The sundering, p.23
The Sundering, page 23
As the first line of skeletons reached the uppermost step, the Naggarothi struck out with their spears, driving silvered points into skulls and ribcages. This had more effect than the arrows and no few skeletons crumbled into bones, their golden light ebbing and then disappearing. Their advance was as inevitable as the coming of the tide though, and even as the first rank fell the second stepped forwards, and the third, and the fourth.
The skeletons’ blades were as keen as the day that they had been forged, despite the passage of ages, and they bit into shield and flesh as the skeletons attacked back. Cries of pain and fear began to reverberate around Yeasir as he struggled to pull free his own sword, but the scabbard was pinned beneath him and he had not the strength to lift himself from it.
The elf to Yeasir’s left gave a cry and toppled down the steps as an unearthly blade slashed through his throat. The skeleton took another pace forwards into the space the elf had occupied and turned its grinning face towards Yeasir. It raised its arm above its head, the wicked black blade in its hand sparkling with golden light. Yeasir gave a cry and tried to push himself away, but the skeleton stepped forwards again, ready to strike. The captain pulled his shield in front of him just as the sword swung down, and the undead thing’s blade rang against it with a dull crash.
Again and again the sword smashed upon the shield, with relentless, metronomic ferocity. After the tenth blow, all the strength was gone from Yeasir’s arms and the eleventh strike smashed the top of the shield into his face, stunning him. Dazed, he could do nothing as the skeleton’s sword arm rose high again. He stared into the guardian’s eyes, seeing nothing but pits of darkness.
The golden light that filled the room flared into white intensity, blinding Yeasir. He shrieked and knotted his eyes shut, expecting to feel the bite of the unnatural blade any moment. No blow came and Yeasir opened a single eye, fearful of what he might see. The skeleton still loomed above him, arm upraised, but its aura had dimmed to a faint glow and it stood utterly motionless.
Yeasir opened his other eye and dared to let out his breath. The captain then heard harsh laughter from behind him and turned his head slowly, wondering what other fearful apparition awaited him.
Malekith stood in the centre of the dais, the circlet upon his head blazing with power. His face was drawn but he was filled with a glow of energy. His expression was one of disdain, divine yet strangely cruel. His gaze was distant. The prince looked at Yeasir for a long while but did not appear to actually see him. The prince flung out an arm and with the gesture the skeletons came to life once more, turning upon their heels and marching back down the steps. Panting with relief, Yeasir watched as they returned to their plinths and once again took up their immobile vigil.
With the power of the crown, Malekith could see the magical forces binding the skeletons together and the ancient commands that blazed within their empty skulls. It was simplicity itself to order them to stop, and then with another thought the prince bid them to return to their eternal slumber. All about him the hall was filled with great golden arches and glittering pillars, unseen to all except him.
Given extraordinary awareness by the circlet he could look upon the magic of the ancient architects of the city, the curving galleries and arching balconies constructed from mystical forces that even he had been unaware of. This was why the chamber was devoid of other magic, for it contained its own power, far stronger than that of the fitful winds of magic. Just as air cannot pass into a solid object, so too the winds of magic found no room to creep into the enchantment-filled chamber.
Now gifted the insights granted by the crown, there was no telling how acutely the Naggarothi prince might master the power of Chaos. With the circlet to act as his key, Malekith could work such spells as would make the witchery of Saphery seem insignificant. Had he not looked upon the realm of the Chaos Gods itself? Did he not now know their lands, and had he not dared them and survived?
Elation filled Malekith, more majestic than any triumph he ever felt before. His mother had warned that Chaos was the greater enemy; the perils of orcs and the armies of the beastmen paled into insignificance against those legions of daemons that Malekith had seen. The Chaos Gods plotted and waited, for they had an eternity to ponder their plans and to make their schemes. The elves could not shelter behind the power of the vortex forever, Malekith realised, for he had felt the slowly growing power of the Chaos Gods even as he had stood in their midst.
