“There is something different about you,” said the old dragon. His nostrils flared wide as he sniffed the air, head weaving back and forth around Caledor. “Magic touches you. Old magic.”
“I am Phoenix King,” replied Caledor. “You sense the flame of Asuryan.”
“Phoenix King?” The dragon arched back its neck in surprise. “Bel Shanaar is dead?”
“War is coming,” said Caledor, ignoring the question. “Will the dragons ride with the princes of Caledor?”
“You have become even more abrupt, Imrik,” said Maedrethnir.
“I have taken the name Caledor,” said the Phoenix King. “To honour these lands and the elf that first sought the alliance of the dragons.”
Maedrethnir snorted, though Thyrinor could not tell whether from amusement or derision. Regardless, the dragon bowed its head and launched into the air, circling back to the cave from which he had emerged.
They waited a long time. Thyrinor tried to engage with Dorien, but he seemed to have been infected by his brother’s mood and would say no more than a few words in reply. Eventually Thyrinor gave up and sat down on a rock, left to his own dark thoughts.
Dusk was approaching when finally Maedrethnir appeared again. Two more dragons followed him out of the cave: Anaegnir and Nemaerinir. The three dragons landed around the elves, wings cutting swirls though the thickening mist.
“No more?” said Caledor.
“We three are all that will come,” said Maedrethnir. “No others will answer the call.”
“Three dragons is enough to destroy Nagarythe,” said Dorien. He turned to Nemaerinir, his own mount. “Thank you for heeding the call.”
“I slept only lightly,” the red-scaled dragon replied. “Another year and perhaps I would not have answered.”
“Maedrethnir spoke of war and you mention Nagarythe,” said Anaegnir, her voice mellower than the males. “What evil stirs in the north?”
“Treachery,” replied Thyrinor. “The Naggarothi try to usurp power and the other kingdoms have little might to respond. The dragons of Caledor will go a long way to restoring the balance of power.”
“To fight elves?” said Nemaerinir. The dragon rumbled deep in his throat. “An unpleasant business.”
“Yes,” said Caledor. “Yet one we must attend to.”
“The Naggarothi promote the worship of the under-gods,” said Thyrinor. “They would have all of Ulthuan under thrall of Khaine and Ereth Khial and others should they be victorious.”
“There are worse gods to be in thrall to,” said Maedrethnir.
“Our division makes us weak,” said Dorien. “A weakness the Chaos Gods will sense and act upon. If the elves fall, who will keep the vortex from failing? The dwarfs? The humans? The orcs?”
“Dorien is right,” said Thyrinor. “We must fight not just for the fate of ourselves, but for the future of the world. If Morathi and her followers rule, they will bring dark magic and sorcery and the daemons will come again.”
“It shall not be so,” growled Anaegnir. “We will help you.”
“Good,” said Caledor. “We ride back to Tor Caled. Meet us at the palaces when you are ready.”
“And then where?” said Dorien. “The Naggarothi can march straight through Tiranoc and be upon our borders before we know it.”
“They would be foolish to march before spring,” replied Thyrinor. “We have time to muster the army.”
“The army will wait, but the cultists will not,” said Dorien. “They will rise up and pave the way for the Naggarothi advance. There will be death this winter, mark my words.”
“A dragon cannot hunt cultists,” said Anaegnir. “Not unless you wish your cities ruined and your fields burned.”
“You are right,” said Caledor. “We shall wait for the army of Nagarythe. Then we kill them.”
—
Lothern Attacked
As Carathril opened the door to the winehouse, swirls of fragrance-laden smoke drifted out into the street. He waved for Aerenis to precede him inside and then entered, closing the door behind him. It was quiet, as was to be expected in the middle of the day, with only a few patrons gathered at a table close to the fire. Carathril recognised them as members of the Palace Watch, again without surprise as this particular wine room was used almost exclusively by members of the princes’ guard. One of them, Myrthreir, raised a hand in welcome and beckoned the pair over to the padded bench on which he sat.
