—<TWENTY-ONE>—
An Oath Fulfilled
Alith ran for many days, heading south across Ellyrion, filled with the spirit of the hunt. Clad in naught but his weapons, he avoided the herds of the Ellyrians, travelling by day and night. He did not pause to kill and drank sparingly, possessed by the vision of his new war against the druchii. As packs his warriors would hunt, like the Shadows of old.
By the dark of night he crested a hill and looked south. To the east the lights of Tor Elyr glittered on the waters of the Inner Sea. He hesitated for just a moment, a last pang of regret upon seeing the city where Athielle lived. It was gone in an instant. To the south he saw the shrouded lanterns of the Naggarothi camp.
Approaching the camp, Alith was called upon by a picket to identify himself. It was only when he saw the astounded look upon the sentry’s face that Alith became aware of his outlandish appearance. The Naggarothi eyed Alith for a long time, struggling between joy and incredulity as the prince made himself known.
“Send word to Khillrallion and Tharion that I wish to see them immediately,” said Alith as he strode unashamedly into the camp.
“My prince, where have you been?” asked the warrior, following a little way behind his lord. “We feared that you were dead or taken prisoner.”
“Such a thing will never happen,” Alith replied with a grim smile. “The druchii will never catch me.”
Alith sent the soldier ahead to fetch his lieutenants and made directly for the rough lodge that served as his quarters. More Naggarothi came from their huts and tents to stare at their returning prince. Alith ignored their inquisitive gazes, though he noted that while many were astounded by his appearance an almost equal number seemed to focus upon the moonbow in his hand.
Tharion came running through the camp as Alith reached the door to the lodge.
“Prince Alith!” the commander cried out with a mixture of relief and surprise. “At first I did not believe it!”
There followed much inquiry as to the prince’s whereabouts and actions, all of which Alith refused to answer. His experiences in Avelorn were his alone, to share with no other. All that his people needed to know was their prince had returned, and with fresh purpose.
When Khillrallion arrived, he brought with him another elf: Carathril. Alith was as surprised by the herald’s presence as Carathril was by Alith’s appearance. They greeted each other coolly, both unsure of each other’s agenda.
“What brings the herald of the Phoenix King to my camp?” Alith asked as they walked into the main room of the lodge. He carefully placed the moonbow on the long table, before removing his belt and quiver and laying them to one side. Alert and dignified, Alith sat at the head of the table and gestured for the others to sit.
“Carathril is here at my request,” said Tharion, exchanging a glance with Khillrallion. “When you disappeared we were at a loss. We sought the advice of King Caledor as to how we might best aid his cause. We have been discussing joining Caledor in his next campaign.”
“That will not be required,” said Alith. He turned to Carathril. “However, your journey has not been entirely in vain. Return to your master with the news that the druchii have invaded Avelorn in strength. Even now they are probably at the border of the Gaen Vale.”
Carathril took this news with a frown.
“And how are you aware of this?” asked the herald.
“I have returned from Avelorn, and saw the druchii for myself,” Alith told the group. “I fear Chrace is now entirely overrun, and the eastern kingdoms would do well to prepare their defences for a fresh onslaught by Morathi.”
Alith fancied he could see the questions burning in the minds of the others but none were voiced.
“That is grim news,” said Carathril. “I will convey this to King Caledor. However, my reason for being here has not changed. I wish to discuss how best you might aid the Phoenix King in his war against the druchii.”
“Please leave me alone for a moment with the Phoenix King’s herald,” said Alith, keeping his tone neutral.
“Perhaps we could, hmm, fetch you some clothes, prince?” suggested Tharion.
“Yes, do that,” Alith replied absently, his gaze fixed on Carathril. He continued when the others had left the room, finally allowing his anger to show. “I am not some hound to be called to heel! I fight for my lands and my heritage, not for the Phoenix Throne. I will wage my war against the druchii in whatever way I see fit, and will suffer no interference or questions. Protect Ulthuan and its people, but know this: Nagarythe is mine.”
“You would set yourself up in opposition to the Phoenix Throne?” said Carathril, his face a picture of disbelief. “You claim Nagarythe as yours? What makes you any different from Morathi? By what right can you claim such rule?”
“I am Naggarothi. The cold of winter runs in my veins. The legacy of Aenarion beats in my heart. My father and grandfather have given their lives to Nagarythe, not for glory or renown, but out of duty and love. I do not seek Nagarythe for myself, but to keep the land safe from the ambitions of others. The Phoenix King’s grandfather chose to leave Anlec and found his own realm in the south, and by that action relinquished any claim to rulership over Nagarythe.”
