01 - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  A mane of black hair, plastered red with blood rose from the cauldron and a pair of wide, staring eyes wept red tears as the Hag Sorceress emerged and lifted her head. The blood in the cauldron hissed as Morathi let it soak her breasts, hips and thighs. Her flesh was white and renewed, streaked with red as thick, gooey runnels ran down her naked, ivory body.

  Stripped of her robes, Morathi was the single most desirable thing Kul had ever seen, a siren of death and sensation that commanded devotion in all things. Her flesh glowed with vigour and a bloom of youth that was surely impossible for one of such unimaginable age.

  Not even the most powerful shamans Kul had slain had displayed such carnal devotion to Shornaal and he longed to rip her from the cauldron and violate her in every way imaginable.

  He restrained his rabid impulses, knowing that this was not the time for such loss of control. The she-elf protectors would rip him to shreds before he came within striking distance of Morathi and he had no wish to end his days as fodder for their ritual sacrifices.

  In any case, the Hag Sorceress had bigger plans than simple pleasures of the flesh, plans that would see the world dragged through the gates of hell and unleash the realm of the dark gods upon its surface.

  The restraint of his desires was painful to a devotee of Shornaal and as Kul saw the knowledge of his frustration in her eyes, he felt the killing rage rise in him once more. He closed his eyes and recited the six secret names of his patron, gripping the hilt of his sword and concentrating on the pain as the blades and spikes cut into his palm.

  When he opened them again, Morathi was reclining on a chaise longue and clad in a robe of crimson doupioni, its fine weave already staining with the blood on her limbs. One of the she-elves plaited her bloody hair, pulling sodden, matted lengths into long, drooping spikes.

  “Your messenger said you had news,” said Issyk Kul.

  Morathi flicked her eyes towards him and nodded slowly. “My son makes war on the Asur at Lothern. His warriors lay siege to the Emerald Gate.”

  “Then we must make haste to take this fortress,” said Kul.

  “Must we?” said Morathi, her voice smooth and seductive, like a young maiden. “But it seems like your warriors so enjoy to fight.”

  “They relish the chance to fight and feel the bliss of pain,” agreed Kul. “But they wish victory more. I need to know when your warriors will take to the field of battle.”

  Morathi smiled and shook her head.

  “My warriors will fight soon enough,” said the Hag Sorceress. “When this dirty little siege is over. I leave such grubby battles to your northern tribes.”

  “The battle would go swifter if you were to commit warriors to the fight,” pointed out Issyk Kul. “You claimed time was of the essence.”

  “And so it is, my dear Kul,” said Morathi, rising from her repose to stand before him. “But such inelegant battles are ill-suited to our sensibilities. You knew the price for allowing you to join me was the blood of your warriors. Trust me, when the Eagle Gate is ours and Ulthuan is laid open before us, you will receive all that you desire.”

  “All?”

  “All,” said Morathi, allowing her robes to fall open and expose a slice of virgin skin.

  Kul licked his lips as he pictured the rewards of success.

  More was at stake than simply the attainment of the promise of ravaging Morathi’s flesh—the fulfilment of what the weak fool, Archaon, had singularly failed to achieve.

  Morathi spoke again. “When will your warriors carry the wall?”

  “Soon. Your race is a spent force in the world,” he said, enjoying the flare of anger he saw in her eyes. “Even in the remote north, that fact is understood. I have warriors to lose by the hundred, but each enemy that falls in battle is an irreplaceable loss. We will simply batter them into defeat. For my warriors do not fear pain or death. They do.”

  “Then be sure to give them what they fear,” said Morathi.

  Kul smiled, exposing sharpened teeth and said, “Never doubt it.”

  Caelir had not slept at all and neither, it seemed, had any other inhabitant of Avelorn. The news that the Everqueen would walk amongst the forest had banished all thoughts of rest and imparted a manic energy to the elves that had come to pay homage and hoped to become part of her court.

  Though no one had seen them come, fresh pavilions with an ethereal quality of simple grace had appeared in the midst of the forest, ones that needed no cords or poles to support them and were held aloft by the soft winds that gusted around them.

