By the dark of night he crested a hill and looked south. To the east the lights of Tor Elyr glittered on the waters of the Inner Sea. He hesitated for just a moment, a last pang of regret upon seeing the city where Athielle lived. It was gone in an instant. To the south he saw the shrouded lanterns of the Naggarothi camp.
Approaching the camp, Alith was called upon by a picket to identify himself. It was only when he saw the astounded look upon the sentry’s face that Alith became aware of his outlandish appearance. The Naggarothi eyed Alith for a long time, struggling between joy and incredulity as the prince made himself known.
“Send word to Khillrallion and Tharion that I wish to see them immediately,” said Alith as he strode unashamedly into the camp.
“My prince, where have you been?” asked the warrior, following a little way behind his lord. “We feared that you were dead or taken prisoner.”
“Such a thing will never happen,” Alith replied with a grim smile. “The druchii will never catch me.”
Alith sent the soldier ahead to fetch his lieutenants and made directly for the rough lodge that served as his quarters. More Naggarothi came from their huts and tents to stare at their returning prince. Alith ignored their inquisitive gazes, though he noted that while many were astounded by his appearance an almost equal number seemed to focus upon the moonbow in his hand.
Tharion came running through the camp as Alith reached the door to the lodge.
“Prince Alith!” the commander cried out with a mixture of relief and surprise. “At first I did not believe it!”
There followed much inquiry as to the prince’s whereabouts and actions, all of which Alith refused to answer. His experiences in Avelorn were his alone, to share with no other. All that his people needed to know was their prince had returned, and with fresh purpose.
When Khillrallion arrived, he brought with him another elf: Carathril. Alith was as surprised by the herald’s presence as Carathril was by Alith’s appearance. They greeted each other coolly, both unsure of each other’s agenda.
“What brings the herald of the Phoenix King to my camp?” Alith asked as they walked into the main room of the lodge. He carefully placed the moonbow on the long table, before removing his belt and quiver and laying them to one side. Alert and dignified, Alith sat at the head of the table and gestured for the others to sit.
“Carathril is here at my request,” said Tharion, exchanging a glance with Khillrallion. “When you disappeared we were at a loss. We sought the advice of King Caledor as to how we might best aid his cause. We have been discussing joining Caledor in his next campaign.”
“That will not be required,” said Alith. He turned to Carathril. “However, your journey has not been entirely in vain. Return to your master with the news that the druchii have invaded Avelorn in strength. Even now they are probably at the border of the Gaen Vale.”
Carathril took this news with a frown.
“And how are you aware of this?” asked the herald.
“I have returned from Avelorn, and saw the druchii for myself,” Alith told the group. “I fear Chrace is now entirely overrun, and the eastern kingdoms would do well to prepare their defences for a fresh onslaught by Morathi.”
Alith fancied he could see the questions burning in the minds of the others but none were voiced.
“That is grim news,” said Carathril. “I will convey this to King Caledor. However, my reason for being here has not changed. I wish to discuss how best you might aid the Phoenix King in his war against the druchii.”
“Please leave me alone for a moment with the Phoenix King’s herald,” said Alith, keeping his tone neutral.
“Perhaps we could, hmm, fetch you some clothes, prince?” suggested Tharion.
“Yes, do that,” Alith replied absently, his gaze fixed on Carathril. He continued when the others had left the room, finally allowing his anger to show. “I am not some hound to be called to heel! I fight for my lands and my heritage, not for the Phoenix Throne. I will wage my war against the druchii in whatever way I see fit, and will suffer no interference or questions. Protect Ulthuan and its people, but know this: Nagarythe is mine.”
“You would set yourself up in opposition to the Phoenix Throne?” said Carathril, his face a picture of disbelief. “You claim Nagarythe as yours? What makes you any different from Morathi? By what right can you claim such rule?”