“You owe loyalty to nothing,” said Carathril, bowing his head with sadness. “You would make yourself a king, yet you would rule over barren waste and have no subjects. You will become a king of shadows.”
Alith smiled at Carathril’s choice of title and remembered Elthyrior’s words from so many years ago. “In the mountains she sent me to find you, the child of the moon and the wolf the heir of Kurnous. The one that would be king in the shadows and hold the future of Nagarythe in balance.”
Since that first conversation, the raven herald had insisted that Alith should plot his own course, should follow his destiny without complaint. Alith found truth in that message. He had become the prime hunter, the leader of the pack. The druchii were his prey and he would never give up his pursuit of them.
Alith looked at Carathril, still smiling. The herald did not share Alith’s amusement. The prince nodded.
“Yes, that is exactly what I will become.”
When Carathril had been abruptly dismissed, Khillrallion and Tharion returned with boots, robe and cloak for Alith. They also brought a pail of water and soap but Alith waved these away.
“We cannot win against the druchii in open war,” Alith told them as he pulled on the robe and fastened the broad belt around his waist. “Not by our own strength. There are simply too few of us left.”
“Then we should fight alongside the Ellyrians or Caledorians,” said Tharion.
“No!” snarled Alith. “We will continue to fight where we have always done, where it pains the druchii most: in Nagarythe. It could be years before Caledor is ready to march north in strength, and what will we find as liberators? A spoiled wasteland, destroyed by darkness and battle, and Anlec tumbled into stones, humbled. If Caledor invades Nagarythe he will destroy everything to cast out the druchii; everything that we would give our lives to protect. We can wage a different war, one that will eat at the druchii from within. Weakened, they will lose their war in the other realms and we will stand ready to claim power.”
“You would see us all become Shadows?” said Tharion, guessing Alith’s intent.
“I would,” replied the prince. He wished to gaze outside but the hall had no windows. Instead he looked deep into the flickering light of the fire. “Elanardris is no more; every crack and shadow will be our new home. The dark woods, the fens, the hills will conceal us. Not a single druchii will walk in Nagarythe without looking over his shoulder. Not a single army will march on the roads without fearing every outcrop and vale. This is a test of will, and we cannot flinch. For every one of ours that dies, a dozen druchii must be sent screaming to Mirai. For every drop of blood we give, we take a river in return.”
“Retraining all of your warriors will not be swift,” warned Khillrallion, sat upon one of the benches. “Many have spent a lifetime in the ranks, learning discipline and the craft of open battle. These are not the skills of the Shadow, and they have no experience.”
“We will divide the army between you and the other remaining Shadows, that’s roughly fifty warriors each,” Alith declared. “In Athelian Toryr they can learn the ways of the woods, be tutored by the wisdom of Kurnous. In the mountains and the passes they will come to know the secrets of rock and snow.”
“And what of weapons?” asked Tharion. “We have less than a thousand bows for more than three thousand warriors, and that many Shadows will need a forest of arrows.”
“I will see what the Ellyrians can provide for us for the time being,” said Alith. “In the end, our warriors must learn to make such things for themselves, or take them from their slain foes, for it is only thus that we will be able to continue to fight in Nagarythe. Just as the shrines of Kurnous exist as stores for the hunters in the wilds, we shall set up caches across Nagarythe, hidden from the eyes of our foes and made secret by enchantments. Remember that we will be Shadows, homeless and untraceable. The army must learn to hunt what it needs, to pass without notice, to leave no sign of their presence.”
“You are asking a lot,” said Khillrallion.
“Those that cannot learn will be left behind,” snapped Alith. He glared at his two captains, daring them to speak out. For a moment he bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes, much as Blackmane had done to cow his pack. “I am your prince and these are my commands!”
Khillrallion nodded in silent acquiescence while Tharion leaned away from Alith, shocked by his ferocity. Alith relented and held out a placating hand towards the pair.
“We must be strong, stronger than ever before,” said the prince.
“As you wish, lord,” said Tharion, standing and giving a formal bow. “I swore an oath to your grandfather and father, yet I have not had opportunity to give it to you until now. I will serve House Anar and its prince until the end of my days. As my lord bids me, so shall I act. By Asuryan and Isha, by Khaine and Ereth Khial, I am bound by this oath to you.”
Alith watched Tharion as he marched from the hall, looking at Khillrallion only when the ageing elf had left.
“Two years,” Alith said. “In the spring two years from now, we will return to Nagarythe and begin our shadow war. I look to you to make sure that we are ready. I would have no other captain to aid me.”
