—<TWO>—

Darkness from Anlec

For the elves, who each live for an age of the world, time passes quickly. A year to them is as a day to men, and so their schemes and relationships develop slowly. Alith Anar, young and impatient, wooed Ashniel for two years, from midsummer to midsummer, through letters and courtship, dances and hunts. Entranced by the cool beauty of the Naggarothi maiden, the young Anar prince put aside his greater concerns and for a while was happy, or at least relished the promise of future happiness. So it came about that he listened little to the whispered worries of his parents and spent less time in the wilds, instead closeting himself in the study and library of Elanardris learning poetry to impress his amour or listened to tales from his mother, ancient legends of those two divine lovers, Lileath and Kurnous.

To pledge his love for Ashniel, Anar commissioned the finest craftsmen to weave for her a cloak of midnight-blue, studded with diamonds like stars, the constellations drawn in fine traceries of silver thread. Having read into the astronomical texts of the family, Alith had devised the design himself, representing the skies above Ulthuan on the day of Ashniel’s birth. This labour he did in secret, even from his family, for he wanted to present Ashniel with this gift on the coming midsummer’s night and would risk no warning of it reaching the ears of his loved one.

As evening fell on the night of the festival, servants came out with magical lanterns to hang upon the boughs of the trees in the gardens. The golden dusk was augmented by the yellow glow of the lanterns, which turned to pools of silver as the sun disappeared and the stars scattered across the skies. Chatter filled the air as dozens of elves walked the patios and paths of Elanardris’ exquisitely designed surrounds, accompanied by the clinking of crystal goblets and the patter of fountains.

Alith flitted through the scattered crowds of guests like a shadow, his eyes seeking Ashniel. The cloak nestled under Alith’s arm, wrapped in silken paper brought from the colonies to the west. The package was as light as a feather, but felt like a leaden weight. Excitement and fear vied inside Alith as he skirted around a plush lawn and headed back towards the paved area where food was being served.

As two guests parted for a moment, Alith spied Ashniel’s pale face. Bathed in the lamplight she was beautiful, her expression one of poise and dignity, her grey eyes glittering. Weaving through the milling elves, Alith made straight for Ashniel and was but a few steps from her when a tall figure came up in front of him, forcing Alith to stop sharply. Glancing up as he was about to step around the obstacle, Alith saw the face of Caenthras, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Alith,” said Prince Caenthras. “I have been looking for you.”

“You have?” replied Alith, taken aback and suddenly worried. “Whatever for? I mean, how can I be of service?”

Caenthras smiled and laid a hand on Alith’s shoulder.

“Do not look so petrified, Alith,” said the lordly elf. “I do not bear ill news, merely an invitation.”

“Oh,” said Alith, brightening up. “A hunt perhaps?”

Caenthras sighed and shook his head.

“Not all of our lives revolve around the wilds, Alith. No, I have visitors from Anlec at my house who I wish you to meet: priestesses who will divine the future for yourself and Ashniel. I thought that if the augurs go well, we might discuss the details of the union of our two houses.”

Alith opened his mouth to reply but then realised he did not know what to say. He clenched his jaw to stop himself saying something stupid and simply nodded, trying to appear sagely. Caenthras frowned a little.

“I thought you would be pleased.”

“I am!” said Alith, panicking. “Very pleased! That sounds wonderful. Although… What if the priestesses say something bad?”

“Do not worry, Alith. I am positive that the omens will be good.”

Caenthras glanced over his shoulder towards Ashniel and then at the package under Alith’s arm. He nodded and pulled Alith closer, hugging him to his chest as he steered the youth through the crowd of elves surrounding Ashniel.

“My daughter, light of the winter skies,” said Caenthras. “Look what I have found lurking nearby like a mouse in its hole! I believe it has something to say to you.”

Caenthras shoved Alith forwards and he stumbled a few paces and stopped in front of Ashniel. He looked up into those grey eyes and melted, the poem he had rehearsed again and again in the library slipping from his memory. Alith gulped, trying to recover his wits.

