Caledor

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Better that we do not fail,’ said Caledor. ‘No battle is certain, but we cannot allow the druchii to establish themselves in strength east of the mountains. To abandon northern Ellyrion to move to the south suggests that the druchii might intend to use your kingdom as a step towards an invasion of Caledor.’

  ‘Not to be harsh, but would that be so bad?’ said Finudel. ‘Caledor has suffered little and its defences are strong.’

  ‘They would have to destroy Tor Elyr,’ said Athielle. ‘It cannot be left to threaten their staging camp.’

  Finudel was dismayed by the thought.

  ‘So we return to our earlier concern,’ said the prince. ‘Perhaps the druchii have another army in the pass, waiting for us to expose our flank with an attack on the encampment.’

  ‘If you see some other way to proceed, tell me now,’ said Caledor. ‘If not, we attack in two days.’

  No better plan was forthcoming from the rulers of Ellyrion and so Caledor returned to his tent. He dismissed his servants and sat deep in thought, trying to discern the purpose of the druchii encroachment. Whichever way he looked at the situation, either a diversion or a first probe towards Caledor seemed the most likely reason.

  Whatever the ploy of the druchii, Caledor was resolved to destroy their army and deal with any consequences. To lose himself in second-guessing the intent of the fanatical Naggarothi was a pointless exercise, as Dorien had warned.

  The freshening wind brought a chill from the mountains, and the low clouds were a uniform grey sheet across the sky. The vanguard of Finudel’s reavers fought a brief skirmish with druchii outriders in the mid-morning, driving the pickets back to their camp. Caledor’s army arranged itself in the line of battle as warning horns sounded in the enemy encampment and rows of spearmen and crossbowmen formed up alongside the tents.

  A barricade of sharpened stakes defended the approach from the south. A brief foray by a squadron of knights revealed ditches had been dug too, making a cavalry charge impossible. This was not a revelation for Caledor, who had not planned to commit his knights in a frontal attack. As several thousand druchii assembled for the battle, he was convinced his plan would work. The enemy gave little thought to an aerial attack across the lake.

  Amongst the black and purple of the Naggarothi were several red banners decorated with Khainite symbols. The sight of these caused a ripple of anger through Caledor’s army as the atrocities of Cothique were remembered. The Phoenix King sent stern words to his captains that they not allow thoughts of revenge to affect their judgement. They would follow the plan as it had been outlined and not seek to enact retribution against the Khainites if it meant any deviation.

  Receiving assurances that all would proceed as the Phoenix King demanded, Caledor took to the skies atop Maedrethnir. The dragon was in a surly mood.

  ‘A wet day for a battle,’ rumbled the beast. ‘You bring me from the comfort of my lair for this rabble?’

  ‘Look there, to the west of the camp,’ replied Caledor.

  Atop a rocky outcrop, a black dragon flexed its wings. From this distance Caledor could make out no detail of the rider, who seemed oddly positioned to support his troops. Two manticore riders and a pair of griffons flapped into the air above the camp, but the dragon rider did not move. The creature he rode was immense, towering over the pavilions of the druchii. There was no doubt in his mind that such a mount would belong to a high-ranking druchii prince.

  There were other creatures in the army, goaded into position by the druchii beastmasters. Clouds of steam and smoke wreathed the monsters as they lumbered through gaps left by the infantry.

  Flying low, Caledor signalled to his captains to sound the advance. Trumpets blared along the line of silver and white and as one the Phoenix King’s army moved forwards. Finudel and his reaver knights broke to the left, heading westwards, while Athielle and her cavalry cut a more northerly route, putting herself between her brother and the enemy to ward away any counter-attack.

  Not wishing to reveal his intent too soon, Caledor circled over his troops with the other dragons. When the enemy were within bow range, they would head east and come at the enemy from across the lake.

  From his vantage point, he examined the layout of the druchii camp. It was like several he had seen before, arranged in orderly lines, although he noticed several clusters of tents dotted along the periphery to the south and east. It seemed quite large in comparison to the number of troops that had formed up, giving the Phoenix King a momentary pause for thought. He reasoned that this confirmed his suspicion that the encampment was intended as a staging ground, and had been prepared to receive more troops in the future as fortifications were built.

