—<NINETEEN>—
Child of the Wolf and the Moon
Alith slept with the wolves for most of the day and woke as the sun was setting. He felt calm; a peace had descended upon him that he had not felt for many years. Stretching, he returned to the pool for another drink while the rest of the pack roused themselves for the next hunt.
Blackmane was amongst the last to wake, the fierce pack leader prowling from the cave, still suspicious of Alith. Alith deferentially dropped to his hands and knees without thought as Blackmane stalked past towards the water.
Rays of dusk streamed through the treetops as the wolves gathered around Blackmane. The pack headed northwards at a steady pace and Alith kept up with them with ease. Not far from the cave, the pack split, some of the wolves heading off in pairs, others alone. In this way they could cover more ground searching for a potential kill.
Alith could only follow their lead, staying close to the older female that had befriended him that morning. Her fur was a speckled dark and light grey that reflected the light, and Alith named her Silver. He had also dubbed a few others from instantly recognisable features: Snowtail; Broken Fang; Old Grey; One Ear; Scar. The others of the pack were still indistinguishable from each other in Alith’s eyes.
From what he knew of wolves, most of the pack would be the offspring of Blackmane and Old Grey; a few of the others were stragglers like himself adopted by the pair. More than half were male, and they were of all ages, Blackmane and Old Grey being the eldest, with several young that Alith judged to be little more than a year old. The youngest playfully danced and wrestled with each other, swiping their paws across the muzzles of their rivals in mock fights, nipping at each other’s necks and hindquarters in practice for killing prey.
Alith faced another difficulty in communicating with his new companions. They rarely spoke in Kurnous’ tongue, preferring to express themselves with stance and position, the subtleties of which were entirely lost on Alith. He had already learnt not to meet Blackmane’s eye; doing so always drew bared fangs and the need for Alith to quickly fall to his stomach in appeasement. Alith was most perturbed by this, as none of the other wolves seemed to suffer Blackmane’s wrath so vehemently. As he ran alongside Silver, he pondered why Blackmane had allowed Alith to join at all if the pack leader felt such antipathy towards the two-legged arrival. There was no means by which Alith could ask this question, the language of Kurnous being devoid of any means to express such emotional concepts.
A howl to the east signalled that prey had been located. Silver stopped and sat back, raising her head to respond in kind. After receiving a reply, she quickly broke eastwards. Other howls sounded around Alith while the pack located each other. Within a short time, Alith found himself surrounded by converging silvery-grey shadows slinking through the twilight that shimmered through the canopy of the forest.
It was Scar that had found something. The male was sat on the lip of a rise, looking northwards, occasionally letting loose a howl to bring the other wolves to the hunt. The pack picked up the scent of prey, their tails straightening with excitement. Blackmane trotted into view and Alith drew back behind Silver. The other wolves let out an excited mix of barks and wails until Blackmane snarled them into silence.
Blackmane’s mate, the one Alith called Old Grey, took the lead, forging down a steep bank covered with fern fronds. The air was filled with rustling as the wolves closed in on their quarry, clouds of spores floating in the dusk light. Alith followed closely behind, keeping bent low to avoid being seen. The pack slowed as they neared their prey, their voices falling silent as they did so. Alith could not tell what it was they hunted; the press of trees prevented him from seeing what the wolves could smell. He kept behind Silver as the wolves gathered together, stalking through the underbrush with purpose.
It was then that the wind brought to him the scent of deer, sharper than he had ever smelt it in the mountains of Elanardris. The musk set his heart beating faster, awakening an urge to chase and kill. He took deep breaths to calm himself and kept his gaze far ahead, seeking some glimpse of the herd.
At the bottom of the dell, Old Grey turned to the left and followed a shallow rivulet upstream, the ground rising higher and higher into the outermost reaches of the Annulii foothills. Alith realised with a shock that he was already a considerable distance from the Ellyrion border, deep within the realm of Avelorn. It occurred to him that he had never been in such danger—armed only with a knife and devoid of all armour—yet he felt no nervousness. It was as natural to him to stalk naked through these woods as it had been for him to stand upon the mountainside with bow in hand.
Despite the excitement of the chase, there was a peace in Alith’s heart. Although he had only been with the pack for a day, he already felt a bond with them from sharing their food and sleeping with them the night before. It was not since his early days with Milandith that he had felt such closeness, such welcome familiarity.
Old Grey stopped as another howl split the air, not far to the north. The wolves closed in on Blackmane making uncertain noises, one or two of them whimpering. The howl sounded again and was taken up by other lupine throats, rising in pitch and volume. Blackmane’s hackles rose and he stood with quivering legs, alert and enraged. He let loose a howl of his own, long and deep. The rest of the pack took up the call, issuing a challenge to the unseen newcomers.
