[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Malekith’s view raced over the plains of Tiranoc, where frost still clung to the grass. To the Naganath his mind’s eye flew, over the icy waters into Nagarythe. He saw the armies of Morathi assembling in the Biannan Moor, and pickets stationed along the length of the river to watch the movements of the Tiranoc hosts. Westwards he spied an army encamped about the walls of Galthyr, though the besiegers seemed content merely to contain Durinne and his army. Further northwards towns and villages were ransacked for supplies and the cultists presided over bloody ceremonies in praise of the cytharai.

  Then to Anlec came the prince’s vision. In cages of iron throughout the city great beasts from the mountains prowled and roared: savage manticores and screeching griffons, many-headed hydras and hissing chimerae. Around the cages clustered beastmasters with vicious goads and barbed whips, tormenting their captives and feeding them on raw elf flesh. Smiths laboured at magically white-hot fires upon armour plates for the gigantic war beasts, and forged spiked collars with heavy chains. Leatherworkers fashioned sturdy saddles and harnesses studded with rivets and adorned with bones.

  Around and about the city were grisly altars to the likes of Ereth Khial, Meneloth, Nethu and other grim deities. Bloodstained chalices stood upon tables draped with cloths of skin, and braziers sputtered with bloodied hearts and charring bones. Wretched and crying, lines of elves in chains and tattered rags were dragged before those savage sacrificial shrines to be cast upon blazing pyres or shredded with wicked daggers in praise of hungry gods.

  All was watched over by the cruel nobility of Nagarythe. Princes in dark robes sat upon black destriers draped with silver caparisons, while masked priests with daubed runes upon their naked skin chanted supplications and pleas. The stones of the pavements were stained red, and piles of bones gathered rotting in the gutters to be gnawed upon by impish familiars and scrawny hounds.

  As he turned his gaze upon the central tower, the palace of Aenarion, Malekith found his view obscured by a great shadow. He heard a whispering voice: his mother’s. He strained to hear what she was saying, but could discern nothing but a murmur. The power of the circlet granted Malekith unprecedented power, and he shuddered to think what unspeakable pacts his mother had made for her own sorcery to blind him.

  The prince sent word to Bel Shanaar that the Phoenix King should move a greater part of his army to the border. Over the following days Malekith spied upon the movements of the Naggarothi with the circlet. Once he was sure that the legions of Nagarythe marched for the border to protect against attack, Malekith returned to Tor Anroc. He sent swift-flying message hawks to Lothern, ordering Indraugnir and a sizeable fleet to set sail and head northwards around the western coast of Ulthuan. Their course was set for Galthyr. Once more using the crown from the north, Malekith saw the Naggarothi fleet gathering about the port, expecting an attack from the sea. More warriors were drawn to the siege, to contest any landing that might be made.

  Guided by secret commands from Malekith the raven heralds sowed fear and confusion in the midst of the enemy They attacked supplies and waylaid companies marching to join the scattered armies. They burned freshly growing crops in the fields and intercepted messengers riding between the Naggarothi commanders and Anlec. Their attacks were concentrated to the west and south, to further the illusion being spun by Malekith’s manoeuvres.

  Malekith’s true attack came not from the west or the south, but from the east. In small companies, under cover of darkness over the course of many nights, the prince moved the greater part of his host into the mountains of Ellyrion. They hid in farms and villages close to the mountains, supported by food stockpiled by Prince Finudel.

  When the first moon of the new spring rose, Malekith rode to Dragon Pass, the Caladh Enru, two hundred miles south of Anlec. There he unfurled the banner of Anlec and rallied his army for the attack.

  Many thousands strong numbered the host, and amongst them rode princes of Nagarythe and Tiranoc, Ellyrion and Eataine. Sapherian wizards had joined the venture, Thyriol amongst them. As Malekith had foreseen, the possibility of him creating an alliance with Ellyrion had not been envisaged by Morathi and the attack came as a total surprise. In a single day, the garrison of Arir Tonraeir at the western end of Dragon Pass was overrun, and the army of Malekith marched for Anlec.