  Some of the cultists could not hold their positions and sallied from the druchii line. Their wails and screams could be heard as Maedrethnir swept along the line of Caledor’s army. The spear companies did not pause in their advance, leaving the Khainites to be dealt with by the archers, who stopped in long lines, bows at the ready.

  As the first arrows were loosed, the Khainites broke into a charge, heading for the centre of Caledor’s army. They were engulfed by a cloud of arrows, cut down in their dozens by the disciplined volleys, leaving a trail of semi-naked bodies in their wake. Heedless of their casualties, the cultists pressed on, heading for the archers.

  Not a single cultist reached the line, but their suicidal assault had broken the coherency of Caledor’s army. The spear companies were coming into range of the enemy repeater crossbows, unsupported by their archers. If they waited for the bowmen to rejoin them, they would suffer from the enemy missile fire; if they pressed on, they risked being outflanked by a counter-attack.

  ‘Go with the spears!’ Caledor called out to Dorien, waving his lance towards the enemy. ‘Take Anatherion with you!’

  His brother signalled his understanding and the two dragons dived down, swiftly catching up with the spear companies. The enemy had concentrated their line to meet this attack, further weakening their flank, still trusting to the protection offered by the lake. Caledor signalled to the remaining dragon princes to follow him as he headed east towards the water.

  Dorien and Anatherion swept along the druchii line, their dragons breathing fire into the repeater crossbowmen as Caledor’s spearmen struggled across the defensive ditches. The manticores and griffons dashed across the camp, and soon an elaborate aerial melee was rising and falling above the two lines of infantry, the smaller beasts attempting to separate the two dragons and concentrate their numbers on one of them. Dorien and his companion were aware of the risk and climbed higher, almost wingtip to wingtip, leaving the manticores and griffons behind. After a brief discussion, they descended again, both dragons spearing towards the manticores with flame and claws.

  Caledor kept an eye on the main battle as Maedrethnir arced across the lake, his wing beats sending ripples across the placid waters. The spearmen had almost reached the druchii and the archers were moving up swiftly in support; Athielle’s cavalry had reached the hills to the west of the camp and were turning north to come at the enemy from behind; in a few moments Caledor and his dragons would reach the eastern end of the camp and the druchii would be surrounded.

  A flurry of movement in the encampment caught the Phoenix King’s eye. Dozens of tents were quickly cast down, revealing massed batteries of repeater bolt throwers. As soon as they were revealed, the war machines began launching their deadly shots. Spearmen were scythed down by the score by the first devastating volley as they navigated their way through the walls of stakes.

  Caledor found himself flying into a cloud of iron-tipped spears, each shaft glowing with a deadly rune. Maedrethnir did his best to avoid the barrage, but bolts clattered and ripped along his flank as he turned north. A shaft tore clean through his wing, leaving a burning hole, the dragon letting lose a snarl of pain.

  Behind Caledor, Imrithir and his mount were not so lucky. Caught full by a flurry of bolts, the prince slumped in his saddle, a shaft piercing his ch
est; his dragon flailed at two bolts transfixing its throat and plummeted into the lake with a tremendous eruption of water.

  Faced with such a weight of fire, the spear companies struggled to make any headway. Those that successfully negotiated the stakes and bolts were easy targets for the repeater crossbowmen and they died in their hundreds. Caledor sped north, out of range of the bolt throwers, seeking some other route into the encampment, but saw that a ring of engines surrounded the entire hill.

  The battle had turned in a moment. Athielle was forced to hold back her charge, leaving the infantry to struggle on into the teeth of the enemy without support. Hydras and chimeras charged into the fight, crushing and biting, gouts of fire and petrifying gas taking a heavy toll.

  Above the camp, Dorien and Anatherion did their best to menace the druchii war engines, but were repeatedly driven back by the diving attacks of the manticores and griffons. At risk of being shot down, the two princes were driven further and further north, away from the embattled infantry.

