02 - Sons of Ellyrion Read online

  He knelt beside Menethis and rested the tip of the blade on his throat.

  “You will kill me too?” snapped Menethis. “How long have you been a servant of the druchii? You are a worthless traitor, and I spit on you.”

  “I am no servant of the druchii,” he said. “Suffice to say I allowed the bitterness of others to poison my thoughts and upset the moral compass of my heart. But I make no excuses; I have no defence for what I have done.”

  “Because there is no defence! You murdered Glorien just as he was becoming the warrior he needed to be.”

  “I fear you are right, but we have no time for debate or regrets.”

  Menethis glanced away from the blade at his throat to the fighting on the walls. The elven line had not yet broken, but it was a matter of moments only.

  “You and your plotters have condemned us all to death,” said Menethis. “You know that?”

  “No,” said Alathenar. “For you will lead what is left of the garrison to Ellyrion. There are horses aplenty in the landward stables, enough to carry the bulk of our warriors to safety.”

  “The druchii will break through and cut us down before we have a single horse saddled.”

  “Not if I hold them back,” said Alathenar.

  Menethis laughed, a bitter, lost sound that cut Alathenar deeply.

  “You are a fool as well as a traitor,” he said.

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that account,” said Alathenar, standing and lifting the sword from Menethis’ neck. “But regardless of your opinion of me, you must go now if any lives are to be saved.”

  He reversed the sword and held it hilt-first before him.

  Menethis took the weapon, and Alathenar could see the urge to plunge the blade into his throat in his eyes. The hurt anger diminished and Menethis sheathed the weapon. He took a deep breath and turned to the steps leading down to the esplanade behind the doomed wall.

  He glared back at Alathenar. “All Ulthuan will know what you did here,” he promised.

  Alathenar nodded. “So be it. If I am to die hated, then that is all I deserve.”

  Menethis gripped his sword and said, “Your honour is lost and will never be regained, Alathenar. Your death here will not even the scales of Asuryan.”

  Alathenar took up his damaged bow and said, “When I stand before him in judgement, I will be sure to remind him of that.”

  Eldain opened his eyes and found himself looking at the tapered ceiling of the Hippocrene Tower. His throat ached abominably and it was painful to draw a breath. He turned his head, seeing that he was lying on his bed, still fully clothed, and was the chamber’s sole occupant.

  What had happened to him?

  His last memory was of Caelir throttling him and the black mist of death reaching up to drag him down. Eldain reached up and ran his fingertips along his neck, feeling the skin there swollen and bruised.

  Eldain sat up, feeling every ache in his body magnified. Holding his throat he took a painful breath and swung his legs onto the floor. Everything here was just as he had left it when he and Rhianna had followed Yvraine to Saphery. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had been called to attend upon the young Sword Master, and Eldain was reminded of how swiftly a life could change its course.

  He rose from the bed and stood at his walnut desk. Sheaves of curling scrolls lay strewn across its surface, along with a quill stone and inkpot. Bookshelves surrounded him, each one filled with the works of great scholars, poets, dramatists and historians.

  Eldain had read every book in his library, yet their worth seemed transitory and meaningless in the face of how the world now turned. Would the druchii keep any of these books? Would they build a new library in the ruins of Lothern? Would any of the works composed over the thousands of years since asur and druchii had gone their separate ways survive this invasion?

  He realised such questions were irrelevant, and moved to one of the eight windows set into the compass points of the tower’s walls. Eldain leaned on the western window’s stone frame and looked up at the enormous peaks of the Annulii. Their peaks were wreathed in magical storm clouds, roiling thunderheads of magical energy that spat lightning bolts of raw power into the earth. Contained within those peaks were the titanic energies bound by Caledor Dragontamer in the time of Aenarion, and it never failed to humble Eldain that a mage of Ulthuan had mustered such power.

  Eldain turned from the panoramic vista and his thoughts moved to more immediate concerns. That he still lived was a surprise and a mystery.

  Why had Caelir not killed him?

