He knew the answer, and his heart sank with the knowledge that he could never reach the minds of the dragons. The world was dying, and the magic of Ulthuan faded with every passing moment the druchii stood upon its soil.
The heat of the cavern enfolded him, yet Imrik felt only the cold of the grave.
Though he knew it would eventually kill him, Imrik began the dragonsong once more.
The castle at the heart of Tor Elyr had been built by the first horsemasters of Ellyrion, and was the ancestral dwelling place of the city’s master. Such was its age that no difference could be seen in the stone of its walls and the rock upon which it was built. As though its alabaster walls had grown from the island, the castle soared gracefully from the water like a linked series of stalagmites carved in glistening marble and polished quartz. Its many towers were studded with windows and roofed in gold, but it was in the chamber at the castle’s heart where Lord Swiftwing gathered his most trusted warriors for councils of war.
Known as the Reaver Hall, its walls were fashioned from cream marble threaded with gold veins, and its icy rafters were hung with ancient and colourful banners depicting galloping horses, proud manes and crossed lances. Many of these were from the time of Caledor the Conqueror, and one was even said to have been borne alongside Caradryel as he ordered the last retreat from the Old World.
It never failed to move Lord Swiftwing whenever he came here, for it was a potent reminder of the long and faithful service of Ellyrion to the Phoenix Throne. His own banner bore the image of a rearing silver horse upon a crimson field. That banner still had pride of place above his starwood throne, which sat at the head of a long oval table that filled the bulk of the chamber, but never more would Casadesus bear it into battle.
He smiled as his earlier reflections on the nature of time returned to him.
A lifeline had been thrown to the warriors of Tor Elyr this day.
And not just one.
Less than an hour after Lord Éadaoin and his brother had brought the Great Herd to Ellyrion, a silver-hulled vessel had emerged from the mists at the mouth of the bay and docked with the great castle at the centre of Tor Elyr. None of the sentries had spotted the vessel, but upon seeing the silvery moon emblazoned upon the vessel’s sail, Lord Swiftwing understood how such a vessel could have escaped detection.
The ship had sailed from Saphery, and many of its passengers were mages of that enchanted kingdom. In the space of a single day, Tor Elyr had been blessed by the arrival of enough horses to mount whole companies of the citizen levy, and a convocation of mages powerful enough to lay waste to any enemy that dared attack the city.
Galadrien Stormweaver stood at the head of the table with his most experienced Reaver Knights close to him, as the commanders of horse he had appointed took their seats. As nobles and bringers of the Great Herd, Lord Swiftwing had graciously allowed the brothers Éadaoin to attend this meeting.
As the masters of the Sapherian mages entered the hall, Lord Swiftwing immediately knew that had been a mistake.
The mage known as Anurion the Green blanched at the sight of Caelir Éadaoin, and Lord Swiftwing felt the powerful build up of magic. Clad in an emerald robe tied at the waist with a belt of woven ferns, Anurion’s eyes flashed with hostility and his hand snatched at the silver pendant around his neck.
“You!” he cried, and everyone in the hall staggered under the force of his words. Killing fire leapt to life around Anurion’s hands, and the lethal taste of warmagic filled the air in the Reaver Hall with an actinic flavour like the aftermath of an Annulii lightning storm.
Lord Swiftwing’s knights reached for their swords, but he stopped them with a gesture, knowing it would be suicidal to intervene when such powerful magic was involved. The other warriors in the hall rose from their seats in alarm, but took their lead from Lord Swiftwing and did not intervene.
The elf next to Anurion, a tall, distinguished mage in a cobalt blue robe, named Mitherion Silverfawn, put a hand on Anurion’s shoulder, but it was angrily shrugged off.
Caelir Éadaoin stood, and Lord Swiftwing saw the terrible guilt etched on his face. The boy’s brother stood, but Caelir shook his head and he sat back down.
“Anurion,” said Silverfawn. “Control yourself.”
“He killed my daughter,” said Anurion, tears of sorrow spilling down his face.
“No,” said Mitherion. “Not him. He was an innocent victim of the Hag Sorceress.”
