[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “There will be a battle?” said Carathril.

  “The raven heralds will act as our outriders, and warn of any ambush ahead,” Malekith said, ignoring the obvious question. “There are none with eyes as keen as the northern riders, and our enemies will not mark their passing. Our foe will not surrender Ealith meekly back to my rule. Send word to the other captains to gather at my tent tonight, for we must make plans for battle.”

  Malekith noticed Carathril frown.

  “It is right that we be troubled,” the prince said. “We should not seek this confrontation gladly, but we must prosecute our cause willingly.”

  “I am willing,” Carathril assured him. “I would cast out this blackness with my own life, were that possible.”

  “Be not too hasty to surrender life,” Malekith warned. “It is not through death but through life that we prevail. I have defended this isle for more than a thousand years, and I have seen many of my comrades sell their lives for no gain while those that survive go on to victory and prosperity. I was raised in Anlec, even as daemons slaughtered and corrupted all about me. My first memories are of spear, sword and shield. My first words were war and death. I was anointed with bloodshed and grew up beneath the Sword of Khaine, and I have no doubt that its shadow lies upon me still. Perhaps it is true that my father’s line is cursed, and that war will haunt us for eternity.”

  “I cannot imagine what it was like to live in those times,” said Carathril. “The fear, the sacrifice, the pain of so many lost. I must admit, I offer thanks to the gods that it has been so, and ask that I must never endure what you and others endured.”

  “You are wise to do so,” said Malekith. “One does not seek war for its own end, for it leaves nothing but ashes and graves. However, always remember that though civilisation is built upon foundations of peace, it is only protected through the efforts of war. There are forces and creatures that would see us crushed, driven from the face of the world and dragged into an eternity of darkness. These forces cannot be reasoned with, they cannot conceive of liberty, they exist only to dominate and destroy.”

  “But the foes we face are not daemons, they are our own people,” said Carathril. “They breathe, and laugh, and cry as we do.”

  “And that is why we shall show them mercy where possible,” Malekith assured him. “I have faced grave enemies for my entire life. These last years I have wandered far and wide and seen many amazing and terrifying things. In the forests of Elthin Arvan, our companies fought goblin-fiends that rode upon gigantic spiders and I have battled with stinking trolls that can heal the most grievous wounds. Monstrous winged creatures tossed soldiers aside like dolls in the cold wastes of the north, and savage men caked in the blood of their fellows hurled themselves upon our spear tips. We wept at some of the horrors that confronted us, and I have seen seasoned warriors flee in abject terror from foes not of flesh and blood. But I have also seen such heroism that the greatest of sagas cannot do them justice. I have seen a bowman leap upon the back of a bull-headed beast and strike out its eyes with an arrow in his hand. I have seen a mother gut a dozen orcs with a knife to protect her children. I have seen spearmen hold a narrow pass for twenty days against an endless horde of misshapen nightmares. War is bloody and foul, yet it is also full of courage and sacrifice.”

  “I hope that I have such bravery,” said Carathril. “I do not know if I would have the strength to master my fear in the face of such sights.”

  “I have no doubt that you do,” Malekith said. “I see the fire that burns within your heart, the dedication to your duty, and I would have no hesitation in having you fight by my side, Carathril of Lothern.”

  As they rode, the path veered westwards and brought them from the forest, and by mid-afternoon the head of the column travelled along a high ridge overlooking the northern domains of Nagarythe. Beneath them was spread Urithelth Orir, the great wilderness of Nagarythe.

  For sixty leagues westwards and twenty leagues to the north stretched a desolate moorland, broken by stands of withered trees and majestic outcroppings of black rock. Patches of hardy grasses dotted the dark, thin soil, and banks of reeds found purchase along thin rivulets that cut through the hard earth.

  To the east the mountains of the Annulii rose abruptly from the bleak flatness, towering in steep cliffs above the lowlands and rising ever higher and higher to the north, the most distant peaks tipped with a permanent white cap. Clouds were gathered about the mountain peaks, but above Urithelth Orir the skies were blue and clear, and the air bit with autumn chill.

