Chapter Thirteen

Armies

No sunlight warmed the Finuval Plain, though it lay within the Inner Kingdoms and would normally be spared harsh winters and perpetually bathed in balmy summers. A shadow passed over Caelir’s soul as he rode from the entangling forests and beheld the plain where Prince Tyrion had led the desperate armies of the Asur to victory against the host of the Witch King.

Outwardly, the plain resembled the flatlands of Ellyrion or the rest of Saphery, but there was a distinct chill in the air, the memory of lives lost reaching from the past and touching the present.

Though he could have been little more than a babe in arms, Caelir still remembered the tales of this place, though, frustratingly, not the teller…

Two hundred years ago, the Witch King had led an invasion that cut a bloody swathe through Avelorn and threatened to completely overrun Ulthuan. The Everqueen had been thought lost, though Prince Tyrion had rescued her from the clutches of assassins and kept her safe while the armies of the Phoenix King fought for the survival of the Asur.

This had been the darkest hour of Ulthuan since the days of Aenarion, but Tyrion had returned with the Everqueen to fight the final battle against the druchii and their infernal allies on the Finuval Plain.

The slaughter of that day still resonated across the bleak moor of Finuval, nature and history combining to create a melancholy mood that drove most right thinking people to seek other places to dwell. Civilisation had chosen not to take root here, save for wisps of smoke from the occasional remote village huddled in the twisting trails of sharply rising hills or upon the high cliffs of the coastline.

The path he followed curled around rounded hills smoothed by eons of wind and water, while clouds raced across the barren hillsides, their shadows swathing vast areas of the plain in darkness before swiftly moving on. Caelir’s route narrowed as the ground dropped into the Finuval Plain, becoming a long, tight valley flanked by massive crags that loomed overhead like grim sentinels.

He rode down through three squat peaks separated by rocky ravines. He splashed through water dancing over stones as it sought to find the quickest way down the mountains in impromptu waterfalls. A few hardy trees clung to the streambeds, under the cliffs or any other place even vaguely protected from the biting wind that blew off the plain.

His mood soured in sympathy with the broken terrain and the long dead spirits of the battle fought here many years ago. He shivered in the darkness of the ravine, the long shadows draining his body and spirit of any warmth.

At last the rocky shingle of the ravine gave way to earth beneath his horse’s hooves and the ground began to level out as he left the crags leading down to the plain behind.

Before him, the Finuval Plain stretched out in an endless vista of broken moorland and withered heath. There would be no hiding in this place and all he could do would be to cross the ancient battlefield as quickly as he was able and hope any pursuers would be similarly discomfited by the melancholy that seeped from every square yard of this place.

He rode onwards, the black steed making good time though he had not stopped to feed or water it for some time. The horse had welcomed him as a rider, as though they shared some kinship he was not aware of, and he was grateful for such a blessing.

Though apparently deserted, it was soon clear to Caelir that others still travelled the Finuval Plain. He saw recent hoofprints and the long trails of what looked to be the wheel ruts of a caravan or wagon, though he had no idea as to who might choose to travel this way.

The morning receded into the afternoon and as the day wore on, Caelir saw more and more relics of the great battle fought here. Broken speartips and snapped sword blades jutted from the ground, and here and there he caught sight of a splintered shield. He saw no bones, for those of his people would have been gathered up and those of the druchii would have been burned.

He kept his thoughts focused on the journey ahead, letting his horse find its own path across the windswept plain, the ghosts and echoes of the battle leeching any thoughts of his own from his mind as surely as though he were drunk on dreamwine. He tried to remember the warrior he believed was his brother, but found himself becoming inexplicably angry every time he summoned his face.

Each thought of anger was dispelled as soon as he thought of the golden haired elf maid who had accompanied him. He wished he could remember her, for she was a balm on his soul and he would often catch himself indulging in daydreams where they rode the mountains, her atop a steed with glittering silver flanks and he upon a grey mare…

He shook off such dreams, knowing they could never come to pass, miserable and angry in equal measure.

As night fell and a hunter’s moon rose above the mountains, he drew near a bare, rounded hillock in the midst of the battlefield. A collection of barrow mounds had been raised around the circumference of its base and each was topped by a tapering menhir carved with spiralling, runic patterns.

Elven hands had clearly fashioned these mausoleums in ages past, for there was a grace and symmetry to each that was beyond the skill of the lesser races. Darkness framed by marble pilasters and lintels led inside, but Caelir felt no compulsion to venture within, for the echoes of the dead were strong here and they jealously guarded their final resting places.

A low mist hugged the ground and Caelir wrapped his cloak tighter about himself as he contemplated riding through the night. Though his horse had valiantly borne him from the White Tower without complaint, he knew that it would need rest soon or else he risked riding it into the ground.

