Chapter Six

Threats

Pazhek had never put his faith in omens, but as the sun set behind him, bathing the bleached white stone of the mountains in blood, he smiled in anticipation of the kill he was soon to make. Though the sun was now gone, the sky was still too light to move, the hateful brightness of the day preventing him from departing his hiding place below a tumbled rock that formed a natural overhang.

He waited patiently for the light to drain from the great valley, allowing shadows to form and darkness to creep back into the world like a guilty secret. His fuliginous robes merged with the night until only the glint of malice in his eyes was visible.

Satisfied that it was dark enough for his purposes, he slid from his place of concealment. He slithered over the top of the rock on his belly, careful to hug the edge of the valley and keep himself pressed flat. It had been fourteen nights since he had swum ashore from the magically shrouded Raven ship, moving under cover of darkness and never allowing impatience to force his pace.

Such caution was essential; the slightest hint of his presence would spell his doom, for golden winged eagles watched from the skies and shadow-cloaked hunters stalked the mountains. These Shadow Warriors were the descendants of the Nagarythe and scions of the deadly Alith Anar, skilled hunters – the best the enemy had – but they were not the equal of one trained at the Temple of Khaine since birth to master the art of death.

Pazhek moved with all the skill his race possessed, but even the most graceful dancer of Ulthuan had not the poise and liquid grace of the assassin. His black-clad form moved like a shadow, moving from perch to perch as though the mountains themselves reformed themselves to match his movements and hasten him on his way.

A pair of short, stabbing swords were wrapped in cloth across his back and a curved dagger hung at his waist. These were not the assassin’s only weapons, for his entire body was a weapon, fists that could seek out an enemy’s vulnerable regions to incapacitate or kill with a single blow, feet that could shatter bones and an array of deadly poisons concealed within a number of small pouches on his belt.

Pazhek had killed since he had been stolen away from his crib during the insane debaucheries of Death Night, raised by the dark beauties of the temple to learn the secrets of Khaine: the martial arts, the power of poisons, how to move without sound and to slip through the night unseen. The assassins were the agents of the Witch King, heartless killers who owned the darkness and slew his enemies without mercy.

The night closed in around Pazhek and though the land of Ulthuan was alien to him and its air reeked of magic, he slipped effortlessly over the peaks towards his destination. His passage was maddeningly slow, but so skilful was it that even a scout standing within a yard of him would have been hard pressed to discover him.

The night wore on, his shadowy form slipping through the rocks and crags of the mountains, his innate sense of spatial awareness telling him that he was almost where he needed to be. If the maps he had been shown in Naggarond were correct, it would be close to dawn when he reached his target.

For another three hours, Pazhek ghosted through the high peaks of the mountains until he could see a dim glow rising behind the craggy horizon above him. He did not let the excitement of having arrived hurry his movements. Such a moment was when an inexperienced assassin could let the thrill of the moment overwhelm him into making a mistake, but Pazhek was too skilled and detached to allow himself to make such an elementary error.

With as much patience and care as he had employed since his stealthy arrival on Ulthuan, Pazhek warily moved to the edge of the ridge above and found a cleft in the rock to peer through to avoid silhouetting himself against the skyline.

A pale white glow filled a wide valley below him, the soon to rise sun already seeping over the eastern horizon with the first golden hints of its arrival. Stretching from one side of the valley to the other, a high wall of silver-white stone reared up to block the route through the mountains. High elf warriors manned the walls of this great fortress, gathering sunlight winking from hundreds of spear tips, swords and bows and glinting upon mail shirts and plates of ithilmar armour.

But the most prominent feature of this mighty fortress was the jutting head of a great stone eagle that reared from the centre of the ramparts. The arc of its spread wings was cunningly fashioned into the structure of the wall to provide artfully curved bastions and its majesty gave the fortress its name.

The Eagle Gate.

