02 - Sons of Ellyrion Page 7

  A slender hand, with soft fingers and delicate nails lifted her chin.

  Rhianna looked into warm hazel eyes that knew no hate, no bitterness or spite.

  “You are Alarielle,” said Rhianna.

  “For now,” agreed the Queen of Avelorn. “The Everqueen slumbers, regaining her strength, even as I do. Alarielle speaks to you now, but while our flesh heals, my power will wane and the Everqueen’s will wax like the turning of the seasons. But the light of the forest shines once more, and the balance between us will be restored soon.”

  Rhianna looked into the Everqueen’s eyes.

  “Why did you let him live?” asked Rhianna.

  Alarielle smiled. “I would never have harmed Eldain, for all the asur are my children. I could no more strike him down than I would strike you down.”

  “It looked like you were going to kill him.”

  “The power of the Everqueen might have killed Eldain, but it spared him for some purpose I do not understand.”

  Rhianna turned away from Alarielle. “I wish she had killed him. He deserves to die. I hate him for what he did. To Caelir. To me… to Ulthuan. Why did he do it? You saw inside him, I know you did. Why did he leave his brother to die?”

  The light of Alarielle followed her, and Rhianna felt a gossamer-thin touch upon her shoulder. Its warmth flowed into her, but she resisted it, hanging onto her anger in the face of the soothing balm of forgiveness.

  “He did it for love,” said Alarielle. “At least he once believed that was why.”

  “For love?” hissed Rhianna, spinning to face Alarielle. “What kind of love brings about such pain and suffering?”

  “Mortal love,” said Alarielle. “For it is bound by the confines of a life, and is therefore fleeting. Swords have been bloodied throughout the history of the world in the name of love, Rhianna. Love of a land, a colourful flag, an ideal. A beloved wife…”

  “Eldain’s betrayal had nothing to do with love,” said Rhianna, as fresh tears spilled out. “I will hate him forever for what he did.”

  The light of the grove dimmed at her words, and Alarielle’s eyes shone with the light that had passed into the forest. Rhianna felt its healing properties, magic that could heal a heart broken into a thousand pieces.

  “There is no hurt in the world that cannot be undone by the power that lives in me,” said Alarielle, “but you have to let it in. The heart that does not want to heal cannot be remade.”

  “Maybe some hearts should not be remade.”

  “And be left only with hate to fill them? No, hate is a poison that will turn the purest soul to the blackest deeds. It is a seed that can only flower in bitter soil. Do not feed it, and it will wither away. Do not water it with your tears and it will never grow again.”

  Rhianna sobbed and sank to her knees. “How? I do not know how.”

  “You will learn,” promised Alarielle. “You must if you are to fulfil your destiny, for what you hold in your heart will shape Ulthuan for all time. For all our sakes, do not let it be hate.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rhianna.

  “No, but you will.”

  Alarielle closed her eyes, and Rhianna saw a tremor pass through her. When next the queen looked upon her, a measure of the Everqueen had become part of her again.

  “But the time for talking is over,” said the Everqueen. “The hate of which I speak has flowered in the hearts of those who stand against the druchii in the west. All too soon it may bear bitter fruit, and we must be ready to fight.”

  “You will go to war?” said Rhianna.

  The Everqueen nodded, and the light inside her swelled until it seemed as though her body could no longer contain it. The warmth in her eyes became a furnace, and Rhianna thrilled to the passion of the Everqueen’s emotion.

  “I will summon the army of the forest,” said the Everqueen with a sound like thunder in a clear sky. “The treemen of the deep woods, the dryads of the bracken, the great eagles, the faun, the sprites and the fair folk. All the kith and kin of magic shall heed my call. The Maiden Guard, the singers, the poets, the dancers, the warriors, the playwrights and the acrobats, all shall delight at gathering beneath my banner of ice and song. The raven shall carry my words to Chrace, the dove to Cothique. All shall heed my summons!”

  Rhianna felt the elemental power of the forest pass to every creature that filled the grove. Every bird that could fly took to the air to carry the Everqueen’s command. Each beast of the forest that could run took to its heels to gather its kind.

