—<TWENTY-THREE>—
The Night of Dark Knives
Morathi’s displeasure was not usually a survivable experience, but Alandrian held his nerve as he strode up the steps of Anlec’s palace. It was true that he had not captured or killed the enigmatic Shadow King, but he had come much closer than anyone else in the last six years. He was not foolish enough to believe that Morathi would simply forgive him his failure, but Alandrian had already devised a new plan to ensnare the elusive renegade; a plan that would not only bring success but also be an act of contrition on his part. He had even taken the bold step of requesting an audience rather than awaiting the queen’s summons.
Upon entering the throne chamber, Alandrian was taken aback by the smile that Morathi wore. She sat upon a chair beside the great throne of Aenarion, swathed in a voluminous robe of white fur and black silk, her bared arms and legs pale in the lamplight. Her whole demeanour was welcoming, its openness more disconcerting than a scowl.
Alandrian suppressed a shudder as he felt dark magic crawling across his skin and fancied he saw flittering shapes in the shadows at the edge of vision. Half-heard voices whispered and twittered around him, and he struggled to ignore their taunts and promises, focussing on the sorceress-queen.
“Majesty,” said Alandrian, bowing long and low. “I offer my deepest apologies for the lack of success in apprehending the deviant who has so vexed your thoughts of late.”
“Stand up,” said Morathi, her voice neither cruel nor kind. She continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. “We could waste a great deal of time, with me reminding you of your failings, and you offering apologies and excuses. Let us assume that such a conversation took place in the manner we both anticipated.”
Alandrian felt a flutter of fear. Was he to be presented no opportunity to argue his case? Perhaps he had overestimated his position and influence.
“With that in mind, I am sure your arguments would conclude with an offer to make amends,” Morathi continued, her voice softening.
She stood and beckoned to a group of shadowy figures who had been lurking in the darker recesses of the hall. Three sorcerers—two female, one male—came out of the gloom, clad in robes of dark purple, their skin dyed with archaic symbols that set Alandrian’s teeth on edge. He had never been comfortable with sorcery; it seemed a dangerous weapon to wield.
“These are three of my most promising protégés, Alandrian,” Morathi said, gliding effortlessly across the hall towards the prince, her sorcerers falling in behind her. Alandrian swallowed hard, eyes flicking from Morathi’s alluring eyes to the harsh stares from her disciples.
The sorceress-queen stopped in front of Alandrian and placed a finger to his lips as he was about to speak.
Alandrian felt a thrill of energy surge through him from her touch, stirring his heart, awakening urges he had not felt since the sacrifice of his wife.
“Hush, prince, let me finish what I have to say,” she said, her voice as soft as a velvet caress. “You have another plan to apprehend the Shadow King, if I am but merciful and generous enough to grant you another chance. Something like that, was it?”
Alandrian nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. Between the dark magic clouding his senses and the sensuous presence of Morathi, he was quite unable to gather his thoughts. He quivered uncontrollably, caught between lust and abject terror, both emotions stemming from the same cause.
“Good,” said Morathi, stepping back and crossing her arms across her perfectly formed chest, her weight on one leg, her smooth thigh exposed through a slit in her robe. Alandrian forced himself to keep his gaze on her equally beautiful face, dismissing the temptation to reach out and stroke that delightful skin. “I am not known for my mercy, nor my generosity, but I would offer nothing less to one who has known such favour from my son and has given so much in the service of Nagarythe. Your past actions and loyalty far surpass those of my other subjects, and you may rest easy for the moment, knowing that you also have my favour, despite the recent setback you have suffered.”
Released from Morathi’s spell, Alandrian recovered his wits and was about to offer his profuse thanks, but was stifled by a slight shake of the head from the queen.
“Don’t grovel,” she said, “it’s beneath you.”
She turned with a sweep of her arm, hair swirling in a dark cloud about her shoulders. Alandrian had to look away as Morathi prowled back to her chair, hips swaying. He looked at her again only when she was seated, regal and austere once more.
“Tell me how my faithful minions might help you in your efforts,” Morathi said.
“I fear that there is no bait that we can now dangle that will lure the Shadow King into a trap,” Alandrian said, speaking confidently, glad that his speech was well rehearsed, for his thoughts had been scattered by Morathi’s actions. Just as she had intended, he realised. “If we are to slay this scorpion, we must find his nest and drag him out by the tail.”
“I agree,” said Morathi. “How do you plan to find him when so many thousands of others have failed?”
“I have been studying the attacks of his warriors, in great detail,” Alandrian explained. “At first they appear capricious, striking east and west, north and south without pattern. But there is a pattern there, I have seen it before.”
“Really?” said Morathi, leaning forwards with interest, one hand stroking her delicate chin. “What have you seen?”
“In Elthin Arvan I became a keen hunter; the forests there teem with game,” Alandrian said, cautiously taking a step forwards. “Some chase boar, others prefer deer, but I was not interested in those things. I much preferred to hunt those that also hunt. If you can best the hunter at his own game, you have truly proven yourself.”
“A trait I find most appealing at the moment,” Morathi said with a smile, her eyes alight with a glimmer of silver fire. “Please, carry on.”
