“And what of it?” asked Eldain.
“They will be footsoldiers,” said Caelir. “If we are to have an advantage in Ellyrion, they must fight on horseback.”
“There will not be enough horses left in Tor Elyr to mount enough of them to make a difference,” pointed out Eldain.
“I know, but there are more than enough on the Ellyrian steppes,” said Caelir. “Eldain, we have to gather the Great Herd.”
“I know of this Great Herd,” said Menethis, “but I was led to believe that no one can say for sure when it will gather, and we do not have time to wait. The druchii will be at the gates of Tor Elyr within days.”
“That is indeed true, Menethis,” said Eldain, though his heart beat faster in his chest at the idea of gathering the Great Herd. “But this is our land and I know the steeds of Ellyrion will heed our call.”
Menethis saw the determination in their faces and said, “Then I beg you, gather as many as you can and ride to Tor Elyr. I will see you there, and pray to Isha and Asuryan that the stories of your people are true.”
Caelir tugged at Irenya’s reins and rode off to the northwest with a wild yell, and Eldain could not resist a flourish of showmanship as Lotharin reared up and pawed the air with his forelegs.
“Farewell, Menethis of Lothern!” he cried, turning his horse to ride after Caelir. “In two days I will see you in Tor Elyr. And we will have all the herds of Ellyrion at our backs!”
The upper reaches of the Tower of Hoeth were being rebuilt. Priests of Vaul shaped stone from the Annulii, and the mages in service to Hothar the Fey lifted them into the air on magical currents. At the top of the tower they were set with such precision that none but a master mason could spot the joints between them.
Already the walls destroyed in the aftermath of Caelir’s unwitting attack had been raised, and shipwrights from Cothique were singing songs to shape the heartwood beams of the roof. Teclis turned his scarred face to the circle of sky above him, letting the flavoursome tang of woodsap carried on magical currents fill his senses.
He stood with the support of his moon-topped staff, his body not yet healed from the damage done to it in the recent attack. A gift from the Everqueen, the staff was a conduit to the healing magic of Ulthuan, but Teclis had found himself relying on restorative potions brewed by the light of the moons more and more often. Healer-mages had done their best to alleviate the pain, but their power was wholly inadequate to restore him to health.
That Teclis lived at all was little short of a miracle, for the terrible energies unleashed had been at the limits of control, and only magic beyond the reach of any save the mages of old could completely undo the damage. Many others would never get the chance to heal: mages, Sword Masters and Kyrielle Greenkin, daughter of Anurion the Green. The darkness hidden within Caelir by the Hag Sorceress had consumed her utterly, using her innocence as fuel for its destruction.
“How like Morathi to twist purity into a weapon,” he whispered, as a measure of guilt for Kyrielle’s death settled upon him. Her father remained at the Tower of Hoeth, channelling all his energies into aiding the priests of Vaul in their war-magic, accelerating the growth of arrow shafts that were as straight as sunlight to be fitted with enchanted arrowheads that could pierce even the thickest armour. Anurion grew spear shafts that would seek out an enemy’s flesh in forests around the tower, and shaped bowstaves of golden heartwood for the citizen militias of Saphery.
Teclis could understand such industry, knowing it was always better to avenge a loss with positive action instead of wallowing in grief. Anurion would not rest until the druchii were cast from Ulthuan, but the true measure of his character would come when the war was over. Teclis knew that vengeance was a poor motive for action, but in times such as these, it was more common than any other.
Once more he cursed his obsessive need to know everything, to understand the workings of the universe and all its complexities. Morathi had known he would not be able to resist plumbing the depths of Caelir’s mind and unlocking the barriers within.
But just as Morathi knew Teclis, so too did he know her.
The Witch King would be content simply to destroy the asur, but so mundane a thing as annihilation would not satisfy Morathi. No, her ambitions went beyond simple conquest into the realms of madness.
She wanted more, and Teclis had an idea what that might be.
