—<TWENTY-FIVE>—

Return to Anlec

 

 

Uproar erupted, cries of disbelief mingled with shouts of celebration and exclamations of shock. The shadow-walkers crowded close, mobbing Alith. Gigantic wolves prowled the periphery, their barks and yaps adding to the noise.

Elthyrior stood apart, watching the proceedings with suspicion. He caught Alith’s eye and the Shadow King waved away his followers, telling them he would speak shortly. As Alith strode through the long grass, the shadow warriors set to relighting their fires, the air alive with the hubbub of surprise and elation.

“A trick?” said Elthyrior when Alith reached him.

The Shadow King shrugged and smiled.

“A new myth,” he said. “Only Casadir knows the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” asked Elthyrior, expression stern. “It is not right that you deceive your followers in this way.”

Alith indicated for Elthyrior to walk with him and the two left the camp. The Shadow King and the raven herald picked their way along an overgrown path of marble and sat in the charred remnants of the summer house.

“It is a necessary deception,” Alith said, plucking the bloom from a moonwreath that was growing over the remains of the outbuilding. “One that I did not begin.”

Elthyrior raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“Truly,” Alith continued. “I was set to confront Alandrian and his Khainite witches, but Khillrallion struck me over the back of my head. Dazed, I could not stop him taking the moonbow and masquerading as me. Casadir had me halfway up to the roof before I regained my senses. Khillrallion and the others bought my freedom with their lives. It would have been dishonour to have thrown away that which they had so willingly given, and so I ran with Casadir. He is the only other soul that knows what happened.”

“That does not explain your disappearance for the last seven years,” said Elthyrior. “You abandoned your people.”

“I did not!” snapped Alith. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. “The tide was turning against us, my people needed a calmer head to rule. Tharion had already suggested to me that we create a new haven in Elanardris and I had agreed. I could not have built what he has built. He has given us a future, one that I could not. Though I did not plan it, my death gave us that opportunity, the pretence for peace we needed. The druchii would be all too ready to believe the shadow army was no more. My death gave my people space to recover, to start a new path. Had I lived, Alandrian would have continued his hunt. Twice he nearly caught me, and both times it cost lives, lives very dear to me. I watched Khillrallion cut down and I realised that the greatest danger to my people was me, and the druchii’s hatred of me. I am a symbol, but that works both ways. I am defiance personified, and that rallies the brave to our cause. It also riles the druchii, who lust after domination and control.

“I decided to disappear. I returned to Avelorn for a while and ran with my brothers and sisters again. It was a carefree time, I will admit. But duty nagged at me, and year-by-year I knew I could not find peace, and that while the Shadow King had to die, he could not remain dead forever. I returned to Elanardris last winter and contacted Casadir. He told me of everything that had happened, and only this morning he passed on to me the news that you had arrived.”

“So why return now?”

“You know that answer already,” said Alith, standing and walking to the fallen wall at the front of the summer house. He looked westwards.

“The Witch King,” said Elthyrior.

Alith nodded, not turning around.

“I too heard of this creature. As far as Cothique and Chrace his coming is being proclaimed as the great awakening of the Naggarothi. He fills them with dread and awe in equal measure. I have never heard such devotion uttered amongst the druchii, save for those hopelessly corrupted by the cults. No elf I know could command such loyalty, yet the Witch King rules Anlec and Morathi supports him. I must find out who he is.”

“I fear that we shall all know that before too long,” said Elthyrior. He stood and joined Alith. “I am glad that you are not dead, Alith Anar.”

“Me too,” the Shadow King replied with a grin.

 

Alith requested that his return be kept secret for the time being. He declined to make any comment on what had happened to him and flatly refused to answer questions regarding his death and resurrection. He simply assured his followers that he had returned to lead them to new victories, still as hungry to punish the druchii as he had always been. There were those that wanted to proclaim his triumphant return across Nagarythe, but Alith bade them to keep their tongues.

“All of Ulthuan will soon know that the Shadow King lives again,” he told them, smiling knowingly but keeping silent when they pressed for further detail.

Alith gave instruction also that the shadow-walkers were to begin restructuring the army, making the shadow warriors ready again for war. This was to be done under the pretence that Tharion was considering launching an offensive against the Witch King, but to be kept quiet to the wider populace of the Aesanar. The shadow army was to meet Alith at the ruins of the manse. When asked when the rendezvous would happen, Alith gave another cryptic reply.