“It was him,” wept Anurion. “I saw Kyrielle die, Mitherion. I saw my daughter die.”
Caelir moved around the table, taking measured steps towards Anurion the Green, and Lord Swiftwing held his breath. The tension was almost unbearable, for the proximity of such bellicose magic surged through every warrior’s veins like the first moments of battle.
“Master Anurion,” said Caelir, bowing to the powerful mage. “You have every reason to hate me, and I would not blame you if you were to kill me. Isha knows I took your daughter from you after she was kind enough to welcome me into your home. You gave me shelter and tried to help me. I repaid you with betrayal, and for that I am truly sorry.”
Anurion took a step towards Caelir, and the deadly fire wreathing his hands shone from the marble walls of the Reaver Hall. Lord Swiftwing saw Galadrien Stormweaver ease his sword from its sheath and shook his head firmly. The sword emerged no further from the sheath, but neither was it replaced.
“She was the light of my life,” said Anurion. “Of all the wonders in my life, none was brighter and more beautiful than her. And you ended her…”
Caelir nodded and said, “I understand, and I share your pain. Not a day has passed since that moment I do not think of Kyrielle and the light I took from you and Ulthuan. I am truly sorry for what happened, but I swear I knew nothing of the darkness within me.”
“The boy speaks the truth, Anurion,” said Mitherion. “You heard Teclis say the same thing.”
“When she died I swore I would destroy you,” said Anurion, placing his hand on Caelir’s chest. “I dreamed of killing you every day.”
“If that is what you wish, then I will not stop you,” said Caelir.
As though in response, the wooden floor buckled and warped as new buds sprouted from the living wood and swelled upwards with surging growth. Pulsing tendrils of sapwood writhed like kraken tentacles as they wrapped themselves around Caelir’s legs. Upwards they climbed, enveloping his torso and upper body, and Lord Swiftwing knew that they could crush Caelir Éadaoin to death in an instant.
“I loved her so much,” said Anurion, as the sweet-smelling branches tightened on Caelir’s body. “You took everything she had and everything she was going to do. Ulthuan is the poorer for her absence.”
Caelir nodded and said, “I loved her too, and could never have knowingly hurt her. But do with me as you will, Master Anurion. You deserve your vengeance.”
Anurion’s fist clenched and Lord Swiftwing felt sure he would do as Caelir Éadaoin bid. Slowly his fingers uncurled, and he lowered his hand. The roots holding Caelir released their grip, the incredible growth reversing as suddenly as it had begun until no trace remained that they had existed at all.
“Kyrielle would never forgive me,” he said as the last of the magic faded. “I know it was the crone of Naggaroth who killed my daughter, but it is painful for me to look upon your face, Caelir Éadaoin.”
“I understand,” said Caelir.
Mitherion Silverfawn eased Caelir away from the grieving mage, and led him back to where his brother sat. The mage spoke quietly to the Éadaoin brothers, and Lord Swiftwing saw there was clearly some connection between them as they embraced with the sadness of grieving relatives instead of friends.
Anurion the Green took a seat at the table and folded his arms. Lord Swiftwing let out a relieved breath and waved everyone in the hall back to their seats. He blinked the last remnants of Anurion’s magic from his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. He winced in expectation of pain, but none came, and he smi
led at such an unexpected boon.
“Now that we are all friends again, I suggest we turn our attention to the coming war with the druchii,” said Lord Swiftwing. “Unless there are any more dramatic reunions to be had.”
The horseman Eldain and Caelir had met on the Aerie’s Path began the council of war, telling of Morathi’s host and the fall of the Eagle Gate. Eldain listened in disbelief as Menethis told of how the men in thrall to the Dark Gods had hurled themselves at the wall, letting themselves be cut down by the defenders while the druchii watched. Whether it was a lingering after-effect of Anurion’s magic or simply the power of Menethis’ retelling, but Eldain found himself caught up in the emotion of his tale. He soared as the fortress repulsed wave after wave of attackers, and despaired as he heard again of the treachery of the vile Alathenar that saw Glorien Truecrown slain.