“Hello, my love,” said Ashniel, leaning forwards and kissing Alith on the forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you all evening.”

Her perfumed scent, distilled from autumn wildflowers, filled Alith’s nostrils and he was dizzy with the smell for a moment.

“I have this for you,” he blurted, stepping back and thrusting out the package.

Ashniel took the gift, ran her hand over the soft paper and gave an admiring look at the intricately knotted ribbon that bound it. With Alith’s aid, she slipped the ribbon free and let the silk paper flutter to the floor. Alith took the neck of the cloak and flung it open, revealing its shining glory. There were appreciative gasps from the other elves and a pleased smile played upon Ashniel’s lips.

Alith glanced around and saw that many more elves had gathered upon the patio and several dozen were watching the unfolding spectacle, his mother, father and grandfather amongst them. It occurred to him that perhaps he had not been so devious in his secrecy as he had thought.

“Here, let me,” said Caenthras, stepping forwards and taking the cloak from Alith. He swung the cape around Ashniel’s neck and deftly fixed the crescent moon-shaped clasp upon her right shoulder. Seeing the gift upon Ashniel, the words sprang back to Alith unbidden.

“As the stars light the night, so you shine upon my life,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him, his eyes rising to the heavens. “As the world turns under their gaze, my life unfolds under yours. Where bright Lileath gazes down upon us with her beauty, her radiance is as nothing compared to the light that shines from you.”

There were more gasps from a few of the assembled elves and whispered comments, complaining that Alith should not compare the beauty of a mortal to that of the Moon Goddess. Alith ignored them, knowing that they were simply being prudish.

“My heart burns as the sun and I would have your soul reflect its light,” concluded Alith.

Ashniel’s expression was one of refined amusement as she looked at the other maidens in the crowd, pleased with their jealousy. She cupped Alith’s cheeks in her hands and smiled.

“Though Lileath spurned Kurnous, I shall not follow suit,” she said. “The hunter has caught his prey with this most dazzling of traps and I cannot escape.”

There was a cheer, soon joined by more, and Alith and Ashniel found themselves at the centre of a jostling mass of elves eager to congratulate them and examine the fine cloak. Alith let it all wash over him, feeling a calm descend that he had not felt anywhere else except on the mountain tops with an arrow notched upon his bow. Contented, he took a glass of wine from a servant and raised it in toast to Caenthras, who nodded appreciatively and then disappeared into the gathered elves.

The moons were barely above the mountains when Gerithon, the chancellor of the Anars, hurried from the house to speak with Eoloran and Eothlir. Alith excused himself from Ashniel and joined his father and grandfather.

“He insists that he speak with you,” Gerithon was saying.

“Then bring him through,” said Eoloran. “Let us hear what he has to say.”

“Yes, let him speak his mind in front of us all,” said Eothlir.

With a resigned sigh, Gerithon walked back into the manse. For a moment Alith wondered if this visitor was perhaps the dark rider he had first seen in the forest several years earlier. Ever since that encounter Alith had spied the elf—or what he supposed to be an elf though he could not know for sure—several times more, watching the young prince from a mountain ridge or beneath the boughs of a wooded copse. Always the rider had disappeared before Alith could approach, and left no tracks for him to follow.

Alith had spoken of this strange watcher to nobody, fearing that it would cause alarm without bringing answers. But the elf Gerithon escorted from the manse was not the rider, or if he was then he wore a different guise, for he was dressed in the manner of one of the pleasure cultists.

The stranger was clad in swirling layers of purple robes, each diaphanous, but overlaid upon his body in such a way that where they overlapped they concealed his nudity and preserved a little dignity. His right brow was pierced with a silver ring from which hung an oval ruby, and a similar jewel hung from the left side of his nose. The hair that hung to his shoulder was dark but bleached white towards the tips, braided with beads of blue and red glass. Alith noticed that for all his decadent appearance, the newcomer wore a sheathed sword at his belt—a long, thin weapon with a crossguard fashioned into the likeness of two hands cupping the blade.

