The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The King of Elves

Oeragor was a fading memory, as was his urgent flight across the Great Ocean, through the veils and on to the verdant pastures of his home. His army had gone ahead, led by the dragons but ensconced in a great fleet of elven galleons. Alone, it had been a hard journey for the prince through a succession of unearthly storms. Something unnatural persisted about the blackened clouds and the roar of the wind. He had hoped to find his warriors again, catch up to them before they reached home but the storm was all consuming. Though it was difficult to tell for certain, shadows lurked within those clouds. Bestial faces, the visages of the daemonic and the monstrous, loomed over Imladrik during his flight. They mocked and cajoled, raged and encouraged. The elf prince shut his eyes and tried to close off the rest of his senses to them.

More than once, Imladrik had faltered until a growl from Draukhain steeled him against the voices. He chanted the names of Isha, Asuryan, Kurnous, invoking the blessings of the elven gods to ward him against the unnatural tempest that had set about them.

It grew angry, and Imladrik had been forced below the clouds to keep from being struck by lightning or ripped out of the saddle by hurricane winds. He reached the veils surrounding the island with his nerves hanging by a thread. Never had he undertaken such a perilous journey, but after almost two weeks he had reached his ancestral lands alive and intact. And like a dream, the memory of the faces in the storm faded to nothing but a wisp of remembrance that Imladrik would only recall in his deepest nightmares.

Sorcerous mist, the ancient veils of Caledor Dragontamer that still protected his land, parted to reveal an island of verdant pastures, soaring mountains and crystalline rivers. Ports and fleets of ships resolved through the mist, together with sprawling forests and glittering towers. It shimmered, like an image half seen through a haze of heat, though the air was cool and refreshing. Imladrik breathed deep.

At last, he was home.

Ulthuan.

It had been years since he had last set foot upon the magical isle.

He had travelled south borne by Draukhain, across the harbours of Cothique where doughty merchantmen and sailors aboard catamarans pointed up at the sky at the passing of the dragon. From there Imladrik went east, skirting the Chracian mountains and letting Draukhain have his head amidst the cloud-wreathed peaks. Though he couldn’t see them from so high up, he knew the vigilant woodsmen of that land would be abroad in the dense forests and narrow passes through the cliffs, ever watchful for invasion.

Imladrik’s thoughts had strayed to Liandra and he had to banish them at once. His mind also wandered back to the carrier-hawk, soaring into the mountain fastness of the dwarfs, bringing his message to the High King. He hoped the words would hold some meaning, that a chance yet remained to avert a war. If it brought the dwarfs to the negotiating table then that at least would be something. Perhaps if they were willing to treat, he might be allowed to return to the Old World again and heal two rifts at once.

First he flew over the Phoenix Gate, the great bastion wall that sat on the borders of Chrace and Avelorn, its purpose to defend against invasion from the north across the hills of Nagarythe. It was a monolithic structure of pale stone and encrusted with jewels. The gilded image of the rising phoenix was emblazoned upon its vast and towering gate, a bulwark against attack. Silent guardians patrolled its battlements, grim-faced and clutching their halberds with fierce intent. Its neighbour, the Dragon Gate, was equally magnificent. Bordering Avelorn and Nagarythe, it was well garrisoned by spearmen and archers. The buttressed walls were scaled in keeping with its draconian aesthetic and the effigy of a soaring drake of Caledor was engraved upon the gate itself.

Even seen from high above, the gates were impressive. To Imladrik they looked nigh-on impregnable, which was just as well given the enemy they had been erected to repel. Many were the battles fought against the dark elves beyond their borders.

Once across the Phoenix and Dragon Gates, Imladrik was reunited with his army as he had set down on the plains of Ellyrion where his host were making ready for the next stage of their journey. He didn’t stay, for he had business elsewhere, but instead took a steed from one of the horsemasters who had been there to receive him and rode the borders of Nagarythe and Avelorn until he reached his destination.During that time he was regaled with familiar sights, sounds and smells, a cavalcade of sensations that whispered ‘home’. Except for Imladrik, this was no longer a place he understood.

This was no homecoming for the prince, it was more like a trial.

Dark arbours drenched in shadows gave way to thicker brush, thorny branched pines and an altogether denser arboreal gloom. These were wild lands, heavily forested, and beasts lurked in the mountains brooding overhead. A small war party moved through the thickening forest, fleet of foot and lightly armoured but wary.

A tall warrior dressed in tan and crimson led the modest group. Leather-clad, he carried a long bow and had a quiver half full of arrows strapped to his back. He was lithe, with almond-shaped eyes and a mane of golden hair tightly bound in a ponytail behind his neck.