  The army turned northwards, past the twin peaks of Anul Nagrain and across the river Haruth into the plains of Khiraval. Here there had once been farms and pastures for the herds of Nagarythe, but now all had fallen into ruin under the rule of Morathi and the cults. The tumbled remains of abandoned farmsteads jutted from the overgrown fields like broken teeth, and packs of ferocious wolves and monstrous bears had come down out of the mountains to claim Khiraval as their own. The army marched along a highway broken by weeds and marred by cracks and holes. It took them through deserted villages, the empty doors and windows gaping at them like accusing black eyes. The more he saw of what had befallen his proud kingdom, the greater was Malekith’s ire.

  The Naggarothi commanders in the south were now caught in a horrifying situation. If they were to move north to counter Malekith’s attack, they would turn their backs on the Tiranoc hosts at the border. In the end they opted to keep their positions, trusting to the army and defences of Anlec to fend off Malekith’s force.

  With news coming from the raven heralds that the way ahead to Anlec was clear, Malekith and his army pressed on. Across Khiraval and then north-east towards Anlec through the muddy fens of Menruir they marched. Within fifteen days of crossing into Nagarythe, Malekith’s host reached mighty Anlec, the immense capital.

  Malekith trusted to the valour of his followers and the poor training of the defenders, who for the most part he reckoned to be wild cultists and not the professional warriors he had artfully drawn far to the south. There was no time to waste, for it would not be long before companies were brought back from Galthyr, and the captains in the south realised that Bel Shanaar had no desire for a costly assault across the Naganath. There was no time for siege to be set, nor any reason to expend energy on pointless parley.

  As he had so often done before, Malekith struck hard and fast in his attempt to secure victory.

  As the army of Malekith arranged itself for the attack, a clear spring sky bathed the black marble buildings of Anlec, glimmering on a coat of late frost. Silver and black banners snapped in the cold wind from atop the many towers around the high walls, while sentries patrolled back and forth clad in blackened scale and golden helms. The fortress-city reverberated to the tramp of booted feet and the scrape of metal as regiments practised drills in the open squares. The cries of their lieutenants echoed from the stone walls and mingled with the crackle of sacrificial pyres and screams of howling prisoners.

  Fearsome was the citadel, for it had been built by Aenarion with the aid of Caledor Dragontamer and was so wrought that no approach was left undefended. Eighty high towers and many miles of thick walls surrounded the city, yet only three gates controlled access in and out, each surrounded by bastions filled with war machines and troops.

  The approach to each gate was fraught with peril, for walls extended outwards from the curtain of Anlec and provided points from which the defenders could shoot upon the road for half a mile. Isolated towers, each surrounded by stake-filled ditches, were built in a ring of outer defences, each positioned so that its war engines could cover the next.

  Within the circle of towers there was dug a great moat, fifty paces wide. No mere water filled this obstacle, but magical green flames that hissed and crackled fiercely. Only one drawbridge crossed the fire ditch on each road, and this was protected by a keep every bit as fearsome as the gatehouses of the city.

  For all the forbidding defences of Anlec, Malekith showed no fear. He sat astride his steed at the front of his army, clad in his golden armour, the circlet of sorcery upon his head, Avanuir blazing in his hand. Behind him were two thousand of his knights, veterans all, hardened in the colonies to the east and led by captains who ha
d fought with Malekith in the chill northlands. They were garbed in golden scale armour and cloaked with purple and black. Their lances glowed with enchantments and runes of protection burned upon their shields. Grim-faced, they eyed the dark citadel of Anlec without dread.

  To the north and south of the knights were Malekith’s companies of spears, seven thousand in all. Led by Yeasir, they formed up into ranks ten deep, pennants fluttering above them, the sounds of silver horns ringing out the orders. Yeasir strode back and forth along the line, reminding them that they fought for the true ruler of Anlec, exhorting them to show no mercy and to stay firm in the face of their despicable foes. Behind the spears were the lines of archers, three thousand of them, their black bows strung, their quivers heavy with arrows.

