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Kinstrife - Graham McNeill

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KINSTRIFE

Graham McNeill

I

NAGGAROTH

The sleek, eagle-prowed vessel travelled along the river without a sound, slicing the dark water as the high elf crew rowed with smooth, rhythmic sweeps of their oars. The silver hull barely reflected on the slate-coloured water and an acrid sulphurous stench was carried on the yellow fog that hugged its black surface.

The vessel’s sails were folded away and the mast lowered to avoid the dark, clawing branches of the trees that pressed in on either side of the river, and even though the orb of the sun had yet to reach its zenith, the weak light it cast over the Land of Chill barely penetrated the thick, jagged canopy.

Standing at the prow of the vessel, a tall, long-limbed elf with silver-gold hair bound by a bronze circlet watched the route ahead as the river turned in a lazy bend. In one hand he carried a long, gracefully curved bow inlaid with gold and looped with silver wire, while his other gripped the hilt of a slender, leaf-bladed sword. He wore a sky blue tunic embroidered with a golden horse, beneath which was a glimmering shirt of ithilmar mail. His features were smooth and his face oval, his eyes dark and hooded – almost without whites.

The elf leaned over the side of the boat, trying to see the riverbed through the swirling black water, but he quickly gave up.

‘What depth do we have?’ he asked, without turning.

‘Perhaps three fathoms, Lord Eldain, maybe less,’ replied one of the vessel’s crew, who knelt a respectful distance behind the tall elf, a weighted sounding line playing out into the water. ‘I do not believe we will reach much further up the river than this. I would humbly suggest that we tie up at the bank soon.’

Eldain nodded, turning and marching back down the deck of the shallow-bottomed ship, before nodding to the steersman at the stern to make for the shore. He heard the rush of water as the ship altered course and stared into the ghostly, dark trees that loomed over the river, wondering what catastrophe had befallen this realm to transform it into this bleak, dead landscape.

The ship drew near the bank, and Eldain switched his gaze from the haunted forest to the obsidian surface of the water and the rippling wake that spread in a ‘V’ from the ship’s stern. A dozen more vessels, high prowed and graceful as swans, with hulls of silver and white followed his own, arcing gracefully towards the northern riverbank. Riding high on the prow of the following boat was the imposing figure of Caelir, clad in an exquisitely tailored tunic of scarlet and vermillion, the subtleties of the different colours almost indistinguishable. Trust his brother to wear something best suited to the court of Lothern while hundreds of miles from home on a desperately dangerous raid into the realm of the druchii.

Sensing his brother’s scrutiny, Caelir drew his sword and held it above his head, but Eldain did not return the gesture, instead turning to face the approaching bank. Thick bracken and tangled roots reached into the water, and as the ship drew near he leapt gracefully onto the black soil of Naggaroth.

Even through his fine, hand-made boots, Eldain could feel the icy cold of this land, a chill that was not simply of the climate, but of the soul. The evil that had been plotted on this dark land arose from the earth, as though the land sought to expel it… or spread its taint yet further.

Eldain shivered and nocked an arrow to his bow as his vessel’s crew swiftly began disembarking and tying up the ship. He scanned the darkened undergrowth and the dead forest for enemies, but there was nothing, no shred of movement nor breath of life.

Dank mist coiled at the base of wretched, black trees that crowded his vision in all directions, and the ashen ground was strewn with jagged rocks and thorny brush that gathered in vile clumps across this blasted forest landscape. Truly this place was a vision of utter desolation. To an elf of Ellyrion, one of the Inner Kingdoms of Ulthuan blessed with bountiful forests brimming with life and magical fecundity, this dismal place was anathema.

Elven Shadow Warriors, grey-clad scouts who moved like ghosts, slipped past him, fanning out into the black forest with swords or bows at the ready. He relaxed his own bowstring and slipped the arrow back in his quiver, satisfied that nothing could now approach their landing place without the scouts knowing about it.

‘It is a grand adventure we are on, is it not, brother?’ asked a young and energised voice behind him, and he turned to face Caelir. His younger brother was roguishly handsome, with boyish good looks and a mischievous, infectious grin that had seen him out of more scrapes than his considerable skill with a blade.

‘The land of the druchii is not one of adventure, brother,’ cautioned Eldain, though he knew it would do nothing to dampen Caelir’s spirits. ‘Not since Eltharion have high elves raided Naggaroth and returned alive. It is a land of death, torment and suffering.’

Caelir smiled and said, ‘It is that, but soon it will be so for our enemies, yes?’

‘If all goes to plan and we don’t end up like Eltharion; tortured, blinded and driven to madness in the dungeons of the Witch King.’

‘Ah, but it is your plan, brother,’ laughed Caelir, ‘and I have faith in you. You were always better at planning things than I.’

Eldain bit back an angry retort and moved further down the riverbank where the ships’ masters were efficiently and, more importantly, quietly disembarking their passengers. High elf Ellyrian Reavers, resplendent in light mail shirts and cream tunics, swiftly formed a perimeter around the ships as the crews led their magnificent elven steeds onto dry land. The steeds could also sense the darkness in this place, and their high whinnies spoke to him of their unease at being here.

He felt his brother join him, and his irritation rose as Caelir ran forward to vault onto the back of Aedaris, a grey mare he had raised from a foal. The steed reared and kicked the air, glad to have its companion upon its back after the long sea journey from Ulthuan.

Despite himself, Eldain smiled as he saw an elven crewman lead Lotharin down the carved gangplank, patting the black stallion’s muscled flanks as the animal tossed its mane in displeasure.

‘I know, I know,’ whispered Eldain. ‘I too wish nothing more than to be away from this dark place, but we are here and we have a mission to fulfil.’

Like Caelir, Eldain had nurtured his steed from a newborn and raised it as his faithful companion. Where the barbarous humans would beat a horse and break its spirit in order to ride it, the elves of the kingdom of Ellyrion devoted their lives to building a bond of trust between rider and steed. To do any less was unthinkable.

Of all the Inner Kingdoms of Ulthuan, Ellyrion was the most beautiful. Of course Eldain knew that an elf from Caledor or Avelorn would say the same thing, but they had not lived their lives in balmy eternal summers, nor ridden a fine Ellyrion steed the length and breadth of the land with the cool wind in their hair. They had not climbed the high, marble peaks of the Annulii, nor galloped along the spine of mountains while chasing a shining storm of raw magic.

The smile faded from Eldain’s lips as he glanced over at his brother – who laughed and joked with the other warriors – and tried to recall the last time he had done such things. He pushed the thought from his mind as he checked his steed for any signs of ill effects from the journey, but the ship’s crew had taken great care to ensure that the horses arrived in Naggaroth able to do all that would be asked of them.

Eldain swung onto the back of Lotharin, relishing being on horseback after so long at sea. To ride a creature such as this was an honour, and though black steeds were often seen as beasts of ill-omen amongst the high elves, Eldain would sooner cut off his own arm than choose another mount.

Caelir rode alongside him as the remainder of their force mounted up, a hundred warriors in all, lightly armoured for speed, and armed with bows and light throwing spears.

‘Well, brother are we ready?’ asked Caelir, and Eldain could hear the anticipation in his brother’s voice.

‘We will know soon enough,’ said Eldain, as one of the Shadow Warriors slid from the mists enveloping the dark trunks of the black forest.

Eldain considered himself an agile figure, having attended some of the most elaborate masquerades and balls Tor Elyr and Lothern had to offer, performing graceful dances beyond the ability of elves a century younger than he, but this warrior moved as though his feet did not so much touch the ground as float above it. His grey cloak was the colour of woven mist, its fabric shimmering in the pale light and the hood drawn up over his face to shroud his features in darkness.

‘The way ahead is clear, Lord Eldain,’ said the scout.

‘Good,’ nodded Eldain. ‘Three of your warriors will guide us towards Clar Karond, while the rest will remain here to guard our ships.’

‘Very good, my lord.’

‘The warriors who will accompany us,’ said Eldain, ‘can they keep up with us on foot or will they require mounts?’

The scout nodded slowly and said, ‘They can keep up with you on foot, my lord.’ Eldain thought he detected a hint of amusement in the scout’s tone. The warrior turned away, and at some unseen signal, the remainder of the scouts emerged soundlessly from the cover of the trees.

‘It has been too long since you rode to battle, brother,’ said Caelir, leaning close and whispering so that none but Eldain could hear his words.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Eldain.

‘The Shadow Warriors,’ said Caelir. ‘I’d wager they could reach Clar Karond and be back at our ships before we were even halfway there.’

‘Yes, you are probably right,’ agreed Eldain, thinking how foolish a question it had been. ‘Still, it does no harm to check these things. One must never assume anything, especially in war, doubly so when the battle is against the druchii.’

‘You forget, brother, you and father are not the only warriors of our family to have fought the druchii,’ said Caelir, holding up his burned hand. ‘I too have spilled their blood, remember?’

Eldain remembered all too well. The memory, and the sight of Rhianna’s silver pledge ring on Caelir’s scarred finger, brought a sour taste to his throat.

II

ULTHUAN – One year ago

‘Sit high in the saddle,’ said Caelir. ‘Let her enjoy the ride too. You’re not trying to master her, you’re trying to share the experience with her.’

‘I’m trying, but she wants to run too fast,’ said Rhianna. ‘I am afraid I’ll fall.’

Caelir smiled as Aedaris cantered in a circle around him, knowing the horse was just playing with the elf-maid who rode upon her back.

