Sons of Ellyrion by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill [McNeill, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781849700689
Google: qIZPYgEACAAJ
Amazon: 1849700680
Publisher: BL Publishing
Published: 2011-08-30T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

First Blood

Caelir drew in the reins of his horse at the foot of the domed hill to the north of Tor Elyr. Its summit was crowned by a ring of white stones, each taller than two elves, and cut with sigils of ancient power. In days long since passed, it was said that the mages of Ulthuan could travel to other dominions with a single step through such portals, but none now lived who were powerful enough to walk between worlds.

His Reaver Knights were eager for action, hungry to take the fight to the druchii, and Caelir liked that aggressive spirit. A Reaver Knight needed a reckless streak, yet one tempered with iron control. It was a contradiction of wildness and discipline that only a very few could understand or master. Above his warriors, a line of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers were being loaded with arrows, and Caelir waved to the warriors that crewed them.

Across the river, the enemy host milled and stamped, beating axes and swords against iron-bossed shields. It was grim theatrics, designed to intimidate, and against another army of mortals it might have worked, but directed at the asur, it was failing miserably. The braying of horns echoed over the river, and Caelir felt his pulse quicken as the enemy moved towards the river.

Though they were but mortals, the warriors across the river were powerful and wolf-lean, bred tough by a life spent on the verge of extinction. Living in the harsh tundra of the north meant that only the strongest, most ruthless survived, and only by a man’s strength and power could he be measured against his foes. Clad in beaten plates of iron, wolf and bear pelts, these northern savages had a primal ferocity that could not be underestimated. Though crude, a club to the head would kill you as surely as the finest blade. They howled a guttural refrain, a deafening war-chant that was discordant, melodious, ear-splitting and hideous all at once. It spoke of delirium, the loss of control and the pleasure that could be had from surrendering all restraint.

Caelir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, feeling the clashing sounds touching some deep part of his soul. He recognised the urge to allow desire to overrule control, and hated that he shared even this scrap of connection with the enemy. The northern warriors did not advance; content simply to bang their swords and shields, lift their bloody banners high, and hurl vile taunts across the wide river.

Instead, the beasts charged.

Terrible perversions of nature, these hybrid abominations were taller and more powerfully built than all but the mightiest tribesmen. Their bodies were covered in rank, matted fur and most carried heavy clubs or crude axes. No two were identical, but each bore the unmistakable trait of some forest beast, be it mastiff, bull, fox, bear or wolf. They walked on two legs in imitation of the noble creatures of the world, but nothing could disguise the horror of their condition. Caelir almost felt sorry for them.

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