“My princes,” the stranger said with a low bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Heliocoran Haeithar. I have ridden from Anlec to speak with you.”

“There is no message from Anlec that we wish to hear,” said Eoloran.

Most of the party attendees and a few servants were gathering around the stranger and hostility filled the air. Heliocoran seemed oblivious to the situation and continued regardless.

“Her majesty, Queen Morathi, wishes to invite the house of Anar to an audience,” said Heliocoran. He looked around at the guests. “And I extend that invitation to any prince present here, upon my own authority.”

“Queen Morathi?” spat Eothlir. “When last I heard, Nagarythe was ruled by Prince Malekith. We have no queen.”

“It is unfortunate that the whispers of Bel Shanaar have been allowed to settle here and take root,” said Heliocoran smoothly. Upon close inspection, Alith saw that the envoy’s eyes were odd, his pupils disturbingly small, while the green of his irises almost completely obscured the white. This was accentuated by a thin trace of kohl that brought the messenger’s eyes into stark contrast in an unsettling fashion.

“We shall determine for ourselves what is truth and what are lies,” said Eoloran. “Say your part and then leave.”

“As you wish,” said the herald with another exaggerated bow. “The realms of the other princes are in concert against Nagarythe, and wish to make Malekith their puppet. He fears to return to Ulthuan under the present conditions. Dear comrades of our prince are held hostage against his loyalty. That is the truth of it. The Naggarothi have been betrayed by Bel Shanaar, he who usurped the Phoenix Throne from the heir of Aenarion. For these past many years Bel Shanaar has grown more and more vocal in his opposition to our traditions and customs, and Queen Morathi wearies of his hypocrisy. She calls out to all princes, captains and lieutenants still loyal to the true rule of Nagarythe, and bids them to travel to Anlec so that she might hold counsel with the greatest of these lands.”

His voice had become strident, but again dropped to a soft hush, and his manner became one of pleading confidant rather than bombastic herald.

“Innocent elves have been slain and imprisoned by the minions of Bel Shanaar, the Usurper Phoenix; persecuted for pursuing their leisures and beliefs, hounded for following the ancient rites of our people. If you allow this conspiracy to proceed unchallenged, Nagarythe shall fall and her power squabbled over by weaker bloodlines than stand here. If you would see your lands taken and your children chained and your servants and labourers whipped into misery, then stay here, stand idle and do nothing. If you would see Morathi preserve the inheritance of Malekith so that he might reclaim his rightful position as heir to Aenarion and ruler of Ulthuan, then return with me to Anlec.”

“Though I have no love for Morathi, I have none either for Bel Shanaar,” said Caenthras, stepping to the front of the ring of elves surrounding Heliocoran. “If the warriors of the Phoenix King come to my lands, will Anlec send help?”

“That is for us to discuss in the council,” replied the messenger.

“What assurances do we have that this is not some trick?” asked Quelor, one of the princes allied to the Anars. “Who says that bare cells and iron chains do not await us in Anlec?”

“Such division gives sport to the agents of our enemies,” said Heliocoran. “To set Naggarothi against Naggarothi, that is the aim of our adversaries. Queen Morathi can give no assurances that the doubts sown by the spies of our foes cannot undermine. Instead, she appeals to your sense of duty and to the strength that flows within your veins. All here are true sons and daughters of Nagarythe, and each knows it is their right and their responsibility to uphold the honour of this realm. Lest you wish to be ensorcelled by the cowardly wizards of Saphery and see our dominions overseas taken by the merchants of Lothern and Cothique, heed Queen Morathi’s warnings.”

“You do your position justice,” said Eoloran. “Never have I heard such bile cloaked with such sweetness. You have said your piece, and now be gone from my lands.”

“You cannot stand aside in this battle, Eoloran,” said the messenger, and his tone was frank. “For years now the house of Anar has refused to choose where its loyalties lie, and has gathered its friends close to protect it against the harms of this conflict. Now it is time to make your position plainly known. You may choose the correct path, and defend your lands against invaders from the other kingdoms, and your reward shall be in the sustaining of your line and the strengthening of your position. Yet you must stand against the misguided will and might of Bel Shanaar and his sycophants.