‘She would never allow you to fall,’ said Caelir as Aedaris picked up the pace, and Rhianna let out a squeal of delicious fear and excitement. The mare ran with her head held proudly, and Caelir knew she was showing off to Rhianna’s own steed, a fine, silver gelding from Saphery, named Orsien. The gelding’s dappled flanks glittered and he had a haughty gleam of intelligence in his pale green eyes, but Aedaris was easily the more powerful animal.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Rhianna, and Caelir laughed as he saw her relax into the horse’s motion, moving in time with her rhythm and getting the measure of her temperament.

‘Very sure,’ nodded Caelir. ‘She likes you, I can tell.’

‘Then I truly know I am welcome in the kingdom of Ellyrion if their horses accept me.’

Caelir smiled, but said nothing, content to watch Rhianna circling him on the back of Aedaris and enjoying the sight of two beautiful creatures revelling in the bright afternoon sunshine. Rhianna’s long golden hair fanned out behind her as she rode, a stream of honey in the air, and her white gown rippled like the tall banners of the silver helms.

Her features were delicate, but had great strength in them, her almond shaped eyes like dark pools with a hint of gold. She was beautiful, and Caelir longed to touch her, to feel the softness of her hair and the marble smoothness of her skin against his own. He kept such thoughts to himself, for Rhianna was not his woman to have such desires about.

The households of Caelir and Rhianna had been close allies for centuries, and both their fathers had fought alongside the Phoenix King in his wars with the druchii, the dark kin of the elves. Rhianna’s father was a mage of great power who lived in a floating citadel in Saphery, a wondrous palace bedecked in luscious flora from all across the Old World. Caelir’s own sire was one of the mightiest horselords of Ellyrion, riders and warriors without compare, but a year ago, a druchii assassin’s envenomed blade had put paid to his lordship’s rule over his domain, leaving him paralysed and in constant pain. While the poison ravaged him, Caelir’s brother, Eldain, had taken up the mantle of protecting their lands.

Rhianna laughed as the steed slowed its gallop and began to thread a nimble-footed path through the rocks, once more showing off its skill. Caelir walked towards them, enjoying the sound of her laugher. It had been too long since the halls of his family’s villa in Tor Elyr had echoed to such a sound. The summer sunshine did not fill the wide, terrazzo halls for the discomfort it would cause his father, and the happy sound of song and dance no longer drew revellers from nearby villas for feasts and merrymaking.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Rhianna.

‘No,’ said Caelir. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘A shadow passed across your face.’

Caelir shook his head and let Aedaris nuzzle him. Reaching up to rub behind the horse’s ears, he whispered, ‘You are a princess amongst steeds, my friend, but you don’t need to show off for my benefit.’

The steed whinnied and tossed her mane, pleased to have made her friend proud, and Rhianna dismounted and ran her hands through her golden hair. Caelir patted his horse’s neck, watching as the magnificent steed cantered towards Rhianna’s gelding. Truly it was a good day to be alive, thought Caelir, tilting his head back and letting the morning sunshine bathe him in warmth.

The heat reflected from the white rocks of the Annulii Mountains, powdered fragments of quartz glittering and making the high peaks shine with a dazzling light. Whipping vortices of magical light were tantalisingly visible through the passes, and this high in the mountains, Caelir could feel the power of that magic as a pounding heat in his veins.

Rhianna reached up and placed her palm against his cheek, and he blushed at the feelings it stirred within him.

‘Are you sure nothing troubles you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ nodded Caelir, turning away. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

‘You looked very serious there,’ said Rhianna, ‘like your brother.’

Caelir felt his jaw clench, uncomfortable with the mention of Eldain. Though his brother had made no betrothal pledge to Rhianna, and her father had offered no dowry, it was widely accepted by the nobles of Ulthuan that Eldain would wed her within the decade.

In an attempt to change the subject, he said, ‘I was just thinking of my father and the revenge I will take on the druchii.’

‘I see,’ said Rhianna. ‘He is no better? I had hoped my father’s magic would have helped clear his veins of the venom.’

‘No, and he grows weaker every day. The assassins of the dark ones brew potent poisons,’ said Caelir, moving away from her to sit on the edge of the rocks and stare out over the expanse of Ulthuan laid before him.

From this vantage point, high in the mountains, the rolling grasslands of Ellyrion were a vast, unbroken sward of green far below, and the sight of his homeland calmed Caelir’s volatile spirits, as always. Home to the horselords of Ulthuan, great herds of elven steeds roamed the sweeping plains of Ellyrion, and the silver ribbon of the River Elyr snaked across the landscape towards the beautiful city of Tor Elyr before emptying into the bay of the Sea of Dusk.

Built atop a series of verdant islands and sculpted from the living rock, Tor Elyr was a magnificent sight. There were a multitude of sweeping thoroughfares, and the villas and palaces were capped with tall towers of silver and gold. Colourful banners snapped in the breeze, and streamers of magic sparkled and foamed from the garrets of the city’s wizards.

Connecting the islands of these magnificent structures was a web of curving bridges that spanned the expanse of emerald green waters with great beauty and an easy grace.

To look upon the realm of Ellyrion was to behold beauty, and Caelir felt his angry heart quelled. Rhianna moved to sit beside him and placed her hand on his arm. His blood quickened at her touch, and when she smiled at him, it filled him with yearning to see such beauty and know that it was not his to have.

‘If the physicians cannot cure him, can they at least make him more comfortable?’ asked Rhianna.

Caelir shook his head. ‘They fuss and mutter and speak of new poultices or magical brews, but they are powerless to stop the poison eating him away from inside.’

‘My father will do what he can, but…’

‘I know he will,’ nodded Caelir, taking her hand. ‘He is a good and true friend. As are you.’

‘I remember when my father first brought us to Tor Elyr,’ smiled Rhianna. ‘You were but a youth, full of fire and passion. I watched you showing off on your horse and thought that you looked very fine.’

‘I remember that day still,’ nodded Caelir. ‘You wore a gown of azure silk, blue, like the summer sky. And I remember thinking that you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.’

Rhianna laughed and said, ‘Now you are making fun of me.’

‘No,’ said Caelir. ‘I think I have loved you since first we met.’

‘Hush!’ whispered Rhianna, though there was no one to hear their words, and Caelir saw the beginnings of a smile crease the corners of her mouth. ‘It is not seemly for you to speak of such things while we are without a chaperone.’

‘I am your chaperone,’ said Caelir. ‘Was it not my brother himself who asked me to take you riding and show you the ways of an Ellyrion horseman?’

‘Your brother trusts your honour.’

Caelir laughed. ‘And he of all people should know better than to trust me with such a beauty as you. Anyway, if he was so concerned, why does he not take you riding himself?’

‘Your brother bears a heavy burden, maintaining your family lands,’ said Rhianna. ‘It is a noble thing he does, and takes much of his energies. He has not the time to spend with me in more… frivolous pursuits.’

Caelir’s eyes narrowed, hearing the sadness in Rhianna’s voice. And though he knew it was wrong, he felt the stirrings of opportunity. With their father incapacitated, Eldain had become dour and uncommunicative, spending all his time seeing to the myriad tasks that the master of a household must deal with every day.

Caelir had not been asked to help, nor had he offered aid to his brother, preferring the thrill of venturing into the Annulii Mountains to the drudgery of work. To hunt the fabled white lions, fearsome predators whose snowy pelts were worn by the guards of the Phoenix King himself, was the life for Caelir!

Where was the joy to be had in the running of a household? What honour or glory was there in dull lists and suchlike? No, far better that he roam the mountains as the hunter, or ride the plains as a bold adventurer.

Seeing Caelir’s expression, Rhianna said, ‘Eldain has a good heart,’ but Caelir could see that she was defending his brother because it was the right thing to do, not because she truly believed what she said.

‘He does,’ agreed Caelir, ‘but he is foolish indeed to let a flower as beautiful as you go unplucked. I would never allow myself to be distracted from your happiness.’

Rhianna slipped her hand from his and looked out over the wondrous expanse of Ellyrion, her brows knit in consternation. Behind them, Orsien gave a high whinny of alarm, and both elves turned in surprise.

Caelir could see nothing that might cause the horse to sound a warning, but it was a steed of Saphery and had senses beyond his. He leapt to his feet and offered his hand to Rhianna.

‘What is it?’ she asked, taking his hand and rising to stand next to him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ he answered, turning and running for his horse. Orsien reared and kicked the air, his neighs of alarm growing more strident. Caelir reached Aedaris and drew his sword, scanning the horizon for any sign of mountain predators.

Rhianna ran to her horse and unsheathed her bow, a fine longbow inset with mother-of-pearl, that exuded the taste of Vaul’s magic.

‘I don’t see anything,’ said Rhianna, nocking an arrow to her bowstring.

‘Nor I,’ said Caelir, ‘but this may be no ordinary predator. This close to the magical vortex that circles the Annulii, there’s every chance that whatever Orsien has sensed may be something drawn here by the magic. Perhaps a chimera or a hydra. Or worse.’

‘Then we should go,’ said Rhianna. ‘Now.’

Caelir shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I want to see what it is. Imagine the creatures brought here by the magic! Don’t you want to see what such power can create?’

‘No, I do not,’ said Rhianna. ‘If they are as dangerous as you say, then I very much wish to avoid encountering such a beast. And so should you.’

Caelir scanned the rocks above, catching sight of a slipping shadow where none ought to be.

Something was moving up there… something that did not want to be seen.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and a hot sensation of fear settled in his belly as he realised that this was neither mountain predator nor monster conjured from the mountain’s magic. This was something far worse.

‘Rhianna,’ he said urgently, ‘get on your horse and ride for Tor Elyr.’

‘What is it?’

‘Do it!’ he hissed. ‘Now. It is the druchii.’