“You will have no doubt when the time to march has come.”

 

Anlec had never looked so forbidding. Alith had thought it a terrifying fortress the first time he had come here. The druchii had taken its foundations and heaped upon it their warped aesthetic and cruel design. The towers soared higher than ever, the walls hung with silver chains bearing rotting corpses and sharp hooks. Heads were displayed upon long spikes above the gatehouses and the ramparts themselves had been fashioned like rows of slender fangs. Flocks of vultures and crows circled constantly, settling to peck at the disfigured remains on display.

Amongst the purple banners of Nagarythe fluttered standards of red and black, displaying symbols of the cytharai, bedecked with the skulls and bones of those that had displeased the city’s rulers. A thousand fires burned in braziers upon the walls, casting a pall of smoke across the whole fortress.

The sound too was awful. The clamour of gongs and bells and drums sounded constantly alongside the caws of the crows and the screeches of the vultures, as the temples performed their bloodthirsty rituals. Shrill cheers and drawn-out screams could be heard through the din. A stench of charred flesh hung on the breeze. Dark magic seethed, creating a palpable air of evil that made Alith shudder. He wrapped his plain blue cloak tighter around himself, filled with a supernatural chill.

Alith took a deep breath and ventured forwards, passing through the western gatehouse.

He had come seeking answers: to know the identity of the mysterious Witch King. But he had another purpose, far more personal. For most of his life the druchii had taken from him: his family, his friends, his love and his lands. They had heaped upon him one more insult that he could not allow to pass. They had taken the moonbow.

Her whispers had disturbed his sleep through the long summer nights in Avelorn. While he had hidden out in the shrines to Kurnous in the Annulii, the moonbow’s distant cries of torment plagued his thoughts. He had not spoken of this to Elthyrior, but this was the true reason he had returned. His family were gone. His friends were dead. His lands were wilderness. All of those things he could not bring back. But the moonbow… That he could reclaim.

Within the city, Alith’s confidence returned. With a calm assurance, he made straight for the palace of Aenarion. He wasn’t sure where the moonbow was being kept, but he knew it was in the citadel somewhere. He would take it from under the nose of Morathi, and in that gesture he would announce the Shadow King’s return.

The stair up to the main gates were stained red with blood and guards stood every few steps, cruelly hooked halberds at the ready. Despite the sentries, the doors were thrown open and a steady procession of druchii made their way in and out of the palace. Alith joined the line waiting for entry, ignoring the grim-faced warriors stood to either side. Step-by-step the line moved forwards until Alith passed into the shadow of the citadel.

 

* * *

 

The majority of visitors continued along the central stairs, no doubt seeking audience with one or other member of Anlec’s ruling court. Alith stepped aside, watching not for soldiers but for servants. His time in Tor Anroc had taught him that it was more often the servants’ passages that allowed free and easy movement in such palaces. It was not long before he saw a flustered page appearing from behind a tapestry depicting Aenarion riding atop his dragon Indraugnir. Alith wondered if Aenarion had ever known the demented creature he had married, or might have ever guessed the cruelty he would unwittingly inflict upon the world.

Crossing to the concealed entrance, Alith looked up at the huge portrait. Clad in golden armour, the first Phoenix King was every part the noble lord and warrior legend held him to be. Yet there it was, in his right hand, the Sword of Khaine. Even represented in silver and red thread, that grim weapon exuded death. Caledor Dragontamer had prophesied that Aenarion had cursed himself when he drew that fated blade. Perhaps, Alith thought, he cursed us all.

Alith slipped behind the tapestry and found a slender archway. Beyond a set of steep steps led upwards. Alith followed their winding path, not sure where he was heading but content to allow instinct to guide his hand. When he thought he was about two-thirds of the way up the towering bastion of the citadel, he left the stairwell and found himself in a broad gallery lined with alcoves. The alcoves housed marble statues of the princes that had fought with Aenarion. Some of them were defaced, their features chipped away, crude messages scrawled on them with blood. Some were intact, those that still continued to serve the new powers of Anlec. Most of them Alith did not recognise, a few were familiar to him.

He came across one that made him stop. Its features were as his, and it was only after a moment’s thought that Alith realised it was a depiction of a young Eoloran Anar. Bloodied nails had been driven into its eyes. Eoloran was dead to all intents, and he was only one of many victims of the druchii that Alith would avenge, yet the reminder of his grandfather stirred something within Alith.

