V. The Forsaken: A Nagarathi children's story....

[Headshot]

Part 1 – Tiranoc


“…And the fact that Naggarythe was not the only kingdom to suffer the Sundering, yet Tiranoc is not a home of uncivilized murderers!”

Princess Tarabeth of Chrace sighed and rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. For perhaps the thousandth time that day she regretted ever coming on this trip.

She fought back her temper and merely said:

“Don’t say that, Cami,” she urged. “Besides, it is ‘Nagarythe’ anyways.”

“Huh?” the other girl looked up from her seat before the vanity mirror. She frowned and struggled with the brush in her hair.

Tarabeth sighed again. “The Nagarathi say ‘Nagarythe’. It is only southlanders that say it the other way.”

Cami was sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she struggled with the knot in her hair. Finally the brush came free and the girl grunted with satisfaction. She looked at her Chracian companion in the mirror and returned to running the brush through her long blonde locks.

“What was that dear?” she said, then without waiting for an answer, “I mean it’s just that if one absolutely HAD to marry an outland lord, then Tiranoc would be much more preferable. They at least aren’t complete barbarians!”

The girl’s tongue was sticking once more out of her mouth as the brush had again proven recalcitrant. She continued, “I mean it must have been absolutely HORRID for you, dearest. What with having to live with those barbarians for a year!! I can’t imagine the suffering! Or indignities!! But at least it is over now. You are back at the Tower. Where you belong.” The brush looked like it was about to snap in her hand, and still the girl tugged at the tangle.

Tarabeth gave up; she stood and made her way to the balcony. The night sky outside was dominated by a waxing silver moon; its brilliance seemed to subdue the sprinkling of stars in Aenarion’s Crown in the northern heavens. Tarabeth let her eyes linger there: below the Crown, somewhere past the mountains and the sea was her home, the mighty fortress city of Tor Choi, in the mountainous highlands of Chrace. One of the outland kingdoms of Ulthuan….that her companion had just recently called ‘barbarous’.

It was infuriating! Laicami was only a couple of years older than her. (And she hadn’t even completed her practical yet!) And yet just because she was from Saphery and her family had an estate in Lothern she treated Tarabeth like an adopted baby sister! Who cares how many villas they had?! Or how many gossamer dresses were in her wardrobe anyways??! She was a Princess of Chrace! A proud, northern people! Maybe they weren’t as sophisticated as the southern kingdoms! And maybe she didn’t have the finery at home that Cami did. But still…

She was a Princess of Chrace!!!

Khaine’s teeth!! It infuriated her! That Sapheri wench knew nothing… Nothing!! About the north… About the outlands….

About Nagarythe….

A pang of memory and regret welled in her chest. It had been several years since she had last seen the Nagarathi… Her… friends… in the Host of Nagarythe. When she had left, things had been sudden, and not under the best of circumstances. And there was so much more that she had wanted to say….

Her anger dried up. It wasn’t Cami’s fault. Not really. She knew that her time with the Host of Nagarythe had changed her and made it hard to reconnect with her old friends at the Tower. She had seen…done… so much. Even commanded an army for a brief week! That when she came back to the Tower, all the usual talk – the gossip, the classes, the worrying about exams and dresses – just seemed foolish to her. Instead she had wanted to talk about the north, and Nagarythe, and her experiences. But there was no one who could listen…. Her friends at first smiled politely as she tried to tell her stories, or share her feelings, but then, inevitably, they would steer the conversation back to the Tower and what Lord so-and-so had worn that day. It had frustrated her so! But she knew it wasn’t their fault. They just couldn’t relate.

Her brother could; at least a little. Prince Kurnion was the High Lord of Tor Choi. And as a Chracian noble, he had known battle all his life. But that was the problem: he was so much older than her! By several thousands of years! It was hard to have him relate to her fears and insecurities. He would just smile and pat her on the shoulder.

Once or twice she had gone to Loremaster Tiralya’s office to talk. He was older than even her brother, but he had a gentleness to his years: the Loremaster would make her warm cups of the eastern leaf tea, and sit in his office staring at his fireplace while she just chattered on and on. He would smile and listen. (He was real good at that!) And after the long period of speaking her throat would be parched, and the ancient loremaster would simply refill her cup with a smile. He knew what she had gone through. At least, the rumor was that once long ago, a young apprentice Tiralya had served in the army of Nagarythe….

Under the command of a Shadow Prince….

She shivered involuntary. Eyes, as black as death, appeared in her memory. She felt keenly the vastness of distance, and time….

And a sense of loss.

“You are a Friend of Nagarythe,” he had said upon their parting in the lands of the men across the ocean. (The so-called ‘Old World’, but oh so much younger than Ulthuan.) He had said those words like a benediction, and she had been so full of pride! But then, it was back to the Tower, and life as normal. And all that time. All those adventures! They seemed like the fading embers of a dream.

So far away…. She felt so distant from all of that. Class occupied her. Studies and training. Trips to and from Chrace. She tried to get back to normal. To be who she once was. And it seemed to be working for a little while…. But then there was that one night at The Lost Swan, sharing cups of cider and wine with her friends. The Nagarathi traveler. He had told her of the loss of Palin’Tanith in the distant east. And it had cut into her like a red-hot knife! She had to excuse herself from her party and went outside into the streets of the little Sapheri village and wept raw, bitter tears. She remembered the old Nagarathi Shadow Walker. How he had been the only one to believe in her in Bretonnia. Had taken the time to teach her. His face had always been frighteningly hideous – just a mash of scars, surrounding coal-black eyes. With a voice of raspy gravel. And yet…. Yet he had been kind to her. Had treated her like a lost daughter. The news of his death had emptied some small part of her soul. And she hadn’t expected that at all.

