02 - Sons of Ellyrion

by Graham McNeill - (ebook by Undead)

  Eldain pulled up in shock at Morathi’s casual use of the name.

  His eyes flicked to the old elf, now seeing him for who he truly was.

  He was Caledor Dragontamer, and he was dead.

  The legends spoke of a towering mage of awesome power. A giant of magic. A wielder of power like no other in the world. The greatest mage in Ulthuan’s long history, he was Aenarion’s boon companion, a mighty warrior-mystic who fought the daemonic horde with spell and sword. He was a hero of the ages, all powerful and all knowing.

  Perhaps once, but no more.

  This was Caledor…?

  Yet if Eldain’s passage through the vortex had taught him anything, it was that nothing was as it seemed. In life, there had been no mage as powerful and subtle as Caledor. Who knew how powerful he had become in death…?

  Morathi’s gaze bored into Caelir, and she threw back her head and laughed.

  “My little slave,” she said, drawing her barbed weapon from over her shoulder. “You have come back to me.”

  “I am no one’s slave,” said Caelir. “I am here to kill you for what you did to me and what you have done to Ulthuan.”

  “Kill me, little slave? Oh no, you won’t be doing that.”

  Rhianna unleashed a stream of crackling fire from her hands, but Morathi casually batted it aside. The vortex greedily sucked it in to its swirling mass, and Morathi loosed a crackling orb of purple fire from her barbed weapon. Rhianna caught it in a shimmering prism of light and crushed it between her palms.

  “The she-elf has some power,” said Morathi. “Not nearly enough though.”

  Cold wind gusted from the Hag Sorceress, like a swirling tornado laid upon its side. Rhianna was swept up by the wind, and crackling webs of frost spread over her mage’s robes. Caelir ran at Morathi, and Eldain followed him.

  His brother’s sword stabbed for Morathi’s belly. She spun into the air, twisting over Caelir’s head and driving her heel into the back of his neck. Caelir fell flat on his face as Eldain brought his sword around in a disembowelling sweep. Morathi blocked the blow without looking and spun around him, hammering her elbow into his cheek. Eldain staggered and brought his sword up to parry a return stroke of her rending lance. Sparks flew from the impact, blinding him, and he threw himself away from Morathi.

  He heard laughter and rolled to his feet as Caelir picked himself up.

  They circled Morathi, wary of her speed as she bounced on the balls of her feet with a feral gleam of malicious enjoyment. Caledor seemed content to watch the unequal contest of arms without intervening, if he even could. Eldain met Caelir’s eyes and they nodded, circling in opposite directions to come at Morathi from two sides.

  They attacked together. Morathi leapt towards Eldain, swaying aside from an elegantly delivered thrust and launching herself at him, feet first. Her legs scissored around his waist, and she spun around him. A slender dagger nicked the skin of his neck as she vaulted clear.

  Caelir’s sword stabbed past Eldain, but Morathi was long gone.

  She danced from foot to foot, spinning her long-hafted weapon before her.

  Eldain’s vision blurred, and terrible weakness slipped along his limbs.

  “Are you all right, brother?” shouted Caelir.

  “No,” said Eldain, as Rhianna dropped from the storm above to land between him and Morathi. Words of mystic significance spilled from her lips and a cage of white fire sprang into being around Morathi. It burned with searing brightness, and Eldain shielded his eyes.

  Morathi snapped her fingers and the cage vanished, its bars of light transformed into writhing black snakes that she hurled towards Rhianna. With a gesture, they became streamers of golden mist. Silver fire erupted from the ground beneath Morathi, but the druchii sorceress leapt into the air, somersaulting over Caelir and landing in a cat’s crouch on the glassy rock.

  Eldain forced himself to his feet. His limbs felt like water, and a throbbing pain flared in his lower back. He took a step forward, but dropped to one knee as his legs lost their strength. He knew he had been poisoned, and the realisation that he could do nothing against it galled him. He lost his grip on his sword and it fell to the ground with a glassy clatter.

