[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  The air in the marble hall of the elven lord swirled with purple and blue vapours, which billowed from braziers wrought from the twisted bones of animals. Intoxicated by the narcotic fumes, a sea of elves writhed upon the red-carpeted floor. Fishermen and nobles, servants and lawmakers lay together, rendered equally low in their depravity. Some wept at nightmares only they could see, others laughed hysterically, while a few simply moaned in ecstatic pleasure.

  Around and about the seething mass stood a dozen priestesses, stripped to their waists, their exposed bodies daubed with symbols drawn in the blood of a fox, their long hair teased into dramatic spines with the fat of the same animal.

  The high priestess, Damolien, whispered a low chant, her voice all but lost in the cacophony of joy and misery that filled the high hall. She wore the skin of the slain fox about her shoulders, and on occasion, she would pause and stroke her hands through its fur. Her keen senses further heightened by the narcotic fog, Damolien quivered at the feel of the hairs on her palms and fingers.

  A quiet descended as the attendees one-by-one lapsed into a stupor, some still sobbing quietly, others sighing with satisfaction. With a nod, Damolien sent one of her priestesses to fetch Prince Aeltherin, the master of the house, so that he could partake of the ceremony’s final stage. Just as the priestess turned towards the double doors that led from the hall, there was a tumult outside. Raised voices and a shriek caused the priestesses to turn as one towards the doorway. Damolien slipped the serrated sacrificial dagger from her waistband a moment before the doors crashed open.

  Prince Aeltherin careened into the room, lurching over the somnolent bodies of his guests. Blood spilled from a cut across his chest and crimson droplets flew from his fingertips onto Damolien’s face as the prince tripped over a supine figure and sprawled to the ground. Warriors in silver scale armour and wearing white sashes burst through the doorway, their bared swords in hand. Their captain, his tall helm decorated with threads of gold in the likeness of leaping lions, held a sword dripping with blood. He pulled a sliver of parchment from his belt and allowed it to fall open to show the seal of Phoenix King Bel Shanaar.

  “Prince Aeltherin of Lothern!” the captain called out. “I am Carathril, captain of the Lothern Guard, and I have a decree for your arrest. Surrender to the judgement of the Phoenix King!”

  Like a fish flopping upon a riverbank, Aeltherin dragged himself across the now-comatose elves littering the floor. His eyes looked pleadingly towards Damolien.

  “Protect me,” Aeltherin hissed.

  “Lay down your weapons and surrender in peace,” said Carathril, his voice calm. “Give yourselves over to the Phoenix King’s mercy.”

  Damolien smiled. Her tongue flicked out like a serpent’s as she licked the blood of Aeltherin from her lips.

  “Mercy is for the weak,” she purred, and leapt lithely across the room.

  Shrieking like harridans, the other priestesses followed their mistress, their hands flexed like talons, their fingernails sharpened to long points. Carathril leapt back from the assault, the point of Damolien’s dagger narrowly avoiding his eye. One of his soldiers leapt forwards, sword arm straight, and lanced his blade into the high priestess. She fell without a sound as her disciples hurled themselves at the guards.

  The priestesses were vicious and two of Carathril’s elves had fallen to their raking claws, their throats opened up, before the killers were despatched by the swords of their fellows. As Carathril stepped distastefully between the unconscious pleasure-seekers, he sheathed his sword and reached a hand out towards Prince Aeltherin.

  “Prince, you are wounded,” Carathril said gently. “Come with us and we will see that your injuries are tended to properly. Bel Shanaar wishes you no ill, only to help you.”

  “Bel Shanaar?” snarled the prince. “An upstart! Usurper! His judgement is that of the crows feasting on a rotted carcass. I curse him! May Nethu take him and cast him to the blackest chasm!”

  With a final effort, Aeltherin, hero of Mardal Vale and protector of Linthuin, pulled himself to his feet. With a contemptuous sneer upon his lips, the prince snatched up one of the bone braziers, spilling its fuming coals onto his robes. The diaphanous cloth ignited like tinder, quickly engulfing the prince in blue flames. The flames caught on the carpet as Aeltherin fell and soon the fire had leapt to the tapestries hanging upon the white walls.