No sooner had the words left his throat than a trio of iron crossbow bolts slashed through the air from the rocks above. Caelir twisted his body, bringing his sword up in a desperate arc to cleave the first pair of bolts in two. He heard Rhianna cry out and risked a glance behind him to see that the third quarrel was lodged in her shoulder. Blood soaked her dress and Caelir cried out in anger as three dark cloaked warriors emerged from their hiding places in the rocks above.

‘Rhianna!’ he shouted as she slumped against the flanks of her steed.

‘Is that her name?’ called out the lead druchii warrior. ‘It will make torturing her all the sweeter when I whisper her name as she begs for mercy.’

Caelir turned to face the warrior, a sharp-featured elf with pallid, ivory skin and a hawk-like nose. Like his companions, his head was shaven, with a single, dark topknot dangling from the back of his skull. The druchii wore light tunics of dark cloth that seemed to swallow the day’s light, and held their deadly repeater crossbows aimed unwaveringly at Caelir’s heart. Each weapon bore an ebony store of bolts on its upper surface, allowing it to fire a hail of bolts rather than a single shot. The range of such weapons was much reduced, as was their stopping power, but Caelir knew that at this range and without any armour, he would be just as dead if pierced by them.

‘You will not touch her,’ swore Caelir, moving to stand between the druchii and Rhianna.

‘And you think you can stop us?’ laughed the warrior. ‘I am Koradris and I have taken many heads in battle. Yours will simply be one more.’

‘I will die before I let you take her.’

‘So be it,’ said Koradris and pulled the trigger.

But before the firing mechanisms could loose the bolts, the weapons burst into flame. Sparkling magical fire leapt from weapon to weapon, and the druchii cried out in surprise and pain as they dropped them. Caelir felt the surge of magic from behind him and heard Rhianna fall to the ground, this magical gift to him draining the last of her strength.

Without giving the druchii warriors time to recover from their surprise, Caelir leapt forwards, his sword cleaving through the nearest enemy’s chest with the speed of a striking snake. The warrior collapsed, choking on his own blood, and Caelir gave an ululating yell as he attacked the others.

Koradris easily parried his blow, sending a lightning riposte to his belly. Caelir only just managed to block the cut, rolling his sword around his opponent’s weapon and slashing for his head. The druchii ducked and batted aside Caelir’s return stroke as the second warrior circled to his left.

Koradris lunged and the second druchii warrior attacked at the same moment. Caelir deflected the attack, and, like quicksilver, turned to parry a downward cut from the side, launching an attack of his own.

The druchii parried another strike and launched a deadly thrust to Caelir’s chest, but his blow was deflected, and Caelir spun on his heel, slashing his sword at the warrior’s head.

His opponent swayed aside, but the tip of Caelir’s blade sliced the skin just above his temple and blood flowed from the cut. Koradris moved to encircle his prey. Caelir knew that unless he evened the odds, a duel like this could have only one outcome. Koradris and the other druchii circled him from either side, leering anticipation writ large upon their features.

‘You will pay for killing Vranek,’ hissed Koradris. ‘He was kin to me.’

‘I thought the druchii paid no mind to kith and kin,’ answered Caelir.

‘True enough,’ agreed Koradris, charging in once more, ‘but he owed me money.’

The blades met with an almighty clang, but Caelir had anticipated this. He leapt back from Koradris and spun, thrusting his sword at the other druchii who sought to slay him from behind. The blade plunged deep into his neck and the druchii’s eyes bulged as he toppled to the ground, blood jetting from his torn throat.

Caelir felt the burning kiss of steel across his back as the short blade of Koradris slashed through his jerkin and bit a finger’s breadth into his flesh. He cried out in pain, dropping his sword and falling to his knees as Koradris closed in for the kill. Caelir threw himself flat on his belly and rolled as the druchii’s blade slashed and stabbed for him.

He needed a weapon, and cried out in agony as he rolled over something hot.

Koradris stood above him, his sword dripping blood and his mouth curled in a sneer of contempt.

‘The lords of Naggaroth fill our heads with the might of the Phoenix King’s warriors, but you are a pitiful specimen indeed. Tell me, youngling, do you hear the wail of Morai-Heg? She will be coming for you soon.’

Caelir fumbled beneath him and felt the burning touch of seared wood and metal. He gripped a smooth wooden stock, gritting his teeth against the pain.

‘If you hear the banshee’s wail, it is you she is coming for!’ shouted Caelir, swinging round one of the scorched repeater crossbows and pulling the trigger. For the only time in his life, Caelir was grateful for the craftsmanship of the druchii, as the scorched weapon loosed a flurry of iron bolts.

He kept pulling the trigger until the ebony store on the weapon’s top was exhausted, heedless of the stench of blistered flesh where the residue of the magical fire still burned him. Koradris looked down at the four bolts embedded in his chest and stomach, and seemed more surprised than in pain.

The sword slid from his fingers and he fell to the ground as blood began to seep into his dark tunic. Even as his lifeblood poured from him, he sneered at Caelir.

‘You think you have won?’ he gasped.

‘You will die before me,’ said Caelir, struggling to his feet.

‘You have slain me, youngling, but the dark riders are but moments behind me,’ hissed Koradris with his last breath. ‘You are still going to die…’

Caelir turned from the dead druchii, retrieved his sword, and limped towards Rhianna. She lay beside her horse, the steed nuzzling her in fear and concern. The druchii bolt had pierced her shoulder, but had ricocheted upwards on her collarbone and the barbed tip protruded from the skin. He could feel the shaft of the bolt just beneath her skin.

‘I have never seen the like… you were magnificent…’ she whispered, her eyelids fluttering and her skin ashen. ‘Like the Sword Masters of Hoeth.’

‘Hold still,’ said Caelir, ‘this is going to hurt.’

Rhianna nodded and closed her eyes as Caelir sliced the blade of his sword along the line of the bolt and slid it from her body. She screamed, and Caelir held her tight, wishing he could take away her pain.

Caelir and Rhianna struggled to their feet, and Caelir fashioned makeshift bandages from the cloaks of the dead druchii to bind their wounds with.

‘We don’t have much time,’ he said once he was finished. ‘There will be more of them and they won’t be far behind.’

‘We must warn Tor Elyr that the druchii are here in force.’

Caelir nodded and cupped his hands to help Rhianna onto her horse. Before mounting, she leaned in close and put her palm against his cheek.

‘You saved my life, Caelir, and I will never forget this,’ she said, and kissed him on the lips.

‘Anything for you, my lady,’ he replied, the pain of his wound quite forgotten.

III

NAGGAROTH

Eldain reined in his steed as he saw the Shadow Warrior emerge from behind the thick bole of a black-barked tree, and raised his hand in a fist to halt his troop of Ellyrian Reavers.

The hooded scout bowed before Eldain and said, ‘Clar Karond is beyond the rise, my lord. Where the trees thin out, the land drops away and the towers of the druchii can be clearly seen.’

Eldain sensed the scout’s loathing for the druchii in every word, and felt a similar stirring in his breast at the thought of taking the fight to those who had slain his father. He stared over the scout’s shoulder, seeing the light from beyond the trees.

‘Well done,’ he told the scout. ‘Where are the rest of your warriors?’

The scout waved his hand and the other two warriors emerged from the shadows. Eldain had not noticed either of the scouts, and though it was their forte to avoid being seen, it still irked him that he had not sensed so much as a hint of them.

‘Why do we stop?’ asked Caelir, riding alongside.

‘The trees thin out ahead,’ explained Eldain. ‘We are close to Clar Karond.’

‘At last,’ said Caelir. ‘I grow weary of this forest. It weighs heavily on the soul.’

‘Indeed,’ said Eldain, turning away. ‘Stay here, I will scout ahead with the Shadow Warriors.’

Without waiting for Caelir to complain about being left behind, Eldain dismounted and lifted his bow from the oiled, leather case slung from Lotharin’s saddle. He nodded to the scout and followed him as he slipped into the forest ahead.

The scout moved effortlessly ahead of him, and Eldain felt as clumsy as a human as he attempted to match his stealth. But it seemed that every brittle branch and leaf deliberately wormed its way beneath the soles of his boots.

Slowly, they crept forwards, and though the light of the afternoon was a welcome sight after five days of travelling through the dense, dark forests of Naggaroth, it was scant comfort to an elf raised on Ulthuan.

Each day had been more grim than the previous, though the warriors made no complaint – as was only proper. Each of them was well used to spending many weeks, or longer, in the wilds as part of their training, but the bleak forests of the Land of Chill were something else altogether.

Though days and nights came and went, the sun neither warmed the skin nor refreshed the soul, instead leeching the life from the world and casting a pall of fear and doubt over their band. As dreary as the days were, the nights were a thousand times worse, with the darkness of Naggaroth unbroken by torch or moonlight. The blackness shrouded them in silence such that each warrior feared to break it with so much as a single word.

Night was a time to fear, doubly so in Naggaroth, as strange sounds echoed in the depths of the forest around them and in the sky above them. Rustling branches, crackling leaves and the drifting echoes of what sounded like the screaming laughter of lunatic children.

Each night as they made cold camp, Eldain would picture Rhianna and his fears would ease a little, though each time a shard of ice would enter his heart when his treacherous memories would unfold to include Caelir.

Eldain shook off such thoughts as the ground began to rise and he felt a pressure on his shoulder. He looked up into the hooded face of the Shadow Warrior. The scout nodded slowly and gestured to a thorny patch of briars that clung to the edge of the rise like barbed tangleweed.

The scout dropped to his belly and began crawling towards the briars, and Eldain followed him, conscious that he would need to dispose of this tunic after the mission. A saying of the reavers was that survival never took second place to dignity in the field, but that was all very well when you hadn’t had the finest tailors and seamstresses in Lothern fashion your garments.