  Lights flitted around these pavilions and armoured elf maids in golden armour ringed them, though the presence of such warriors did not detract from the peace and tranquillity of the scene.

  Lilani held his hand and Narentir stood behind them both with a paternal hand on their shoulders. Neither could keep the joy from their faces and Caelir suspected that his face was similarly stretched with an unrestrained smile. All through the assembled elves, over a hundred estimated Caelir, he could see the same unabashed love and radiant happiness that made him proud to be part of this gathering.

  His mind was a mad whirl of thoughts and emotions, a jumble of ideas vying for supremacy in his consciousness. He would see the Everqueen, the most beautiful woman in the world, and his memory could be restored. He would play for her and who knew what might transpire in the wake of such a performance?

  Caelir had dressed in clothes lent to him by Narentir, an elegant tunic of silks and satins that was thin and light, yet clung warmly to his skin. He carried the harp that had won him such acclaim within the forest and wore a belt of black, upon which was hung the dagger he had carried since being washed upon the beach of Yvresse—such a long time ago it seemed.

  So much had happened since then and though he knew much of it had been terrible, the magic of Avelorn prevented the true horror of it intruding into his thoughts, as though the forest could not bear the thought of its inhabitants’ anguish. Dimly he realised that such denial was unhealthy, but shook off such gloomy thoughts as a pale nimbus of light built from within the Everqueen’s pavilion.

  “She comes…” breathed Narentir and Caelir felt the hand on his shoulder tighten.

  Caelir gripped the harp and ached to play a welcoming refrain upon its strings, but restrained himself, sensing that to spoil this moment with his own selfish desires would be gross and unwelcome.

  The skin of the Everqueen’s tent peeled back and a bright light, like sunlight on golden fields poured from inside. Amid the wondrous halo of shimmering brilliance, the ruler of Avelorn emerged—the most beauteous elf in creation and most wondrous ruler of Ulthuan.

  The assembled elves dropped to their knees, overcome by wonder and emotion. Tears of joy spilled from every eye and even the skies shone with the reflected radiance of her smile.

  Caelir wanted to join them in worship of this enchanted daughter of Isha.

  Instead, he found himself gripping the hilt of his dagger.

  The forest of Avelorn flashed past them as they rode for the court of the Everqueen. Eldain pushed Irenya hard, digging his heels into her flanks in a way he would never normally do. He risked a glance over at Rhianna, seeing the same, anxious expression that had settled on her face as soon as they had set foot on dry land at the fork of the River Arduil.

  It was stupid to be riding this fast through a forest, for a moment’s inattention could cost a rider dear. A low branch or rabbit hole could be the end of a rider or mount, but Rhianna had insisted that they immediately ride into the depths of the forest.

  “Save him and you save me…” she had whispered, repeating the phrase she had first uttered on the Dragonkin as they sailed towards Avelorn as a mantra.

  The implications of the phrase were not lost on Eldain and a clammy hand had taken hold of his heart despite the wondrous beauty and sun of the Everqueen’s northern realm. He knew the sights and sounds of the forest should beguile him, should entrance him with their incredible splendour, but his mind endle
ssly turned over the dreadful possibilities of what might be about to happen.

  As much as the deaths he had witnessed recently pained him and weighed guiltily upon his soul, the thought that the Everqueen herself might be in danger eclipsed them all. The idea that it was he who had led to her being placed in danger had silenced any objections to riding at speed through the forest.

  Yvraine rode behind him, her aversion to travelling by means other than walking forgotten as she shared a measure of Rhianna’s fear that they might already be too late.

  Eldain caught sight of her greatsword and knew that if Caelir dared hurt the Everqueen, he himself would gladly wield the blade that would end his life…

  The Everqueen…

  Caelir’s hands began to tremble as the ruler of Avelorn walked amongst her people. Though no musician played, the forest provided an accompaniment of its own for her. Birds trilled musically, streams gurgled and the wind sighed through the excited branches of trees.