Raised in the time of Caledor, the Eagle Gate was but one of the gateway fortresses built in the Annulii Mountains to defend the passes that led to the Inner Kingdoms. In the thousands of years since, not one of Caledor’s fortresses had fallen and each was garrisoned by some of the finest warriors of Ulthuan. A single gate of azure steel was the only way through the wall, but anything that dared approach this fastness would be pierced by a thousand arrows before they had covered half the distance between the turn in the road and the gate.

Sculpted towers reared from the great wall, streaming blue pennants snapping from their finials and ringed with graceful parapets upon which sat fearsome war-machines. Pazhek knew only too well the carnage these machines could wreak, having seen such weapons hurling silver bolts the length of a lance that could punch through the heart of a dragon or sending withering hails of lighter, but no less deadly darts with terrifying rapidity.

But a fortress was more than simply weapons and warriors; it had a living, beating heart that sustained it as surely as the strength of its garrison. Tear out that heart and the fortress would die.

In the case of this fortress, Pazhek knew that the heart of the Eagle Gate was its commander, Cerion Goldwing.

Using the long shadows of the imminent dawn, Pazhek made his final approach to the fortress with murder in his heart.

The land of Yvresse was harsh and unforgiving, very different from the balmy, eternal summers of Ellyrion, though Caelir was forced to admit that the land had a rugged splendour that spoke to his adventurous soul of living in the wild and facing things head on. The folk of Yvresse were known as quiet, dignified souls touched with sadness, for their land had been ravaged by the coming of the Goblin King less than a century before.

Though the land had suffered terribly at the hands of the goblins, it was a hardy realm and its rivers now flowed clear again and new forests hugged the soaring mountain peaks once more. Only the previous day they had crossed an icy river of crystal water across a shallow ford and Kyrielle had told him that this was the Peledor Ford where elven scouts had first engaged the Goblin King’s army.

The river had been choked with goblin dead, and the water polluted for years to come with their foul blood. But the land of Ulthuan was strong and sustained by powerful, cleansing magic. What had once been a tainted, evil river now flowed strong and clear to the sea, the regenerative powers of the land having washed itself free of the invaders’ taint.

Here and there, they passed isolated watchtowers, but they encountered no other travellers, for Yvresse was a land of jagged rock and sheer cliffs and mist. Few dwelled here and though Kyrielle had told him that the scouts of Tor Yvresse would be abroad, he saw no sign of them.

He and Kyrielle rode on the backs of fine steeds provided from the stables of Anurion’s villa, while Anurion himself rode a winged pegasus, the magnificent beast circling above them even now as it stretched its wings and Anurion surveyed the landscape ahead of them. Caelir had never seen such a magical creature, its grace, intelligence and beauty unlike anything he could have imagined. Even the famed steeds of his homeland could not compare to this exquisite mount.

In addition to Kyrielle and Anurion, a dozen hand-picked guards rode with them, their armour bright and their long lances glittering in the sun.

Kyrielle wore a long gown of pastel green, her auburn tresses unbound and falling to her waist. Caelir smiled at her and she returned the smile. He felt better than he had in days, the muscles of his limbs feeling powerful and young; the oppressive fog clouding his mind lessened now that he knew his name.

Anurion had dressed for travel, with his billowing robes substituted for a practical tunic of pale green and a long cloak that appeared to be woven of autumnal leaves. He carried a staff of slender wood, its tip crowned by intertwined thornvines.

In the time since Anurion had attempted to undo the magic that imprisoned his memory, Caelir’s vigour and energy were restored and though he could remember no more than his name and homeland, he felt that it was simply a matter of time until he was restored.

They had set off later that day, making their way southwards towards the city of Tor Yvresse and the route across the mountains.

Caelir soaked up the dramatic scenery of Yvresse, basking in its wild majesty and periodically galloping off whenever they encountered a stretch of flat ground simply for the thrill of riding hard through an unknown land. The wind in his hair, the beat of hooves on the grass and the freedom that came of being at one with a steed was as close to a homecoming as he could have wished for.

The horse he rode was a fine, snow-white beast of Saphery, its coat a shimmering dust of white and though no doubt a prince amongst steeds in its stable, it was nothing compared to the regal power, strength and agility of an Ellyrion mount.

