by Gav Thorpe
‘They are fearsome but mindlessly aggressive,’ said Koradrel. ‘We must lure it into view of the bolt thrower. Once we have grounded the beast, we attack as a group. Spears and axes, arrows will do little harm.’
Imrik nodded and adjusted his grip on the spear, one shoulder against a boulder. The manticore had finished its frenzy of destruction and lifted its head, sniffing, head turning left and right, pointed ears swivelling to detect any noise. It let loose another roar and bounded into the air. The manticore’s flapping had none of the grace of a dragon’s flight, but it powered skywards at speed, scanning the ground for more prey.
Torches had been lit by some of the guides and they ventured from the rocks with the flaming brands in hand, waving to attract the beast’s attention and lure it away from the caravan.
The manticore dropped from the skies, forelegs outstretched. The torchbearers flung away their brands and sprinted back to the rocks, the manticore bearing down upon them like a bolt of pure fury.
The elves reached the boulders as the manticore crashed into the ground, snarling and swiping. Imrik could feel the heat of its breath, tainted with the stench of rotted flesh and fresh blood.
The manticore saw him and lunged. Imrik hurled himself behind a boulder a heartbeat before the monster’s claws slashed across the rock, sending chips of stone into the air. It growled constantly, and padded to the right, snorting and sniffing. Koradrel appeared to the creature’s right and hurled his spear, the weapon punching into the creature’s ribs just behind its shoulder. It gave a howl of anger and spun, tail lashing but too slow to catch the swiftly retreating Chracian.
Bunching powerful muscles, the beast looked as though it was about to take to the sky again. One of the hunters emerged from the shadow of the rocks with an axe in hand, bellowing a challenge. The manticore twisted and leapt for the kill, but the hunter rolled beneath its outstretched claws and raked the edge of his axe across its gut. Blood streamed onto the snow.
The hunter surged to his feet and dashed for the rocks, but unlike Koradrel he was too close. The manticore’s sting flashed down, punching into the elf’s back, the tip of the barb erupting from the hunter’s shoulder. He flopped to the ground, convulsing madly as the sting was ripped free, blood and froth erupting from his mouth.
Moving more sluggishly from its wounds, the manticore circled around the boulders, moving up the slope, tail lashing, wings flexing. Imrik looked into its eyes and saw yellow orbs of hatred. The prince wondered what could spawn a beast of such rage.
Bounding forwards two steps, the manticore leapt, landing with surprising agility atop the largest boulder. It peered down into the rocks as the elves scattered, one claw catching Koradrel on the arm as he raced past, pitching him face-first to the ground.
Imrik acted out of instinct, bounding over a rock with spear in hand. The movement diverted the manticore away from the fallen prince and Imrik ducked as the sting whipped towards him, clattering against a rock to leave a trail of thick venom. Imrik stood over Koradrel and thrust upwards with his spear. The blow was hasty and only scored a ragged mark across the manticore’s shoulder. In reply, a paw smashed into Imrik’s chest, throwing him backwards. His breastplate was buckled, two marks raked across it, but it had saved him from instant evisceration.
Other hunters poured into the fight, swinging long axes and jabbing with spears. The manticore leapt over their heads to another perch, smashing an elf from his feet with its tail as it landed. The Chracians were relentless as Imrik recovered his breath, their weapons forcing the monster to rear up with a roar.
Imrik heard a distant snap and a moment later the manticore’s throat erupted in a shower of blood, a bolt jutting from the side of its neck. Flopping sideways, it tumbled down the rock, limbs flailing, tail slashing left and right. A well-placed axe blow severed the sting, blood and poison gushing from the wound.
Still the beast would not be slain. It rolled to its feet, wings unfurling, howling madly. Not wanting the manticore to escape, Koradrel rejoined his warriors, leaping atop the monster’s back to drive his spear into its spine. The beast fell again, Koradrel jumping lightly to the ground as the manticore slammed into the rocks. An incautious elf lost a leg to a vicious sweep as the creature lashed out in its death throes.
