“What did you do to me?” he shouted, dropping to his knees. “Tell me!”
The shadow at the top of the hillock did not answer him or even acknowledge his presence, for it was merely an echo, a phantom of that bloody day when the fate of Ulthuan had been decided in blood and magic upon the Finuval Plain.
Caelir lay down on the glittering grass of the hillock and wept silver tears.
And the spectral guardians continued to circle.
The Aquila Spire was now clean and pristine; the very model of a noble commander’s quarters, though Glorien had taken the sensible precaution of having the Eagle Gate’s mages cast a warding spell upon the open window. A precaution the late Cerion Goldwing would have been well advised to implement, he thought wryly.
The blood of his former commander had been washed away and Cerion’s personal keepsakes sent back to his family in Eataine, together with a detailed letter in which Glorien had outlined the unfortunate events that had led to his death, together with several suggestions he had made previously on how such a tragedy could have been prevented.
That he had made no such suggestions was immaterial, but they would enhance his reputation as a warrior of vision and sense; and if his time at the court of Lothern had taught Glorien Truecrown anything, it was that reputation and perception was everything.
The Eagle Gate was his now and with the elderly Cerion out of the way, albeit in a bloodier way than he would have preferred, he was free to run this fortress the way it ought to be run. A neat row of bookshelves now occupied the far wall, stacked high with treatises on the art of war by great heroes of Ulthuan. Mentheus of Caledor’s great texts, Heart of Khaine and Honour and Duty, sat next to In Service of the Phoenix and The Way of Kurnous by Caradryel of Yvresse. Other, lesser works, gathered over his years of advancement, had been read and devoured, each with its own specific instructions on how the military might of the Asur must be properly commanded.
Heart of Khaine sat open before him and the words of General Mentheus filled him with the glories of ancient times in the long wars against the druchii. Now that this fortress was his, he would organise and run things the way the books told him they should be done, not in the slapdash, ad hoc way that Cerion had advocated with his talk of hearts and minds.
No, a garrison of high elf warriors respected discipline and he would ensure they received it in abundance. Glorien snapped shut the book and returned it to the bookshelf before turning to the armour rack beside him.
He already wore his mail shirt beneath his tunic; the assassin’s attack had made him cautious if nothing else, and lifted his gleaming silver helmet. The glorious, conical helm was a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship and cost more than the combined pay of every soldier stationed at the Eagle Gate. Its ithilmar surface was decorated in embossed filigree and the edges lined with fluted gold piping. Nothing so crude as a visor would obscure his features, for how would those around him see his face?
A carved golden flame rose above the forehead of the helmet, and Glorien longed to add wings to its side, white feathered wings that would proclaim his courage to all who looked upon him. Only the High Helm of a troop of Silver Helms was permitted to adorn his helmet with such things—a petty regulation that only served those who chose a more prosaic, obvious route to glory by riding a horse straight at the enemy.
He slipped the helm over his head and checked his appearance in the full-length mirror that sat opposite his desk.
The warrior reflected in the silvered glass was every inch the perfect commander, the very image of Aenarion himself. Long hair spilled from beneath his helmet and his patrician features were exquisitely framed by the curve of his helmet’s cheek plates. An elegantly cut tunic, fashioned by the most sought after tailors of Lothern perfectly fit his slender frame and he wore wyvern skin boots, crafted from the hide of a beast slain by his father’s hunters.
Satisfied with his appearance, he turned as a knock came at the door to the chamber.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Lord Truecrown,” said the voice of Menethis, his adjutant. “It is time for your dawn inspection.”
“Of course it is,” he said, straightening his tunic and opening the door.
Menethis stood to one side as Glorien emerged from the Aquila Spire to take a deep breath of crisp mountain air and survey his command.
Dawn’s first light was easing over the eastern horizon and the stark whiteness of the Eagle Gate glittered with armoured warriors holding spears and bows at precisely the right angle. Bolt throwers on the parapets of the high towers were manned by crews standing to attention and blue banners fluttered in a bitingly cold wind from the west.