She sighed (for the hundredth and second time that day!), and turned her gaze downwards. The village of Tolnoc lay about the mansion she was staying in. It was a beautiful, bucolic place in the foothills of Tiranoc. It was built upon the merger of two rivers flowing out of the forested mountains of the Dragon’s Teeth that separated Tiranoc from mighty Caledor, where the Wyrms slept. Even from here she sometimes felt like she could see the distant glimmer of the Red Mountain – the Anvil of Vaul, the great fire crater to the south of Caledor. But no. She was probably imagining it. To the east were just the hills and mountains, covered in the lush growth of spring. To the west were the vineyards past the river, before the cultivation disappeared in the great plains of southern Tiranoc. Not too far past that – perhaps only a league – were wide white sandy beaches and the ocean.

“I’m ready!” Cami announced as she stepped onto the balcony. Her hair was done up in a cascade of curls and twists, held back by a white ithilmar tiara. She smiled and gave a little twirl, allowing the matching white satin gown to spin about her.

She was very pretty, Tarabeth acknowledged, and suddenly wished she had spent more time with her hair. She fidgeted at her braids, wondering if she should take them out. Or perhaps try on a different gown other than the simple green one she wore? But Cami said (without looking at her!), “You look fine, dear. Let’s go!”

***

Lord Othellin’s manor home was speckled with jewel and light. The gardens about the Great Hall were filled with strands of Saphery paper lamps, all shedding their faded russet hues across the flowering vines and hedges. The wooden walls of the hall had been thrown open to allow the sweet smells of the spring gardens to breathe through the house, along with the sound of the harps and flutes strategically placed about the grounds. Tables laden with sweetmeats, flavored ices, and decanters of wine were situated beneath the flowering boughs of cherry and plum trees. Servants dressed in immaculate silvers and whites waited nearby with trays and flagons. And yet despite all of the luxury, most of the guests’ gazes were fixed upon the interior of the Hall itself. For the trappings of the main room had been cleared away, making space for the dance.

It was the ball that had brought her here. The ‘event of the season throughout the Southlands!’ Cami had called it. And Lords and Ladies from as far away as Yvresse had gathered here, dressed in their finest, and wearing the decorous white and black half-masks to honor the Goddess Lileath, for whom the ancient festival (of which the ball was the final night) was dedicated to. In their jeweled disguises, highborn couples swirled and twirled across the mahogany floors of the manor.

“Oh! How delightful!” Cami said with a clap of her hands from where she stood beside Tarabeth. The Sapheri princess was all smiles as she walked across the corner of the garden, nodding to the passerbys. Tarabeth had to hurry to keep up.

“I mean,” the girl whispered as they walked, “Can you just imagine how absolutely dreadful and uncouth it would be if uncivilized outlanders were here?! It would just ruin it! Absolutely ruin it. Oh the ambience would be horrid!! And could you imagine… a colonial?” she finished and covered her mouth in horror.

Tarabeth said nothing. Only wondering (not for the first time) why she was still friends with this girl?

Suddenly Cami stopped and grabbed Tarabeth’s arm. “Look there,” she hissed in the Chracian’s ear, and delicately pointed with a nod of her head. “See there. The lady in saffron and gold? I know who that is!” Tarabeth tried to follow the girl’s directions. She saw a tall woman dressed in elegant finery standing to the side of the ball, talking to several other elven ladies. “See! Oh, how wonderful!! She has feathers in her braids!! Do you know who that is?” Again without waiting for an answer the girl rushed onwards, “She’s that wildelf from Ethin-Arvan. The one married to the Caledorian High Lord! Can you just imagine sharing a bed with someone like her!? It’s so deliciously…tribal!”

“Cami, stop staring,” Tarabeth said and blushed.

“Oh, don’t be a prude,” the Sapherian chastised her and dragged her into the hall.

Once inside Tarabeth was separated from her companion by the crush of well-dressed Lords and Ladies. She wandered around the edge of the manor crowd for a while, trying to find someone she knew under the masks. She doubted that anyone from Chrace would be here. But maybe, just maybe….

She saw an elf with a long black queue trailing down his back. Her heart stopped.

“Tim,” she gasped aloud. The elf continued walking away from her.

No. No that is silly. Narrin’Tim here? At this place? The mere thought of it made her laugh a little. The idea that the Nagarathi ranger, so awkward when he wasn’t wielding a bow, would be at a party like this….

She shook her head ruefully. But still… her eyes searched the crowd. And she dared to hope.

As she wandered she finally stumbled upon Cami again. The girl was leaning against a cherry tree, talking to a tall elf in a rich coat of embroidered black and silver. His hair was white as snow, and tied into a series of braids at the back. Though the face and full lips below the mask were youthful.

“Tarabeth,” Cami greeted with a smile. “This is a lord from the City of Spires! He came all that way? Isn’t that amazing?”

“I thought you said you didn’t want colonials….” Tarabeth started and then yelled ‘ouch’ as someone stamped on her foot.

“Sorry dear. So clumsy of me,” Cami said with another smile. “Anyways as I was saying, the Lord here came all the way from the City of Spires in his family’s hawkship! In their private hawkship, did you hear?”

“It is true,” the elf lord said with a smile. “Our ventures in spice have been generous,” he added with a polite nod to Tarabeth. He had a faint accent but otherwise a pleasant voice. “We were about to go for a walk through the gardens. Would you like to join us?”

Behind him Cami was emphatically shaking her head. Tarabeth was fine with that. “I’m sorry, ummmm Lord. I was… I was just looking for someone.”

“Pity,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “Perhaps we will meet again later.”