  The road broke northwards again, as straight as any arrow across the plains, rising and falling gently, crossing the many streams by wide bridges. As sunfall approached, the column halted and made camp. The light of dozens of campfires soon blazed as night swiftly approached, and streamers of smoke obscured the starry skies. Malekith’s pavilion was erected at the centre of the camp, within a ring of tents housing his knights. Silver lanterns were brought out and hung on poles, throwing pools of deep yellow upon the bleak ground.

  Here and there, the sound of a lute or harp broke the gloom, but their sound was mournful not cheering. Low voices sang old laments, bringing to mind the woes of the past, preparing the warriors for the sorrows that lay ahead.

  ——

  The March to Ealith

  As dusk settled, Carathril wandered the camp, seeking out the imprisoned cultists, wishing to speak again to Drutheira. Yet he could not find them and all of his inquiries were met with ignorance. The elves of Ellyrion and Tiranoc assumed they were in the camp of Nagarythe, while the Naggarothi curtly denied any knowledge of their whereabouts. Reluctantly, Carathril returned to his tent, alone and disheartened.

  His camp was not far from the central circle. As he ate a supper that was of basic fare brought from Tor Anroc, for there was no hunting to be had in these parts, he heard sounds of laughter and celebration from the Naggarothi encampment. He heard old battle hymns written during the times of the daemon war, lauding the greatness of Nagarythe and its princes. As he washed down a meal of crisp bread and soft cheese with water from his canteen, a messenger arrived from Malekith to take him to the prince’s war council.

  As the guards waved him inside, he ducked beneath the canopy of the pavilion and found himself standing upon thick red carpets laid upon the bare earth. The tent was high and golden lanterns hung from chains around the cloth ceiling, bathing all in a yellow glow. Warmth filled the pavilion from a dozen glowing braziers that gave off no smoke, and the air was filled with excited chatter.

  Retainers clad in simple blue coats passed through the assembled captains with ewers of wine. Carathril waved aside a proffered goblet and searched the crowd for a familiar face. There were at least a dozen elves, some dressed in the finery of the Anlec knights; a couple from Tiranoc wore blue and white sashes across their armour, as did Carathril; a trio of elves on the far side of the pavilion wore cloaks of deep red and Carathril recognised them as the leaders of the Ellyrian reavers.

  He spied Malekith’s second-in-command, Yeasir, talking to the Ellyrians, and Carathril cut his way towards them through the scattered clusters of elven warriors, repeatedly turning down more offers of wine.

  “Friend Carathril!” Yeasir called out as he approached. He waved a hand at each of the Ellyrians in turn, as he continued. “Do you know Gariedyn, Aneltain and Bellaenoth?”

  “Not by name,” said Carathril with a nod of greeting.

  “I have hoped to speak with you, herald,” said the elf identified as Aneltain. “But you spend so much time closeted with Prince Malekith, I have not had the opportunity. It must be good to have the ear of a prince.”

  “I would not say that I have the prince’s ear,” replied Carathril, somewhat taken aback. “Though I do enjoy Prince Malekith’s company.”

  “And he yours, I would say,” said Yeasir. “I have barely exchanged five words with him this past week.”

  “It was not my intent to monopolise the pr
ince…” began Carathril, but Gariedyn waved away his protestations.

  “Do not apologise,” said the Ellyrian captain. “We are just jealous, that is all. I am sure that if any of us had been chosen as Bel Shanaar’s herald we would enjoy similar attention.”

  “So, what does the prince have in mind, then?” asked Bellaenoth. “Who will he choose to lead the attack on Ealith?”

  “The knights of Anlec will have that honour, I am sure,” said Yeasir. He thrust his empty goblet towards one of the waiting servants and had it quickly refilled. Swallowing a mouthful, he continued. “Ealith belongs to Nagarythe, after all, and it would not do for us to be seen skulking at the back like some timid Yvressians.”