“The new Fierean deep red has just finished settling,” said another of the soldiers, Khalinir, as they joined the group. He proffered his glass towards Carathril. “Try some, it is very fruity.”
Carathril accepted the crystal goblet and took a sip of the wine. It was delicately scented with rose, and was of a fuller flavour than he usually liked but not unpleasant.
“Palatable,” said Carathril with an equivocal look.
He offered the glass to Aerenis.
“I think I will stay loyal to my Sapherian Gold until the winter grape season comes around,” he said, waving away the goblet.
An attendant with long fair hair bound in a single plait down her back made her way over to the table and Carathril ordered a bottle of his favourite wine. Aerenis asked for water.
“I heard Hythreir’s Dissertation on Cynics last night,” said Khalinir. “He was performing in the Sapphire Plaza. It was a touch sentimental, if you ask me, but it seemed to get the crowd going, what with all that talk about Aenarion and such. Then again, that is Hythreir, always one for popularity over pedigree.”
“I thoroughly enjoyed his Musings of a Lothern Trader,” said Fithuren from the far end of the table. “Of course, that was before Malekith returned. His humour has changed dramatically, and I do not appreciate some of the darker elements he now uses in his compositions. It seems that he has been getting more and more caught up with his own woes for these last years. One would think that he was the only elf in Lothern with worries and cares, the way he stands there and laments in Opal Square sometimes.”
“It is enough that we must deal with these accursed cults when we are on duty, I do not want to hear about them endlessly when I set down my spear,” said Myrthreir. “The prince issues proclamation after proclamation, and yet still there are those blind enough to flock to these demagogues and rabble-rousers. Only five days ago, we found a nest of Athartists posing as an embroidery guild in Callhan. I tell you, when we found what they had been picturing with their needles, it sent a shiver down my spine. One of them almost took my eye out with his fingernails, if you believe that.”
“You sent them away?” asked Aerenis.
“Of course we did,” replied Fithuren. “Until the prince orders otherwise, we send them under escort to Amil Annanian. I hear that another ship left this morning, with nearly two hundred of the depraved souls on board. More than fifty are being tended to by the priests of Ereth Khial.”
“If it means that we do not spill as much blood as we might, then I see no harm in it,” said Aerenis.
“They seem tame enough, once captured,” said Mythreir.
“Most are normal folk,” said Aerenis. “Some simply want answers or escape, or sympathy. For my part, I do not see the harm in much of what they do. In Nagarythe, I hear, there are blood sacrifices and all manner of bestial behaviour, but here in Lothern most of those we arrest are nothing more than lost souls seeking a path.”
“Their acts are forbidden, even if they do not directly harm others,” said Myrthreir.
“But why are they forbidden?” asked Aerenis quietly. The serving maid returned with their drinks and Aerenis took a sip of his water before continuing. “The prince and his council decide that Hythreir’s poems and performances are sound, whilst issuing decrees against writers such as Elrondhir and Hythryst for being seditious and dangerous. Five years ago, Elrondhir was court poet to Prince Haradrin, now he is a fugitive.”
Carathril had become accustomed to Aerenis’ morose moods since he had returned to Lothern. I
t was a city he had found to be irrevocably changed by the betrayal of Prince Aeltherin and the death of Prince Haradrin, yet even now there were some in the guard and nobility who refused to accept the danger posed by the dark cults.
Rumours and whispers persisted that Haradrin had entrapped Aeltherin in some way, and it was to these conspiratorial allegations that Aerenis now referred. Carathril had spoken many times with his friend concerning the manner of Aeltherin’s demise and he knew it haunted Aerenis still, as did the death of his sister’s friend, Glaronielle. The prince had burned himself alive, along with his unconscious followers, and the hideous scene still haunted all of those that had witnessed it. Though Aerenis had never admitted as such, it was plain to Carathril that his companion had harboured feelings for the girl he had mentioned; feelings that perhaps he had never expressed to her while she lived.