Tarabeth took her leave. She wandered the gardens but saw no more of the tall lord with the black queue. Eventually she drifted to the side of the manor and a small marble bench built against one wall. She sat and rested her head on her fist.

She was wondering what excuse she could invent for departing early tomorrow, back to the Tower and her studies, when she felt someone sit down on the bench beside her. She looked up: it was the Lady dressed in saffron.

“You are not of these lands,” the woman said directly, her words sounding strange to Tarabeth’s ears. The Chracian princess hesitated a moment, wondering what the etiquette should be, then stood and gave a brief curtsey.

“No my lady,” she answered. “I am from Chrace, in the north.”

The woman gestured for her to sit down again. “I have heard of this land. And seen it from afar from the deck of my husband’s ships,” she said musingly. “It reminds me of the hills and vales of my home. More so than the dry south.”

Tarabeth did not know what to say. The woman added after a moment, “I am called Athyria.” The way she said her name it was like she was voicing syllables not known to the Asur tongue. The young Chracian princess smiled and nodded politely.

“I am Tarabeth,” she answered. “Of Tor Choi. Though now I am a student at the Tower.”

She fell to talking with the strange foreign lady. The woman had a dry subtle wit and told stories of her homeland that filled Tarabeth with visions of faeries and sylvan flowers. She listened enraptured until she finally wondered aloud why the woman would ever leave such a home.

“Love,” the foreign lady answered simply.

Tarabeth flushed at that. She said it with such openness and directness; without a hint of reservation or shyness. Tarabeth supposed that that must say something of the people of her homeland.

Tarabeth started when she suddenly realized the lateness of the hour. “I had better check on my friend,” she excused herself.

“I would accompany you,” the foreign lady said and stood. “My husband is not in attendance and I find many smiles without feeling here.”

Tarabeth nodded at that, and the two crossed the garden. They had been wandering about it for some minutes, passing on the outskirts of the crowd without any luck of finding her classmate when she caught sight of the girl disappearing into a side door of the manor. Quickening her step Tarabeth hurried to catch her.

“I think I see her,” she said to her companion as she pulled open the door. The interior was dark – one of the unused servants’ passages. She stepped inside and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust.

“Cami,” she called to the darkness. No reply came. She took a few steps further in. Then she saw the girl, reclining, apparently unconscious on a divan. And kneeling beside her the tall elf with the black queue. He looked up at her as she approached and she noticed that his mask was off. Hard eyes peered at her, and the depiction of a silver serpent was etched into the skin of his face.

“Care!” the woman beside her called and raised her hand in some strange sigil towards the man before them. But the man simply smiled and said,

“Good. More.”

Tarabeth gasped as she felt something prick the skin on the back of her neck.

The hard wood of the floor swam up to meet her. A darkness was descending about her. The last she knew was the sight of boots of three others coming out of the blackness behind her….

***

[Elithmar]

Haha, I was wondering if you'd see that comment.

So not Tim. I wonder who it is. No one good, I think.

[Prince of Spires]

Always nice to see the bloody elves just can't leave you alone. Or have you suddenly found some spare time somewhere

Oh the ambience would be horrid!! And could you imagine… a colonial?” she finished and covered her mouth in horror.

lol... Those colonials. Scum of the earth, I tell you.

Rod

[Malossar]

Great start!

And it is... tribal

[Aicanor]

Nagarathi managed to kidnap you and bring you over to Asur lands once again? Welcome!
Colonials with an estate in the Land of Chill I guess? Of course villains are in other parts of the world also.

[Headshot]

@Eli

Yep. I saw.

Tim and the gang say they are all used to it. But me, the humble chronicler, still gets to feel outrage.

@Everyone else

Thanks for the welcome! But unfortunately I am not really back. In fact, I am utterly swamped now. But after I saw that one comment posted in my usual haven of ulthuan.net.... well, the Nagarathi demanded a voice! And the story she is a harsh mistress....

But what I am trying to say is that I can't promise any regular updates, or even frequent ones. (I may have to wait for a night when the Everqueen slips off with the other ladies of the Court, leaving me a few precious hours to ponder elves. ). Ill keep plugging away at the story without any particular alacrity, and just call it 'entertaining myself (and hopefully you!) until our new book arrives.'

Headshot

P.S. What am I gonna do when the new book improves Shadow Warriors so much that EVERYONE is taking them?!!

[Shadow star]

I love the Nagarathi!! Eagerly awaiting more.

[Elithmar]

Your stories are great - it doesn't matter how infrequent they are.

[Karalael Moonsinger]

P.S. What am I gonna do when the new book improves Shadow Warriors so much that EVERYONE is taking them?!!

If the rest of Ulthuan are anything like me, we've already started taking Shadow Warriors due to Tim and his freinds

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Not 100%, but I think Shadow Warriors were one of the firs things 'I' painted myself, not all my lists have them but 2 out of three do.

[Shannar, Sealord]

Not 100%, but I think Shadow Warriors were one of the firs things 'I' painted myself, not all my lists have them but 2 out of three do.

They tend to make it into a lot of my lists, because the models are cool. Same as my metal LSG.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I still don't have real Shadow Warriors, using Archers with cloaks ^_^'

[Aicanor]

I've had help of the Host from time to time as well. But I need to paint the White Guard of Saphery for my coming battles. I know how much they are needed in the north.

[Elithmar]

I must confess that I've stopped using shadow warriors to make my list more competitive.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Power gamer...

[Elithmar]

Haha, I wouldn't say that. I don't use cheese, but I do like to win.

[Shadow star]

Still need to get some to support my shadow prince ^_^

[Headshot]

That's ok, Eli!

Word gets around. No Nagarathi wants to serve in your army anyways.