“The Shadow King hunts like a wolf,” Alandrian announced with a grin. “It is difficult to discern, but it is there. Nagarythe is his territory and he patrols it regularly, putting his mark on one area before moving on to the next. In any given year he could strike anywhere, but it has been six years now and his thoughts are known to me. The attack near Galthyr is an aberration created by us and I must discount that from my thinking. After his next attack we will know where he has been and, more importantly, I know where he will have moved to. We will strike swiftly, take him unawares.”
“All of this sounds very worthy, but what is it that you need from me?” Morathi asked.
“Nagarythe is too large an area for your sorcerers to cover with their scrying powers, especially when looking for something constantly moving,” Alandrian explained. “I can only estimate the Shadow King’s presence in a general area, too large to sweep by conventional means without alerting him to our presence. Between my theory and the abilities of one of your sorcerers we should be able to locate the Shadow King with precision.”
“And how will you deal with him once you know where he is?” Morathi inquired, sitting back and crossing her arms again.
“If you would indulge me for a moment, majesty?” Alandrian asked, receiving a nod of assent in return.
He left the hall briefly and returned with two other elves, females so alike as to be twins. They wore breastplates and vambraces of gold chased with rubies carved with runes of Khaine, which flickered with a bloody light. Their silver hair was drawn back into long tresses bound with sinew and circlets of bone; bright blue eyes stared out of masks of painted blood. Each carried numerous blades: several daggers at their belts and in their boots; pairs of long swords hanging from their waists; matched scimitars upon their backs; boots and fingerless gloves armoured with spikes and blades. Even their fingers were hung with rings armed with curving talons of gilded iron.
“Two of Khaine’s most promising slayers,” Alandrian announced with a proud smile. “I present my precious daughters, Lirieth and Hellebron.”
Morathi stood and walked forwards again, her expression appreciative. She nodded, gauging the two warrior-maidens closely.
“Yes,” Morathi purred. “Yes, they would be very fine weapons indeed. You need someone to guide them to the target.”
Morathi turned and looked at her disciples, before gesturing to one of the females. She was short and slight in comparison to Alandrian’s assassins, her dark hair cut at the shoulder. Her skin was even paler than the queen’s and her hair was shot through with streaks of icy silver, giving her the appearance of a winter spirit. She regarded the Khainites coolly, lips pursed, eyes analysing every detail.
“This one is the best at scrying,” Morathi announced. “Get her close and she will be able to find the Shadow King for you. Step forwards, dear, and introduce yourself to the prince.”
The sorceress did as she was bid, giving a perfunctory nod of the head.
“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Prince Alandrian,” she said, her voice as cold as her demeanour. “My name is Ashniel.”
Alith’s laughter was echoed by a few of the other shadow warriors, but many did not share his sanguine view on his close encounter upon the cliffs. Both Khillrallion and Tharion had voiced concerns that Alith was becoming reckless, though they had couched their misgivings in more polite terms.
Some of the survivors of the ambush Alith had sent further east, to recuperate from their wounds and spread the word of what had happened; Alith was aware that the druchii would try to claim some form of victory from the affair and wanted his continued survival to be widely known. The others he had brought to this haven and some of the shadow-walkers had been summoned for an impromptu conference, at one of several sanctuaries the shadow warriors had created across Nagarythe.
Alith held court in a farmhouse a short distance from the town of Toresse in the south of Nagarythe; a place that had once been populated by a mix of Naggarothi and Tiranocii and had suffered greatly as a result while Prince Kheranion had lived. Many of the inhabitants had been killed or enslaved as “half-breed” and all discontent had been violently put down by the prince’s soldiers. Like many other brutalised towns and villages, Toresse had become a centre of quiet dissent against druchii rule that had found new hope with the coming of the Shadow King. The owner of the farm moved around the table with loaves of bread and cuts of lamb, casting awestruck glances at his guest.
“I am the rat that nips the fingers of those who try to catch me,” joked Alith, searching through the wine bottles on the table seeking to refill his goblet. “There is nothing more frustrating for our foes than success snatched away at the last moment.”
“Our foes might call the deaths of more than a hundred warriors a success,” Tharion said sombrely. He gave a maudlin shake of the head and stared into his half-empty cup. “We have grown arrogant with our success, believing ourselves untouchable.”
Alith’s humour dissipated and he directed a frown towards Tharion.
“Every cause demands sacrifice,” said the Shadow King.
Tharion looked up and met his lord’s stare with a bleak gaze.
“No cause is furthered by pointless sacrifice,” he said. “Just ask the thousands that have burned on the pyres of the cultists.”
“You compare me to the leeches that have sucked the life out of Nagarythe?” snarled Alith, hurling aside his goblet. “I have asked no elf to risk any more than I risk myself. I do not send my followers out to die while I remain safe behind castle walls. I gave you all a choice, one that you freely accepted. I repeat that now, to you and every shadow warrior. If you no longer believe in our cause, if you feel you can no longer fight the war we must fight, you are free to leave Nagarythe. If you remain, I expect you to fight for me, to follow me as your rightful king. I demand much, I know, but it is nothing less than I demand of myself.”
“You misunderstan—” began Tharion but Alith cut him off.
“Now is the time to strike again!” he declared, turning his attention away from Tharion to address the others in the room. “While the druchii pat each other on the back and tell each other how close they came to catching the Shadow King, we will visit upon them a fresh humiliation, a punishment for their hubris.”
“Their hubris?” muttered Tharion.
“Forgive him, lord,” cut in Khillrallion before Alith could reply. The shadow-walker took Tharion by the arm and pulled him up. “He has been most distressed by the thought that you might be taken from us, and he is not used to strong wine.”