Now Aerenis had become cold-hearted, turning ever more inwards in his grief as the years had passed. He no longer joked with good humour, and laughed only from bitterness. His company was rare, for he spent most of his off-duty time with his own counsel; Carathril had never insulted his friend by inquiring too deeply concerning where he hid himself away for days at a time.
Lost in his musing, Carathril did not realise that he was being addressed by Myrthreir.
“Carathril?” the royal guard said.
“I am sorry, my thoughts were soaring elsewhere, like the eagles of the mountains,” Carathril said with a glance at Aerenis. If his friend recollected that old conversation, he did not show it, but stared silently into his glass.
“I asked if the Sapphire Company was taking part in this expedition to the mountains tomorrow,” said Myrthreir.
“Yes, I am leading the company to Hal Mentheon to meet with Captain Fyrthril of the Ruby Company,” said Carathril.
“Hal Mentheon?” Aerenis asked sharply. “You did not mention that before.”
“Why the concern?” said Carathril.
“It is the town where my sister lives,” Aerenis explained. “I hope that she is safe.”
“We are mustering at Hal Mentheon, but our mission takes us inland to the mountains, somewhere close to the Enullii Caith on the border of Caledor,” Carathril assured his friend. “I am sure that nothing is amiss in the town, we would have heard otherwise from Fyrthril.”
“Yes, you are probably right,” muttered Aerenis, returning his gaze to his water.
Carathril finished his goblet of wine and poured another, letting the conversation of the others sweep over him, occasionally nodding in agreement at some point or smiling at a witty comment. Aerenis excused himself shortly before dusk, and though Carathril worried about his friend, he was glad of the lightening of the mood that came with the departure of his dour companion. As often happened these days, the talk eventually meandered its way around to the subject of Nagarythe.
“I heard from a Chracian merchant that the army of the Anars is besieged in the citadel of Cauthis, just west of Griffon Pass,” said Khalinir.
“That is old news,” scoffed Myrthreir. “Naggarothi fighting Naggarothi can be no bad thing for us. I don’t know why the prince is so worried. Nagarythe is furthest from Eataine. It’s not as if they could sneak through Tiranoc and Ellyrion to attack us without warning, is it?”
Carathril remained silent. He had met Alith Anar and felt some sympathy for those Naggarothi still loyal to the Phoenix Throne. Whatever the fortunes of the coming war, Carathril knew in his heart that the Anars would be forevermore caught between their loyalties. He was thankful that they opposed Morathi. Myrthreir was right about one thing: Lothern was about as far from the fighting as Carathril was likely to get without heading for the colonies.
New recruits were being mustered and one day Carathril knew he would have to march out again beneath the banner of Eataine. For the moment he was content to leave the action and worries to others. Like many of his fellows, his first concern was the safety of his prince and his people. He would fight when ordered, but was trying to enjoy the relative peace while it lasted.
Knowing that he was to march out with his company the following day, Carathril made his excuses and left the winehouse while his willpower and sobriety still allowed.
As he walked back to his quarters along the stone streets of Lothern, he pondered that area of greyness between convivial leisure and the slide into the depravities of the cults. To lose oneself utterly to sensation, to cast aside the fears, doubts and anguishes of rational life was forever a temptation to the elves. The joys of friendship and love were unsurpassed, but so too did Carathril and his people suffer greatly from the blackest depths of anger and woe.
Each walked a perilous path between agony and ecstasy, forever fighting the restless spirit awakened within his heart by the coming of Aenarion; the desire to fight and conquer, to ascend to pinnacles of sensation of which only the elven mind and body were capable.
Carathril felt no such desire himself. His life had been eventful enough and he craved the mundane and predictable as much as the cultists sought stimulation and risk. Comfortable that he could still resist the lures of his elven spirit, and lulled by the wine, Carathril fell asleep relaxed and at peace.
Aerenis woke Carathril not long after daybreak, bringing him a tumbler of fresh water from the barracks well and a small loaf of bread with a pat of butter and a pot of glistening honey. Carathril’s lieutenant seemed more at ease than he had the night before and the captain remarked upon this.