He drew on the power of his staff and sent his mage-sight over the landscape of Saphery, swooping low over the ravaged landscape around the tower. He rose into the sky, passing through the clouds and pulling away from the world below. Teclis found peace here, a refuge from the pain of his weakened flesh, and a measure of calm that could only be achieved without the pull of flesh to intrude.
Much of his recovery had been spent in such fugue states, his consciousness divorced from his body and roaming the land on the currents of magic that flowed around Ulthuan. He had seen the bolt that killed Glorien Truecrown, and watched as his twin pulled the elven forces back from the shoulder fortresses at the Emerald Gate.
Druchii ships now roamed the mouth of the Straits of Lothern, but they did not yet dare to push on the Sapphire Gate. The floating mountain that housed an army of druchii lurked somewhere off the southern coast of Ulthuan, but even Teclis could not penetrate the cloaking shadows that concealed it.
An enemy army now bore down on the defenders of Ellyrion, and it was only a matter of time until the warriors at Lothern were under full attack. Teclis let the currents of magic carry him into the north, hoping to learn more of the Everqueen’s plans. A wall of mist and magic shimmered at the borders of Avelorn and not even he would risk attempting to scry beyond its boundaries.
Teclis opened his eyes and let the full weight of his body return as his spirit-self settled back in his bones. Never had Ulthuan needed him more, and he was weaker than at any other time in his life.
“Why must we always face such times at our worst?” he whispered.
“Because war never comes when your enemy knows you are strong,” said the voice of Loremaster Belannaer. Teclis smiled to hear his old master.
“Always the teacher, my friend,” said Teclis.
“You may have surpassed me in ability, but you will never surpass me in age and hoary wisdom.”
Teclis turned and gave a short bow, acknowledging the venerable Loremaster’s words. Swathed in a glittering robe that shimmered with captured starlight, Belannaer wore his long white hair unbound by circlet or helm, and his long face was old even among a race that lived on the edge of immortality. Belannaer had worked his enchantments when Bel-Hathor ruled the asur, and only Teclis had a greater understanding of the workings of magic.
Two other mages stood with Belannaer, Anurion the Green and Mitherion Silverfawn—father of Rhianna Silverfawn. Both were drawn and tired looking after many weeks of imbuing weapons and armour with war-magic. Four Sword Masters accompanied them, for no mage of Saphery walked unescorted now. Their presence helped Teclis settle back into his flesh, for they were elves firmly rooted in the physical world.
“My friends,” said Teclis. “It is good to see you.”
“And you, Teclis,” said Mitherion Silverfawn. “You are looking better every day.”
“And you are a rogue, Master Silverfawn,” said Teclis, moving to sit on the padded litter that had been his sickbed since the attack. “I am weary and heartsick, but I appreciate the sentiment. How does your work proceed?”
“It progresses, Warden,” said Mitherion. “I have studied the celestial movements closely, and, well, the signs are not good.”
“Elaborate, please.”
Mitherion retrieved a series of scrolls from the Sword Master behind him and unrolled the largest on a table already piled haphazardly with heavy books, hourglasses, moonstones and empty glass vials. Teclis limped over and studied the astronomical chart, its midnight blue surface covered in arcing silver orbits, geometric patterns and intersecting lines. Teclis knew enough to know that he
was looking at a map of the heavens, but so cluttered was it with Mitherion’s notes, observations and postulations that it was next to impossible to read.
“Damn you, Mitherion,” said Anurion, scanning the map. “This is unreadable.”
“There’s a system, Anurion,” said Mitherion. “You just need to know the system. It’s really quite simple.”
“Then how is it that only you know it?” demanded Anurion, his tolerance for Mitherion’s eccentricities wearing thin.
“Because no one else has the patience to learn it,” snapped Mitherion. “Now, if I may continue?”
Teclis nodded and Mitherion traced a slender finger over a curving line that arced across the page to intersect with a number of other lines, some geometric, some arrow-straight and others curved.
“The stars move strangely, Warden,” said Mitherion. “The Chaos moon passes close to our world and introduces many variables of incalculable complexity into any equation. Which means any conclusion drawn from such equations must be viewed with a degree of uncertainty.”