“If you choose to side with the usurpers, then you may well endure for a time, but dire shall be Queen Morathi’s wrath on those who betray Nagarythe. You will be cast from power, scorned by those who once respected you and you shall spend the rest of your days as landless wanderers.”

“And so the threat is made,” said Eothlir. “You would have it that we stand between a cliff and the ocean, and must dash ourselves against the rocks or else drown.”

“Then tell me, Eothlir, what does your heart say?” said Heliocoran. “What have I said that you know to be untrue? Do you trust Bel Shanaar so much that you would throw in your lot with him?”

Gerithon hurried from the manse once more, looking agitated.

“There are armed soldiers outside, my prince,” he said. “Three dozen, at least, that I could see. Their leader is arguing at the gate.”

“Why would a herald come armed for fighting?” said Eothlir, pointing to the sword at Heliocoran’s waist. “What is the meaning of these warriors before our doors?”

“These are not safe times,” said the herald. “The agents of Bel Shanaar prowl the wilds like packs of feral hounds. You of all should know that we must protect ourselves. It would be most unfortunate if some foe were to waylay your family.”

“Get out!” roared Eoloran. “Take your bribes and your threats and be away!”

Heliocoran flinched from the outburst as if menaced by a blade, and shrank back towards the house. With a snarl he turned and ran, pushing his way through the elves and hurling aside a serving maid who fell amid the splintered smash of crystal platters. No sooner had he disappeared into the manse than Eothlir was storming after him.

“With me!” he cried. “He will open the doors and let in his soldiers!”

Alith did not chase directly into the house with the others, but instead ran for the east wing to his chambers. The high window was open and he leapt inside and flung open the chest at the foot of his bed where his bow and arrows were kept. With a straining gasp he swiftly strung his bow, and snatched up his quiver.

Wrenching open the door, Alith raced into the corridor and then along the wood-panelled passageway to the dining hall at the front of the manse. Shouts and the sounds of fighting echoed around the mansion. Striding to the windows, Alith saw that a group of black-armoured warriors had forced their way through the gate of the outer wall and were gathered about the colonnaded portico and were fighting to get inside, pushing at their companions to get through the door.

Opening the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, Alith was confronted by the sight of his father and grandfather fighting back-to-back, wielding swords wrested from their foes. Meanthir and Lestraen lay bleeding upon the floor, possibly dead, and three of the envoy’s warriors were also slain.

Taking up his bow, Alith shot one of the attackers in the thigh, saving his grandfather from a cut aimed towards his shoulder. In the space this created, Eoloran leapt forwards and thrust his blade past the guard of another warrior, cutting him across the arm. Other elves loyal to the Anars came rushing in from the opposite wing of the house, carrying swords and daggers taken from the walls of the great hall. Caenthras arrived, wielding a long spear, and drove its point into the back of one of the elves fighting Eothlir.

There came a deafening crash of glass from the eating hall and Alith turned to see dark-garbed soldiers breaking through the high windows, blades in hand. He shot the first to climb through, but two more jumped in swiftly behind the slain elf. Alith loosed another arrow but with a dull ring it merely caught a glancing blow on the golden helm of his target. Even as Alith whipped another arrow from the quiver across his back, the warrior turned and rushed towards him.

Jumping aside from the outthrust sword of his foe, Alith strung the arrow and loosed it in one fluid motion, the arrowhead punching through the elf’s breastplate. Wounded, but not killed, the warrior gave a hoarse shout and swung his sword at Alith’s neck. Alith swayed backwards but the point of the blade slashed across his tunic and a line of blood welled up from his wounded chest. Biting back a cry of pain, Alith whipped the tip of his bow into the face of his opponent, who fell back with a hand to his eye.

