02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Within the hour, Lord Aislin had mustered his surviving vessels and sailed out from the Sapphire Gate to meet the invaders. Twenty ships was not enough to defend these waters, and everyone aboard knew it. Today would see elven blood stain the sea red, and Finlain just hoped that none of it would belong to his vessel’s crew.

  “Not much of a fleet,” said Meruval, echoing Finlain’s unspoken thoughts while shielding his eyes from the rain. “At least Finubar’s Pride is still sailing. That’s got to count for something.”

  “We may not have the numbers,” replied Finlain, “but we have ships and crew worth ten times any druchii galley.”

  “True enough,” agreed Meruval, gripping the top edge of a kite-shield slotted home in the gunwale as a vicious wave broke against the hull. Water spilled onto the deck and the spray of salt water soaked into their cloaks.

  “Bad seas,” noted Meruval. “I miss Daelis. Isha’s tears, I never thought I’d say such a thing, but he knew his way around a whimsical seabed.”

  Finlain smiled. Daelis had been their mage-navigator, and though he had been hard to like, he had always steered them true in dangerous waters. A druchii crossbow bolt had taken his life off the coast of Tiranoc, and Finubar’s Pride had lost a valuable member of its crew.

  “Yes, he was a prickly character, but we could use him now.”

  “The water is in a foul mood,” said Meruval. “Not the kind of sea anyone should be sailing. One of the crew told me he dreamed of the Conqueror last night. He drowned at sea, you know.”

  “I know, Meruval,” said Finlain. “It was a bad end for a great king; but neither dreams, portents nor omens will stop us from venturing out today. Lord Aislin has decreed it, and I doubt even the Phoenix King could stop him.”

  Meruval leaned in close to Finlain. “You know it is madness to sail when the sea is acting up like this. Lord Aislin might not care, but I can see you agree with me. I’ve served with you long enough to know your thoughts, captain.”

  Finlain shook his head. “For the sake of morale aboard ship, I am going to pretend you did not speak such seditious words, Meruval. Lord Aislin has commanded that we sail, and that is the end of the matter. The druchii are massing their ships at the mouth of the straits, and it behoves us to show them that we will not yield these waters without a fight.”

  Meruval glanced over at the Mist Maiden, and Finlain saw that threats of disciplinary action were not going to dissuade him from speaking his mind. Under normal circumstances, Finlain valued Meruval’s plain speaking, but not today.

  “I understand that, captain, but look above you!” said Meruval. “Castles, ramparts, Eagle’s Claws beyond number. Archers and spearmen, mages and warriors. These waters will not be taken without a fight, but to sail into harm’s way when there are such defences in place seems like recklessness, not bravery. Aislin felt the Phoenix King’s wrath at the defeat before the Emerald Gate, and now he seeks to regain his honour in this desperate gamble.”

  “I could dismiss you for this,” said Finlain.

  “But you won’t because you know I’m right.”

  “No, it is because if we are to keep Finubar’s Pride afloat, I need you at the helm,” said Finlain. “Now be silent and listen, for your rank aboard this vessel depends upon it.”

  Before Meruval could reply, Finlain took a deep breath and walked along the deck of Finubar’s Pride. The vessel’s forecastle had been repaired after the battle with the black ark, and a pair of fearsome bolt throwers had been mounted on a rotating platform at her prow.

  He vaulted nimbly onto the edge of the hull, balancing on the rows of shields and gripping the sweeping bow of the nearest Eagle’s Claw as he drew his sword with his free hand. The crew of his vessel gathered on the deck, each one sensing their captain’s need to speak.

  “Warriors of Finubar’s Pride, listen well to me,” he cried. Lightning arced in the gloom, and Finlain pointed to the rain and darkness filling the mouth of the straits. “The druchii are out there, ready to sail into this channel, and all that stands between them and Lothern is us.”

  Thunder rolled overhead as the sea did its best to unseat Finlain from his perch. The vessel rolled to starboard, but Finlain leaned with the motion of his ship.

