Chapter Nineteen

Awakenings

Of all the music and beauty Caelir could remember, none came close to matching those of the court of the Everqueen. He reclined on soft, autumn leaves and watched Lilani dance to the music and song of Narentir. The sound of silver bells chimed in the distance and a crowd had gathered beneath colourful silken pavilions to watch Lilani’s performance.

Her movements were sinuous and graceful, but Caelir saw a harsh, aggressive vigour to her movements now, the muscles bunching and swelling beneath her glittering skin. At first he had wondered why the softness had disappeared, but then saw one of the Everqueen’s Handmaidens among the appreciative spectators.

Like Lilani, the Handmaiden was slender and taut, but unlike the dancer, she wore a form-fitting breastplate of gold and carried a long spear. A scarlet plume, the same colour as her cloak, swept down the back of her helmet and a bone coloured longbow was slung across her shoulder.

The Handmaidens of the Everqueen were not mere courtiers, but warriors the equal of any elven knight with bow, spear or sword. Chosen from the best dancers, singer, poets and lovers of Ulthuan, the Handmaidens epitomised the pinnacle of achievement in elven society with their mastery of both the courtly and martial arts. Caelir cast an appreciative eye over the Handmaiden, taking in her long bare legs and the moulded physique of her breastplate.

Watching Lilani dance, he now understood her reasons for seeking out the court of the Everqueen and saw they were little different from Narentir’s.

He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and let the sensations of the forest wash over him. To perform in the court of the Everqueen! Such things were the dreams of every elf of Ulthuan.

Musicians and singers trained all their life to be worthy of playing in Avelorn and the youths of Ulthuan dreamed of becoming a consort of the Everqueen while the maids aspired to become one of her Handmaidens.

Life in Avelorn was like living in an eternal festival, decided Caelir. They had been here for a few days now and, at every turn, musicians delighted audiences, dancers made play in the forest and poets recited their latest works.

The days were magical and the nights scarcely less so.

Ghostly light filled the court at night and glittering sprites darted from tree to tree to light the wondrous folk of the forest as they created art and beauty with every breath. Gaily coloured pavilions were pitched randomly through the forest and all manner of elves from all across Ulthuan came to play and make merry in the forest of the Everqueen.

Despite himself, Caelir had been caught up in the spirit of Avelorn and slipped into an easy routine of player and spectator. By day he would sing to steadily growing crowds of admirers and by night he would walk the moonlit paths of the forest with Lilani and make love beneath the stars on a bed of golden leaves.

Thus far Caelir had seen no sign of the ruler of Avelorn, but Narentir assured him that the Everqueen rarely ventured openly among the court until she knew whom she would choose to accompany her glorious cavalcade through the forest realm.

The urgency that had driven him to seek the Everqueen had all but vanished, his anguish smothered by the healing magic of Avelorn. The imperative to see her arose powerfully with every dawn, beating its fists against the walls of his mind, but the soothing balms of the forest’s music and light soon eased his troubled brow and the day would go on as before.

The sound of rapturous applause signalled the end of Lilani’s dance and Caelir opened his eyes to see her perched on the low branches of a sunwood tree, her chest heaving and her hair unbound and wild.

Caelir joined in with the applause as she bowed deeply to her audience and somersaulted from the tree. The gathered elves moved on swiftly, their butterfly interest already anticipating the delights the rest of the forest had to offer. Narentir went with them, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers and Caelir smiled to himself as Lilani danced over and lay down next to him.

‘Did you see?’ she asked breathlessly, draping herself across his chest. Her skin glowed golden and he leaned down to kiss her.

She tasted of wild berries and her breath was hot in his mouth.

‘I did, you were exquisite as always.’

‘Liar,’ she said. ‘You were asleep. I saw.’

‘No, I was awake,’ he said.

‘Then why didn’t you watch me?’

‘You weren’t performing for me,’ he said. ‘I saw the Handmaiden in the audience.’

‘I think she was impressed. Perhaps she will speak of me to the Everqueen,’ said Lilani, her words coming out in a rush. Caelir smiled at this youthful, insecure side of Lilani, finding it an entertaining change from the confident aloofness she usually affected.

Such insecurity was understandable, for, as Caelir was quickly learning, the forest of the Everqueen was a seething hotbed of ego and intrigue, where every performer vied for the favour of the Everqueen and the chance of a place at her side.