Tharion snatched free his arm and smoothed out the creases in his shirt sleeve. He looked at the assembled shadow warriors, somewhat unsteadily, and then focussed on Alith.
“We fight for you, Alith,” Tharion murmured. “You are the Shadow King, and we are your shadow army. Without you, there is no us. Are no us? Whatever. Don’t get yourself killed trying to prove something you’ve already proven.”
Tharion pushed his way across the room followed by glances from the others, some angry, others sympathetic. The slam of the door brought a disconcerted silence, many looking to Alith, some avoiding each other’s gaze out of embarrassment.
“He’s just a little drun—” began Khillrallion.
“He is in danger of becoming a mother hen, a smothering hen even,” said Alith. “I am no helpless chick, and neither are my brave, my very brave shadow warriors. That is the nature of the hunt. Succeed and eat, fail and starve.”
Alith rounded on the others, anger written across his face.
“Do you think I want my followers to die?” he snapped. “Did I ask for our families to be butchered and our homes destroyed? I did not choose this life, it chose me! The gods and the druchii have made me what I am, and I will be that thing because our people need it. I do the things I do, terrible things, we do the terrible things we do, so that those that come after us might not have to do the same.”
Alith ripped off his woollen shirt and turned his back on the shadow warriors, showing them the scar of the whip blow he had suffered in Anlec. He turned back to face them, pointing to more wounds upon his body and arms, those from the flight at the cliffs still livid.
“These injuries are as nothing to the suffering our people endure!” he raged, scattering the bottles with a sweep of his arm. He looked upwards but in his mind’s eye did not see the beamed ceiling but rather the everlasting heavens where the gods were said to dwell. “A cut, a bruise, what do they mean? True torment is in the spirit. The spirit of a whole generation crushed by the evil of the druchii. What more must I give to spare them what I have experienced?”
Alith stooped and picked up a bottle from the floor. He brought it down on the edge of the table, smashing it. Staring again at the gods only he could see, he raised the broken pottery to his chest.
“Do you want more blood, is that it?” he cried out. “Perhaps you want me dead? Like my mother and father. No more Anars. Would that satisfy you?”
Khillrallion grabbed his lord’s arm and wrenched the broken bottle from his fingers, tossing it aside. He said nothing and simply laid his arm across Alith’s shoulders, pulling him close. The Shadow King pushed him away and half-turned before stumbling and falling to his knees.
“Why me?” Alith sobbed, burying his face in his hands, blood streaming as his fresh wounds reopened.
The other shadow warriors gathered close, patting Alith on the shoulder and laying comforting hands on his head.
“Because you are the Shadow King,” said Khillrallion, kneeling next to his leader. “Because nobody else can do it.”
The following morning no mention was made of Alith’s outburst. The discussion amongst the shadow warriors after Alith had departed had been one of solidarity with their leader. They knew they could never share the burdens he had chosen to bear, and had reaffirmed their faith in each other and the Shadow King. Some had remarked that it was all too easy to think of the Shadow King and forget the Alith Anar that was obscured by the title: an elf barely into adulthood who had lost everything and taken it upon himself to become the spirit of vengeance for all of them.
After breakfasting, Alith called his band to him and took them south, coming upon the waters of the Naganath before midday. From the concealment of a boulder-strewn hillock, Alith pointed westwards, to a stone bridge that arced over the river, a fortified tower at each end. The river was narrow and fast, less than two hundred paces wide.
“The Ethruin crossing,” Alith told his warriors with an impish smile. “It is the most direct route between Anlec and Tor Anroc. In the summer the closest crossings are two days west or a further day and a half east. In the winter the ford at Eathin Anror is impassable, adding another day to the journey if one wishes to go by the eastern route. Imagine Morathi’s irritation when next an army marches south only to find the bridge gone?”
“Irritation, lord?” said Tharion. “Two garrisoned towers seem a tough nut to crack only to cause some irritation.”
“You’re missing the point, Tharion,” said Alith. “I want the druchii to come after me. It was a close thing at Galthyr, but I have learnt the lesson. Our enemies will divert valuable resources to finding me. They are used to the attacks of the shadow warriors, but the Shadow King well he is the source of all their frustrations. I want to mock them. I want them so mad that they’ll do whatever they can to find me. When they do that, they will make a mistake and we will exploit it, whatever it turns out to be. Imagine having to double the garrison on every crossing in Nagarythe. Every storehouse and grain barn will need guarding. While they scrabble around for the Shadow King, the other shadow warriors will roam free and cause anarchy.”
“You think that being deliberately petty will rile them even more?” asked Tharion.
“I wanted them scared, but their near-success will allay some of that fear, for a while at least,” said Alith. “That being the case, I must select a different shaft for my bow, one that will not strike deep but will strike many times. Like the persistent wasp, I shall sting them again and again, each wound not sufficient to kill, but enough to infuriate. If they think they can get the better of the Shadow King, I will prove them otherwise. Just when they think I’m done, I’ll be back, again and again, stinging them until they cry. They can swat and flail until they are screaming and breathless, and still I’ll come back!”
“I understand,” said Tharion. “One other question, though.”
“What?” replied Alith.
“How do we make a bridge disappear?”