He had come here to reclaim the moonbow, to take back that which had been stolen from him. Was it possible that he could snatch away something else while he was here? Was the real Eoloran Anar still alive? Was he somewhere close by, locked in some dungeon of Anlec? Alith decided that he had time enough to investigate. Turning around, he headed back to the stairwell and descended into the bowels of the citadel.

 

Alith had expected a hellish scene, full of agony and torture. In contrast, the dungeons of Anlec were well lit with golden lamps, and silent. He saw no guards, and as he wandered the narrow corridors he found the cells clean—and empty. Not a soul was to be found. Confused, Alith headed back to the main stairs and sought out the servants’ quarters, a few levels above the dungeon.

It was a twisted scene of everything he had encountered in Tor Anroc. Maids and pages hurried to and fro, many of them bearing scars and other signs of abuse. Some wore amulets of the darker gods, some dressed in the flamboyant robes of the pleasure cultists. They snarled and sniped at each other in passing, and cringed when their masters swept past bellowing orders and lashing out with whips.

Alith grabbed the arm of a young maiden slinking past with an empty silver tray. She looked at him fearfully as he pulled her to one side.

“Lay a finger on me and you’ll answer to Prince Khelthran,” she said, with more dread than threat.

Alith released her immediately and held up his hands.

“I am new here,” he said. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

The maid relaxed, tossing back her raven hair and assuming an air of importance. Evidently he was not the first newcomer to have made such a mistake.

“Which lord do you serve?” she asked.

“Prince Alandrian,” Alith replied quickly, the first name that came to him. The girl nodded.

“You should do well,” she said, indicating with her head that Alith should follow her.

She led him into a storeroom, its shelves empty, dust upon the floor.

“Watch out for Erenthion, he has the cruellest temper of them all,” the servant told him. Alith nodded gratefully. “And never turn your back on Mendieth, he’s a sly one and will stick a knife in you without even knowing your name.”

“Atenithor,” Alith said with a smile, but received a frown in reply.

“The less people that know that, the better,” said the maid. “Names attract attention, and attention can be very bad for your health.”

“I fear I may already have caught the gaze of some,” Alith confessed, his face a mask of worry. “I have been set an errand but I know not how to fulfil it.”

“What is it that you’ve been asked to do?”

“I have a message for… For Eoloran Anar, from the prince,” Alith said quietly, his eyes flicking nervously to the closed door. “I went to the cells but they are empty!”

The girl laughed but Alith could not judge whether from scorn or humour.

“No prisoners are kept in the citadel!” she giggled. “They all go to the temples for sacrifice.”

“Then it is a prank?” Alith asked, keeping hidden the knot of worry that tied his stomach. “There is no such prisoner?”

“There is an Eoloran Anar,” said the girl and Alith nodded with relief. “But he is not a prisoner. His apartment is in the western tower.”

Not a prisoner? Alith put his confusion aside long enough to ask for directions and then excused himself.

 

Alith was again surprised by the lack of guards in the western tower of the citadel. He guessed the druchii were arrogant enough to believe that no one would dare infiltrate the heart of the capital. Following the instructions he had been given, Alith quickly made his way to the floor where Eoloran Anar was said to live. He found himself outside a plain black door, half-open. He knocked and received no reply. With a glance around to check that he was not observed, he opened the door a fraction further and slipped inside.

The room was plainly furnished, lit from a wide window that led out to a balcony. Alith could see a figure sitting in a chair of woven reed, facing the sun. After checking the adjoining bedroom, Alith cautiously made his way outside.

Eoloran Anar sat with the sun on his face, eyes closed. He seemed to be asleep. For a moment Alith was taken back many years, to a time before all of their woes. He remembered sitting in the gardens of the manse, his grandfather taking the sun just like this. Alith would play with his friends until their noise roused his grandfather and he would gently chide them for disturbing him, before rising from his chair to join in their games.

Flames and dark smoke consumed the memory, leaving behind a vision of blasted Elanardris and the bodies of his friends nailed to the manse walls. Alith growled unconsciously as the memory faded away.

“Grandfather?” whispered Alith, crouching next to the ageing elf.

