With a howl of frustration, the swordmaster leapt backwards. He flipped over the steps with a movement too fast for the eye to follow and disappeared from view.
He made his move with only seconds to spare.
As the skaven stumbled into the void left by the swordmaster, Kortharion uttered the final word of his spell and a deafening explosion rocked the clearing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caladris stumbled and fell with a cry of pain. As he dropped to his knees, the cobalt silk of his robes settled over him like a shroud.
Storms had gripped the Great Ocean for months now and the deck of the Flame of Asuryan was a grey haze of rain and sea spray, but the fall of the young mage did not go unnoticed. Several figures jumped lightly from the rigging and rushed to help him to his feet, handing him his staff, pulling back his robes and peering with concern into his ashen face.
“Take me to the prince,” gasped Caladris, leaning heavily on their shoulders as he stood. “Something terrible has happened.”
The sea guard flinched at the pain written across Caladris’ face. The elven fleet had set sail from Ulthuan over a year ago and the bookish youth had been the butt of their jokes ever since; but seeing him like this—wide-eyed with despair and clinging weakly to their arms—even the most hardened of them felt pity. As they led the mage across the lurching deck, they raised shields over his head, trying to protect him a little from the fury of the storm as they led him into the prince’s cabin.
“But why have I never heard of this stone?” demanded Prince Althran Stormrider. There was a sharp edge to the noble’s voice as he stumbled back and forth, trying to restore some order to his lurching cabin. In opening the door to the mage he had briefly allowed the storm to dance through the charts and maps that covered his desk, scattering them to the four corners of the small room. As Caladris slumped weakly in a chair by the door, the prince gathered his papers together and stuffed them into a tall, ivory cabinet, sighing with annoyance as he saw how drenched they were. Even with the door closed, the fury of the storm was inescapable and as he returned to his desk, the prince had to grip the low-beamed ceiling to steady himself. “If there is such a priceless, powerful amulet on one of these islands, how can I be unaware of it?”
Caladris could not immediately reply. He was starting to tremble with shock and simply nodded gratefully as the prince offered him a goblet of wine.
The expression on Prince Stormrider’s face softened a little as he saw how unnerved his young charge was. “Be calm. Don’t hurry yourself,” he said sitting down opposite Caladris and pouring himself a drink.
Caladris drained his goblet and opened his eyes. “I was told that even within the White Tower itself there are very few who know of the stone’s existence. I assure you, it is no reflection on you, my lord. Since the time of Bel-Korhadris, only the most learned loremasters have been privy to the legend of the Ulthane and the Phoenix Stone.”
The prince let out a snort of disdain. “My ancestors were patrolling these waters before Bel-Korhadris was even born. If the Island of Blood is home to such a treasure, my father would certainly have known of it.” He drummed his delicate, bejewelled fingers on the arm of his chair and gazed out of the cabin’s single, small window. “There was much left unsaid between us at the time of his death, but if he hadn’t been taken so suddenly, I’m sure he would have confided in me.”
Caladris lifted his chin defiantly. “I wouldn’t know about that, lord. I only know that the stone is a closely-guarded secret. And it has always been so, because…” he paused, and leant forwards with a grim look on his face. “Because if anyone other than the Asur were to learn of the Phoenix Stone, the consequences could be terrible.”
The prince sat back in his chair and smoothed down his beautifully embroidered surcoat, obviously unconvinced. “Really? Are you sure it is of such importance? What kind of power does this amulet wield? Is it truly such a great weapon?”
“Oh, no,” replied Caladris, shaking his head fiercely. “It’s powerless by itself. It has no military application at all.” He frowned and looked down at the floorboards, unsure how continue. “You remember I mentioned the Ulthane?”
The prince nodded. “The statues?”
“Yes… Well, no… They’re not simply statues, or even beacons. Or at least they weren’t always.” Caladris frowned at the golden crescent at the end of his staff, obviously frustrated by the need to explain in such detail.
