The sundering, p.28
The Sundering, page 28
‘So, what does the prince have in mind, then?’ asked Bellaenoth. ‘Who will he choose to lead the attack on Ealith?’
‘The knights of Anlec will have that honour, I am sure,’ said Yeasir. He thrust his empty goblet towards one of the waiting servants and had it quickly refilled. Swallowing a mouthful, he continued. ‘Ealith belongs to Nagarythe, after all, and it would not do for us to be seen skulking at the back like some timid Yvressians.’
‘For my part, I would gladly give you the honour,’ said Bellaenoth with a sorrowful shake of the head. ‘By all accounts, it is a fearsome stronghold. I would not like to be first in line when we come up against its high walls.’
‘That is because you do not know Malekith,’ Yeasir assured them. ‘He is as brave as a Chracian lion, and as strong as a Caledorian dragon. But, most importantly, he is also as cunning as a Sapherian fox. He would not throw us against such daunting fortifications with no plan. No, I am sure that our noble prince has a scheme for rooting out these troublesome cultists without us having to dash ourselves needlessly against the walls of Ealith.’
‘Perhaps the good herald has some insight into this clever ploy?’ suggested Gariedyn, and all eyes turned to Carathril.
‘Me?’ he stammered. ‘I am not privy to the counsels of Prince Malekith, much as you may seem to think otherwise.’
Their expressions remained unconvinced.
‘Besides,’ Carathril added, ‘it would not be my place to announce such matters when the prince has chosen not to do so. As a herald, my discretion is paramount.’
‘So, you do know something,’ said Bellaenoth. Something caught his gaze past Carathril’s shoulder and Bellaenoth nodded towards the pavilion’s entrance. ‘Well, we may find out soon enough anyway.’
Malekith strode into the pavilion, swept up a goblet from the tray of a nearby attendant and downed its contents in a long draught. As he placed the goblet back upon the golden tray, his eyes swept the room, lingering on no one person for any length of time.
‘My noble captains,’ he said, glad that he had their attention immediately. ‘My trusted companions. I must beg your forgiveness for an unavoidable act of perfidy. In these troubled times it is hard to judge who one can trust, and so I judge to trust no one. At least, I must say, I did not trust anyone until now. I could not be sure that the spies of our enemies were not within my camp, and so I have been forced to mislead you all.’
A startled murmur crept around the room, and then died away as the prince continued.
‘I have known since I left Tor Anroc that Ealith was held by our foes,’ Malekith revealed, pacing further into the pavilion. ‘I did not want our enemies to be aware of this knowledge, and so I have kept secret counsel with only the raven heralds, whom I would trust with not only my life, but my realm. As I had hoped, it appears that our foes are confident in their position, knowing that we have not marched forth prepared for siege. To their minds, we must labour to make towers and rams to attack their fortress, and await reinforcements and bolt throwers in order to assault their walls. They believe that they have time aplenty to shore up their defences, and for more of their numbers to gather. Secret covens lurk within the forests and hills around Ealith, ready to sally forth to attack our siege works, ambush our supplies and harass our forces. They are wrong.’
The whispering recommenced, this time excited and intrigued. Two servants brought forth a chair of deep red wood, its high back carved with the likeness of a mighty dragon encircling a slender tower, the throne’s arms and legs fashioned as the be-scaled and clawed limbs of the drake. Malekith unclasped his black cloak and cast it upon the throne, but did not sit. He turned to face the assembled captains, his eyes narrowed.
‘Knowing the deceit upon which our enemies thrive, I have spread false rumour through their minions,’ the prince told them. ‘Two of our prisoners have escaped upon stolen horses, bearing news to Ealith overheard from the incautious lips of our warriors. News that we march to Enith Atruth, two days to the west, and another two days’ ride from Ealith. The citadel itself lies no more than a day’s ride to the north, and our escaped captives will have reached its walls before midday tomorrow. Confident that we tarry in our attack, they will not be ready for our strike. By dusk, Ealith will be ours.’
