desk. “I cannot. I have work to finish.”

  Rhianna’s face flushed and he could see her anger manifest itself in the soft glow that built behind her golden eyes. A daughter of Saphery, the power of magic coursed in her veins and Eldain could feel the actinic tang of it in the air.

  “Please, Eldain,” said Rhianna. “This is not healthy. You spend every day cooped up in this tower with nothing but books and papers and… Caelir for company. It is morbid.”

  “Morbid? It is morbid now to remember the dead?”

  “No, it is not morbid to mourn the dead, but to live life in their shadow is wrong.”

  “I live in no shadow,” said Eldain, lowering his head.

  “Do not lie to me, Eldain,” warned Rhianna. “I am your wife!”

  “And I am your husband!” he said, rising from behind the desk and sweeping the silver tray onto the floor. The plates clattered noisily and the crystal goblet shattered into a thousand fragments. “I am the master of this household and I have business to attend to that does not allow me time for frivolous pursuits.”

  “Frivolous pursuits… ? Is that what I am to you now?”

  He could see the tears gathering in her eyes and softened his tone. “No, of course not, that’s not what I meant, it’s just…”

  “Just what?” demanded Rhianna. “Don’t you remember how you lost me before? When the druchii almost killed me, it was Caelir that saved me because you were spending all your time locked up in this tower ‘attending to business’.”

  “Someone had to…” said Eldain. “My father was dying, poisoned by the druchii and who was there to look after him and keep Ellyr-Charoi safe? Caelir? I hardly think so.”

  Rhianna stepped towards him and he felt his resolve crumbling in the face of her words. “Caelir is dead, Eldain. But we are not and we still have lives to lead.”

  She lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk and said, “There is still a world beyond Ellyr-Charoi, Eldain, a living, breathing world that we ought to be part of. But we pay no visits to our fellow nobles, nor do we dine in the halls of the great and good or dance at the masquerades of Tor Elyr.”

  “Dance?” said Eldain. “What is there to dance about, Rhianna? We are a dying people and no dance or masquerade can conceal that. You would have me plaster on a fake smile and dance at our race’s funeral? The very thought sickens me to my stomach.”

  The vehemence of his words surprised even him, but Rhianna shook her head, moving close to him and taking his hands in hers. “Do you remember that you promised your brother you would take care of me?”

  “I remember,” said Eldain, picturing the handsome Caelir as he confessed the fear he had for his survival on Naggaroth as their ship had passed the Glittering Tower at the mouth of the Straits of Lothern.

  “Then take care of me, Eldain,” she said. “Others can help look after Ellyr-Charoi. Look out the window, Eldain, the world is still here and it is beautiful. Yes, the dark kin across the water prey upon us and yes, there are foul daemons that seek to destroy all that is good and wondrous, but if we live our lives in constant terror of such things then we might as well take a blade to our throats now.”

  “But there are things I must do, things that—”

  “They can wait,” said Rhianna, pulling his hands around her waist and drawing him close. The scent of summer orchards was in her hair and he took a breath of it, feeling his cares lighten even as he savoured the scent.

  Eldain smiled and relaxed into her embrace, feeling her hands slide up his back.

  He opened his eyes and stiffened as he looked into the eyes of his brother.

  You killed me…

  CHAPTER TWO

  New Blood

  A red glow lit the dusky horizon behind the three Eagle ships as they patrolled the south-western coastline of Ulthuan, their silver hulls like knife blades as they cut through the green waters. Captain Finlain of Finubar’s Pride watched the craggy peaks of the Dragonspine Mountains and the smoke-wreathed Vaul’s Anvil recede as his small flotilla made its way towards its evening berthing upon the sandy shores of Tiranoc.

  The thin strip of coastline of this rugged kingdom had once reached out beyond where his ships now sailed, but ancient malice and powerful magic had destroyed this once fair realm. Monstrous tides had swept over the plains of Tiranoc in ages past, sweeping thousands to their deaths and submerging its ripened fields and glorious cities forever beneath the waves. Only the mountains and the bleak haunches of land that huddled at their feet remained above the water now and Finlain knew navigating this close to the shore was always fraught with danger.

  “Sounding,” said Finlain, his voice muffled by the low mist that hugged the surface of the water and slithered over his vessel’s hull.

  “All’s well, captain,” came the reply from Meruval, the Pride’s navigator. Finlain glanced over to the prow of his ship, where the mage Daelis sat in a high backed chair of ivory coloured timber, his eyes closed as he probed the waters and mists ahead with his magical sight for any dangerous rocks that might pierce the hull.