Kyrielle and the warriors would attempt to match his incredible feats of horsemanship, but none of them had been raised in a land where the young were taught to ride as soon as they could sit in the saddle.

Whatever else he had forgotten, he had not lost his skill as a rider.

Just being on a horse again lightened Caelir’s mood and he laughed as he urged his steed on to greater displays of skill.

The shadows lengthened and a sombre mood came upon the company as they drew near the ruins of an ancient citadel built into the side of the mountains. Its once slender towers were now fallen to ruin, the great mansion at its centre gutted by fire. Once impregnable walls were shattered, its stones cast down and the great basalt causeway that led to its vine-choked gateway littered with fallen rubble.

Fallen guardian statues lay toppled in the dry moat, their sightless eyes staring with forlorn anguish at what had become of their former home. Caelir thought the scene unbearably sad and felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.

He turned to Kyrielle and said, ‘What is this place? Why has it been left in such ruin?’

It was Anurion who answered him, his voice heavy with emotion. ‘This is Athel Tamarha, once the keep of Lord Moranion and outpost of Tor Yvresse.’

‘What happened here? Was it the Goblin King?’

Anurion nodded. ‘Yes. The goblins came ashore further north, at a place called Cairn Lotherl, but it did not take them long to find a target for their wrath. No one knows how the Goblin King heard of Tor Yvresse, but hear of it he did, and his army burned and destroyed all in its path as they sought to find it. Fields of magical crops unique to Yvresse were trampled beneath iron-shod feet, never to be seen again, and any settlements in the goblins’ path were razed to the ground. On their way south they found Athel Tamarha and, thinking it Tor Yvresse, they attacked.’

Caelir urged his mount from the route they had been following and rode towards the cracked remains of the causeway. Understanding a measure of his sorrow, both Anurion and Kyrielle followed him, carefully directing the hooves of their steeds through the rubble.

Caelir passed beneath the broken arch of the gateway, riding into the fire-blackened courtyard where the ghosts of the Goblin King’s invasion lingered. Splintered gates and doors hung on sagging hinges and everywhere he looked, Caelir could see the devastating fury of the goblin attack. Broken sword blades, snapped shafts of arrows and shattered shields lay strewn about, the detritus of war forgotten and abandoned.

‘They knew not what they did,’ said Anurion, surveying the wreckage from the back of his pegasus. ‘When the goblins came, only boys and old men defended the walls of Athel Tamarha and they say that when Moranion saw the green horde from his tower he knew that his home was lost.’

‘Where was his army?’ said Caelir tearfully. ‘Had he no sons to fight for him?’

‘His eldest son, Eltharion, led most of his army in the north against the druchii, while his youngest studied in Tor Yvresse,’ said Anurion. ‘By evil fate, the goblins had attacked at the worst possible time for Athel Tamarha and its doom was sealed.’

‘Eltharion the Grim…’

‘The very same,’ said Anurion. ‘Though he was yet to earn such a sad name.’

Caelir dismounted and picked his way across the courtyard of the keep to stand within the fallen ruins of the central mansion. The ceiling had long since collapsed and piles of broken timber and fallen stone choked the once grand halls and elegant chambers.

Kyrielle followed him inside and took his hand as he wept in the lost keep of Athel Tamarha, overcome with sorrow at seeing such a magical place destroyed. Though he had never heard of Athel Tamarha before now, he could see the savage goblins running rampant through its gilded halls, tearing priceless tapestries from the walls to use as bedding, burning irreplaceable tomes of knowledge for warmth, destroying ancient works of art for their primitive amusement and swilling wines older than many human kingdoms like water.

‘A palace that had endured for two millennia was levelled in a single day by a tribe of mindless barbarians who knew not what it was they destroyed,’ said Anurion, his voice little more than a whisper and redolent with the knowledge of times past.