  Running nimbly amidst the billowing smoke and deadly flames, Carathril and his company dragged to safety as many of the insensible cultists as they could, but the flames grew too intense and still a dozen elves lay helpless amidst the inferno. As one of his soldiers sought to go back into the hall, Carathril grabbed him by the arm.

  “It is too late, Aerenis,” Carathril said. “The fires will claim them. Perhaps they will now know the peace they were seeking.”

  ——

  The Phoenix King’s Court

  Majestic eagles circled overhead, their vast shadows flickering across the rough stone of the mountain pass. These were no ordinary birds of prey; they were great eagles, capable of seizing a mountain lion to devour, each wing twice an elf’s height in breadth. Carathril reined his steed to a halt and sat there for a moment, gazing up into the blue skies, watching the birds swoop and climb around the snowy peaks of the Annulii. The jingle of harnesses broke his reverie as his accompanying bodyguard, Aerenis, brought his mount to a stop beside him.

  The two elves were clad in blue woollen cloaks to guard against the cold of the high mountains, Carathril’s edged with golden thread as a symbol of his rank as captain. Each wore a skirt of light scale mail, split at the waist and hemmed with bleached leather, and wide belts decorated with gems and silver. Long white shields hung on their saddlebags, Carathril’s painted with the face of a roaring lion, Aerenis’ decorated with a single golden rune—sarathai, the symbol of defiance and unyielding defence. Both of the riders wore the tall helms favoured by elven warriors across all of the kingdoms, Carathril’s decorated with the lion crest of his family, Aerenis’ plain but for the azure plume of a single feather.

  They carried leaf-bladed spears and long recurved bows in their saddle packs, and each carried a quiver of white-fletched arrows. Fortunately, they had not had reason to wield such wargear, for their passage had been uneventful.

  Despite the seeming tranquillity of the pass neither elf was relaxed. They were crossing through the highest range of the Annulii, where the magical vortex of Ulthuan drew a ring of mystical energy through the mountains. Here magic infused the air and ground; it pulsed and ebbed around the two elves with a barely felt quiver of power. Carathril and Aerenis, attuned to the mystical breezes and flows of the world, unconsciously sensed its presence and strength.

  Other creatures were drawn here also, grown large on the unnatural energy like the eagles, but of an entirely less friendly nature. Griffons, with the bodies of massive lions and the heads and wings of giant birds, made their lairs in the mountaintops, while gigantic serpents and bizarre cockatrices lurked in the caves and gulleys swept by the magical winds.

  The lieutenant’s eyes glimmered from the darkness of his visor as he looked at Carathril.

  “Captain?” Aerenis spoke quietly, shielding his eyes against the sun as he followed his captain’s gaze. “What troubles you?”

  “It is nothing,” Carathril assured his second-in-command. “Just a passing fancy, a whim.”

  “How so?” asked Aerenis.

  “Nothing disturbs them, the great eagles, that is,” Carathril said quietly. “They eat, and they breed, and they raise their chicks, far removed from our woes. Such freedom, to soar and to hunt, unfettered by anguish or strife. You know, they say that the mages in Saphery can transform themselves into doves or hawks.”

  “You would glide upon the breeze as a bird?” Aerenis sounded dubious. Carathril was not known for poetic flights of fantasy. “They say a lot of things about those Sapherians, and they are a strange folk that is for sure. But I doubt that they co
uld transform themselves into a bird. Magic does not work so simply, or so I believe. Anyway, why would you want to be a bird? You are not carefree and capricious. What of your duty to Lothern, and your pledge to the Phoenix King? Do these things not give you solace in these dark times?”

  “They do, for sure,” said Carathril, turning to Aerenis with a grim smile. “And with that in mind, we should be on our way to bear tidings to King Bel Shanaar.”

  Carathril and Aerenis rode down the winding path of the pass, their horses delicately picking their way along a narrow path of grey cobbles as the valley narrowed into a defile no more than a stone’s throw wide. The light of the morning sun had not yet breached the canyon tops, and they plunged into cool shadow.