  The Everqueen turned her blazing gaze upon Rhianna, and she saw the fierce exultation in those ancient eyes at the thought of gathering her magical army.

  “Avelorn marches to war!” cried the Everqueen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOST SOULS

  Eldain awoke from troubled sleep by the lapping banks of a river. He felt refreshed and unhurt. He had expected neither after the Everqueen had stripped him of his armour of self-denial. Eldain had thought the light of the Everqueen would burn him to cinders in punishment for his terrible crime. He could not think of a single reason why she might spare him. A memory of fire lingered in his mind, a vast portal and a silent sentinel, but he could make no sense of it.

  He pushed himself to his feet, looking around to gain a sense of where he was. Across the river was an impenetrable wall of trees, their leaves shimmering with their own inner light, a luminosity that could have but one source. Though the river was shallow here, Eldain knew it would be suicide for him to re-enter the woods of Avelorn. He had been cast from beneath its magical boughs, and to return there would be the death of him.

  To the west, the Annulii scraped the clouds from the sky and gathered them like cotton haloes around their magical summits. He turned to the south, already feeling his heart lighten at the thought of what he would see.

  Ellyrion.

  Land of his birth, it opened out before him like a mother’s embrace. Its golden fields and wild steppe spreading as far as the eye could see. The sight of so wild, so untamed, so free a land made Eldain weep. He had no right to be here. No right to see so fantastical a land and certainly no right to receive its welcome. He had betrayed one of its sons, and as he had been banished from Avelorn, so too should he be banished from every kingdom of Ulthuan.

  Yet, as much as he knew he deserved to feel no sense of welcome or homecoming, its presence was as potent as any he had known. This land had been birthed in an age beyond Eldain’s imagination, and would endure long after he was dust in the wind. It had no need to pass judgement upon anything as petty as the affairs of the mortal creatures that crawled upon its body like ants on a fallen tree.

  Ellyrion was his home, and it welcomed him as its son.

  His joy was short-lived as he thought of his likely future. Beyond Ellyrion he would receive no welcome. He would be shunned as a pariah, hated for what he had done, and a bleak mood settled upon him as he thought of how far he had fallen since the heady days before the raid to Clar Karond. He was alone, and would be alone forever.

  Forever was a long time for one of the asur.

  Would he be able to bear the weight of the centuries alone? Could he stand to face the long years locked behind the walls of Ellyr-Charoi, withering and diminishing with every passing century? The Everqueen had spared him, but death would have been preferable to such a grey end to a life. To lessen with the years, growing dim and haunting the ruins of his villa until it too collapsed into forgotten rubble at the foot of the mountains.

  His would be a life measured by despairing centuries and spent in eternal regret.

  That was to be his fate, and Eldain accepted it.

  It was a long walk to Ellyr-Charoi, but no sooner had he taken his first step south, than a familiar scent came to him as the wind shifted. Eldain knew that scent better than anything, hearing the welcome sound of hoof beats on good earth. He turned to the long grass of the west in time to see a black horse galloping towards him with fierce joy in every step
.

  “Lotharin!” he cried, running towards the midnight steed.

  The last he had seen of his faithful mount had been when Caelir had ridden him from the Tower of Hoeth. He had assumed the horse now roamed within the borders of Avelorn, but no steed of Ellyrion could be kept long from its homeland. Eldain had known Lotharin since his birth, both elf and horse growing to adulthood with a bond closer than any mortal rider could ever hope to understand.

  “I have missed you, old friend,” said Eldain. The horse nuzzled him, and Eldain rubbed its neck. Lotharin’s coat was freshly brushed and shone with fresh vitality.

  “Time in Avelorn has done you good.”

  The horse tossed its mane, and Eldain saw that no matter what he had done, Lotharin would always be with him. Nothing could break the bond between an Ellyrion horseman and his steed, and Eldain thanked Asuryan that he had been lucky enough to be born in such a wild, passionate land.

  He vaulted onto the horse’s back, needing no saddle, bridle or reins.

  Though he rode to his eternal doom, Eldain welcomed this last ride upon so fine a mount as Lotharin.