“And I would have no other prince to follow,” Khillrallion replied with a wink. His mood then became sombre. “Twice I thought I had lost you, and yet you have returned. Yet, neither time do I think the prince I knew has come back.”
“I will be a prince for only a little while longer,” Alith said. “When we return to Nagarythe, I shall be the Shadow King.”
For most of the year the Naggarothi trained in their new style of war. Alith sent petitions to Finudel asking for weapons, which the prince granted as best as he was able. No mention was made by either of them regarding Athielle. Finudel informed Alith in one letter that she had heard news of his disappearance but not his return. Alith assured Finudel it was better that she believed him gone, lest she leave the city and come to the camp. Such an encounter would not be to the benefit of either.
The following winter, as far as the Ellyrians could tell, Alith’s army simply disappeared. Riders brought news to Finudel and Athielle that at dawn they had passed the Naggarothi settlement and found it deserted where the night before it had been filled with life. No tracks told of where they had gone, and nothing remained of their occupation; not a single arrowhead or cloak, link of mail or water bottle had been left behind. Nearly three and a half thousand elves had vanished.
Alith had led his warriors into Athelian Toryr, dispersing them through the forest and mountains. Each of these groups was led by a former Shadow, respectfully known as shadow-walkers by the other warriors for their ability to move without trace. Alith led no cadre himself, but moved between the groups, monitoring their progress and instilling them with his bitter ethos.
For another year they continued to train, living in the wilderness without supply or support. The shadow warriors honed their archery and their stalking, and learnt the words of Kurnous that would bring fire to dead wood or summon hawks to be their messengers. They slept in tree branches or beneath arching roots, made pillows of rocks and lairs of caves. By Alith’s design, no group knew where the others dwelt, and they were ordered to avoid each other as the wolf packs avoid their rivals. If one was seen by a shadow warrior from another cadre, the shadow-walkers would punish them, setting them arduous tasks of survival. To some it may have seemed cruel, but to Alith it was essential that his army be self-sufficient, not only physically but mentally.
Alith hardened the minds of his warriors as much as their skills. Whenever he visited a cadre he would speak to them at length, reminding them of the ills done to them by the druchii, passing on his own thirst for revenge, stirring up the dark passions that seethed beneath the civilised faces of all Naggarothi. He wanted his warriors not only to be skilled but to be as savage as the wolves, merciless and determined.
“When you look at your foe, do not see another elf,” he would tell them. “See them for what they are: creatures less than animals. Remember that your enemy is responsible for all of your woes. It is he that cast you from your homes, tortured your friends and slaughtered your families. You can have no compassion for those you will slay, for it will be rewarded by failure. Hesitation is death, doubt is weakness. The druchii tore your lives from you and threw them upon sacrificial pyres, and anointed their priests with the blood of your kin. The ghosts of the fallen wander Mirai, wailing in grief for the wrongs done to them, pleading with the living to avenge them.
“Do not long for peace, for there can be none while any druchii still draw breath. Embrace war as the crucible of your valediction, the means to purge this stain upon our people. Swear oaths of vengeance, not to me or your companions or to the uncaring gods, but to fallen mothers and fathers, dead sisters and brothers, slain sons and daughters. Take the darkness that the druchii have created and rob them of its power. You are the blade that will strike down the wicked. You are the shadow warrior, the faceless bringer of justice.”
As the last days of autumn gleamed upon the red and yellow leaves, Alith called the groups together, assembling them in the foothills at the eastern end of Eagle Pass. By night they made camp, gathering silently by the dying light of Sariour and the ruddy glow of the Chaos moon.
“We are ready,” said Alith, his quiet voice the only sound to break the stillness. “The wait is over, the fighting begins anew. By dawn we will be heading towards Tiranoc and war. I will not ask you to follow me, for you have all proven your loyalty to our cause. I will not exhort you to acts of bravery, for you have all shown great courage to be here. I will only say that this is our moment of truth. Let the princes of the east fight their great battles and hurl the lives of their subjects away in futile resistance. It is here, in the west, that this war will be won. We fight for loved ones lost. We fight for futures blighted. We fight to reclaim a land that was once gloried above all others. We fight for Nagarythe.”
“For Nagarythe,” came the hushed answer from the army.
As the shadow warriors melted away into the darkness, heading westwards along the pass, Tharion approached Alith and fell in beside his prince.
“Is it wise to march on the brink of winter, lord?” asked Tharion.
