Home » Great Library at Hoeth » Book of Tales » Voice of the Phoenix » Voice of the Phoenix, Chapter Four
| Voice of the Phoenix, Chapter Four |
| by Calarion Sapherior |
Howell prayed.
His legs had been uncomfortable once, and then they had become numb. Now he had lost feeling in them completely, folded beneath him as they were. His stomach screamed at him, and he had to struggle to keep his eyelids open. But the strength of his cause, and the pure determination of his belief, kept him awake still, his eyes open and fixed firmly ahead of him into the blazing inferno.
Before him it raged, the most sacred sight in the world to the High Elves – the Flames of Asuryan. Rising majestically, the white inferno blazed without sound, but not without heat. His face, directed towards the fire for the last week, was pink from the incredible heat rolling off the Flames. While after such an incredible length of time, he should have grown used to it, he still felt the force of the fire pounding into him, a vast unconquerable force of unparalleled awesomeness and power.
He had come to the Shrine of Asuryan three days after the debacle at Lothern, still burning with the shame of his humiliation and a cold anger at the short-sighted petty foolishness of the Court. For their own inscrutable reasons, the custodians of the shrine, the unspeaking monk-warriors of the Phoenix Guard, had let him pass, though they had barred Regulus, had allowed him deeper into the temple than any save the Phoenix Council ever entered when they awaited the coronation of the Phoenix King.
It was to this place that Howell came, seeking the aid of Asuryan just as Aenarion had so many years ago. And, as before, the god was silent. Howell knelt on the thick stone floor and let his mind wander.
The first thing that had changed, as he stared into the ever-flickering fire, was his anger died. He had been truly enraged at the courtiers when he arrived, but after his first day staring at the flame the realisation had come to him that they simply acted upon the truth, as they saw it. There was no reason to hate them for their ignorance; rather they should be shown their error and allowed to change their mistake.
But no vision had come to him, no sign, no hint of what he should do. He had not let despair set in, but it had been a long time, sitting on the hard stone motionless without food or rest for a week. The journey to Caledor had seemed harsh before, but now he relished it for allowing him to experience a taste of the hardships this ordeal was.
The irony of the situation struck him as well. He was an elf of peace, not war! He had trained in the martial disciplines, and served in his share of battles. But to him the violence seemed pointless, self-defeating, and senseless. Had he his choice, there would be no more war. But here he was, trying to lead Ulthuan into further war. He knew, rationally, that this war would come to Ulthuan regardless of what he did, that Ulthuan had involved itself by its very existence. But the sense that he sought to betray the ideals he had always held would not leave him.
And somehow, rather than this revelation breaking him, it had made him stronger. With his body near collapse, near death if he continued longer surely, his mind had grown keener and sharper, more focused. He gazed into the flames and wondered if in some undetectable way, they were responsible for his new insights.
The Phoenix’s eyes met his own.
Howell’s near-dead body jerked with surprise, but his eyes were completely held by the apparition. Considering his condition, it could be a hallucination, but in this place...
The Phoenix’s form was wreathed about with the living flames of the Shrine, a white bird of surpassing beauty. Liquid ran down Howell’s scorched face in a thin line, and he realised the beauty of it had brought tears from his eyes. It spread its wings wide, and feathers fell constantly from its body, to be engulfed by the fire and wither away, only to be replaced by new tendrils of white fire.
Knowing his body could not stand the temperatures of the flames, Howell tried to move towards it. His body did not respond as well as he wanted, his legs completely failing. He fell, catching himself with his arms before he struck the ground. But still his eyes could not be separated from those of the Phoenix. For the eyes expressed its soul. They were white orbs in the white flame, and they were more. They were depthless, infinite, eternal. But none of these words truly suited them, for they were the eyes of one who has seen all times past and all times future, and in doing so irrevocable become more than mortal comprehension. They were the eyes of Asuryan.
Heedless to the heat of the flames, Howell dragged his weak body forward. The temperature itself seemed to fade – he still felt it, but his mind drove it away. The Phoenix was all. The Phoenix, and its infinite eternal eyes. The world lessened and grew, until it was nothing – two white orbs. And it was everything, all that ever was and all that ever would be.