It all came together in the prince’s mind. The men of the north were vassals of the Dark Gods, and as they prospered and multiplied, so too would the influence of their ineffable masters. There might come a day when the bulwark of the vortex would fail, and again the hordes of Chaos would be unleashed upon the world. Ulthuan was utterly unprepared for such an eventuality. Bel Shanaar could not hope to meet such a threat. It was an apparent truth to Malekith that he alone, with the power of the circlet, now bore the means by which the elves might be protected from this greater doom.
Slowly, with much effort, Malekith took the crown from his head. The great magical architecture faded from his vision and he found himself back in the strangely angled hall beneath the prehistoric city. His Naggarothi surrounded him, staring at their lord with eyes full of wonder and fear.
Malekith smiled. He now knew what he must do.
Part Two
The Cults of the Cytharai; the Return of the Prince; Anlec Restored; the Will of Asuryan
Thirteen
The Malaise of Luxury
Even as Malekith embraced the destiny revealed to him by the Circlet of Iron, far to the south on Ulthuan another elf started upon a path that would see him brought into the fates of the most powerful princes of the isle. An unassuming captain of the Lothern Guard, Carathril led a handful of his company along the harbour road. His mission was secret, known only to a few amongst the court of Eataine, but its import was beyond reckoning. That night would set in motion a series of events that heralded the end of the elves’ golden age.
White light blazed across the night sky, shining from the thousand windows that pierced the walls of the Glittering Tower. Surf sparkled as it crashed against the rocks upon which the lighthouse was built. By the light of the Glittering Tower ships moved to and fro across the bay, passing into and out of the great portal of the Emerald Gate, beyond which lay the still waters of the Straits of Lothern. Their white sails cast a ghostly shimmer over the calm waters, bathing the sea with radiance.
Past rearing cliffs lined with towers and walls, where the spear tips of sentries could be seen moving endlessly on their patrols, rose up the bulk of the Sapphire Gate, its wrought silver dazzling under the magical light of the giant gems set upon it. In the starlight beyond the Sapphire Gate, a lagoon opened out, tranquil in its stillness, where white beaches climbed out of the quiet waters.
Piers and wharfs crowded with ships of all sizes curved elegantly across the waters. Small jolly boats and pleasure craft hung with golden lanterns drifted along the shore, the laughter and conversation of their revelling passengers echoing across the softly lapping waves. Amidst the forest of tall masts and slender spars of white-decked merchantmen and sleek-sided yachts, the mass of warships loomed large. Immense dragonships rode confidently at anchor, their golden rams and silver-chased bolt throwers shining reminders of their bloody purpose. Darting hawkships tacked back and forth through the sea traffic, their Sea Guard crews ever alert to any danger.
Around the lagoon, the city of Lothern stretched up into the hills. Verdant terraces, abundant vineyards and low-built villas dotted the hillsides, linked together by winding paths of silvery grey that meandered from the shoreline up to the great mansions and slim towers built upon the peaks of Lothern’s twenty hills. Quiet reigned over the city; not the peace of contentment but a hush of apprehension.
A languid malaise blighted Lothern, just as it gripped all of the island of the elves. Many elf-folk of Ulthuan had lost themselves in debauchery and excess. What had begun as aesthetic gatherings, readings of darkly poetic works and ceremonies of mutual solace, had become something far more sinister. With blood sacrifices and twisted rituals of debasement, the cultists now pleaded with forbidden powers for release from their woes.
The pleasure cults had drawn in others by offering the simple thrill of experience, for the elves had always been a people who felt sensation and emotion strongly. Let loose from the civilities of polite decorum, some elves had lost themselves in the raw hedonism enjoyed by the cults of excess, indulging every perverse whim and partaking of any forbidden deed.
Few suspected the true extent of the cults’ inveiglement into their society, nor the secret machinations that fuelled the midnight conferences of their shadowy leaders. Even fewer knew the true extent of their network, for in outlook each appeared individual and disparate, unique emerging counter-cultures within each realm and city with no connection to the travails of the other kingdoms. So it was that Bel Shanaar and his princes sought to quell the rising power of the cults through political and spiritual means, hoping to forestall the recruitment of new followers and rebalance the distressed psyche of the elven people.