  He more than deserved death, and his last sight had been of Caelir’s grief-wracked face as he choked the life from him. There had been no mercy in those eyes, so why had his brother carried him upstairs to his chambers? Part of him wanted to remain in this tower, isolated and without the need to venture into a world that despised him.

  Eldain recognised that for the cowardice it was, and opened the door.

  He descended the steps that led to the Summer Courtyard, finding it deserted and echoing with the ghosts of long-passed glories. Leaves gusted around the silent fountain, and he scattered them with his boot as he walked a circuit of the courtyard. Once, this had been a place of joy, where laughter and song had breathed life and colour into the world. Ellyrians were a proud people, haughty and free-spirited, with a love of life that the people of other kingdoms saw as quick-tempered.

  Yet as quick as an Ellyrian was to anger, he was just as quick to forgive.

  Eldain heard the sound of horses, and knew where Caelir would be.

  He swept his fingers through his platinum-blond hair and made his way towards the rear of the villa where the stables were situated. In any other kingdom, stables were simply functional structures, designed to house mounts and nothing more. Horses were equals in Ellyrian households, and a noble of this land lavished as much care and attention on the building of his stables as he did on his own quarters.

  Ellyr-Charoi’s stables were crafted from polished marble and roofed with clay tiles of stark blue, each stone rendered with intricate carvings and gold leaf representations of heroic steeds from family history. The starwood doors were open, and Eldain heard his brother talking to the horses in a low, soothing tones.

  Though elf and horse did not converse as such, there existed a bond that allowed each to sense the needs of the other. When steed and rider were together, there was no division between them, their thoughts were one and they moved and fought with perfect synchronicity. No other cavalry force in the world could boast so intuitive a connection, and rightly were the riders of Ellyrion known as the horse lords.

  Eldain rounded the chamfered columns of the door, and the warm welcome he always felt in Ellyr-Charoi’s stables enfolded him. A central passageway ran the length of the building, with twenty stalls to either side, though it had been many years since each one had been filled. Lotharin and Irenya were ensconced in neighbouring stalls, and Caelir fed them handfuls of good Ellyrian grain. A grain-fed horse would have stronger bones, more powerful muscles and could easily outrun a grass-fed horse.

  Caelir looked up as Eldain entered.

  What could he possibly say to his brother?

  “Hello, Eldain,” said Caelir. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

  “Will that talk end the way of our last?”

  Caelir shook his head. “No, brother. Not unless you desire vengeance.”

  “Vengeance? No, there is no malice left in me.”

  “Nor in me,” agreed Caelir.

  “Why?” said Eldain, wary of opening so raw a wound, but needing to understand why he still lived.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you not kill me?” asked Eldain.

  “Because you are my brother,” said Caelir.

  Alathenar ran to the edge of the wall, loosing shaft after shaft into the surging host of enemy warriors. Blue-cloaked elves streamed from the walls, obeying the trumpeted order to retreat even as isolated groups stoo
d firm to deny the enemy the slaughter of pursuit. Alathenar ducked a sweeping axe blow and sent a shaft through the eye of a screaming tribesman at point blank range. Another sliced open the throat of a druchii bearing a heavy, two-handed blade, and another punched through the heart of a warrior reloading his ebony crossbow.

  The hordes of the enemy strained at the few defenders remaining on the wall, yet they could not break through such determined resistance. Bound by shared guilt at Glorien’s death, these were the warriors who had wished for his death, or had imagined his fall and now knew the true cost of such disloyal thoughts. Without any orders needing to be given, every warrior of the Eagle Gate knew in a heartbeat whether he should remain until the bitter end or escape the slaughter to come.

  Alathenar fought like Alith Anar himself, weaving a path through the enemy warriors like a ghost. Across the rampart, he saw Eloien Redcloak, cutting enemy warriors down with graceful sweeps of his cavalry sabre. Like Alathenar, the terrible nature of what they had done was etched on his hard features, and the Ellyrian wept as he killed.

  Alanrias crouched on a jutting perch of stone, sending the last of his barbed arrows into the sweating, grunting mass of enemy warriors. The savage humans could smell victory. It was just within their reach, but these last, few elves were denying them the full splendour of slaughter. Alathenar had not known whether the Shadow Warrior would remain to face the consequences of their conspiracy, but should have known better. For all his dour and bitter pronouncements, he was still one of the asur.

