by Gav Thorpe
Thyrinor steered his mount higher and Anaegnir folded her wings into a stoop, coming at the enemy from above. The druchii rider twisted in his saddle and set the butt of his magical lance against his mount to absorb the impact, directing the point towards the approaching dragon prince. The black dragon lurched unexpectedly to the right, wounded wing faltering spasmodically, pulling the druchii’s lance tip away from Thyrinor.
Dorien gave a shout of annoyance as Thyrinor’s lance point hit home. Its tip sheared through the Naggarothi’s breastplate in an explosion of magical fire, lifting him from his saddle-throne with a tearing of straps and snapping of wood. The dragon’s reins of chain fell from the dead druchii’s grip as Thyrinor twisted his lance with a flick of his wrist, sending the body spiralling to the ground far below.
Nemaerinir circled around and raked his claws across the other dragon’s snout, shredding skin in a spray of thick scales. The black dragon gave a roar and spewed forth an immense cloud of poisonous gas. Pumping his wings, blood streaming from the injury, the black dragon turned and raced away, heading for the Inner Sea while Dorien and his steed gagged on the noxious fumes left in its wake.
As the filthy cloud dispersed, Dorien turned Nemaerinir after the escaping drake, but Thyrinor flew in front of him, raising his shield to attract his cousin’s attention.
‘The battle is far from won,’ Thyrinor called out. ‘We have more urgent matters to attend than pursuing a wounded foe.’
Dorien glanced down and saw the truth of this. Aided by the dragon princes, the Ellyrians were pushing forwards from the river, but the cavalry of Athielle and Finudel were sorely pressed by massed companies of spearmen.
‘You are right, cousin,’ said Dorien, and he felt Nemaerinir growl with disappointment. ‘Let us earn even more gratitude from the Ellyrians by saving their rulers!’
The two dragons descended quickly, but the Naggarothi had time to prepare. Bolts and arrows flew up to meet them as they dived down on the enemy infantry. Dorien gave a yell as a black-shafted missile ricocheted from Nemaerinir’s scales and crashed against his right thigh. The enchantments cast within his armour by the priests of Vaul protected him from losing his leg, but pain surged from knee to hip.
‘Are you wounded?’ asked Nemaerinir, slowing in his descent.
‘It is nothing,’ Dorien snapped in reply. ‘Let us slay these wretched Naggarothi and be done!’
It took only a few passes from the dragons to rout the Naggarothi. The black-clad knights and soldiers streamed back towards Eagle Pass in their thousands, harried by the dragons. Dorien noticed that the Ellyrians did not join the pursuit and remembered the second Naggarothi army to the south. With Thyrinor close behind, he flew towards the large standard of Ellyrion, spying Finudel by its side.
He winced as pain shot up his leg when Nemaerinir landed not far from the prince of Ellyrion, the jolt sending spasms up his back. Biting back a snarl, Dorien called out to Finudel.
‘The enemy are on the run, why do you not chase them? I shall deal with the remaining enemy.’
‘We must tend to our wounded,’ the Ellyrian shouted back. ‘And the Naggarothi to the south are no enemies, they are our allies.’
‘How strange,’ muttered Dorien. He raised his voice. ‘I am Dorien, brother of Caledor. You are welcome at my camp this evening.’
‘An invitation I will gladly accept,’ Finudel replied. ‘Is not the Phoenix King with you?’
‘He has others matters that demand his attention.’
‘I understand. You have the gratitude of all Ellyrion, Dorien. Be sure that we shall shower you with wine and gifts for what you have done for us today. We would be destroyed without you.’
‘Yes, you would,’ replied Dorien. He realised he was being undiplomatic and added, ‘but your bravery and skill are without question.’
‘I shall come to your camp at dusk,’ said Finudel, choosing to ignore any slight he might have taken. ‘My thanks again.’
Dorien nodded and with a word from the prince Nemaerinir flew off. Dorien looked eagerly west, but the Naggarothi were already at Eagle Pass. It would be too much of a risk to follow them into the mountains without support, and the rest of the army would never catch them.
‘Come back for some more fun, Naggarothi scum!’ he shouted at the retreating army. ‘My friends and I will be waiting for you!’
