[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  The keep was the most ambitious target yet and Alith could sense the trepidation of his followers. It was one matter to attack poorly defended camps, another to storm a fortress. Alith had confidence though. This would be no frontal assault, with screaming battle cries and siege engines. Surprise and stealth would bring the shadow warriors a greater victory than any army of Ellyrion could achieve. It was his intent not only to send a message to the druchii that none of their lands were safe, that no army or fortress offered them protection; Alith wanted the princes of the east, and the Phoenix King in particular, to understand just how dangerous the shadow army could be. The Anars would never be underestimated again.

  When the moons had disappeared and all was dark, Alith led his followers towards the citadel. Lanterns burned from the narrow windows of the tower, but there was still much shade to conceal Alith and his army. By the light of these lamps, Alith could see warriors patrolling the battlement, ruddy light gleaming from spearpoints and helms.

  Alith led the first wave of shadow warriors, circling around the keep and moving on the citadel from the north along the butte on which it stood, picking their way across the cliff face itself. The stones of the tower were closely set, with no sure purchase for toe or finger between them. However, the shadow warriors used knives and climbing spikes to scale the wall, quietly driving their points into the mortar that held together the giant blocks. Alith and fifty warriors slowly made their way up the tower wall, pausing whenever they heard the tread of boots above, cautiously advancing when the danger receded.

  Alith was reminded of the time he had scaled the citadel of Aenarion in Anlec. He wondered if any sorcerous ward protected Koril Atir. He could feel the vortex churning through the Annulii and nothing else, but he was not a mage by any means and much dark magic was subtle and difficult to detect. If there were magical barriers, he would have to overcome them; there was simply no way he could prepare for every eventuality.

  Reaching the battlement, Alith waited until a pair of patrolling sentries passed. He slipped through the embrasure behind the guards and padded forwards on soft feet, knife ready for the kill. He heard a soft grunt behind him and glanced behind to see Khillrallion hauling himself over the battlement. The two of them exchanged nods and darted forwards, slicing the throats of their prey and toppling their bodies to the rocks below with fluid movements.

  Alith leaned over the wall and signalled for the shadow warriors to finish their ascent to the rampart. When all were upon the top of the wall, Alith cupped his hands to his mouth and mimicked the cry of a snow owl. Within moments he heard shouts from the far side of the tower, on the south approach, as the remaining shadow warriors made their presence known. Flaming arrows arced through the night sky and it was not long before feet were pounding up the wooden steps within the tower.

  Dozens of the garrison poured from the doorways onto the rampart and Alith’s contingent struck with bow and sword, cutting down the druchii as they emerged. Their dying cries mingled with the shouts of the Anar warriors on the other side of the tower, adding to the confusion. Their bodies were dragged aside and Alith led his warriors into the red-bathed interior of the keep. The distinctive rattle of repeater crossbows sounded from below as the defenders shot from arrow slits on floors within the tower. These needed to be dealt with quickly. Alith signalled for Khillrallion to take half of the shadow warriors and deal with the missile troops. Alith would head for the main gate with the rest.

  Just like Anlec, Alith thought with a satisfied smile.

  As dawn’s rosy gleam reached the citadel, Alith ordered his warriors to bring the bodies of the slain druchii to the main gate, and to raid the armoury for spears and other weapons. Several Ellyrians were found in the tower’s dungeons, tortured and bloody. Alith gave them clothes and weapons and sent them east upon the mounts once used by the citadel’s messengers.

  “When asked who liberated you, say that your saviour was the Shadow King,” Alith told the Ellyrians as they departed.

  The Anar prince stood at the gate, seven hundred slain druchii piled around him. With a meaningful look at his warriors, he snatched one of the corpses by the ankle and dragged it to the open gate. He grabbed the front of the corpse’s shirt and leant it against the black-painted timbers.

  “Spear,” he snapped to Khillrallion, holding out a hand. The shadow-walker brought a weapon to his leader and stepped back. “It is not enough that we kill our enemies. They fear their mistress in Anlec far more than they fear death. We need to send the druchii a message even their depraved minds can understand: even in death they are not safe from our revenge.”