Alith was heartily sick of the stench of fish. It was in the fisherman’s smock he wore, in his hair, under his fingernails. He sat in the shadow of the fishing boat’s sail as it slid gently along the Naganath towards the Ethruin bridge. Druchii soldiers stood at either end of the span, checking the occasional carts and wagons that crossed the border. More warriors could be seen drilling close to the northern tower.
All was as it had been for the last fifteen days. The druchii were content to let the flotilla of boats pass up and down the river, as they had done so for hundreds of years. The white-painted vessels warranted barely a glance, so familiar were they. All of the boats were from Toresse. Their owners did not know what Alith had intended, but had been willing to aid the Shadow King if it meant discomfort for their overlords.
As the boat lowered its mast and passed under the bridge, Alith slipped over the bulwark into the water, along with the other three shadow warriors hiding amongst the crew. They swam swiftly to the brick bank beneath the bridge and pulled themselves out of the water. Removing several of the blocks to reveal a hiding place, Alith pulled out wool-wrapped bundles of tools: broad chisels and mallets with cushioned heads.
The four of them pulled themselves up by means of a web of narrow ropes that had been constructed under the bridge, hung from hooks that had been screwed into the mortar of the bridge itself. Taking up their places, backs to the water rushing below, they continued their work, carefully chipping away at the mortar, the soft taps of their muffled hammers hidden by the gurgle and swirl of the Naganath. When a stone had been sufficiently loosened, they brought out wooden wedges, knocking the supports into place to keep the bridge intact for the time being.
In this painstaking fashion Alith and his followers had taken apart the bridge block by block, using the wedges and the natural pressure of its arch to keep the structure in one piece. The ropes that held them out of the water were also passed through holes cut in the thick ends of the wedges, allowing them to be pulled free at a later time.
Nearly two-thirds of the bridge had been thus prepared for demolition, by small teams of shadow warriors working in shifts from dawn until dusk. It was muscle-aching and mind-numbing work, lying virtually immobile in their rope cradles, repetitively working away at a finger’s length of mortar at a time.
Until midday Alith and his companions laboured, when the fishing fleet returned and they were picked up, another team of shadow warriors replacing them. The boats were moored at Toresse and Alith stepped onto the quay to find Khillrallion waiting for him. The shadow-walker was pensive.
“Bad tidings, friend?” Alith asked.
“Perhaps,” said Khillrallion. “The two of them turned off the road that led into the town and made their way along the reed-strewn bank of the river. Tharion is missing.”
“I saw him only this morning, as I left on the boats,” said Alith. “He cannot have gone far.”
Khillrallion’s expression was part-grimace and part-smile.
“I sent some of the others to look for him, but though he was late to the lesson he has learned the arts of the shadows well. There is no sign of where he has gone.”
“Sometimes we all need some time alone,” Alith reasoned.
“Not Tharion,” Khillrallion argued. “He has never been shy in speaking his mind amongst others, and has no problem confiding his woes to me. He feels his age and a misplaced guilt over the fall of Elanardris.”
“Misplaced?” said Alith. “None of our guilt is misplaced, we all must accept that we played a part in the downfall of the Anars, even if our intentions were the opposite.”
“I would suggest you do not say such things to Tharion, if we find him,” said Khillrallion. “Since Cerin Hiuath he has been preoccupied with the dynasty of the Anars. He is of a far older breed than you and I, one of your grandfather’s generation. We all despise what has become of Ulthuan, but it is only those that were there when she was saved from the daemons who really feel what has been lost. They gave their blood once to save our people, and they thought they did so in order that we who came later would not have to.”
“But why has this affected him now?” asked Alith. He sat down at the river’s edge and Khillrallion sat beside him. “For six years we have fought the druchii.”
“You have become the Shadow King but Tharion can only see you as Alith Anar, grandson and son to two of his closest friends, the last of their line. For you Elanardris is now a memory, the shadow war has become your new legacy. For Tharion, that lineage, that tradition, is still embodied in you. You are not the Shadow King you are the last of the Anars. He does not trust the Caledorians or the Chracians or any of the others to restore that which has been lost in our lands. Only while you live can he still cling to the hope that the glory of Elanardris, all of Nagarythe, might be restored. He fears that if you die, all hope dies with you.”
Alith pondered this without comment. He had endured some of Tharion’s stubbornness and old-fashioned thinking out of a sense of duty to the veteran. In truth he tried not to dwell on the ageing elf too much, for Alith could not think of Tharion without also thinking of Eoloran, possibly dead, more likely languishing in some cell in Anlec. In all he had found it better not to think too much about the past, only the promise of revenge held by the future.
Alith thought about Tharion’s concerns, as voiced by Khillrallion. Perhaps he was too possessed of being the Shadow King that he had forgotten who he was beneath the title. But that person lived in constant pain, surrounded by dark memories and feelings of impotence. The heir of the Anars had been powerless; the Shadow King was powerful. It brought its own woes and pain, but they were as nothing compared to the agony that awaited him once he had fulfilled his oath. What then? Alith asked himself. Who would he be when the shadow war was over? Perhaps Tharion would know.
“Find him for me,” Alith said quietly, laying a hand on Khillrallion’s arm. “Tell him that I need him with me, and I have something very important for him to do.”
Tharion had still not been found when the time came for Alith to enact the second part of his plan. It was dusk, thirty days since the peril of Cerin Hiuath, and the Shadow King was poised to prove that he was not dead. Alith and his warriors were concealed amongst the trees and rushes that bordered the river east of the bridge. The boats and their crews were at the Toresse quays, ready for the signal to come downriver.
