—<THIRTEEN>—

The Fall of House Anar

Under the cover of night, the remnants of the Anar army retreated eastwards towards the mountains only to find that more druchii barred their way. Forced to turn southwards, Alith stumbled numbly alongside his warriors, too scared to think of what had happened and too tired to wonder what might yet come to pass. It was if he sleepwalked, placing one foot in front of the other out of habit.

With the druchii close on their heels, Alith’s lieutenants turned the army westwards again, seeking sanctuary in the marshes of Dark Fen. For twenty-three days they hid amongst the waterways, scattering for cover as the beat of dragon wings sounded overhead, travelling by night alone. The army splintered as companies and individuals sought to avoid the pursuit, each going their own way. Some were lost in the marshes, some made it far south only to be picked up by druchii patrols along the Naganath.

Those that stayed with Alith survived, though not through any action or decision of the prince. He was happy to follow instructions from the likes of Khillrallion and Tharion. The warriors began to whisper that Alith’s mind had been broken, and they were not far from the truth. Alith was possessed by a waking nightmare, unable to rid himself of the vision of his father’s death. Over and over he saw Eothlir fall beneath the lance of Kheranion, smelt the noxious stench of the dragon’s breath in the air and heard his father’s last, desperate command.

Eventually the druchii relented in their hunt and the survivors drifted eastwards again, heading for Elanardris. For two more days they trudged through the mists of the fen, exhausted, hungry and dispirited. That night they made camp just south of where they had fought the army of Anlec, though no warrior dared investigate the battle-field, fearful of what they might find there.

At dawn, smoke could be seen to the east, rising from the mountains. These were not wisps of campfires: towering columns of thick black smoke hung over the foothills like a shroud. Filled with foreboding, Alith and the army hurried towards the rising sun.

They came to the first burnt-out village just before midday. The white walls of the buildings were stained with soot and contorted, charred corpses could be seen within. They had been shut inside when the buildings had been set on fire. Along the road they found more bodies, mutilated in all manner of hideous ways. Scraps of flayed skin were hung upon the walls that bounded the fields, and garlands of bones and flesh were strung from the bare branches of trees.

More horrors followed as Alith hurried on. Naked bodies were nailed upon the blackened stones of towers and barns. The heads of children had been woven into the thorny stems of rose bushes like obscene replacements for their missing blooms. Symbols of the cytharai were daubed in blood everywhere Alith looked.

The survivors of the battle wept, some throwing down their weapons to cradle the remains of loved ones discovered, others breaking from the army to go to their homes. Alith’s warriors deserted in their hundreds and he let them go. He could no more insist that they stay than he could stop them breathing.

By mid-afternoon, Alith had no more revulsion left. If he had been numb before, now he was utterly empty, devoid of any thought or emotion. The slaughter was simply too vast to comprehend, the atrocities too outlandish to remember. The refugee camps had been attacked and the dead were scattered about the fields in huge piles of cadavers. Some had died swiftly, cut down where they had been caught, but many showed signs of barbaric abuse, having perished of raw agony from the wounds inflicted upon them. Carrion-eating birds had come down from the mountains in great flocks and they lurched away heavily as the elves approached, gorged on the macabre banquet laid out for them.

Alith felt nothing as he saw the clouds of smoke billowing from within the walls of the manse. From his first sight of the smoke at dawn the previous day he had expected to see this and had already experienced such cold dread that he no longer registered the fact that the nightmare was real.

Coming through the gates, Alith thought at first that the walls of the manse had been changed into something else, or that the lengthening evening shadows were deceiving him. As he stumbled closer he saw that the ruined house was festooned with the bodies of elves, pinioned to the walls with metal spikes. All but a few hung limply, but a handful stirred at his approach.

He recognised the bloody remains of Gerithon nailed to the door and dashed to him. Spikes pierced his elbows and knees, driven into the hard wood of the door, and his blood dripped into a ruddy pool at his feet. The Anars’ retainer raised his head a little and opened one bloodshot eye; the other was closed shut with a clot of blood dripping from a gash across his forehead.