“I am Naggarothi. The cold of winter runs in my veins. The legacy of Aenarion beats in my heart. My father and grandfather have given their lives to Nagarythe, not for glory or renown, but out of duty and love. I do not seek Nagarythe for myself, but to keep the land safe from the ambitions of others. The Phoenix King’s grandfather chose to leave Anlec and found his own realm in the south, and by that action relinquished any claim to rulership over Nagarythe.”
“You owe loyalty to nothing,” said Carathril, bowing his head with sadness. “You would make yourself a king, yet you would rule over barren waste and have no subjects. You will become a king of shadows.”
Alith smiled at Carathril’s choice of title and remembered Elthyrior’s words from so many years ago. “In the mountains she sent me to find you, the child of the moon and the wolf the heir of Kurnous. The one that would be king in the shadows and hold the future of Nagarythe in balance.”
Since that first conversation, the raven herald had insisted that Alith should plot his own course, should follow his destiny without complaint. Alith found truth in that message. He had become the prime hunter, the leader of the pack. The druchii were his prey and he would never give up his pursuit of them.
Alith looked at Carathril, still smiling. The herald did not share Alith’s amusement. The prince nodded.
“Yes, that is exactly what I will become.”
When Carathril had been abruptly dismissed, Khillrallion and Tharion returned with boots, robe and cloak for Alith. They also brought a pail of water and soap but Alith waved these away.
“We cannot win against the druchii in open war,” Alith told them as he pulled on the robe and fastened the broad belt around his waist. “Not by our own strength. There are simply too few of us left.”
“Then we should fight alongside the Ellyrians or Caledorians,” said Tharion.
“No!” snarled Alith. “We will continue to fight where we have always done, where it pains the druchii most: in Nagarythe. It could be years before Caledor is ready to march north in strength, and what will we find as liberators? A spoiled wasteland, destroyed by darkness and battle, and Anlec tumbled into stones, humbled. If Caledor invades Nagarythe he will destroy everything to cast out the druchii; everything that we would give our lives to protect. We can wage a different war, one that will eat at the druchii from within. Weakened, they will lose their war in the other realms and we will stand ready to claim power.”
“You would see us all become Shadows?” said Tharion, guessing Alith’s intent.
“I would,” replied the prince. He wished to gaze outside but the hall had no windows. Instead he looked deep into the flickering light of the fire. “Elanardris is no more; every crack and shadow will be our new home. The dark woods, the fens, the hills will conceal us. Not a single druchii will walk in Nagarythe without looking over his shoulder. Not a single army will march on the roads without fearing every outcrop and vale. This is a test of will, and we cannot flinch. For every one of ours that dies, a dozen druchii must be sent screaming to Mirai. For every drop of blood we give, we take a river in return.”
“Retraining all of your warriors will not be swift,” warned Khillrallion, sat upon one of the benches. “Many have spent a lifetime in the ranks, learning discipline and the craft of open battle. These are not the skills of the Shadow, and they have no experience.”
“We will divide the army between you and the other remaining Shadows, that’s roughly fifty warriors each,” Alith declared. “In Athelian Toryr they can learn the ways of the woods, be tutored by the wisdom of Kurnous. In the mountains and the passes th
ey will come to know the secrets of rock and snow.”
“And what of weapons?” asked Tharion. “We have less than a thousand bows for more than three thousand warriors, and that many Shadows will need a forest of arrows.”
“I will see what the Ellyrians can provide for us for the time being,” said Alith. “In the end, our warriors must learn to make such things for themselves, or take them from their slain foes, for it is only thus that we will be able to continue to fight in Nagarythe. Just as the shrines of Kurnous exist as stores for the hunters in the wilds, we shall set up caches across Nagarythe, hidden from the eyes of our foes and made secret by enchantments. Remember that we will be Shadows, homeless and untraceable. The army must learn to hunt what it needs, to pass without notice, to leave no sign of their presence.”
“You are asking a lot,” said Khillrallion.
“Those that cannot learn will be left behind,” snapped Alith. He glared at his two captains, daring them to speak out. For a moment he bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes, much as Blackmane had done to cow his pack. “I am your prince and these are my commands!”