As darkness fell, several lights could be seen to the north, in woods that bordered the Anlec road. Flickering red and thin columns of smoke betrayed the presence of several fires. Their presence did not go unnoticed by the watchers in the guard towers and soon the trumpets were calling the garrison to order. Spear and sword companies were mustered at the north end of the bridge, their commander shouting excited commands. With a tramp of feet, the force marched to investigate.
When they were out of sight, Alith and the shadow warriors slipped out of hiding, bows ready. The towers would not be completely abandoned, but Alith knew he had enough warriors to deal with those druchii that remained.
The Shadow King led his fighters to the north tower, approaching the bridge silently. A cluster of figures stood atop the battlement gazing to the north. As at Koril Atir, the shadow warriors soundlessly scaled the walls of the tower. The druchii had hung chains festooned with barbs and spikes beneath the battlements to prevent such a move. Alith and the others bound their hands with cloth and pulled them gently aside to allow each other to pass.
Once on the rampart, it was a matter of a single volley to fell the guards, though two let out piercing cries of pain as they died. Alith had considered this and ran to the south side of the tower.
“Come quickly!” he cried out across the river. “We caught some of the Shadow King’s scum! The others are getting away! Quick!”
Alith split his warriors, sending some into the tower to ensure every room was clear, keeping the rest atop the tower. It was not long before the gate of the other guard house swung open and a stream of several dozen warriors emerged onto the bridge.
“Wait until they’re close,” Alith told the warriors crouched behind the embrasures even as he waved the druchii to hurry up.
When the enemy were halfway across the bridge, Alith gave his shadow warriors the nod. They rose up behind the battlement and unleashed a storm of arrows at the druchii, cutting down half of them. They turned tail, fleeing towards the far end of the bridge, only to be met by another contingent of shadow warriors that had swum across the river to cut off their retreat.
As the last of the sun’s rays glimmered and then disappeared, Alith had control of both ends of the bridge. Looking to the east, he saw white shapes ghosting down the river: the sails of the fishing fleet. After mooring their ships, the crews swarmed over the bridge with more lengths of rope, which they tied to the net already hanging under the bridge. The elves crowded the banks of the river, a dozen to each rope. Alith took his place, gripping the rope tight.
“Heave!” he bellowed, pulling with all of his weight.
The wedges resisted at first, but after a moment there was a shift as the elves strained on the ropes. First one wedge fell free, and then another. Alith exhorted his company to a greater effort and with one pull the supports were dragged free. With a drawn-out grinding, the keystones fell into the river and the whole bridge collapsed after, sending up a splash that spattered Alith with water. Waves lapped over the banks, wetting Alith’s feet.
Already the ship crews were jumping aboard their vessels, ropes still in hand, dragging the stone blocks out of the river’s depths. As each block was hauled over the bulwark, a slipknot was loosened and the stone fell free onto the deck. The fisherman had assured Alith that the twelve boats would be sufficient to move the stones upriver, where they would be dropped back into the river, hidden but never forgotten.
The Shadow King turned to the warrior behind him, a youngster named Thirian.
“Time for some heavy lifting,” Alith said with a wink.
With a mixture of disappointment and relief, Khelthrain led his warriors back down the road. Whoever had lit the campfires had decided to flee rather than face his soldiers. On the one hand it was a shame that the insurgents had eluded him; on the other, Khelthrain was glad he had not faced the terrifying apparitions that so many other captains had fallen prey to. Not wishing to be out in the wilds while there remained the potential of ambush, he had quickly turned the column around and headed back to the safety of the towers. It was in generally light spirits that he marched along the road to his guardhouses, mentally composing the report of the incident he would have to send to Anlec. The orders had been explicit: any sighting or possible sighting of the so-called shadow warriors was to be passed on, with specific details of time and place.
The reassuring presence of the two towers rose up in the starlight and Khelthrain’s thoughts began to turn to his bed. It was a pity that he would be sleeping alone, unlike some of those lucky wretches who had garrisons in the towns and cities, but at least he was out of the way and rarely bothered by the rulers in the capital. Ambition had never been high on Khelthrain’s priorities, and a certain degree of middle-rank obscurity suited his nature.
Something seemed wrong as they approached the northern tower. Khelthrain wasn’t sure what was amiss. He could see several figures standing immobile atop the battlements and the gate was closed. Then it struck him. He could see the glitter of the river beyond the gatehouse where he should have seen dark stone.
Khelthrain stopped dead in his stride, the warrior behind him clattering into his back, almost knocking the commander from his feet. The warrior bent to help him and then straightened, eyes wide with surprise.
“Captain?” he said hesitantly. “Where is our bridge?”
There were dozens of maps of Nagarythe arranged over three tables. Alandrian paced between them with a sheaf of parchments in one hand.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a village where grain intended for horse fodder had been stolen.
A functionary, barefoot and clad only in a black loincloth, stepped forwards with a quill and a pot of red ink. He delicately marked a cross on the map at the indicated place, adding it to the many such marks already made.
“And here,” Alandrian continued, indicating an attack on a patrol out of Ealith.
“Oh, wait…” the prince whispered. He stopped and read the next report again, letting the others shower to the floor. “Oh, yes. You’re a cunning bastard, aren’t you?”