Contented that it would die without further action, Koradrel called his hunters away a safe distance. Imrik joined his cousin and the two leaned on each other, breathing heavily. The rush of battle filled the Caledorian prince as he looked at the dying monster. Glancing down, he realised how close he had been to sharing its fate; relief combined with battle-lust to send a surge of energy through him. Imrik caught Koradrel’s eye and saw the glint there. They both laughed and embraced.
Imrik mastered himself after a while and looked at the dead beast with raised eyebrows.
‘So that’s a manticore,’ he said.
Since he had been made a herald by Bel Shanaar, Carathril had crossed the Annulii Mountains many times, yet it never ceased to have an effect on him. Crossing from Avelorn into Chrace, over some of the highest passes in the circle of peaks, he felt the vortex more powerfully than ever before. The magic felt like it tugged at his hair, seeped through the pores of his skin, set his teeth on edge. The clouds that covered the mountains were tinged with purple and red and green, and through rare breaks strange rainbows shimmered against the sunlight, the colours of their curved arcs distorted by the magical field.
The reputation of Chrace as a home for many monstrous dangers was well known and Carathril’s company of Sea Guard were constantly alert for attack. Winter was fast approaching these northern climes, and on the third day after leaving the river, the group awoke to find the ground and their tents covered with a light dusting of snow. Carathril had been to Chrace before and was well prepared with a fur-lined cloak and hood, and gloves of soft leather. The Sea Guard had also brought winter clothing, and swathed against the cold wind and flurries of icy sleet, the elves forged on into Chrace.
It was not for monsters alone that the Sea Guard were watchful. The route of the company took them along Phoenix Pass, which crossed the Annulii into Nagarythe. Even keeping to the highlands as much as possible, there was every chance they would run into Naggarothi warriors patrolling the border.
Though the increasingly bitter weather made it more uncomfortable, Carathril decided that they should march by night and seek shelter by day, the better to avoid the Naggarothi. Even then he was constantly nagged by the feeling of being watched; these lands were the traditional haunt of the raven heralds. Carathril had met some of their order, and knew that if they wished to remain unseen, not even the keen eyes of the Sea Guard would spot them.
He was eager to press on and cross back into Chrace as quickly as possible, fearful that the raven heralds would have spied the company as soon as they left Phoenix Pass. Even now, riders could be speeding to Anlec, bearing the news. Such was the situation following the massacre at the shrine, Carathril would expect the Naggarothi to react violently to any trespass on their lands.
For three nights they marched, often following no track at all through the bleak hills of eastern Nagarythe, keeping their bearing by snatched glimpses of moon and stars. For three days they made camp in hollows and caves, eating cold food to avoid lighting fires, wrapped in blankets to keep the wintry air at bay.
On the fourth morning, Carathril did not call the company to a halt, but instead insisted that they pushed on through the day as well. They crossed an icy river that cascaded down from the Annulii and so passed into Chrace. Out in the wilderness they had no hope for relief or reinforcement, and turned eastwards away from Nagarythe as soon as the terrain allowed.
Every now and then Carathril glanced over his shoulder as he marched, expecting to see a feather-cloaked rider on a distant hill or an army of Naggarothi in pursuit. Each time the horizon was bare of foe, just the grey cold skies of northern Ulthuan.
They made camp that night in the lee of a great shoulder of r
ock and dared to light fires again to melt snow and cook a more wholesome meal. Neaderin, the captain of the Sea Guard, joined Carathril inside his tent as the wind plucked at canvas and howled across the rocks.
‘We have reached Chrace, but where now do we search for Imrik?’ asked the captain.
Carathril was at a loss for an answer for the moment. The Caledorian prince had deliberately left no word of where he could be found, and all of Thyriol’s magic had been unable to locate Imrik within the mystical whorl of the vortex.
‘His cousin Koradrel lives in the capital, Tor Achare,’ Carathril said after some thought. ‘Morai Heg might favour us and we find Imrik there, returned from his hunt. If not, Koradrel’s household will surely know where their master has gone.’
‘So we head directly east, to Tor Achare?’ said Neaderin. ‘Or do we journey around the mountains and come at the city from the north?’