  Above them, the air danced and shimmered and a faint magical aurora played about the barely visible mountain peaks. Occasionally the distant silhouette of an eagle would pass overhead. The rock here was pale and broken, and tumbles of scree and pebbles littered the crevasse floor, so that the two elves were forced to ride slowly, their steeds picking their way carefully between the patches of debris. Scattered whitethistle bushes clung to life under rocky overhangs, the last few brilliant blooms still opening their petals, the first deep red berries bursting into colour on slender, thorned stems. Here and there thin trickles of meltwater from the higher slopes meandered across the path.

  Silence descended, broken only by the occasional sighing of the wind across the rocks. They rode on without word for some time, each elf alone with his thoughts. To Carathril’s familiar eye, Aerenis seemed distant, perturbed. He rode with a tenseness the guard captain had not seen before.

  “Dark thoughts?” Carathril asked, reining his steed across the path to ride alongside his lieutenant. “The events at the prince’s manse disturb you.”

  “They do,” admitted Aerenis.

  “I am sorry we could not save them all,” Carathril said, guessing his companion’s guilt.

  “It is more than that,” Aerenis replied. “Before you pulled me back, I recognised a face I knew. A friend of my sister, Glarionelle, she was there.”

  “The flames were too strong, you could not have rescued her.” Carathril said, leaning across to place a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “That I know,” Aerenis said with a nod. He turned his face skywards and spoke as if to himself. “Though it grieves me it is not the cause of my pain. Why was she there at all? She always seemed so full of life when I saw her. Her laughter came fast and lasted long. What drove her to seek the solace of the forbidden gods?”

  Aerenis closed his eyes for a moment and then turned his gaze on Carathril, his dark blue eyes moist with tears.

  “How could someone so fair have fallen to such depths?” Carathril did not reply immediately, but thought for a moment, choosing his words. There was little comfort he could offer Aerenis, for he could not begin to understand his suffering. Carathril was the last of his family, his forefathers had died fighting the daemons and he was without wife or heir. Since the fall of Aenarion only duty and discipline had filled his heart.

  “I do not know,” he said, removing his hand and brushing a lock of silver hair from his face. “Perhaps it was curiosity that lured her, and then passion that kept her snared. I have heard tales, no more than rumours, that not all go to such gatherings willingly. Some are fooled by the coven leaders, others forcibly taken from their homes, drugged and abducted. Those who might have the answers you seek are now dead, for good or ill. Find solace in the fact that we saved some, even if we could not save them all.”

  “You are a strong leader and a wise counsellor,” said Aerenis with a rueful smile, meeting Carathril’s gaze. A sombre expression replaced the smile and Aerenis glanced away. “Perhaps it should have been you and not Aeltherin who was prince.”

  Carathril laughed with genuine amusement and Aerenis shot him a shocked glance.

  “What do you find so amusing?” demanded Aerenis with a frown.

  “The blood of princes does not run in my veins,” Carathril explained. “My father and grandfather did not draw weapons alongside Aenarion, they were not warrior-princes fit to rule these lands. For all my station, for all my swordcraft and authority, I am content to be a servant, for I am the son of farmers, not fighters. While Aenarion and the princes fought, my family sheltered behind their blades, thankful for the protection of their betters. They were slain in fields of corn, not upon fields of blood. I do not feel ashamed, for no matter how mighty a prince becomes, he still needs water to drink and bread to eat. I believe that life and destiny finds a place for us all, and that is a comfort to me.”

  “Well, let us hope life has beds for us in Tor Anroc this night!” joked Aerenis, eager to lighten the mood.

  Carathril gave his lieutenant a playful shove.

  “And one of those golden-haired Tiranoc maidens to warm it for you, no doubt!”

  Their laughter echoed along the defile, sending a flock of birds darting into the darkening skies.

  The autumnal sun was low on the horizon as Carathril and Aerenis rode through the long grass of Tiranoc. Their descent from Eagle Pass had been swift and they had made good time over the last two days. Once out of the mountains they had allowed their horses full rein and galloped swiftly over the many miles, glad to be lost in a blur of meadows and woodlands.