  “Many of you are wondering why we sail out to fight the druchii at all when there are such strong defences worked into the cliffs. Why risk our lives in battle when we can fight our enemies from afar? You all know me, for I have captained Finubar’s Pride for many years, and I know warfare as well as any and better than most. So I tell you this; if we yield the straits without a fight, we hand the initiative to the enemy. They will believe that we have no will to fight, and their warriors will be heartened by so easy a victory. When the time comes, which it will, to give battle on the Sapphire Gate, the druchii will fight all the harder, believing that we are already defeated.

  “That is why we must give battle here! We will tell our enemies that no part of Ulthuan will be surrendered without a fight. They must learn that every yard they advance will exact a fearsome toll in blood. Yes, this will be dangerous, and yes we may see our ships sunk, but not to sail out is the most dangerous thing of all. We are Finubar’s Pride, and does anyone fight harder than us?”

  His crew yelled at the stormfront advancing through the straits, and Finlain dropped from the row of shields with their cheers ringing in his ears. The cheering was taken up by the crew of Hammer of Vaul, the vessel sailing alongside Finubar’s Pride, and spread along the line of elven warships until the entire fleet was shouting its defiance.

  The cheering died moments later as a lightning-shawled mountain emerged from the cloaking shadows wreathing the Emerald Gate. A rearing crag of black rock, its impossible bulk smashed the edges of the towering gate and sent its towers and ramparts tumbling downwards. Thousands of tons of rock crashed into the sea, throwing columns of water hundreds of feet into the air and sending a surging wave towards the fleet of elven warships.

  Rock ground on rock as the black ark forced it way into the channel, the sound like continents colliding or a never-ending avalanche as the glittering marble of the straits was crushed to powder. Fire from infernal furnaces within the mountainous abomination burned at its spiked summit, and lit the inner faces of the straits with hellish orange light.

  Though he had seen this sundered peak once before, Finlain still felt his heart clamped in the grip of icy terror. How could any fleet fight something so unimaginably vast? Like a gnarled plug of cooling magma forcing its way down the neck of a dying volcano, the black ark ground its way, inch by inch, into the straits of Lothern.

  And surging from its base came a hundred raven-hulled warships.

  The sun had passed its zenith as the druchii army marched into sight of Tor Elyr. It came in a cloud of dust, with the sky darkening and the land growing silent before it. The scent of freshly spilled blood was carried on the cold winds surrounding the dark host, as though a cocoon of winter shielded the warriors from the balmy climate of Ellyrion.

  Ahead of the druchii came Menethis of Lothern and his Reavers. They rode hard for Korhandir’s Leap, the crystal bridge to the southwest of Tor Elyr said to have been built in the first days of Ellyrion, with scattered groups of dark-cloaked riders in pursuit. Eldain’s practised eye told him the druchii would not catch Menethis before he crossed the river. No sooner had Lord Swiftwing’s council of war broken up than Menethis had taken his warriors west, and Eldain was pleased to see that most had returned from their reaving.

  But others had not, and all of Ulthuan would grieve their loss.

  The pursuing druchii gave up the chase as they came within bowshot of the River Elyras, and Eldain watched Menethis lead his Reavers over the glittering bridge with a heavy weight in his heart.

  It had been Eldain’s betrayal that had brought the druchii to Ellyrion, and he would bear a measure of guilt for every life that was lost in its defence. He tried to keep that thought from distracting him from his role in the coming
battle, but as he looked around at the faces of elves surely too young or too old to fight, he could not help but picture them as headless corpses or rotting feasts for the carrion birds that followed any druchii host.

  Menethis rode up the slope towards Eldain, his horse breathless and lathered with sweat. The warrior’s face was lined with joyous exhaustion, his ivory cloak was bloodstained, and the riders who followed him were alight with exultation.

  “Lord Éadaoin!” cried Menethis. “We return triumphant!”

  “You return alive,” said Eldain. “That is what is most important to a Reaver.”

  “All night we harried them,” said Menethis. “We slew their sentries, scattered their horses and fired their tents. Perhaps three or four hundred dead, many more injured.”

  “Good work, Menethis, we will make an Ellyrian out of you yet,” said Eldain. “Now ride to the centre. General Stormweaver will have orders for you and your warriors.”