Eoloran stirred, a wordless mutter issuing from his lips. “Eoloran,” Alith said, louder than before. His grandfather turned his head, brow creased, eyes still closed.

“Who is that?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“It is Alith, grandfather.”

“Begone with your tricks,” Eoloran snapped. “Alith is dead. You killed them all. Take your apparitions away.”

“No, Grandfather, it really is Alith.”

The Shadow King laid a hand on his grandfather’s and gently squeezed it.

“I’m going to take you out of here,” Alith promised.

“You will not trick me this way,” said Eoloran. “You can blind me but you cannot make me a fool.”

“Look at me, Grandfather, it really is Alith!”

Eoloran turned his head and opened his eyes, revealing two white, lifeless orbs.

“Do you still take pleasure in your handiwork, daemon?” he said. “I did not give you the satisfaction of my cries when you took my sight, and I will not give you the reward of my dashed hopes now.”

“I’ll find you healers, Grandfather,” said Alith, tugging at Eoloran’s arm in an attempt to pull him from the chair. “In Saphery, the mages will be able to give you back your eyes. Come with me, I cannot stay long.”

“You would like me to leave wouldn’t you, fiend?” said Eoloran, softly pulling his arm away from Alith’s grip. “How many souls was it that she promised you if I left? One thousand and one? Their deaths will not be on my conscience. You can threaten me, goad me, tempt me like this, but I will not allow you to seal that infernal bargain.”

“You have to come with me,” Alith said, tears in his trembling eyes. “Please, you have to believe me, it’s Alith!”

“I do not have to believe anything. It is torture enough that you keep me in this vile place, where I can smell the sacrifices and hear their screams. You leave open my door and tell me I can leave any time that I wish, but you know I could never do that. My spirit remains pure and when I am taken to Mirai I shall not be haunted by the shades of elves murdered for my freedom. I would stay here a thousand years longer and endure whatever torments you can devise rather than allow that to happen.”

Alith stepped back, quivering from sorrow and rage. He could take Eoloran forcibly, but if what the old elf said was true, his grandfather was not willing to pay the price for freedom that Morathi had set. Alith pulled free the knife hidden in the waistbelt of his robe, thinking to end the old elf’s misery. His hand shook violently as he reached towards Eoloran’s throat, and then he snatched it back. He couldn’t do it. Though it tore at his heart to do so, Alith could only do as he had been raised: respect his grandfather’s wishes. He bent forwards and kissed him on the forehead.

“Goodbye, Grandfather,” Alith said, voice choked with emotion. “Die with peace and dignity.”

One more humiliation to be avenged, Alith thought, his grief becoming the cold fury that had sustained him for many years.

 

Using the same clandestine means by which he had located Eoloran, Alith learned that the moonbow was kept on display alongside many other trophies taken by the druchii during their conquests. Alith’s search led him to a semi-circular gallery overlooking one of the main halls. The chamber below was empty, but several dozen druchii thronged the gallery to view the exhibits. There were several soldiers positioned around the display, looking bored.

Alith loitered in the crowd for a while, looking at the standards of Bel Shanaar ripped from the halls of Tor Anroc; a cloak made from the pelt of a white lion torn from the back of a Chracian prince; the Sunspear, once carried by Prince Eurithain of Cothique; the charred bark stripped from a treeman of Avelorn. Alith hid his disgust at the grisly relics on display, pushing his way around the gallery until he came upon the moonbow.

It was laid upon a purple cushion, the metal dull and lifeless. A plaque beneath read: Bow of the so-called Shadow King, slain by Hellebron, priestess of Khaine. Alith stared for a moment, shaking his head. A soldier stood not far to his right, examining his fingernails. Alith weaved through the druchii and came before the warrior.

“I’ll just borrow this,” said Alith. His hand flashed to whip the soldier’s sword from its scabbard. Alith plunged the blade into the druchii’s gut, giving a twist before pulling it free.

Chaos erupted around him as the druchii shouted in alarm. Some tried to grab hold of him and Alith cut them down savagely, kicking aside their bodies as he forged towards the moonbow. Others tried to run but Alith lashed out at any within reach, hacking them down without mercy.

Reaching the moonbow, he snatched it up, feeling it spring into life in his hand. Its warmth seeped up his arm and a chorus of gentle voices hovered on the edge of hearing.

The other guards were closing in with bared blades and Alith leapt to the wooden balustrade that lined the gallery. He was about to drop into the hall below when something caught his eye.