“Armies do not march by winter, but we are not an army,” Alith replied. “We are hunters, remember. In rain and wind and snow and baking sun we stalk our prey, across moor and mountain, river and fen. Let the druchii worry about moving armies in the grip of the ice, with their wagons and their baggage. Let them stand helpless as we burn their towns and kill their folk, as we were once helpless against the legions of Anlec.”
Tharion nodded in understanding, and Alith saw a dark fire in the veteran’s eyes. It was the same look that Alith saw whenever he chanced upon his reflection in a pool or patch of ice.
The attacks of the shadow warriors came as a shock to all of Ulthuan. News quickly spread amongst the druchii and their enemies. At first Alith kept his army together, overrunning the eastern watch towers of Eagle Pass, ambushing druchii patrols on the road and waylaying their messengers. Isolated by the growing snows of winter, druchii garrisons huddled in their camps, casting fearful gazes into the night. They whispered that the shadow army was made up of the spirits of those sacrificed to Ereth Khial, who had escaped her underworld domain to wreak their vengeance.
Alith learnt of this and laughed at the superstition of his prey. He used their fears as weapons, terrorising the druchii at every opportunity. Before their attacks, his warriors hid in the shadows and made wailing cries to unsettle their foes. They called out names they had overheard, accusing the druchii of being murderers. Howling like wolves the shadow warriors prowled just beyond the light of the fires, allowing the sentries vague glimpses of movement before disappearing. With whispered spells the shadow-walkers cast a gloom upon the fires, dimming their light and sending the druchii into a fearful panic.
Then the shadow warriors unleashed the fury of their bows. Storms of black shafts enveloped the camp, each one unerringly finding its mark. Never once seeing their attackers, the druchii died by the hundreds, screaming and panicked. And always the shadow warriors left a few survivors, allowing them to escape so that they would take their dread and horror to others. The shadow warriors retrieved their arrows from the dead and left the bodies for the crows and vultures. Each dawn heralded a new column of smoke as a camp or caravan burned, and the druchii would look to the mountains and wonder if the next night would be their last.
At Koril Atir, at the height of the pass, the druchii had built a keep to watch to the east and west. For two days the greater part of the shadow warriors marched, bypassing the camps and wayforts along the pass. A few bands were sent by Alith to harass the druchii garrisons at the Ellyrion end of the pass, obscuring the shadow warriors’ true location.
At midnight, the shadow warriors gathered on the slope below Koril Atir. The citadel’s battlements rose in a jagged spire above the valley, silhouetted against the sliver of Sariour as the white moon descended in the west. Thin pennants fluttered from the flagpoles in the strong mountain winds, but that same wind brought no sound save for the screech of owls and the occasional roar of a hunting beast.
The keep was the most ambitious target yet and Alith could sense the trepidation of his followers. It was one matter to attack poorly defended camps, another to storm a fortress. Alith had confidence though. This would be no frontal assault, with screaming battle cries and siege engines. Surprise and stealth would bring the shadow warriors a greater victory than any army of Ellyrion could achieve. It was his intent not only to send a message to the druchii that none of their lands were safe, that no army or fortress offered them protection; Alith wanted the princes of the east, and the Phoenix King in particular, to understand just how dangerous the shadow army could be. The Anars would never be underestimated again.
When the moons had disappeared and all was dark, Alith led his followers towards the citadel. Lanterns burned from the narrow windows of the tower, but there was still much shade to conceal Alith and his army. By the light of these lamps, Alith could see warriors patrolling the battlement, ruddy light gleaming from spearpoints and helms.
Alith led the first wave of shadow warriors, circling around the keep and moving on the citadel from the north along the butte on which it stood, picking their way across the cliff face itself. The stones of the tower were closely set, with no sure purchase for toe or finger between them. However, the shadow warriors used knives and climbing spikes to scale the wall, quietly driving their points into the mortar that held together the giant blocks. Alith and fifty warriors slowly made their way up the tower wall, pausing whenever they heard the tread of boots above, cautiously advancing when the danger receded.
Alith was reminded of the time he had scaled the citadel of Aenarion in Anlec. He wondered if any sorcerous ward protected Koril Atir. He could feel the vortex churning through the Annulii and nothing else, but he was not a mage by any means and much dark magic was subtle and difficult to detect. If there were magical barriers, he would have to overcome them; there was simply no way he could prepare for every eventuality.
Reaching the battlement, Alith waited until a pair of patrolling sentries passed. He slipped through the embrasure behind the guards and padded forwards on soft feet, knife ready for the kill. He heard a soft grunt behind him and glanced behind to see Khillrallion hauling himself over the battlement. The two of them exchanged nods and darted forwards, slicing the throats of their prey and toppling their bodies to the rocks below with fluid movements.