Headshot

[Prince of Spires]

They somehow keep showing up on my table, no matter if I take them or not... I get a sneaky suspicion they're there to keep an eye on the doings of the prince of spires. Not realy any choice in the matter.

@headshot: the little snippets that offer some insight into the doings of the nagarathi are definatly worth it, even if the story takes a long time to complete. Always a joy to read.

Rod

[Elithmar]

I will take them sometime, whether they like it or not!

[Headshot]

Part 2 – Chrace


The highlands of Chrace were famed throughout Ulthuan for their rugged natural beauty. Chrace was a land of steep hills, granite strewn heath, hidden mountain vales with deep lakes full of icy black waters, and forests: lush rolling folds of conifer and oak, ash and redwood, for as far as the eye could see. It was a land famed for its wildlife and game....

And yet the hunters of Lothern and Ellyrion rarely came here for sport; it was well known that in Chrace the line between hunter and hunted often blurred, as the mountain forests were filled with more than one species quite capable of turning a careless Asur party into a bloody meal. No, much of Chrace was left pristine and untouched by Asur axe or plow not just because of the rough terrain and unfertile climate, but because life there was a brutal contest between elf and the elements…. Blade and claw. A contest best left to the hardy clansmen that called the kingdom ‘home’.

For Chrace was no wasteland devoid of Asur culture. From the time before the founding of the Ever Empire, before Aenarion and the Golden Host, some few elves, taller, broader built than their kinsman of the central forests of Avelorn, could be found here. They would trade with the more sophisticated clansmen from the shores of the inner sea – furs and animal skins for woven goods and fine metal work. And more than that, they were valued as mercenaries and bodyguards; the powerful northerners were renowned for their ferocity in battle, and their stalwartness. And with the founding of the Ever Empire, as the Hosts of Aenarion spread out across the world bringing the light of Asur civilization and culture to distant lands, the Chracian highlanders – once known as barbarians – formed a small, and yet honored and reliable, contingent within the Grand Army. Their kingdom was recognized early by the First Phoenix, and placed in perpetual trust for the sovereign chiefs of the clans.

Chrace was an ancient land. And yet its terrain so harsh, its fauna so ferocious, and its clans so protective of their traditional privileges, that it remains one of the least populated realms of Ulthuan. A vast place of forests and mountains, and only on a few isolated hilltops or river valleys a traveler might find a settlement of Asur, invariably surrounded by wooden palisades or stone fortifications. Each the home to a clan and its kinsmen, guided by a warchief (for Chrace was always at war… if not with the enemies of Ulthuan, then with the forest itself), who in turn is given council by the elders of the clan. Of these settlements most do not number more than a thousand souls. Only a handful are of sufficient population, strategic import, and historical legacy, to receive the title of ‘Tor’, a city-state of Ulthuan, and kingdom writ small in itself.

Tor Choi was one.

It is said amongst the southern elves that ‘Chracians build stout; not tall’. It was a commonly held prejudice against the northerners, that such a burly, statuesque people would favor wooden buildings, partly submerged in earth or sod, and fortifications noted more for their girth than their height. Hilltown palisades were thick and functional, typically surrounded by a moat (dry or wet), and the buildings contained within were designed with an eye towards the brutal northern winters, and the best way to maintain the heat within over the long snow clad months.

And yet Tor Choi gave lie to all of these stereotypes.

The Tor was found in the confines of a broad valley; a place that legend said had been carved by the massive ice fields that covered the world in the time of the Lizard Gods, before the landmasses had come to their current positions. The dreamweavers of Chrace say that the valley had been chewed from the earth by the ice giants, and in their passing they had carved away the soft loamy soil such that only the hard shoulders of the granite mountains protruded from the earth. That was what made the valley so distinguishable in the north: that the heath covered hills and mountain shoulders that framed its outer edges, surrounded the wide fertile forests and plains of the valley itself, containing in its breadth even a deep water lake that Chrace is famed for, and yet there, in the valley center, towering over all about it, was a single block of unworked stone, massive in both height and width…the seat of Choi, the White Hunter. Here in ancient times a fortress had been built, from the ‘top of the rock’ as locals said. And over the generations the clan had expanded and built more atop the fortresses before, until now the fortifications spread out from the giant rock itself and included much of the surrounding land as well. At the base of the rock was a village, containing hundreds of the sturdy wooden houses of Chrace, encircled by a stone wall on three sides, and the lake on the fourth. And at the top of the rock… a castle of white marble, in sharp contrast to the black rock below it.

The white stone castle is what gave lie to the southern saying, for it was tall indeed. A beautiful Asur artifact of towers, spires, and minarets: the white marble enveloped the entirety of the rock now and threw up proud wall and sturdy parapet all around its circumference. The palace within and its high peaked roofs soared high into the sky… and the towers of Tor Choi… the towers pierced the very clouds themselves. Seahawks and fisher eagles would swirl, dive, and glide beneath the tower eaves and circle the breadth of the Asur stonecraft.

***

On one sunny morning…. Spring was in the valley. The heath was lush. The pines were speckled here and there with the flowering boughs of their deciduous cousins. The morning light shone bright upon the vale such that the usual black waters of the mountain lake shown green and blue. Small fishing craft, cleverly carved and fashioned from the native wood, prowled the surface of the calm, cold waters. And the town below was abustle with the week’s market.

High above, the castle was a study in placid calm. The walls unshakeable. The palace chimneys emitting wispy white curls of sweet smelling wood smoke. Upon the parapets, the mighty figures of cloaked White Lions: the famed woodsmen warriors of the Chracian clans. They stood at their posts attentive, but unconcerned, for the north was calm. No enemy pressed the Tor. No monster dared venture into the valley from the high mountain lairs.