To be chosen as a consort or Handmaiden was the highest honour imaginable for a youth of Ulthuan, but those whose artistry failed to impress the fickle inhabitants of the forest soon found themselves objects of ridicule.

Only the previous day, Caelir, Lilani and Narentir had watched a pair of singers perform in a sun-dappled glade. He had thought their voices magnificent, soaring into the treetops and entwining like lovers as the notes fell back to earth in a rain of flowers. He had found himself alone in applauding them and quickly stopped as he felt disapproving stares upon him.

A tall noble in a long robe of shimmering teal had stepped from the audience and bowed to the singers. ‘Congratulations,’ he had said. ‘The Keeper of Souls must weep to know that one of her own has fallen from the heavens to entertain us with song. Truly it is said that anything too prosaic to be said is sung instead.’

The crowd had dispersed with ringing laughter and Caelir saw the light of joy flee from the singers’ eyes at the comment, though he had been mystified as to why.

‘My dear boy,’ explained Narentir later. ‘In Avelorn excellence is the very least that is expected of a performer. And while the caterwauling of those two so-called singers might impress the rustics of Chrace, it was hardly of the standard required here.’

‘But that noble congratulated them.’

Narentir shook his head. ‘You must learn that many of the quips directed at a performer, while appearing to be congratulatory, conceal deadly barbs.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘That noble compared their singing to the wailing of Morai-heg’s banshees,’ said Lilani.

He realised he was being spoken to and shook off thoughts of the previous day.

‘Can you feel that?’ said Lilani. ‘Something’s happening…’

He looked up, seeing the same leafy canopy of brilliant green and radiant summer sky beyond it. White birds perched in the treetops and their song trilled pleasingly. Nearby performers smiled and hugged one another, their faces alight as a subtle vibration raced through the air, a burgeoning sense of anticipation and excitement left in the wake of its passing.

Caelir leaped to his feet as the vibration surged through him, inexplicably invigorated by this strange sensation sweeping the forest.

‘What is this?’ he cried.

His question was answered when Narentir danced back into the clearing and swept them both into a crushing embrace, his eyes bright with tears of joy. ‘Do you feel it?’ he wept.

‘We do!’ nodded Lilani.

Seeing Caelir’s confusion, Narentir laughed and said, ‘The Everqueen, dear boy. She walks among us at the dawn!’

Asperon Khitain drew his sword, a weapon crafted in the forges of Hag Graef and quenched in the blood of slaves. His armour was the colour of bloodwine, fresh from the vine and his long dark hair was bound in a trailing scalp lock.

His warriors formed up around him, a hundred hardened fighters in long mail coats and lacquered breastplates that gleamed like the oily waters of Clar Karond. Long, plum-coloured cloaks hung from their shoulders and those few who did not carry long, ebony hafted spears helped carry scaling ladders.

As the glorious standard of House Khitain was raised high, he felt a thrill of anticipation and knelt to take a handful of the coarse, powdery stone of the ground he stood upon.

To have sailed across the Great Ocean and set foot once more on Ulthuan…

The mountains reared up above him and the sun bathed everything in a warm glow that made his skin itch. He remembered the last time he had fought in the land of his ancestors, pillaging and killing through the green forests of northern Ulthuan, hunting down the queen witch through the blazing ruin of her realm. The invasion had stalled when her protector had rescued her and Asperon shivered as he recalled the fury of the golden armoured warrior cutting down scores of the greatest druchii warriors in their escape.

Such a blademaster came but once in an age and Asperon cut his palm open as an offering to Khaine, mixing the welling red liquid with the dust of Ulthuan. He stood and climbed onto a nearby boulder to better see the preparations for the assault on the Emerald Gate.

Thousands of druchii warriors had crossed the great bridge of galleys from the island of the lighthouse and now marched along the overgrown pathways that crisscrossed the coastline. Perhaps these had once been the route of the long dead builders of the lighthouse or a neglected patrol route, but Asperon did not care what purpose they might once have served. Now they allowed the army of the Witch King to march into the mountains and lay siege to the shoulders of the first sea gate of Lothern.

Forests of speartips and lances glittered and Asperon watched as great war machines were unloaded from the troop galleys and carried onto the mainland by sweating, straining slaves. A host was being assembled that would sweep over the Emerald Gate and allow them to push the Asur back along the Straits of Lothern.