Carathril was intent upon the destruction of a cult recently uncovered in Lothern, and to this purpose he led his warriors along the winding streets of the city.
In the manse of Prince Aeltherin on the outskirts of the city of Lothern, hidden amongst carefully tended orchards and perfectly appointed gardens, a vile ceremony was reaching its climax.
The air in the marble hall of the elven lord swirled with purple and blue vapours, which billowed from braziers wrought from the twisted bones of animals. Intoxicated by the narcotic fumes, a sea of elves writhed upon the red-carpeted floor. Fishermen and nobles, servants and lawmakers lay together, rendered equally low in their depravity. Some wept at nightmares only they could see, others laughed hysterically, while a few simply moaned in ecstatic pleasure.
Around and about the seething mass stood a dozen priestesses, stripped to their waists, their exposed bodies daubed with symbols drawn in the blood of a fox, their long hair teased into dramatic spines with the fat of the same animal.
The high priestess, Damolien, whispered a low chant, her voice all but lost in the cacophony of joy and misery that filled the high hall. She wore the skin of the slain fox about her shoulders, and on occasion, she would pause and stroke her hands through its fur. Her keen senses further heightened by the narcotic fog, Damolien quivered at the feel of the hairs on her palms and fingers.
A quiet descended as the attendees one-by-one lapsed into a stupor, some still sobbing quietly, others sighing with satisfaction. With a nod, Damolien sent one of her priestesses to fetch Prince Aeltherin, the master of the house, so that he could partake of the ceremony’s final stage. Just as the priestess turned towards the double doors that led from the hall, there was a tumult outside. Raised voices and a shriek caused the priestesses to turn as one towards the doorway. Damolien slipped the serrated sacrificial dagger from her waistband a moment before the doors crashed open.
Prince Aeltherin careened into the room, lurching over the somnolent bodies of his guests. Blood spilled from a cut across his chest and crimson droplets flew from his fingertips onto Damolien’s face as the prince tripped over a supine figure and sprawled to the ground. Warriors in silver scale armour and wearing white sashes burst through the doorway, their bared swords in hand. Their captain, his tall helm decorated with threads of gold in the likeness of leaping lions, held a sword dripping with blood. He pulled a sliver of parchment from his belt and allowed it to fall open to show the seal of Phoenix King Bel Shanaar.
‘Prince Aeltherin of Lothern!’ the captain called out. ‘I am Carathril, captain of the Lothern Guard, and I have a decree for your arrest. Surrender to the judgement of the Phoenix King!’
Like a fish flopping upon a riverbank, Aeltherin dragged himself across the now-comatose elves littering the floor. His eyes looked pleadingly towards Damolien.
‘Protect me,’ Aeltherin hissed.
‘Lay down your weapons and surrender in peace,’ said Carathril, his voice calm. ‘Give yourselves over to the Phoenix King’s mercy.’
Damolien smiled. Her tongue flicked out like a serpent’s as she licked the blood of Aeltherin from her lips.
‘Mercy is for the weak,’ she purred, and leapt lithely across the room.
Shrieking like harridans, the other priestesses followed their mistress, their hands flexed like talons, their fingernails sharpened to long points. Carathril leapt back from the assault, the point of Damolien’s dagger narrowly avoiding his eye. One of his soldiers leapt forwards, sword arm straight, and lanced his blade into the high priestess. She fell without a sound as her disciples hurled themselves at the guards.
The priestesses were vicious and two of Carathril’s elves had fallen to their raking claws, their throats opened up, before the killers were despatched by the swords of their fellows. As Carathril stepped distastefully between the unconscious pleasure-seekers, he sheathed his sword and reached a hand out towards Prince Aeltherin.
‘Prince, you are wounded,’ Carathril said gently. ‘Come with us and we will see that your injuries are tended to properly. Bel Shanaar wishes you no ill, only to help you.’
‘Bel Shanaar?’ snarled the prince. ‘An upstart! Usurper! His judgement is that of the crows feasting on a rotted carcass. I curse him! May Nethu take him and cast him to the blackest chasm!’