Alith leaned over the wall and signalled for the shadow warriors to finish their ascent to the rampart. When all were upon the top of the wall, Alith cupped his hands to his mouth and mimicked the cry of a snow owl. Within moments he heard shouts from the far side of the tower, on the south approach, as the remaining shadow warriors made their presence known. Flaming arrows arced through the night sky and it was not long before feet were pounding up the wooden steps within the tower.
Dozens of the garrison poured from the doorways onto the rampart and Alith’s contingent struck with bow and sword, cutting down the druchii as they emerged. Their dying cries mingled with the shouts of the Anar warriors on the other side of the tower, adding to the confusion. Their bodies were dragged aside and Alith led his warriors into the red-bathed interior of the keep. The distinctive rattle of repeater crossbows sounded from below as the defenders shot from arrow slits on floors within the tower. These needed to be dealt with quickly. Alith signalled for Khillrallion to take half of the shadow warriors and deal with the missile troops. Alith would head for the main gate with the rest.
Just like Anlec, Alith thought with a satisfied smile.
As dawn’s rosy gleam reached the citadel, Alith ordered his warriors to bring the bodies of the slain druchii to the main gate, and to raid the armoury for spears and other weapons. Several Ellyrians were found in the tower’s dungeons, tortured and bloody. Alith gave them clothes and weapons and sent them east upon the mounts once used by the citadel’s messengers.
“When asked who liberated you, say that your saviour was the Shadow King,” Alith told the Ellyrians as they departed.
The Anar prince stood at the gate, seven hundred slain druchii piled around him. With a meaningful look at his warriors, he snatched one of the corpses by the ankle and dragged it to the open gate. He grabbed the front of the corpse’s shirt and leant it against the black-painted timbers.
“Spear,” he snapped to Khillrallion, holding out a hand. The shadow-walker brought a weapon to his leader and stepped back. “It is not enough that we kill our enemies. They fear their mistress in Anlec far more than they fear death. We need to send the druchii a message even their depraved minds can understand: even in death they are not safe from our revenge.”
With that, Alith thrust the spear two-handed, its point passing through the throat of the druchii corpse and into the gate. Alith gave the shaft a twist to ensure it was stuck fast.
Taking his knife from his belt, Alith cut a rune into the forehead of the dead druchii: thalui, the symbol of hatred and vengeance. He tore open the elf’s shirt and across his chest carved another: arhain, the rune of night and shadows. Examining his handiwork, Alith wiped the blade clean on the rags of the corpse’s shirt and placed it back in his belt.
Alith looked at his warriors, seeking any sign of disgust or horror. A sea of faces watched him blankly, a few with deep intent. Alith nodded to himself and pointed to the mounds of the dead. “Send a message,” he told his shadow warriors.
* * *
“It is grim reading, my prince,” said Leothian, bowing obsequiously as he handed the parchment scroll to the lord of Tor Anroc.
Caenthras ignored the subservient herald and turned to the messenger’s companion, one of the lieutenants tasked with guarding Eagle Pass. The Naggarothi prince fidgeted on the throne of Bel Shanaar, uncomfortable with its design. The three elves were swallowed up by the massive emptiness of the great hall of the palace, their voices echoing coldly from the bare walls and high ceiling.
The audience benches had been removed, and all petitioners were forced to stand or kneel before their new master. It was one of the few changes in Tor Anroc that had pleased Caenthras; the mewling Tiranoc nobles were still allowed to live by the direct order of Morathi, but they now knew their proper place.
“Tell me, Kherlanrin, why I should let you live,” Caenthras said heavily.
The warrior stifled a glance towards Leothian and kept his eyes downcast.
“I would gladly fight a foe that faces us in battle, but I can no more defeat this enemy man I can nail shadows to the ground,” Kherlanrin said quietly. “Our soldiers awake in the morning to find their commanders dead, their despoiled remains hanging from trees outside the camp, with not a guard or other soldier harmed. Horses with the corpses of our scouts tied upon the saddles are sent into our camps, the mouths and eyes of their dead riders stitched shut, their wrists bound with the thorny stems of mountain roses.” He shuddered and continued. “I found a squadron of knights that had been moving between Arthrin Atur and Elanthras. Their throats were slit and the bridles of their steeds had been nailed into their faces.”
“The situation is unacceptable,” said Caenthras. “Anlec demands results. I will give you another ten thousand warriors, as many as I can spare. As soon as the snows abate, you will lead them into the pass and bring me the heads of these rebels. I want to know who leads them and I want to find out by looking at his dead face. Is that understood?”