He looked for somewhere to rest, but could see nowhere that would offer more shelter from the wind than the spaces between the barrows at the base of the hillock. As much as he did not relish the prospect of spending the night in such close proximity to these monuments of battle, he felt no threat from the dead gathered here, for they were defenders of Ulthuan and they watched over this land.

Caelir made a quick circuit of the round hillock before dismounting and hobbling his horse next to a mausoleum with a graceful arched entrance. A cold wind gusted from within like a sigh and he bowed respectfully before finding a patch of dry, flat earth upon which to lay his saddle blanket.

He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and settled down to sleep.

When he awoke, he saw stars above him, but not the stars beneath which he had fallen asleep. The mist that had been gathering when he had stopped for the night was thicker than before, but only now did he see that it was no ordinary mist.

Elves moved within it, ghostly warriors in armour of times past limned in silver light who marched around the hillock in grim procession. He rose to his feet, amazed at how refreshed he felt and turned to look up at the hillock.

And gasped in horror as he saw his still sleeping form curled on the ground.

Caelir lifted his hands to his face as he saw the same spectral light that outlined the ghosts emanating from his own flesh. In panic he reached down to his body, but his fingertips simply vanished within as though he were no more than an apparition.

‘Am I dead?’ he asked himself, but as he saw the rhythmic rise and fall of his sleeping form, he slowly came to the realisation that he was still alive.

Caelir watched the marching warriors for a time, their ranks swelling as an endless tide of sentinels emerged from the arched entrances to the barrows. He wondered what purpose this moonlit vigil served and glanced up at the top of the hillock, where he saw a shadow where no shadow ought to be, a sliver of darkness against the moon.

A figure stood there, etched against the night as though an evil memory had been caught in time and now raged at its captivity at the hands of these ghostly warriors.

Though no more solid than smoke and memory, the shape wore the suggestion of armour, as though this were a revenant of the battle fought here long ago. It raged biliously, and Caelir took a step towards the shape, something in its armoured darkness familiar and repulsive.

It towered above the battlefield, green orbs of malice staring out from behind the cruel curves of its mighty, horned helmet and Caelir felt his legs go weak as he realised that he looked upon the black imprint on time left by the Witch King of Naggaroth.

His pulse quickened, though how such a thing could be possible in ghost form he didn’t know. This figure of evil had lurked in the darkest nightmares of the Asur for thousands of years, yet few had laid eyes upon him and lived to tell of it.

With sudden, awful certainty, Caelir knew that he could count himself amongst their number. Though he had no memory of the event, he knew he had stared into those eyes and had felt his soul shrivel beneath their awful gaze.

‘What did you do to me?’ he shouted, dropping to his knees. ‘Tell me!’

The shadow at the top of the hillock did not answer him or even acknowledge his presence, for it was merely an echo, a phantom of that bloody day when the fate of Ulthuan had been decided in blood and magic upon the Finuval Plain.

Caelir lay down on the glittering grass of the hillock and wept silver tears.

And the spectral guardians continued to circle.

The Aquila Spire was now clean and pristine, the very model of a noble commander’s quarters, though Glorien had taken the sensible precaution of having the Eagle Gate’s mages cast a warding spell upon the open window. A precaution the late Cerion Goldwing would have been well advised to implement, he thought wryly.

The blood of his former commander had been washed away and Cerion’s personal keepsakes sent back to his family in Eataine, together with a detailed letter in which Glorien had outlined the unfortunate events that had led to his death, together with several suggestions he had made previously on how such a tragedy could have been prevented.

That he had made no such suggestions was immaterial, but they would enhance his reputation as a warrior of vision and sense; and if his time at the court of Lothern had taught Glorien Truecrown anything, it was that reputation and perception was everything.

The Eagle Gate was his now and with the elderly Cerion out of the way, albeit in a bloodier way than he would have preferred, he was free to run this fortress the way it ought to be run. A neat row of bookshelves now occupied the far wall, stacked high with treatises on the art of war by great heroes of Ulthuan. Mentheus of Caledor’s great texts, Heart of Khaine and Honour and Duty, sat next to In Service of the Phoenix and The Way of Kurnous by Caradryel of Yvresse. Other, lesser works, gathered over his years of advancement, had been read and devoured, each with its own specific instructions on how the military might of the Asur must be properly commanded.

Heart of Khaine sat open before him and the words of General Mentheus filled him with the glories of ancient times in the long wars against the druchii. Now that this fortress was his, he would organise and run things the way the books told him they should be done, not in the slapdash, ad hoc way that Cerion had advocated with his talk of hearts and minds.