  The land itself welcomed her.

  Behind her came a Handmaiden bearing a banner of emerald leaves plucked from the branches of trees and woven with golden hair. The light of the forest was captured in the banner, but it was a willing captive, and it bore the heart of Avelorn in its rustling living fabric.

  Caelir saw fresh white flowers spring from the ground where the Everqueen walked and her radiance caused those already in bloom to turn their faces towards her. The forest came alive at her presence and the adoration in every face was heartfelt and pure.

  None averted their gaze from the Everqueen, for she desired her subjects to know beauty, and she blessed them all with the healing light of her magic.

  Without knowing how, he knew the dagger he gripped was now loose in its sheath and he could feel a terrible hunger from the blade, willing him to draw it. He fought its malign touch, pressing the quillons hard against the heavy scabbard.

  I have to get out of here, he thought desperately, but the haunting majesty of the Everqueen held him fast. He could feel the puzzlement of those nearby and a number of faces tore their gaze from the Everqueen and regarded him with hostility at his lack of respect.

  “Caelir!” whispered Lilani. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know…” he hissed between clenched teeth as he fought the urge to draw the dagger from its heavy black scabbard. He remembered Kyrielle telling him that she had not liked holding the blade and her father saying that it had shed a great deal of blood.

  The Everqueen moved amongst the people of the forest, smiling and radiant, reaching out here and there to touch the forehead of a kneeling elf. The foremost artistes, singers, musicians, poets, artisans and mages laughed as she selected them to become part of her court and their laughter was like the chiming of the clearest golden bells.

  Caelir fought to move, to turn and run from the dark emanations slithering up his arm from the dagger, but his limbs were not his to command, his grip held fast to the metal hilt. More performers were chosen, and as each rose from their knees, the Handmaidens of the Everqueen led them into the forest.

  The Everqueen came closer and Caelir’s limbs twitched, as though two opposing forces waged silent war for control of his body.

  Then she paused as she reached towards a gifted poet and tilted her head as though listening to a faraway sound. Her posture stiffened and the sunlight fled the sky, a forlorn gloom and unknown menace descending from the forest in an instant.

  Caelir heard the roaring of a storm in his head.

  He wanted to scream a warning.

  The Everqueen looked up.

  Their eyes met and a moment of awful knowledge passed between them.

  “Caelir…” she said.

  At the sound of his name from her divine lips, the chains slipped from around his memory and what had been locked away now rushed to the forefront of his mind.

  It all came back.

  Everything…

  The line of warriors emerged from the trees as though they had been part of them but a moment ago. Spears levelled, ten elf maids in golden armour and plumed helmets barred their way forward and only Eldain’s superlative horsemanship saved him from running straight into a line of lethal spear points.

  Rhianna and Yvraine halted with somewhat less grace, but their horses saved them from running straight into the blades of the warrior women. Without waiting for them to demand his business, Eldain cried, “Please, we have to get to the Everqueen. She is in danger!”

  A warrior with long dark hair beneath her helmet put up her spear at his words. She took a step from the ranks of her warriors and said, “You are wrong. The Handmaidens of the Everqueen protect her within the boundaries of Avelorn. She is quite safe.”

  “No,” pressed Eldain, riding towards the elf maid. He heard the creak of bowstrings being pulled taut and knew he was a hair’s breadth from dying. “You don’t understand the danger she is in. We have to reach her court.”

  “What manner of danger do you mean?”

  Rhianna rode alongside him and said, “There is a young elf here under an enchantment of dark magic, though he does not know it. He will seek to harm the Everqueen.”

  “What is this elf’s name?” said the Handmaiden. Eldain could see her scepticism and wished he could penetrate her disbelief at what he knew must seem a fantastical claim.

  “Caelir,” said Eldain. “He is my brother.”

  A ripple of recognition passed through the handmaidens and Eldain felt a sick dread settle in the pit of his stomach.

  Caelir was already here…

  “They speak the truth,” said Yvraine. “I speak as a Sword Master of Hoeth and emissary of the White Tower. You must let us pass.”