“Prince?” said the servant.
Alandrian ignored him, striding to the map of the Naganath area. He stared at the chart for some time, his mind firing fast. He traced a finger eastwards along the Naganath. No, there was nothing there. The Shadow King wouldn’t be dull enough to take another bridge. But he would go eastwards. Always after his most daring escapades he went east, back towards the mountains. It was like a homing instinct.
Alandrian brought another map to the top of the pile, of the area north and east of Toresse. He scoured the landmarks and settlements, seeking something of significance. A yellow circle caught his eye.
“This?” he demanded, gesturing to the servant. “What is this? At Athel Yranuir?”
The functionary peered at the map, brow creased in thought.
“It is a tax house, prince,” he announced. “Tithes are gathered there before being brought by armed column to Anlec.”
“And when is the next collection due?”
“Give me a moment, prince, and I will find out,” said the servant.
While he was gone, Alandrian stared at the map. The servant’s information would confirm it, but Alandrian already had a strong suspicion about the Shadow King’s next move. Eastwards he would go, away from the torrid time he had suffered at Galthyr, away from his joke at Toresse. But he wouldn’t go too far east before striking again, not while he was still riding high from his prank.
“The harvest taxes will be collected in four days’ time, my prince,” the servant announced as he entered. “A contingent of knights will be moving out of Ealith tomorrow.”
Alandrian closed his eyes, blocking out everything save his knowledge of the Shadow King. Four days was not a long time to prepare. Would the Shadow King be able to put together an ad-hoc plan at such notice? Did he even realise the opportunity that awaited him?
It didn’t matter. If Alandrian was the Shadow King, that’s where he would be. He knew it.
“Please send word to Lady Ashniel, and to my daughters,” Alandrian said; his eyes snapping open. “Ask them to prepare for a ride. We have a wolf to catch.”
“Shall I also send warning to the troops at Ealith and the garrison of Athel Yranuir?” the servant inquired.
Alandrian looked at the servant as if he had suggested that the prince dance naked around the room singing children’s songs.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Why spoil the fun?”
There was an aesthetic pleasure in the contrast between gold and red: gold of coin and red of blood. Alith wiped a thumb across the face of the coin, smearing the crimson across the rune of Nagarythe imprinted upon it. Blood money, he thought, smiling at the joke.
He tossed the coin to Khillrallion, who was sweeping piles of money from the tables into a heavy sack. Another five shadow warriors did likewise in other counting rooms while a further twenty-five kept watch, stationed on the tiled roof and at the narrow arrow slits that served as windows.
Alith strode to one such embrasure, checking the time. The sun had set and the Chaos moon was already easing above the mountains, its sickly glow heavy behind the gathering clouds. The tax collectors were on their way; he had learnt as much from the gasped confessions of the druchii who had guarded the money. He glanced towards their bodies, faces and mouths glistening from molten gold that had been poured down their throats as punishment for such greed. It was unlikely the knights would arrive during the night, giving the shadow warriors plenty of time to take everything and disappear.
Rain pattered on the stone road outside, and Alith peered again into the gloom, irked by some sense he could not quite define. He had been on edge since coming to Athel Yranuir. The town was unremarkable save for the counting house, neither a safe haven for the shadow warriors nor dominated by the druchii. Alith had noticed the elders’ hall showed signs of perversion to Khaine—bronze braziers in the archways and bloodstains upon the steps—but he had seen no other signs of the cults’ sway.
The attack had gone just as he had planned and not a single shadow warrior had been wounded. There was no reason for his disquiet, and Alith dismissed it as understandable paranoia following his experience at Cerin Hiuath. In some ways he welcomed the thrill of uncertainty. It added an edge of excitement that he had not felt in some time, a feeling of being alive.
Between the darkening skies and the growing downpour, Alith could barely see the other buildings around the tax house. He looked out across the market square and could dimly see the elders’ chambers on the far side. To the left stood a row of craftsmen’s stores, their fronts enclosed by blue-painted boards. To the right were wine-houses and stables. The former were empty, having been closed at Alith’s first appearance. The people of Athel Yranuir would not hinder the shadows warriors, but they would not help, and had vanished as soon as the fighting had begun. Alith could not blame them; most folks feared reprisals from Anlec for aiding the shadow warriors.
“We’re almost finished,” announced Khillrallion. Alith turned to see him hefting a laden sack onto a pile beside the main door.
“Good,” said the Shadow King. “There should be wagons and horses at the stables. Send Thrinduir and Meneithon to fetch two.”
Khillrallion nodded and left the room. Alith heard him relaying the order and turned back to the square, ill-at-ease. He glared at the concealing rain, wondering what it was that his eyes could not see but his heart could feel. He cast his gaze higher, seeing the tops of the enormous evergreen forest that surrounded the town, which shared its name. Perfect cover for his forces to use if the knights arrived from Ealith. He was worrying about nothing.
“Are you sure?” Alandrian asked again.
Ashniel nodded once, her face showing a glimpse of irritation. Alandrian looked away, unable to meet the sorceress’ gaze. Her eyes had become glistening orbs of black, which reflected an exaggerated version of Alandrian’s face when he looked into them: a Cyclopean mask of scar tissue.
“He is there,” she said calmly. “He is touched by Kurnous and he leaves a trail upon the winds. It passes quickly but I can sense it. Your assumption was correct.”