No, a garrison of high elf warriors respected discipline and he would ensure they received it in abundance. Glorien snapped shut the book and returned it to the bookshelf before turning to the armour rack beside him.

He already wore his mail shirt beneath his tunic; the assassin’s attack had made him cautious if nothing else, and lifted his gleaming silver helmet. The glorious, conical helm was a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship and cost more than the combined pay of every soldier stationed at the Eagle Gate. Its ithilmar surface was decorated in embossed filigree and the edges lined with fluted gold piping. Nothing so crude as a visor would obscure his features, for how would those around him see his face?

A carved golden flame rose above the forehead of the helmet, and Glorien longed to add wings to its side, white feathered wings that would proclaim his courage to all who looked upon him. Only the High Helm of a troop of Silver Helms was permitted to adorn his helmet with such things – a petty regulation that only served those who chose a more prosaic, obvious route to glory by riding a horse straight at the enemy.

He slipped the helm over his head and checked his appearance in the full-length mirror that sat opposite his desk.

The warrior reflected in the silvered glass was every inch the perfect commander, the very image of Aenarion himself. Long hair spilled from beneath his helmet and his patrician features were exquisitely framed by the curve of his helmet’s cheek plates. An elegantly cut tunic, fashioned by the most sought after tailors of Lothern perfectly fit his slender frame and he wore wyvern skin boots, crafted from the hide of a beast slain by his father’s hunters.

Satisfied with his appearance, he turned as a knock came at the door to the chamber.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Lord Truecrown,’ said the voice of Menethis, his adjutant. ‘It is time for your dawn inspection.’

‘Of course it is,’ he said, straightening his tunic and opening the door.

Menethis stood to one side as Glorien emerged from the Aquila Spire to take a deep breath of crisp mountain air and survey his command.

Dawn’s first light was easing over the eastern horizon and the stark whiteness of the Eagle Gate glittered with armoured warriors holding spears and bows at precisely the right angle. Bolt throwers on the parapets of the high towers were manned by crews standing to attention and blue banners fluttered in a bitingly cold wind from the west.

As much as Glorien knew this assignment to the Eagle Gate would advance his career, he looked forward to his next posting when the garrison was rotated to another command and where he would not have to suffer the chill blowing in from the ocean.

‘A fine sight, eh, Menethis?’ said Glorien, setting off down the steps and pulling a pair of kidskin gloves from his belt.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Menethis, quickly catching up to him. ‘Though if I might make an observation regarding your inspection?’

Glorien scowled and paused in his descent. As much as it chafed him to listen to the prattling of his underlings, the writings of Caradryel spoke of how a good leader should take counsel from those around him.

‘Go ahead.’

‘I wonder if it might improve the morale of the warriors to conduct such formal inspections with less regularity? Perhaps a weekly inspection would better serve our needs?’

‘Weekly? And have the discipline of the garrison slide in between? Out of the question. Why would you even suggest such a thing?’

Menethis averted his eyes as he spoke, saying, ‘It is tiring on the warriors, my lord.’

‘Tiring?’ snapped Glorien. ‘Soldiering is supposed to be tiring. It’s not meant to be an easy life.’

‘Yes, but we have only so many warriors, and to defend the wall as fully as you deem necessary allows no rest time in between the guard rotas. Each warrior has barely enough time to sleep, let alone maintain his weapons and armour to the high standards you demand.’

‘You think my standards too high, Menethis?’

‘No, my lord, but perhaps some leeway–’

‘Leeway? Like Cerion Goldwing permitted?’ demanded Glorien. ‘I think not. Look where that got him, an assassin’s blade between his ribs. No, it is thanks to such lax enforcement of discipline that soldiers like Alathenar think they can get away with leaving their bows unstringed while on duty. I was lenient in simply confining him to barracks. He deserved to be sent home in disgrace.’

‘Alathenar did wound the assassin who murdered Lord Goldwing,’ pointed out Menethis. ‘No one else managed that.’

‘Yes, the archer may have a decent eye, but that does not give him the right to flaunt regulations. And anyway, it was that eagle that caught the assassin,’ said Cerion waving a dismissive hand as he remembered the gruesome sight of the druchii’s corpse.

A magnificent white-headed eagle had flown back to the fortress and deposited the bloody remains of Cerion Goldwing’s assassin upon the battlements, though quite what it had expected them to do with them, it had not said.

Before Glorien could speak to the creature, it had spread its wings and flown northwards, leaving them to deal with its kill.

Glorien understood that war was a bloody business from his books, but to see such a gory mess had been highly unsettling to an elf of his refined sensibilities.

He shook his head and set off once again. ‘No, Menethis, we will continue with dawn inspections and daily drilling. I will tolerate no laxness among my command and, tired or not, I demand the highest standards of readiness and competence from every warrior. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Menethis.