Thyrinor was a little drunk, but he did not care. He had slain a druchii commander that day and had been repeatedly toasted by their Ellyrian guests. For what seemed to be the twentieth time, he described the duel with the black dragon’s rider to an eager audience, ensuring he gave Dorien equal credit for the Naggarothi’s death. From outside the great pavilion of the princes came laughter and Caledorian victory songs.
When the tale was done, he begged leave of his companions and sought another ewer of wine. He found himself at a table laden with food and realised how hungry he was.
‘You must be very proud,’ said a voice behind him.
He turned to find Carathril of Lothern. Despite his protestations, Caledor had reinstated him as herald of the Phoenix King, in reward for his part in Caledor’s ascension and heroic acts recounted to Caledor by the prince of Eataine. The herald’s expression was impassive, morose even.
‘You make slaying the enemy sound like a bad thing,’ replied Thyrinor, locating a crystal jug of pale wine. ‘You have killed more than your fair share, I have heard.’
‘And one amongst them I had counted a friend,’ replied Carathril. ‘We should not ever become enamoured of slaying other elves.’
‘No, you are right, my friend,’ said Thyrinor, shamed by the herald’s words. ‘It is love of war that sets the Naggarothi apart from us.’
‘I hope that the king understands that also,’ said Carathril. He looked up as another group of elves entered the tent and his brow furrowed. ‘There are some that embrace hatred as much as the druchii.’
Thyrinor followed Carathril’s troubled gaze and saw that Finudel and Athielle had been joined by another elf; a strange individual clad in dark hunting clothes. His pale skin and dark hair marked him out as a Naggarothi. A quiet settled across the gathered Caledorians and the newcomer was quickly the centre of attention. Thyrinor saw Dorien limping towards the newcomer and sensed confrontation.
‘Excuse me, friend,’ said Thyrinor, hurrying to intercept his cousin.
‘What do we have here?’ said Dorien, his deep blue eyes regarding the stranger with barely concealed hostility.
‘I am Alith Anar, prince of Nagarythe.’
‘A Naggarothi?’ replied Dorien with a dubious eyebrow raised, recoiling slightly.
‘He is our ally, Dorien,’ said Finudel. ‘Were it not for Alith’s actions I fear your arrival would have found us already dead.’
The Caledorian prince regarded Alith with contempt, head cocked to one side. Alith returned the look with equal disgust.
‘Alith, this is Prince Dorien,’ said Finudel, breaking the awkward silence that had rippled out through the nearby elves. ‘He is the younger brother of King Caledor.’
The Naggarothi prince did not react to this, meeting Dorien’s stare.
‘What of Elthyrior?’ Athielle asked, as Thyrinor reached the group. He had never heard of the elf of whom she spoke. ‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know,’ Alith replied with a shake of the head. ‘He is where Morai Heg leads him. The raven heralds took their dead and vanished into Athelian Toryr. You may never see him again.’
‘Anar?’ said Thyrinor, remembering the name the Naggarothi had used. He was from the house of Eoloran Anar, one of the noblest bloodlines in Ulthuan, yet looked as if he had spent his whole life in a backwater village. ‘I have heard this name, from prisoners we took at Lothern.’
‘And what did they say?’ asked Alith.
‘That the Anars marched beside Malekith and resisted Morathi.’ He extended a hand. ‘I am Thyrinor, and I welcome you to our camp, even if my intemperate cousin will
not.’
Alith shook the proffered hand quickly. Dorien snorted and turned away, calling for more wine. As he marched off through the crowd, Thyrinor saw the Naggarothi’s eyes following him, narrowing as he noticed Dorien’s limp.
‘He is in a grumpy mood,’ said Thyrinor. ‘I think he has broken his leg, but he refuses to allow the healers to look at it. He’s still full of fire and blood after the battle. Tomorrow he will be calmer.’
‘We are grateful for your aid,’ said Athielle. ‘Your arrival is more than we could have hoped for.’
‘We were brought word of the druchii marching along the pass four days ago and set out immediately,’ said Thyrinor. ‘I regret that we cannot stay here, for we are needed in Chrace. The enemy have all but overrun the mountains and the king sails with his army to thwart them at the border with Cothique. Tomorrow we continue north and then through Avelorn to strike at the druchii from the south. Today is an important victory, and Caledor recognises the sacrifices made by the people of Ellyrion.’