  Further to the north rode the reaver knights of Ellyrion. Prince Finudel and Princess Athielle had eagerly offered to join Malekith’s host, and they trotted forwards at the head of two thousand of their followers. In his hand Finudel held Cadrathi, the starblade lance his father had wielded in battle alongside Aenarion. Athielle waved forwards her troop with the shining white blade Amreir, the winterblade that her mother had used to slay the daemon prince Akturon. White and blue banners flew above the cavalry, emblazoned with images of golden horses. The Ellyrians’ steeds were eager, stamping and neighing, and the reaver knights chatted amiably amongst themselves, showing no sign of concern at the imposing fortress confronting them.

  The southern wing of Malekith’s army was led by Bathinair, prince of Yvresse. He sat astride a monstrous griffon, taken from the mountains of the Annulii as a hatchling and raised to be his war mount in Tor Yvresse.

  Redclaw was its name and it was a majestic beast. Its body was that of an immense hunting cat, thrice the size of a horse, patterned with black and white stripes. Its head was that of an eagle, with a high crest of red and blue feathers, and its forelegs were as the talons of some mighty bird of prey, with crimson claws like curved swords. Two wide wings of grey and black feathers swept out from its broad shoulders, between which Bathinair sat mounted upon a throne of white wood, the banners of Yvresse and his house fluttering from its back. He held the spear of ice, Nagrain, its silvered shaft gleaming in the morning light, its tip a blazing crystal stronger than any metal. Redclaw threw back its head and gave a deafening screech, and clawed at the earth in anticipation of the hunt.

  Bathinair had not come alone from Yvresse and with him stood another two thousand warriors armed with long spears and carrying blue shields, clad in white robes of mourning.

  Charill, one of the princes of Chrace, had come also. He stood upon the back of a chariot pulled by four majestic lions from the mountains of his lands. Each was the size of a horse, and as white as snow. They roared and snarled, pacing eagerly in their harnesses. He wielded the fabled axe Achillar, whose double-headed blade crackled with lightning in his hands. Beside him stood his son, Lorichar, bearing the banner of Tor Achare: the head of a lion in silver thread upon a scarlet background. Both wore long cloaks of lion fur, edged with black leather and hung with many jewelled pendants. Other nobles upon lion chariots flanked the prince, each dour warrior armed with axe and spear and clad in golden mail.

  With them came huntsmen from the mountains: blue-eyed warriors with long locks of golden hair bound into plaits, with lion pelts upon their shoulders. They wore silvered breastplates with lion designs, and short kilts threaded with gold. The lion warriors carried heavy axes of differing designs, etched with runes and hung with braided tassels. Their demeanour was as fierce as their namesakes, and they gripped their weapons with eager determination.

  Lastly came the princes of Saphery: Merneir and Eltreneth, led by Thyriol. They were mounted upon pegasi: winged horses taken from the highest peaks of the Annulii. Glittering capes of many colours streamed from their shoulders and each bore sword and staff that gleamed with magical power. They circled above the host of Malekith, the sun gleaming from the golden harnesses of their flying steeds.

  Malekith saw that all were arrayed ready for battle, and his heart soared at the sight. Not for centuries had he commanded such a host, and the call of his blood sang within his veins. For good or ill, the fortunes of the day would resound down through history, and his name would be recounted for generations to come. The prince was not content merely with posterity, though, and was determined to win victory. He ordered the army to a halt just outside of bowshot from the closest towers and wheeled his steed to face the army. Raising Avanuir above his head, Malekith called out to his army, his voice ringing clearly the length and breadth of the host.

  “Look upon this citadel of dread!” he cried, pointing to Anlec with his magical blade, sapphire fire licking along its length. “Here once hope sprang for our people, and here now glowers our doom! In these halls the ghosts of our fathers reside, and how they must howl at the sight of seeing what was once so great now brought so low! Here was lit the bright beacon of war by Aenarion, now a blackened flame of malice and domination! We are here to extinguish that baleful flare and restore anew the light of the phoenix! You may look and see the unending walls and the cruel towers, but I do not. The might of Anlec is not in her stones and mortar, but in the blood of her defenders and the courage of their hearts. No such strength remains in this benighted city, for all vigour and honour has been crushed from her by the choking chains of misery and slavery.”

  The prince then turned his sword upon his army and its point swept along the long rows of warriors.