“In other words, nothing you say can be trusted to be accurate?” said Anurion.
“Not as such,” said Mitherion, ignoring Anurion’s hostility. “I can read the patterns of the stars and offer insight into aspects of the world. But any prediction, no matter how apparently certain it might be, is always subject to the vagaries of chance.”
“What have you learned?” asked Teclis, forestalling another comment from Anurion.
“The stars are not right,” said Mitherion.
“Not right?” asked Belannaer. “What does that mean?”
Mitherion tapped the map and said, “In every path of the future I have followed, the stars move out of alignment with the routes they currently trace across the sky.”
“What could cause that?” asked Anurion.
“Only one thing I can think of,” said Mitherion.
“Well don’t keep us in suspense,” demanded Anurion. “What?”
“The only way we would be seeing an effect like this would be if our world were no longer following the same course it is now,” said Mitherion. “You must understand that even a tiny shift in this world’s path would be catastrophic. Depending on whether we are carried closer or farther from the sun, our world could be doomed to an eternal ice age or every living thing might be burned from its surface.”
“What could cause the world to shift like that?” asked Belannaer.
“A vast outpouring of magic,” said Teclis.
“That is what I thought at first,” agreed Mitherion, “but there is no magicker on this world capable of wielding such power. Not even the lizard lords in their jungle temples can cast magic that powerful. It must be something else.”
“I believe I know what is powerful enough to throw our world out of its proper place in the heavens,” said Teclis, bowing his head and sighing deeply. “I had hoped I might be wrong, but I believe your calculations have confirmed my worst fear, Master Silverfawn.”
Belannaer moved to stand beside Teclis and put a hand on his shoulder.
“She would not dare, Teclis,” said the ancient Loremaster. “Caledor would know of it and he will not allow his great work to be undone.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed Teclis. “But five millennia have passed since those days. Who can say what remains of Caledor and his convocation? Morathi is cunning beyond measure, and she has had a long time to find a way to hide her presence from his mage-sight. We can afford to take nothing for granted.”
“Isha preserve us,” hissed Anurion as he grasped the horrific scale of the threat to Ulthuan and the world.
Teclis looked up and the weakness that had plagued him earlier returned with greater potency. He sagged against the table, and but for the hand of Belannaer and Mitherion, he would have fallen to the floor. They carried him to his litter and laid him upon it.
He tried to muster a smile to allay their fears, but saw they were unconvinced.
“In the days to come, the armies of the asur will have need of our powers,” he said. “I cannot take to the field of battle, so you must lead my mages and Sword Masters to war. I regret that I must ask even you, Belannaer, to take up the blade of Bel-Korhadris one last time.”
“It will be my honour to fight for Ulthuan, Teclis,” said Belannaer. “I always knew there would be one last challenge ahead of me before I might find my peace.”
“Lead the mages of fire and water to Lothern,” said Teclis. “Counsel Tyrion and Finubar, for they are warriors and are ruled by the heart. They will have need of your wisdom in the dark days to come, Tyrion especially…”
Teclis turned to Anurion and Mitherion. “My friends, you must take the mages of sky and earth to Ellyrion. Morathi herself leads a host of dark warriors from the mountains, and she must be stopped before the walls of Tor Elyr, whatever the cost may be.”
A shadow passed over Teclis’ features, and his gaze fell upon the celestial map belonging to Mitherion Silverfawn. “And I fear it will be a bitter cost to bear.”
They chased the sun as it edged across the vastness of the sky, angling their course towards the rivers that flowed from the Annulii to the Inner Sea. The herds roamed freely over the wide steppes of Ellyrion, but Eldain knew they would not stray too far from water. He rode Lotharin hard, letting the horse have its head as it stretched its muscles in a flat out run. Caelir galloped beside him, letting Irenya understand a measure of Lotharin’s strength.
She was an Ellyrian steed, haughty and proud, but she quickly grasped that she was not the equal of Lotharin. It felt good to ride the steppe, letting his mount choose their path, for he was bound to this land in ways Eldain would never understand, and knew where the leaders of the herds were likely to be found.