“I shall see my sister when we reach Hal Mentheon,” Aerenis explained. “I have not seen her since summer last year, nor my cousins and nephews. Remember, I am country-born, not a child of Lothern like you.”
“Of course,” said Carathril. “I have no family to miss, but I suppose the city and its people are the closest I have to kin.”
The company was assembled for the march to Hal Mentheon and was soon heading westwards from Lothern to meet up with soldiers from other parts of Eataine. Situated between the Inner Sea and the outer coast of Ulthuan, the kingdom was a beautiful spread of rolling hills and farmlands, gradually rising to the west until it reached the foothills of the Dragon Spine Mountains that marked the border with Caledor.
The one hundred elves made their way along a coastal road at a steady pace, meadows and pastures to their right, shallow cliffs on their left broken by winding paths and roadways leading down to many inlets and beaches. The wind came off the sea, bringing with it salty air and flurries of drizzle from the cloudy sky, but the march was not unpleasant during the frequent breaks in which the sun shone down.
Past midday the company halted for a rest, above a small fishing village nestled in the lee of a white chalk cliff that curved like a waning moon around a green-watered bay. Most of the vessels were out, their white sails and hulls seen against the dark of the sea. Food was unloaded from the company’s supply wagons.
Carathril left the company and walked a short distance away to lean against a white-painted stone wall marking the boundary of a farm. Arms resting on the wall, spear and shield next to him, he looked out to the sea and watched the birds flying around the cliff tops, their harsh cries cutting the air above the crash of surf at the foot of the cliff below him.
He moved his gaze further out to sea and looked at the horizon to the south, enjoying the tranquillity of the flat blue expanse of the ocean. Aerenis joined him, handing Carathril a wrapped parcel of bread and cured meat before leaning his back against the wall.
“It’s hard to believe there is anything amiss in Eataine on days like this,” said Carathril.
“Perhaps there is nothing amiss,” replied Aerenis. “Enjoy the peace for what it is.”
“If only it was so simple,” said Carathril. He sighed and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of sea air and soaking in the warmth of the sun. “There are enemies closer at hand than we realise. I cannot believe Lothern is totally free of the cults, and the rest of Eataine surely provides shelter for more.”
“Do you wo
nder if perhaps enemies have been made of the cults when it need not be so?” said Aerenis.
“What do you mean?” said Carathril, turning to his friend.
“There have been a few, like the Khainites, who have preyed on the innocent, but most of them are harmless enough, surely?” answered Aerenis. “What if some of our people wish to lose themselves occasionally in a pleasant fugue, or wish to converse with the spirits of the dead? Is it worth the suffering it has brought to persecute these people?”
“It is a trap of the spirit,” said Carathril. “It is the harm it does to our culture, our society, which makes the worship of the cytharai a malaise. You saw what had become of Prince Aeltherin. The cults impair the judgement and erode the moral being of our people.”
“And so you would have every cultist slain?” said Aerenis. “Is that the solution?”
“I do not know,” replied Carathril. “It seems inevitable that bloodshed will settle this. The Naggarothi have stirred up their sycophants and their agents, and the cults will respond by moving against the rule of the princes and the Phoenix King. If they surrender peacefully, it could be avoided.”
“I detect the hint of arrogance with that approach,” said Aerenis. “Why are all the demands heaped upon the cultists? What attempts have ever been made to help them, to incorporate their needs and desires into our society? They have been branded outsiders, now criminals, and you wonder why they disregard the authority of their princes?”
Not having any answer to that, Carathril turned back to the sea. Aerenis was kind-hearted and forgiving, and he made a good point. Yet for all the wrongs that the cultists might reasonably claim had been done to them, Carathril could not forget the grisly scenes he had witnessed at Ealith many years before, nor could he forget the beguiling power that had tried to turn him to the service of the cytharai.
His eye roamed the waves without purpose as he considered Aerenis’ words. Looking to the west, he spied a sail coming around the headland, larger than that of a fishing boat. Concentrating, he saw a two-hulled hawk-ship sailing into view, both its sails full in the wind, a light-blue pennant streaming from its masthead.
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