01 - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  The navigator plunged his blades into the chest of a druchii warrior and kicked another into the sea, spinning on his heel and opening the belly of a third.

  “For a time,” he said, as a pair of iron bolts smacked into the deck beside him.

  Finlain nodded and limped away from the desperate fight, shouting, “Axes! Bring up axes, we need to cut ourselves free!”

  Fire erupted from nearby and his heart sank as he saw Glory of Eataine break apart and sink beneath the waves along with her crew.

  Finlain vowed that such would not be their fate…

  “My lady,” said the warrior in the tall helm who carried a long, leaf-bladed spear. “It is getting late and we should be heading back to the villa.”

  Kyrielle Greenkin smiled as she heard the note of exasperation in the warrior’s voice and put on her best pouting expression of innocence. Her auburn hair was woven in long plaits, held tight to her skull by silver cord that framed a beautiful face with shimmering jade eyes and a full-lipped mouth that could charm even the hardest heart.

  A simple warrior had no chance.

  “Not yet, silly,” she said, and there was beguiling magic in her voice. “It is in the gloaming that some of the most wondrous plants flower. You wouldn’t want me to return without something wondrous to present to my father, would you?”

  The warrior glanced helplessly at his comrade, pinned like a butterfly by her captivating gaze and knowing he could not deny her, even had he desired to.

  “No, my lady,” he said, defeated.

  It was unfair of her to use magic on the guards her father had provided her with, but she had not lied when she spoke of the beauty of the night blooming flowers; the pearl-leafed Torrelain, the singing blooms of the magical Anurion (named for her father and its creator) and the beautifully aromatic Moon Rose.

  She picked her way down the cliff top path that led to the beach, one guard before her and another behind as they made their way down to the shore. Kyrielle went barefoot, her keen eyes easily picking out sharp rocks and thorny brush before they could injure her.

  Her long dress was fashioned from green silk and clung seductively to her slender form, its fabric woven with looping anthemion patterns. In one hand she carried a delicate reticule of tightly woven cloth and in the other a small knife with a silver blade—for night blooms should only ever be pruned with a silver blade.

  The scent of the night filled her senses and she could smell the perfumes of the local flora as well as the powerful fragrances dragged from the depths of the ocean and borne upon the air. When the shifting isles on the eastern coast of Ulthuan renewed themselves, the darkness of the deep sea was disturbed and all manner of strange plant life was washed ashore as well as unknown aromas that scented the night air—the chief reason her father had sited one of his terraced garden-villas on this largely deserted peninsula of rock on the coast of Yvresse.

  The pale crescent of the rising moon bathed the beach in ghostly radiance and turned the white cliffs into softly glowing walls of light as the surf crashed against them further out to sea and the waves rolled up the sand with soft sighs.

  She loved this time of night, often seeking the peace and tranquillity that the sound of the waves brought her. To be out on a night like this, with the evening blooms spreading their petals and the light of the moon caressing her skin was heaven for Kyrielle, a time where she could forget the troubles of the world around her and simply enjoy its beauty.

  “Isn’t this magical?” she asked as she danced onto the beach, pirouetting beneath the moon like one of the naked dancers at the court of the Everqueen. Neither of the guards answered her, both aware when her questions were rhetorical. She laughed and ran down the beach along the line of the cliffs with long, graceful strides. Even this high on the beach, the sand was wet beneath her feet and she knew that the shifting isles must have undergone a violent transformation indeed to stir the oceans this strongly.

  She stopped beside a particularly vivid Moon Rose, its petals slowly uncurling to reveal its romantically dark interior. The dusky scent of the plant sent a shiver of pleasure through her and she reached down to snip one of the pollen-producing anther before placing it in her reticule.

  The soft clink of armour announced the arrival of her bodyguards, their armour slowing their pace and she laughed as she imagined their consternation as she had run down the beach and left them in her wake. She moved on, taking cuttings from a dozen different plants before she stiffened as she caught the bitter scent of something else, something that didn’t belong.

  “Can you smell that?” she asked, turning to her guards.