  Now that the bolt throwers had been revealed, Caledor could see the genius with which they had been placed. Any dragon landing to destroy a battery would be an easy target for at least two others. He flew high across the camp, looking for some chink in the defence to exploit, but found nothing. Faced with the massed war engines, the infantry captains had sounded the recall, retreating the line back to the ditches where at least there was some cover from the incessant war machine volleys. It was only a temporary respite though; at some point they would have to advance or retreat from their position and would be cut down as they did so.

  Caledor needed to think quickly. The druchii infantry were reforming after the melee, readying to press forward their advantage. The situation was bad, but a decisive move now could swing the favour of battle back towards the Phoenix King’s forces.

  He noticed that the Naggarothi dragon rider had not moved. Perhaps the prince was wary of committing himself to the fight, or was merely leaving his options open. Either way, Caledor would not be confident of victory unless he could draw out the black dragon, preferably luring it away from the protection of the bolt throwers.

  As Maedrethnir circled again, too high for the druchii bolts, Caledor saw more movement in the enemy camp. From on high it was impossible to see anything clearly, but it looked to the king as if patches of shadow worked their way from tent to tent.

  ‘What do you see?’ he asked Maedrethnir, whose eyes were even keener than the Phoenix King’s.

  The dragon turned his gaze groundwards and stopped in the air, beating his wings slowly to hold station. An odd reverberation sounded from Maedrethnir’s chest, a draconian noise of surprise.

  ‘It looks like shadows that walk,’ said Maedrethnir. ‘I cannot see the figures that cast them.’

  As he watched, Caledor saw the puddles of darkness converging on one of the bolt thrower batteries. There seemed to be a struggle of some kind, the crew drawing their swords against some foe that Caledor could not discern. Whatever attacked, it did not take long to overwhelm the crews of the war engines. The battery fell silent and the darkness dispersed, moving through the camp before coalescing next to another line of bolt throwers.

  ‘Attack!’ cried Caledor, seizing the chance. ‘To the east!’

  Maedrethnir did not hesitate. The dragon folded his wings and dived. He felt a tremor run through the dragon’s body as they came within range of the bolt throwers. No volley was launched and the pair plunged down further. Closing fast, Caledor saw black-cloaked elves fighting with the war engine crews. He did not know what was happening, but knew that there was no time to waste.

  A glance above showed that the other dragon riders had noticed their king’s safe descent and with roars and bellows of flames, they plunged down, eager to wreak revenge on the druchii that had tormented them. Seeing the dragons attack, the infantry surged forth with trumpets blaring the assault, while Athielle and Finudel were finally able to signal the charge of the cavalry.

  Caledor glanced at the black dragon and saw that its rider had made no move in response to the turn in the tide of battle. There was a more immediate threat as a manticore and its rider launched from the druchii line, heading straight for the Phoenix King.

  ‘Beware of the sting,’ said Caledor.

  ‘This is not the first manticore I have slain,’ Maedrethnir replied with a laugh. ‘Deal with the rider and I will show you how it is done.’

  The druchii sat astride the roaring beast wielded a spear wreathed in crackling energy. Caledor took the hit on his shield, the magic flaring brightly from the protective enchantment bound within the ithilmar. The Phoenix King’s lance found the manticore rider’s thigh, piercing armour and bone to slide into the flank of the monster. It gave a pained howl and lashed its sting at Maedrethnir’s underside. The dragon caught the flailing appendage in one of his rear claws, and with the other seized the manticore by the throat.

  With powerful sweeps of his wings, Maedrethnir headed upwards, dragging the manticore beneath him. The rider was not yet dead and swung his spear at the dragon’s throat, but its point was knocked aside by Caledor’s dipped lance. Turning, the dragon changed its grip slightly, moving the manticore’s tail from back claw to front. With a single bite, Maedrethnir severed the tail, the sting dropping away as the manticore raged, twisting and snarling in the dragon’s immovable grasp.

  ‘And now the finish,’ declared Maedrethnir.

  His jaw snapped again, clamping around the rider and shearing through the manticore’s backbone. Vertebrae shattered as the dragon ground his jaws, blood spilling in showers to the camp far below. With a last effort, Maedrethnir flexed his body and legs, ripping the manticore in half. He let the blood-spewing remnants fall from his grip, the rider’s mangled corpse falling free as the manticore’s remains spun groundwards.