  Rhianna and Morathi traded spells back and forth, each one drawing on the thundering power of the vortex to augment their attacks. Blazing tongues of white fire leapt from Rhianna’s fingertips, and forking traceries of amethyst lightning arced back in answer from Morathi. Magic powerful enough to level cities and destroy armies was unleashed, all to no effect. Spell and counterspell. Killing magic and destructive power flared between them, flaring, building and bleeding off as the vortex sucked at their violence. Caelir tried to help Rhianna, but the backwash of deadly magic kept him from getting too close.

  Eldain felt the world go grey around the edges of his vision, and fought to stay conscious.

  This was end of the world fighting, and he had to see how it ended.

  Dimly, he felt a touch, and looked down. Fingers like reeds and skin like poorly made parchment rested on his shoulder. Yet for all their frailty, Eldain felt incredible power in that hand. He gasped as that power flowed through him, burning Morathi’s poison from his blood.

  “I may be dead,” said Caledor, “but I am not without a few tricks of my own.”

  Eldain surged to his feet. “Then help her,” he demanded. “Morathi is too powerful.”

  “She is powerful,” agreed Caledor, the black pits of his eyes and the deathly countenance of his face twisted in what might have been a faint smile. “But I was shaping world-changing magic before she could even master the simplest enchantment.”

  Caledor lifted his hands and the vortex above bent inwards, its awesome power his to command. Morathi and Rhianna paused in their magical battle as Caledor drew the swelling power building in the world to him. The eye of the hurricane had been calm, but the power of the vortex was destabilising, drawn within itself as Caledor spoke incantations that were unknown beyond the time of Aenarion.

  Eldain stepped away from the old elf as he swelled, his gaunt frame filling out with powerful muscle and youthful flesh. His face bloomed with vitality until he was an elf in the prime of his life. Eyes that were once black and dead were now sparkling and green, flecked with gold and silver. His lips were full and lush, his hair regrown to its youthful lustre.

  This was Caledor Dragontamer, the mage who had shackled the riotous magic of the world and bound it to his will. His robes billowed in the raging winds and the storm of magic descended with booming peals and blasts of lightning.

  “I warned you, Morathi,” he said with a voice that commanded respect from elf, man and dragon alike. “I told you what would happen if you pressed me. You loosed the power of the vortex, but only I know how to harness it!”

  Caledor’s growth had gone beyond any simple restoration of his previous form. His body swelled to titanic proportions, twice, then three times the size of even the largest elf of Ulthuan. He towered over them, and his powers were growing by the second. Morathi quailed before him, and Eldain saw Caelir circling behind her with his sword poised to strike.

  Eldain shouted a warning, but his voice was lost in the tempest of Caledor’s mighty growth. Caelir hurled himself at Morathi, his sword held two-handed to plunge between her shoulder blades.

  Eldain ran toward Caelir.

  Time slowed, Eldain screamed.

  Rhianna held out her hands.

  Too late.

  Morathi swayed aside from the blow. Her own rending blade came up and rammed into Caelir’s chest. She wrenched the blade and a squirting arc of crimson misted the air. Caelir staggered, a look of disbelief twisting his boyish features. He collapsed into Rhianna’s embrace, and her arms were instantly soaked with blood.

  Eldain screamed Caledor’s name, but the enormous mage had concerns greater than the lives of mortals who had foolishly ventured into this place of his making. Morathi ran to her black pegasus and vaulted into the saddle. Her bladed lance
dripped with Caelir’s blood, and Eldain ran towards her.

  Caledor said, “You were always too arrogant to listen, Morathi. I told you that the destruction of the vortex would liberate an enormous amount of magical energy. And I told you I would use it for one purpose, to slay you. I gave you my word.”

  “I remember, Caledor,” said Morathi, her dark mount taking to the air. Hurricane winds buffeted it, but Morathi held it steady in the storm. “But it makes no difference now. Your great work is undone and the world is doomed.”

  “Once again you underestimate me,” said Caledor. “Now begone.”

  Caledor waved a contemptuous hand, and Morathi and her mount were hurled from the vortex. They vanished into the roiling clouds of magical energy as though swatted by an enormous fist. Caledor dropped his hands to his side and the enormous growth that had propelled him to giant proportions began to reverse.

  Eldain dropped his sword and ran to Caelir’s side.