The prince scowled. “You’re not the only one here with any learning, Caladris. All the knowledge in Ulthuan does not reside within the White Tower. I hope you are not doubting my ability to understand. If you really expect me to change our heading you’ll need to give me a very good reason. Tell me, what were these Ulthane before they became statues?”
“Great heroes,” said the mage, meeting the prince’s eyes. “As the legend tells it, they were amongst the very first of our knights, trained by the Defender himself, as the world teetered on the brink of ruin. As our forefathers created the magical vortex that holds back the daemonic legions, the Ulthane were battling on the far side of the world. And as Caledor completed his final rituals on Ulthuan, the Ulthane discovered a rift: a fatal flaw in his great spell.”
Prince Stormrider finally dropped his air of disbelief and leant forwards, gripping the arms of his chair. “But they must have closed the portal, or we wouldn’t be here now.”
Caladris nodded and his eyes flashed with pride. “I have devoured countless texts on the subject. The legends say that they gave their lives, but in doing so, managed to stem the ruinous torrent from flooding the island. Despite their terrible wounds, the twelve of them poured all their faith and love for Aenarion into a simple trinket—a small, obsidian amulet snapped from a chain around one of their necks. And as they drew their final breaths, they sealed the rift with it. Only then did they allow themselves to die, and only once they had sworn to protect the amulet for all eternity—even from beyond the grave.”
“Can this be true?” muttered the prince. He looked out of the window at the mountainous emerald waves. “And the statues?” he asked, turning back to the mage with a frown.
“They’re tombs, built in the likeness of the fallen heroes; but over time, those sent to guard the amulet came to believe that the spirits of the knights had returned, imbuing the statues with life. At first the claims were dismissed by the loremasters, but as the centuries passed, the Ulthane began to shine with crimson power, illuminating the coast of the island with their fierce gaze.” The mage’s eyes grew wide with passion. “At times of crisis, they would awake, striding into the sea and destroying the ships of our enemies with great swords of marble.” He shook his head. “Theirs is not the only magic at play, however. Over the millennia, traces of the rift have altered the island. Those sent to guard the place fulfil their duty with pride; but they return home utterly changed. The island gnaws at the souls of its guardians, eating away at their sanity like a disease.”
The prince rose to his feet and began pacing around his cabin. “And now you say that these Ulthane have been destroyed? After all their centuries of watchfulness?”
The mage clutched his head in his hands. “I can’t be sure,” he gasped. “I only know what I saw; my former master, Kortharion, crying out for help.” He shivered with horror at the memory of the vision. “I saw him screaming in utter despair. And towering over him, I saw one of the Ulthane, its power extinguished.”
The prince let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry to hear that this Kortharion is suffering in some way, but I can’t believe the island’s guardians would suddenly abandon their oaths, after all these centuries. And, as you told me yourself, some of Hoeth’s finest swordmasters are there to safeguard the amulet’s security. Are you sure we need to change course?”
The mage leapt to his feet and grabbed the prince by his shoulders. “I beg you, my lord. If only you had seen the despair in Kortharion’s eyes, then you would understand. The island is in the most dire nee
d!” He tapped his chest. “Only I could have heard my master’s call and here we are, just a few miles away. How can such a thing be mere coincidence? This is our destiny—I’m sure of it!”
The prince gently shrugged off the mage’s grip and stepped away from him. He sighed and picked up another map from the floor by his desk. “From anyone else, I would dismiss this as idle fancy.” He lifted the map closer and peered at a tiny island marked on the thick vellum. “But you have a habit of being right, my young friend. Maybe we can spare a day or so, just to put your mind at rest.” He traced around the island with his finger. “Maybe my family name will be linked to the history of this mysterious stone after all.”
As the two elves left the cabin, the storm swelled with renewed fury, crashing over the gunnels and howling around the masts. “We have a new bearing,” cried the prince, looking stern and regal as the crew stumbled towards him across the heaving deck. “Summon the eagles. Alert the rest of the fleet.” He shielded his eyes from the spray and looked out through the spiralling thunderheads. “Make for the Island of Blood.”