“Do we get to kill him now?” asked Lirieth, baring teeth filed to points and capped with rubies.
“I want to taste his blood,” said Hellebron, panting with excitement. “I’ve never tasted the blood of a king shadow or not.”
“He’ll taste like wolf meat,” laughed Lirieth. “Isn’t that right, magic-weaver?”
Ashniel turned away with a sneer while Alandrian smiled at his daughters’ enthusiasm. Truly they had embraced the changes of these new times and he was certain they would both enjoy great success and power in the regime that was rising to rule Ulthuan.
He didn’t understand much of it himself, being of a far older breed, but he knew opportunity when it came and had exploited this one to its full potential. Morathi had brought her priests and sorcerers to Athel Toralien and it had irked Malekith, but when the prince had left for his campaign in the northlands Alandrian had seen the wisdom of allowing them to flourish. He had been careful to curb too many excesses, wary of allowing the colony to devolve into the kind of barbarism Yeasir had warned was gripping Anlec.
That foresight had paid off. The Cult of Khaine was fast-growing, second in power only to Morathi’s court. His daughters were well placed to ride the bloodthirsty stallion trampling upon the heads of the other sects of Ulthuan. In the shorter term, they had developed skills that were profoundly useful in this current matter.
“Yes, you can kill him soon,” the prince said. While there were advantages to bringing in the Shadow King alive, dead was safer for all involved. One did not bring Khainite assassins to take prisoners.
Rain began to fall, splashing through the needle canopy above. In the darkness, the lights of Athel Yranuir shone between the trees. A murmur from Ashniel caused him to turn.
“I sense he is getting ready to leave,” the seeress said, staring through Alandrian at some otherworldly sight. “We must move now.”
Alith worked with the others, carrying the bags of gold from the treasure house to the carts in the square. His hair was plastered across his face, his clothes sodden and chafing. It seemed an inglorious end to what should have been one of the great tales of the shadow warriors. He shrugged and exchanged a smile with Casadir as they passed in the doorway.
“It rains on the druchii as well,” remarked the shadow warrior.
“They have roofs to cover them tonight,” replied Alith. “We’ll be sleeping in the woods.”
“I wouldn’t have it…” Casadir’s voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. Alith looked over his shoulder into the town square to see what had alerted him.
Four figures approached through the rain, walking calmly towards the shadow warriors. They were hard to make out, but there was something about their demeanour that fired Alith’s instinct for danger.
“Everyone inside!” he hissed, waving the shadow warriors into the trove.
The shadow warriors barred the door and Alith called out the orders, positioning his warriors at the casements and sending them up the spiral stairs to the roof tower.
“Oh…” exclaimed Khillrallion, looking out of one of the windows. “That’s not good.”
“What is it?” Alith demanded, stepping to the window.
“Best not to look,” said Khillrallion with a haunted expression, standing between Alith and the embrasure. They jostled from side-to-side until Alith shoved Khillrallion out of his path and strode up to the narrow opening. He gazed out into the night to see what had caused Khillrallion’s consternation.
He saw a druchii in the ornate silver armour of a prince, sword in his left hand, a shorter blade in his right. He was flanked by two outlandish maidens, Khainites by their dress and weapons. Water sparkled from bared metal, the edges of their blades glinting menacingly. For all of their fearsome appearance, Alith did not quite understand Khillrallion’s discomfort.
His eye was drawn to a fourth figure, a little way behind the others. She wore a heavy purple robe tied with a belt studded with diamonds. In the light of the Chaos moon her skin took on a pale green tone, the white streaks in her hair standing out in the darkness like lightning strikes. Her face…
Her face was known to Alith. The eyes were whirling orbs of magic and the expression one of cold indifference. But her lips, thin, and her delicate nose and chin were all too familiar.
Alith fell back from the window with a groan of pain, the sight of Ashniel like a physical wound in his gut. Alith stumbled to his knees, moaning wordlessly.
“I told you not to look,” rasped Khillrallion, grabbing Alith by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet. There was panic in the Shadow King’s eyes, the look of a child suddenly finding himself lost and alone.
Alith took a step towards the door, mindless, and Khillrallion hauled him back.
“You can’t go out there,” said the shadow-walker. “They’ll cut you to pieces.”
“I want the Shadow King!” a deep voice called from outside. “Nobody else has to die.”
Alith was regaining something of his composure but was still unsteady on his feet.
“It is her, isn’t it?” he whispered.
Khillrallion nodded. There was nothing he could say. Alith closed his eyes, steeling himself, and then looked out of the window again. The prince and Ashniel were still there; the two Khainites were nowhere to be seen.
“Be on your guard,” snapped Alith, his instincts taking control. “Watch the door and the roof!”
A tense silence descended, broken only by the rattle of rain on the rooftiles and the splash on the square outside.
Alith went from one arrow slit to the next, trying to find where the Khainites had gone. It was not long before Khillrallion called him back to the front of the building.
Outside, the Khainites flanked the prince once more. At their feet knelt two children: one a boy, the other a girl. They gripped their captives by the hair, pulling back their heads, curved daggers at their throats.
“I want the Shadow King,” the prince called again. “These will only be the first two if you do not come out.”
Alith snatched the moonbow from its quiver and took a step towards the door before Khillrallion tackled him from behind, both of them tumbling to the floor.