  “Smell what, my lady?” replied the guard she had bewitched on the way down to the shore.

  “Blood,” she said.

  “Blood? Are you sure that’s what you smell, my lady? Might it not be some kind of flower?”

  She shook her head. “No, silly. You’re right that there are some plants that carry the scent of blood, but none that are native to Ulthuan. The druchii ferment a brew called blood wine and the vine the grapes come from is said to smell like congealed blood, but that’s not what this is.”

  At the mention of the druchii, both guards moved to stand beside her, their movements tense and martial as Kyrielle sampled the air once more and said, “Yes, very definitely blood.”

  Without waiting for her guards to follow her, she set off towards the shoreline where the waves tumbled to the sand in cursive lines of foam. She skipped lightly across the sand, leaving almost no marks where she trod as she followed the scent of blood across the beach.

  Kyrielle halted as she saw the figure at the water’s edge, lying spread-eagled on his back and looking for all the world like a corpse.

  “There!” she said, pointing towards the body. “I told you I could smell blood.”

  Before she could set off once more, the nearest guard said, “Wait here, my lady. Please.”

  Reluctantly she acceded to the warrior’s request; after all, there was a chance that this person might still be dangerous. Nevertheless, she followed behind the two guards as they cautiously advanced towards the body. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a young and handsome elf dressed in a torn tunic of the Lothern Sea Guard. Even from behind her guards, she could see the slight rise and fall of his chest.

  “He’s alive,” she said, stepping towards him.

  “Don’t, my lady,” said one guard as the other knelt beside the figure and checked him for weapons. She watched as he removed the figure’s cracked leather belt, upon which hung a knife sheathed in a metal scabbard of black and gold, and passed it back to his comrade.

  “He’s alive all right.”

  “Well, I told you that already,” said Kyrielle, pushing past the guard now holding the knife belt to kneel beside the unconscious elf. His hands were torn open and there was a nasty gash on his forehead, but he was breathing and that was something. His lips were moving as though he muttered to himself and she lowered her head to better hear what he was saying.

  “Be careful, my lady!” said her guard.

  She ignored his warning and held her ear to the young elf’s mouth as he continued to whisper faintly.

  “…must… told… I need… tell… Teclis. Needs to know… Teclis!”

  “Please, my lady!” said her guard, “We don’t know who he is.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Kyrielle, lifting her head from the unconscious figure’s fevered ramblings. “He’s clearly one of our people, isn’t he? Look!”

  “We don’t know anything about him. Who knows where he came from?”

  Kyrielle sighed. “Honestly! Look at his tunic. Whoever he is, he’s clearly come from Lothern. Obviously his ship sank and he was able to swim ashore.”

  “I’ve never heard of any Lothern ships falling foul of the Shifting Isles,” said one guard. “Certainly not one of Lord Aislin’s.”

  “Lord Aislin?” said Kyrielle. “How do you know he is one of Lord Aislin’s sailors?”
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  The guard pointed to the partially obscured eagle claw emblem on the figure’s tunic and said, “That’s Lord Aislin’s family symbol.”

  “Well that settles it then,” said Kyrielle. “It’s our duty to help him. Come on, lift him up and carry him back to the villa. My father will be able to help him.”

  Seeing no other choice, the guards knelt beside the supine figure, hooked his arms over their shoulders and lifted him between them.

  Kyrielle followed them as they carried him from the beach, smiling happily at this mystery that had washed up on her doorstep.

  Captain Finlain and three of his crew who had loosed all their arrows fought their way through the hail of iron bolts back towards the prow of Finubar’s Pride, each warrior bearing a long-hafted shore axe. Searing tongues of magical flame streaked the dark sky, but none came near Finlain’s ship, the arcing missiles all slamming into the hull of Asuryan’s Fire and punishing her terribly.

  A desperate exchange of arrows and crossbow bolts slashed back and forth between his ship and unseen enemies concealed high on the jagged, rocky battlements of the Black Ark, his warriors forced to conserve their arrows until their keen eyes spotted a definite kill shot. The druchii showed no such restraint and showered the deck of the Pride with deadly bolts at will, such that her deck and the roofs of her cabins resembled the hide of a porcupine.

