Cynathir

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VictorK

Cynathir

#1 Post by VictorK »

Some of you might remember this character from the short lived EE round robin. I've been meaning to write this story for a long time, simple, relatively short and hopefully entertaining. Many of the events depicted here can be found in your 7th ed HE book, from Laerial Trueblade's slaying of the hydra to the devastating battle on the Ellyrion plains during the Great Chaos Incursion.

Cynathir

They were the halcyon days, when the morning mists came off the Sea of Dusk and drifted between the web of silver bridges that united the disparate island houses into the city of Tor Elyr. In those days a boy could sit at the edge of a white stone pier, the gentle waves of the bay washing over his bare feet, and expect to catch something with the pole he held in his hands. Those mornings were awfully still, the sea birds still at roost before the fishermen who had gotten up before the sun returned with their daily catch. When the white elven sails returned from the wider sea the boy often took that as his sign that the day's fishing was over, and, catch or not, he should return to his home above and begin the day in earnest.

Often in those days the boy would be joined in the early hours by an elderly elf who nevertheless descended the severe steps from the island to the pier with a straight back and without fear of falling, no matter how much spray the sea had kicked up to cover the stones. He was never too early or too late, letting the boy decide for himself when it was appropriate to rise, but never letting him feel neglected. He would sit wordlessly behind the boy, gathering his robes around him, and watch him fish at the same time he watched the mouth of the natural bay. But not every day was the same as the one before it, and sometimes they spoke.

“Grandfather.” The boy began. His tone carried a deep respect, mostly earned but bearing a kernel of the original feeling which had to be taught. “I have been thinking about what we talked about yesterday.” His voice was soft but thoughtful, carrying the kind of importance that children often attach to their original thoughts.

“Oh?” The elder elf replied. “And what is it that you are thinking about, Arthiel? You will learn, in time, that some things are best left to their own devices. They are plain on their face, and rumination on these subjects leads to at best confusion, and at worst may erode your very sense of self.”

“I know, grandfather.” Arthiel replied as he tugged lightly on his fishing line. “I am told the same by my tutors. But they will not tell me about it, and neither will father.”

The old elf smiled, his face not so creased with the lines of age that the expression looked out of place. “Oh, he hasn't? I think, Arthiel, that you should give him more credit. The Prince cares for your upbringing very deeply, and this...this unfortunately must be part of it.”

Arthiel finally looked over his shoulder, his hair caught up in an immaculate silver loop. “I sometimes wonder about father.” He murmured, ashamed to say it even if the moment had compelled honesty out of him.

“Do not say such things.” The grandfather chided lightly. “He is my son, and a good elf. He cares for you and he cares for his house. One day, Arthiel, you will understand.”

“But you said that part of my upbringing was Cynathir?” Arthiel replied.

“Clever boy. Those sharp ears will do you well.” The elder replied. “You know where it is, Arthiel. All princes must know, even if we dare not seek it out. You have passed it many times, in rides with your father between the gates of the Anulii. You know the place, all Halciniens must know it. Keep that knowledge in your heart, and pray you never have need to use it.”

*

Halcyon days do not last. On Ulthuan they are even more fleeting, and often times wasted on the young who do not know a time before them. Grey clouds had settled over Ellyrion, abutting the eastern edge of the Anulii mountains. A lone rider, barely able to support himself in the saddle, carefully wove his way through the rocky outcropping that marred the entrance to a deep, hidden pass into the mountains. For once the horse did not know where to go; he needed his master's full attention to guide him, and that was something that was slipping away. The air was cold as it whistled down the channels carved by the ages into the rocks, whipping with greater violence than elsewhere along the great mountain range. It was all the sign that the elven rider needed to know that he was in the right place.

When the fair grasses of Ellyrion were finally exhausted and gave way to the barren stones of the mountainside the elf dismounted his steed. All the fluidity was out of his body, he moved in halting, jerking movements and had to kiss the ground with one toe before he felt confident enough to trust it with is weight. He settled heavily and his head hung down so that his chin was against his chest. He stood like this for a long time, breathing the thin air before he raised his pale blue eyes towards the hidden summit. The stairs that had been carved out of the rock thousands of years before were still faintly visible, and still certainly passable, at least by one elf on his own feet. To reassure himself under the guise of reassuring his mount the elf placed a hand on the horse's flank and felt the heat there, radiating off the animal after the long ride. “Sarihandir...” He murmured, finding a strength in speaking the horse's name. “Stay. Find some grass. I'll be back soon.” He let his hand fall and then put one foot in front of the other. His tone was dead, the gleam in his eyes not much better. But he still clung to life, spiting the shattered crossbow bolt buried in his torso.