The answering wails seemed to come from many places and of different tones, but Alith had learnt enough about wolves to know that they changed position and their howls to give the impression of greater numbers. Blackmane’s pack was large and it was unlikely the interlopers outnumbered them. For all that, it was only Blackmane that showed no signs of fear. The other wolves punctuated their howls with quiet whimpers, their ears pressed back in distress, their tails rigid with tension.
The howling contest continued for some time. Blackmane stood his ground as the other pack’s cries came louder and closer. All then fell quiet, save for the sighing of the wind in the leaves and the trickle of the watercourse down the middle of the tree-filled dell. The pack spread out a little, more than half of them moving a little way downwind, the direction from which any attack would be most likely. Blackmane stood on a rock barking like a general ordering his regiments into position before a battle. Silver edged her way to the north and Alith followed for a few strides until Blackmane’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Two-legs, come close,” the grizzled wolf snapped at Alith.
Alith did as he was told without hesitation, crouching beside the boulder upon which the pack leader was standing.
“Fight likely,” said Blackmane, turning his golden eyes on Alith. There was no sign of the pack leader’s earlier aggression; Alith fancied that he detected a kinder tone in the old wolfs voice. “Stay close. Sharp fang kill stag quick. Sharp fang not kill wolf quick. Two-legs tall, neck safe. Protect legs. Bite throat. Bite neck.”
Alith nodded in understanding and then caught himself, realising that the gesture meant nothing to Blackmane.
“Bite throat, bite neck,” said Alith.
Blackmane turned his attention away and Alith settled back on his haunches, his eyes seeking any sign of movement in the rapidly darkening forest. A cool breeze eddied down the steep valley.
A howl that Alith now recognised as Old Grey’s echoed from ahead. Alith drew his knife but stayed crouched behind the rock, his glance flicking between the trees and Blackmane. The pack leader was stood erect, tail trembling, lips drawn back as a deep growl reverberated from his throat. Alith quivered from the vibrations of Blackmane’s warning and from the rush of blood surging through his body. Leaves rustled close at hand as the other pack members drew closer to Blackmane, taking up guard in a circle around their leader.
Some of the younger wolves began to whimper, sensing the agitation exuded by the adults. They laid down in the ferns, ears flattened, shoulders hunched tight, while the older pack members stood protectively over them.
The first of the rival pack appeared a short distance away to the right, bounding lightly over a fallen tree trunk, hairs bristling along her back. She stopped as she saw Blackmane and the others and was quickly joined by five more wolves, all of them nearly as large as Blackmane, all considerably older.
Blackmane turned towards the newcomers and snarled, his teeth glinting in the setting sun.
“Go!” he snapped. “Our hunt!”
Now that he was becoming more familiar with the wolves’ behaviour, Alith thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in the interlopers. They all stood with fangs bared and eyes narrowed, but the occasional nervous flick of their ears betrayed a lack of confidence.
“No hunt,” said the female. Alith saw that her jaws were bloodstained and she held herself awkwardly, favouring her left hind leg.
“She is wounded,” Alith whispered to Blackmane.
“Our hunt,” Blackmane repeated, ignoring Alith. “Go back!”
A shiver of fright rippled through the rival wolves, and they sank lower to their bellies, giving up their pretence of aggression. Only the female stood her ground, her gaze constantly moving between Blackmane and the other members of his pack. Her eyes finally settled on Alith and she gave a startled yelp and flinched.
“Two-legs!” she yowled. Edging backwards, she started a constant whining that was taken up by the others of her pack.
Their reaction spread to several of Blackmane’s wolves, who began to make inquiring barks, seeking reassurance from their leader. A few looked with suspicion at Alith and bared their teeth.
Blackmane glanced at Alith and then returned his attention to the strangers.
“Two-legs hunt with us,” he said. “One of pack.”
“Many two-legs come,” said the female. “Hunt with long fangs. Kill many. Not eat.”
“Two-legs not hunt wolf,” said Blackmane. “Go now!”
“Two-legs kill wolf,” the female insisted, stepping forwards again. “Long fangs and sharp fangs. Mate dead. Many pack’s killed.”
“How close?” Alith asked, standing up. This earned him a growl from Blackmane and more whimpering from the strangers, but he ignored both and walked forwards, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “How close two-legs?”
“We run for two suns,” said the female hesitantly. “Try to fight. Many killed. Two-legs not chase. Two-legs come from high ground. Come this way.”