Sighting prey, the warrior stopped and signalled silently to his companions to do the same. One was a burly-looking woodsman with thick furs draped over his back. He had drawn a hunting knife and a large double-bladed axe sat in a sheath between his shoulders, haft sticking up. The other laboured under a red hauberk, not as used to the forest as the other two. A short sword slapped against his thigh and three more quivers full of arrows were slung over his shoulder. Despite his shorn hair, which was night black, he was sheened with sweat.

‘I see you…’ whispered the leader, silently drawing an arrow and nocking it to his bow in a single seamless motion.

Scenting danger, the great stag realised it was being stalked. Raising its mighty antlered head, it snorted the air and the muscles bunched in its legs as it made to flee.

The swan-feathered shaft made almost no sound as it was released into the air. It sped swiftly in a white blur, dagger sharp and lightning fast. It pierced the great stag’s heart, killing it instantly.

‘Ha!’ King Caledor looked pleased with his kill. A fine mist was coming off the beast, a fever sweat that was fading to nothing as the heat of its body expired.

‘Flense it, woodsman,’ he said to the fur-clad brute, who nodded. ‘I want fur, flesh and meat. Spare nothing except for the head, which I shall take as a trophy.’

‘See, Hulviar,’ said Caledor to the other elf, gesturing to the woodsman who was quickly about his task. ‘Chracians do have their uses.’

‘Ever since your father’s time, they have been the protectors of the king, my liege.’

‘Yes, the White Lions,’ Caledor sneered, ‘but he is just some peasant.’

If the Chracian heard his noble lord, he was wise enough not to show it.

‘How many is that today?’ Caledor asked.

‘Seven, my liege. You have denuded this part of the forest.’

Caledor’s eyes narrowed and he smiled self-indulgently. ‘Indeed, I have.’

The sound of branches snapping underfoot had the king raise his bow again, and Hulviar draw his sword.

‘Who goes there?’ demanded the retainer.

The woodsman had work to do, and continued with it. Besides, he had been aware of the intruder several minutes ago and knew it was no threat.

‘Stand down, Hulviar. I am no great stag to be skewered by my brother’s wayward arrow,’ came a voice from the gloom.

Another warrior emerged into the clearing where the woodsman was butchering the dead stag.

‘Khalnor,’ said the warrior, who received a warm nod of greeting from the Chracian.

The king smiled so broadly that it filled his face, if not quite his eyes.

‘Never forget a name, do you, little brother?’ Handing the long bow to Hulviar, Caledor went over to the warrior and embraced him.

‘A lesson you would benefit from learning,’ he chastised mildly.

Caledor whispered, ‘I can always call them peasant, can I not, Imladrik?’

There was amusement in the king’s face that Imladrik hoped wasn’t genuine.

‘I have returned, brother.’

‘For which you have my thanks.’ Caledor let him go, favouring his brother with another half-smile, before walking from the clearing.

Imladrik followed. He was still clad in his dragon armour, though he’d removed the greaves and wore only the cuirass and vambraces.

‘When I received your missive, I was under the impression that the skirmishes had escalated to something more serious and yet here you are… hunting.’

‘It is good sport during this part of the season, brother, and as you can see…’ Parting the thick bracken, Caledor stepped into another clearing where several more high elves pored over a map stretched across a white table. It sat beneath a tented pavilion where servants decanted wine and served silver platters of truffles. ‘My advisors keep me well apprised.’

Imladrik joined them at once as Caledor slumped upon a plush couch to remove his boots and hunting apparel.

He nodded to the assembled lordlings, greeting them all by name. To a man, they responded in kind, showing Imladrik the same amount of deference as their King.

Though he thought he had kept it hidden, the prince noticed his brother’s scowl at the way the other nobles and warriors treated him. Imladrik was beloved.

‘He seeks inroads through the Caledorian Mountains and Ellyrion,’ he observed, fathoming the situation instantly without need of assistance from any of his brother’s advisors.

‘Lord Athinol requires reinforcement,’ said Caledor idly. ‘More swords and spears to watch the passes. Every day more Naggarothi scum penetrate our watchtowers.’

‘I am dismayed to hear that,’ Imladrik said honestly, ‘but unfortunately I bring further bad tidings.’

Caledor frowned, as if sensing his hunting trip was about to be curtailed.

‘Relations with the dwarfs have soured.’ Imladrik looked up from the map to regard his brother, who was sipping from a silver chalice.

‘Hardly a surprise. What of it?’

It took all of Imladrik’s composure to bite back his exasperation. ‘Our colonies in the Old World are in danger. There have been murders, I believe by druchii, designed to foment ill will between our two races.’

Caledor sat up, but held on to his wine.

‘Again, I cannot see how this is of import to Ulthuan. We have our own problems to deal with.’

‘There are over eighty thousand elves in the dwarf realm, with more arriving every day. Trade has been completely suspended by their High King.’