CHAPTER SIX
“What is this place?” hissed Chieftain Spinetail, as he emerged from the tunnel, peering suspiciously through the tattered rags of a palanquin. The route from the mainland had been as easy as Ratchitt had promised, but as Spinetail’s slaves carried him out onto the island he sniffed the strange, humid air with distrust. The trees that surrounded the tunnel’s exit were like nothing Spinetail had ever seen. Their thin, segmented branches reached down towards him, spider-like from the fog, and each arachnid limb was draped with pale sheets of grey skin that seemed to pass for leaves. “Are these the guardians?” he snapped to his guards, eyeing the strangely animated plants.
“No, your eminence,” replied one of the armour-clad soldiers. He waved his halberd at a towering, shadowy figure on the far side of the wood. “That must be one of them though. The engineer said they were statues. His machine has killed them all.”
“Yes-yes,” said Spinetail with a nervous grin. He picked excitedly at his scabs and looked back across the water towards the mainland and the distant device. As the banks of fog shifted and writhed in the moonlight, he caught glimpses of its brass cabinet, still perched on the cliff top. Its glass sphere was pulsing with inner fire. “He’s drained the life from the statues. Now I’ll do the same to him.”
The guard looked back at his master with concern. “But don’t we need him to find our way around the island, lord?”
Spinetail waved his jagged sword at the strange landscape. “Idiot! Can you see the fawning maggot anywhere? He promised to be waiting here to guide us, but I can’t see him, can you?” The chieftain laughed bitterly at the soldier’s confused expression. “Of course not! He’s betrayed us already, you dolt. I never doubted it for a second. Or perhaps he’s dead-dead. Warlord Verminkin has either discovered the engineer’s double dealing and slit his throat, or struck a deal with him to betray me.” He spat on the floor and muttered under his breath. “Always, everyone is against Spinetail!”
The soldier clutched his halberd more tightly and looked around at the vague shadows. “So, we’ve been led here as a trap?”
Spinetail hissed. “Of course.” He lashed out with his sword, sending the skaven nearest to him scrambling for cover. “He’s lied to me! But what does Spinetail care?” He spat again, dredging something thick and pungent up from his diseased chest. “No matter. Neither Skreet nor his treacherous engineer have any idea of the deals I’ve struck.” He waved to the hordes of skaven pouring from the tunnel behind him. “They have no idea of the size of my new army. I can’t wait to see their faces if they try and spring an ambush.”
“But what about the engineer’s map?”
“A map? Why do we need a map?” He waved at the thick trail of skaven paw prints leading south from the tunnel, “I don’t think we’ll have too many problems finding our way around.” He peered at the statue, wrinkling his flaky snout into a grimace. “Let’s just check Ratchitt’s machine has definitely worked though. Maybe he lied about that too.”
The guards edged cautiously towards the trees. As they stepped beneath the quivering, spindly boughs, a breeze seemed to strike up from nowhere, rippling through the broad, pale leaves and dislodging a couple of them.
The skaven hurried towards the glade that surrounded the statue, but before they reached the far side of the trees one of them let out a scream. The others turned back to see that a voluminous leaf had settled over his face, the translucent membrane wrapping itself around him like swaddling. However he pulled and tugged at it, it wouldn’t come loose.
“It’s just a leaf, you pathetic runt,” snapped Spinetail, but as he watched the struggling soldier, he shrank further back into his palanquin and muttered nervously under his breath.
Beneath the grey membrane, the skaven’s flesh began to slide and melt. His screams became more desperate as steam hissed from beneath the folds of the leaf. He dropped to his knees, still pawing at the filmy skin in a frantic attempt to free himself. As the other guards backed away, his entire body collapsed in on itself with a sickening plop. Within just a few seconds he had melted into a viscous pool of fur and quickly dissolving bones.