With a final effort, Aeltherin, hero of Mardal Vale and protector of Linthuin, pulled himself to his feet. With a contemptuous sneer upon his lips, the prince snatched up one of the bone braziers, spilling its fuming coals onto his robes. The diaphanous cloth ignited like tinder, quickly engulfing the prince in blue flames. The flames caught on the carpet as Aeltherin fell and soon the fire had leapt to the tapestries hanging upon the white walls.
Running nimbly amidst the billowing smoke and deadly flames, Carathril and his company dragged to safety as many of the insensible cultists as they could, but the flames grew too intense and still a dozen elves lay helpless amidst the inferno. As one of his soldiers sought to go back into the hall, Carathril grabbed him by the arm.
‘It is too late, Aerenis,’ Carathril said. ‘The fires will claim them. Perhaps they will now know the peace they were seeking.’
Fourteen
The Phoenix King’s Court
Majestic eagles circled overhead, their vast shadows flickering across the rough stone of the mountain pass. These were no ordinary birds of prey; they were great eagles, capable of seizing a mountain lion to devour, each wing twice an elf’s height in breadth. Carathril reined his steed to a halt and sat there for a moment, gazing up into the blue skies, watching the birds swoop and climb around the snowy peaks of the Annulii. The jingle of harnesses broke his reverie as his accompanying bodyguard, Aerenis, brought his mount to a stop beside him.
The two elves were clad in blue woollen cloaks to guard against the cold of the high mountains, Carathril’s edged with golden thread as a symbol of his rank as captain. Each wore a skirt of light scale mail, split at the waist and hemmed with bleached leather, and wide belts decorated with gems and silver. Long white shields hung on their saddlebags, Carathril’s painted with the face of a roaring lion, Aerenis’s decorated with a single golden rune—sarathai, the symbol of defiance and unyielding defence. Both of the riders wore the tall helms favoured by elven warriors across all of the kingdoms, Carathril’s decorated with the lion crest of his family, Aerenis’s plain but for the azure plume of a single feather.
They carried leaf-bladed spears and long recurved bows in their saddle packs, and each carried a quiver of white-fletched arrows. Fortunately, they had not had reason to wield such wargear, for their passage had been uneventful.
Despite the seeming tranquillity of the pass neither elf was relaxed. They were crossing through the highest range of the Annulii, where the magical vortex of Ulthuan drew a ring of mystical energy through the mountains. Here magic infused the air and ground; it pulsed and ebbed around the two elves with a barely felt quiver of power. Carathril and Aerenis, attuned to the mystical breezes and flows of the world, unconsciously sensed its presence and strength.
Other creatures were drawn here also, grown large on the unnatural energy like the eagles, but of an entirely less friendly nature. Griffons, with the bodies of massive lions and the heads and wings of giant birds, made their lairs in the mountaintops, while gigantic serpents and bizarre cockatrices lurked in the caves and gulleys swept by the magical winds.
The lieutenant’s eyes glimmered from the darkness of his visor as he looked at Carathril.
‘Captain?’ Aerenis spoke quietly, shielding his eyes against the sun as he followed his captain’s gaze. ‘What troubles you?’
‘It is nothing,’ Carathril assured his second-in-command. ‘Just a passing fancy, a whim.’
‘How so?’ asked Aerenis.
‘Nothing disturbs them, the great eagles, that is,’ Carathril said quietly. ‘They eat, and they breed, and they raise their chicks, far removed from our woes. Such freedom, to soar and to hunt, unfettered by anguish or strife. You know, they say that the mages in Saphery can transform themselves into doves or hawks.’
‘You would glide upon the breeze as a bird?’ Aerenis sounded dubious. Carathril was not known for poetic flights of fantasy. ‘“They” say a lot of things about those Sapherians, and they are a strange folk that is for sure. But I doubt that they could transform themselves into a bird. Magic does not work so simply, or so I believe. Anyway, why would you want to be a bird? You are not carefree and capricious. What of your duty to Lothern, and your pledge to the Phoenix King? Do these things not give you solace in these dark times?’
‘They do, for sure,’ said Carathril, turning to Aerenis with a grim smile. ‘And with that in mind, we should be on our way to bear tidings to King Bel Shanaar.’