It was a difficult decision. Carathril felt the need for urgency, but the shortest path would be the wrong one if they went astray in the mountains or some ill fate befell them. Against this, he measured the extra time it would take to march around the mountains and negotiate the deep forests north of Tor Achare. It was a more certain route but, even allowing for a few days’ delay crossing the mountains, would take nearly twice as long.
‘We shall take the longer route,’ said the herald. ‘Though the worst of winter is not yet here, the mountains are not for the inexperienced. And if Imrik hunts in the mountains, we will need directions to locate him.’
‘We are Sea Guard, not mountaineers,’ said Neaderin. ‘This could have been avoided. We should have sailed through the Lothern Gate and around Ulthuan to the northern coast of Chrace.’
‘With Prince Haradrin dead, Lothern will be awash with anarchy and suspicion,’ said Carathril. ‘I was not certain that the sea gates would be opened to us, and even if they were, travel through the port risked many other distractions and delays. I am sorry, but it had to be this way.’
Neaderin sighed and departed, leaving Carathril feeling cold and gloomy. The chill drove his pessimistic mood as much as the task ahead. Even in winter, Eataine was as warm as a Chracian summer and he missed the sun upon the white houses of Lothern and the glittering waters of the port. There would be no easy way to find Imrik, but Carathril contented himself with the thought that although the need to find the prince was pressing, the Naggarothi would not be able to make any move before the spring. Even if they had some malicious intent for the next Phoenix King, the task of finding him would be just as difficult for them; in fact it would be harder for they would have no allies in Chrace to help them.
Slightly eased by this, Carathril tried to sleep, ignoring the numb of cold in his fingers and toes.
The crackle of burning logs almost drowned out the whimpers of the woodcutter and his family. His tear-streaked face was lit by the flames of the burning lodge, mingling with the blood seeping from the fine cut upon his brow. Blinking to clear his eyes, the Chracian looked up at Elthanir, his lips bloodied, teeth broken.
‘I shall tell you nothing,’ the woodcutter managed to say, a string of blood-flecked saliva drooling from the corner of his ravaged mouth.
Elthanir shook his head. He knew he was close. The pain was now just soreness at the back of his head, an ember of the fire that had previously raged behind his eyes. The woodcutter gasped as Elthanir ripped his dagger out of the elf’s ribs.
‘Imrik,’ Elthanir snarled, just about able to concentrate on the word through the fog of pain. ‘Where?’
He used the blade on the hunter’s arms, cutting where the flesh was most sensitive. It reminded Elthanir of the rituals in the temple of Khaine, though in that gore-soaked shrine there was no point in confession.
The woodcutter grimaced and said nothing, trembling violently. Elthanir stopped his torture, fearing that his victim would pass out or perhaps even die. He looked over his shoulder at the others and nodded. One of them stepped forwards, dragging a young male elf, no more than fifteen years old. In his other hand, he held a knife with a blade heated in the flames of the cabin, oblivious to the burning of his own flesh. The air wavered with heat as he forced open the boy’s mouth and held the blade close.
Behind him, the hunter’s wife wailed and lurched for her child, but was driven back by a knee to the gut. Her daughter, even younger than the son, struggled in the arms of another assassin, awash with tears.
Elthanir grabbed the woodcutter by his long hair and twisted his head to look at his son. The Chracian sobbed.
‘Imrik. Where?’ the assassin asked again.
Something woke Carathril. He lay with his eyes closed, feeling a presence close at hand. He could hear nothing except for the wind and the slap of canvas and twang of rope. It was the quiet that disturbed him, as if there was an absence of a sound he expected to hear.
He opened his eyes and saw something darker in the tent with him. Before he could open his mouth to shout, a black-gloved hand clamped over his mouth. A hooded face leaned over him and whispered in his ear, the words a barely heard sigh.
‘Do not struggle and do not shout.’
The voice sounded familiar but Carathril could not place it. He felt something lightly brushing his face and realised it was the touch of feathers from the elf’s hood. A raven herald!