  The sporadically lit darkness and swirling smoke from the burning wreckage of the Glory of Eataine that still floated hampered the druchii marksmen and Finlain used its cover to move towards the sound of shouting and clashing blades, where Meruval fought the corsairs trying to board his ship.

  Blood streamed from numerous cuts on Meruval’s arms and chest and Finlain wondered how he could still be fighting, such was the amount of red on his tunic. Meruval fought with speed and grace, his pale blades killing with every stroke. Finlain wanted to shout to him, but knew that to break his concentration would be fatal. Instead, he turned to the warriors who accompanied him and said, “That boarding ramp is embedded in the deck and gunwale, so you need to cut it free. Go, and no matter what happens, don’t stop until it’s done. Understood?”

  Their grim expressions was all the answer he needed and Finlain simply nodded and said, “Asuryan be with you.”

  The four of them rose from their cover and charged towards Meruval, Finlain lagging behind as the wound in his calf flared painfully. One of the axemen was immediately pierced through the top of the skull by a crossbow bolt and fell to the deck, but the others reached the side of the ship and swung their axes in great overhead sweeps. Finely crafted timber splintered under their blades and Finlain winced at the damage being done to his faithful vessel, even as he knew it was necessary to save her.

  Finlain swung his own blade at a corsair readying a killing blow against Meruval, but the blade slid across the warrior’s scale cloak without penetrating. The druchii spun to face him and slashed with a pair of wickedly curved daggers that dripped black venom. Finlain ducked under the first dagger and blocked the second, hammering his fist into the corsair’s jaw and pitching him from the ramp.

  “Withdraw!” shouted Finlain and Meruval stepped back from the fight as the captain of Finubar’s Pride took his place at the head of the ramp. More bolts thudded around him, but he paid them no mind as he raised his sword to meet a fresh wave of corsairs. Before they charged, he turned to Meruval and said, “When the ramp is cut free, get us out of here!”

  Meruval nodded, too breathless and exhausted to speak, and staggered back along the deck. Finlain returned his attention to the approaching corsairs and bellowed a cry of defiance as they came at him with their cruel eyes and deadly blades.

  He fought in a trance, his sword moving as though of its own accord as it opened throats and bellies with each graceful cut. He felt blades cut his own flesh, but he felt no pain as he killed his dark kin with relentless precision.

  Dimly he could hear their screams of pain and hatred, mingled with the solid chopping of axe blades, but everything felt muted, as though the battle were being fought underwater. A druchii blade seemed to float past his head as he turned it aside then brought the blade back in a decapitating sweep. From the corner of his eye, he saw a cloaked warrior thrusting with a long, dark-bladed sword, his green eyes bright with centuries of malice, and knew he would not be able to block the strike.

  Even as he realised that this was the blow that would kill him, the boarding ramp lurched as his axemen finally chopped it free of the deck. The druchii on the ramp staggered and the green-eyed swordsman slipped as the ground slid out from beneath him. Finlain plunged his bloody sword between the corsair’s ribs and kicked him from the ramp.

  “Captain!” cried one of the axemen. “We’re free!”

  Finlain took a backwards step and shouted, “Meruval! Now!”

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than Finubar’s Pride surged back from the Black Ark. With nothing to support it, the boarding ramp tipped a dozen druchii corsairs into the churning sea as it fell against the side of the cliff with a resounding clang of metal.

  Finlain lowered his sword and placed a steadying hand on the torn sides of his ship as a wave of pain and dizziness threatened to overcome him. More of his warriors rushed to help the ship into getting as much distance between them and the Black Ark as possible. He let out a deep breath and turned to the breathless axemen.

  “Well done,” he said, as the great, dark cliff began to recede, the Eagle ship’s superior speed and manoeuvrability getting her clear with great rapidity. “You saved the ship.”

  Both warriors bowed at the captain’s compliment as Meruval bellowed orders to get the sails raised.