As he climbed the stones he wished for some of his grandfather's grace. The mists from the low hanging clouds clung dangerously to the worn stone, now covered in a stubborn moss. As the wind whipped at his cloak it threatened to pull him down, so he let the gray garment go and paused for a moment to watch it be tortured by the currents as it fell back towards the Ellyrion soil. Without the cloak to cover him the wind cut through to his bones, but to the elf that bite was merely more impetus to move forward up the steep stair.

He knew that he had reached the top of the ascent when the wind ran up his face, out of the bowl that formed the summit of the narrow stair. The edge of the stone was still sharp from where it hand been cut from the mountainside, and it made pulling himself up to the top all the more difficult. As he was about to roll over the final rise and into the depression the rock clipped the broken end of the crossbow bolt and twisted it deep in his insides. The whistling of the wind was joined by the shrieking of an elf as he rolled onto his back and expelled the fire in his insides out through his throat. There was no poison in the tip of the bolt, or else he would already be dead. As he looked at the gray sky from his back, it was the only thing that he was sure of. For the moment he dared not look deeper into the depression.

When he regained his feet he could put off his journey no longer. At last he turned towards the curious depression at the edge of the Anulii, where the rock itself had been scooped out in a near perfect bowl. Where that stone had ended up was fairly obvious, it was piled in the center of the depression in a rough pyramid. But the elf wasn't here for rocks. He stumbled down the slope, trying to keep his feet until he was at the base of the pile and face to face with what he had come to find.

“I am Arthiel Halcinien.” He declared, his voice echoing throughout the mountains. A soft ringing replied as the wind coursed over the length of the spear that had its blade embedded in the rock. Metal rings still bound two tattered pieces of cloth, that had endured the millennia, to the crossguard beneath the blade. One was white, the other a bluish gray that Arthiel immediately recognized as belonging to his house. The haft of the spear itself was a deep blue that was iridescent even in the low light. It was completely unmarked save for a rune in gold etched on each side of the blade. The rune cynath intertwined with the crescent sariour. It was a symbol that hurt his eyes to look upon.

“It is my right to claim you, Cynathir.” Arthiel told the spear. “To see if the stories they tell about you are true. My ancestors carried you to war, and I must do so again...I am Arthiel Halcinien. I am now the head of my house, a full Prince, with the right to stand as High Prince of Ellyrion and be considered for the Phoenix Throne itself.” He paused. “Though I wish I was not.”

*

The clouds had not yet gathered over the verdant plains of Ellyrion when the army of horsemen arrived at the grasslands that emptied out from the shattered Eagle Gate. It was the height of spring, the grasses were green and the earth was soft. The banners of the seven houses, the mightiest nobles who ruled over Tor Elyr, were all present. The High Prince, however, was not. The invasion had caught him in Lothern, and travel was no longer safe. All of Ulthuan was being closed by this incursion, still in its infancy. At such times the other nobles gravitated towards the gray banner with the silver rune of sariour radiating pale rays of moonlight. They sought out the advice of the head of the House Halcinien.

Arthiel sat in his saddle, behind his father. He was flanked on either side by the some of the best warriors that his house could call on, their sole duty being to keep him alive, though if the young prince was to taste war they could not keep him safe. Sarihandir reflected his master's nerves, stamping his hooves and shifting about. All the stillness, and the deadly foreboding of an army's presence was infectious to the younger steeds among the horsemen. It didn't help that the beat of drums was rolling over the hills, a pounding too regular to be thunder.

“We have no accurate reports of what we face, Georan!” One of the nobles exclaimed to the rigid elf who sat upon his horse below the Halcinien banner. His expression did not change as the other high nobles debated in front of him. “The entire garrison of the Eagle Gate, wiped out, Tiranoc, laid to waste. This is all that we know, and it does not bode well.”