  His crew were on edge and Finlain shared their unease. The red sky above Vaul’s Anvil bled into the clouds like a bloodstain and the air had a foulness to it that was more than simply the sulphurous reek of the volcano.

  “I’ll be glad when we reach the beach for the night,” said Meruval, moving from the gunwale to stand next to his captain.

  Finlain nodded, peering through the purple dusk towards the other vessels in his command. Glory of Eataine was riding a little low in the water and Asuryan’s Fire lagged behind, her captain keeping a little too much distance between his ship and her sister vessels.<
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  “Indeed,” said Finlain. “The sea has an ill-aspect to it this evening.”

  Meruval followed his captain’s gaze and nodded in agreement. “I know. I’ve had to steer us around rock formations I’ve never seen before. It’s worse than sailing east of Yvresse.”

  “Have you known this stretch of water to be this inconsistent before?”

  “Not in my memory,” said Meruval, “but in my grandfather’s time, he spoke of Tiranoc rising to the surface with great heaves that threw up bleak islands that sank almost as soon as they breached the surface.”

  “As though the land sought to return to the light.”

  “Something like that, yes. He said that when Vaul was angry, he would strike his anvil and the land around would heave with fire and earthquakes.”

  Finlain glanced over his shoulder at the smoking peak of Vaul’s Anvil and sent a quick prayer to the smith god that he would spare them such anger this night, since the light was fading fast and a brooding fog was rapidly closing in. Strange noises and flickering lights danced at the edge of perception, and though such things were not unheard of in the magical mists that obscured the isle of Ulthuan from predatory eyes, they were still unsettling.

  Only the keen hearing of his crew and the mage sight of Daelis would see them safely to the shoreline and the feeling that he could do nothing more was anathema to him.

  No sooner had he thought of the mage than his sonorous voice sounded from the prow.

  “Captain! Land ahead, we must slow our progress.”

  “Hold us here!” ordered Finlain, gripping the smooth timbers of the gunwale as the vessel came to a smooth halt.

  “Come on,” he said and set off towards the mage, not waiting to see if Meruval followed him or not. He marched down the length of the ship, passing sailors eager to be on dry land for the evening. The ship was allowing the current to carry her to the shore, the crew ready to make any adjustments necessary to keep them on course.

  “Almost at the beach,” he said as he passed the crew, radiating a confidence he did not yet feel. He climbed the curved steps to the elaborate eagle prow and the mage who guided them slowly through the mist.

  Daelis sat rigid on his chair, his cream and sapphire robes glittering with magical hoarfrost and a soft glow limning the edges of his eyes.

  Without looking up, the mage said, “We are close to land, captain. The shore is less than two boat lengths away.”

  The mage’s voice was distant, as though he spoke from within a great, echoing cave and Finlain could feel the ripple of magic work its way up his spine, a fleeting image of a dark, undersea world flickering behind his eyes.

  “Two boat lengths?” said Meruval. “Impossible. We haven’t sailed far enough to be that close to land. You are mistaken.”

  Daelis inclined his head towards the navigator, but did not open his eyes. “I am not.”

  “Captain,” said Meruval, indignant that his piloting skills were being called into question, “we cannot be that close. He must be wrong.”

  Finlain had sailed with both Daelis and Meruval for long enough to know that both were highly skilled at what they did and he trusted their judgment implicitly. However, in this case, one of them had to be wrong.

  “I’m telling you, captain,” said Meruval. “We can’t be that close to the shore.”

  “I believe you, my friend, but what if Daelis is correct also?”

  “I am correct,” said Daelis, lifting his arm and pointing into the mist. “Look.”

  Finlain followed the mage’s outstretched hand and narrowed his eyes as he sought to identify what he was being shown. Scraps of mist floated like gossamer thin cloth and at first he was inclined to agree with Meruval that the mage was mistaken, but as the wisps of fog parted for a moment, he caught sight of a towering wall of glistening black rock rearing up before his ship.

  Meruval saw it too and said, “Isha preserve me if he wasn’t right after all…”

  “You said it yourself, Meruval, the sea was unsettled this night.”

  “You have my humble apology, captain,” said his navigator. “As do you, Mage Daelis.”

  The mage smiled and Finlain shook his head as he inarched back to his crew and issued the orders that would see them sail along the cliff until they reached a bay with a beach large enough to land all three ships.

  “Guide us along the coast, Meruval,” said Finlain as a sudden whipcrack sound echoed behind him, followed by a trio of rapid thuds. He turned in surprise, seeing bright red runnels of blood streaming down the white back of the mage’s chair and the barbed points of three crossbow bolts of dark iron that had punched through his chest.