“Alith?” he croaked.

“Yes,” Alith replied, taking a canteen of water from his pack. He tried to give some to Gerithon but the other elf turned his head away.

“Water will not save me,” he whispered. His eye wandered for a moment and then settled again on Alith. “They took Lord Eoloran alive…”

This news was like a bolt of lightning. For a moment Alith felt elation that one of his family had survived. The next moment came the crushing realisation that his grandfather would suffer a far worse fate than death. With thoughts of family Alith raised Gerithon’s head with a hand under his chin.

“What of my mother?” he demanded.

Gerithon closed his eye slowly in reply.

“Do not let me die in torment,” the chamberlain whispered.

Alith stepped away for a moment, unsure what to do. Others had come into the grounds of the manse and were wandering around, gazing with horror at the despicable cruelty on display.

“Bring them down!” snarled Alith, filled with a sudden energy. He pulled his knife from his belt and drew it quickly across Gerithon’s throat. Blood trickled over his fingers and Alith flicked it away. “Give peace to those that have not yet succumbed, and bring all of the bodies to the manse.”

Under Alith’s instructions, the elves gathered the remains of those loyal to the Anars and arranged them inside the house. There were also druchii bodies amongst the dead, for the Chracians and Tiranocii had been true to their oaths and had fought to defend Elanardris. These Alith ordered to be left for the crows and vultures.

Undertaking this sombre task, Alith was blind to those whose bodies he carried. In his eye they were just a blur, not the faces of friends, servants and loved ones. He may have carried Maieth’s body, he did not know. That she was amongst the dead was certain, he did not need to know by what manner she had been slain.

As dusk shrouded all in darkness once more, Alith and his followers brought wood and oil from their stores and with this turned the manse into a great pyre. Alith set a torch to the fuel and then turned away. He did not look back as the flames grew quickly, pushing back the night with their glow. His ears were deaf to the roaring and crackling, and his nose caught no stench of flesh and smoke.

All that he had was gone, and all that was left was a shadow, and as a shadow he walked towards the mountains.

Alith barely registered the others around him as he made his way up the slope. He was aware of nothing; not the grass beneath his feet, not the cold air nor the stars glittering above. Soon he passed along the secret trails into the forest and was alone. He carried on a little further, each step harder than the last, until finally he fell to his knees with an anguished cry torn from his lips. He raised his head and howled like a wolf, giving vent to the rage and despair that was all he had left. Long and piercing was that cry and it echoed from the trees and slopes, mocking him.

When he could screech no more, he tore at the grass, ripping out great clods of earth and tossing them in all directions. He pulled free his sword and swung at the naked branches, hacking and slashing without thought. His stumbling assault brought him to a winding beck and he tripped, splashing into the freezing water. Even the shock of the icy brook did not shake the madness that gripped him. He pulled himself to his feet and waded upstream, cutting the water with his blade and hurling insults at the sky.

He came upon a still pool, shining in the white moon. Casting his sword aside, he threw himself down onto the rocks, his head in his hands. The coldness seeping up from the water filled him, but it was as nothing to the bitter chill in his heart. An icy void was all that remained, and its touch numbed every part of his body.

For a moment or an age he sat there, staring at his reflection. He did not recognise the elf trapped in the still water. There were scratches on a face marked by streaks of soot and filth cut through by the traces of tears. The eyes that stared back at him were dark and wild. This creature was not the son of the Anars, it was some dishevelled, abandoned thing swathed in pity and disgust.

Gripped by another fit of self-hatred, Alith took out a knife and hacked at his hair, and for a moment the blade hovered close to his throat. The temptation struck him to pull the dagger across, to end his misery as he had ended the misery of all those the druchii had tortured.