“Many two-legs?” asked Blackmane, leaping down from the rock and padding between Alith and the other pack. Old Grey, Scar and a few others moved forwards also, backing up their pack leader with growls and snarls.
“Many, many two-legs,” the female answered. “Many long fangs. Many sharp fangs. Two-legs fight other two-legs.”
Alith was taken aback by this revelation. He had suspected that the Chracians had come south over the mountains, fleeing the druchii. Now it seemed the druchii had come to Avelorn as well.
“All two-legs kill wolves?” he asked.
“Black two-legs kill wolves,” the female replied. “Black two-legs bring noise. Black two-legs bring fires. Black two-legs burn other two-legs.”
Revulsion lurched in Alith’s stomach at the thought of the druchii coming here. It could only mean that Chrace had been overrun at last, and Avelorn was now under threat.
“Two-legs come here?” Blackmane asked. In reply, the other wolf merely whimpered and flattened her ears. “Two-legs come, we fight.”
“Not fight,” whined the female. “Two-legs come with long fangs. They kill, not fight.”
“Our hunt!” snarled Blackmane. “Not run!”
“Our two-legs has sharp fang,” added Old Grey.
“Two-legs has no long fang,” said the other wolf. “Sharp fang not fight long fang.”
It was now that Alith realised “long fang” was the wolves’ expression for a bow; most likely the dwarf-made repeater crossbows the druchii brought back from the colonies of Nagarythe in Elthin Arvan. The wolves would have no chance to fight against such hunters, and would be slaughtered by the vicious druchii out of a sheer pleasure for killing.
“We run,” Alith said, turning to Blackmane. The pack leader snarled and snapped his jaws but Alith did not back down. “Cannot fight long fangs. Long fangs kill many wolves. Wolves kill no long fangs.”
For a moment Alith thought Blackmane would attack. The wolf bunched his muscles, preparing to pounce, his tail as straight as a rod behind him.
“We run,” said Old Grey. “Long fangs kill cubs. We ran. Find new hunt.”
“No!” Blackmane rounded on his mate. “Two-legs come, two-legs keep coming. Pack runs, pack keeps running. Better fight not ran. Make two-legs go away!”
“Not run, hide,” said Alith. “Black two-legs hunting other two-legs. Not hunting wolves. Wolves hide, two-legs go away.”
Alith knew this to be a lie; given any opportunity the druchii would scour Avelorn with sword and flame. The only chance for survival for the pack would be to lie low until the forces of the Everqueen and her subjects could push back the druchii advance.
The other wolves continued to argue, but Alith did not listen. He was confused by his own reaction. Why did he care whether the wolves lived or died? If they killed even a single druchii, would that not be a victory? He wondered what had happened to the hatred that had burned within him only two days before. Why did he not feel like striking out against the druchii?
A glance back at the worried pack gave him his answer. He saw the cowering cubs, heard the whimpers of their guardians. This was a family, and though they were not elves, they no more deserved to be sacrificed to the druchii’s bloodlust than the people of Ellyrion, or any other creature of Ulthuan. The druchii despised all that they could not control, and they would come to Avelorn with their whips and their chains to tame the wilds. Morathi craved domination over all creatures, not just her fellow elves. Alith realised that Morathi must hate the Everqueen even more than she hated Caledor; an incarnation of purity and nobility that Morathi could never defeat save through force.
“We hunt,” Alith said suddenly, cutting through the wolves’ argument. “Not fight, hunt! Kill in darkness. Hunt two-legs.”
“Hunt two-legs?” said Old Grey. “Not good. We kill two-legs, more two-legs come to kill.”
“I am two-legs, I know two-legs,” Alith told the wolves as they padded back and forth uncertainly. “Black two-legs bad. Black two-legs kill and kill and kill. Other two-legs fight black two-legs and wolves hunt black two-legs. Two-legs afraid.”
Blackmane was staring intently at Alith, his posture more relaxed.
“Two-legs hunt with long fang, sharper than fang, sharper than sharp fang,” said the pack leader.
“Yes,” said Alith. “Not fight long fang. Hunt two-legs. Hunt at night. Hunt quiet. Kill two-legs and hide. Come back and hunt two-legs again. Not fight.”
“Two-legs need long fang to hunt,” said Blackmane. “Long fang sharper than sharp fang.”
“I have no long fang,” Alith replied. Save for his knife, his possessions had been abandoned.
“Water has long fang,” said Blackmane. “Two-legs take long fang and hunt.”
Alith was confused, unsure what Blackmane was telling him. Frustration welled up within the elf, unable to speak properly with the rest of the pack.
“Water has long fang?” Alith said.