The pair nodded and retreated swiftly when Caenthras dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The whole situation was embarrassing. The assault on Avelorn was faltering because Caenthras’ commanders were fearful to march along the pass. This left the Ellyrians free to support Avelorn from the south. Caenthras had no idea how much longer Morathi’s patience with him would hold, but he was determined that his would not be the first head on the block when that patience finally failed.
On a fresh spring day Alith looked down at the sinuous columns of black from atop a steep cliff, Khillrallion beside him.
“They will spend all of the seasons of Rain and Sun looking for us,” said the shadow-walker. “The druchii will divide their forces to sweep the pass, and then we will strike at each part in turn.”
“No, that is not my intent,” said Alith with a grim smile. “These warriors come from the west. Morathi’s commanders have emptied their camps to search for us, leaving Tiranoc all but unguarded. They think that we cannot slip past so many eyes. They are wrong.”
“We go to Tiranoc?”
“To Tor Anroc, no less,” said Alith.
Ten days after the druchii offensive began, Alith was far to the west, hiding in the caves where he had first sought sanctuary with Lirian and the other refugees. With him he had brought only the shadow-walkers, leaving the rest of the army to the east, to amuse themselves at the expense of the druchii as they saw fit. He had brought only former Shadows because what he had planned was beyond the skill of those so recently trained. When Alith explained his intent to the others he was met by confusion and incredulity.
“It is a great risk that you take,” said Khillrallion, giving voice to the concerns of his comrades. “And for little gain.”
“You are wrong if you think this is merely a personal vendetta,” said Alith. “Consider the despair of our foes when they realise that nowhere is safe for them, not even the palace of an occupied city. It will sow division in the druchii ranks, and cast doubt in the minds of their leaders. Think of their dread when they learn that no number of soldiers can keep them safe, no wall or gate can keep out the shadows that hunt them. We must not only be merciless, we must be daring! We will terrorise our foes and infuriate them at the same time. No locks or bars will keep us out! We will steal the swords from their belts and the gold from their treasuries. Not only will they fear us, they will hate us for our audacity. We will drive them mad, send them thrashing at illusions while we laugh at them from the darkness.”
“I am not sure it can be done,” said Gildoran.
“It can and it will,” Alith replied calmly. “Did we not open the gates of Anlec under the noses of the druchii? Did I not scale the palace of Aenarion, and spy upon Morathi as she performed her dark rituals? Tor Anroc is as nothing compared to the perils of Anlec.”
“And you ask us to risk our lives in this endeavour?” said Gildoran. “Some would think it vanity.”
“I do not ask anything!” Alith growled, losing patience. “I command and you obey. I am the Shadow King, and I have made my will known. If you cannot live with that, then leave, go east and live amongst the Ellyrians or the Sapherians or the Cothiquii. If you would be a Naggarothi, you will follow me!”
“Forgive me, prince,” said Gildoran. “It shall be as you say.”
Mollified, Alith clapped an arm to Gildoran’s shoulder and looked out at his shadow-walkers. The prince was genuinely excited by the prospect of what he was about to do, the first time in several years.
“Good!” said Alith. “Death to the druchii!”
Sitting on Yrianath’s throne, Caenthras looked up as the doors of the great hall opened and a messenger entered quietly. She was dressed in a long robe of deep purple, silver medallions in the shape of elongated skulls hanging on slender chains from her belt. Caenthras recognised her immediately: Heikhir, one of the Anlec heralds. The Naggarothi prince glowered at the emissary as she strolled languidly along the hall. No doubt she carried more demands from Morathi.
“I bear tidings from your queen,” said Heikhir with a bow. Her actions were deferential, but Caenthras sensed mockery in their exaggerated precision. He knew that the court in Anlec considered him a failure. The treachery of Yeasir had ensured that. Far from being the power he had envisioned, he was little more than a puppet of Morathi, in turn manipulating her gutless mouthpiece, Yrianath. At least Palthrain had had the good grace to get himself killed to leave Caenthras in sole command of Tiranoc.
“What is it?” Caenthras asked wearily.
“The queen yet awaits your latest report on the hunt for the rebels in Eagle Pass,” said Heikhir.
Caenthras shrugged.
“Every soldier that can be spared scours the pass for these ghosts,” he said. “If the queen were to command me to lead the army I would drive on into Ellyrion. These attacks are nothing more than a distraction.”
“These attacks are a direct affront to Queen Morathi,” Heikhir said pointedly. “Can you find no more troops?”