As one, the guards scampered back towards the tunnel, leaping over the steaming puddle and dodging the leaves that were now falling in their dozens all around them.
Spinetail was still grimacing as the guards rushed towards him, looking anxiously over their heads at the strange trees. He turned to the skaven rushing from the tunnel behind him. “Keep to the open ground,” he screamed, pointing his sword to the south. “Head for those hills. The plants are…” he stumbled over his words and shook his misshapen head, unsure how to explain what he had just witnessed. “Just keep to the open ground.”
Spinetail drove his army before him in a frenzy of excitement and fear. “We must find the stone before Warlord Verminkin gets there,” he spat, lashing out at the slaves toiling beneath his palanquin. “They’re all against me! And we’re a day behind already!”
The skaven crawled and scampered as fast as they could over the jagged rocks, but the stone was a mass of razor-sharp edges and hidden drops. After an hour’s march, they were littered with cuts and weals. But it was not the rocks that caused them to mutter and hiss: it was the broad canopy of stars arching over their heads. To travel in such open spaces made their fur itch with fear. They longed to crawl beneath the rocks, or to make for the cover of the trees; but Spinetail’s screamed commands made them scurry all the faster, rushing over the rocks in a flood of claws and fur.
After another hour of this, the skaven reached the shores of a small lake. As with everything else they had passed, it followed none of the usual laws of nature. The sand that bordered it undulated sinuously, as though serpentine beasts were stirring beneath, and the water itself was as black as ink. Nothing stirred on the surface, but pale, ethereal shapes could be seen, slipping back and forth in the depths.
“Keep me away from the edge,” growled the chieftain, winding his tail tightly around the posts of the palanquin and grimacing at the dark expanse.
His words were unnecessary. By this point, the hills were close enough to become a solid, if unnerving, reality, and the skaven had picked up their pace as they clambered and clawed their way up the treacherous slopes.
Spinetail hunkered down in the seat of his palanquin and scratched anxiously at his knotted brow. As the twisted, writhing hills rose up around them, his doubt grew. The further south they headed, the stranger the place became. There was a powerful scent of magic on the air; ancient, vengeful magic, which bled through the rocks and seeped from the undulating trees. The chieftain pulled his helmet down a little lower over his face and turned away from the shattered hills.
He flinched in shock.
On the other side of the path, just a few yards away, stood one of the ancient sentinels, looking down at him in impassive, watchful silence. Spinetail sneered and spat. “They’
re all against me,” he muttered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morvane took a long, slow breath, following the route of the oxygen as it rushed through his body, coursing through his folded limbs and filling him with carefully controlled vigour. He felt countless other things just as clearly. The cool, marble floor beneath him; a gentle sea breeze filtering through diaphanous drapes; the distant call of gulls, gliding over the Sea of Dreams, and, from every corner of the globe, currents of magic, trailing up towards his lofty seat. Above all, though, he sensed his master’s presence. He felt their two minds orbiting each other like celestial bodies and knew he was finally beginning the long journey to understanding. Despite the powerful magic enveloping them both, an intense feeling of calm filled the tiny room, perched way up at the top of the tower, almost half a mile above the shady bowers below.
Things had been this way forever, or only seconds; it was meaningless to determine which. Morvane’s soul had become so closely linked to that of his master’s that even the slightest change in his perception was apparent to him. So, when his master suddenly opened his eyes and let out a howl of grief, Morvane felt it as painfully as a hard slap to the face. He gasped and dropped a pair of objects he had long forgotten he was holding. A large, gilt-edged book fell into his lap and a silver candlestick dropped to the floor with a clang, spattering hot, blue wax across the polished stone.
Morvane rolled back across the circular chamber until he was resting against the curved wall. He pressed a hand to his pounding chest and looked up at his master in alarm.
The mage had risen awkwardly to his feet and was peering out from the room’s single, tall window. His frail body was trembling as he leant heavily on his staff.
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