Yet for all his grief, he hesitated. It would be weakness to avoid his punishment. Hubris had destroyed his family—they had dared to believe themselves strong enough to resist Anlec—and they now lived on only in memory. When he died, the Anars would be no more, and that was a shame he couldn’t bring upon them.

Alith let the knife fall from his fingers into the pool.

As he sat gazing into the water, Alith began to feel and hear and smell again: the tinkling of the stream, the resin of the pine trees. His keen ears could hear burrowing creatures rummaging amongst the fallen needles and the flutter of bats’ wings. Owls screeched and hooted, fish splashed, branches creaked.

And then there came the cawing of a crow.

A shadow appeared beside Alith. He looked up into the face of Elthyrior. The raven herald’s expression was as unmoving as a mask, showing neither sympathy nor scorn. His eyes were unblinking, staring at Alith.

“Begone,” said Alith, his voice a harsh and broken growl.

Elthyrior did not move, nor did his gaze.

The urge to strike the raven herald swelled within Alith. Unreasoning loathing filled him, and in his mind Alith blamed every ill that had beset him on Elthyrior. That calm gaze taunted him.

A snapping twig broke through Alith’s thoughts and he stood, casting a glance over his shoulder. In the dim moonlight that penetrated the trees, he saw a small group of figures: three maidens and two children.

Alith walked towards them unsteadily, blinking. As he came closer he saw that this was no illusion. Before him stood the refugees he had brought out of Tiranoc.

“I took them from Elanardris before the druchii came,” Elthyrior said, answering Alith’s unasked question. “We must take them to safety in Ellyrion, as you should have done before.”

The words seeped slowly into Alith’s mind, to be joined by the memory of the oath he had sworn to Yeasir. Alith looked at each of them in turn, feeling nothing. What did he owe to the shade of a dead commander? He turned his bleak look upon Elthyrior.

“You would be wise to leave,” said Alith. “Without me. There is a cloud upon my life and you would do well not to stand beneath it.”

“No,” Elthyrior replied. “There is nothing to keep you here, no reason to stay. This is not your destiny.”

Alith laughed bitterly.

“And what new tortures does Morai-heg have planned for me?” Elthyrior shrugged.

“I cannot say, but it is not your place to dwindle into nothing here,” he said. “It is not in you to let those who killed your family go unpunished, for all that you blame yourself and me. You deny it, but there will come a reckoning, and you will be the instrument of that vengeance. Remember your oath to slay Caenthras?”

The mention of the elven lord’s name sparked in Alith’s heart and for a moment he felt something. The smallest ember of a fire began to burn inside him.

“And what of the other druchii?” Elthyrior continued. “Do they lay waste to Elanardris without retort? If you will not avenge them, then take up that knife and drive it into your chest, for though you still breathe, you are all but dead. I cannot offer you comfort, nor sympathy. I am also the last of my line, and perhaps you will be the last of yours. My deeds are the last testament to the memory of a father murdered and a mother killed and a sister taken by the daemons. Would you have the last act of the Anars be remembered shamefully, of their lands razed and their people slaughtered?”

“No,” snapped Alith, his vigour strengthening.

“Would you have the druchii claim to have wiped out the Anars?”

“No,” Alith replied, clenching his fists.

“Would you forgive those that have brought this doom upon you? Would you forget their misdeeds and seek sanctuary in your self-pity?”

“No!” Alith snarled. “I will not!”

Alith plunged into the pool and retrieved his dagger and sword. Splashing onto the bank, he saw Heileth, Lirian and the others shrink back from him, their eyes fearful. Far from being ashamed of their reaction, Alith drew strength from their dread. As if in response to his mood the moon hid behind a cloud and the small clearing plunged into darkness. In that darkness Alith felt himself growing. The twilight poured into him, the shadows claiming him for their own.

There was fear in the darkness and he would become that fear. The druchii murderers would scream their guilt from bloodied lips and beg for a forgiveness that did not exist. They had claimed the darkness for themselves, but it was not theirs alone to rule. The night might belong to them, but the shadows would belong to Alith.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.