“Perhaps his excellency would wish to ride all the way down to Lothern, so that he can speak to the High Prince himself and raise an army to retake our lands? Except that while you are there you may as well gather every craftsman in the city so that we can rebuild everything that we would have lost!” Another snapped.

“I think you misrepresent our brother's plan.” Georan Halcinien finally spoke, his hands crossed calmly over his reins. “But we are horsemen, not infantry. The walls of Tor Elyr are no comfort. We have a wide open field in front of us, the strength of noble horses and knowledge of our land. If the horse lords of Ellyrion cannot triumph on this field it is not likely that they could triumph anywhere. But victory is not automatic. Take that confidence back to your men, but rely on the plan that we have agreed to.”

The other nobles nodded, some begrudgingly, but they returned to their banners without any further protest. They trusted Georan's words and their own soldiers. When they had gone Georan spurred his horse and turned, riding back towards where his son was waiting. “Arthiel.” He spoke the word coldly, but proudly.

“Father.” Arthiel replied with a respectful dip of his head.

“You are prepared?” Georan asked, lowering his own head so that he could try to look into his son's eyes. He didn't have to look far; Arthiel was soon staring into his own.

“I wish to join the Reavers, father. I am ready.” Arthiel asserted, leaning forward in his saddle.

“I am not.” Georan replied to his son before he turned back towards the front. “You are in the second wave. I will speak to you again when the battle is won.” Arthiel watched his father's back, his fingers tightening on Sarihandir's reins. One of the horsemen at his side reached out and squeezed the young elf's shoulder but didn't say a word. He didn't need to; this exchange was itself no friction between the two Halciniens, merely a process by which one prince would pass his legacy on to another.

Georan would not hold Arthiel's attention for long. A clear, crisp horn blast drowned over the drums and rolled over the field. A lone rider, the plumage of a Reaver Knight waving from his polished helm, rode with incredible speed towards the mounted army. He blasted his horn again and again, nearly nonstop until he had crossed the friendly line and finally allowed his horse to rest. Georan placed his helm on his head, as did many others on down the line. Light cavalry, reavers, rode out from behind the armored warriors and settled into a loose formation ahead of them. The rest of the army set out at a light trot, but they allowed the reavers to put significant distance between them. The horsemen of Ellyrion would fight this battle on their own terms.

The black army that mounted the gentle rise was a far cry from the disciplined Asur. It resembled a revelry as much as it did a march, the brides of Khaine mixing freely with the regular warriors of the Druchii host. Many in the army of Ellyrion had seen the witch elves in battle before, and these veterans knew immediately that something was wrong with this particular army. Corruption ran rife through it, an intoxicating cloud of excess and decadency that was nearly palpable as the entire mass of Druchii began to spill out onto the plain. The reavers darted in boldly and loosed their arrows. The unprotected Druchii front suffered what casualties it had to, but continued to advance almost without even recognizing that there was an army arrayed in front of them. The reavers came around again, and a third time, but the result was the same.

At last the heart of the Druchii army crested the hill, and the source of the corruption became apparent. A thousand elven slaves carried on their backs an altar of Khaine that had once been rooted on Ulthuan but which had been removed during the Sundering. But it had changed in the interval. Icons to Slaanesh were draped over it, and the sorceresses who called that god their master cavorted on its stone, calling up the rank and file to join them in their carnal pursuits. As the reavers continued to fire sometimes the Brides of Khaine they had struck down would rise again, wicked claws tearing through their dead flesh to give birth to the daemon of Slaanesh within. This was a fell army, the physical manifestation of the dark pact that Malekith had made with the Ruinous Powers to make his invasion of Ulthuan possible. The line between Khaine and Slaanesh blurred until it was gone, leaving only a deadly haze of madness behind.

Still, the Asur plan continued. On the left flank of the Druchii army a standard carried by their dark rider scouts became visible over the undulating plains. It was in Asur hands, born aloft by a group of Reaver Knights who would not allow any rival horsemen to travel their plains. They whooped and hollered, more like mad men than warriors. But that was entirely their purpose. At their head was a red-haired son of House Laerial, descendant of the Trueblade who slew one of the great hydras and elevated her family to the status of one of the seven. He had her spirit with him as he and his men crashed into the flank of the Druchii army, scattering the disorganized warriors and firing their bows into their ranks.