“You cannot go out there!” the shadow-walker repeated as Alith kicked himself away and got to his feet. Several of the shadow warriors had closed in, standing between their lord and the doorway. Their expressions betrayed their agreement with Khillrallion.
“Have it your way!” came the pronouncement from the square.
Alith leapt to the window in time to see arcs of blood streaming from the two children, the Khainites’ blades flashing in the rain. Spilled blood merged with the puddles as the small bodies were dropped like rag dolls.
“Shall I have them fetch two more?” the prince taunted. “Perhaps some even younger this time?”
“No!” wailed Alith. He wheeled on the shadow warriors, lips curled back in a snarl. “We cannot allow this!”
The shadow warriors by the door looked resolute.
“We’ll deal with this,” said Casadir, pulling back the heavy bolt.
“If they want the Shadow King, they shall have him,” Alith said, fitting an arrow to the string of the moonbow. “Kill the Khainites first. Leave the sorceress to me.”
Alith looked out of the window as the door was thrown open. Arrows sped through the darkness. In a whirl of shining metal, the Khainites swung their blades and cartwheeled away, the arrows ricocheting from their swords. At a nod from their master, they came forwards at a run.
More arrows sliced through the rain to meet them. With supernatural speed, the pair somersaulted and swirled, dodging every missile. They reached a full sprint and would have been at the door in moments. Several of the shadow warriors leapt out into the square to meet their charge while Casadir swung the door shut behind them. The clang of the bolt rang heavily in Alith’s ears, like the locking of a condemned elf’s cell.
Alith felt the bite of every cut with a gasp as the Khainites sliced through the four shadow warriors without breaking stride. Throats were slit, tendons severed, limbs lopped away. It was over in a heartbeat, the remains of Alith’s followers lying at the Khainites’ feet, blood running in rivulets across the flagstones. One of the Khainites lifted a dagger to her mouth and licked the blade clean. She turned to her companion with a feral grin.
“More dog than wolf,” she said.
The two took up defensive stances next to each other, one fixed on the doorway, the other looking to the warriors on the roof.
“Can we have some more playthings?” the Khainite with bloodied lips called out.
“This has to end!” said Alith, crossing quickly to the doorway.
“Yes it does,” agreed Khillrallion. Behind Alith, the shadow-walker glanced at the others and received nods of understanding.
“Can I keep one as a pet?” asked Lirieth, darting a quick glance over her shoulder towards her father.
“Bring me the head of the Shadow King and you can have whatever you desire,” Alandrian replied.
He felt a chill and looked to his right. Ashniel was standing beside him. The rain around her was turning into snowflakes, freezing on her skin, tiny icicles hanging from her long eyelashes, her hair rimed with ice.
“It’s true what they say in Anlec, isn’t it?” said the prince. “You really are a cold-hearted bitch.”
Ashniel turned a haunting smile towards him but said nothing.
The door to the tax house slammed open again and the shadow warriors poured out, some with bows in hands, others grasping swords. Lirieth and Hellebron spun around each other as they deflected the hail of arrows, cutting through the shafts in flight.
Ashniel stepped forwards and threw out a hand. Alandrian felt the warmth leeched from his body as the air around her churned with ice and blackness. A storm of snow-white shards flew from her fingertips, scything into the shadow warriors. Frozen droplets of blood tinkled to the ground where the chill wind slashed through flesh, skin turning blue from cold at their slightest graze. Bows dropped from numbed fingertips and arrows splintered in the air.
Under the cover of the arrow volley the other shadow warriors had charged forwards, meeting the Khainite sisters blade-to-blade. Iron chimed against iron, but the fight was over in moments, Lirieth crouching low to cut the legs from her foes while Hellebron struck high, decapitating everyone within reach. The scene more closely resembled a butcher’s yard than a town square by the time they had finished. Lirieth stooped and with a flick of her wrist, cut free the heart from one of her victims. She sheathed her other weapon and flicked the still-warm organ to her free hand. With a pout, she raised it above her head, squeezing hard, blood streaming down her arm and splashing onto her face.
“Praise Khaine!” she shrieked.
There was a flicker of movement at the doorway. A cloaked elf appeared with a silvery bow in hand. Quicker than the eye could follow, he loosed an arrow. The shaft took Lirieth in the throat, ripping her from her feet, sending her sprawling onto the wet flagstones.
Hellebron screamed, a sound of pure rage, and leapt forwards. Another arrow sang through the air but she cut it aside. She dodged the next with a spinning leap, her long bound bringing her within striking distance of her foe. Her left hand lashed out, its blades barely missing the face of her enemy. The right hand found its mark, plunging a slender sword under the ribs of her prey, its point erupting in a fountain of blood from his right shoulder. Blood bubbled from his lips as Hellebron ripped the blade free and twirled, slashing head from neck.
Flicking droplets of blood from her blades, she sheathed her weapons and prised the magnificent bow from the elf’s dead fingers. Hellebron turned and held her trophy towards Alandrian, who clapped appreciatively.
“I think we best make that a gift to Morathi,” said the prince and Hellebron’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. Alandrian pointed to the shadow warriors who had been incapacitated by Ashniel’s enchantment. “You can do what you like with those.”
Alandrian’s eye was drawn to a pair of shadowy shapes fleeing across the rooftop. Ashniel raised her hand to unleash another spell but the prince stopped her.
“Let them go,” he said. “Let them take the news to the others. The Shadow King is dead!”