They rode past scattered villages, all now empty of elves, and isolated woods of larch and evergreens. The landscape felt empty, and the soft light of eternal summer spread an indolent blanket over the horizon. Heat haze rippled from the undulant hills of the middle distance and the gauzy cornfields of their surroundings.
Eldain could see no horses, and his heart sank at the prospect of finding none of the herds. He had proudly boasted that they would bring the Great Herd to Tor Elyr, but Ellyrion was silent, even the capering sprites and darting creatures of magic that haunted the hidden places of magic and mystery keeping far from sight.
He halted Lotharin at the top of a rounded hill, letting his mount catch his breath as Caelir and Irenya drew alongside.
“Where are the herds?” asked Caelir.
“They feel the coming of the druchii and are keeping to their secret watering holes,” said Eldain. “They know the dark kin will try to break them and force them to serve our enemies.”
“So how do we find them?”
Eldain considered the question. Even a warrior of Ellyrion could search the plains for a lifetime and never find the hidden ranges of the herds. Such places were known only to horsekind, and the first elves to settle in Ellyrion had always respected their privacy. It would be impossible to find the herds unless they wished to be found.
“We have to bring the herds out onto the plains,” said Eldain.
“And how do we do that, brother?”
Eldain looked out over the majestic sweep of Ellyrion, drinking in the wondrous vista before him like a tonic. His eyes lost their focus as his soul was drawn into the magnificence of this bounteous kingdom, feeling the heartbeat of its unchanging season as a slow warmth in his blood. The golden land stretched as far as the eye could see, a verdant paradise of bountiful fields, rolling plains and endless acres upon which to ride. Thick forests of evergreens shawled the foothills of the mountains to provide the herds with shade, rivers of fresh water fed their watering holes and the vast expanse of flat earth was their playground.
No finer land for horses existed in the world, as though the gods had crafted this land for the herds and not the asur.
“Brother?” said Caelir.
“The steeds of El
lyrion know this land better than the asur,” said Eldain, his voice soft and dreamlike. “It is through the land we will reach the herds.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we must ride!” shouted Eldain, standing tall in his saddle and galloping down the hillside. “Ride like the horse lords of old!”
Lotharin surged downhill, his long legs bunching and stretching as he thundered across the plains. Grassland and forest, hill and stream flashed past as he galloped faster and harder than ever before. Eldain hung on tight, letting the horse remember its heritage as a proud steed of Ellyrion.
Caelir and Irenya followed him, the mare galloping for all she was worth, and feeling the power of the land surging through her as she strove to keep up with Eldain and Lotharin. Eldain held tight to Lotharin’s mane, feeling the magic of Ulthuan in every pounding hoof beat and every sway and stretch of the horse’s back. This was what it meant to be an Ellyrian, to ride like the gods across the face of the world and feel the land respond.
Eldain risked a glance over at Caelir, and laughed as he saw his brother holding on for dear life, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure. No words needed to pass between them, for both understood that this was the ride of their lives. Even were they to die in the next few moments, neither would have any regrets.
Never had Eldain ridden so fast, not even when escaping the shipyards of Clar Karond. His hair whipped his face and his eyes watered in the wind as he leaned low over Lotharin’s neck. He whooped and yelled with a mixture of fear and excitement, knowing that at such speed, the slightest mistake would see him hurled from the saddle. An Ellyrian steed would never normally allow its rider to fall, but even Lotharin would not be able to save him were he to lose focus for even a second.
Ellyrion whipped past in a blur. Eldain had no idea where they were; fields, forest, rivers and hills flashing by in a golden-green blur. Lotharin eased into a sweeping curve, and Irenya came alongside, her eyes wide and ears pressed flat against her skull. Ellyrion responded to their wild ride, and the earth beneath the horses released its magic in a shimmer of starfire that billowed from the ground like mist. Eldain felt the power of his homeland in every breath, like taking in a lungful of cold air on a frosty morning.
02 - Sons of Ellyrion Page 14