As much as Glorien knew this assignment to the Eagle Gate would advance his career, he looked forward to his next posting when the garrison was rotated to another command and where he would not have to suffer chill blowing in from the ocean.
“A fine sight, eh, Menethis?” said Glorien, setting off down the steps and pulling a pair of kidskin gloves from his belt.
“Yes, my lord,” said Menethis, quickly catching up to him. “Though if I might make an observation regarding your inspection?”
Glorien scowled and paused in his descent. As much as it chafed him to listen to the prattling of his underlings, the writings of Caradryel spoke of how a good leader should take counsel from those around him.
“Go ahead.”
“I wonder if it might improve the morale of the warriors to conduct such formal inspections with less regularity? Perhaps a weekly inspection would better serve our needs?”
“Weekly? And have the discipline of the garrison slide in between? Out of the question. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
Menethis averted his eyes as he spoke, saying, “It is tiring on the warriors, my lord.”
“Tiring?” snapped Glorien. “Soldiering is supposed to be tiring. It’s not meant to be an easy life.”
“Yes, but we have only so many warriors, and to defend the wall as fully as you deem necessary allows no rest time in between the guard rotas. Each warrior has barely enough time to sleep, let alone maintain his weapons and armour to the high standards you demand.”
“You think my standards too high, Menethis?”
“No, my lord, but perhaps some leeway—”
“Leeway? Like Cerion Goldwing permitted?” demanded Glorien. “I think not. Look where that got him, an assassin’s blade between his ribs. No, it is thanks to such lax enforcement of discipline that soldiers like Alathenar think they can get away with leaving their bows unstringed while on duty. I was lenient in simply confining him to barracks. He deserved to be sent home in disgrace.”
“Alathenar did wound the assassin who murdered Lord Goldwing,” pointed out Menethis. “No one else managed that.”
“Yes, the archer may have a decent eye, but that does not give him the right to flaunt regulations. And anyway, it was that eagle that caught the assassin,” said Cerion waving a dismissive hand as he remembered the gruesome sight of the druchii’s corpse.
A magnificent white-headed eagle had flown back to the fortress and deposited the bloody remains of Cerion Goldwing’s assassin upon the battlements, though quite what it had expected them to do with them, it had not said.
Before Glorien could speak to the creature, it had spread its wings and flown northwards, leaving them to deal with its kill.
Glorien understood that war was a bloody business from his books, but to see such a gory mess had been highly unsettling to an elf of his refined sensibilities.
He shook his head and set off once again. “No, Menethis, we will continue with dawn inspections and daily drilling. I will tolerate no laxness among my command and, tired or not, I demand the highest standards of readiness and competence from every warrior. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Menethis.
Glorien nodded, satisfied his orders were clear, and made his way along the length of the wall. His warriors stood to attention,
each one a tall, proud and noble specimen of elven soldiery. He reached the Eagle Tower at the centre of the wall and climbed the curving steps cut into the back of the carven head.
He emerged onto a recessed battlement in the neck of the great carving where sat a trio of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers. These mighty weapons were the elite of his command, powerful weapons resembling a huge bow laid upon its side and mounted upon an elegantly crafted tripod carriage. As with so many martial creations of the Asur, the bolt throwers merged art and warfare, such that each weapon resembled a majestic eagle in flight, with the apex of the bow worked in gold to resemble the noble head of the birds of prey.
Each weapon could fire a single bolt capable of bringing down the most terrifying monsters or a hail of smaller shafts that would scythe through enemy warriors at a far greater speed than any group of archers could manage.
Individually, these weapons were fearsome, but grouped together they were utterly deadly. Nine more such machines were spread along the length of the wall, and Glorien nodded to himself as he saw that each weapon gleamed with fresh oil and that the golden windlass mechanisms were spotless.