  “Indeed,” said Menethis, turning his horse with a flourish and leading his riders towards the grassy flatlands that spread before the backdrop of Tor Elyr. As Eldain watched Menethis ride off, his gaze was drawn along the glittering battle line of Lord Swiftwing’s army.

  Arrayed in serried ranks of shimmering spear points, azure cloaks, polished helms and gleaming breastplates, the army of Tor Elyr occupied the slopes overlooking the southern banks of the river. The army had assembled as dawn’s first light bathed the land in its honey gold warmth, marching from the city under Galadrien Stormweaver’s direction.

  This close to the sea, the river was wide and deep, yet its waters flowed languidly and without urgency. Blocks of spearmen and lines of archers held the field, with a mass of heavy horse at their centre. Beneath a banner of crimson, Stormweaver led the Silver Helms of Tor Elyr from the back of a mighty steed the colour of a winter’s sky. As though carved from silver, the horsemen stood silent and unmoving, perfectly disciplined and courageous beyond mortal reckoning.

  On each flank of the army, a thousand Reaver Knights strung their bows or sharpened the already keen edges of their spears. Thanks to the gathering of the Great Herd, most of Ellyrion’s citizen levy was now mounted, and Eldain hoped it would be enough to tip the balance in their favour.

  Scores of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers had been set up on the high ground behind the archers, and several weapons had been assembled further south upon small hillocks overlooking Korhandir’s Leap and in the north on the slopes of a hill crowned by a circle of waystones. No druchii warriors would be able to cross the river without suffering beneath a relentless hail of powerfully driven arrows.

  Eldain lifted a hand as he saw Caelir riding across the plain towards the left flank of Lord Swiftwing’s army. His brother waved back, elated to be defending his homeland at the head of a hundred Reaver Knights.

  Caelir was a war leader now, a noble of Ellyrion riding out in defence of his homeland, and Eldain felt pride that was almost paternal in its strength. Only now did he understand that the jealousy he had felt towards Caelir had been completely unnecessary. They had never been in competition, but the wild spirit of Ellyrion had driven them both to foolish acts of betrayal. They were part of a race of near immortals on the brink of extinction, and yet they could still fall prey to damaging emotions just as easily as the mortals of the Old World they looked down upon. More so, in many cases, for the pulls of the heart endured by mortals were but pale shadows of those that drove the asur. That the wounds between Eldain and Caelir were healing was his only consolation as the druchii emerged from the penumbra of shadow that swathed them like a shroud.

  Rank upon rank of warriors in dark cloaks and oil-sheened armour the colour of obsidian filled the centre of the plain with the tramp of their marching feet. Blood-red cloaks billowed in the icy winds that followed them, and their black-hafted spears were tipped with bronze. Heavily armoured warriors atop snarling, snapping reptilian steeds rode in the southern wing of the army, and beastmasters goaded roaring beasts with many writhing heads towards the river.

  Hideously malformed creatures of raw flesh, wailing, fang-filled mouths and unnaturally jointed limbs hauled their corrupted bulk alongside these beasts. Sweating mortals held them on chains, hard-muscled men of the north clad in furs, brazen iron and horned helms.

  Though allied, Eldain saw there was clear division in how the enemy host would give battle. The druchii would attack to the south of Tor Elyr over Korhandir’s Leap, while the tribal barbarians would force a crossing in the north. It seemed a foolish plan, for there was no bridge in the north, and the savage warriors of the Dark Gods would be forced to wade through the river while enduring endless volleys of arrows from the citizen levy’s archers.

  The bloodshed would be terrible, but from the scarred, wild and hungry look of these warriors, Eldain suspected they would welcome the pain. Certainly the mighty warrior atop a fleshy steed with a silver saddle stitched to its naked hide could barely contain his eagerness to ride into the water. A dark halo that looked like naked flames seemed to coil across the warlord’s skin, and Eldain wondered if he was even aware of it.

  A chill took hold of Eldain’s heart as the plain across the river filled with regimented ranks of druchii and howling mobs of axe-wielding savages. He had hoped the battle before the walls of Eagle Gate might have bled this host of its power, but the army of Lord Swiftwing was still outnumbered by at least four to one.