  With that, Alith thrust the spear two-handed, its point passing through the throat of the druchii corpse and into the gate. Alith gave the shaft a twist to ensure it was stuck fast.

  Taking his knife from his belt, Alith cut a rune into the forehead of the dead druchii: thalui, the symbol of hatred and vengeance. He tore open the elf’s shirt and across his chest carved another: arhain, the rune of night and shadows. Examining his handiwork, Alith wiped the blade clean on the rags of the corpse’s shirt and placed it back in his belt.

  Alith looked at his warriors, seeking any sign of disgust or horror. A sea of faces watched him blankly, a few with deep intent. Alith nodded to himself and pointed to the mounds of the dead. “Send a message,” he told his shadow warriors.

  * * *

  “It is grim reading, my prince,” said Leothian, bowing obsequiously as he handed the parchment scroll to the lord of Tor Anroc.

  Caenthras ignored the subservient herald and turned to the messenger’s companion, one of the lieutenants tasked with guarding Eagle Pass. The Naggarothi prince fidgeted on the throne of Bel Shanaar, uncomfortable with its design. The three elves were swallowed up by the massive emptiness of the great hall of the palace, their voices echoing coldly from the bare walls and high ceiling.

  The audience benches had been removed, and all petitioners were forced to stand or kneel before their new master. It was one of the few changes in Tor Anroc that had pleased Caenthras; the mewling Tiranoc nobles were still allowed to live by the direct order of Morathi, but they now knew their proper place.

  “Tell me, Kherlanrin, why I should let you live,” Caenthras said heavily.

  The warrior stifled a glance towards Leothian and kept his eyes downcast.

  “I would gladly fight a foe that faces us in battle, but I can no more defeat this enemy man I can nail shadows to the ground,” Kherlanrin said quietly. “Our soldiers awake in the morning to find their commanders dead, their despoiled remains hanging from trees outside the camp, with not a guard or other soldier harmed. Horses with the corpses of our scouts tied upon the saddles are sent into our camps, the mouths and eyes of their dead riders stitched shut, their wrists bound with the thorny stems of mountain roses.” He shuddered and continued. “I found a squadron of knights that had been moving between Arthrin Atur and Elanthras. Their throats were slit and the bridles of their steeds had been nailed into their faces.”

  “The situation is unacceptable,” said Caenthras. “Anlec demands results. I will give you another ten thousand warriors, as many as I can spare. As soon as the snows abate, you will lead them into the pass and bring me the heads of these rebels. I want to know who leads them and I want to find out by looking at his dead face. Is that understood?”

  The pair nodded and retreated swiftly when Caenthras dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The whole situation was embarrassing. The assault on Avelorn was faltering because Caenthras’ commanders were fearful to march along the pass. This left the Ellyrians free to support Avelorn from the south. Caenthras had no idea how much longer Morathi’s patience with him would hold, but he was determined that his would not be the first head on the block when that patience finally failed.

  On a fresh spring day Alith looked down at the sinuous columns of black from atop a steep cliff, Khillrallion beside him.

  “They will spend all of the seasons of Rain and
Sun looking for us,” said the shadow-walker. “The druchii will divide their forces to sweep the pass, and then we will strike at each part in turn.”

  “No, that is not my intent,” said Alith with a grim smile. “These warriors come from the west. Morathi’s commanders have emptied their camps to search for us, leaving Tiranoc all but unguarded. They think that we cannot slip past so many eyes. They are wrong.”

  “We go to Tiranoc?”

  “To Tor Anroc, no less,” said Alith.

  Ten days after the druchii offensive began, Alith was far to the west, hiding in the caves where he had first sought sanctuary with Lirian and the other refugees. With him he had brought only the shadow-walkers, leaving the rest of the army to the east, to amuse themselves at the expense of the druchii as they saw fit. He had brought only former Shadows because what he had planned was beyond the skill of those so recently trained. When Alith explained his intent to the others he was met by confusion and incredulity.