Such barbarism was beyond Caelir’s understanding and his anger towards the invaders surged hot and urgent through his veins. The battle fought here was long over, yet Caelir felt the pain of loss as surely as though he had stood upon its fallen battlements and witnessed its bloody ending. The tumbled ruins spoke to him on a level he had never before experienced, as though the memory of the violence done to it was imprinted on its very walls, the horror of its destruction passing to him and ensuring that its loss would never be forgotten.

‘We should go now,’ said Kyrielle, taking him gently by the arm and leading him back to his horse.

‘How could anyone destroy something of such beauty?’ said Caelir.

‘I have no answer to give you, Caelir,’ said Kyrielle, her normal sprightly vigour absent from her voice. ‘The goblins are elemental creatures and live only for their own gratification.’

‘I cannot understand it,’ he said. ‘It is just… wrong.’

‘I know, but Moranion was avenged,’ said Kyrielle. ‘Eltharion’s army returned from the north and led the warriors of Tor Yvresse in a great battle. You must have heard the ending of the tale?’

‘I have,’ said Caelir. ‘Eltharion sailed his fleet into the bay and his warriors fell upon the goblins from behind. It was a slaughter.’

‘Indeed it was,’ said Anurion. ‘But many elves fell that day and the city of Tor Yvresse was almost destroyed. The goblin shaman almost undid the magic at the heart of the Warden’s tower, magic that could have destroyed our beloved land. Though Eltharion stopped him, it was only at terrible cost.’

‘What cost?’ said Caelir, mounting his horse once more.

Anurion said, ‘No one knows, for Eltharion will not speak of it, but it has blighted his life ever since. Together with the bravest warriors of his army, he entered the Tower of the Warden and undid the fearful damage done by the Goblin King’s shaman, stabilising the vortex created by the mages of Caledor. He was hailed as a hero and became the Warden of Tor Yvresse, but the cheers of the crowd moved him not. In all the days since, it is said that no beauty touches him, no tale of heroism moves him and no light dares enter his soul. From that day forth he became known as Eltharion the Grim.’

Caelir took a last look around the achingly sad ruins of Athel Tamarha and said, ‘I will remember this place.’

‘Good,’ said Anurion. ‘It is right that we remember the past, for we shall surely rue the day we forget those who came before us. Whether for good or ill, it is they who shape us, form our thoughts and send us into the future with their memories.’

Caelir nodded and said, ‘And what will I leave for those who come after me? I have no memories. What will be my legacy?’

‘Your legacy is what you do from here onwards,’ said Anurion. ‘You are on a path, Caelir, and where it leads I do not know. You are young and the impetuous fire of youth burns in your heart, but I do not believe there is evil in you. Even if Teclis is unable to restore your memory, you have the chance to make new memories. Since your rebirth in the ocean, you have been creating new memories and that is the legacy you will carry with you. That and the lives you touch along the way, for we are all the sum of those whose influence touches our hearts.’

Caelir smiled in thanks to the archmage of Saphery, feeling his spirits rise at his words.

They rode out through the gates of Athel Tamarha and even though the sadness of the ancient palace’s destruction was still lodged in his heart like a shard, he felt better for having seen it, as though the grief was like a cooling balance to the heat of his anger.

Once again, the company set off towards the south and Tor Yvresse.

Home of Eltharion the Grim.

A bitter wind was blowing from the west and Cerion Goldwing was feeling the weight of his years as he walked the length of the Eagle Gate this cold and gloomy morning. The scent of the sea air was carried on the wind, a dark, musky aroma that sent a chill down his spine as he thought of the cold, evil land that lay beyond it.

As though to dispel such morbid thoughts, he turned and cast his gaze eastwards to the land of Ellyrion. This high in the mountains, the rolling steppe of Ellyrion was a faint golden brown haze and it warmed his heart to see such a bounteous land and know that it was kept safe by the courage and heart of his warriors.

Passing the Eagle Tower, he surveyed the mountains that towered above his command, the silver peaks of the Annulii glittering with magic like a frosting of ithilmar. The magic here was so strong that even a simple warrior like him could see it and the haze of whispering energy that hung over the mountains promised more activity for his soldiers.

‘Strong today,’ he said to himself, feeling the magic pulse in his veins.