  In Tiranoc, as in all of the Outer Kingdoms, the weather was colder than that of the inner realms, being more exposed to the sea winds than those lands within the circle of the Annulii. Still, the sun had been warm enough to make the ride pleasant for Aerenis and Carathril, and in each other’s company they had passed many miles in constant yet trivial conversation.

  Ahead, no more than two leagues distant, the city of Tor Anroc rose from upon a white-stoned hill, bathed in the setting sun. About the foothills of the mount clustered white buildings roofed with red tiles, nestled amongst freshly tilled fields, and thin smoke drifted from the farm chimneys. Orange and pink in the dusk light, the foundations of Tor Anroc towered above the plain, and two great roads curved away to the left and right, spiralling around the hilltop to the summit.

  From high walls, the blue and yellow flags of Tiranoc hung limply on their banner poles, barely stirred by the still evening air. Towers and citadels carved from the white rock broke above the curving crenellations of the curtain wall, but these in turn were dwarfed by a central spire that pierced the twilight like a shining needle.

  Heartened by the closeness of their destination, Carathril and Aerenis guided their steeds into a gentle trot and forged through the wild meadows; before long they came upon a roadway, flagged with hexagonal red tiles, which cut straight as an arrow towards the city.

  Ahead lay walled orchards, where rows of apple and cherry trees clung stubbornly to their golden and red leaves. The harvest had passed and the fields were quiet, peacefully descending into their winter sleep behind hedges of callow flower and kingwood. They had left behind the livestock pastures in the foothills, where shepherds and goatherds had been moving their flocks down from the higher slopes. Soon the droving would begin and the herds would be brought to the markets of the towns surrounding Tor Anroc, and eventually to the capital itself.

  The proximity of the city changed the landscape, just as a great tree might dominate a patch of woods or an island break the flow of a river. Here the farms were protected by high walls of white stone, and stood along the road behind gates of silver and gold.

  Further back, away from the turnpike and reached only by meandering trails across the fields, stood tall mansions with many-roofed halls and slender towers. Here the nobles of Tiranoc lived in the summer, away from the city. Now only a handful trailed grey smoke from their chimneys; most of Tiranoc’s princes had retired back to their city homes to the warmth of open fires, the excitement of winter balls and the intrigue of court life in Tor Anroc. Their horses’ hooves clattering on the road, the riders made good speed and the sun was still loitering in the western sky as they rode i
nto the shadow of the high rock of the city.

  A great gatehouse barred the road, a bastion upon a wall twice the height of an elf that arched backwards into the mount itself, all carved from the naked rock. Two pale towers flanked the roadway, devoid of openings except for high arrow slits that looked upon every approach. On each of the flat tower tops stood a bolt thrower, mounted upon an assembly of bars and thin ropes so that that they could be swung with ease in any direction.

  The golden gate of Tor Anroc lay open, but passage was barred by two chariots, stood side-by-side. Their fronts were carved in the likenesses of eagles and golden wings swept back to form their sides. Two pale grey horses stood motionless in front of each, bound by black leather harnesses; upon the back of each chariot stood two stern warriors, one with a long silvered spear, the other with bow bent and arrow nocked. The sentries watched cautiously as Carathril and Aerenis slowed their mounts to a walk and approached, hands held out from their sides.

  “Who approaches Tor Anroc, city of Tiranoc, seat of the Phoenix King?” the spearman on the left called out.

  “Captain Carathril of Lothern, bearing missives for his majesty Bel Shanaar,” Aerenis replied as the two halted a dozen paces from the gateway. “And I, his aide, Aerenis, lieutenant of Lothern.”

  “Come, Firuthal, why such caution?” Carathril called out as he dismounted. The spearman stepped down from the back of his chariot and approached; his face was grim.

  “It is not for me to say, friend,” Firuthal said, extending a hand in greeting, which Carathril gripped firmly. “The guard is doubled on the orders of Bel Shanaar. We are told to patrol the roads and borders, to keep watch for strangers. It is not my place to question our commands.”

  “But I am no stranger,” Carathril said, turning and waving Aerenis to join him. “I bring important news for the Phoenix King, and then perhaps when your watch is complete we can share a jug of wine and speak more freely.”