  “Here I see the true spirit of our people!” Malekith declared. “None come here by bond or bribe, but have marched forth for great and noble cause. We would not see such dark cities across our realms, and all here know in their spirit that today we shall halt the spread of the malignant shadow. Fell Charill! Noble Finudel! Majestic Thyriol! Know these names, and be proud to fight beside them, as I am. In time all here shall be remembered and their names shall be lauded. Unending shall be the appreciation of our people, and cherished shall be the memories of those that fight here this day! Look to your left and look to your right, and fix in your mind the face of your brothers-in-battle. You shall see no weakness there, only determination and bravery. Each here today claims his right to be a prince, for reward comes to those willing to risk all, and never have such dignified companions been assembled since the time of my father. Heroes one-and-all, you are, and as heroes shall the gods heap their praises upon you.”

  Malekith then raised his sword in front of his face in salute.

  “And forget not that it is I, Prince Malekith, who leads you!” he shouted. “I am the true lord of Anlec! Scion of Nagarythe! Son of Aenarion! I know not despair, nor fear, nor defeat! With this blade I carved a new kingdom to the east. By my hand our people made grand alliance with the dwarfs. These eyes have looked upon the Dark Gods and did not flinch. Monsters and horrors I have faced and bested, and today will be no different. We shall win, because where I lead, victory follows. We shall win, because it is my destiny to triumph. We shall win, because I will it!”

  Malekith then stood in his stirrups and raised Avanuir high above his head. A great cry erupted from the throats of his warriors, shaking the ground. Malekith waved the army forwards.

  “Glory awaits!” he cried.

  ——

  The Battle of Anlec

  At Malekith’s signal, the army advanced in line, heading towards the bridge across the river of fire. Arrows arced from the roofs of the outlying towers, and the battle began.

  With a wild screech, Redclaw beat his wings and bore Bathinair high into the air. The Yvressian prince soared higher and higher, climbing far above the range of the enemies’ bows. Likewise did the Sapherian mages circle upwards into the cloudless sky. Behind their shields, the spearmen marched forwards, not once breaking their stride even as more and more arrows rained down upon them.

  With a fearsome shriek, Redclaw dived down from the heavens towards the closest of the towers. The archers atop its summit turned their bows to
wards the descending beast, but their arrows caused no lasting wound upon the griffon’s thick hide. Bathinair’s lance flashed with power as its point drove through the chests of the defenders, even as Redclaw’s talons and beak savaged others upon the tower, rending and tearing.

  Another tower suffered at the wrath of Thyriol, who streaked down from above, the tip of his staff blazing with green fire. As his pegasus swooped low over the tower, the mage unleashed his spell, the flames roaring from his staff in the shape of a hawk diving for the kill, exploding amongst the archers and tossing their bodies over the parapet.

  More elves rushed up to the tower roof from within, only in time to be blasted by a bolt of red lightning from the staff of Merneir, which shattered the granite bricks of the tower and sent burning bodies and cracked stones tumbling to the charred earth. The army of Malekith surged through the gap between the two towers, while Bathinair and the mages wheeled above their heads, the cheers of the army ringing out to greet them.

  The fortified bridge seemed altogether a more daunting obstacle. It consisted of four immense towers, with a drawbridge between each pair, so that the fiery moat could only be crossed by the bridges on each side both being lowered. Atop each tower was a powerful engine, which hurled immense bolts far out across the barren plain. Before his army came within range of these fearsome machines, Malekith signalled for his host to halt.

  He rode forwards alone a short way, as if daring the defenders of the towers to direct their machines against him. It was a strange scene; the solitary prince upon his steed staring at the grim castle bridge like a golden lion standing its ground before a gigantic black bear.

  Calmly, Malekith raised an open hand into the air. He felt the swirl of magic coursing around him and fixed his eyes upon the moat of flames. Upon his head throbbed the circlet, and the prince could sense the bubbling mystical energies within the flame-filled ditch across his path. He had been master of Anlec and knew the commanding words of the flames, but he could feel other enchantments had been bound into the moat; his mother had known he would try to use the spell words to break this defence. She had not reckoned with the power of the circlet, though, with which Malekith’s power was increased five-fold.