“Not without weakening our defences on the border with Caledor,” said Caenthras. “Perhaps she could spare me a sorcerer or two from her little coterie, to use their magic to track these… rebels?”
“The pretender king fights in Cothique, what threat is there from the south?” Heikhir asked, ignoring the question.
“Enough,” Caenthras replied. “Or perhaps Morathi would prefer the dragon princes to simply fly over Tiranoc and attack Anlec directly?”
Heikhir laughed but there was no humour in her tone.
“I shall report that your efforts are… ongoing.”
Caenthras did not have the will to argue. It mattered not at all what he said, Heikhir would take back whatever message she thought most pleasing to her mistress. For a moment Caenthras considered writing a letter, to put his concerns into record. He dismissed the idea. For one thing, he was too tired. For another, he doubted it would ever get delivered.
“Is there anything else?” he sighed.
Heikhir shook her head with an impish smile and then bowed. Caenthras stared daggers into her back as he watched her leave.
Caenthras stood with some effort, weighed down by his worries. He turned to the door on his left, to make his way back to his chambers. He stopped in mid-stride. In front of the door there stood a shadowy figure, swathed in black.
“Who are you?” Caenthras demanded. “Did Morathi send you?”
The stranger shook his head slowly, the movement barely visible in the depths of his hood.
“Did you come with Heikhir? What do you want?”
In reply, the figure drew back his hood. For a moment Caenthras did not recognise who it was, but then realisation dawned. The face had not changed much, but its expression had. Once it had looked at him with fawning desperation but the face he looked upon was filled with utter contempt.
“Anar!” snarled Caenthras as he realised several things at once: that Alith was the leader of the “rebels” in Eagle pass; that his capture would bring Caenthras renewed favour from Anlec; and that he would take some personal pleasure from killing the last of the wretched House Anar. The ruler of Tor Anroc reached to his waist for his sword and then remembered that he had none—his blade was still in his bedchamber.
Alith had not moved; his eyes were fixed on Caenthras.
“I will call for the guards!” Caenthras declared, suddenly less certain of himself.
“And I will disappear,” Alith replied quietly. “Your only chance of capturing me is to defeat me by your own hand.”
Caenthras looked around the hall for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing. Grimacing, he turned back to Alith.
“You would kill an unarmed enemy?”
“I have done so already, hundreds of times,” Alith said.
“You have no honour.”
“I have seen what happens in so-called fair fights,” Alith told him. “The honourable usually lose.”
Alith reached over his shoulder and pulled forth a magnificent bow, made of a shimmering metal, decorated with twin symbols of the moon. Caenthras’ stomach lurched as Alith fitted an arrow to the impossibly thin bowstring and raised the weapon.
Caenthras considered his options. It was doubtful he could cross the hall and grapple Alith before he loosed his shaft. There was nowhere to hide. If he called for aid, Alith would still shoot and then slip away, no doubt.
“You have been wronged, I admit that,” Caenthras said, taking a step forwards. “By me, I know.”
“Wronged?” Alith spat. Caenthras flinched at the scorn in the young warrior’s tone. “Because of you my family is dead, my people slain or enslaved and my lands are a razed wilderness. By your hand, thousands of true Naggarothi have died. Your ambition has welcomed vile war and spread darkness across all of Ulthuan. And you say you have done wrong?”
“Please, Alith, show some mercy,” Caenthras pleaded, taking another step.
“No,” Alith replied, letting go of the bowstring.
Alith stowed his bow and pulled free his sword. Crossing swiftly to Caenthras’ body, he pulled the arrow from his prey’s left eye and chopped off Caenthras’ head, placing the bloody trophy in a tightly woven sack. Alith headed back towards the door by which he had entered, but then stopped. He walked back to the corpse and gave it a hard kick in the ribs.
“I’ll see you in Mirai, you bastard,” Alith whispered. “I’m not finished with you.”
Horns and shouts and other clamour roused Yrianath from his fitful slumber. He awoke to find an elf dressed in the livery of his servants shaking him. He did not recognise the face, but that was not unusual. The Naggarothi regularly changed his staff to ensure he had no one with whom he might conspire. “What is it?” he asked groggily.
“Fire, my prince,” the servant gasped. “The whole palace is on fire!”
Instantly awake, Yrianath leapt from his bed and grabbed the robe proffered by another attendant. He could smell smoke and as the two servants ushered him out of the chambers he could see the flicker of flames at the eastern end of the corridor.
“You will be safe in the gardens, lord,” the first servant told him, steering Yrianath towards a stairwell half-hidden behind a tapestry. “We’ll use the servants’ way, it’ll be quicker.”