At last he reached the briar patch and parted the thorny brush to see the vast city of Clar Karond in all its hateful glory.

Three black towers the colour of bloody iron rose from the centre of the city, with tall jagged-roofed temples jockeying for position around them. A high wall, topped with blades and spikes, surrounded the centre of the city, and even from here, Eldain could see the sunlight glinting from the speartips of the city’s guards. Beyond this high wall sprawled the peripherals of a city such as could be seen around many other cities: markets, temples, dwellings of the common folk and barracks of the city’s soldiery.

But for all the trappings of civilisation, a vile darkness hung over its cobbled streets and black roofs – a sense of violence about to be unleashed, of blood about to be spilled. It chilled Eldain’s soul to see such a place, a place of evil that festered beneath a brooding sun, and a place whose inhabitants plotted the destruction of his homeland.

Scattered around the city were tracts of elaborate vineyards, choked with grapes of deepest crimson, and Eldain’s lip curled as he realised that these were harvested for the druchii’s blood wine. Wretched human slaves tended to the vines, guarded by cruel warriors on horseback who emphasised their commands with blade and whip.

Between the vineyards, and stretching all the way up to their vantage point, the land was scarred by devastation. Shorn tree stumps bore grim testimony to the massive logging operations of the druchii that provided timber for the new war vessels of their raiding fleets. Thousands of trees must have been felled here, and the day echoed still with the distant sound of chopping axe blades and the rasp of saws. More slaves toiled in huge work gangs to the east, felling trees by the dozen and dragging them back towards the desolate city.

‘Look to the north-east, my lord,’ whispered the scout.

Eldain’s eyes travelled to where the scout had indicated and saw their prize, the docks and shipyards for which Clar Karond was justly infamous. Ships filled the dark waters of the rocky bay that slowly widened until it emptied into the Sea of Malice. A warren of interlinked jetties and quays spread out into the water from the shoreline, each with great reaper bolt throwers on the seaward side, mighty war-machines capable of launching huge iron bolts that could pierce the hull of even the mightiest ship.

‘What do you see?’ asked the scout.

‘Reavers mostly,’ said Eldain. ‘Some sloops of war, a few reaper-ships and… and there’s something beyond that mountain spur, but I can’t quite see it.’

‘Look again, my lord,’ said the scout. ‘That’s no mountain.’

Eldain looked closer, and the breath caught in his throat as he saw that what he had at first mistaken for a mountain spur of the bay was something else entirely.

‘Asuryan’s mercy!’ he hissed as he saw that the scout spoke true.

This was no mountain… this colossus was one of the dreaded black arks.

A mountainous castle set adrift on the sea and held together by the most powerful enchantments, the black ark was a sinister floating fortress, tower upon tower, spire upon spire of living rock sundered from the isle of Ulthuan over five thousand years ago.

Crewed by an entire army, and dismal home to thousands of slaves, the black arks were the most feared and mightiest sea-going vessels in the world. Some said that the bulk they displayed above the surface of the water was but a fraction of their true size, with great vaulted caverns below the waterline that were home to terrible monsters, slaves and all manner of foul witchcraft. The truth of such things was beyond Eldain; all he knew was that the arks brought with them terror and death on a scale undreamt of.

Great chains, each link thicker than the trunk of a tree, looped from a cluster of towers at the prow of the black ark, curving down towards the impossibly huge draconic head of some monstrous and terrible sea beast that lay, half-submerged, in the dark waters of the harbour. Even from here, Eldain could sense the powerful magic keeping the colossal beast docile while the black ark was berthed at Clar Karond.

Eldain heard someone behind him and turned to see Caelir low-crawling towards the lip of the ridge. His brother had almost reached Eldain before he had become aware of his presence, and he masked his jealousy of Caelir’s talents with anger at his disobeying orders.

‘Blood of Khaine!’ swore Caelir. ‘Is that a black ark?’

‘What are you doing here, Caelir?’ asked Eldain, ignoring his brother’s question. ‘I told you to wait with the rest of the warriors.’

Caelir waved his scarred hand dismissively. ‘Our warriors do not need me to tell them how to prepare for battle. I wish to see the enemy for myself.’

‘You will see them soon enough,’ replied Eldain. ‘And be careful what you wish for.’

‘It will be good to avenge father,’ said Caelir, staring fixedly at the spires of Clar Karond and the black ark. ‘I have great vengeance to wreak upon them.’

‘We both do,’ said Eldain.

‘Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is forgiven,’ whispered Caelir, and Eldain recognised the words as those of Alith Anar, the Shadow King of the shattered kingdom of Nagarythe, a brutal ruler who had led the Shadow Warriors in the years following the Sundering.

‘How will we come at them?’ asked Caelir.

‘From the north-east,’ replied Eldain, pointing to the logging works. ‘The Shadow Warriors will lead us around to the forested hills above where those slaves are working, and under cover of darkness we shall ride into the harbour, fire as many ships as we can and cause bloody mayhem before pulling back.’

‘The druchii will pay in blood for what they have taken from me,’ said Caelir, and Eldain saw that his brother unconsciously rubbed his scarred hand as he spoke.

Looking at the burned flesh of his brother’s hand, Eldain remembered the day Caelir and Rhianna had ridden breathlessly through the portal of the family villa on the eastern slopes of the Annullii. Both had been badly hurt, but Caelir had seen them to safety, and delivered his warning of the druchii raiders, before collapsing.

The tale of how he had heroically defended Rhianna from the dark kin had spread quickly through the courts of Tor Elyr, and Caelir’s reputation as a dashing hero was established.

No one thought to mention that it had been foolish of him to take Rhianna so high into the mountains and so close to the Eagle Gate. No, thought Eldain bitterly, to do so would have been to tarnish the heroic tale of Caelir the Protector. In the weeks that followed, he had watched as Caelir and Rhianna grew closer, powerless to prevent his brother from bewitching the woman he loved with his wayward charms.

‘Come, brother,’ snapped Eldain, turning and preparing to rejoin the rest of the warriors. ‘We should get back. If we are to reach the north-eastern slopes before nightfall, we must be away soon.’

Caelir simply nodded and crawled back with him, vaulting to his feet when they were safely out of sight below the ridge. Back with the rest of the high elven warriors, Eldain felt his spirits lift once more as he saw, by their proud and elegant features, that they were ready for battle. To have penetrated so far into the realm of the druchii was accomplishment enough, but they would achieve something that would show the dark kin what it was to live in fear of raiders from across the sea.

He issued his orders quickly and efficiently, and within minutes the band of warriors was on the move once more, stealthily riding around the eastern fringes of Clar Karond.

As the day wore on and the sun sank lower in the sky, Eldain thought of the coming raid and his brother’s caution that it had been too long since he had fought in battle. True, it had been many years since he had wielded a blade, but the finest tutors had taught him, and he knew that when the blood was flowing and the thrill of battle was upon him, he would be as deadly as he had ever been.

A bruised dusk was drawing in as the scouts once again halted their progress and informed him that they were in position. He dismounted and drew his sword, dropping to his knees and reciting the vow of the Sword Masters.

‘From the darkness I cry for you.

The tears you shed for us

are the blood of the elven kind.

O Isha,

here I stand

on the last shore,

a sword in my hand.

Ulthuan shall never fall.’

Though he was not one of the legendary warriors of the White Tower of Hoeth, mystic guardians of knowledge and wisdom who were masters of the martial arts, the words gave him comfort and focused his concentration on the death yet to be dealt.

The sun continued to fall until the fearful darkness of Naggaroth began to encroach upon the world, and Eldain knew that it was time. The warriors around him began their preparations for battle, weaving iron cords into their long hair – symbolic of strength, power and nobility, the mark of a true warrior – to ensure that an enemy’s blade would not cut it in the heat of battle.

Eldain prayed to the Emperor of the Heavens to guide his blade and watch over him this night, and though he knew there was soon to be blood on his hands, he asked forgiveness from the elven gods. His prayers went unanswered in the darkness, but he felt at peace and knew that his soul was ready for battle. His senses spread out and he could feel the breathing of his men, the harsh whinnies of their steeds and the tense anticipation that gripped them all.

No… not all. Around Caelir was nothing but a thirst for vengeance that burned brightly in the night. Eldain was not gifted with wizard sight, but even he could feel Caelir’s aggressive soul. The spirit of Kurnous burned in his brother’s breast, the elven god of the wild hunt, of untamed forests, wild animals and the trackless wilderness. Many in Ellyrion venerated Kurnous, as did their rustic kin across the ocean who dwelt beneath the boughs of Athel Loren, but the fire of the hunt was stronger in his brother than he could ever remember sensing in anyone before.

But beyond even his brother’s desire for vengeance, he sensed something else. Something crude to be sure, but something with a spirit burning brightly with fear and desperation.

And it was coming straight towards them.

From the primal vulgarity of the spirit, Eldain knew it must be of the race of man. He leapt to his feet, his spirit sight fading as the Shadow Warriors slid from their vantage points to intercept the threat.

Eldain sprinted towards his men and ordered them, with a gesture, to silently scatter. The Ellyrian Reavers vanished into the forest, as Eldain crouched beside a tall, claw-branched tree and risked a glance through the dark forest. His elf-sight easily pierced the gloom and he saw a group of six naked and skeletally thin men running towards the forest, their flesh bruised and scarred from months in captivity.

Behind them, Eldain saw a host of armoured druchii riders on dark steeds, in pursuit of the escaped slaves. One loosed a flurry of bolts from a repeater crossbow and slew one of the escapees. The slaves were almost at the trees, but Eldain knew they would never reach them before the dark riders overtook them.