“Old long fang,” said Scar, a grizzled-looking wolf with a greying muzzle and the jagged remains of a wound across his right shoulder. “Long fang in water old as forest, older. Wolves not need long fang. Two-legs need long fang. Long fang hide from two-legs. Only bright face of night show long fang.”
Scar’s words bordered on the meaningless, but his tone was low, almost reverential. Alith sifted through the jumbled phrases trying to discern any sense, but the wolfs references were entirely lost on him.
“Yes,” agreed Blackmane. “Water hide long fang. Bright face of night come soon. Two-legs take long fang. Hunt black two-legs. Pack hunt.”
“Show me long fang,” said Alith, realising that the wolves were speaking of a real place.
“Bright face of night show long fang,” said Scar. “Six more suns before bright face of night come.”
Slowly understanding dawned on Alith as he pieced together the strands of the wolves’ story. “Suns” were days, and in six days’ time the moon Sariour would be full: the bright face of the night. Whatever it was the wolves were talking about, it could only be seen by the light of the full moon.
“Good,” said Alith and Scar wagged his tail appreciatively. “Hide six suns. Bright face of night show long fang.”
“Hide six suns,” said Blackmane, his words punctuated with snarls. “Watch black two-legs. Two-legs take long fang. Hunt black two-legs.”
The stragglers that had been fleeing the druchii were welcomed into the pack by Blackmane, and the wolves headed east to seek a lair. As they travelled, the howls of other packs could be heard, all of them moving southwards and eastwards away from the mountains.
They encountered other animals retreating from the druchii invasion. Herds of deer threw aside their usual caution, risking the attention of the wolves rather than be caught by the invaders. The pack still needed to eat and the terrified deer proved to be easy prey. That dusk, Alith again gorged himself on fresh flesh, filled with the thrill of the hunt and the energy of the kill.
Over the following days the pack moved into the territories of rival wolves. Each sunrise was heralded by a cacophony of howls as the two packs strove to assert their dominance. Each time neither side was willing to retreat and the two packs came together. Clearly outnumbered, the rival wolves nevertheless stood their ground, daring Blackmane to attack. On the first occasion, Alith feared that there would be bloodshed, but Blackmane surprised him, and the rest of his pack. He told the other wolves of what was happening and warned them to head east. The other pack became fearful and begged Blackmane to help them. The old leader was reluctant, but Alith persuaded him to allow the pack to grow even larger.
Three more encounters ended the same way, and the pack grew to over fifty in number. Alith was reminded of the mustering of regiments at Elanardris. The growth of the pack came with the same problems the Anars had faced. There were more mouths to feed and the huge pack was forced to range far and wide to seek food, their prey having also been driven away by the presence of the druchii. This slowed down the pack and one night Alith could smell the fires of the druchii camp and hear their raucous celebrations on the wind.
That night Blackmane told the pack they could not hunt but had to run as swiftly as they could, to keep the druchii from catching them. Always the wolves headed east, but the druchii were never more than a day’s travel behind as they drove into the heart of Avelorn.
As the pack continued to move, some of their number would break off, alone or in pairs, and head northwards to spy upon the druchii. They returned with news that the druchii were burning many trees and had slain hundreds of creatures from the forest. Alith tried to find out the druchii numbers, but the best the wolves could tell him was “a flock” and “many packs”. On the eighth night since coming to Avelorn, Alith convinced Blackmane to allow the elf to see for himself the strength of the enemy.
Having acclimatised quickly to the sounds and rhythms of the forest, Alith was confident as he set out at dusk, following back along the path the wolves had taken. As the sun set and the forest was plunged into starlight, he turned northwards and kept a fast but steady pace. He ran for most of the night, stopping only to drink occasionally, the moons rising and falling before he first smelt the smoke of fires drifting through the trees.
Slowing to a walk, Alith saw distant flickers of orange and red. The stench of the charnel fires drifted to him on the gentle wind, a choking mix of woodsmoke and burning flesh. Swathed in almost total darkness, Alith stalked towards the camp with dagger in hand.
Amongst the long and wavering shadows cast by the pyres, Alith spied several sentries. He watched for a while, noting the routes of their patrols and the timing. For all of their depravity, these druchii were disciplined and organised and at first Alith could see no way past the cordon. It was only after further observation that Alith noticed the sentries kept their gaze groundwards; none of them looked up into the trees as they patrolled. And why would they? As far as the druchii knew, there was no threat from the leaves and branches above their heads.
Smiling grimly, Alith slipped forwards silently and climbed the bole of a tree overlooking one of the patrol paths. He waited patiently in the branches, not a muscle moving, his breathing slow and shallow, eyes scanning the path below for the approach of an enemy.