When the magic blew strongly, the creatures of the mountains were drawn to the rush of powerful energy that swirled around the island of Ulthuan. Such raw magic was capable of almost anything and many of the creatures drawn to such magic were unnatural monsters of Chaos.

Tall and clad in a simple tunic the colour of an autumn meadow over a thin, yet incredibly strong coat of ithilmar mail, Cerion was a stately figure of an elf. His silver helmet was tucked into the crook of his arm and he kept another hand on the hilt of his sword, a blade hammered out on the anvil by his grand sire.

His features were drawn and had once been handsome, though the passage of years had not left him unmarked. A druchii blade had taken his left eye nearly a century ago and when the blade of another had snapped, the spinning shards had left a scar that ran across his temple and over the bridge of his nose.

As he continued his morning tour of the walls, the soldiers of the Eagle Gate smiled warmly at him, though he had made no special effort to be liked in his three decades of command. The respect his warriors showed him had been earned. He was a warrior of proven courage and strategic skill, and it had been a willingness to share in the hardships endured by those who served under him that had won their respect.

He stopped beside a warrior with jet-black hair who sat cross-legged on the battlement with an unstringed bow propped beside him on the parapet. A quiver of arrows sat next to him and he worked industriously on weaving a string for his bow.

‘Good morning, Alathenar,’ said Cerion. ‘Something wrong with your bow?’

The warrior looked up with a smile and said, ‘No, my lord, nothing wrong with it.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘Just trying something out,’ said Alathenar. ‘My Arenia has been growing her hair for the last few years to weave into my bowstring and now it’s finally long enough. I think it might help me get an extra ten or twenty yards of range.’

Cerion knelt by the archer and watched him at work, his fingers deftly working the thin strands of hair into the length of his bowstring.

‘An extra twenty yards?’ he said. ‘You’re already able to put an arrow through a druchii’s eye at three hundred yards. You really think you’ll be able to coax more out of that weapon?’

Alathenar nodded and said, ‘She travelled to Avelorn and had the strands blessed by one of the handmaids of the Everqueen, so I’m hoping some of their skill and magic will have passed into it.’

Cerion smiled, remembering a misspent youth in the forests of Avelorn when he had joined the wild carousing of the Everqueen Alarielle’s court and partaken in the indulgent lifestyle practised beneath the magical boughs of her forest realm.

Consort of the Phoenix King, the Everqueen was one of the twin rulers of Ulthuan and her court roamed like a great carnival through the forest of Avelorn, its silken pavilions ringing with music, poetry and laughter. He well remembered the Everqueen’s handmaids, elf maids as skilled with spear and bow as they were fair of face and lithe of body…

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If any warrior’s blessing can pass into a weapon it would be theirs. Be sure to let me know when you have put your bow together and we’ll see how the magic of the handmaids holds up.’

‘Of course, my lord. We’ll have an archery contest when I’m off duty. Maybe wager a few coins upon the outcome…’

Cerion tapped his ruined eye and said, ‘I do not think you need a blessed bow to outshoot me in an archery contest.’

‘I know,’ said Alathenar, ‘That’s why I was going to let you wager on me.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Cerion, pushing himself to his feet. Alathenar was already the best shot with a bow in the Eagle Gate’s garrison and though Cerion doubted the addition of a maiden’s hair to the bowstring would make any tangible difference, he knew well enough that the superstitions of soldiers were a law unto themselves.

Technically, Alathenar was on duty at the moment and, in disassembling his bow, was in dereliction of that duty by not having his bow at the ready, but Cerion was wise enough to know when to apply military law with an iron hand and when to let it bend like a reed in the wind. Besides, such a competition would help the morale of the garrison and strengthen the bonds between his warriors.

If only others could appreciate such things, he thought sourly as he saw his second in command, Glorien Truecrown, marching towards him from the Eagle Tower. Alathenar caught his expression and looked over to see Glorien strutting towards them.