The crews appeared tired, but proud and he rewarded them with a smile of appreciation. Their armour gleamed and their white tunics were crisp and pristine. Each carried a long spear, a weapon Glorien had decided was more in keeping with his idea of how such warriors should be armed.
He turned to make his way back down to the wall when one of the crewman next to him shouted in alarm, “Target sighted!”
All three crews leapt into action, discarding their spears and seizing wooden “combs” that contained enough bolts for several volleys. One crewman slotted the comb onto the groove rail on top of the weapon, while the other sighted it.
Glorien stood back and watched, pleased at the alacrity of the crews, but irritated that they had simply dropped their spears to the ground.
Within moments, all three weapons were ready to fire and Glorien awaited the distinctive, rippling crack-twang of bolts being loosed.
“Why aren’t they unleashing?” he asked when the weapons didn’t open up.
“There is no need,” said Menethis, pointing to the western horizon. “Look!”
Glorien squinted into the dim light of morning and saw three shapes flying towards the Eagle Gate. At first he didn’t recognise them for what they were, but when he noticed the distinctive white head on the lead bird, he saw they were eagles.
“One of them carries something,” observed Menethis.
Glorien sighed. “Another bloody offering perhaps. I don’t remember Cerion Goldwing being presented with everything these birds killed. Come on then, I suppose we ought to see what they’ve brought us this time.”
Menethis followed him as he made his way back down to the ramparts and the crews of the bolt throwers made their weapons safe once more.
By the time he had descended to the wall, the eagles were much closer and Glorien could see that the white-headed eagle carried another body. Exactly what it was, he couldn’t yet see, but it appeared to be swaddled in a red cloak.
The warriors on the wall cheered as the eagles approached, for the sight of an eagle over a battlefield was an omen of victory and Glorien permitted them this brief moment of relaxation.
He marched to the centre of the battlements and watched as the trio of eagles circled lower and lower until they landed before him in a boom of outstretched wings. The eagle bearing the red-cloaked burden gently laid it at Glorien’s feet and he saw that it was not some bloody trophy torn by claws or beak, but an elven warrior in the accoutrements of an Ellyrion Reaver.
The eagles stepped back as Menethis knelt by the warrior and unwrapped the blood-stiffened cloak from around him. Glorien’s lip curled in distaste as he saw the paleness of the wounded elf’s features.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes,” said Menethis, “though he is badly hurt. We must get him to our healers if he is to live.”
The bloodied warrior’s eyes flickered open at the sound of elven voices and he struggled to speak.
“What is your name, warrior?” said Glorien.
“Druchii…” hissed the warrior through bloodstained teeth, his voice barely a whisper.
“What did he say?”
“He said ‘druchii’, my lord,” replied Menethis.
“What does he mean? Quickly, ask him!”
“He needs a healer!” protested Menethis.
“Ask him, damn you!”
Menethis turned to the wounded elf, but he spoke again without prompting. “I… I am Eloien Redcloak of Ellyrion. My warriors… all dead. The druchii… landed at Cairn Anroc. An army of them. Druchii and corrupted men. Coming here…”
“How close are they?” demanded Glorien. “When will they reach us?”
Eloien’s eyes shut, but as he slipped into unconsciousness he said, “By… tomorrow…”
Glorien felt a cold in his bones that had nothing to do with the winds blowing over the walls of the fortress as the bird that had borne the wounded Eloien Redcloak threw back its head and let out a deafening screech.
The druchii are coming, he thought. By tomorrow.
Isha preserve us…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Companions
Warm sunlight filled the pavilion, but the warrior within cared little for the delicate aromas carried on the cooling breeze. He stood naked but for a white loincloth as two of the beauteous handmaidens of the Everqueen oiled his flesh before scraping him clean with ironwood knives.
His muscles were hard as stone and perfectly sculpted, the perfection of his form marred only by the many scars that crossed his body. All these old wounds were to the fore and it was clear that this warrior had faced every enemy head on and had never once retreated from a fight.