  One look at the blood soaking his ruined chest told Eldain that the wound was mortal.

  Rhianna looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

  “Eldain…” she said. “He’s dying.”

  Once again the hill of waystones above Tor Elyr erupted with magical light, but instead of an entire army stepping from the glow, a lone figure emerged from the gateway. He was clad in the shimmering finery of a Loremaster of the White Tower, and all who saw him knew him in an instant.

  Teclis!

  A blinding corona of titanic energies surrounded him, cracking the sky with its brightness and pulsing from him in uncontrollable waves. Teclis floated over the battlefield, his body awash with magical energy like never before. His eyes burned with the fire at the heart of the world, and the druchii looked upon him and saw their doom.

  The armies of Avelorn and Ellyrion gathered before the walls of Tor Elyr, but there would be no heroic last stand, no futile bravery to stem the advance of the druchii.

  It would not be needed.

  Crossbow bolts and powerful sorcery flew up at Teclis, and though the unmaking of the vortex had enhanced the spells of Morathi’s pet magickers also, they were like children before the might of Teclis. Iron bolts were transformed into seeds that fell upon Ellyrion’s soil, and spells were turned aside by the shimmering arcs of power that played about Teclis.

  The Everqueen’s magic flowed into the land. The icy mists smothering the summerlands of Ellyrion dissipated, and the river was returned to flowing water. The black corruption of the bloody cauldron’s demise was reversed, and no trace of the spoor left by the hydras and spawn creatures was allowed to remain.

  Such was the Everqueen’s duty, yet Teclis was here not to heal, but to destroy.

  He was the greatest practitioner of the arcane arts since Caledor Dragontamer himself, and the power he now commanded had last been wielded when the builders of this world first shaped its continents into shapes pleasing to them.

  Yet with all the power of a god at his fingertips, Teclis yielded to the first inclination of mortals, and used it to kill. He swept his hands out before him, and a wall of white fire engulfed the druchii army.

  Warriors and heroes, monsters and steeds all burned in the fire. It left no mark upon the ground, but no creature of darkness could be touched by the fire of Teclis and live. The screams of the druchii were terrible to behold, but no tears were shed for their death agonies.

  Teclis hovered in the air above Tor Elyr and burned an army to death.

  Lothern. The end.

  The druchii swarmed the docks, and the battle was fought in knee-deep water. Tyrion slashed his sword through the neck of a druchii axeman, and ducked beneath an avenging blow from another cold-eyed killer. Behind him, Lothern burned in the fires of the Witch King’s malice, and the citizens of the city fled to the high villas overlooking the cityport.

  Perhaps some would escape, but not many.

  The Witch King contented himself with watching his enemies die from above, drifting on the lazy thermals from the burning city. His dragon roared and the Witch King’s hateful laughter drifted over the doomed warriors below.

  “Come down here and fight, and I will choke you with that laughter,” promised Tyrion.

  The Phoenix Guard fought with silent menace, their halberds cutting down any druchii who dared to come near with brutally efficient strikes. The flanks of the asur line bent back and crumbled, but the centre held strong. Korhil swept his mighty axe left and right, while Finubar fought like a berserker, all thoughts of restraint lost in the fury of battle. Caradryan of the Phoenix Guard swept his halberd in killing arcs, his blade reaping a fearsome tally in druchii dead.

  Eltharion flew above Lothern, diving on Stormwing’s fury to attack the druchii from the air. Brave fighters all, killing many enemy warriors, but just spots of light against the darkness. Not enough to counter the encroaching night.

  Tyrion had killed two score druchii already, and the battle was still young. He had lost track of time, but the autumnal cast to the sky spoke of sunset. Appropriate, he thought, that we should face our ending as light vanishes from the world. He fought with all the skill he possessed, but could already see that it would not be enough. The druchii had limitless numbers to call on. Thousands more warriors were crossing from the black ark in yet more troop galleys. The sea was awash with black-tarred vessels bearing druchii killers.