As he watched, a red banner was unfurled upon the peak of the captured lighthouse and he grinned wolfishly as he leapt down to rejoin his warriors. The signal soon passed to every warrior in the army and a predatory hunger for slaughter swept through Asperon.

‘Warriors of Naggaroth!’ he cried, his noble voice easily carrying across the mountains to his soldiers. ‘Today we bathe our blades in the blood of the Asur! We march on their fortress and we will not stop until the banner of House Khitain flies above its ruins!’

A hundred spear shafts hammered on the white rock of the mountains and Asperon took his place within the ranks of his warriors. A great chorus of horn blasts sounded from the assembled army and echoed from the mountains like the bloody fury of Khaine himself.

He raised his sword above his head and shouted, ‘Onwards!’

With disciplined steps, he and his warriors set off up the slopes of the mountains, their strides long and sure. The ground was rough, but far easier than the rugged harshness of the Iron Mountains around Hag Graef where he relentlessly drilled his soldiers. Compared to the harsh climate and terrain his warriors trained on, this was easy going.

Their mile-eating stride carried them swiftly up the rocky slopes, the hard packed earth of the wide paths overgrown and partially obscured, but providing a swift route up the mountains. The occasional flurry of arrows flashed from above as cloaked scouts loosed shafts from hiding and screams of pain swiftly followed.

The shock of the lighthouse’s capture and the crushing defeat of their fleet had paralysed the Asur into inaction and the pathways through the mountains were only lightly defended. Small groups of their own scouts darted forwards and soon the rain of arrows halted and Asperon heard sounds of vicious struggles from above.

At last he could see the crest of the ridgeline above him and briefly halted their advance on the rocky plateau to redress the ranks that had become ragged on the climb. Ahead, a gentle slope led towards the eastern flank of the Emerald Gate and Asperon felt his blood surge as he saw what lay before them.

The thought that the Glittering Lighthouse might be captured and the Emerald Gate be attacked from the sides had clearly never entered the thoughts of its builders, for its defences had clearly been designed to face a frontal assault from the sea.

From what Asperon could see, the defensive architecture of the fortress’s flanks consisted of little more than a hastily prepared defensive ditch and a turreted blockhouse. A wall of less than a hundred paces safeguarded the route onto the arched span of the fortress, but it was low and unprotected by outworks or high towers.

Yet more druchii warriors marched onto the plateau before the fortress and Asperon laughed as he saw the panic sweeping the silver armoured elves on the wall at the sight of such a host. He could taste their panic on the air and shouted, ‘You see, the Asur’s complacency and arrogance will reap them bloody ruin!’

More carnyx sounded, the skirling sound heralding the death they would inflict upon their enemies. He reopened the cut on his palm and reached up to smear his blood upon the standard of his house to offer those who would fight and die beneath it to Khaine.

A rumbling tremor of weapons clashing on shields echoed from the mountains and Asperon could see the desperate scramble on the wall ahead of him as archers and spearmen rushed to fill the ramparts.

The advance began as a steady trot, the druchii walking briskly with their spears raised, then became a jog as spears lowered and ranks of crossbowmen formed up behind them.

Asperon could see faces pale with fear and drank in that fear as the wall drew nearer. His heart thudded in his breast and his fingers flexed on the wire-wound grip of his sword.

He saw a sword with a silver blade chop downwards and a singing volley of arrows arced from the wall in a white rain.

‘Shields!’ shouted Asperon and his warriors dropped to their knees and lifted their left arms above their heads. A whooshing thwak of displaced air sounded and a hundred arrows slammed into them, but most smacked harmlessly into his warriors’ shields. A few screamed in pain as a lucky arrow found its mark, but most quickly rose to their feet unharmed.

Though they had sacrificed speed to stop and raise shields, he saw that they had suffered least amongst the advancing army, with many druchii corpses simply trampled by their charging comrades in their hunger to reach the wall.

Insane courage was all very well, but it was pointless if you reached the enemy with too few warriors to kill them.

A staccato ripple of crossbow strings filled the air with black bolts and Asperon laughed as he saw a dozen enemy warriors pitched from the walls. Blood stained their pristine tunics as they fell. More bolts slashed towards the blockhouse as they set off towards the ditch before the wall and gate. Blue-fletched shafts slashed down, though many fewer than before thanks to the relentless hammering of crossbows.