Long blond hair streamed from his temples and the maidens bound it into braids with iron cords to prevent an enemy blade from cutting it and depriving him of his strength in the midst of war. Not that there were any skilled enough to perform such a feat, for this was Prince Tyrion of Avelorn, greatest warrior of the age.
He raised his arms and a long shirt of white was slipped over his muscled arms and shoulders, before being secured at the front with silver ties and buttons. Swiftly the handmaidens dressed Tyrion in soft leggings of pale blue before retreating to the corners of the pavilion as he sat a thin diadem of gold upon his brow.
Tyrion’s face was thunderous and at odds with the sounds of music and laughter that drifted in through the rolled sides of the pavilion. A burning pain filled his thoughts and his limbs ached as though he had been fighting continuously for a week.
Though his training and practice sessions with the Everqueen’s handmaidens had been as rigorous as ever he knew that this pain within him had a very different origin.
Teclis…
Ever since their youth, he and his twin brother had shared a bond that not even the wisest of the Loremasters could explain. What one felt, the other felt and now he experienced a measure of his brother’s pain as though inflicted upon his own body. Over impossible gulfs, each twin knew how fared the other and Tyrion knew some dreadful evil had befallen Teclis with every fibre of his being.
He closed his eyes and let the sound of the forest wash over him, hoping the gentle rhythms of his queen’s realm would soothe the troubles and pain that weighed heavily upon him.
He opened his eyes and stared at the suit of magnificent golden armour hanging on a wooden rack across the pavilion from him. No finer suit of armour had ever been forged, by elven craft or dwarven skill, and the sunlight seemed to flicker with an inner flame within its burnished plates.
Forged within Vaul’s Anvil, the Dragon Armour of Aenarion had been worn by his legendary forefather, the Phoenix King who had saved Ulthuan from the forces of Chaos in ancient times.
Tyrion’s father had presented the armour to him before the great victory of Finuval Plain and he had worn it in every battle since, its siren song to
war never far from his thoughts.
As wondrous as the armour was, Tyrion knew it was a relic of a time long passed, a time when the mad fury of Aenarion waxed mightily and the fiery soul of the elven race had burned brightly upon the face of the world.
Such times were lost now and each time he donned the armour, he felt that loss keenly.
“It calls to you, does it not?” said a voice behind him and he smiled at the soothing, feminine tone as the words flowed like honey into his mind.
“It does, my lady,” said Tyrion, turning and dropping to one knee before his queen. “The curse of Aenarion lives on within his armour.”
The sun’s glory flowed with her and the pavilion was filled with light that had no source yet seemed to carry all the goodness and warmth of summer. The scent of fresh blossoms came to him and Tyrion felt his pain diminish and the warlike call of the armour recede.
“It surely does,” agreed the Everqueen and warm rain pattered softly on the roof of the pavilion. “His madness lives on and casts a shadow over us all, but please, my prince, stand. You of all people need not kneel before me.”
“I will always bend the knee to you, my lady,” said Tyrion, looking into the face of the most beautiful woman imaginable, the blessed child of Isha and most beloved scion of Ulthuan.
“And I can never disobey you,” he said with a smile, rising smoothly to his feet.
The Everqueen of Ulthuan moved without effort, her every gesture graceful beyond measure and her every word like the sound of spring’s first song. Her long gown clung to her shapely form and it filled his heart with love to have her near him.
Her name was Alarielle, the Everqueen of Ulthuan, and it was said her beauty could move even the immortal gods.
Just to have her address him was the most sublime pleasure, and to be her champion was an honour for which Tyrion knew he would never be worthy. Beyond her immaculate beauty, the Everqueen was bound to the land of Ulthuan like no other elf. Where she walked, new blooms followed in her wake. Where she sang, the world was a gentler place and when she cried, the heavens wept with her.
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