  His quiver emptied, Alathenar broke his bow across his knee and swiftly unwound the string from the notches at either end. Woven with tresses from his beloved Arenia, he was not about to have it fall into the hands of the druchii. He wrapped the bowstring around the fingers of his right fist and swept up a fallen sword.

  He looked down into the courtyard, seeing Menethis hurriedly organising the evacuation of the fortress. Hundreds of elven warriors saddled horses and prepared to ride eastward. Many of the escapees were from Ellyrion and were already riding for their homeland. The majority of what was left of the garrison would escape, but Menethis needed more time to get everyone clear.

  A hellish bellow of rage echoed from the sides of the pass, and Alathenar saw Issyk Kul slay the last of the defenders holding his barbarous warriors back. A tide of unclean and perverse humans surged onto the walls, bellowing with triumph as they swept left and right along the ramparts.

  “Redcloak! The stairs!” he yelled, running towards the head of the western steps. One warrior could hold the steps for a short time only, but perhaps that would be enough. Eloien Redcloak took up position at the head of the eastern steps, while Alanrias kept up a relentless stream of killing arrows. The Shadow Warrior let fly with no thought for spite in his barbed arrows. Each shaft tore out a throat, plunged through an eye socket or into a heart.

  Three warriors against an army.

  There could be no redemption for any of them, but at least they would die in the service of Ulthuan.

  A screaming tribesman came at Alathenar, and he ducked beneath the slashing blade of a heavy broadsword. His blade lanced out, opening the man’s belly and hurling him to the courtyard below. A warrior with an arm covered in weeping sores that looked like eyes leapt at him, and Alathenar hammered his sword across his neck, all but severing his head.

  A hurled spear tore a gash in his hip, and Alathenar staggered as blood washed down his leg. The wound in his side reopened and he knew he had moments at best to kill as many of these dogs as he could. Three more tribesmen died by his blade, and he risked a glance over to the eastern stairs to see Redcloak bleeding from a score of wounds. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, but he fought equally well with his left.

  A druchii warrior with a full-faced helm of bronze came at Alathenar with a long, hook-bladed spear. He could see the druchii grinning beneath his helm and anger flared at the relish he saw in his enemy’s face.

  “Come and die, dark one!” he shouted.

  The druchii ignored him and thrust with his spear; Alathenar batted it aside and lunged forward. No sooner had he moved, than he realised he had been lured into the attack. The druchii stepped back and swept his spear to the side, the haft slamming into Alathenar’s torso and pitching him over the edge of the steps.

  Alathenar felt himself falling, and reached out to grip the spear with his free hand. The druchii warrior gave a cry of surprise as Alathenar dragged him from the top of the steps, and the two of them fell from the wall.

  Alathenar slammed into the cobbled esplanade, screaming in pain as the bones of his legs shattered with the force of the impact. The druchii landed next to him, his skull smashed to splinters and blood pooling around his caved-in helm. Alathenar rolled onto his side, crying out in pain as the broken bones of his legs ground together. Enemy warriors streamed down the steps into the fortress, and Alathenar wept to see one of Caledor’s great fortresses fall.

  Through tear-blurred vision, he saw Eloien Redcloak cut down by the warlord of the tribal host. The champion’s horrific sword opened the Ellyrian from collarbone to pelvis, and sent his ruptured body tumbling to the courtyard. An ivory figure astride a winged black horse dropped through the sky to land at the centre of the wall. Morathi’s laughter rang from the sides of the pass, and Alathenar had never hated anyone with greater passion.

  A flickering stream of black light erupted from her outstretched hand, and Alathenar watched in horror as the deadly fire engulfed Alanrias. His cloak ignited and the archer vanished in a pillar of searing flame that burned hotter and darker than any natural flame could possibly burn. The black fire quickly dissipated, leaving only a smeared ashen outline on the wall where the Shadow Warrior had once stood.