  The Handmaiden’s eyes narrowed as she took in Yvraine’s sword and martial bearing and reached an uncomfortable conclusion.

  “Someone of that name is known to the forest,” she said before turning on her heel and issuing curt commands to the Handmaidens accompanying her. In seconds her warriors had vanished into the forest and she turned back to Eldain.

  “Quickly then,” she said. “Follow me.”

  Caelir remembered everything in the space of a heartbeat…

  The dockyards of Clar Karond were aflame, the magical arrows that had been a wedding gift from Rhianna’s father proving their worth as fire tore through great stockpiles of timber and ships with hungry appetite. Smoke curled from the devastated shipyards in monstrous black pillars and the screams of the druchii were music to his ears.

  Aedaris bore him with the grace of Korhandir himself, galloping through the twisting, nightmare streets of the druchii’s dockyards with unerring skill and speed. Ellyrion Reavers rode in ones and twos ahead of him as they made their escape and Caelir laughed with the sheer joy of what they had accomplished.

  Eldain rode ahead of him, the black flanks of Lotharin heaving as his brother’s stronger mount stretched the gap between them. He rode past blazing timber stores and ruined piles of blackened lumber as spears stabbed for him and crossbow bolts slashed through the air.

  He crouched low over his steed’s neck, speed carrying them past the stunned druchii without a fight. Ahead, Eldain slashed his sword through the arm of a warrior guarding the gateway and hacked down another before riding clear.

  A pair of druchii charged him, their spears aimed for his horse’s chest, but Caelir hauled back on the reins and Aedaris danced around the spear thrusts. His horse reared and its lashing hooves crushed the chest of its closest enemy and Caelir split the skull of the other with a swift blow from his sword.

  The blood sang in his veins with the thrill of the fight and he turned to ride after his brother. He heard the snap of crossbow strings and cried in pain as an iron bolt slammed into his hip. Yet more bolts flashed through the air, hammering into Aederis’ chest and flanks.

  He felt himself falling as the horse collapsed, blood frothing from its mouth and its legs thrashing in agony. He hit the ground hard and rolled as the breath slammed from his chest.
He saw druchii running towards him and scrambled to his feet, weeping tears of pain and loss as he saw that his beloved Aedaris was dead.

  He ran with a stumbling gait towards his brother.

  Eldain would save him!

  More bolts flashed through the air, and he screamed as another missile buried itself in his shoulder. He stumbled, but kept running.

  “Brother!” he yelled, holding his hand out towards Eldain.

  Eldain looked at him and Caelir saw his gaze fall upon the silver pledge ring that glittered in the firelight—seeing a depth of bitterness that shocked him to the depths of his soul.

  Eldain said, “Goodbye, Caelir,” and turned his horse from him.

  Caelir dropped to his knees in horror as he watched his brother ride away towards the hills, the pain of his wounds nothing compared to the ache of betrayal that stabbed his heart with the force of a lance.

  He hung his head as he heard the druchii surround him, the last of his strength stolen from his body at Eldain’s abandonment of him. His vision turned from grey to black and the world fled from him as he pitched forward onto his face.

  Darkness.

  Pain.

  Sorrow.

  Anger.

  Hatred.

  Light…

  He remembered long months of black horror and longer days of cold terror. He remembered sweating agony as a nightmare figure in iron armour and with blazing green eyes had regarded him with dread fascination and words Caelir could not understand. A terrifying, sinuous woman with raven hair and the face of a seductress worked upon him day and night, subjecting him to degradations and dark pleasures that left him full of loathing and revulsion.

  A dark tower of brazen iron that presided over a city of murder and death.

  The screams of a city that bathed in blood and celebrated the vilest practices imaginable.

  Nightly his violation continued, pleasured and tormented by the weakness of his flesh and tortures that left his body unmarked, but left nightmarish scars upon his mind. He was plunged deeper into the abyss of madness than any mortal should ever go until his sanity began to crack and buckle at the seams.