At the same moment the reaver screen in front of the main army dissipated like a morning fog, allowing the fast and powerfully armored main contingent to slam into the carousing Druchii. It was war the way that the horse lords wanted it, at a distance when they required it, and up close and personal when it was demanded. The charge would have broken a similarly disorganized force, crippling blows coming from all sides matched with the power of the noble steeds of Ellyrion. An arrow fired by one of the riders reached the profane altar, striking one of the sorceresses in her breast. She collapsed, dead where she stood and tumbled into the mass of writhing slaves. It was only at this point that they seemed to realize that they were in a battle as the other sorceresses shrieked and wailed at the loss of their comrade. They turned their gaze on the horsemen of Ellyrion, and began to summon the winds of magic that were thick all around them.

Arthiel was preparing to charge when he saw one of his tutors burst apart, the mage having been trained in Saphery precisely for the purpose of defending the armies of Ellyrion and educating their young nobles. Something fleshy and pink writhed out of him; it should have been a sign that the weight of magic being summoned against the horse lords could not be stopped. The murder, the revelry, and now the battle, all served a purpose. It could not go unseen by the invisible forces that governed the world, and it could not help but influence the winds of magic so that the powers of perversion lent their strength to the servants of darkness.

The wind turned cold and its fingers began to coil around the oblivious riders of Ellyrion. The army that had been lost began to coalesce as the will needed to command such powerful magic filtered down and entered the minds of the most common Druchii. At last, they returned fire against the horse lords, their black bolts striking down the riders even as they clove deep into their lines. The head sorceress, ancient in her worship of the dark gods, strode down the length of the altar to stand on its edge. Naked, she held up her arms and called to her the forces that had been building around them. It was her will that bent it, her will that controlled it, her will that condemned the Asur.

The wind gathered an eldritch lightning, coruscating purple as its currents, alternating hot and cold, swept up the horsemen. It tore through them like a blade, tearing limb from elf and casting steeds into the sky. The network of waystones that held the world together trembled at such awesome magic, enough to annihilate an army in a single spell. The forces of Ellyrion were committed but no one would hear their screams over the gale. Druchii warriors and Brides of Khaine mixed among them were sacrificed as well to the churning maelstrom that brought in dark clouds from the great sea behind the dark elven host. Only those in the second wave had a chance for escape but even this seemed remote as crossbow bolts, born on magic winds, sailed towards them. Arthiel Halcinien was thrown from his saddle even as his bodyguards were cut down. He had taken only one, they were not so lucky.

Sarihandir reared up at the fearful volley but did not bolt from its master. The noble steed turned so that any further shots would pierce it instead of the young noble. Arthiel raised his head, it was not the first time he had been thrown from the saddle and if the gods were smiling it would not be his last. The soft ground helped, and he pushed against the mud as he looked out over the battlefield. The sky was being torn apart by lightning, and elves and horses hung in the air as if gently falling snow, so violently had they been thrown. They came apart in midair and fluttered to the ground, their garments rent apart as surely as their bodies. There would be little to bury of the Ellyrion host, fewer still to tell what had happened. When Arthiel lowered his gaze his breath escaped him. His father was not among those who had been torn apart. He lay on the ground not far from his son. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead but his eyes were wide, staring back towards Tor Elyr.

Georan soon focused on his son's face, and for a moment they connected across the space of the battlefield. Even in his final moments the dignity of a prince was unshakeable. He did not flinch, he did not cry out. His steady gaze simply told his son that it was time to go, that this field was lost. The only sound he made was a gasp as a daemon of Slaanesh drove her cruel claw through his chest.

Arthiel, panic welling in his chest, grabbed Sarihandir's reins and bid the swift steed to leave the battlefield.

*

The bodies of the dead elves were likely still warm as the Halcinien prince, now the head of his family, beheld the ancient spear. It had not moved, despite his command that it obey him. Arthiel had hoped that would be the end of it, and had stood silent for a long time waiting for that miracle. It had not come, and now the only option was to actually hold it. He reached out with his right hand, hesitating as he inched towards the haft. The stories of the spear that had been found, not made, by the original Halciniens were now legend. It was the item that had given them the title of Prince in the days after Aenarion, though technically it had not been made by the earthly forges of Vaul. The origin of the spear was a mystery, but its power was not. Awakened, it could turn the tide of a battle. Slumbering, it could help no one.