  “Come, Lotharin,” said Eldain. “Homewards. To Ellyr-Charoi.”

  The sun felt good on his skin, and Tyrion turned his face towards it, hoping its golden rays would send him a measure of his beloved Everqueen’s warmth. Druchii blood coated the golden scales of his armour, and his azure cloak was stiff with the stuff. Sunfang lay unsheathed across his lap, though not a drop stained its gleaming blade. The caged fire within its heart burned any impure blood away.

  Days had passed since his arrival at the castle, and, as he had predicted, the druchii had indeed attacked with greater skill and cunning after their first, abortive, assault. He had been proved right, though he took no pleasure in that. The Naggarothi were descendants of the asur. Of course they would be skilled.

  More of the dark-cloaked warriors were even now assembling beyond bowshot, together with heavy bolt throwers and monsters that roared and bellowed behind hastily thrown up walls of boulders. Soon there would be a force thrown at the castle that not even he could fight against.

  Already Tyrion had given Finubar more time than could be expected. The Phoenix King had sent word that the Sea Guard and Lothern citizen levy was taking position on the Emerald Gate, but every minute Tyrion could give him was vital. It was a heavy burden Finubar had placed upon him, but such was the way of kings, to ask great things of those that served them.

  “Resting when there are druchii still to slay?” said Belarien, returning from the crumbling keep with two platters of bread, cheese and fruit. He sat down beside Tyrion, and set the food down on his lap.

  “I am trying to, but you are making it difficult,” answered Tyrion.

  “We shall sleep when we are dead, eh?”

  Tyrion tried to smile. He had said those same words before the battle at Finuval. Rescued from a mighty daemon prince of Chaos by Teclis, he had gone on to fight the Witch King’s greatest assassin in single combat though his spirit had almost been lost in the abyss. Then, those words had been defiant, now they sounded hollow. Belarien saw the emptiness in Tyrion’s eyes and was immediately contrite.

  “Apologies, my lord. I spoke without thought.”

  “No need,” said Tyrion. “I should watch what I say in future if I cannot stand my own words quoted back at me. And you are right. I will sleep when this is done.”

  “How is the pain?”

  “Happily lessened,” said Tyrion. “Alarielle yet lives, and grows stronger. I can hear the birds of Ulthuan sing again. She will recover, and each day I feel her pain less and less.”

  “Then why the grim mood?”

  “We face an enemy who will soon gather enough force to overwhelm us. Is that not reason to be grim?”

  “You’ve faced worse odds than this and prevailed,” said Belarien. “I know, I was there for all of them and I still bear the scars.”

  Tyrion said nothing. How could he tell Belarien of the dark siren song of the Widowmaker? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the black, blood-veined altar and the smoking blade buried in its heart. The bones of the dead and the yet to be slain rattled around it, unquiet in their death and looking to him to give their deaths meaning. Every blow he struck against the druchii was a pale shadow of the destruction he could wreak with the Sword of Khaine in his hand. With its power he could end the threat of the Witch King forever, take the war across the sea and destroy their blighted homelands in one bloody sweep.

  He let out a breath, knowing these were the Widowmaker’s thoughts, not his own.

  They were not lies, these thoughts. Lies would be easier to dismiss. The sword would give him all the power it promised, but it was power that could never be given back. Aenarion had learned that lesson too late, dooming his lineage to forever be bound to that black blade of murder and bloodshed.

  Belarien knew the stories of Aenarion as well as any in Ulthuan, but he could never really understand the terrible attraction the Sword of Khaine had for Tyrion.

  “My lord?” said Belarien.

  Tyrion was saved from answering by the glorious note of a hunting horn. Cheers went up from the garrison, as a group of warriors marched into the castle through the Autumn Gate in the western wall. Tyrion rose to his feet as he saw the shimmering sea-serpent banner that went before these axe-wielding killers, each one clad in tunics of sumptuous cream and embroidered with golden thread and fire-winged birds. Their helms were bronze, and about their necks were mantles of brilliant white fur, taken from the bodies of the deadly lions that hunted the mountains of Chrace.