In the west tower, the highest of all the many gracing the Tor, a single window lay at its peak. The window was fitted with the finest in Eatani glass work; carefully molded to a filigreed frame of bronze. And worked in such a cunning fashion that the light reflected off of it in a shifting rainbow of hues. On the window ledge a falcon stood and preened…

Then the chair went through the window.

The glass shattered along with the fine metal work, sending out thousands of shards of destruction. With a cry the falcon leapt from its perch and threw itself into the winds with a flurry of wing beats. Slowly, the chair fell through the sky until it disappeared in the forest green below.

Beyond the window was a single room. A simple study with few furnishings, but a table, some low row of bookshelves, a desk and a cabinet, a small fireplace….

And one less chair.

The room had only two occupants. Seated in one of the remaining chairs at the head of the table was Prince Kurnion, a High Lord of Chrace, and Sovereign of Tor Choi. He was a living embodiment of southern ideas of the ‘Chracian barbarian: a hulking elf, that typically towered a head taller than the nobles of the Phoenix court, but was just as noticeable for his brawn and girth; Kurnion’s muscular shoulders would not have seemed out of the ordinary with an ox’s yoke upon them, so wide were they. He wore a simple band and torc of white ithilmar – the ancient symbols of a Chracian chief – and wore his long chestnut brown hair loose except for a pair of braids along his temples.

The prince’s usually handsome face was stretched taught with worry. Those mighty shoulders curved in on themselves. His hands, rough with calluses from a lifetime stretching over two millennia of war and wielding the massive battle axes of the north, lay palms down, flat on the table surface. His white eyes, pure and pupil less with great age, were fixed upon the hands. Staring, with an energy that seemed to contradict the stillness of the body around them….

With him was no still figure. Tall and almost slight in contrast, was Prince Malossar, High Lord and General of Eastern Caledor. The elf’s refined, noble visage was drawn with rage; his black eyes flashing about the room. His long blond hair, usually so carefully maintained, was a tangle of threads, with some sticking to the corner of his mouth. The Caledorian Warlord paced the narrow confines of the study as a beast might a tiny cell; his hands flexing over and over into fists as he did so. Suddenly he stopped, and let out a grief-riven howl of rage, incoherent and inchoate. The Caledorian prince seized another chair and flung it against the stone wall. The fine wood work, fashioned over a century by a famed Sapheri artisan, shattered into shards and splinters.

In the silence that followed, Kurnion spoke.

“You are certain?”

Pacing again, Malossar snapped back, “There can be no doubt! A Warden was found slain on the Tiranoc shores to the west, a bolt in his eye. And the fleets of the Phoenix reported sighting a small convoy of reaver vessels heading north the next day! They gave chase, but the fools could not bring them to heel!!”

The Caledorian stopped his pacing facing one of the stone walls. Crying in rage he threw a bare-knuckled fist against the wall face. A thud followed, seeming to shake the stone. The Caledorian held his fist there, as narrow rivulets of crimson blood began to run down the white marble. Kurnion looked up, concerned. But Malossar just stood there, staring as the blood – his blood – ran down the wall. Finally, he uttered:

“They were taken by Druchii.”

Kurnion nodded, and returned to staring at the table top. Malossar began to pace again, his right hand still running red with wet blood.

“We have to go, Kurnion!” Malossar declared as he paced. “I have brought my fleet. The Eagle and both Hawkships! You load up your Hawks and we can sail within the week!”

“To what end?” Kurnion asked wearily.

“To the North!! To the bloody gates of the Land of Chill itself!!!” Malossar hollered back, his pacing picking up in speed. “We will force them to battle!! And take back what is ours!!!”

Kurnion shook his head slowly. “Our fleets would be ground to flotsam beneath the rams of the Black Arks, long before we even saw shore…. It is folly, Mal….”

The Prince of Caledor stopped. His voice took a deathly quiet as he said, “I never thought to hear such coward’s speak from the Lord of Tor Choi.”

The room shook as the Chracian Prince leapt to his feet. The table beneath his meaty grip groaned and creaked, the wood snapping under the pressure of his fingers, as he shouted, “Khaine’s Blood, Mal!!!!! She’s my baby sister!!!!!”

“And she’s my wife!!!!!” the Caledorian howled back. “That is why we must go!! Take our armies. Now. Today!! For the honor of Ulthuan!!”

“What good would our deaths and the deaths of our armies do for those who were taken?!” Kurnion snarled. “Khaine’s Teeth, Mal!! Use that fool head on your shoulders!! Forget your pride and think!!!”

“A Caledorian never forgets his pride,” Malossar snapped as he resumed pacing.

“Salvaging your pride will not save them,” Kurnion responded and sat down once more. “We must plan…gather our strength…. Even together we are no match for the might of the Witch-King.”

“But there is no one else!” Malossar waived his hands in the air. “I tried! I went to Finubar first! I told him. Told him that this was an insult to all of the Asur. That to treat our women such should rile the blood in all who are worthy of calling themselves that. To mobilize the fleet!! And assemble a Grand Army!”

“And?” Kurnion asked, a slight note of hope in his voice.

“He said ‘no’. He said we were still replenishing our numbers after the last war! That the coffers of the crown could not afford another!” Malossar said with disgust in his voice. “He said that we couldn’t risk the devastation for ‘three ladies of lesser noble houses’…. One not even of the Asur….” He finished, his voice shaking with rage.

Kurnion nodded. The hesitant hope of the moment before drained from his visage.

“And there is no one else!” Malossar continued to speak, his voice dripping acid. “No one willing to risk their warriors and fortunes to retrieve ‘three lesser noble ladies’.” Mal shook his head in disgust. “Tiranoc simply doubles the patrols off of its coast. As if that will preserve their honor!” He snorted in disgust. “And Yvresse cannot help. They have committed most of their ships and soldiers in Cothique to aid against the Wildman raiders.”