The younger officer wore an elaborate ithiltaen, the tall, conical helmet of the Silver Helms and a magnificent suit of ithilmar plate, the armour gleaming and polished. Glorien’s noble status entitled him to wear the ithiltaen, though most nobles considered it unseemly to wear such a helmet without first having earned it by serving in a band of Silver Helm knights.

Cerion nodded briefly to Alathenar and went to meet Glorien, hoping to head him off before he reached the archer and decided to discipline him.

‘Glorien,’ said Cerion. ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning, my lord,’ said Glorien, his tones clipped and formal. ‘I have transcribed the latest reports from our scouts.’

He held out a leather scroll case and Cerion took it reluctantly, already aware of what it contained, having spoken with the scouts when they had returned the previous evening.

‘You know you don’t have to do this, Glorien,’ he said.

‘But I do,’ said Glorien. ‘It is expected.’

Cerion sighed. ‘Very well. I shall read them later this morning.’

He saw Glorien looking over his shoulder and knew exactly what he saw. As Glorien was about to speak, Cerion reached up to turn him around and march along the length of the wall with him.

‘Was that Alathenar the Archer without a string to his bow?’ said Glorien.

‘Never mind that, Glorien,’ said Cerion, leading him towards the stairs cut in the face of the mountainside that led to the Aquila Spire, a narrow projecting tower built into the southern cliff face that served as his personal sanctuary and study.

‘But he is without a weapon! He has to be disciplined.’

As loyal as Cerion was to his race, he now cursed its love of intrigue and petty politicking.

Cerion knew that Glorien Truecrown had only secured his appointment to the Eagle Gate through his family connections rather than any ability as a warrior, for the Truecrown family could trace its roots to those linked with the Phoenix Kings of old. Their factional power in the court of Lothern was in the ascendant, enabling them to secure prestigious positions of authority for scions of their family members.

Glorien was simply biding his time until Cerion decided to retire and thus secure the position of Castellan of the Eagle Gate, but he knew in his heart that Glorien was simply not ready for such an important position.

‘You would discipline the best archer in this fortress?’

‘Of course,’ said Glorien. ‘No one is above the rules. Just because Alathenar can loose an arrow with some skill is no reason for him to believe he is exempt from following the rules.’

‘Alathenar is more than just a skilled archer,’ said Cerion. ‘The warriors of this fortress respect and love him. His successes are their successes and when his name is spoken of in the barrack halls of other Guardian Gates, it reflects on them too. They look up to him, for he is a natural leader.’

‘And?’

Cerion sighed. ‘Discipline Alathenar and you will alienate all the warriors in this fortress. If you are one day to command the Eagle Gate, then you must learn to understand the character of those you lead in battle.’

‘Command this fortress? The Eagle Gate is yours,’ said Glorien, and Cerion almost laughed at his clumsy attempt at denial.

‘Spare me the massage of my ego, Glorien,’ said Cerion. ‘I know your family tried to have me replaced in order for you to take command here. Thankfully, saner heads prevailed.’

At least Glorien had the decency to look embarrassed and Cerion felt some of his anger fade. Perhaps Glorien could yet learn how to be a soldier and a leader, though he suspected the odds were against it.

‘There is more to command than simply getting warriors to follow rules and regulations,’ said Cerion. ‘You cannot simply apply your rules and mathematical formula to the defence of a fortress. It is in the minds of your warriors that a battle will be won or lost. Warriors will fight and die for a leader they believe in, but not for one they do not trust.’

‘But discipline must be enforced.’

‘Yes it must,’ said Cerion. ‘But not when its application would do more harm than good. Discipline Alathenar now and you risk losing the hearts of your soldiers.’

‘I do not care to win the affections of the soldiery,’ said Glorien.

‘Nor do you need it. But without their respect, you are lost.’

Cerion glanced over his shoulder, knowing that the warriors of the Eagle Gate did not need to hear their superior officers arguing. Thankfully, the elven warriors in the courtyard were sparring with swords or practising formation spear discipline and were too intent on their labours to notice the discussion.

‘I will think on what you have said,’ said Glorien, but Cerion already knew that the younger elf had dismissed his words as the ramblings of an aged warrior long past his prime.