And then it was other, and Howell could only watch what he saw through the eyes of the Phoenix.
Eilinel Moonleaf’s green eyes were narrow with anger and a touch of fear, although she would not admit that herself. The druchii had struck much faster than any had expected. With great speed she brought her ashen longbow up and loosed two arrows at the first two dark elves who broke through the trees towards her small caravan, sending them sprawling into the fallen leaves that coated the forest floor, white-feathered arrows protruding grotesquely from their corpses. But there were more, and with a fearsome cry they were upon the small band of defenders.
Curse the luck! She had thought that a small company would be sufficient to evade the eye of the dark elves, but that which they carried was sought above all other things by their fell master – save one, and that he would never have.
Four druchii were before her, their faces pale and tight with murderous glee. Their curved blades flew as two of Eilinel’s scouts engaged them. Swords rang on sword, and one of the green-clad foresters fell instantly, a thin stream of spurting blood trailing through the air behind him. Eilinel held her bow in her left hand as she drew out her sword – not magical, but good ithilmar from Caledor was enough for her - and charged in, her booted feet barely imprinting on the fallen leaves as she sprang lightly across them. Around her, she could here steel and screams and blood and the other noises of battle, but she pushed them out as best she could. Her own blade was her concern now. One of the druchii saw her coming, but was unable to react as she batted his blade aside then tore his throat out with the tip of her sword. The two next to him turned, their helmeted face inscrutable but she could imagine the rageful expression on their beautiful elven features. Their blades hacked at her, and she darted back, her own slender sword parrying to cover her. Then one of them left an opening, and her next sword blow exploited it, causing thick blood to pour up from his split thigh. The druchii shouted in pain and Eilinel put him out of his misery, driving the point of her sword up through his chin and into his throat. She tugged it out and flung herself to one side, avoiding being split in twain by the other furious warrior – and then attacked. One foot lashed out, striking his knee and driving it painfully back. The dark elf staggered, and Eilinel’s blade lashed in two powerful arcs. The first blow took the warrior’s hand, sending it and the sword, still trailing blood, into the undergrowth. The second took his head.
Feeling tired, the huntress turned and held her blade ready. Her warriors were falling, into heaps of bloody carnage as the druchii hacked them down. There were too many of them – maybe fifty raiders to her scant twenty defenders. But she could not abandon their cargo!
And then she saw another Asur fall, his torso shorn completely off his body, and a dark elf clambered past him to lay covetous hands on the chest that could not fall into druchii hands! Eilinel sheathed her blade and brought the bow up, releasing a hail of arrows as quickly as her skilled hands could reload and shoot. Three of the dark kindred toppled, but the one with the chest scurried off. And the rest of the dark elves turned to her.
Eilinel Moonleaf, ranger of Avelorn, bit her lip hard to keep tears from welling. Ha. Tears. For she knew what was in that chest, knew how desperately Malekith coveted it, and how she had just failed, let one slip into his hands.
A sound of bowstrings being released, and five dark elven warriors began a hail of swift fire at her. Eilinel’s reflexes were as brilliant as ever, and she flung herself back, watching her billowing cloak become shredded. Then she turned and fled fleetly, one thought echoing through her mind as she ran.
Malekith had gained a Tear of Isha...
And then the Phoenix’s eyes were gone, and Howell blinked, feeling sweat pouring down his forehead from his proximity to the flames. A portent! Surely! But that which he had witnessed in the flame was horrible in its implications beyond all else. Had the agents of the Witch King truly captured one of the Tears of Isha for their dark master in the forests of Avelorn? Howell knew, as all elves did, the legend of the Tears – they were the crystallised tears shed by Isha Herself when Asuryan had decreed the mortality of Elvenkind, and Malekith had sought possession of one since time immemorial. With one of the Tears...the Witch King could hold communion with Khaine...and maybe darker powers still.
The elf staggered to his feet. His legs barely supported him, and he was forced to lay one hand against the wall to steady himself.
“I accept the quest,” he whispered in the quietness, before the Flames of Asuryan where the god had appeared to him. “I will recover the Tear of Isha.”
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