He saw the leader of the Shadow Warriors raise his bow and aim at the druchii who had fired his crossbow.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Stay your hand. If we are discovered now, then all we have achieved so far is for nothing.’

The Shadow Warrior nodded and relaxed his bowstring, commanding his scouts to do the same with some unseen and unheard signal.

Eldain watched dispassionately as the druchii quickly surrounded the escaped slaves and, rather than herd them back to their work gangs, slaughtered them where they stood. Cruel laughter drifted from the scene of butchery as the druchii killed their prey and took their heads to mount upon their saddle horns.

Within moments it was over, and the druchii warriors were riding back towards their dark city with their bloody trophies. Eldain let out his breath, relieved the druchii had been too intent on bloodshed to notice the raiders not a hundred yards from them.

As the druchii departed, Caelir approached him and said, ‘that was too close.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Eldain.

‘We should have helped them.’

‘Helped them?’ asked Eldain. ‘To what end? Would you take them back to Tor Elyr and have them for your servants? No, to die like that was probably easier for them than to go on living.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Caelir, ‘but it sits ill with me that we just let them die.’

‘They were only humans, Caelir,’ said Eldain. ‘Do not trouble yourself with them. Now get some rest, we move out within the hour.’

Caelir nodded and returned to his steed, and Eldain lay back against the tree, watching him go. Emotions warred within him and to calm himself before going into battle, he closed his eyes and thought of the last time he had spoken with Rhianna.

IV

ULTHUAN – Two Months Ago

Lothern. Most magnificent city of all Ulthuan.

Situated in the midst of the Straits of Lothern, it guarded the approaches to the Inner Sea of Ulthuan. Men who saw the city described it to their companions back home as one of the wonders of the world, and such a title was richly deserved. Principal city of the Kingdom of Eataine, Lothern was a sprawling city-state, the lands around it dotted with vineyards, villas and summer estates to which the noble families of the city retired. The centre of power of Eataine, it was rightly said that no one who ever laid eyes upon it would ever forget it.

Set around a glittering lagoon, the tall spires of Lothern ringed the coastline, sublime palaces and elegant villas fanning upwards from the coast, their white towers climbing gracefully into the foothills of the distant mountains.

But Lothern was not simply built around the lagoon; hundreds of artificial islands had been raised within its waters and on these isles rested great palaces, temples and storehouses, forming an intricate network of canals. Statues of the great elven gods ringed the lagoon: Asuryan, Lileath, Kurnous, Isha and many others, but all these creations were dwarfed by the colossi that towered above the city and faced one another across the mouth of the bay. Statues of the Phoenix King and the Everqueen – twin rulers of Ulthuan – two-hundred feet high and carved from the marble of the mountainside by the power of the elven mages, dominated the southern skyline before the Sapphire Gate. Sailors from around the world spoke of their size, and were each story to be believed, then the statues must surely have climbed all the way to heaven.

Thousands of vessels filled the harbour, bobbing gently in the swell. Trading ships of the elven merchants, pleasure barges, and the sleek and deadly eagle-prowed warships of Lord Aislinn’s battlefleet.

Dotted amongst the elven ships were vessels from all across the Old World. Since Finubar the Seafarer had persuaded Bel-Hathor to raise the interdict that forbade humans from setting foot on Ulthuan, almost four hundred years ago, trade had flowed into Lothern like never before. Dhows from Araby were tied up next to groaning merchantmen and galleons from Marienburg, who shared berths with clippers from Magritta and longships from the Norse, who, after the defeat of Erik Redaxe’s fleet, realised that there was more to be gained by trading with the elves of Ulthuan than by trying to raid them.

A thriving city of culture, arts, poetry and trade, Lothern was the cosmopolitan heart of Ulthuan, and home to those elves who considered themselves part of the world rather than those who would see Ulthuan remain in splendid isolation.

Eldain and Caelir walked along the Boulevard of the Phoenix, so named for the current Phoenix King of Ulthuan who hailed from Eataine. They had set sail from Tor Elyr a week ago and passed through the gate of ruby and gold that separated the Inner Sea from Lothern only three days ago. Although both had visited the city before, its glory never failed to stir their hearts.

The boulevard ran the length of the mercantile district of the city and bustled with the activity of traders and shopkeepers, busy haggling with customers in the spirit of good natured banter. Swarthy skinned merchants in elaborate, brightly coloured robes and feathered headdresses waved their arms expansively as they held out bolts of fine silk, and incense sellers wafted their wares into the faces of passers-by.

Food sellers and wine merchants offered delicacies from all across the Old World, promising epicurean delights to satisfy even the most demanding palate.

Caelir stopped to purchase some wine and joked with the merchant that it was the finest wine he had tasted that afternoon. Eldain scowled at his brother when he had done with the merchant and said, ‘It is serious business we are on, brother. We have not time to dally.’

‘There’s always time to enjoy a fine wine, Eldain.’

‘And was that fine wine?’ asked Eldain.

‘No,’ admitted Caelir. ‘It was Tilean vinegar, but it never hurts to try new things. They say that the wines from the New World are exquisite. I met a trader, recently arrived from the Citadel of Dusk, who promised me a bottle of Lustrian venom wine.’

‘Venom wine?’ asked Eldain, appalled. ‘That sounds utterly vile.’

‘I know, but he swears it has a flavour to make the finest Avelorn vintage taste like swill.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘Of course not, but with a boast like that I simply have to taste it,’ laughed Caelir.

Eldain shook his head and said, ‘Caelir, I swear you would make a warrior of Tiranoc forget his chariot with your inane babble. Have you forgotten why we are here?’

Caelir shrugged. ‘No, I haven’t, brother, but we do not set sail for Naggaroth for another three weeks. We have time to enjoy the city a little, do we not?’

‘Perhaps,’ allowed Eldain, ‘but I wish to ensure our expedition has all the supplies it needs before then. There is much that still needs to be done. Food and water to be provisioned, and weapons, armour and arrows need to be bought and stowed aboard our ships. I also need to take father’s will to the counting house of Cerion to release the funds we will need. All this takes time and who is going to take responsibility, you?’

Caelir raised his hands before him in mock surrender and said, ‘Very well, we’ll do it your way, brother. Might we be better splitting up, then, and seeing to separate tasks?’

Eldain knew that Caelir was simply looking to get away from him and he found himself not averse to the idea. His brother was already irritating him and they had only been in Lothern for a few days.

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Take these promissory notes against father’s estate and secure us feed for the horses; enough to see us to Naggaroth and back, with two weeks’ worth for when we are on land.’

‘Feed for the horses,’ sighed Caelir. ‘Such a glorious task.’

‘A necessary one,’ reminded Eldain. ‘Now be off with you, and I do not want to see you until you have the feed. And get a good price, our funds are not limitless.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Caelir. ‘I’m not a fool, Eldain.’

Eldain struggled to hold his temper at his brother’s petulance and simply said, ‘Then I will see you back at our lodgings at sunset, yes?’

Caelir did not answer, stalking off through the crowds of traders, and Eldain let out a long, calming breath. He knew all too well that at least one of the promissory notes he had given Caelir would be spent in a wine shop or tailor’s boutique, but was too glad of the peace that Caelir’s departure brought him to care overmuch.

He closed his eyes and let the bustle of Lothern soothe his spirit, though he knew he must be attracting his fair share of odd looks – standing with his eyes closed in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.

‘Eldain?’ asked a sweet, female voice. ‘Eldain is that you?’

He opened his eyes and his heart lurched to see Rhianna standing before him, a linen covered basket held in the crook of her arm. She wore a simple, high-necked dress of emerald green with golden thread woven in curling patterns at the hem and cuffs, and was as beautiful as he remembered. Unconsciously, his eyes darted to her shoulder where she had been wounded, but the skin was hidden below the fabric of her dress.

Caelir had told Eldain that the fashion this season in Lothern was for risqué dresses that exposed the shoulders and a sizeable amount of decolletage, but Rhianna’s dress exposed not one inch of skin more than was necessary.

Sensing his scrutiny of her old wound, Rhianna said, ‘It still pains me now and then.’

‘I’m sorry, Rhianna,’ said Eldain, ‘I did not mean to–’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said smoothly. ‘Caelir removed the bolt swiftly, but the druchii left me an ugly scar and I do not like to display it.’

Taking a moment to recover his composure, Eldain said, ‘It is good to see you again, my lady. It has been too long since you visited us in Tor Elyr.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I wanted to come for your father’s funeral, but, well…’

‘I understand,’ said Eldain. ‘Your father brought us your condolences. They were most welcome.’

An awkward silence descended upon the pair until Rhianna asked, ‘Have you eaten yet?’

‘Eaten? No, I have not,’ said Eldain. ‘I have had much to do today and have not had the time.’

‘Nor have I. Will you join me in some food and wine? You are right, it has been too long since we talked.’

Eldain was about to refuse when he thought back to Caelir’s advice that there was always time for a fine wine – especially with a beautiful woman – and said, ‘I would be honoured to join you, my lady.’

Smiling, she accepted his offered support and the two of them strolled down the Boulevard of the Phoenix arm in arm, looking for all the world like two lovers out for an afternoon constitutional. Just being near Rhianna made Eldain feel more at peace than he had done in a long time, and as they walked, he cast sly glances at her face, remembering touching her skin and whispering promises of love in her gently tapered ear… what seemed like an age ago.

They walked in a companionable silence, turning into a narrow side street with many brightly coloured awnings providing cool shade for the patrons of the eating-houses and wineries that filled the street. Rhianna led him towards a shop with a glittering front, fashioned from coloured chips of polished glass to depict a pastoral landscape of great beauty.