  Daelis gurgled in pain, pinned to his prow chair by the bolts, and it took a second for Captain Finlain to realise what had happened. He looked out into the mist, knowing now that Meruval had been right after all, they hadn’t been close to land, and that great black cliff was not part of Ulthuan at all… it was…

  The mists parted as a great crack of groaning rock echoed from the murky depths and the mighty cliff seemed to twist and rise from the ocean. Seawater poured from fanged portals and great idols of armoured warriors carved into the rock as they rose from the sea and a great beacon of flame bloomed high above him.

  “To arms!” shouted Finlain, as a flurry of dark crossbow bolts flashed through the air from somewhere high above him. Screams tore the air as many found homes in elven flesh and the stink of blood filled his senses. He staggered as a bolt tore across the side of his calf and embedded itself in the deck. He gritted his teeth against the pain, blood pooling in his boot, and looked up as a great flaming missile arced from the black cliff to engulf the Glory of Eataine. Her sail erupted in fire and flaming brands scattered all across her deck.

  Its deception unmasked by the attack, the tall cliff of sheer rock cast off its mantle of poisonous mist and Finlain was rooted to the spot in terror as he saw the monstrous, unbelievable size of their attacker.

  No mere ship was this, but a mountainous castle of incredible bulk set adrift on the sea and kept afloat by the most powerful enchantments. One of the dreaded Black Arks of the dark elves, this was a sinister floating fortress, tower upon tower and spire upon spire of living rock that had been sundered from the isle of Ulthuan over five thousand years ago.

  Crewed by an entire army of deadly corsairs and dismal home to thousands of slaves, the Black Arks were the most feared sea-going vessels in the world and dwarfed even the might of Finlain’s Eagle ships. Finlain had heard it said that the bulk they displayed above the surface of the water was but a fraction of their true size, with great vaulted caverns below the waterline that were home to terrible monsters, slaves and all manner of foul witchcraft.

  Even as he recognised the identity of their attackers, a brazen gate of rusted iron shrieked open in the side of the ark and a long boarding ramp crashed down over the gunwale, jagged spikes splintering the deck and wedging it fast into its prey.

  Finlain pushed himself to his feet and swept his sword from its sheath, a glittering silver steel blade forged by his father and enchanted by the archmages of Hoeth.

  Dark shapes gathered in the shadow of the gateway in the rock and a volley of white-shafted arrows slashed past Finlain’s head to fell them with lethal accuracy. Another volley followed within seconds of the first and this time it was their enemies that were screaming.

  He threw a glance over his shoulder to see that Meruval had formed several ranks of archers, their bone-white bows loosing arrow after arrow into the dark portal.

  In answer, a scything spray of crossbow bolts spat from the mouth of the ark and Finlain heard the screams of his warriors as they died in the fusillade. Elven archers were the best in the world, but even they could not compete with the rate of fire the infernal weapons of their enemies could manage.

  Keeping low, Finlain darted forwards as the deadly crossbow bolts thinned the defending elves long enough for the boarders to dash across the lowered ramp. Screa
ming druchii corsairs clad in dark robes and swathed in glittering cloaks formed from overlapping scales charged from the depths of the Ark, their twin swords gleaming red in the ruddy glow of Vaul’s Anvil.

  Finlain rose to meet them, his sword slashing through the first warrior’s neck and pitching him into the sea. He stabbed the next enemy warrior through the groin and desperately blocked a deadly riposte to his own neck. It had been many years since Finlain had fought the dark kin of his race, slender ivory-skinned elves with long hair the colour of night. Their faces were twisted in hatred and their movements as swift and deadly as his own.

  So like us… he thought sadly as he parried another blow and despatched his foe with a roll of his wrist that plunged the tip of his blade through the corsair’s eye and into his brain. Blue-fletched arrows flashed past his head and sent more druchii screaming into the sea, most passing less than a foot from Finlain’s head, but he feared no injury from his own warriors.

  Another blade joined his and he smiled in welcome to see Meruval, armed with his twin, moonlight-bladed swords leap into the fray. With the aid of his faithful navigator, he was finally able to take more stock of the battle and risked glances left and right to see how the other ships in his command fared.

  Glory of Eataine burned from stem to stern and Finlain knew she was lost. Asuryan’s Fire was invisible in the dark and mist, but he feared the worst as he heard the raucous victory chants of the druchii and the screams of the dying.

  Only Finubar’s Pride fought on and he knew they had to break the hold the Black Ark had on them if they were to stand any chance of survival. Finlain stepped back from the desperate fighting and shouted, “Meruval! Can you hold them?”