Tharion appeared at the doorway with a two-handed sword and chopped the elf’s legs from beneath him, before giving a cry of alarm. Turning, Alith saw three more warriors advancing towards him, while a fourth made for the fire blazing in the great hearth. He saw the warrior snatch up a branch from the fireplace and take a step towards the tapestries hanging on the wall opposite the windows.

Without a thought, Alith nocked an arrow and took aim between the advancing elves. Breathing out slowly he loosed the arrow, which buried itself in the neck of the elf with the brand. The flaming branch fell from his dead grasp and thudded harmlessly on the stone floor.

The heir of Anar had barely time to loose another shot, which pierced the shoulder of his target, before Caenthras and Tharion were leaping forwards with their weapons, roaring ancient battle cries. Alith was struck by the ferocity of the two ageing princes; veterans of Aenarion’s army and skilled warriors both.

Caenthras’ spear took one of the dark-clad elves in the throat, who jerked like a puppet without strings before collapsing in a heap. Tharion parried a blow aimed towards his legs and spun his wrists to bring his heavy blade down across his foe’s sword arm, severing it at the elbow. A backhanded strike hurled the elf back with his breastplate rent open, his lifeblood gushing over his black robes.

The clatter of hooves on cobbles attracted Alith’s attention and he dashed to the windows. He saw Heliocoran wrestling with a tawny steed, trying to swing himself up into the saddle. As Alith climbed through the window, careful to avoid the slivers of shattered glass still protruding from the frame, Heliocoran mastered his mount. With much whipping of the reins, he turned his horse across the courtyard towards the main gates.

As the herald raced away, Alith’s aim was obscured by the line of fir trees on either side of the roadway leading from the gate, and he leapt for the porch. Gripping the scrolled top of a column with one hand, he swung himself up onto the portico. From here, he could see the length of the courtyard to the gateway.

A soldier in the colours of House Anar stumbled from the gatehouse ahead of the messenger, blood dripping from a wounded leg. Heliocoran stooped low in the saddle and swept his sword across the warrior’s chest as he sped past, felling him with a single blow.

Alith knelt on the roof of the portico and took aim. The clashing of swords and cries of battle below him drifted out of his thoughts as he focussed his mind and body on the dwindling figure of Heliocoran.

He imagined himself in the woods, stalking a boar or deer. He adjusted his line of shot for the wind sighing against the left side of his face, and raised his bow a touch so that his shot would not fall short of his rapidly fleeing prey.

Lit only by flickering lanterns, the herald was all but swathed in darkness and he was a moment from escape, but Alith could see his position clearly in his mind’s eye.

With a whispered prayer to Kurnous, Alith loosed the arrow. The black-fletched missile streaked into the darkness, its point glimmering with firelight from the torches upon the walls of the courtyard. He heard a cry as it struck home. Heliocoran slumped upon his steed but did not fall, and then passed out of sight through the gatehouse.

Three of the fleeing messenger’s warriors staggered out from the entrance hall onto the roadway beneath Alith, and he loosed three arrows in quick succession, taking them down with a single shot each. Eoloran, Eothlir, Caenthras and others ran out, stopping when they saw there were no more foes. Eoloran looked over his shoulder at his grandson.

“Did any of them escape?” Eoloran demanded.

“I hit Heliocoran, but I do not know if the wound is mortal,” Alith confessed.

Eoloran cursed, and signalled for Alith to climb down from his vantage point.

“That is the last of them,” said Eothlir. “More will come. How soon, we cannot know. It seems that House Anar has chosen a side.”

Though his father’s face was grim, this pronouncement brought pride to Alith’s heart. Since he had been born, House Anar had been content to play no greater part in the affairs of Nagarythe. All of that had changed. Morathi had as much as declared war on House Anar, and Alith was pleased that his idleness would soon come to an end.

He was Naggarothi, after all, and battle was in his heart and glory called in his blood.

Now was the chance for him to prove his worth and earn the renown that surrounded his family; a renown he had felt had not yet been his to rightfully share.

He hid a smile as he lowered himself down to the tiled ground below.