‘I know the owner of this establishment,’ explained Rhianna. ‘He sells only the finest honeycakes and freshest sweetmeats. And he has a friend that brings him bottles of Avelorn dreamwine…’

‘Dreamwine,’ said Eldain. ‘I have not tasted it before, but am told it is fine indeed.’

‘Then we shall each have a glass,’ stated Rhianna. ‘Take a seat and I will see to our order.’

As a proud male, Eldain knew he should see to their food and drink, but as an elf obviously not from Lothern, he knew that he would seem like a bumpkin to the vendors of the city. He found an unoccupied table near the wall and examined the mosaic on the shopfront in more detail. It truly was magnificent and it struck him as unnecessarily ostentatious for something so mundane as a shop, but then what did he know of city ways?

Rhianna soon returned, bearing a silver tray laden with succulent cakes that smelled of sweet honey and roasted cinnamon, and two tall, slender necked flutes filled with shimmering wine.

‘Dreamwine?’ he asked.

‘Dreamwine,’ agreed Rhianna. ‘Fermented from the waking dreams of the handmaidens of Avelorn and sung into liquid form by the magic of Everqueen. Be careful though, be sure to only take a small amount at a time.’

Eldain nodded and lifted the flute from the tray, taking a delicate sniff of the ethereal wine. It seemed to run like liquid smoke in his glass and its bouquet was that of a wild forest of ancient glamours where creatures of legend still roamed free. Rhianna smiled and they both took a small sip of the wine.

It was sweet, almost unbearably so, and Eldain replaced the flute on the table as he saw visions of fabulous gardens of oak and suntree tended by the ancient treemen of the forest, sun-dappled glades of unicorn and great eagles nesting in the enchanted forest’s rolling hills. The image of the shopfront blurred and swam, the green of its landscape becoming incredibly rich in detail, and Eldain had the sensation that he could reach into it. Indeed, he could smell the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine, taste the salt of sea spray and feel the soft wind blowing across the hills on his face.

Rhianna said, ‘It’s good, yes?’

He smiled in contentment and said, ‘Yes… it’s very good. I can see why you are only supposed to take small sips at a time.’

The wine also had the effect of reminding him of his hunger and he devoured two honeycakes in quick succession before taking another sip of wine. More prepared for what wonders it might bring, he was nevertheless intoxicated by their splendour.

He saw beautiful elves with golden skin dancing in leafy bowers, silken pavilions of myriad colours like a great carnival, and darting faeries that lit everything with their silver laughter and sparkling light. Amidst the gaiety, Eldain saw a woman of heartbreaking beauty, with the grace and wisdom of Isha in her eyes, and knew her to be Alarielle, the Everqueen of Avelorn and consort of the Phoenix King. Her flowing hair was like a golden cloud, and graceful birds of purest white attended her as she moved effortlessly through her adoring subjects.

Tears gathered in his eyes as the face of the Everqueen faded, only to be replaced by that of Rhianna, and he pushed the flute with the rest of his dreamwine away, spilling it across the table where it instantly evaporated like mist.

‘Eldain? What’s the matter?’ asked Rhianna, reaching out to touch his hand.

‘Nothing,’ he said, pulling his arm back. ‘This was a mistake.’

‘A mistake?’ asked Rhianna. ‘What was a mistake?’

‘Coming here,’ said Eldain, pushing his chair back. ‘It has reopened old wounds that would be better left alone.’

‘No, Eldain, stay. Please,’ urged Rhianna. ‘We should talk. We have to talk.’

‘Why?’

Startled by the boldness of the question, Rhianna hesitated before saying, ‘Because there are things that must be said between us before you set sail for Naggaroth.’

‘You know of our journey?’

Rhianna nodded and said, ‘Caelir sent word to my home of the blood oath you swore against the druchii upon your father’s coffin. He told me you would be travelling to Lothern and asked me to come.’

‘Caelir asked you to come to Lothern, why? He said nothing to me.’

‘I met with him yesterday morning and…’ began Rhianna, extending her hand across the table towards him. He swallowed hard as he saw a silver ring engraved with two entwined hearts shining upon her middle finger. He couldn’t believe that he had not noticed it earlier.

‘A pledge ring,’ he said. ‘Caelir gave you that?’

‘He did,’ confirmed Rhianna. ‘We have exchanged pledge rings, and upon his return from Naggaroth he will plight his troth to me. I will make the pilgrimage to the Gaean Vale, and we shall be wed in Tor Elyr the following year.’

‘Wed? You will be wed to Caelir?’ laughed Eldain, though there was no humour to it.

‘Yes, I love him. I am sorry that I hurt you, but I cannot change what I feel.’

‘You don’t love Caelir!’ snapped Eldain. ‘You are infatuated with him. He saved your life and you feel you ought to fall in love with him. Your heart has been clouded by his charms and his brashness. Listen to your head instead.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Rhianna archly, ‘but it does not matter now what my head tells me, my heart speaks with a louder voice.’

Eldain sat back in his chair and felt the bitterness that had festered within him since his father’s poisoning, well up within him. He wanted to lash out, to hurt her, to make her feel something of the pain he now felt, but his iron control reasserted itself before he said something he knew he would later regret. He had sacrificed everything, his own happiness and the woman he loved, to protect his domain and his kin, and this was his reward?

But he could not hurt her… to do so would demean him.

‘I loved you, Rhianna,’ he said at last.

‘I know you did, and I will always love you too, Eldain, but I am to be Caelir’s upon his return from the land of the druchii,’ said Rhianna. ‘If things had been different I know you would have been a good husband to me and I a good wife to you, but life often takes turns we do not expect. I am sorry, but please… for my sake, do not hate Caelir for this.’

Eldain nodded and stood, scattering a handful of coins upon the table.

He bowed stiffly to Rhianna and said, ‘I love you, and while I live I will love no other.’

As he walked away, Rhianna said, ‘Eldain, wait…’

But he did not turn around.

V

NAGGAROTH

The night pressed in around them, and though the horses picked a silent path through the tall vines, Eldain felt sure they would be unmasked any second. Sounds of weeping men and women drifted on the cold night air, and slaves left to lie where they had fallen in exhaustion curled in terror as they passed, too brutalised by their captors to tell the difference between high elf and druchii.

They were elves, and that was enough to send those slaves who could still move crawling into the undergrowth in terror. The stench of the blood grapes was almost intolerable, and Eldain pulled his scarf tighter about his face to block out the acrid aroma.

As they drew nearer to their goal, Eldain saw occasional druchii corpses lying amid the vines, throats slit by the Shadow Warriors who ranged ahead of the hundred riders making their way to the docks of Clar Karond. The ride from the trees had been fraught with danger, each passing second bringing them closer to their goal, but also closer to being discovered. But now they were within the concealing vineyards, and Eldain could see through the vines that the entrance to the shipyards was less than a hundred yards away.

The ground was ravaged, but relatively flat, ground into channels by the passage of countless logs dragged from the hills above Clar Karond and brought within the docks for sawing and shaping. Hundreds of slaves – humans and dwarfs mostly – slept in huddled groups, no fire to warm them or blankets to cover them, and Eldain knew that these pitiful creatures were the key to them getting into the shipyards. Beyond the slaves, an open gateway was set within a timber palisade of sharpened logs with tall, spiked towers to either side.

Eldain twisted in the saddle to ensure his warriors were ready, that arrows were nocked and swords were bared. He had personally handed each warrior three of the copper coloured arrows, etched with the rune of Saroir, that Rhianna’s father had presented them with on the dockside of Lothern the day they had set sail for this accursed land. Vaul’s magic was upon them, and he had made sure to impress upon each warrior that these arrows must not be wasted.

‘Are we ready?’ asked Caelir, his bow held loosely in his left hand. The longbow was inset with mother-of-pearl, and radiated powerful magic. Eldain recognised it as Rhianna’s bow and felt his jaw clench at the sight of it.

‘Yes, we are,’ he said.

‘Good luck, brother,’ said Caelir and extended his hand.

Eldain looked down at his brother’s palm, the skin rough and scarred where the druchii’s red-hot crossbow had burned it, and the silver pledge ring bright in the darkness.

‘And to you too,’ he said, taking Caelir’s hand.

Caelir nodded and said, ‘Then give the word, brother.’

Eldain drew his own sword and shouted a command at Lotharin, who leapt from the concealment of the vines and bore his rider towards the shivering slaves. The hundred Ellyrian Reavers followed him, screaming at the top of their lungs and riding for the heart of the slave encampment.

The ground shook with the thunder of hooves as the high elves rode towards the log palisade. Shaken from their nightmares by the noise, the slaves awoke in panic, screaming in terror at the sight of a hundred horsemen bearing down upon them. Some curled into weeping foetal balls, while others ran towards them with arms outstretched, thinking them rescuers.

But as Eldain had planned, the majority fled in blind terror away from them, towards the gateway of Clar Karond’s shipyards. Within moments of their appearance, torch-wielding druchii with whips emerged from behind the walls, demanding to know what in the name of Khaine was going on.

They died without knowing what danger came their way, the arrows of the Shadow Warriors piercing their throats or slicing through their eye sockets. More druchii emerged from the shipyards, and Eldain saw that these were the feared druchii corsairs, warrior knights with tall helmets, shrouded in scaled cloaks, who bore long spears and cruelly serrated swords. The mad press of slaves desperate to find shelter beyond the palisade prevented them from mustering a cohesive defence, so they stabbed their spear points through the bodies of slaves as they fought to discover the source of the alarm.

Eldain loosed a blue-fletched arrow and felled a corsair as a flurry of arrows slashed from the charging Ellyrian Reavers. Another volley cut down yet more of the druchii, and then they were amongst them.