An arrow punched through the helm of the warrior next to him and blood spattered Asperon’s face as the warrior fell. He licked the droplets from his lips as the druchii warriors ahead of his own hurled their ladders against the wall.

Swords flashed and blood was spilled as the Asur fought the warriors at the tops of the ladders. Screams and ringing steel cut the air and warriors toppled from the ramparts, skulls cloven or chests sliced open. The wall was not long and Asperon halted his warriors as he scanned its length, his experienced eye seeking out the weakest section of the defences against which to lead his warriors.

Then something unbelievable happened.

The gates of the blockhouse were opening.

Had they carried the wall so swiftly that some brave warriors were even now within?

‘With me!’ he shouted and sprinted for the gate. His warriors followed without hesitation and Asperon screamed with inchoate elation as he pictured being the first noble of Naggaroth to plant a standard in the Emerald Gate.

His euphoria turned to horror as he saw the column of knights with tall, gleaming helmets of silver galloping from the fortress. Dust billowed at their passing and Asperon felt his innards clamp in terror as he saw the warrior in golden armour that led them. He carried a blazing sword, like a sliver of the sun bound within a length of shimmering steel, and rode a white steed adorned with glittering scales of gem-encrusted barding.

Golden wings swept back from his helm and though he had never before laid eyes upon this warrior, he instinctively knew him, for his identity was a curse and the terror of the druchii.

Tyrion, Defender of Ulthuan…

Tall banners of white streamed behind the cavalry and their silver lances lowered in unison as they charged out. Elven soldiers armed with spears and long swords spread out behind the cavalry, cutting into the disorganised ranks of the druchii as they milled at the base of the wall.

‘Halt!’ shouted Asperon. ‘Form a shield-wall!’

Even as he gave the order, he could see it was already too late.

His warriors were spread out, scattered as they raced to the opened gate, and easy prey for mounted warriors.

He snatched a shield from the warrior next to him and raised his sword as the pounding of hooves on stone swallowed them and the charge slammed home with a deafening thunderclap of splintering lances and screams.

Blood spurted as glittering lance blades spitted their ranks and the fiery sword of Tyrion clove warriors in two with golden sweeps that melted through armour and seared flesh. The charge of the Asur cavalry punched through the disordered ranks of Asperon’s warriors and trampled them into the ground, leaving scores of broken bodies in their wake.

He picked himself up from the ground, blood pouring from a deep gash on his forehead and white agony flaring as splintered bone jutted from his elbow. His shield was useless and he heard the screams of warriors dying before the relentless slaughter of the Asur.

An ululating note sounded from a silver trumpet and the cavalry expertly wheeled on the spot as they prepared to charge once more. The golden warrior at the head of the silver knights aimed his sword at him, and Asperon welcomed the challenge of the gesture.

If he were to die this day, then what better way to end his days than in combat with the infamous Tyrion himself?

A beam of radiant sunfire leapt from Tyrion’s blade and Asperon’s flesh was burned from his body in a firestorm with the power of a star dragon’s breath.

Hot, sulphurous fumes clung to the rocky walls of the underground passageway like gauzy curtains and wisps of hot steam drifted lazily from vents cut into the floor. A dim red glow, like cooling lava, seemed to come from the rocks themselves, and banked braziers added their own smoke and heat.

The sound of distant song came from somewhere far below and its musical cadences were unlike anything heard elsewhere on Ulthuan. The songs sung here were ancient beyond understanding, the rhythms and harkening melodies unknown in the world above save by those who dared to venture below the mountains of Caledor and learn the songs of awakening.

The songs of the dragons…

The mists parted like a smoky yellow curtain before a warrior who delved deep into the labyrinthine passages of the mountains, the songs of valour and tales of peril echoing within his soul like a lone voice in an empty temple.

His name was Prince Imrik, and of all the waking denizens of the caverns below the Dragonspine Mountains, none carried themselves with a fraction of the martial nobility and courage as did he. His countenance was fair, his long white hair bound with iron cords and his strength of purpose was like the furnace heat that stirred below the peak of Vaul’s Anvil.

The blood of Caledor Dragontamer flowed in his veins and his lineage was of the proudest noble house of Ulthuan. In him, it was said, the strength of Tethlis the Slayer was reborn and the might of his sword arm was unmatched, save perhaps by that of Prince Tyrion.