  “For my part, I would gladly give you the honour,” said Bellaenoth with a sorrowful shake of the head. “By all accounts, it is a fearsome stronghold. I would not like to be first in line when we come up against its high walls.”

  “That is because you do not know Malekith,” Yeasir assured them. “He is as brave as a Chracian lion, and as strong as a Caledorian dragon. But, most importantly, he is also as cunning as a Sapherian fox. He would not throw us against such daunting fortifications with no plan. No, I am sure that our noble prince has a scheme for rooting out these troublesome cultists without us having to dash ourselves needlessly against the walls of Ealith.”

  “Perhaps the good herald has some insight into this clever ploy?” suggested Gariedyn, and all eyes turned to Carathril.

  “Me?” he stammered. “I am not privy to the counsels of Prince Malekith, much as you may seem to think otherwise.”

  Their expressions remained unconvinced.

  “Besides,” Carathril added, “it would not be my place to announce such matters when the prince has chosen not to do so. As a herald, my discretion is paramount.”

  “So, you do know something,” said Bellaenoth. Something caught his gaze past Carathril’s shoulder and Bellaenoth nodded towards the pavilion’s entrance. “Well, we may find out soon enough anyway.”

  Malekith strode into the pavilion, swept up a goblet from the tray of a nearby attendant and downed its contents in a long draught. As he placed the goblet back upon the golden tray, his eyes swept the room, lingering on no one person for any length of time.

  “My noble captains,” he said, glad that he had their attention immediately. “My trusted companions. I must beg your forgiveness for an unavoidable act of perfidy. In these troubled times it is hard to judge who one can trust, and so I judge to trust no one. At least, I must say, I did not trust anyone until now. I could not be sure that the spies of our enemies were not within my camp, and so I have been forced to mislead you all.”

  A startled murmur crept around the room, and then died away as the prince continued.

  “I have known since I left Tor Anroc that Ealith was held by our foes,” Malekith revealed, pacing further into the pavilion. “I did not want our enemies to be aware of this knowledge, and so I have kept secret counsel with only the raven heralds, whom I would trust with not only my life, but my realm. As I had hoped, it appears that our foes are confident in their position, knowing that we have not marched forth prepared for siege. To their minds, we must labour to make towers and rams to attack their fortress, and await reinforcements and bolt throwers in order to assault their walls. They believe that they have time aplenty to shore up their defences, and for more of their numbers to gather. Secret covens lurk within the forests and hills around Ealith, ready to sally forth to attack our siege works, ambush our supplies and harass our forces. They are wrong.”

  The whispering recommenced, this time excited and intrigued. Two servants brought forth a chair of deep red wood, its high back carved with the likeness of a mighty dragon encircling a slender tower, the throne’s arms and legs fashioned as the be-scaled and clawed limbs of the drake. Malekith unclasped his black cloak and cast it upon the throne, but did not sit. He turned to face the assembled captains, his eyes narrowed.

  “Knowing the deceit upon which our enemies thrive, I have spread false rumour through their minions,” the prince told them. “Two of our prisoners have escaped upon stolen horses, bearing news to Ealith overheard from the incautious lips of our warriors. News that we march to Enith Atruth, two days to the west, and another two days’ ride from Ealith. The citadel itself lies no more than a day’s ride to the north, and our escaped captives will have reached its walls before midday tomorrow. Confident that we tarry in our attack, they will not be ready for our strike. By dusk, Ealith will be ours.”

  “Excuse me, highness, but an army does not move as swiftly as a solitary rider,” said one of the Ellyrians. “Even if we could reach Ealith within the day, it would be impossible to conceal our approach.”

  “That is true, Arthenreir,” replied the prince, enjoying his theatrical performance. “It matters not whether we come to Ealith in a day or a hundred days, we have not the strength of arms to force victory through open battle. And it would not be desirable even if it were so, for I wish there to be as little bloodshed as possible on both sides. Guile shall see our fortunes ripen where might alone proves fruitless.”

  “I told you,” whispered Yeasir with a smile. Carathril ignored him and listened intently as Malekith continued.