Elven blades rose and fell, killing many druchii in the chaos and panic of the fleeing slaves. Blood and screams filled the night air as confusion spread from the gateway, and the slaves took advantage of their captors’ disarray to have their revenge. A rampaging mob of slaves spread rapidly through the shipyards, yelling and toppling whatever they could.

He heard cries of alarm from druchii who recognised them as high elves, but as each shout was raised, an elven arrow quickly silenced it.

An alarm bell began chiming. Eldain shouted, ‘With me!’ and rode swiftly through the mad, swirling melee. The elven riders obeyed his shouted order with a discipline and speed that made him proud as they rode onwards through the screaming slaves. In a sweeping mass, they charged through wide streets lined with huge piles of lumber, long saws and chained axes. Along each thoroughfare were bloody altars to Khaine, headsmans’ blocks, and cauldrons brimming with red fluid. Whether wine or blood, Eldain had no wish to know, but each sat beneath the mutilated body of a slave nailed to a crude cross.

The stench of stagnant sea air was pungent, and Eldain rode towards the source of the rank odour, guiding Lotharin with his knees while loosing shaft after shaft into any druchii who dared come between him and his goal. Caelir rode alongside him, dropping the warriors of the dark kin with a speed and ease that was astonishing, the magic of the bow he used finding the weakness in every druchii’s armour.

Their course carried them past great, vaulted structures stacked high with timber planks, shaped and treated for use in ships’ hulls, and Eldain plucked one of the copper Saroir arrows from his doeskin quiver. He loosed the arrow into the midst of the timber, the head thudding into the heart of the stored planks.

No sooner had the arrow struck the wood than it erupted into a mass of searing fire, bright orange flames spreading swiftly from the point of impact. Within moments, the entirety of the timber was ablaze, and flames raced through the chamber as thick pillars of black smoke curled skywards.

‘Not a bad wedding present, eh?’ shouted Caelir, and Eldain had to admit that the fire enchantment placed upon the magic arrows was powerful indeed.

Within minutes, the sky was lit with a dreadful orange glow as more of the druchii timber stores went up in flames, years’ worth of materials destroyed in moments. A wild exultation gripped Eldain as he shot yet more druchii, but the strategist in him saw that they would not be able to keep this momentum going for much longer. Soon, the druchii would organise themselves, and if he and his warriors were trapped within the shipyards, it would only be a matter of time before they were hunted down and killed.

The rank odour of the Sea of Malice grew strong in his nostrils, and the cobbled street opened onto a great granite quay laden with crates, barrels and coils of hemp rope. Hundreds of ships at anchor wallowed in the dark waters, their sleek and deadly hulls festooned with jagged blades, icons of Khaine and the rune of the Witch King, Malekith himself.

Riders galloped out onto the quayside, and Eldain saw that they had not penetrated this far into the shipyards of Clar Karond without loss. A dozen or more steeds were without riders, and many of the warriors who still fought were bloodied. He saw that Caelir was still alive, blood running from a shallow cut on his leg, but otherwise unharmed.

‘Spread out!’ yelled Eldain, unslinging an Ellyrion hunting horn from his saddle and holding it high. ‘Use the Saroir arrows and burn as many ships as you can. When you hear me blow the signal to retreat get out immediately, no hesitation. We will rally at the top of the ridge where we began this glorious work! Now go!’

Whooping and yelling, the Ellyrian Reavers spread through the quay, galloping along the warren of jetties and piers that connected the berthed ships. Eldain, Caelir and ten warriors charged along a wide, tar-stained jetty to their left, riding parallel to the bloated, mountainous form of the black ark. Arrows slashed through the night to slay druchii crewmen who peered out over the gunwales, and flames leapt skyward as the high elves made good use of their magic arrows. Eldain knew that, no matter what happened now, their mission to Naggaroth would be seen as a triumph.

He fired a Saroir arrow into a heavy Reaper ship, laughing in released tension as the arrow exploded with flames and the tarred planks instantly caught light. More and more ships burned as the high elves rampaged through the maze of jetties. Burning Corsairs leapt from their blazing vessels into the water, but Eldain felt no pity, only a thirst to kill more of the evil druchii.

Ahead, a group of corsairs charged from their doomed ship, bearing long spears and swords. Behind them, a group of druchii crossbowmen lining the gunwale shot a volley of lethal bolts towards them. Eldain cried out as a bolt sliced through the flesh of his bicep, but the wound was not deep and the bolt passed onwards without lodging.

Six of his warriors were not so lucky and tumbled from their saddles, pierced through by the deadly iron bolts. The druchii shouted something, but Eldain could not hear it over the roar of flames and the thunder of hooves on timber. Another volley slashed out, another three reavers fell, and Eldain felt his fury grow hotter than the flames billowing around him.

Twin streaks of copper flashed from Caelir’s bow, and Eldain saw two of the Saroir arrows slam into the vessel. An enormous explosion of fire mushroomed from the deck of the ship as the magical flames exploded outwards, hurling the crossbowmen through the air and breaking the ship in two. The corsairs were hurled to the ground by the force of the blast, and the high elves gave them no chance to recover their wits, charging home and slaying them without mercy.

Eldain and Caelir rode amidst the corsairs, their swords flashing in the firelight as they killed the druchii. Caelir’s face was lit with savage joy as he fought, and Eldain had a fleeting vision of his brother atop a great white steed, wearing the Ithiltaen of the Silver Helms.

A druchii Corsair stabbed up at him, and Eldain desperately twisted his steed around, but the spear penetrated his thigh and he screamed in pain as blood streamed down his leg. He fought to turn and bring his sword to bear, but the howling druchii was quicker and the spear lanced towards his heart.

A slashing sword split the spear apart in a shower of splinters, and Caelir’s reverse stroke beheaded the Corsair as he rode between Eldain and his attacker.

‘Come on, brother!’ shouted Caelir, turning his steed and riding further out along the wide jetty. ‘This way! Hurry!’

Eldain watched as blood fountained from the druchii’s neck and the corpse toppled from the jetty into the water. His breath came in great, sucking lungfuls as he realised how close he had come to death. They had pushed their luck far enough, hundreds of ships were ablaze, and even though his warriors had surely loosed every one of the Saroir arrows, the wind was certain to fan the flames to those vessels that had thus far escaped.

Yes, it was time to go.

Eldain lifted the hunting horn from his saddle and blew three rising notes followed by one low, mournful one, the eerie sound carrying all across the harbour – even over the roar of flames, the crack of splitting timbers and the screams of the dying.

Even now, his warriors would be retreating and making their way back to safety.

‘My lord?’ shouted the last of his warriors over the din. ‘Your brother!’

‘I know,’ returned Eldain. ‘I will get him, you get out of here! Now!’

The warrior hesitated, torn between obeying his lord’s order and his duty to protect him. Eldain saw his dilemma and said, ‘you do me proud with your devotion, but I would be a poor master indeed if I let my warriors die thanks to my brother’s foolishness. Now go!’

The reaver nodded and turned his horse, galloping hard for the quayside. Eldain turned and with a yell, rode after Caelir. He heard iron bolts whipping past him and glanced up to see crossbowmen lining the turrets and crags of the black ark. At such range, it was doubtful they could hit him, but such were their numbers that it would only take one lucky bolt to fell him or his horse. What in the name of Isha had driven Caelir to ride onwards? Had the spirit of Loec seized him with wild abandon?

Through the glow of the firelight, he saw Caelir ahead, battling a knot of druchii warriors in the shadow of one of the giant repeater bolt throwers. Enemy warriors pressed in around him, but Caelir fought like Tyrion himself, his sword stabbing and slashing amongst the druchii like quicksilver. The combat was over before Eldain reached his brother and shouted, ‘What are you doing? Didn’t you hear the signal to retreat?’

Caelir nodded, too out of breath to reply, and swiftly vaulted from the back of his horse.

‘What are you doing?’ repeated Eldain as more bolts from the crew of the black ark thudded into the timber of the jetty.

Caelir shouted, ‘Come on, help me with this!’ as he swung the massive bolt thrower around on greased runners to face the black ark. Many times larger than the Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers employed by the armies of the Phoenix King, this monstrous weapon was designed for punching holes below the waterline of enemy ships.

‘You have got to be joking,’ said Eldain. ‘That won’t even scratch the side of a black ark!’

‘I’m not aiming for the black ark!’ shouted Caelir as he pulled the firing handle and a thick iron bolt, longer than three bowstaves, flashed through the air. Eldain watched as the bolt flew towards… not the ark, but the head of the great beast tethered by the massive chains to its front!

The bolt hammered into the great dragon’s head, burying itself completely in its flesh. Purple flickers of magical light erupted around it as the powerful enchantments keeping it placid fought to contain the monster’s agony. The Ark shook with the beast’s pain, and its head rose from the water slightly, exposing a fiery red eye and terrifying fangs longer than a knight’s lance. Heavy waves rocked the jetty as the massive form of the ark shifted in the water, and giant breakers foamed at its base as the beasts kept chained in its depths were unleashed. Eldain saw spined and sinuous forms slicing through the churning waters towards them and turned to face his brother, who struggled to load another bolt onto the firing runners.

‘Come on!’ shouted Caelir. ‘Help me!’

Despite his better judgement, Eldain leapt from the saddle, crying out in pain as he landed on his wounded leg, and limped towards Caelir. Together they heaved the bolt into position and began furiously cranking the windlass mechanism.

‘This is madness!’ yelled Eldain.

‘You’re probably right!’ answered Caelir. ‘Do you have any Saroir arrows left?’

‘Just one.’

‘Tie it to the shaft of the bolt.’