  As soon as he looked back at the druchii infantry, Caledor knew the battle was won. The enemy were streaming back through the camp in their hundreds, abandoning their positions in a massed rout. There would be no escape from Finudel and Athielle sweeping in from the other side of the encampment. Many of the druchii threw down their weapons, begging for mercy. Their pleas fell on deaf ears as knights and spearmen converged, slaying every foe in their path.

  Both griffons and their riders had been slain by the other dragon princes, and the surviving manticore headed west, its rider deciding that a timely withdrawal was in order. Caledor looked again to the black dragon. There was something unsettling about the way its rider was content to watch the massacre. He wondered if it was perhaps some illusion conjured by the druchii and told Maedrethnir to head towards it. As soon as the king and his dragon were heading in its direction the drake took to the air, massive wings casting a huge shadow over the camp.

  Out of spite, the rider swept over a squadron of Athielle’s reaver knights, shredding dozens of riders and horses, billowing clouds of noxious vapour from his dragon poisoning even more. With a languid turn, the black-scaled monster arced westwards. Caledor saw a brief glimmer of shining blue, a flaming sword raised in mocking salute, and then the dragon rose towards the clouds. It had too much of a head start to catch and soon disappeared into the clouds over the mountains.

  Unnerved by this display, unsure what it signified, Caledor directed Maedrethnir to land. Most of the camp was already overrun. The only resistance seemed to come from a group of black-swathed elves who had taken refuge in a small copse of trees on the northern slope of the hill.

  ‘I shall burn them out,’ said Dorien, sweeping past on his dragon.

  He was out of earshot before Caledor could reply, rising higher and higher in preparation for his swooping attack. Caledor followed his brother with his eyes, raising his head as prince and dragon climbed into the clouds.

  A shout from the left attracted his attention.

  ‘Call off the attack!’ cried Finudel, galloping hard through the trampled tents, his knights struggling to keep up.

  ‘They are allies!’ s
houted Athielle, riding just as hard from the west.

  Prince and princess reined in their steeds next to Caledor, horror written in their expressions.

  ‘The Naggarothi in the woods are not the enemy,’ said Finudel. ‘I recognise them.’

  ‘They are the Shadows of the Anars!’ gasped Athielle. ‘Do not harm them.’

  Cursing, Caledor barked at Maedrethnir to launch himself. They headed for the stand of trees as Dorien began his steep descent, smoke and fire trailing from his dragon’s maw. Caledor knew there was no point in shouting; his brother would hear nothing over the roar of the wind.

  ‘Get in front of them,’ he told Maedrethnir. ‘Quickly!’

  The dragon raced towards the trees, wing beats scattering the elves below with huge draughts of wind. Caledor ducked low and raised his shield to direct the rushing air over his head, to avoid being broken upon his saddle by its force.

  Dorien did not slow, probably thinking that Caledor joined the attack. Against the buffeting wind, all the king could do was grip tight to lance and shield, peering ahead through slitted eyes.

  Maedrethnir roared, his whole body shaking with the effort. The deafening bellow struck a chord in the mind of Caledor; for a moment he was overwhelmed by a primal fear and almost let go of his lance. It was a challenge, a hunting cry, a claim of territory that no other creature could match.

  Dorien’s dragon responded out of instinct, veering away from the woods to charge headlong at Maedrethnir, roaring his response. Almost thrown from his saddle-throne by the change of direction, Dorien lost his shield, which tumbled into the trees as Maedrethnir and the other dragon hurtled towards each other.

  Caledor realised that in uttering the challenge, Maedrethnir had reverted to his most feral state. He barked the incantations of the Dragontamer, trying to break the dragon from his instinctual behaviour; he guessed Dorien would be doing likewise.

  Maedrethnir gave a strange yelp of pain, snapping from his fury. He folded his wings, dropping like a huge stone so that the other dragon passed overhead. He could only half open them again before he hit the ground, legs splayed to lessen the impact. Trunks exploded into splinters and branches scattered as the dragon ploughed into the woods. In a deluge of green and brown, dragon and rider slid down a shallow slope, Maedrethnir’s claws gouging deep furrows in the earth as he slowed himself.