  As the mist closed in around them, Finlain knew that they were by no means out of danger. He made his way along the length of the deck, offering words of praise and congratulations to his warriors until he reached Meruval, who sat slumped beside at the stern at the tiller.

  “The others?” said Meruval.

  “Lost. I saw Glory of Eataine sink and heard nothing but slaughter from Asuryan’s Fire. I fear that only we escaped, my friend.”

  “We’re not clear yet, captain,” said Meruval.

  “No,” agreed Finlain. “I know nothing of how quickly a Black Ark can get underway, but I do not plan on waiting to find out. Get us to Lothern by the swiftest route and then have those wounds seen to. We have to take word to Lord Aislin that a Black Ark sails the waters of Ulthuan.”

  “How in the name of Isha did a Black Ark get this far south?” said Meruval.

  “I don’t know,” said Finlain. “But there’s only one reason for it to be here.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Finlain gripped his sword tightly. “Invasion.”

  Ellyrion possessed some of the most beautiful countryside in Ulthuan, decided Yvraine Hawkblade as she crested a rise and looked over the wide expanse of golden plains and lush forests spread between the city of Tor Elyr and the great barrier of the Annulii Mountains. Birdsong entertained her, the sweet scent of summer was in the air—as it always was—and the midday sun warmed her pale skin.

  Herds of horses dotted the plains, and here and there she could make out Ellyrion riders amongst them, looking for all the world as though they were a part of them. Perhaps they were, thought Yvraine, knowing that the bond between Ellyrian nobles and their horses was more akin to that shared by old friends than that of rider and steed. Rightly it was said that it was better to harm the brother of an Ellyrian than his horse…

  She set off down a sloping path, her steps sure and measured, leaving no trace of her passing, though her head was still clouded after the journey from Saphery to Ellyrion, despite the best efforts of the shipmaster to make her journey across the inner sea as comfortable as possible. It felt good to have the sun on her face, the wind in her hair and solid ground beneath her feet. Yvraine disliked travelling by any means other than her own two feet, and though the ships of the elves rode smoothly across the seas,
she had found it next to impossible to meditate during the voyage, her every attempt thwarted by the conversations of the crew or the rocking swell of the ship.

  Yvraine brushed her long, cream robes and adjusted the ithilmar armour that lay beneath, the gleaming links and smooth plates contoured for her slender frame. Across her back was a huge sword, sheathed in a long scabbard of soft red velvet and fastened to her armour by a golden clasp at her breast.

  She stopped and shielded her eyes from the sun as she peered into the verdant countryside, seeing the far distant gleam of sunlight on the pale stone walls of a villa at the foot of a tumble of rocks. Mitherion Silverfawn had told her that the villa of his daughter’s husband nestled between two waterfalls and the sentinels at the gates of Tor Elyr had given her detailed directions on how to find the Éadaoin villa.

  Sure that the villa before her was the one she sought, Yvraine lifted the sword from her back, a great, two-handed blade of exquisite workmanship and uncanny grace, as she gracefully lowered herself into a cross-legged position. She would reach her destination in the morning and desired to sweep away the lethargy of the journey before then.

  And the best way to do that was to perform the cleansing ritual of the Sword Masters.

  Yvraine placed the huge sword across her lap and closed her eyes, letting the natural sounds of Ellyrion ease her into her meditative trance.

  Her breathing slowed and her senses spread out from her body as she slowly whispered the mantra of the Sword Masters of Hoeth as taught to her by Master Dioneth of the White Tower. Yvraine felt the softness of the grass beneath her, the warmth and fecundity of the earth below that and the raging currents of magic that pierced the very rock and kept the island of Ulthuan from vanishing beneath the waves.

  The air around her sparkled as the magic carried on the wind became attuned to her subtle vibrations and a soft glow built behind her eyelids. In one smooth motion she drew her sword and held the silver, leaf-shaped blade before her, its length enormous and its weight surely extraordinary, yet Yvraine wielded it as though it were as light as a willowy sapling.