Arthiel did not know whether or not his father had wanted him to go to this place when they locked eyes across the grassy plain. But he did know that an entire army had been destroyed by Druchii sorcery, and that the same power was descending towards Tor Elyr. He was a mere warrior, hardly a leader, but with Cynathir...In this moment of desperation, the most dire moment in the history of Ellyrion since the betrayal of Malekith had plunged the whole isle into war, Arthiel Halcinien's fingers closed around the shaft of the spear.

It was the coldest thing he had ever touched. It was so cold that it stole the fire of the scream that was building in his throat so that when his jaw dropped all that came out was silence. Arthiel couldn't let it go; his fingers and his flesh were frozen to it. He fell to his knees, gripping his captive arm with his left while his chest heaved dry sobs. Ice crystals formed in his skin, turning his right hand first a bruised shade of purple olive before it turned black entirely. The darkness began to travel up his fingers to the back of his hand where it threatened to move up his wrist. Arthiel gasped, struggling to breathe as he realized that the spear meant to kill him.

The prince remembered why he had come, not to hold the spear but to pull it free. He yanked with his numb hand and it failed to budge. The darkness had infected his veins, turning his blood to ice as it traveled up into his wrist. Arthiel found his voice and screamed, hauling himself back to his feet. He began to pull in violent bursts, screaming at the spear to come free of the stone. The skin on his hand, robbed of its elasticity, split open but no blood poured out. He dared not touch the spear with his other hand; all he could do was pull and pray.

If the noble had not been shouting he might have heard the blade at the end of the spear start to sing. The merest twitch against its rocky prison and the metal began to ring as clear as a bell. As Arthiel continued to try and dislodge the spear its tone grew louder and louder, until at last even he could hear it reverberating within the strange depression. He stopped pulling and tried to stand on his feet, exhaustion nearly sending him to the rocks. The tone was getting into his head, a sweet melody that nonetheless was growing to the point that it pierced his ears. At last Arthiel cried out and fell back to his knees, clapping one hand over his ear while the other quivered against the ice cold haft.

When it seemed like he could endure it no more, that he would burst in the same way that his tutor had popped on the battlefield, a resounding crack like thunder overwhelmed the tone. Arthiel looked up and saw that the rocks around the tip of the spear had been rent apart. He stood on shaky legs and pulled. Cynathir's full blade, unmarred despite thousands of years exposed to the elements, slid free without protest. The noble's fingers remained numb, but the ascension of the killing darkness in his flesh had been arrested. He feared losing his hand, but his fingers could move. They were desiccated, all of their moisture gone so that the dark flesh clung to the bone like a rotted fruit skin. He could feel nothing, but despite all appearances his fingers could move.

Almost as soon as Cynathir was free the pile of rocks it had been thrust into began to collapse. It started with a trickle of pebbles but rapidly grew into a dull roar of cascading rock. Wind, as if it had been pent up in the structure for eons, burst forth and nearly knocked Arthiel off of his feet. It rushed up the wall of the depression and drove away the clouds, but soon lost all of its moment. A pile of rubble was all that was left of the spear's prison, no sign that an elf's hands had ever touched it.

Arthiel never let go of the spear, though he removed his scarf and carefully wrapped it over the blade. When it was fully hidden, its strange rune no longer greeting his eyes, he turned to descend the steep slope and rejoin Sarihandir.

*

Arthiel was not the only rider to return to Tor Elyr from the battlefield but he was the last. They had given up hope and his grandfather had prepared to reassume the title of Prince that had passed on to his son. The gates were closed tightly, and it seemed to take an eternity to open them. Arthiel nearly fell out of his saddle, but he never let go of the spear. When Sarihandir was guided away from the mainland and across the silver bridges towards the large Halcinien island his grandfather rushed to meet him, but stopped when he saw what his grandson was carrying.

When Arthiel was guided past the spear brushed by the elder, making the young noble's dead hand painfully apparent. He turned to watch his grandson go, and could not help but wonder if Tor Elyr and Arthiel were prepared to pay the price of Cynathir's return.
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