‘Excuse me, highness, but an army does not move as swiftly as a solitary rider,’ said one of the Ellyrians. ‘Even if we could reach Ealith within the day, it would be impossible to conceal our approach.’
‘That is true, Arthenreir,’ replied the prince, enjoying his theatrical performance. ‘It matters not whether we come to Ealith in a day or a hundred days, we have not the strength of arms to force victory through open battle. And it would not be desirable even if it were so, for I wish there to be as little bloodshed as possible on both sides. Guile shall see our fortunes ripen where might alone proves fruitless.’
‘I told you,’ whispered Yeasir with a smile. Carathril ignored him and listened intently as Malekith continued.
‘Our enemies think Ealith secure against attack, but they are wrong. For many centuries the citadel has been abandoned, and its secrets have been forgotten by most. Not by me, nor the raven heralds. Ealith sits upon a spur of rock, reached only by a single causeway that is overlooked by towers and walls. Or so it would seem to our foes.’
Malekith now dropped his voice to a whisper, and met the gazes of those elves closest at hand, as if confiding in each of them alone.
‘In fact, there is another entrance to Ealith,’ said the prince. ‘There is a passage, carved from the rock itself, which leads from the citadel to the outside. It was built as a means for defenders to sally forth to attack a besieging army from the rear, and leads to a hidden cave more than half a mile from the walls. We shall ride before daybreak, a company of no more than a hundred, and under cover of darkness enter this ancient passageway. It will take us into the heart of the enemy, where we will strike with absolute surprise. The army will march in our wake and there will be no escape. We shall slay or capture their leaders and force the rest to surrender. Without the puppeteers to pull their strings, our enemies are cowardly, decadent hedonists with no stomach for battle.’
‘Who is to ride, highness?’ asked Yeasir.
‘The company shall be split thus: forty of Nagarythe, thirty of Ellyrion, and thirty of Tiranoc’s finest riders. No more can we guarantee to approach Ealith unseen, and our strength lies in speed and stealth, not numbers.’
Malekith noticed disappointment well up on the face of Carathril. The Lothern captain was an average rider at best, trained to fight with spear and sword, not with lance and horse. However, he was the herald of the Phoenix King and potentially a useful ally. Malekith raised a hand to attract Carathril’s attention and smiled.
‘My noble comrade Carathril, you will ride with us, as an honorary knight of Nagarythe. I would not have such a fine heart and sure arm left behind on this adventure!’
‘You have my eternal gratitude, highness,’ said Carathril with a deep bow. ‘It will be my honour to ride amongst such noble companions.’
Once the assembled warriors had departed, Malekith sat on his throne. A few moments later, Yeasir led in a small group of elves covered with dark robes. As they pulled back their hoods, Malekith saw that they were the cultists who had surrendered to him.
The prince of Nagarythe smiled. He had more work for them to do.
Darkness still swathed the camp as Malekith set forth with his riders; the sun was hidden behind the mountains and would be for some time to come. Before they had left, the company had assembled on the outskirts of the encampment and three shadow-swathed raven heralds had passed along their line, blackening harnesses and securing loose tack so that no glint or jingle would give them away. They had handed out long, black cloaks for the riders to wear over their armour, and thus concealed, Malekith’s expedition had departed in silence and secrecy.
Now the hundred horsemen followed one of the raven heralds along a winding path northwards, heading down the ridge upon which the army had spent the night. They rode swiftly but not recklessly, and Malekith was glad of the sure-footedness of his mount. Late stars glimmered overhead in the pre-dusk grey, visible now that they had left behind the smoke of the camp. The thudding of hooves in the dirt was the only sound to break the still, and Malekith began to relax, calmed by the steady drumming.
As dawn slowly broke above the mountains, Malekith found that they were riding along an overgrown herder’s trail through an expanse of low hills that rose up under the long shadow of the mountains. Their path was criss-crossed with rivulets and streams and the soil was more fertile, giving rise to stands of low bushes and thick clumps of sturdy grasses.
They slowed to negotiate this trickier ground, and at points rode in single file to follow in the tracks of the raven herald who led the way. The second rode sentry at the rear, and of the third there was no sign: he had departed in darkness to scout the way ahead.