Khillrallion nodded in silent acquiescence while Tharion leaned away from Alith, shocked by his ferocity. Alith relented and held out a placating hand towards the pair.
“We must be strong, stronger than ever before,” said the prince.
“As you wish, lord,” said Tharion, standing and giving a formal bow. “I swore an oath to your grandfather and father, yet I have not had opportunity to give it to you until now. I will serve House Anar and its prince until the end of my days. As my lord bids me, so shall I act. By Asuryan and Isha, by Khaine and Ereth Khial, I am bound by this oath to you.”
Alith watched Tharion as he marched from the hall, looking at Khillrallion only when the ageing elf had left.
“Two years,” Alith said. “In the spring two years from now, we will return to Nagarythe and begin our shadow war. I look to you to make sure that we are ready. I would have no other captain to aid me.”
“And I would have no other prince to follow,” Khillrallion replied with a wink. His mood then became sombre. “Twice I thought I had lost you, and yet you have returned. Yet, neither time do I think the prince I knew has come back.”
“I will be a prince for only a little while longer,” Alith said. “When we return to Nagarythe, I shall be the Shadow King.”
For most of the year the Naggarothi trained in their new style of war. Alith sent petitions to Finudel asking for weapons, which the prince granted as best as he was able. No mention was made by either of them regarding Athielle. Finudel informed Alith in one letter that she had heard news of his disappearance but not his return. Alith assured Finudel it was better that she believed him gone, lest she leave the city and come to the camp. Such an encounter would not be to the benefit of either.
The following winter, as far as the Ellyrians could tell, Alith’s army simply disappeared. Riders brought news to Finudel and Athielle that at dawn they had passed the Naggarothi settlement and found it deserted where the night before it had been filled with life. No tracks told of where they had gone, and nothing remained of their occupation; not a single arrowhead or cloak, link of mail or water bottle had been left behind. Nearly three and a half thousand elves had vanished.
Alith had led his warriors into Athelian Toryr, dispersing them through the forest and mountains. Each of these groups was led by a former Shadow, respectfully known as shadow-walkers by the other warriors for their ability to move without trace. Alith led no cadre himself, but moved between the groups, monitoring their progress and instilling them with his bitter ethos.
For another year they continued to train, living in the wilderness without supply or support. The shadow warriors honed their archery and their stalking, and learnt the words of Kurnous that would bring fire to dead wood or summon hawks to be their messengers. They slept in tree branches or beneath arching roots, made pillows of rocks and lairs of caves. By Alith’s design, no group knew where the others dwelt, and they were ordered to avoid each other as the wolf packs avoid their rivals. If one was seen by a shadow warrior from another cadre, the shadow-walkers would punish them, setting them arduous tasks of survival. To some it may have seemed cruel, but to Alith it was essential that his army be self-sufficient, not only physically but mentally.
Alith hardened the minds of his warriors as much as their skills. Whenever he visited a cadre he would speak to them at length, reminding them of the ills done to them by the druchii, passing on his own thirst for revenge, stirring up the dark passions that seethed beneath the civilised faces of all Naggarothi. He wanted his warriors not only to be skilled but to be as savage as the wolves, merciless and determined.
“When you look at your foe, do not see another elf,” he would tell them. “See them for what they are: creatures less than animals. Remember that your enemy is responsible for all of your woes. It is he that cast you from your homes, tortured your friends and slaughtered your families. You can have no compassion for those you will slay, for it will be rewarded by failure. Hesitation is death, doubt is weakness. The druchii tore your lives from you and threw them upon sacrificial pyres, and anointed their priests with the blood of your kin. The ghosts of the fallen wander Mirai, wailing in grief for the wrongs done to them, pleading with the living to avenge them.
“Do not long for peace, for there can be none while any druchii still draw breath. Embrace war as the crucible of your valediction, the means to purge this stain upon our people. Swear oaths of vengeance, not to me or your companions or to the uncaring gods, but to fallen mothers and fathers, dead sisters and brothers, slain sons and daughters. Take the darkness that the druchii have created and rob them of its power. You are the blade that will strike down the wicked. You are the shadow warrior, the faceless bringer of justice.”