‘And still I do not see the imperative here,’ said Caledor. ‘Malekith has been beaten. Sorely. But he is not vanquished. Did you not hear what I said about our borders, brother?’

‘I did hear it, but I am talking about the prospect of a full scale war on foreign soil.’

‘With the mud-dwellers,’ Caledor laughed, loudly and derisively. ‘Let them return to their holes and tunnels. Our lands here in Ulthuan are threatened and I have need of generals to protect them.’ He nodded to Imladrik. ‘You, dear brother.’

‘I do not think this problem should be ignored.’

Caledor rose to his feet, shedding the leather armour for a close-fitting tunic of blue velvet. ‘And so why did you return if matters are so dire?’

Though he found it hard to admit, Imladrik was jaded. He thought his years spent in the Old World, living amongst and trading with the dwarfs, had fostered a culture of understanding. That assumption had been dashed when the High King had refused his aid, expelled the elves from his lands and shut his gates.

‘My presence there was not helping the situation.’ It was a half-truth.

Caledor seemed not to notice or care.

‘Let the colonies look after themselves. We have other vassals better suited to that task, do we not?

‘There is Lord Salendor of Athel Maraya and Lady Athinol of Kor Vanaeth, amongst others. In them I pledge my trust and confidence, but they do not share my temperance.’

At this remark, Caledor smirked. ‘And how is the Caledorian princess?’

‘Well, but belligerent as ever.’

‘Much like her father then,’ Caledor added by way of an aside. ‘Tell me, brother, have you seen your wife or have you yet to divest yourself of your army?’

‘Yethanial awaits me in Cothique.’

Swilling the last of his wine around the chalice, Caledor tried to appear nonchalant. ‘How many did you bring back with you, brother?’

‘Ten thousand warriors and a head of fifty dragons,’ Imladrik stated flatly.

‘Quite a host. And Oeragor, it flourishes?’

‘Less well without my presence, but yes.’

‘A pity, but the needs of Ulthuan must come first.’

‘Of course, brother.’

‘What is it they call you again?’ Caledor asked, feigning interest in his empty chalice. ‘Ah yes, that was it… Master of Dragons. Such a curious little honorific and one I have never really understood.’

‘It’s ceremonial, and a tad archaic. I am the last Master of Dragons.’

Caledor sniffed, mildly amused. ‘And they should be mastered, shouldn’t they?’

‘Our bond with the drakes is a harmonious one, forged of mutual respect.’

‘Indeed,’ Caledor replied, though he did not sound convinced. His disdain for dragons was well known, his opinion of their servitude to the elves a matter of some consternation amongst the older drakes. Fortunately, it was also one that had yet to be debated.

Imladrik got the sense that Caledor had discovered what he needed to and was rapidly losing interest in their conversation. This was confirmed when he changed subject.

‘I want to show you something, Imladrik,’ said Caledor, turning his attention to his retainers. ‘Hulviar.’

The retainer nodded, evidently prepared for his king’s theatrics as he tossed a scabbarded blade which Caledor caught and drew with ease.

‘It’s a sword, brother,’ observed Imladrik, nonplussed.

Caledor showed him the edge, the runes upon the flat of the blade and how it shone in the dappled sunlight coming through the forest canopy overhead.

‘Sapherian steel,’ he said. ‘As light as goose down but deadlier than a Chracian’s axe blade. I had it made.’

Caledor turned the weapon in a series of intricate moves, rolling it over in half-swings and switching from hand to hand in a dazzling, but vainglorious display of swordsmanship.

‘Impressive,’ said Imladrik without much enthusiasm. ‘You dropped your scabbard,’ he added, stooping to pick up the scabbard from where Caledor had carelessly discarded it.

The king took it and sheathed the sword, obviously upset with his brother’s apathy.

‘You have had a long journey,’ he said, ‘and must be tired, which explains your mood, Imladrik. Return to Cothique, see your wife and then come to Lothern and my court. We have much to discuss.’ He was already turning his back when he added, ‘You have six days.’

Imladrik bowed, albeit curtly and lacking in deference. His brother the king had measured the threat he posed to his rule and had positioned him here to neutralise it. Imladrik cared not for the trappings of rulership. He didn’t lust for power or standing and so was happy to oblige.

Mounting his horse at the edge of the deeper forest, his thoughts were troubled nonetheless, but not by that. The maps and charts strewn upon the war table showed the dark elves had made extensive inroads into Ulthuan. Attacks were obviously increasing and together with that, he suspected, was dark elf involvement in the Old World. Imladrik wondered just how spent a force Malekith really was.

A war with the dwarfs would decimate the high elves, take them to the brink of destruction. After that, it wouldn’t take much to push them over the edge and into oblivion.