  “Our enemies think Ealith secure against attack, but they are wrong. For many centuries the citadel has been abandoned, and its secrets have been forgotten by most. Not by me, nor the raven heralds. Ealith sits upon a spur of rock, reached only by a single causeway that is overlooked by towers and walls. Or so it would seem to our foes.”

  Malekith now dropped his voice to a whisper, and met the gazes of those elves closest at hand, as if confiding in each of them alone.

  “In fact, there is another entrance to Ealith,” said the prince. “There is a passage, carved from the rock itself, which leads from the citadel to the outside. It was built as a means for defenders to sally forth to attack a besieging army from the rear, and leads to a hidden cave more than half a mile from the walls. We shall ride before daybreak, a company of no more than a hundred, and under cover of darkness enter this ancient passageway. It will take us into the heart of the enemy, where we will strike with absolute surprise. The army will march in our wake and there will be no escape. We shall slay or capture their leaders and force the rest to surrender. Without the puppeteers to pull their strings, our enemies are cowardly, decadent hedonists with no stomach for battle.”

  “Who is to ride, highness?” asked Yeasir.

  “The company shall be split thus: forty of Nagarythe, thirty of Ellyrion, and thirty of Tiranoc’s finest riders. No more can we guarantee to approach Ealith unseen, and our strength lies in speed and stealth, not numbers.”

  Malekith noticed disappointment well up on the face of Carathril. The Lothern captain was an average rider at best, trained to fight with spear and sword, not with lance and horse. However, he was the herald of the Phoenix King and potentially a useful ally. Malekith raised a hand to attract Carathril’s attention and smiled.

  “My noble comrade Carathril, you will ride with us, as an honorary knight of Nagarythe. I would not have such a fine heart and sure arm left behind on this adventure!”

  “You have my eternal gratitude, highness,” said Carathril with a deep bow. “It will be my honour to ride amongst such noble companions.”

  Once the assembled warriors had departed, Malekith sat on his throne. A few moments later, Yeasir led in a small group of elves covered with dark robes. As they pulled back their hoods, Malekith saw that they were the cultists who had surrendered to him.

  The prince of Nagarythe smiled. He had more work for them to do.

  Darkness still swathed the camp as Malekith set forth with his riders; the sun was hidden behind the mountains and would be for some time to come. Before they had left, the company had assembled on the outskirts of the encampment and three shadow-swathed raven heralds had passed along their line, blackening harnesses and securing loose tack so that no glint or ji
ngle would give them away. They had handed out long, black cloaks for the riders to wear over their armour, and thus concealed, Malekith’s expedition had departed in silence and secrecy.

  Now the hundred horsemen followed one of the raven heralds along a winding path northwards, heading down the ridge upon which the army had spent the night. They rode swiftly but not recklessly, and Malekith was glad of the sure-footedness of his mount. Late stars glimmered overhead in the pre-dusk grey, visible now that they had left behind the smoke of the camp. The thudding of hooves in the dirt was the only sound to break the still, and Malekith began to relax, calmed by the steady drumming.

  As dawn slowly broke above the mountains, Malekith found that they were riding along an overgrown herder’s trail through an expanse of low hills that rose up under the long shadow of the mountains. Their path was crisscrossed with rivulets and streams and the soil was more fertile, giving rise to stands of low bushes and thick clumps of sturdy grasses.

  They slowed to negotiate this trickier ground, and at points rode in single file to follow in the tracks of the raven herald who led the way. The second rode sentry at the rear, and of the third there was no sign: he had departed in darkness to scout the way ahead.

  They halted briefly mid-morning to ease tired limbs and make a hasty breakfast of bread and cold meats, before riding on. By this time, they had cleared the foothills once more and had made good progress across the rocky moors. Between the heat of the sun high in a clear sky, the thin yet warm cloak wrapped tightly about him and the effort of riding, Malekith did not feel the chill touch of autumn, though the breath of the riders and their steeds steamed in the air.