Lord Swiftwing’s general, an angular-featured warrior known as Galadrien Stormweaver demanded specifics on the enemy from Menethis: numbers, dispositions, weaponry, order of battle, discipline and a host of other morsels of information. Eldain took an instant dislike to Stormweaver. His manner of questioning left Eldain in no doubt that he viewed Menethis as a coward for not dying at the Eagle Gate, as though the senseless loss of elven life in so futile a gesture would have been better than their survival.
Menethis answered Stormweaver’s increasingly belligerent questions in calm, measured tones that spoke of a warrior in love with the logistics of war.
In a pause between questions, Eldain leaned over the table and said, “How many warriors do you have at Tor Elyr, General Stormweaver?”
The warrior looked over, his irritation at being interrupted plain.
“A little over eight thousand, Lord Éadaoin,” said Stormweaver, and Eldain did not miss the emphasis the warrior put on his title.
“And how many of them have seen battle?”
“Perhaps a third.”
“A third? Then it seems to me that you would do well to be less antagonistic to the warrior who commands three hundred veterans. Spreading his warriors throughout your force will help steady those that are yet to be blooded.”
Stormweaver glared at Eldain. “You think to teach me how to wage war? I am a general in the army of Tor Elyr!”
“And I have led warriors into the heart of Naggaroth,” said Eldain. “Have you?”
Stormweaver did not answer, and it was Lord Swiftwing who spoke next.
“Lord Éadaoin,” he said, “I am grateful to you and your brother for bringing us the Great Herd, but had I known how volatile a presence you would prove to be, I might have thought twice before allowing you to join this council of war.”
“I apologise, my lord,” said Eldain.
“Now you, Stormweaver,” said Lord Swiftwing.
The general nodded and gave a curt bow of the head. “I apologise, Lord Éadaoin.”
“Now is there anyone else who needs to vent before we return to the business of defending these lands? No? Good. Now, Casadesus, the map if you please.”
The robed elf who had stood silently at Lord Swiftwing’s shoulder stepped forward and unrolled a long map of Ellyrion. It was a work of beauty, each river, hill, forest and village picked out with the care of an artist who knew his work would endure for centuries to come.
Eldain smiled as he saw Ellyr-Charoi rendered in loving detail, captured perfectly by someone who had clearly visited the lands around the villa. He felt a pang of homesickness at the sight of his villa as Lord Swiftwing addressed the gathered warriors and mages.
“Our enemy has the initiative for now, and that offends me,” said the lord of Tor Elyr. “As an Ellyrian and a Reaver Knight, I understand how vital it is to keep the enemy off balance. Under normal circumstances, we would have harried the druchii all the way from Eagle Pass, but these are not normal circumstances. Stormweaver, what do your scouts tell you about the enemy’s movement? How soon will they get here?”
“Tomorrow. Dusk at the earliest,” said Stormweaver.
“Then we still have time,” said Lord Swiftwing, turning to Menethis of Lothern. “I want you to take your riders and give the druchii a bloody nose. Jab and cut them, but keep out of their reach. Stall their advance and let them know that we will give them a fight they will not soon forget.”
“My lord,” began Menethis. “My warriors are exhausted. They need rest and—”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Swiftwing. “They need a victory. Their spirits are stained with the loss of the Eagle Gate, and you need to wash it away in druchii blood. Restore their honour, Menethis, and they will fight all the harder when battle is joined on the fields of Tor Elyr.”
“It will be done, my lord,” Menethis assured him, and Eldain saw the great warrior Lord Swiftwing had once been as he turned his attention to the mages across the table.
“Master Silverfawn, tell me what you bring to this fight, and I warn you I have no time to indulge in any lengthy digressions. I know how you mages love the sound of your own voices, so be swift and clear in your answer.”
Mitherion Silverfawn rose and nodded to the assembled gathering.
“Loremaster Teclis sent us to you with a company of Sword Masters and forty mages,” said Mitherion. “Mages whose specialisations are in the realms of air and earth.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Galadrien Stormweaver.