‘What?’

‘Do it! Hurry!’ shouted Caelir, as the firing mechanism clicked home and the weapon was ready to fire. Swiftly, Eldain pulled out his last magical arrow and snapped the bowstring from his longbow. He clambered onto the giant bolt thrower’s curving front section and lashed the copper arrow to the jagged iron head of the bolt.

‘Ready?’ shouted Caelir.

‘Done!’ answered Eldain, leaping to the jetty as his brother fired the machine once more.

‘Now let’s get out of here,’ cried Caelir, vaulting onto the back of his horse. Eldain followed suit, watching as the bolt streaked straight and true into the eye of the mighty sea dragon. The baleful red light was snuffed out and an explosion of purple light flared in the firelit darkness as the beast’s agonies overcame the placating magic. Flames sheeted upwards from the dragon’s head as the Saroir arrow ignited and seared a burning path through the beast’s skull and into its brain.

The two brothers rode like the wind as the ark rocked in the water and huge swells broke across the bay. Splintering wood erupted behind them as the beasts unleashed from the ark smashed into the jetty, hungry for blood.

Eldain glanced behind him to see a monstrous sea creature with jaws the size of an eagle’s wingspan tearing up the jetty towards them. Tarred planks flew in all directions, splintered and snapped by its weight and bulk. The great sea dragon’s bellows of pain were deafening, and Eldain heard a tremendous groaning as its convulsions tore the black ark free of its moorings. Bolts hammered down around them as those druchii who still remained in the harbour sought to exact some last revenge against their attackers.

Caelir whooped and shrieked ahead of him, the adrenaline rush of what they had just done inuring him to the fear of what might yet befall them. The monster behind them drew ever closer, huge waves of water drenching them as the sea dragon’s death throes rocked the waters of the bay with the force of an earthquake.

Ahead, Eldain saw Caelir reach the granite of the quayside. He heard the crack of wood from behind him and felt the rank breath of the monster from the deep on his neck.

‘Jump!’ shouted Caelir, and Eldain dug his heels hard into Lotharin’s flanks.

The black stallion leapt towards the quayside as the sea monster’s jaws slammed shut on the last of the jetty, smashing it to shards. Lotharin landed on the solid quay as the great beast slammed into it beneath the water, and Eldain let out a great, shuddering breath as his steed skidded to a halt.

A massive, groaning crack of splitting stone made both brothers look up in time to see the incredible sight of the black ark toppling into the bay, its mighty towers brought low, and hundreds of druchii falling to their deaths as the dying sea dragon thrashed in its chains. The monstrous floating fortress broke apart as it hit the water and a great tidal wave of black foam surged towards the shore of the bay.

The brothers turned their steeds and galloped back the way they had come, fighting their way through the shocked druchii towards their escape. Past blazing timber stores and ruined piles of blackened lumber, spears stabbed for them and repeater crossbow bolts slashed through the air, but their speed carried them past most of their attackers without a fight.

Eldain slashed his sword through the arm of a corsair guarding the gateway and hacked down another before riding clear. He stole a glance over his shoulder to see his brother slay a pair of druchii who sought to hamstring his horse. Caelir killed them both, but he had been slowed enough for other druchii to take aim with their crossbows, and a hail of bolts slashed towards him.

One pierced his hip and pitched him from his horse, while others hammered into his steed’s chest and flanks. The horse collapsed, blood frothing from its mouth and its legs thrashing in agony.

Caelir picked himself up and ran as fast as he could towards the gateway. More bolts flashed through the air, another burying itself in his shoulder. He stumbled, but kept running.

‘Brother!’ he yelled, holding out his hand towards Eldain.

Eldain watched Caelir run, silhouetted in the firelight from the blazing wreckage of Clar Karond, and his vision narrowed as he focussed on Caelir’s outstretched hand.

He saw the callused burns of his brother’s wounded hand, Rhianna’s silver pledge ring shining brightly in the flames.

Eldain said, ‘Goodbye, Caelir.’ He turned his horse towards the hills and rode away.

He did not look back, but pushed his steed hard through the vineyards towards the survivors of the attack. He heard shouts and screams and the clash of blades behind him, but paid them no heed as he galloped onwards.

As he crested the rise and entered the dark forest, he rode for some minutes before reaching his warriors. Bloody and exhausted, they were nevertheless magnificent, and he felt a strange freedom in his soul as he thought of all that had been achieved this night.

‘My lord?’ asked the leader of the Shadow Warriors. ‘Where is Caelir?’

‘He is dead,’ replied Eldain sadly.

‘Dead? Isha’s mercy, no!’

‘The druchii killed him,’ said Eldain. ‘He fought bravely, but there was nothing I could do to save him.’

‘Our swords are yours!’ promised the Shadow Warrior. ‘We will avenge him!’

Eldain could see the same resolve in the face of every one of his warriors and said, ‘We have won a great victory here, but we must return to our homeland now. The druchii will not remain in disarray for long and we have many days travel ahead of us before we may count ourselves safe. My brother will be avenged, but not this day.’

He turned his horse towards home and shouted, ‘We ride for Ulthuan!’

VI

ULTHUAN – One Month Ago

The omens were good, thought Eldain as the ships pulled smoothly away from the Lothern quayside towards the Sapphire Gate. The morning sun was bright and a fair wind ruffled the white sails of the Eagle ships. Caelir stood at the vessel’s stern, waving to Rhianna, who stood on the dockside beside her father, a tall, powerful elf in the swirling robes of an arch-mage.

The holds of each ship were laden with horses and supplies – food, grain, water and weapons, all that was necessary for an expedition to Naggaroth. Wrapped in oiled leather was a crate sealed with mystical wards, that had come from Rhianna’s father, in which there were three hundred magical arrows. A sheepish Caelir had told him that they were an early wedding gift from Rhianna’s father, and though it left the bitter taste of ashes in his throat to have such a reminder of her affection for his brother, Eldain knew that they would be invaluable.

The ships passed through the shadow of the mighty statues of the Phoenix King and the Everqueen as the Sapphire Gate at the mouth of the lagoon began to open. A gate of shining silver, set with sapphires the size of a man’s head, a glittering edifice that smoothly drew wider to allow their small fleet to pass through.

Beyond the Sapphire gate, an elven pilot vessel waited to guide their ships through the magically shifting sandbanks that protected the Straits of Lothern from attackers.

Eldain made his way to the vessel’s prow and felt a shiver of anticipation as the gate behind them closed and they found themselves in a wide channel between sheer cliffs of white. Castles equipped with repeater bolt throwers, ramparts and seaward defences manned by ithilmar armoured warriors of the Sea Guard, protected the Straits of Lothern, and Eldain knew almost nothing could penetrate these defences.

Eventually, the channel narrowed until they reached the great fortified arch that was the Emerald Gate, foremost of the great sea gates that guarded Lothern. Two vast valves of carved bronze studded with great emeralds were set into the cliffs and, as the pilot guided them towards the gate, it swung open on mighty hinges to grant them passage to the open ocean.

The ships passed onwards, the great gate shutting soundlessly behind them as Eldain had his first sight of the Glittering Tower.

Rearing up from the sea atop a rocky isle in the mouth of the bay, the Glittering Tower was a great lighthouse filled with thousands of lamps that could never be extinguished. Mighty fortifications clustered at its base, each bastion equipped with scores of bolt throwers and hundreds of Sea Guard warriors.

Caelir joined him at the prow and said, ‘It is magnificent.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Eldain. ‘It truly is.’

‘Eldain…’ said Caelir hesitantly. ‘I just wanted to say, well, that I am sorry I didn’t tell you about Rhianna. I meant to say something to you sooner, I really did.’

‘It doesn’t matter any more, little brother.’

‘It doesn’t?’ asked Caelir, the relief plain in his voice.

Eldain shook his head. ‘No. It doesn’t.’

Caelir let out a nervous laugh and leaned out over the vessel’s side as the Glittering Tower receded into the distance and the wind filled the sails of the ship. The two brothers watched in silence as it vanished over the horizon and Caelir eventually said, ‘I wonder if I will ever see Ulthuan again?’

‘What do you mean?’

Caelir didn’t answer for a moment, as though weighing up whether or not he should speak, but eventually he said, ‘I have been having evil dreams of late, brother.’

‘What kind of dreams?’ asked Eldain.

‘When I wake I do not remember the substance of them, but in each of them I hear the wail of Morai-heg.’

‘The Keeper of Souls,’ said Eldain.

Caelir nodded. ‘I hear her banshees wailing in my dreams and I fear she holds my fate in her withered palm. I am afraid she has decided that it is my time to die.’

‘They are just dreams, Caelir.’

‘Maybe so, Eldain, but I fear them. I fear what they might mean for me in Naggaroth.’

Eldain was about to reply, but Caelir was not yet finished. ‘I want you to promise me something, Eldain.’

‘What would you have me promise?’ he asked.

‘If… if I do not return from Naggaroth, promise me that you will take care of Rhianna.’

‘Rhianna?’ asked Eldain, genuinely surprised.

‘Yes,’ said Caelir. ‘I know she still cares for you, so if I die, promise me you will take care of her.’

Eldain smiled and said, ‘Of course I will, brother. You can count on me.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Graham McNeill has written more than twenty novels for Black Library. His Horus Heresy novel, A Thousand Sons, was a New York Times bestseller and his Time of Legends novel, Empire, won the 2010 David Gemmell Legend Award. Originally hailing from Scotland, Graham now lives and works in Nottingham.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in 'The Cold Hand of Betrayal' copyright © 2006, Games Workshop Ltd..

This edition published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

© Games Workshop Limited 2006, 2013. All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978-1-78251-022-2

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.