  “It is a great risk that you take,” said Khillrallion, giving voice to the concerns of his comrades. “And for little gain.”

  “You are wrong if you think this is merely a personal vendetta,” said Alith. “Consider the despair of our foes when they realise that nowhere is safe for them, not even the palace of an occupied city. It will sow division in the druchii ranks, and cast doubt in the minds of their leaders. Think of their dread when they learn that no number of soldiers can keep them safe, no wall or gate can keep out the shadows that hunt them. We must not only be merciless, we must be daring! We will terrorise our foes and infuriate them at the same time. No locks or bars will keep us out! We will steal the swords from their belts and the gold from their treasuries. Not only will they fear us, they will hate us for our audacity. We will drive them mad, send them thrashing at illusions while we laugh at them from the darkness.”

  “I am not sure it can be done,” said Gildoran.

  “It can and it will,” Alith replied calmly. “Did we not open the gates of Anlec under the noses of the druchii? Did I not scale the palace of Aenarion, and spy upon Morathi as she performed her dark rituals? Tor Anroc is as nothing compared to the perils of Anlec.”

  “And you ask us to risk our lives in this endeavour?” said Gildoran. “Some would think it vanity.”

  “I do not ask anything!” Alith growled, losing patience. “I command and you obey. I am the Shadow King, and I have made my will known. If you cannot live with that, then leave, go east and live amongst the Ellyrians or the Sapherians or the Cothiquii. If you would be a Naggarothi, you will follow me!”

  “Forgive me, prince,” said Gildoran. “It shall be as you say.”

  Mollified, Alith clapped an arm to Gildoran’s shoulder and looked out at his shadow-walkers. The prince was genuinely excited by the prospect of what he was about to do, the first time in several years.

  “Good!” said Alith. “Death to the druchii!”

  Sitting on Yrianath’s throne, Caenthras looked up as the doors of the great hall opened and a messenger entered quietly. She was dressed in a long robe of deep purple, silver medallions in the shape of elongated skulls hanging on slender chains from her belt. Caenthras recognised her immediately: Heikhir, one of the Anlec heralds. The Naggarothi prince glowered at the emissary as she strolled languidly along the hall. No doubt she carried more demands from Morathi.

  “I bear tidings from your queen,” said Heikhir with a bow. Her actions were deferential, but Caenthras sensed mockery in their exaggerated precision. He knew that the court in Anlec considered him a failure. The treachery of Yeasir had ensured that. Far from being the power he had envisioned, he was little more than a puppet of Morathi, in turn manipulating her gutless mouthpiece, Yrianath. At least Palthrain had had the good grace to get himself killed to leave Caenthras in sole command of Tiranoc.

  “What is it?” Caenthras asked wearily.

  “The queen yet awaits your latest report on the hunt for the rebels in Eagle Pass,” said Heikhir.

  Caenthras shrugged.

  “Every soldier that can be spared scours the pass for these ghosts,” he said. “If the queen were to command me to lead the army I would drive on into Ellyrion. These attacks are nothing more than a distraction.”

  “These attacks are a direct affront to Queen Morathi,” Heikhir said pointedly. “Can you find no more troops?”

  “Not without weakening our defences on the border with Caledor,” said Caenthras. “Perhaps she could spare me a sorcerer or two from her little coterie, to use their magic to track these… rebels?”

  “The pretender king fights in Cothique, what threat is there from the south?” Heikhir asked, ignoring the question.

  “Enough,” Caenthras replied. “Or perhaps Morathi would prefer the dragon princes to simply fly over Tiranoc and attack Anlec directly?”

  Heikhir laughed but there was no humour in her tone.

  “I shall report that your efforts are… ongoing.”

  Caenthras did not have the will to argue. It mattered not at all what he said, Heikhir would take back whatever message she thought most pleasing to her mistress. For a moment Caenthras considered writing a letter, to put his concerns into record. He dismissed the idea. For one thing, he was too tired. For another, he doubted it would ever get delivered.

  “Is there anything else?” he sighed.