They halted briefly mid-morning to ease tired limbs and make a hasty breakfast of bread and cold meats, before riding on. By this time, they had cleared the foothills once more and had made good progress across the rocky moors. Between the heat of the sun high in a clear sky, the thin yet warm cloak wrapped tightly about him and the effort of riding, Malekith did not feel the chill touch of autumn, though the breath of the riders and their steeds steamed in the air.
They saw not a soul as they rode, although here and there they passed tumbled-down remains of ancient cottages and towers, scattered across the landscape as if discarded by the hand of some god. There was no road to follow, not the slightest track nor path, and it was clear that these lands had long ago been abandoned. They paused once again in the middle of the afternoon, allowing their mounts to water from a swift-moving brook. A few scattered stones marked the remains of an ancient mill beside the waterway; of its wheel and gears, nothing remained.
Carathril’s gaze was drawn to a lone hill, not far from the stream, which rose steeply from the yellowing grass: a mound of bare, blackened rock. At its summit, Carathril could just about see a tumbled monolith, its white stone stark against the darkness of the hillock.
‘Elthuir Tarai,’ whispered a deep voice, causing him to start. One of the raven heralds stood directly behind him. His black horse stood close by, neither grazing nor resting, but alert and ready. The rider’s face was all but hidden in the shadow of his deep hood, but Carathril could see a pair of emerald green eyes. It was Elthyrior.
‘What did you say?’ said Carathril.
‘Yonder hill,’ said the raven herald, pointing towards the barren knoll. ‘It is the Elthuir Tarai, where Aenarion first wielded the Godslayer in battle. A thousand years ago, there was a town here, called Tir Anfirec, and all the lands about were farms and meadows. The daemons came and unleashed foul sorcery upon the ground, and their curse lingers here still. Upon that mount, Aenarion first drew the Sword of Khaine in anger, and struck down a host of the daemons. I am grandson to Menrethor, who fought here beside the king.’
‘Then you are a prince?’ said Carathril.
‘In name only,’ said Elthyrior, looking away. ‘These were once the lands of my family, now they belong to nobody.’
‘What happened to the town?’ asked Carathril.
‘It is said that the unnatural blood of the daemons seeped into the earth and poisoned it. The filth of their existence stained the fields and rivers, and Tir Anfirec withered and died like a plant without water. Dark magic saturated every granule, root and leaf, so that cattle died of fever, babes were stillborn and no living thing could flourish. Caledor came to this place and erected a lodestone, even as he planned his creation of the vortex. The waystone, like all the others, siphoned away the dark energy of the daemons, and over the centuries life slowly returned. Not enough for people to return, but sufficient for a few blades of grass and the odd insect nest. Then, perhaps fifty years ago, worshippers of the darkness came here and toppled the stone and undid its enchantments. Now the dark magic is returning, gathering again.’
‘Why not raise up the stone again?’ said Carathril.
‘None in Nagarythe have the knowledge or means,’ said Elthyrior. ‘At least, none with the will or desire to do so. Perhaps there are loremasters in Saphery that have understanding of such things, and when peace prevails once more, they can restore the waystone. I fear that no living thing shall ever grow again upon Elthuir Tarai, for it was upon that slope that Aenarion sealed his pact with Khaine, and the God of Blood will share it with no other.’
Malekith was calling for the riders to mount up once more. With no further word, Elthyrior leapt into his saddle and his horse quickly wheeled away, leaving Carathril alone with his thoughts. He looked again upon that desolate hill and shuddered, pushing from his mind the frightening images the raven herald’s tale had conjured.
As they went further north, the lands became more welcoming, now covered here and there with high yellow grass that reached to the riders’ knees as they rode. In the full light of day, this dreary heath was more cheering than the dark wilds they had passed through, and the mood of the company lightened considerably. There were scattered conversations along the column, and here and there the riders even joked and laughed, as if to ward away the apprehension that had grown.