“Yes, I sent warriors as well,” Kurnion said with a sigh.

Without stopping Malossar continued, “ And the Saphery house will contribute coin, but no spears to the cause.” He spat into the fireplace.

“No one! Not one noble house is willing to pit their might against the Witch King without the lead of the Phoenix! Not even with the honor of our womenfolk at stake!” he finished, glaring in utter rage at the steaming pine logs within the fireplace. “Feckless cowards! The lot of them….”

Silence filled the room.

And then slowly, softly, Kurnion spoke.

“Mal…. There is one….”

***

[Malossar]

The three reunited... i'm not sure this'll be a children's story hahaha

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

It all sounded so peaceful until the chair escaped out the window. Mal, can't stop a chair from escaping, how can he hope to stop the Druchii =P

[Prince of Spires]

The three reunited... i'm not sure this'll be a children's story hahaha

I'm predicting a fair few DE will be dying along the course of the story. Which should make it properly suitable for Nagarathi children

“Mal…. There is one….”

Sounds like it's time to bring in the cavalry...

Great setting and characterisation, as always.

Rod

[Aicanor]

Malossar is certainly keeping the businesses on Ulthuan going. I do not blame him though. I think everyone here could really see that chair crash to the ground in a geyser of coloured glass. Well written, Headshot.

[Headshot]

Sounds like it's time to bring in the cavalry...

I like to think of it more as 'lighting up the bat-signal'.

(If only Ulthuan could solve its own problems! But I mean, who are you gonna call? The colonials?! Pshaw!! )

I'm predicting a fair few DE will be dying along the course of the story. Which should make it properly suitable for Nagarathi children

Oh yeah, Tim swears that they put the little ones to bed on these kinds of tales. You'll see....

I do not blame him though.

Yep. Nothing wrong with Malossar (...that a careful adjusting of his meds wouldn't fix...)

Just don't invite him over as a house guest!

Headshot

[Malossar]

Hahahaha! Malossar is indeed more at home on the back of a fire breathing lizard in the midst of his enemies than at a table or court where manners are required.

[Prince of Spires]

(If only Ulthuan could solve its own problems! But I mean, who are you gonna call? The colonials?! Pshaw!! )

Nah. Those colonials would first charge you outrageous amounts for their help (probably in trade agreements or promisses) and then sell you all the nescesary equipment at inflated prices as well. Can't trust them realy. I do see some great modeling opportunities for some colonial gostbusters however (though that might be lost on your younger readers). But first, thanks to you :S, I have some silent Blade Lords to assemble first... I'll just add them to my list of random modeling ideas.

Yep. Nothing wrong with Malossar (...that a careful adjusting of his meds wouldn't fix...)

Just don't invite him over as a house guest!

Depends. Every few years you need some refurnishing done. Otherwise the whole thing gets a bit old and stale. Nothing like a dragon in your porcelain closet to get you started (as they say in the colonies).

Rod

[Headshot]

Part 3 – Tor Choi


Click Clack! Click Clack! The sound of leather boots upon cold stone floors echoed down the corridor.

In the throne room of the castle of Tor Choi a small crowd of Asur Highborn Lords, Ladies and their attendants stiffened at the sound. The quiet murmur of scattered conversation died out, as those within strained to listen. The sound of footsteps, muffled by the oak doors of the room, was unmistakably growing louder. From his perch on his fur-draped throne, Prince Kurnion lifted his hand and waived to an attendant. The elf hurried over to the doors and threw them open. Beyond was a long hallway, dimly lit by the grey morning sun streaming in from high-placed slit apertures, which created a seeming tunnel of alternating shadow and light. And within that play of light and darkness, movement could be seen: a trio of elves could be seen striding down the corridor.

But what elves were these! Tall and lanky, dressed in faded leathers of black and brown, and thick woolen cloaks, ripped, torn, and patched over and over from long use, they were an odd clash to the well dressed lords and ladies waiting within.

But they were not unexpected: the Nagarathi had arrived!

The two on the flanks were of the Nagarathi Romani, semi-nomadic wanderers of the Western Hills of that bleak country. The Romani were a people well-known throughout Nagarythe for their forest-craft and skill with the bow; and also for the custom that the warriors of their villages shaved their heads, all except a narrow strip along the center. These two were no exceptions: the one on the left had taken his dark black strip and tied it into a single braid that stretched down his back. His face was youthful, with bright gray eyes that were constantly shifting about the corridor, but was already marred with the faded scars of battle. The one on the right had taken his hair ridge and hardened it with resin. From the resulting spiky fronds a tangle of silver chains and what looked like animal teeth dangled. The face, also youthful, was marred by a deep gash across the chin, that twisted the elf’s lips in such a way that his mouth was a perpetual sneer. Both of the Romani were festooned with weapons: knives, hatchets, blades straight and curved, were tied at their backs and belts, or strapped to their thighs and arms. And among the blades each bore a single longbow, as tall as they, strung across the shoulder with a matching quiver.

The figure in the center bore only one weapon: a straight greatsword slung at an angle across his back. His long ebony hair was unadorned: just a wash of black that fell about his shoulders and partly concealed his face. But the armor beneath his cloak – aged, battered, antiquated – shone with a light of its own: a gleaming of black and gold.


The center elf lifted his hand and the two Romani detached themselves to wait in the hall. Alone, he entered the throne room.

Prince Kurnion stood from his throne.

“Be welcome in these halls, Shadow Prince of Nagarythe!” he called, echoing the ancient, formal greeting. The Nagarathi nodded in recognition of the courtesy. From beside Kurnion’s throne, the lady of Tor Choi, a tall, slender raven-haired beauty stood and gave a deep curtsey.