  Led by a giant with a pelt cloak so voluminous that it seemed impossible it could have come from a single beast, the White Lions escorted a singular warrior clad in scarlet dragonscale armour and a shimmering cloak of mist and shadow.

  “The Phoenix King,” said Belarien.

  “None other,” agreed Tyrion, pushing himself to his feet and sheathing Sunfang. As highly regarded as he was, not even Tyrion would dare stand before the Phoenix King with a bared blade. Korhil, the towering master of Finubar’s bodyguard, would never allow it, and the mighty, double-bladed axe slung at his shoulder was a potent deterrent against such foolishness.

  Tyrion went to meet Finubar, the Seafarer as he was known, and bowed as the White Lions parted smoothly to allow their king to meet his greatest champion.

  “My king, you honour us,” said Tyrion.

  “My friend, how many times do I need tell you that you should not bow to me?”

  “A king must always be bowed to, or else none shall know him as a king.”

  “Prince Tyrion quotes Caledor the Second,” said the broad-shouldered White Lion at Finubar’s side. “Even as he shows respect, he mocks.”

  The words were said without anger, and Tyrion smiled. “Ah, yes, I always forget that you Chracians actually know how to read and write, let alone study history.”

  “Careful, Tyrion,” warned Finubar with a smile. “Korhil’s blood is still afire after he slew the champion of a druchii witch cult yesterday.”

  “He is welcome to test that lumbering tree-cutter against Sunfang any time he wishes.”

  “Tree-cutter?” growled Korhil. “Chayal would find your neck before you could pull that shiny toothpick from its sheath.”

  Tyrion smiled and said, “It is good to see you, Korhil.”

  The White Lion bellowed with laughter and swept Tyrion into a crushing embrace. Rightly it was said that Korhil was the strongest elf of Ulthuan, and Tyrion felt his ribs creak in the powerful embrace.

  “Enough,” said Finubar. “As much as I always enjoy your games, there is little time for them now.”

  Korhil released Tyrion and stepped back behind his king. Tyrion drew in a breath and stood tall before his friend and his king. Finubar was handsome and had the look of one whose eyes were always seeking the next horizon. His blond hair was almost as pale as the cloaks of his White Lions, and the green of his eyes matched the th
ousands of gems set within the gate that led to the Straits of Lothern.

  “How goes the fighting here, Tyrion?” asked Finubar. “The castle on the far side of the Emerald Gate yet resists. Thanks to a few scattered survivors of the battle before the gate, no force of any significance has managed to land on the southern coast. It is here the druchii will bend their every effort.”

  “Then they fare better than we do, my lord,” said Tyrion. “Every day the druchii bring up more warriors across that damned bridge of boats. Tell Aislin to send those scattered survivors to destroy the bridge and we may hold this castle.”

  Finubar sighed. “You know Aislin, my friend. Not even the counsel of a king will sway his thoughts. He and Kithre Seablaze rally whatever ships will answer their call from the Inner Sea, thinking to sail out and win this war in the water before the Emerald Gate.”

  “Then he is a fool,” snapped Tyrion.

  “Choose your words with more care, Tyrion, Aislin is still a prince of Ulthuan, and Seablaze is his protégé,” warned Finubar. “And we will need their ships if the Emerald Gate is ever yielded.”

  “Which it must be if this castle falls,” said Korhil.

  As if to prove the point, the hatefully discordant blare of a druchii war horn echoed from the mountainside. Its echoes faded, only to be replaced by the cold-hearted chants of advancing warriors and the bellows of blood-hungry monsters.

  Tyrion smiled grimly at Korhil. “Time to put that axe of yours to good use,” he said.

  Korhil glanced at Finubar, who nodded.

  “Could you use us on the walls, Prince Tyrion?” asked the Phoenix King.

  “Always, my lord,” said Tyrion.

  The attack was led by the beastmasters. Two iron-scaled abominations, each with a writhing mass of serpentine necks and snapping, biting heads, stalked ahead of a host of marching warriors in lacquered armour of crimson. The monsters’ bodies were dark and rippling with iridescent scales, their eyes glossy and reflective. Teeth like swords of yellowed horn dripped blood and venomous saliva.