  Heikhir shook her head with an impish smile and then bowed. Caenthras stared daggers into her back as he watched her leave.

  Caenthras stood with some effort, weighed down by his worries. He turned to the door on his left, to make his way back to his chambers. He stopped in mid-stride. In front of the door there stood a shadowy figure, swathed in black.

  “Who are you?” Caenthras demanded. “Did Morathi send you?”

  The stranger shook his head slowly, the movement barely visible in the depths of his hood.

  “Did you come with Heikhir? What do you want?”

  In reply, the figure drew back his hood. For a moment Caenthras did not recognise who it was, but then realisation dawned. The face had not changed much, but its expression had. Once it had looked at him with fawning desperation but the face he looked upon was filled with utter contempt.

  “Anar!” snarled Caenthras as he realised several things at once: that Alith was the leader of the “rebels” in Eagle pass; that his capture would bring Caenthras renewed favour from Anlec; and that he would take some personal pleasure from killing the last of the wretched House Anar. The ruler of Tor Anroc reached to his waist for his sword and then remembered that he had none—his blade was still in his bedchamber.

  Alith had not moved; his eyes were fixed on Caenthras.

  “I will call for the guards!” Caenthras declared, suddenly less certain of himself.

  “And I will disappear,” Alith replied quietly. “Your only chance of capturing me is to defeat me by your own hand.”

  Caenthras looked around the hall for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. Grimacing, he turned back to Alith.

  “You would kill an unarmed enemy?”

  “I have done so already, hundreds of times,” Alith said.

  “You have no honour.”

  “I have seen what happens in so-called fair fights,” Alith told him. “The honourable usually lose.”

  Alith reached over his shoulder and pulled forth a magnificent bow, made of a shimmering metal, decorated with twin symbols of the moon. Caenthras’ stomach lurched as Alith fitted an arrow to the impossibly thin bowstring and raised the weapon.

  Caenthras considered his options. It was doubtful he could cross the hall and grapple Alith before he loosed his shaft. There was nowhere to hide. If he called for aid, Alith would still shoot and then slip away, no doubt.

  “You have been wronged, I admit that,” Caenthras said, taking a step forwards. “By me, I know.”

  “Wronged?” Alith spat. Caenthras flinched at the scorn in the young warrior’s tone. “Because of you my family is dead, my pe
ople slain or enslaved and my lands are a razed wilderness. By your hand, thousands of true Naggarothi have died. Your ambition has welcomed vile war and spread darkness across all of Ulthuan. And you say you have done wrong?”

  “Please, Alith, show some mercy,” Caenthras pleaded, taking another step.

  “No,” Alith replied, letting go of the bowstring.

  Alith stowed his bow and pulled free his sword. Crossing swiftly to Caenthras’ body, he pulled the arrow from his prey’s left eye and chopped off Caenthras’ head, placing the bloody trophy in a tightly woven sack. Alith headed back towards the door by which he had entered, but then stopped. He walked back to the corpse and gave it a hard kick in the ribs.

  “I’ll see you in Mirai, you bastard,” Alith whispered. “I’m not finished with you.”

  Horns and shouts and other clamour roused Yrianath from his fitful slumber. He awoke to find an elf dressed in the livery of his servants shaking him. He did not recognise the face, but that was not unusual. The Naggarothi regularly changed his staff to ensure he had no one with whom he might conspire. “What is it?” he asked groggily.

  “Fire, my prince,” the servant gasped. “The whole palace is on fire!”

  Instantly awake, Yrianath leapt from his bed and grabbed the robe proffered by another attendant. He could smell smoke and as the two servants ushered him out of the chambers he could see the flicker of flames at the eastern end of the corridor.

  “You will be safe in the gardens, lord,” the first servant told him, steering Yrianath towards a stairwell half-hidden behind a tapestry. “We’ll use the servants’ way, it’ll be quicker.”

  Yrianath allowed himself to be led down the spiralling steps and along a narrow corridor. They passed rooms and passages he had never seen before, but he spared them not even a glance. Other servants were hurrying past in the opposite direction, on their way to fight the fire.