  Alathenar tried to sit up, but the pain from his broken bones was too great. He closed his eyes and brought his hand to his mouth. He kissed the bowstring wrapped around his fingers, picturing the beautiful elf-maid who had so delicately cut strands of her hair for him.

  “Forgive me, Arenia,” he whispered.

  He kept the image of her perfect beauty in his mind as a talisman against the pain, wishing he could have done things differently, that he had not loosed that fatal bolt.

  A shadow fell upon him and he cried out as the vision of Arenia vanished. Alathenar opened his eyes and saw the towering form of Issyk Kul looming over him. The warlord’s bulk blotted out the sun, and Alathenar saw the dark halo of the Dark Gods’ favour rippling around his cruelly beautiful features.

  “I knew the gods had me spare you for a reason,” said Kul.

  Alathenar tried to spit a defiant answer, but his mouth was full of blood.

  Issyk Kul knelt beside Alathenar, and pressed a broken sword into his bloodied palm.

  “No warrior should die without a blade in his hand,” said Kul. “It is one of the few things the worshipers of the Blood God and I agree upon.”

  “Kill me,” gurgled Alathenar.

  Issyk Kul smiled, exposing sharpened teeth and a glistening tongue.

  “All in good time,” he said. “All in good time.”

  Eldain and Caelir spent the next hour in silence, brushing their steeds and carefully grooming them as though they were soon to participate in one of the grand ridings of Tor Elyr. The use of the farrier and stableman’s tools was second nature to them, and Eldain found the work cathartic and restful. There was a rhythm and peace in caring for horses that could be found in no other labour. Lotharin and Irenya stood proudly as the two brothers brushed their coats, wound iron cords through their tails and cleared their hooves of stones and earth.

  At last they stood back from their mounts, satisfied their work was done. Both brothers had worked up a powerful thirst and appetite, and though Eldain’s throat was still bruised from Caelir’s earlier assault, he was pleasantly out of breath by the time the two steeds were fully groomed.

  “I will fetch food and drink from the kitchens,” said Caelir. “Clean up and I will see you in the Eq
uerry’s Hall.”

  Eldain nodded and watched as Caelir left the stables through a side door. Both horses watched him go also, and Eldain stroked their necks. Lotharin’s hide gleamed like shimmering oil, while Irenya’s dun flanks were like polished mahogany.

  “I do not deserve such loyalty,” he said, knowing it was true, but grateful beyond words to know that he was not yet beyond redemption. The horses nuzzled him, and he indulged them momentarily before heading outside. Midmorning sunlight filled the Summer Courtyard, and though he and Caelir were alone, the villa felt more like a home than it had in years.

  Eldain made his way to a dry trough built into the eastern wall of the villa. Diverted water from the streams on either side of Ellyr-Charoi should be flowing through these troughs, but only dead leaves filled them now. Eldain bent to scoop leaves from the carved horse’s mouth that channelled water out of the trough and back to the stream, then did the same at the other end. No sooner had he scooped out the first handful than water splashed over his hands in a gloriously refreshing spray. Icy water from the Annulii gurgled into the trough, swiftly filling it and flowing along its length.

  He washed his hands and splashed water onto his face, relishing the shock of its coldness. The water tingled with the residue of magic, but what else could he expect when its source was high in a range of mountains suffused with the most elemental energies of the world?

  Eldain washed in the glittering water, and by the time he was finished, his skin shone as though rejuvenated. He ran his hands through his hair, aware now of how unkempt he appeared. Riding alone with the wild herds, it was acceptable to look like a rustic, but Eldain was still a noble of Ulthuan, and Ellyr-Charoi was not the open plain.

  Refreshed, Eldain climbed the steps of the Hippocrene Tower and stripped out of the clothes he had worn for days. His wardrobe still had a wide sartorial selection, and he chose a tunic of pale cream, over which he slipped a gold edged shirt with silver embroidery at the collar. Next, he selected leggings of soft buckskin and high riding boots of tan leather with a wide heel. Finally, he snapped a black belt around his waist, and fastened it with a golden buckle worked in the form of interlocking horse heads.