“You honor us with your presence, High Lord,” she greeted, and then stepped down and gave the newcomer a brief embrace. Her face full of sadness she whispered, “Welcome cousin.”

The elf returned the embrace, then held the woman at arm’s length, his black eyes lingering on her face for a long moment, then he released her and turned his gaze back upon the Chracian Prince. The lady withdrew to her seat.

Prince Kurnion also sat down, his face a jumble of emotions. He said:

“Shadow Prince…. I know your responsibilities are vast, and your duties many…. But, she… I….”

The Shadow Prince held up his hand, and gently shook his head. “Your sister is a Friend of Nagarythe,” he said, his voice strangely quiet in the large room. “Nothing more need be said. We do not abandon our own.”

“Then you will help us?” the Chracian prince asked.

“Yes,” the Nagarathi answered. A tension seemed to be released from the room, as if a breath long held had finally been let go. Then….

“How?” a harsh voice barked from the side. It was Prince Malossar. “How will the mighty Nagarathi aid us?” he glowered, his hand resting upon the pommel of his long sword.

“What Prince Malossar is trying to say,” Kurnion interjected, “Is that we have a fleet at our disposal. Two Eagles, and with the addition of your ship, a half a dozen Hawks. But… will that be enough?”

The Shadow Lord shook his head. “As soon as supplies can be arranged, we will take a single Hawkship northwards, and…”

“What?! Why just a single ship?” Malossar interrupted, frowning in anger. “We have several thousand spears and sailors ready for battle!!”

The Shadow Prince turned and coolly appraised the Caledorian. “We will take a single Hawkship because two weeks prior a fleet of three Corsair vessels were spied off the coast of Nagarythe heading north. If we are fortunate, we may be able to overtake them at sea.” He stated calmly. “But if they see a fleet of Asur warships approaching they will raise sail and outpace us to their home waters. We cannot match their speed upon the open ocean. This is well known.”

It was true. The slim raiding ships of the Druchii Corsairs were built for speed and stealth, unlike the heavier ships of the Phoenix fleet. “Yet,” the Nagarathi continued, “there is a chance that if they see only a single Hawk following, they will turn and give battle. Giving us a chance to board and free the captives….”

“But is one Hawkship a match for three Corsair Reavers?” the lone Eatainian in the room – an admiral within the Caledorian fleet – interrupted with a frown.

“It is… if crewed by Nagarathi,” the Shadow Prince answered. The Eatainian flushed, but said no more.

The Shadow Prince turned back to Kurnion. “And if we do not overcome them at sea, then a lone ship has a better chance of slipping past the Druchii patrols and bringing us to an unobserved landing on the coasts of the Land of Chill. Once there we can search for the captives….” He finished with a shake of his head, “Secrecy and stealth must then be our allies….”

Prince Malossar scowled as he considered the plan, but Kurnion said:

“I agree to this plan. On one condition… I and a contingent of my guard are included in the Hawkship’s crew.”

“And I as well… of course,” Malossar quickly spat out. “And a number of my knights…to be determined by me.”

The Shadow Prince frowned, but then nodded. “If we are agreed, I must address the Host. You will excuse me,” he nodded again to Kurnion, and turned for the door. At his approach the two Romani emerged from the waiting shadows beyond and formed up at either side again.

“Shadow Prince!” Kurnion called out.

The three Nagarathi stopped. The Lion Prince swallowed. A cold sweat was on his brow. Finally, he continued, “If…we find… Tarabeth has been… slain….” He could not finish his own thoughts, his voice faltered.

Without turning, the Shadow Prince looked over his shoulder, and answered:

“Then, Prince of Chrace, we will find those responsible, and we will take their heads.”

The Nagarathi’s hard black eyes held Kurnion’s for a moment. “And then… we will take the heads of their wives…. We will take the heads of their children….”

With a snarl, the elf lord finished, “The Nagarathi will see to it that their seed is wiped from the face of this world!”

And then the three left the room without a further word.

The silence that followed lasted many heartbeats until the Eatainian admiral muttered, “Never anger the Nagarathi,” as if quoting some old saying.

***

Prince Kurnion watched the figures disappear down the castle corridor. He felt his wife’s hand laid atop his own. She leaned close.

“If anyone can find her…” She murmured, softly encouraging.

Kurnion nodded, and took her hand and squeezed it. “I know,” he said. Then his eyes drifted over to where Prince Malossar stood and fumed. “It’s just…the air between them was so cold… like ice.” He shook his head. “They were friends once….”

Malossar, retinue in tow, strode through a different door out of the hall without a backward glance.

***

Prince Malossar the Dread, High Lord of Eastern Caledor, stood, arms folded across his chest, and stared out the veranda window of his spacious chambers in Tor Choi. With him were his attendants, generals, and household staff.

“My lord… are you sure it is wise to unleash these… Nagarathi?”

It was his steward. Pledged to his House since the time of Malossar’s childhood, and one of his most fervent supporters in the new colony to the north. The old elf had been a guide and companion throughout much of his childhood, and his sole confidant after the death of his father. And yet… Malossar did not answer his query.

Below him lay the enclosed courtyard of the keep. The parade field where the Chracian warriors and cavalry trained in arms and unit formations. It was a simple place of packed earth surrounded on all sides by the walls of the palace and parapets, with a well in one corner. Normally at this noon hour it would be empty of warriors, as the guard and levy took their meal inside. But before him the field was cluttered. Cluttered with small groups of warriors in black…. Nagarathi archers, spears, and Shadow Warriors, stood, or sat on heels, in loose clusters, talking or fiddling with their ever present longbows.