Alith turned away and Thyrinor saw the Naggarothi’s fists clench and his shoulders hunch.
‘Alith?’ said Athielle, stepping towards the Naggarothi. Thyrinor noticed the pain in her expression and shared a concerned look with Finudel. The Ellyrian prince subtly shook his head as a warning against any remark. Alith turned back to the princess.
‘I am sorry,’ said Alith. ‘I cannot share your enthusiasm for today’s victory.’
‘I would think you happy that Kheranion is dead,’ said Finudel, joining his sister. ‘Is that not some measure of payment for your father?’
Thyrinor had paid little attention to the ongoing saga of the Anars. In that, he shared Dorien’s view that Naggarothi killing Naggarothi was no bad thing. He spied a servant passing with a golden tray filled with wine goblets and swiped a fresh glass.
‘No,’ Alith said quietly. ‘Kheranion died swiftly.’
Athielle and Finudel fell silent, shocked by Alith’s words. Thyrinor stepped up beside Finudel, proffering a goblet towards Alith. The Naggarothi prince took it reluctantly.
‘Victories have been few for us,’ said the Caledorian. He raised his own glass in toast to Alith. ‘I give you my thanks for your efforts and those of your warriors. Were the king here, I am sure he would offer you the same.’
‘I do not fight for your praise,’ said Alith.
Thyrinor bit back a retort at the Naggarothi’s rudeness and took a sip of wine.
‘Then what do you fight for?’ asked Thyrinor.
Alith did not reply immediately. He looked towards Athielle and his expression lightened a little.
‘Forgive me,’ Alith said with a slight smile. ‘I am weary. Wearier than you can possibly imagine. Ellyrion and Caledor battle for their freedom and I should not judge you for matters that are not your responsibility.’
Alith took a mouthful of wine and gave a weak nod of appreciation. He raised the goblet beside Thyrinor’s and fixed his gaze upon the Caledorian.
‘May you win all of your battles and end this war!’ Alith declared. His eyes flickered away for a moment before returning to meet Thyrinor’s bemused stare. The Caledorian saw emptiness of spirit in that gaze and was forced to look away, suppressing a shudder.
‘We should not impose upon you any longer,’ said Finudel, guiding Athielle away with a touch on her arm. Alith gazed longingly after her for a moment before he returned his stare to Thyrinor.
‘Will you fight to the last, against all hope?’ Alith asked. ‘Will your king give his life to free Ulthuan?’
‘He will,’ replied Thyrinor. ‘You think that you alone have reason enough to fight the druchii? You are wrong, so very wrong.’
Alith’s presence was deeply unsettling. Thyrinor turned away and called for Dorien, feigning concern for his cousin so that he could leave the Naggarothi alone. He joined Dorien with the other Caledorian princes at the centre of the pavilion, downing the contents of his goblet.
‘I don’t know about you, but I think I prefer it when the Naggarothi are not on our side,’ he said in a hushed voice, fearful that the Anar prince would hear him.
‘I don’t trust him,’ said Dorien, staring over Thyrinor’s shoulder to where Alith was in deep conversation with Carathril. ‘Finudel is a fool for allying with his sort. Believe me, that Anar will turn out to be a traitor and I would have my throat slit before I agree to fight alongside him. Better that than a knife in the back.’
Thyrinor eyed Alith Anar with suspicion, knowing the truth of his cousin’s words. It was not just the Naggarothi’s words and demeanour that bothered him. There was a darkness of the spirit that permeated the core of Alith, and Thyrinor wanted no part of it. Turning away, he pushed the Naggarothi from his thoughts and spied a group of Athielle’s handmaidens looking appreciatively at him across the pavilion.
Securing himself a fresh goblet of wine, he headed towards them with a smile.
TWELVE
AVELORN WITHERS
The flower was wilting. Its leaves hung lank and yellowing, stem twisted, pale blue petals ragged-edged as they dropped to the ground. Yvraine knelt beside the plant, sensing the source of its malaise. All of Ulthuan was sickening. Dark magic flowed, corrupting everything it touched. Unspeakable rites were performed in the name of the undergods. The Everqueen’s people slew each other across the isle. The harmony of Ulthuan was disrupted and all was falling to disorder.