As Alith had predicted, one of the guards came marching between the trees with spear and shield ready. His eyes never once looked up as he passed below Alith.
Alith soundlessly dropped down behind the druchii and plunged his knife into the side of his neck, killing him instantly. Quickly stripping the body, Alith took the clothes and armour before dragging the corpse into a nearby bush so that it would remain unseen.
Clad in the uniform of the slain soldier, Alith headed towards the druchii camp.
With a swagger Alith had often seen affected by the druchii, the lord of the Anars strolled into the enemy camp. He knew that his Naggarothi features would blend in with the druchii, and it was far easier to avoid detection in plain sight than to skulk in the shadows. As he expected, there were no challenges and the elves of the camp never gave him a second glance. To walk so boldly in front of his enemies sent a frisson through Alith’s body. It pleased him immensely to masquerade as one of them; an invisible foe ready to strike at their heart.
The druchii force was not as large as Alith had first feared. He guessed by the size of the camp that there were three or four thousand in this army, almost half of them cultists of Khaine. He was surprised by this, noting that the worshippers of Khaine seemed to be gaining power over their rivals. He saw a few Salthite totems and heard chants to Ereth Khial, but it was the sacrificial pyres to the Lord of Murder that dominated the ceremonies.
As he walked between the black and red pavilions and weaved his way between stupefied cultists, Alith detected an atmosphere of desperation. It was intangible, but Alith could feel an edge in the words of the priests as they raised their voices to the cytharai, imploring for their favour. The braziers sputtered not with the organs of elves, but with the hearts and livers of deer and bear and wolf. Alith saw not a single elven prisoner.
As he walked, Alith noted the layout of the camp. The cultists were confined to the centre, surrounded by the tents that housed the soldiery. Morathi’s commanders were taking no chances with their unreliable allies, keeping a close watch on the cultists. Combining this observation with the lack of cultists in the army on the Ellyrion plain, Alith wondered if Morathi was finally tiring of her sectarian lackeys. They had been useful to her in claiming power, but now their presence created more chaos and problems for the druchii.
Alith was also able to compare his experience in the camp with the time the Shadows had spent in Anlec. Many of the warriors were younger, less than three hundred years old. In times past, such youngsters would never have been allowed to march in a Naggarothi host. It gave Alith hope to see this, knowing that with every year that the druchii were held back, their numbers would dwindle. Morathi’s gambit had been to seize Ulthuan before the princes could organise themselves in the wake of Bel Shanaar’s death. It seemed that the actions of the Anars had perhaps helped in some way to prevent this. Alith doubted whether history would remember the brave deeds of his house, or the tragedy at Black Fen, but it gave him some momentary pride to recall them. For the first time since the massacre, he was able to look back on that day with a feeling other than hatred and misery.
He had seen enough to convince him that the druchii were vulnerable. If they stayed together, they would eventually be found and destroyed by the Chracians or the warriors of the Everqueen. If they split… Alith would be waiting for them with his newly met friends.
Alith cut south through the camp, moving at a nonchalant walk, his spear over one shoulder, shield slung on a belt across his back. He left the circle of pyres and strolled into the darkness, the only light the flicker of firelight from a spearpoint or link of mail. He saw a sentry a little apart from the others and approached, gently humming the battle anthem of the Anars. The warrior carried a bow and a long sword hung at his waist.
Alith deliberately snapped a twig beneath his foot and the guard turned at Alith’s noisy approach, relaxed and unwary.
“You should see some of those Athartists,” Alith said with a leering look. “You could stretch them any which way you want and they wouldn’t make a whimper.”
“I wouldn’t mind the odd scream or two…” the guard said with a lewd chuckle.
“I’ve had my fill already why don’t you go and enjoy the festivities,” suggested Alith, half-turning back towards the camp. “I drank some moonleaf tea and I can’t sleep a wink. I’ll keep watch. You never know when we’ll be attacked by a badger or something!”
“I’m not so sure,” replied the sentry, glancing between the beckoning fires and the looming shadow of the commanders’ pavilion.
“Oh well, if you want to stay here in the dark…” said Alith, taking a step back towards the glow of the flames.
“Wait!” hissed the guard. Alith smiled to himself before turning around to face the soldier.
“I won’t tell anybody, if you won’t,” Alith said with a smirk. He enjoyed the dilemma playing out on the druchii’s face. His indecision, his uncertainty, gave Alith a sense of power over him. He wasn’t sure why he toyed with the elf in this way, when he could have easily surprised and overpowered him. There was something about making the druchii dance to the tune of the Anars that was immensely gratifying.