Glorien nodded, satisfied his orders were clear, and made his way along the length of the wall. His warriors stood to attention, each one a tall, proud and noble specimen of elven soldiery. He reached the Eagle Tower at the centre of the wall and climbed the curving steps cut into the back of the carven head.

He emerged onto a recessed battlement in the neck of the great carving where sat a trio of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers. These mighty weapons were the elite of his command, powerful weapons resembling a huge bow laid upon its side and mounted upon an elegantly crafted tripod carriage. As with so many martial creations of the Asur, the bolt throwers merged art and warfare, such that each weapon resembled a majestic eagle in flight, with the apex of the bow worked in gold to resemble the noble head of the birds of prey.

Each weapon could fire a single bolt capable of bringing down the most terrifying monsters or a hail of smaller shafts that would scythe through enemy warriors at a far greater speed than any group of archers could manage.

Individually, these weapons were fearsome, but grouped together they were utterly deadly. Nine more such machines were spread along the length of the wall, and Glorien nodded to himself as he saw that each weapon gleamed with fresh oil and that the golden windlass mechanisms were spotless.

The crews appeared tired but proud, and he rewarded them with a smile of appreciation. Their armour gleamed and their white tunics were crisp and pristine. Each carried a long spear, a weapon Glorien had decided was more in keeping with his idea of how such warriors should be armed.

He turned to make his way back down to the wall when one of the crewman next to him shouted in alarm, ‘Target sighted!’

All three crews leapt into action, discarding their spears and seizing wooden ‘combs’ that contained enough bolts for several volleys. One crewman slotted the comb onto the groove rail on top of the weapon, while the other sighted it.

Glorien stood back and watched, pleased at the alacrity of the crews, but irritated that they had simply dropped their spears to the ground.

Within moments, all three weapons were ready to fire and Glorien awaited the distinctive, rippling crack-twang of bolts being loosed.

‘Why aren’t they unleashing?’ he asked when the weapons didn’t open up.

‘There is no need,’ said Menethis, pointing to the western horizon. ‘Look!’

Glorien squinted into the dim light of morning and saw three shapes flying towards the Eagle Gate. At first he didn’t recognise them for what they were, but when he noticed the distinctive white head on the lead bird, he saw they were eagles.

‘One of them carries something,’ observed Menethis.

Glorien sighed. ‘Another bloody offering perhaps. I don’t remember Cerion Goldwing being presented with everything these birds killed. Come on then, I suppose we ought to see what they’ve brought us this time.’

Menethis followed him as he made his way back down to the ramparts and the crews of the bolt throwers made their weapons safe once more.

By the time he had descended to the wall, the eagles were much closer and Glorien could see that the white-headed eagle carried another body. Exactly what it was, he couldn’t yet see, but it appeared to be swaddled in a red cloak.

The warriors on the wall cheered as the eagles approached, for the sight of an eagle over a battlefield was an omen of victory and Glorien permitted them this brief moment of relaxation.

He marched to the centre of the battlements and watched as the trio of eagles circled lower and lower until they landed before him in a boom of outstretched wings. The eagle bearing the red-cloaked burden gently laid it at Glorien’s feet and he saw that it was not some bloody trophy torn by claws or beak, but an elven warrior in the accoutrements of an Ellyrion Reaver.

The eagles stepped back as Menethis knelt by the warrior and unwrapped the blood-stiffened cloak from around him. Glorien’s lip curled in distaste as he saw the paleness of the wounded elf’s features.

‘Is he alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Menethis, ‘though he is badly hurt. We must get him to our healers if he is to live.’

The bloodied warrior’s eyes flickered open at the sound of elven voices and he struggled to speak.

‘What is your name, warrior?’ said Glorien.

‘Druchii…’ hissed the warrior through bloodstained teeth, his voice barely a whisper.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said “druchii”, my lord,’ replied Menethis.

‘What does he mean? Quickly, ask him!’

‘He needs a healer!’ protested Menethis.

‘Ask him, damn you!’

Menethis turned to the wounded elf, but he spoke again without prompting. ‘I… I am Eloien Redcloak of Ellyrion. My warriors… all dead. The druchii… landed at Cairn Anroc. An army of them. Druchii and corrupted men. Coming here…’

‘How close are they?’ demanded Glorien. ‘When will they reach us?’

Eloien’s eyes shut, but as he slipped into unconsciousness he said, ‘By… tomorrow…’

Glorien felt a cold in his bones that had nothing to do with the winds blowing over the walls of the fortress as the bird that had borne the wounded Eloien Redcloak threw back its head and let out a deafening screech.

The druchii are coming, he thought. By tomorrow.

Isha preserve us…