Carathril found himself riding alongside the squadron of Ellyrian reaver knights, beside Aneltain who had been chosen by Malekith to lead them. They were more lightly armoured than the knights of Anlec, wearing only breastplates and shoulder guards and trusting in their speed and agility to avoid the foe. Their high helms were crested with long feathers taken from the tails of colourful birds. The Ellyrion steeds were uniformly white, not as broad nor tall as the Naggarothi mounts, and were harnessed with blue-lacquered tack. Each reaver knight carried a short thrusting spear with a broad, leaf-shaped head, and a small but powerful bow, with arrows fletched with blue feathers.
Of all the assembled elves, they were the most garrulous, and chatted freely amongst themselves as they rode. Aneltain was no different and quickly struck up conversation with Carathril.
They talked at first about their homelands, as warriors from different realms naturally do: compared the beauty of their women, the quality of wine and the relative merits of their people. Soon their talk moved on to their current surrounds, as both were strangers in these lands, and then onto the Naggarothi themselves.
‘They are taciturn, that is for certain,’ said Aneltain. ‘Of course, by Ellyrian measure, all other elves are tight-lipped, but these Naggarothi will utter only a single word when ten would be natural, and nothing when one would suffice.’
‘Prince Malekith seems eloquent enough,’ countered Carathril.
‘The prince? Sure, he can weave a speech with the best of them,’ admitted the Ellyrian. ‘But then, he has been Bel Shanaar’s ambassador to the High King of the dwarfs, and from what I hear they are a race not known for their wagging tongues. I suspect he’s spent the last two hundred years having to talk just to fill their silence. No, there’s something different about these Naggarothi, some shadow upon their spirit that makes me feel uneasy.’
‘You distrust them?’ said Carathril, his voice dropping to a whisper as he glanced at the knights of Anlec only a short distance ahead.
‘That is too strong a word for it,’ replied Aneltain. ‘I would gladly fight beside them, and I would trust them to watch my back. No, they just make me feel uneasy. There is a grimness about their mood that disturbs me. They don’t laugh enough for my liking, and when they do it is with dark humour.’
‘It is impossible to understand them, I admit,’ said Carathril. ‘We cannot hope to think what drives such folk. They are people of Aenarion. Many of them, like the prince, fought at his side. Even those too young to have been raised in those benighted times were raised by parents that were. Perhaps they are right not to laugh, for they have much still to grieve for. They suffered more than most, and their scars run deep.’
‘Laughter cures all ills,’ said Aneltain. ‘It lifts the spirits and banishes dread.’
‘I fear there are some ills too heavy to be lifted,’ said Carathril. ‘I for one am glad that I ride beside them and not against them. A great many of them quit these shores for the new colonies, driven by the need for battle, keen to escape the peace. I cannot understand the mind of one who seeks such peril, but it is the way of the Naggarothi to hail the warrior above other callings. I have no doubt that each one of those riders ahead has drawn more blood across the seas than either of us will do in our lifetimes.’
‘That is for sure, and it makes them no less disconcerting,’ said Aneltain. ‘I have heard that in Anlec they still practise the rites set down by Aenarion: that a spear and sword are forged upon the birth of every child and they are presented to them upon their twentieth year. They learn the names of their weapons before those of their parents, and for their first years sleep upon the inside of a shield as a crib. But, as you say, it is better that we ride to battle with them than against them.’
Having come to this agreement, they then descended into a debate concerning the unique customs of their own homes, and the afternoon passed swiftly.
The leagues swept past as they rode ever northwards, and the sun was fast dipping towards the west when Malekith called them to halt once more. The company gathered in a circle about their leader. None of the raven heralds were to be seen.
‘Night comes quickly, and we must be ready,’ the prince announced. ‘We are yet out of sight of Ealith, and the raven heralds clear a path through the pickets of the foe so that we might pass. Once they return and bring word that all is well, we ride with all speed. Sariour rises above the mountains before midnight and we must be within the passageway before she spills her celestial light upon us. We cannot know what awaits us inside, and once we move on, I cannot give you clearer orders, for we must move as silently as ghosts.’