At the apex of the gallery was displayed a simple band of silver and gold, a gem-studded star set upon it: the crown of Nagarythe. Alith ran along the balustrade, leaping over the swing of a guard’s sword as he closed in on the crown. Turning deftly, he parried the next blow and sent his sword through the warrior’s throat. He spun and kicked another druchii in the face before leaping over him and driving the sword through his back. Alith swung with the moonbow to parry the attack of the next soldier, his sword cutting a thin ribbon of blood across the druchii’s face. Alith hammered his shoulder into the warrior’s midriff and drove his sword point into his side as he fell.

“I’ll take this as well,” Alith laughed. Slinging the moonbow over his shoulder, Alith pirouetted past the next attack and snatched up the crown of Nagarythe in his free hand. He flipped the crown onto his head and ducked as a sword swung for his face. A kick to the knee sent his attacker reeling back and Alith followed up swiftly, showering blows upon his opponent’s sword until his defence gave way. Alith drove the sword through his prey’s chest and then jumped back onto the balustrade.

With a final flick of his sword, he sent the last soldier stumbling back before somersaulting from the rail. Landing lightly, he raced to the doors, hoping that they were not locked. They were not, and Alith burst out of the hall to find the long antechamber a scene of pandemonium. Servants and druchii nobles were pushing at each other to flee the fracas, while armoured warriors tried to battle their way through the crowd, fighting against the tide of elves.

Alith spied another servants’ entrance to his right and jumped nimbly onto the shoulder of a servant. As the elf buckled, the Shadow King jumped again, using the head of a screeching noblewoman as a stepping stone, before throwing himself through the air towards a long banner hanging from the ceiling. Alith grabbed the pennant in one hand and swung above the throng, releasing his grip to send him sailing over the heads of the oncoming guards, breaking his fall with a roll.

Alith ripped down the concealing tapestry as he darted through the archway, flinging the canvas at his pursuers. He dashed down the steps beyond the doorway, ducking through archways and running across landings in a haphazard fashion. He had no idea where he was heading, so it made no difference whether he turned left or right.

Bursting through a double door, Alith found himself in a vaulted reception room, a naked couple writhing upon one of the couches. At the far end was an open window through which Alith could see the roofs of Anlec.

As he ran to the window, Alith drove his sword between the shoulder blades of the ratting male, pinning him to the elf beneath. He could hear the clatter of feet behind him but Alith did not turn around. Letting go of his sword, Alith pulled his thick cloak over his arm and head and lunged through the window at full speed, crashing out onto the tiled balcony beyond.

Alith vaulted one-handed over the rail and swung underneath, feet seeking purchase on the wall of the palace. There was none. Alith dropped another storey, breaking his fall with a roll, his ankle twisting painfully as he landed. Biting back the pain, Alith jumped again, disappearing into a forest of spires that crowned one of the citadel’s many minarets.

In a few more moments he had vanished, descending swiftly into the crowds of Anlec.

 

The captain of the guard was virtually prostrate as he entered Morathi’s chambers. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor as he crawled forwards, shuddering like a beaten dog.

“We found this, your majesty,” he said, proffering a roll of parchment. “It was pinned by an arrow to the chest of one of my soldiers.”

Morathi strode forwards and snatched the parchment from his quivering hand. She turned away and then stopped.

“Stand up,” she hissed, not looking back. “The city is sealed?”

“Yes, your majesty,” the guard whispered back. “The search continues.”

Morathi rounded on the captain, her eyes holes of pure darkness.

“He’s already gone, you imbecile!” she shrieked, slapping the captain across the cheek.

Dismissing her soldiers’ incompetence, Morathi turned her back on the captain again and opened the parchment. Behind her the captain slunk towards the door, one hand held to the weal on his face, where Morathi’s rings had struck him. Where the blood oozed from the wound it turned black and the captain stopped at the doorway, horrified. A dark bruise spread across his face, bloating his features, dark blood filling up his eyes. With a wet gasp, he fell to his knees and clutched his throat before slumping sideways, a trail of black slime dribbling from his lips.

Morathi read the letter:

Dear Morathi,

Not dead yet, hitch. Send your new thug to Elanardris if you dare.

Alith Anar, Shadow King.

It was signed in blood with the runes of shadow and vengeance.