Alith stood next to the druchii and laid his arm across his shoulders.
“I don’t think the commander is going to let them stay that long,” Alith added, imagining himself tying the hook onto the end of a fishing line. It was almost too easy to enjoy. Almost.
“I heard as such,” said the guard. “He said it was ‘bad for discipline’, or something like that.”
“It is a bit of a distraction,” said Alith.
As quick as a serpent, Alith slipped behind the warrior and tightened his arm around his victim’s throat and neck. The sentry barely had time for a few choking gasps before he slumped into Alith’s arms.
“A terrible distraction,” Alith whispered as he hefted the unconscious elf across his shoulders and headed into the woods.
* * *
Tarmelion woke with a thunderous headache and a biting soreness in his chest. He felt dizzy and did not risk opening his eyes immediately. As he recovered his senses, fear gripped him. He could feel nothing, except for a throbbing in his wrists and ankles and a sharper pain in his chest. He was cold. There was something sticky on his face.
Opening his eyes, Tarmelion found himself looking at the leaf-strewn ground, some distance away. It took a moment for him to realise that he was hung from a tree branch, naked, with blood dripping from a cut in his chest.
“How long before you bleed to death?” a voice asked him from above. Something shifted its weight on the branch and Tarmelion began swaying gently. He craned his neck to catch sight of his tormentor but he could not twist his head far enough to see. He caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure just above him, but it moved out of sight as soon as his eyes fell upon it.
“Who are you?” Tarmelion begged, the pain in his chest growing as his heart began to beat faster, forcing more blood from the wound.
“Why are you here?” the voice asked. “What do you want with Avelorn? How many more of your kind are coming?”
“I don’t know!” sobbed Tarmelion, already terrified out of his wits. He could remember nothing of how he came to be in this place. His last memory was talking to one of the other sentries outside the camp. “What are you?”
He repeated this question again and again, tears streaming from his eyes, the blood rushing to his head and spilling across his face from the gash above his heart. All became silent save for the distant patter of blood drops hitting the leaves far below.
The branch creaked and a moment later Tarmelion was confronted by a horrifying apparition. A face appeared right in front of him, upside-down and covered in blood.
It was smiling. Tarmelion shrieked and tried to get away, straining every muscle, sending himself swinging dizzyingly from side to side. The face followed him, close enough he could smell blood on its breath. The smile faded and the creature bared bloodstained teeth at him.
“You are going to tell me everything you know,” the thing snarled.
Having learned what he wanted, Alith knocked the druchii unconscious and cut him from the tree. He carried him back towards the camp and left him close to one of the paths. Avelorn was the subject of many strange tales and dark legends, and it served Alith well that the sentry be found and spoke to his comrades of his terrifying encounter with a bloodthirsty denizen from the forest. It would sow more doubt in the hearts of the druchii and add to their fear of this unnatural place.
Alith stripped off the druchii clothes, glad to be rid of them for they had been ripe with the stench of fire and death. He did this not only for his personal comfort, but because he was afraid the smell of the druchii would mask his own scent and confuse the wolves. If he came upon the pack in such a fashion, they would attack without question and perhaps only later realise their mistake. Better to walk as nature intended. He kept the bow, arrows and sword.
Dawn came as Alith was making his way back through the woods at a swift run. The chorus of howls that greeted the sun allowed him to steer towards the pack’s location. They would be on the hunt at this time, padding sleekly through the early morning twilight in search of prey He felt the same urge and slipped an arrow to the bow. Slowing, he searched for tracks and soon came across a ran used by rabbits. A surge of excitement welled up inside Alith at the thought of catching his prey and it took all of his willpower to remain calm. The bow trembled in his hand; he wanted to cast it aside and hunt with knife and teeth.
What was it that he had awoken with the slaying of Kurnous’ stag?
It was dusk once again before Alith caught up with the rest of the pack, which had made its lair in a thin grove of trees beside a wide lake. Silver was the first to greet him with barks and licks and Alith raffled her fur and stroked her chest in return. They were interrupted by Scar.
“Two-legs come,” said the wolf, turning away without waiting for acknowledgement.
Alith gave Silver a parting pat and followed Scar down to the water’s edge. The lake was quite large, easily more than a bowshot wide and twice as long, aligned roughly north to south. The water was crystal-clear, a perfect mirror of the ruddy skies fringed with the silhouettes of the trees. Scar turned northwards and followed the edge of the lake, which was marked by a ribbon of shore upon which only grass grew, sloping gently down to the bare earth at the lake’s bank.