Yrianath allowed himself to be led down the spiralling steps and along a narrow corridor. They passed rooms and passages he had never seen before, but he spared them not even a glance. Other servants were hurrying past in the opposite direction, on their way to fight the fire.
The group passed through one of the smaller kitchens and out into a wide herb garden. From here, Yrianath’s escorts turned right and led him through an arch in a hedge. Yrianath found himself in a circular garden, bordered by the hedgerow and night-flowering hisathiun.
“Wait here a moment, prince,” the servant instructed him. Yrianath was not used to taking orders from his subjects, but he was confused and so stood where he had been left as the two attendants vanished into the darkness.
He waited there for a moment, turning his eyes up to the towers of the palace where flames flickered from the windows and a blot of smoke swathed the stars.
“Do you have any regrets?” a voice asked him from the darkness. Whirling around, Yrianath searched the night garden but saw nothing.
“Who’s there?”
“Your conscience, perhaps,” the voice replied. “How does it feel to have the deaths of so many on your hands? What do you think history will say of Prince Yrianath?”
“I was tricked! Trapped by Palthrain and Caenthras!”
“And so you did the honourable thing and took your own life… No, wait, that isn’t what happened, is it?”
“Where are you?” Yrianath demanded, continuing to turn on the spot, seeking his interrogator. “Show yourself.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“Yes, yes I do!” Yrianath shrieked. “Every night I am haunted by what I have done. I know I was foolish, shortsighted. I meant no harm!”
“And what act of contrition would you perform to make amends?”
“Anything, oh gods, I would do anything to put this right!”
Something shimmered in the darkness and a sheathed dagger fell at Yrianath’s feet.
“What should I do with that?” he asked, staring at the knife as if it were a poisonous serpent.
“You know what to do. I suggest slitting your throat would be quickest.”
“What happens if I refuse?” Yrianath flicked the dagger away with the toes of his bare foot.
“This happens,” said the voice, directly behind Yrianath. There was a flutter of cloth and a black-gloved hand closed over his mouth, stifling his scream. Yrianath felt a hot pain in his back and then everything went numb. Blackness swallowed him and he fell.
Alith removed the prince’s head and placed it in the sack with Caenthras’. He would have spared Yrianath the indignity if he had been brave enough to take his own life. Instead, he would also be used as an example. A glance confirmed the fire raged in the palace, its ruddy light creeping across the gardens.
Keeping to the shadows, Alith headed for the boundary wall.
Clouds swathed the mountains to the east, turning to a blood-red as the sun rose. A pall of smoke hung over Tor Anroc, the scorched towers of the palace rising as blackened spires over the city. Here and there embers glowed, flickering through glassless windows.
There had been panic on the streets, but the druchii commanders had stamped down ruthlessly on the citizens of Tor Anroc, accusing any that were found outside of being arsonists, slaying them on the spot. Fear shrouded the Tiranocii capital as much as the swathe of smoke.
“I’m glad I wasn’t at the palace last night,” said Thindrin, slouching against the battlement of Tor Anroc’s eastern gatehouse. The druchii’s spear and shield were leant against the stonework next to him.
“For sure,” replied his companion, Illureth. “I think that those that died in the fire were the lucky ones. The Khainite witches will have plenty of bodies for their pyres tonight when Caenthras is finished.”
“Or perhaps he’ll send them into Eagle Pass, for the rebels to torture,” said Thindrin. His vicious grin turned to a frown. “I’m not certain which is worse: witches or rebels.”
“For sure,” Illureth said again, suppressing a yawn. The sentry glanced absently over the rampart. Something caught his attention. “What is that?”
Thindrin looked down to the roadway leading up to the gate and saw an indistinct shape, tall and thin in the dawn gloom. For a moment he took it to be a person, but then dismissed the notion. There was another shape, of the same size and height, on the other side of the road.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Stay here, I’ll take a look.”
Thindrin snatched up his spear and shield and jogged casually down the steps inside the gate tower. He signalled to Coulthir at the gate to open the small access door. Ducking through, Thindrin walked a few paces along the road. Two spears had been driven into the turf either side of the paved slabs, and something round hung from each. As the light brightened and Thindrin walked closer, he saw what it was. His spear dropped from his grasp and clattered on the flagstones.
Thindrin gathered his wits for a moment and turned back to the gatehouse.
“You better send for the captain!” he called out.
Upon the spears were the heads of Princes Yrianath and Caenthras; the rune of shadow carved into the forehead of the first, the rune of vengeance cut into the cheek of the second.