A snort to one side. “This so-called ‘Host’ could be absorbed by the smallest of your garrisons, my prince,” one of his general’s commented.

“It’s disgraceful,” his steward added, “sitting in the mud like that. And not a real uniform amongst them! Except the Eatainian Sea Guard of course. But even them! My word, the hems of their robes look wretched! Mud! Rips! I tell you my lord, no Asur army should take so little pride in its appearance! It’s a show of indiscipline!”

“And look there,” his general continued. “Women! Elven ladies baring arms alongside the men!” The general shook his head in evident disgust. “I tell you my prince, these Nagarathi become more and more like their northern cousins with every generation!” He spat. “Mark my words….one day, perhaps not far off, they will become a cancer that needs to be cut from the body of the Asur!”

Malossar said nothing, and did not move. His face was set in stone as he thought. After a minute, he said:

“Talossar, you have been quiet. What say you of these Nagarathi?”

His nephew, Talossar, the only living of two brothers, stood as was his custom behind and out of sight. The elf child was a Tower trained wizard and yet he seemed to crave anonymity. The deformities of his body – his crooked back, and twisted legs – explaining much of his reticence for the attention of his fellows. And, at his uncle’s words, the boy seemed to disappear even further into his robes.

“Uncle?” his voice came small and timid.

“Speak up boy!” Malossar barked, then immediately regretted it as the boy seemed to shrink even further inside himself. He was always like that! Never willing to look his uncle in the eye. Or speak with the directness and force that was expected of a Caledorian lord. But that is what he is! And someday… without an heir…. It would fall on Talossar to lead the War Legions of Eastern Caledor!

Khaine’s Blood! If only his brother…. HE had been nothing like this! Tall and strong limbed. With a quick mind and a noble temper. Calossar had been a voice in his councils. A presence in his hunts….

But he was dead. And all that was left was the crippled little brother…. He must learn….

“You have fought alongside these Nagarathi,” Malossar continued this time careful to modulate the anger out of his voice. “What do you say of them?”

Talossar swallowed and looked uncomfortable. “Uncle…. They…. I… do not claim….”

“Speak,” Malossar repeated and this time kept his temper with a force of will.

“They…. They are,” the boy said, fumbling. “They are…relentless, uncle. Even in defeat…. ESPECIALLY in defeat,” he said with a shake of his head. “They are driven back, but then simply turn and attack in a different direction. From the trees. From hidden caves. From the water. They attack over and over again. Never wearying….”

“You mean they shoot their foes from ambush,” his general said in disgust. “What kind of Asur…?” he started but Malossar raised his hand silencing the warrior.

“Continue,” the prince said to his nephew.

The nephew nodded and swallowed again. “There isn’t much more to say, uncle. They…they are relentless. And….and I wouldn’t want them after me….”

At that his general snorted in disapproval. Malossar frowned. He couldn’t let it go; his warriors were listening.

“Tal, a Caledorian fears no foe. Ever,” he admonished.

“Yes, uncle,” the boy squeaked and withdrew once more within his robes.

Malossar frowned and was about to say more, but just then, a miracle happened: where a moment before there had been a ragtag mob of squatting and lounging elves in the courtyard, in the blink of an eye, without a command being uttered, regiments fell into place, all in careful order with standards at the center. It was such a smooth transition that even the Caledorian general grunted in surprise. One moment it was a rabble. The next an army: standing shoulder to shoulder, in perfect, serried ranks.

Of course…. There coming from the castle interior, Malossar could see the Shadow Prince and his two attendants crossing the field and approaching the waiting ranks. As the three drew close the two Romani quickly joined their brothers within the files, leaving the Shadow Prince standing alone before the assembled army.

The Nagarathi lord stood there in silence for a half a minute, his eyes sweeping up and down the ranks, stopping, Mal noted, when they reached the army standard in the center: the black sky of Nagarythe, starred in silver and gold. The symbol of the Host of Nagarythe since the time of Aenarion….

Then the Shadow Prince spoke.

“A Friend of Nagarythe has been taken to the North. I intend to go after her.”

The elf lord paused, and once more his eyes swept over the ranks before him. “All of you are veterans now. You have faced the Druchii, in Nagarythe, and in distant lands. You have served me – and Nagarythe – well and faithfully!”

The Prince stopped and bowed his head. “But… but few of you have been to the Land of Chill….”

He shook his head. “It is as you have heard. The Druchii have made themselves a nightmare realm of pain and terror. A hell underneath Asuryan’s skies….”

The Shadow Prince looked up again. His eyes fixed upon the warriors before him. “And yet I must go there! The Druchii took a Friend of Nagarythe! And we do not forsake our own!”

There were nods of heads among the warriors assembled, as the Shadow Prince paused again. Finally, the elf lord continued, “Yet the most likely outcome of this venture is death… to the quick blow of the blade, or the slow poison of the torturer…. Alone, unsupported in enemy country….”

“That is why I cannot command anyone here to accompany me. I only ask for volunteers.”

The elf lord said nothing further. He simply turned away from the ranks and took one step forward, eyes facing from the army behind him… And waited.

Malossar found he was holding his breath. That was it? He thought. No threats. No cajoling. No promises of rewards nor glory. Nothing??

And then… in ones and twos…. Singly and in small groups…. The Nagarathi stepped forward… A few at first, but then more and more…

Until in less than half a minute the entire army had taken a single step forward!

Talossar gasped at his side. And even his general swallowed and said nothing.

The Shadow Prince nodded, and walked towards the castle.

***









The next chapter, courtesy of the Everqueen's 'girls' night out'....

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Was a good read between games at the club, the shadow prince, inspirational, hard to imagine.