As the last days of autumn gleamed upon the red and yellow leaves, Alith called the groups together, assembling them in the foothills at the eastern end of Eagle Pass. By night they made camp, gathering silently by the dying light of Sariour and the ruddy glow of the Chaos moon.
“We are ready,” said Alith, his quiet voice the only sound to break the stillness. “The wait is over, the fighting begins anew. By dawn we will be heading towards Tiranoc and war. I will not ask you to follow me, for you have all proven your loyalty to our cause. I will not exhort you to acts of bravery, for you have all shown great courage to be here. I will only say that this is our moment of truth. Let the princes of the east fight their great battles and hurl the lives of their subjects away in futile resistance. It is here, in the west, that this war will be won. We fight for loved ones lost. We fight for futures blighted. We fight to reclaim a land that was once gloried above all others. We fight for Nagarythe.”
“For Nagarythe,” came the hushed answer from the army.
As the shadow warriors melted away into the darkness, heading westwards along the pass, Tharion approached Alith and fell in beside his prince.
“Is it wise to march on the brink of winter, lord?” asked Tharion.
“Armies do not march by winter, but we are not an army,” Alith replied. “We are hunters, remember. In rain and wind and snow and baking sun we stalk our prey, across moor and mountain, river and fen. Let the druchii worry about moving armies in the grip of the ice, with their wagons and their baggage. Let them stand helpless as we burn their towns and kill their folk, as we were once helpless against the legions of Anlec.”
Tharion nodded in understanding, and Alith saw a dark fire in the veteran’s eyes. It was the same look that Alith saw whenever he chanced upon his reflection in a pool or patch of ice.
The attacks of the shadow warriors came as a shock to all of Ulthuan. News quickly spread amongst the druchii and their enemies. At first Alith kept his army together, overrunning the eastern watch towers of Eagle Pass, ambushing druchii patrols on the road and waylaying their messengers. Isolated by the growing snows of winter, druchii garrisons huddled in their cam
ps, casting fearful gazes into the night. They whispered that the shadow army was made up of the spirits of those sacrificed to Ereth Khial, who had escaped her underworld domain to wreak their vengeance.
Alith learnt of this and laughed at the superstition of his prey. He used their fears as weapons, terrorising the druchii at every opportunity. Before their attacks, his warriors hid in the shadows and made wailing cries to unsettle their foes. They called out names they had overheard, accusing the druchii of being murderers. Howling like wolves the shadow warriors prowled just beyond the light of the fires, allowing the sentries vague glimpses of movement before disappearing. With whispered spells the shadow-walkers cast a gloom upon the fires, dimming their light and sending the druchii into a fearful panic.
Then the shadow warriors unleashed the fury of their bows. Storms of black shafts enveloped the camp, each one unerringly finding its mark. Never once seeing their attackers, the druchii died by the hundreds, screaming and panicked. And always the shadow warriors left a few survivors, allowing them to escape so that they would take their dread and horror to others. The shadow warriors retrieved their arrows from the dead and left the bodies for the crows and vultures. Each dawn heralded a new column of smoke as a camp or caravan burned, and the druchii would look to the mountains and wonder if the next night would be their last.
At Koril Atir, at the height of the pass, the druchii had built a keep to watch to the east and west. For two days the greater part of the shadow warriors marched, bypassing the camps and wayforts along the pass. A few bands were sent by Alith to harass the druchii garrisons at the Ellyrion end of the pass, obscuring the shadow warriors’ true location.
At midnight, the shadow warriors gathered on the slope below Koril Atir. The citadel’s battlements rose in a jagged spire above the valley, silhouetted against the sliver of Sariour as the white moon descended in the west. Thin pennants fluttered from the flagpoles in the strong mountain winds, but that same wind brought no sound save for the screech of owls and the occasional roar of a hunting beast.
[Sundering 02] - Shadow King Page 37