‘Be sure that you do,’ said Cerion, ‘for if this fortress does become yours to command, you will be entrusted with the fate of Ulthuan. If an enemy army were to breach the walls, Ellyrion would suffer terribly before the armies of the Phoenix King could muster to fight it. Think on that before you decide to weaken the defence of this garrison by disciplining its best archer.’

Cerion brandished the scroll case Glorien had given him and said, ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I think I shall retire to my chambers to read these reports.’

He had no wish to read Glorien’s pedantry, but it gave him an excuse to be away from his subordinate.

‘Of course, my lord,’ said Glorien before saluting and turning on his heel.

Cerion watched him go and his heart sank as he pictured the Eagle Gate under his command.

In its prime, Tor Yvresse had been considered the jewel of Ulthuan, but time and invasion had taken its toll on the once great city. Built atop nine hills, the great, spired city dominated the landscape, its mighty walls high and white and carved with protective runes. Glittering gold and bright silver shone in the afternoon sun and the titanic towers of its palaces soared above the walls, linked to one another by great bridges hundreds of feet above the ground.

Since the city had come into view, Caelir had stared, open-mouthed, at the magnificent spectacle. He had vague, disconnected memories of Tor Elyr, but nothing that could compare to the sheer magnificence of Eltharion’s city.

Tor Yvresse shone like a beacon against the dark rock of the landscape and the green shawl of forests draped over the mountains behind it.

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Caelir once again and Kyrielle smiled at his awe.

‘You should have seen it a century ago,’ she said. ‘Its amphitheatres were the envy of the world. Even the Masques of Lothern would come to play in Tor Yvresse and you know how particular they are.’

Caelir didn’t, but already felt he was sounding like an uncultured fool and simply nodded in reply.

Anurion flew above them on his pegasus and only Kyrielle rode alongside him, the guards keeping a respectful distance from the two of them. He could barely contain his excitement at seeing one of the great cities of Ulthuan, though he could still feel the ache in his heart from the ruins of Athel Tamarha. Tor Yvresse had suffered terribly at the hands of the Goblin King and though it had survived thanks to the heroism and sacrifice of Eltharion, he knew it had not escaped unscathed.

‘Will we get to see much of Tor Yvresse, do you think?’ he said.

‘That depends on father, I suppose,’ said Kyrielle. ‘I know he is keen to get you to the White Tower and Teclis.’

‘I know, but surely we can take a day to explore?’

‘I do hope so. There are many things I would like to show you. The Fountain of Mist, Dethelion’s Theatre, the River of Stars…’

‘Perhaps we can come back after the White Tower.’

‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

Caelir smiled to himself and returned his attention to the city ahead, its magnificent walls looming above them as they followed the road that led to its tall gate of shimmering gold. Black banners fluttered from its towers and the spears of the warriors on its walls glittered like a thousand stars.

He looked up as he heard a beat of powerful wings and Anurion’s pegasus gracefully landed behind them, its wings spread wide as it came to earth once more. The magical beast’s wings folded neatly along its flanks and the archmage rode up to them without pause.

Caelir could see from his face that he bore ill-tidings and grimly awaited his pronouncement.

‘Father?’ said Kyrielle, also recognising the import of her father’s expression.

‘The currents of magic are alive with tidings and portents from all across Ulthuan,’ said Anurion. ‘The druchii have attacked the fleet of Lord Aislin off the coast of Tiranoc. It is said that a Black Ark sank two ships, though a third was able to escape.’

‘The druchii…’ said Caelir.

‘We must make all haste in getting you to Teclis, boy,’ said Anurion. ‘If this is connected to the vision you saw of the darkness engulfing Ellyrion, then the attack of the dark elves may well be the opening moves in an invasion.’

Caelir nodded in agreement, all thoughts of exploring the city of Tor Yvresse with Kyrielle vanishing from his mind at Anurion’s mention of Teclis. ‘I think you are right.’

He kicked his heels into the flank of his steed.

‘Let us hasten to Tor Yvresse.’