‘You are in no danger, I am here to warn you,’ said the shadowy elf. A shuttered lantern revealed a glimmer of red light. The intruder pulled back his hood and revealed emerald-like eyes and jet-black hair. Carathril placed the voice immediately on seeing the herald’s face. It was Elthyrior, who had ridden with Malekith and Carathril in the assault on the fortress of Ealith twenty years before.
‘Will you remain silent?’ said the raven herald. Carathril nodded, realising that had Elthyrior wished to kill him, he would have done so already. The raven herald lifted his hand away and straightened. ‘Good. I am pleased that you trust me.’
‘I would not say that,’ said Carathril.
Elthyrior smiled and sat cross-legged beside Carathril’s bed roll. His eyes were sparks of green in the dim light.
‘That is probably the wisest position to take,’ he said. ‘The raven heralds are divided; some for Morathi, some against. I have news for you, but first you must tell me what brings the herald of the Phoenix King into the mountains of Chrace.’
‘I might ask the same of a Naggarothi herald,’ replied Carathril, sitting up, pulling his blanket to his chest to keep warm. He was disturbed to notice that while his own breath came in little wisps of vapour, there was nothing from the raven herald when he spoke.
‘Morai Heg has guided me here, as she guides me to all places of importance,’ said Elthyrior. ‘Know that I have heard rumour of what happened in the Shrine of Asuryan and Tor Anroc. I believe that you know Alith Anar?’
‘We have met,’ said Carathril. The exiled Naggarothi prince had come to him for help in asking sanctuary of the Phoenix King.
‘Alith still lives and has returned to his family, and so starts upon a path that will lead him into the darkest places,’ said Elthyrior. ‘I know of the death of Bel Shanaar, and of a great many princes slain at the Isle of the Flame, but I do not know the cause. Morathi has left Tor Anroc and returned to Anlec with the body of Malekith. I see and know many things, but still I do not know what brings the herald of the dead Phoenix King to Chrace with a bodyguard of Lothern soldiers.’
‘Why should I tell you?’ said Carathril. That Elthyrior knew so much was disturbing and Carathril wondered if he was being kept alive just to divulge the purpose of his mission.
Elthyrior must have read something of Carathril’s thoughts in his expression. He took a knife from his belt, wrapped Carathril’s fingers around the hilt and pulled the blade to his throat.
‘Even a raven herald can be killed,’ said Elthyrior. ‘The moment you suspect me of falsehood or violence, you can end my life with a simple slash. I shall relieve you of further worry by telling you what I guess to be
the situation, and you can simply answer me if what I believe is true or false.’
Carathril thought about this and could see nothing but sincerity in the raven herald’s eyes.
‘Go on,’ said Carathril.
‘You seek Prince Imrik of Caledor,’ said Elthyrior. He smiled. ‘I see from your face that this is true. The prince passed this way in the autumn to go hunting with his cousin, Koradrel. Now a herald of the Phoenix King marches north in haste with a body of soldiers. It is not difficult to link the two facts.’
‘Why have you sneaked into my tent?’ said Carathril. ‘I would trust you more had you approached openly and in daylight.’
‘I cannot risk discovery,’ said Elthyrior. ‘Treachery is the greatest weapon the Naggarothi have in their arsenal at the moment. Can you vouch for all of your soldiers? Are you certain that none of them are connected to the cytharai cults?’
Carathril admitted to himself that he did not have such confidence, but would not say as such to the raven herald. The Sea Guard were loyal to Eataine, and he had come to the conclusion that even if one or two had been corrupted, there was little they could do whilst surrounded by enemies.
‘I can tell that you understand me,’ said Elthyrior. ‘It is with betrayal and suspicion that Morathi and her followers strike their deadliest blows, and we would be foolish to trust anyone but ourselves in these times.’
‘You are right,’ Carathril said with a nod. ‘I am seeking Imrik of Caledor. A few princes survived the massacre and seek to choose a new Phoenix King to succeed Bel Shanaar.’
‘Imrik is a good choice,’ said Elthyrior.
‘I have not said that Imrik has been chosen,’ said Carathril.
‘No, but that would explain why seven assassins seek him not more than a day from here,’ replied the raven herald.