Yvraine touched an extended finger to a drooping leaf and let free a fragment of her power. Life flowed into the flower and it straightened and coloured, infused with the Everqueen’s magic. It was a gesture and nothing more. She could not heal every hurt being wrought upon Ulthuan.
The Everqueen knelt beside the flower and pushed her fingers into the earth, feeling every particle of soil on her skin. Long hair flowing about her face, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent and moisture of the bare ground, breathing in the life force of Isha.
She let her mind wander from the mortal shell that others knew as Yvraine, and seeped into the soil, slowly spreading through the Gaen Vale, out into Avelorn and onwards, through every blade of grass and bloom in Ulthuan.
Her spirit wept as her mind felt the crushing tread of the Naggarothi armies over pasture and meadow. She recoiled at the taste of blood in the rivers and streams. Armies camped beneath the bowers of ancient trees and cut them down to feed their fires.
The Everqueen retreated back to Avelorn, dismayed by what she had felt. Hatred, greed, zealotry, and not just from the Naggarothi. Always it was so, evil rising from evil to feed itself. The filth of Chaos lingered in the air and the water and the ground. Her people would never be free of its touch.
For all her dark thoughts, she knew that there was always hope. From the memories she shared with her many mothers she knew that Ulthuan had seen an age far worse than the present. Life could not be so easily extinguished. The pain of Avelorn still lingered in her heart from when it had been razed by the daemons. The forest had grown again from that perilous time, yet the greater damage had been done. Her father, Aenarion, had taken the Godslayer, and in that single act had welcomed violence into the hearts of the elves forever. The Naggarothi could not be blamed for what they had become, the seed of their evil had been sown generations earlier.
Yet that seed of darkness had been nurtured by evil purpose. The Everqueen’s thoughts turned to the architect of this new time of woe: Morathi. It was her spite, her jealousy, her greed that had fuelled this war. All of the blood spilt ran as a flood from Morathi’s hands.
That flood had come to Avelorn now. Armoured warriors roamed into the western woods from the mountains of Chrace, killing and burning. They were a scourge upon everything, seeking to tame and conquer nature itself. Yvraine’s consciousness moved along branch and root, spying upon the Naggarothi camps. She felt the patter of blood on the grass beneath the sacrificial altars, tasted the charnel smoke of the pyres through her leaves, while animal terror coursed through
her roots from the fleeing creatures of the forest.
The sun fell and rose and fell again many times as Yvraine watched the Naggarothi, seeking to divine their purpose. They drove everything before them, wolf beside the deer, fox beside the rabbit, hawk beside the dove. All were united in their dread of the dark slaughter that had come to Avelorn.
Drawn by her anger, the Maiden Guard gathered in the clearing around Yvraine’s still form. In the
silver-and-gold glow of the Aein Yshain, Isha’s favoured tree, the warriors of Avelorn sharpened their spears and strung their bows, waiting for their queen to resurface. They too felt the discord rampaging through Avelorn, and had come to this sacred glade to hear what would be done about it.
There was too much death, and violence would always defeat itself. Yet the forest had to be protected and its people and creatures defended against the malice of Morathi and her soldiers.
Yvraine returned to her mortal form, its skin shining with a faint light as her spirit took its place. She stood and looked upon her army in their golden scale and green cloaks.
‘My husband-to-be does not come to our aid,’ she said with disappointment. ‘He proves as fallible as the others, short-sighted and selfish. He has not yet even come to seek my blessing in person, nor join with me so that the reign of the Everqueen will be sustained. Yet I sense that we will not stand alone. From across Ellyrion comes the army of his brother. Go to them and show them the paths through the forest that will take them to our enemies. Drive them from the glades and the deep woods with spear and arrow, and then return to me.’
Her will made known, Yvraine retreated to the caves beneath the arching roots of the Aein Yshain. She sat upon her throne of curled roots while attendants busied themselves with gourds of water taken from the sacred springs, filling the pools that surrounded the Everqueen’s seat. Images shimmered in each pond, showing Avelorn from west to east, south to north. While time passed in the world outside, Yvraine shared the life of the great tree of Isha, each day like a single heartbeat of existence.