In the twilight Alith saw Blackmane at the northern end of the lake, sitting attentively at the water’s edge. The pack leader stared out towards the middle of the lake. Alith followed his gaze but could see nothing. There was no wind and not even a ripple disturbed the lake’s surface.
“Water holds long fang,” said Scar as they approached Blackmane. “Two-legs take long fang, hunt other two-legs.”
Scar sat down to the right of his leader and Alith crouched down on the other side. Blackmane had not moved a muscle for the entire time, but now turned his head and looked at Alith.
“Long time, many lives, since two-legs came to forest,” said Blackmane, his voice quiet, respectful. “Long fang in lake before two-legs came. Long fang old as forest.”
Blackmane returned to his vigil, his immobility a reflection of the utter stillness that surrounded the lake. Alith sat cross-legged and waited also, comfortable in the silence. His mind drifted, memories and feelings swirling together, pictures forming in his mind’s eye on the tranquil water.
He had always craved space and peace. Having grown up with no brothers or sisters, there had always been somewhere he could find away from other elves, to listen to his thoughts alone. He remembered gala banquets in the great hall and on the lawns. He recalled long days spent with tutors in the library, trying to absorb the knowledge they were imparting their voices becoming a drone while his mind wandered to the mountains. He had enjoyed the company of his friends, but their presence was something that could be chosen. When he wanted companionship he had been able to find it, and when he wanted solitude, the wilds had always beckoned.
As he allowed himself to drift into a trance-like state, Alith’s senses sharpened. He could hear the playful yaps and yelps of the pack across the lake and the chirruping of birds in the trees. Blackmane’s breathing was slow and regular, while Scar panted with excitement. The evening air was cool on Alith’s skin, but not unpleasant. He felt the weight of the quiver across his back and realised he still held the bow he had taken from the druchii sentry. These objects felt out of place, and he stood and strode across to the line of trees encircling the lake clearing. He took off the accoutrements of war and placed them beside a tree, noting its position so he could return for them later. Completely naked once again, he returned to Blackmane’s side.
Alith quickly fell back into his contemplative state. All turmoil gone, Alith sensed something else. It was magic. Since the time of Aenarion and Caledor, the winds of magic had been drawn into the Vortex of Ulthuan and Alith had grown up knowing but not really noticing the immaterial winds that swept through the mountains of his home. He had felt their coil and eddy as he gave thanks to Kurnous, and had enjoyed their suffusing energy when he had called upon them to shield him from view or guide his aim.
Here, in Avelorn, the magic was different, of an entirely older order. It was rooted in the trees, lingered in the grounds and was contained in the waters of the lake. Having focussed on this realisation, Alith noted that the lake was particularly strong in mystical energy. It reminded him of silver-yellow rain, of calm dew on an autumn morning or the scent of a spring flower. There was potential here, life that was ancient and eternal. This was the magic of the Everqueen, the source of her power. It was this that the druchii—Morathi—wanted to desecrate. The druchii could never enslave such a power and so they sought to deny it to their foes. It was their way, to destroy that which they could not claim, to taint that which could create.
A sharpness, a sudden spike in the magic of the pool, brought Alith out of his waking dream. He opened his eyes slowly, as if from a long and refreshing sleep. The twilight had gone, replaced by a clear sky full of stars and the full moon. Alith turned to Blackmane, but realised with a shock that both the pack leader and Scar had left him. He sat alone on the edge of the lake.
Even as he wondered why the wolves had brought him here, Alith saw something shimmering in the middle of the lake. He took it to be the reflection of the moon above and stood for a better look. The glimmer of light was not the moon, which strangely did not reflect on the water at all. The source of the light was within the water, at the bottom of the lake.
Alith looked around him, suddenly disconcerted. In the night the trees seemed different, the lake more menacing. It was a sheen of black; even the stars did not show on its surface. Only that light in the depths illuminated the scene, dappling the shore and the surrounding trunks and branches with a silvery hue.
Alith fought back his fear with reason, pushing aside the animalistic instincts that had suffused him during his time amongst the pack. It was not dread that filled the clearing, but there was something that tugged at Alith’s heart. It was a deep sorrow, a longful mourning. He sensed that a great tragedy had occurred at some time in the distant past. It was neither a memory nor a sensation he could define, but there was something about the bleakness of the scene that told him of an emptiness and loss of hope that only he could understand; something as alone as he was called out to him from the waters.
Alith waded into the lake, warm against his skin. He felt as if he strode into a pool of quicksilver, meeting slick resistance. Pushing forwards, he began to swim, striking out towards the strange light with slow, measured strokes. His passage made not a single ripple and no splash spoiled the silence. He kicked his legs and swam faster, but still the lake was as calm as it had been when he first laid eyes upon it.