  He fought through a mass of druchii swordsmen towards the Phoenix King as the sky lit up with a dazzling eruption of light. Another earthquake ripped across the city, and a high tower of blue marble and crystal sculpture toppled into the lagoon. Pieces of the Everqueen’s statue broke off and fell into the water, smashing a slender bridge of golden crystal and a handful of raven ships. A fresh wave swept into the collapsing city.

  The sky to the west burned with orange light where the volcanoes of the Dragonspine had erupted. Blistering, red-lit clouds smeared the tops of the cliffs, and the sharp tang of sulphur tainted the air. Ash fell in a black rain, and Tyrion felt that the world was weeping.

  The fighting paused with each fresh disaster, and Tyrion splashed through the floodwater as he saw a host of warriors in black armour and scaled cloaks advance on the Phoenix King. Finubar had plunged deep into the mass of druchii and was cut off, but before the Corsairs could attack, a host of sailors bearing the blue cloaks of Lord Aislin charged into the fray. They were without armour, but took on the druchii with a fury that could only have its roots in vengeance.

  Tyrion ran to join them, and cut down the last of the druchii as Finubar came to his senses and fell back to the battle line with a grateful look on his face. The sailors went with him, and Tyrion stopped one with the look of command about him.

  “You are a ship’s captain?” asked Tyrion.

  “Aye, my lord. Captain Finlain of Finubar’s Pride,” said the sailor.

  Tyrion laughed and let him go, pleased with the aptness of the captain’s ship.

  He jogged back to the fighting line as the druchii regrouped and hundreds of fresh warriors disembarked from their ugly galleys onto the cracked and sunken quayside.

  Korhil gave him a nod, and Finubar shot him a weak smile. Caradryan thumped the butt of his halberd against the wet cobbles in a gesture of respect between warriors.

  “Ready for one last fight?” asked the Phoenix King.

  “Always, my lord,” answered Tyrion.

  “This will be it, Tyrion,” said Finubar. “They will break us with the next charge. This will be my last battle. I know it.”

  “Never say that,” said Tyrion. “If there is one thing Teclis has taught me, it is that there is always hope.”

  Finubar shook his head and indicated the glowering forms of Caradryan’s warriors. “The Phoenix Guard are here, and they would only have come unasked to take me to my final rest.”

  Beside him, Caradryan shook his head and pointed to the two enormous statues that dominated the skyline of Lothern. The Everqueen’s statue was battered and portions of it had fallen in
to the sea, but the Phoenix King’s statue had taken the brunt of the damage. Its colossal plinth had split, and the statue listed drunkenly at an angle, the helmeted head resting on the shoulder of the Everqueen across the bay.

  Finubar and Tyrion looked at the Captain of the Phoenix Guard in confusion, and it was left to Korhil to fathom the meaning of the gesture.

  “They made a mistake,” he roared.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Finubar.

  “I don’t know exactly what they saw in that Chamber of Days, but I am willing to bet it was something about a Phoenix King falling. True enough, but they got the wrong one!”

  The light of understanding dawned, but the answer brought another question.

  “How is it possible that any of us survive this battle?” asked Finubar as the druchii hefted their spears and axes. War horns sounded the advance.

  The answer came a second later as a series of deafening roars echoed from the cliffs.

  All heads turned to the sky as the red-lit clouds of the west broke apart and a host of dragon riders swooped overhead.

  They came in many colours, golden, crimson, silver and white. Copper and bronze, glittering with sunlight and starlight. Ten came, then ten more, then too many to count. They swept over the mountains in their hundreds and fell upon the druchii in a tide of fang and claw that could not be resisted.

  The sky was filled with dragons, and Tyrion would see no finer sight in all his days. To see one dragon upon the field of battle was an honour, but to lay eyes upon such a host was something no elf had witnessed for thousands of years.

  The dragons stooped on the close-packed galleys and raven ships in the harbour, breathing great blasts of fire from their jaws. A score of ships immediately caught light, a dozen more a second later as the beating of the dragons’ wings spread the fire. Astride the neck of many of the dragons were mages clad in robes edged with red-gold. They hurled streaking bolts of blue light from outstretched hands and staffs, and the druchii burned in the flames of their magic.

  Leading the winged host was the Lord of Dragons himself, Prince Imrik of Caledor.