“It means that we can summon mists to conceal our attacks and confound their crossbowmen,” snapped Anurion the Green. “It means we can bring forth walls of spikethorns to entangle their warriors as we make their flesh irresistible to every arrowhead on the battlefield. It means we can help defend this city. What more do you wish to know?”
“We can also counter the sorceries of Morathi,” cut in Mitherion smoothly. “The Hag Sorceress possesses a mastery of the dark arts beyond any other living being. Without our help she will freeze the blood in your veins, conjure your worst fears and make them real or drag your soul screaming into the Chaos Hells.”
“Must you work together to do this, or can you spread yourselves throughout the army?” asked Lord Swiftwing.
“It will be best if we spread our presence, with each mage accompanied by his Sword Masters,” said Anurion. “The mages of Saphery fight not with blade or spear, but the flames of Asuryan. Wherever we fight, we will rain that fire down on the druchii.”
Lord Swiftwing nodded and turned to Eldain and said, “You say you led an expedition to Naggaroth, Lord Éadaoin?”
“I did,” confirmed Eldain without looking at Caelir. “My brother and I led a raiding force to Clar Karond and burned the druchii shipyards to the ground. We toppled one of their floating castles and then… then we made our escape.”
“Then you will lead a detachment of my Reavers,” said Lord Swiftwing. “I will give you command of a hundred of my bravest knights. When the druchii arrive before my city, I want you tearing at their flanks. Make them fear to take so much as a single step forward.”
“My lord, you can count on me,” said Eldain.
“And you, Caelir Éadaoin?” asked Lord Swiftwing. “Will you fight in Tor Elyr’s army?”
Caelir rose to his feet and placed a hand on his heart. “It will be my honour.”
BOOK TWO
SACRIFICES
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BATTLELINES
The sea in the Straits of Lothern was troubled, churned to white foam at the base of the cliffs that formed its sheer sides. Captain Finlain of Finubar’s Pride gripped the gunwale of his ship and craned his neck to look up at the escarpments either side of his vessel. The tops were lost to him, hidden by low clouds that were emptying their cargo of rain over the fleet that bobbed and jostled in the swells that made for a treacherous sea.
Finlain stared at the wreck of an elven warship near the mouth of the straits, its sunken remains hauled to the surface atop a rocky outcrop pushed up from the depths. He wondered which ship it was, and what, if any, omen could be read in why it had chosen this day to r
ise to the surface. The ship’s prow was garlanded with seaweed, and the name carved into the hull was impossible to read, but Finlain felt a profound desire to learn its identity for fear that his own vessel might share its fate.
Twenty ships were all that remained of the once-proud asur fleet that had sailed out to meet the druchii in battle before the Emerald Gate. Spread across the straits, they formed a thin silver line of warships with the Mist Maiden at its centre. A navy blue sail emblazoned with a stooping hawk was furled to the mast of Lord Aislin’s golden, eagle-prowed flagship, and its many banks of rowers had their oars pulled in hard to the hull.
Many of Aislin’s fleet still bore the scars of battle, and Finubar’s Pride was no different. Her silver prow was burned black in patches, and her armoured hull was splintered where scores of crossbow bolts had struck.
Finlain still had nightmares of that battle, recalling the terrible sight of Malekith himself dropping from the thunderous skies on the back of his black dragon to rip the masts from foundering vessels. Finlain took a measure of comfort in knowing that the Witch King would not dare fly his dragon within the straits. High above the warships of the asur, tier upon tier of fortifications cunningly wrought into the rock of the cliffs ran the length of the straits, making it a death trap of Eagle’s Claws and archers.
Nor were these defences the only danger an attacker must face.
Sandbars rose and fell throughout the channel in unpredictable ways, tides might change in a heartbeat or winds that had been gentle could suddenly rise to become dangerously unpredictable squalls and dash a ship against the cliffs. All of which made navigation hazardous for even experienced captains. Finlain had sailed these waters for decades, but knew better than to take their good graces for granted. Many an arrogant captain had found out the hard way that the waters of Ulthuan were capricious and punished those who sailed without the proper respect for the sea.
[Ulthuan 02] - Sons of Ellyrion Page 16