Though he swam, Alith could feel no sense of motion or time and he could not tell for how long he forged towards that light. It grew neither stronger nor weaker but remained constant, bathing him in its glow. Had the lake been normal, he could have crossed it a dozen times over without too much effort, but Alith found his breath coming in short gasps, his limbs tired. It felt like he had been swimming for an eternity but he pressed on, ignoring the burning of his muscles and the pressure in his chest. The light surrounded him, dragging him forwards.
When he knew he was above the light source—and he did not know how but he just knew—Alith stopped and treaded water for a moment. He looked down but all he could see was the white and silver that engulfed him.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged downwards, towards the sunken moonlight.
Down and down he swam until his lungs were fit to burst. Down even further he went, his world now a bubble of silver that embraced him. Part of him wanted to stop, wanted to turn and break for the surface, fearful of drowning. Another part of Alith welcomed the oblivion the light offered. Yet still another part of him heard a voice.
It was a female voice, which Alith recognised as if in distant remembrance, but he did not know whether the voice came from the water or inside his own head. The voice reminded him of safety and boredom but he could not place it. It told him a story as he swam, the words coming to mind as if recalled, yet Alith did not know from where the memory might come.
In the age before the elves the gods were as one with the world and the heavens. They played and schemed and fought with one another. And loved. Greatest of the godly lovers were Kurnous the Hunter and Lileath of the Moon. For eternity Kurnous wooed Lileath but the two of them could never meet, for Kurnous dwelt in the endless forests of the world and the Moon Goddess haunted the skies. To show Kurnous that his love was not unrequited, Lileath petitioned Vaul the Smith to create a gift for the Hunter. She poured her love and her soul into that gift and bade Vaul to take it to Kurnous as a token of her affection. Khaine the Warrior, ever jealous of Kurnous and Lileath’s love, intercepted Vaul as he returned from the moon. He demanded that Vaul give him the gift that Lileath had commissioned. Vaul refused, telling Khaine that it was not for him. At this Khaine grew very angry and threatened to torture the crippled Smith if he did not give him Lileath’s gift. Vaul refused again and instead passed the gift to Isha to hide it from Khaine. Isha, Mother of the World, proclaimed that none save for Kurnous would ever find the token of Lileath’s love. Shedding a tear, she cast the gift down from the heavens to the world. Vaul suffered greatly at the hands of Khaine for his defiance, but the Smith-God did not know where the gift was hidden. When Khaine released him, Vaul told Kurnous of what had happened. Kurnous was the God of the Hunt and there was nothing he could not find, but the gift of Lileath eluded him. Every month she looked down upon the world and stared at her gift, so that Kurnous might follow her gaze. Yet the Hunter never found it before the elves came and the gods were forced to dwell evermore in the heavens. So it was that Kurnous and Lileath would remain apart for eternity and Kurnous’ children would howl their love for Lileath every full moon.
Alith felt something in his grasp, solid yet flexible. He tightened his grip on it and turned, heading for the surface. The glow diminished around him while fatigue and lack of breath played tricks on his mind, confusing him with glimpses from his past and a cacophony of noise. His heart thundered and his body screamed in pain along every vein and fibre of muscle. His prize tight in his hand, Alith pushed upwards, feeling the strength leaking from him, the last bubbles of air streaming from between his gritted teeth.
With an explosive gasp and a spume of water, Alith broke the surface of the lake. The starlit sky spun and the moon swirled. His whole body was numb, save for his right hand, which was pained by the tightness of his grip. Alith took in great lungfuls of air and after a while the pain and dizziness receded, though he still felt as weak as a newborn cub. Only when the rushing in his ears had stopped and he could feel the water against his skin once more did he look at what he held.
It was the most beautiful bow he had ever set eyes upon. Crafted from a silvery metal that glittered in the moonlight, its tips were each decorated with a crescent moon. No droplet of water clung to its length and its string was all but invisible, finer than a hair. It felt as light as air in his grasp and perfectly balanced for his hand. It was warm to the touch, reassuring, almost loving with its presence.
Alith heard noises from the edge of the lake. Looking around he saw that the moon was just above the treetops, almost gone from view. In the dim light he could discern the shadowy shapes of the wolf pack, spread around the shore of the lake. Dozens of pairs of eyes glittered in the shadows, watching him. Keeping himself afloat with gentle kicks and sweeps with his free arm, Alith kissed the bow and held it triumphantly above his head.
All around him the wolves howled as the Children of Kurnous cried their love for Lileath.