  A lone rider emerged from the ranks of the enemy army, and a fierce, ululating scream of worship and devotion was torn from every druchii throat.

  She was ivory-skinned and clad in leather armour that revealed more flesh that it protected. A twisted crown of dark iron and bone encircled her brow, and she bore a dread weapon that dripped blood and made Eldain clutch his chest as though it might tear his heart from his body even from so far away. Eldain knew exactly who she was; her name was a byword for unnatural perversions, ancient hatred and endless spite.

  “Morathi,” he hissed, spitting the name like poison sucked from a wound. She was the architect of Caelir’s transformation from loyal son of Ellyrion into a weapon aimed at the heart of Ulthuan’s best and brightest. She had tortured his brother and driven him beyond sanity with her excruciations and seductions.

  Eldain gripped his sword hilt tightly, hoping that the chaos of battle would see him face to face with his brother’s tormentor. As though sensing his hatred and savouring it, the Hag Sorceress turned her mount in his direction. Morathi’s steed was blacker than the heart of the most merciless tyrant, its eyes a simmering furnace red, and a pair of nightmarish wings were folded in at its flanks.

  Morathi raised her pale arms above her head with a crack of displaced air. The sky split with thunder and a wind straight from the Land of Chill swept across the river and into the army of the asur. Not a heart failed to miss a beat, not a sword arm did not tremble, and not one amongst the defenders of Tor Elyr failed to hear the banshee wail of Morai-Heg.

  Yet not one warrior took a backwards step.

  A host of discordant war-horns sounded from the enemy host, and with a clash of swords and shields, Morathi’s army marched on Tor Elyr.

  The order came from Lord Aislin’s ship, and the asur fleet surged towards the shadow-cloaked vessels at the base of the black ark. It was a wondrously foolish charge, but the nineteen captains of the Sea Lord obeyed instantly, sailing south in the direction of the open sea. Kithre Seablaze led the western half of the fleet, Lord Aislin the east, and it was the Sea Lord’s lieutenant that struck first.

  Racing ahead of the rest of the ships, Seablaze ran his ships at speed towards the druchii raven ships as a mist arose from the surface of the water. No natural sea mist was this, but one conjured from the foamy wave-tops that swirled around the druchii ships like a winter’s fog. It clung to their dark hulls, gathered in their sails and confounded the warriors on the prow-mounted dart throwers.

  Seablaze sailed into the mist, and no sooner had his ships reached its edge than the m
ist sank back into the sea. Cries of alarm echoed from the decks of the raven ships as their crews saw the sleek vessels of the asur bearing down upon them. Eagle’s Claws loosed withering hails of bolts into the packed ranks gathered on the decks, and fearful was the carnage. Another volley flashed, hurling scores of arrows through the druchii Corsairs. One final volley of darts was loosed before Seablaze gave the order to turn about.

  Even as his ships pirouetted on the ocean, additional Eagle’s Claws mounted on the quarterdeck loosed their shafts. While the enemy crews reeled from the slaughter wreaked on their decks, the Eagle’s Claws let fly with heavy ithilmar-tipped bolts designed to punch through the hull of a ship. Aimed below the waterline, three druchii vessels were holed and began wallowing in the swells as their lower decks began filling with seawater.

  Black bolts from the prows of the enemy ships flashed through the air, but loosed too swiftly they were poorly aimed. Yet with so many unleashed, some found their targets, and blood was spilled across the decks of the elven ships.

  As Seablaze raced back to the asur fleet, a rain of arrows and bolts fell from the castles and ramparts carved into the cliffs of the straits. Hundreds slashed down onto the raven ships, punching through armour, cutting ropes and slicing sails. The heavier bolts smashed through decks to slay dozens of slave rowers or even punch through the bottom timbers of the hull.

  In answer, swarms of iron crossbow bolts flew from the black ark, and the battle below was fought beneath a sky darkened with deadly projectiles. Monstrous balls of flaming pitch were hurled from the summit of the black ark, arcing through the air with languid ease to slam into the pristine walls of the defensive castles. Fires blazed across the cliff side defences and thick columns of black smoke curled skyward.