Red light shimmered like fresh blood on Imrik’s armour, an engraved suit of ithilmar mail that was as light and flexible as silk, yet was impervious to sword and fire. His cloak billowed in the heat of the passageway and the swiftness of his stride, for bleak news had come from Lothern and all the might of Ulthuan was being roused to war.

The passageway widened out into an impossibly deep cavern, though it was next to impossible to gauge its exact dimensions because hot, aromatic smoke obscured its farthest reaches. A distant rumble, like the breath of the world, vibrated the air at a frequency beyond the comprehension of most mortals, but to Imrik it was as clear as a note wrung from the great dragonhorn at his side.

It was the breath of slumbering dragons.

The songs of awakening grew louder as Imrik entered, and his soul took flight as he saw the multitude of scaled, draconic forms clustered around scalding vents that plunged into the deepest heart of the volcanic mountains.

Fire roared and seethed in the air, held aloft by the songs of the fire mages who sang to the slumbering dragons. He heard the songs in his heart and cast his gaze around the chamber to see if any of the mighty creatures were close to waking.

Powerfully muscled chests rose and fell in time with the chants of the mages, but the dragons’ hearts beat a slow refrain, a beat that had slowed as the molten heat of the mountains had cooled and the magic of the world diminished.

Imrik knew there had been a time when the sight of dragons riding hot thermals rising from the Dragonspine Mountains had been commonplace, but such a vision had not been seen in hundreds of years. In these threatening times, only the younger dragons commonly awoke, though even they were a shadow of the former glory of Caledor and its famed dragon riders.

Naysmiths at the court of Lothern bemoaned the slumber of the dragons as indicative of the slide into ruin of the Asur, but Imrik had never surrendered to such melancholy. Long had he studied the ways of dragons and no mortal could claim to know this most ancient of species better than he.

Imrik made his way around the circumference of the cavern, careful not to disturb the rites and chants of the singing fire mages. Many of these chants would have begun months, if not years, ago and none knew better than he the folly of interrupting a dragonsong.

He made his way to the centre of the cavern where a great brazier burned with a white gold light. Mages in scarlet robes and with long hair that fell like cascades of flame from their scalps surrounded the brazier, speaking with heated voices that crackled with a fire the equal of the conflagration before them.

The debate ceased as Imrik drew near, though he could see the golden light of Aqshy smouldering in their eyes. Ever were the hearts of those who studied the fire wind bellicose.

‘My friends,’ said Imrik. ‘The Phoenix King sends for our aid. What should I tell him?’

‘The dragons still slumber, my lord,’ said a mage known as Lamellan.

‘How many awake?’

‘None save Minaithnir, my lord,’ said Lamellan. ‘His soul burns brightly and the hearts of the younger dragons stir with thoughts of war, but the dreams of the great dragons are too deep to reach. We summon the heat that burns at the heart of the world with songs of legendary times and glorious deeds, but the memories are cold, my lord…’

‘The fire of the dragons is gone?’ said Imrik. ‘Is that what you are trying to say?’

‘Not gone, my lord,’ said Lamellan. ‘But buried deep. It will be years before the ashes are wrought into flaming life. Too late for us now.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Imrik, pacing around the brazier and his pale eyes reflecting the fire that burned at its heart. ‘The age of glory can never be forgotten, by elf nor dragon. By such means are the dragons of Caledor roused from sleep. The druchii once more set foot on our beloved homeland and the Phoenix King has sent missives pleading for our aid. Lothern is besieged and the Hag Sorceress herself leads an army at the Eagle Gate!’

‘My lord,’ protested Lamellan, ‘you know as well as I that to reach the heart of these noble creatures takes great time and effort.’

‘Time is the one thing Ulthuan does not have, my friend,’ said Imrik. ‘Our fair isle would have fallen into darkness long ago without the might of the dragons. They are as much a part of Ulthuan as the Asur, and I will not believe that they will fail to heed our call to arms in this time of woe.’

He could see his words were fanning the flame of Aqshy that burned in the hearts of the fire mages and stoked the warlike embers of their souls to greater effort.

‘Ulthuan is under attack and requires all the martial power it can assemble. Go! Sing the songs of ancient days!

‘The dragonriders of old must soar the skies again!’