by Gav Thorpe
Those years had seen the fortunes of both Malekith and Caledor wax and wane, but as the Phoenix King had foreseen, the longer the war dragged on, the more it turned against the druchii. The enemy lacked the numbers to hold any ground they took, and in Nagarythe the continuing shadow war of Alith Anar took a slow but steady toll. Tiranoc became the favoured battleground of both sides, a contested region that acted as a barrier between Nagarythe and Caledor. Slowly, with each cautious campaign, the Phoenix King’s armies cut away at the druchii forces. Eagle Pass was retaken and the keeps built by the druchii were garrisoned by troops loyal to Caledor. Griffon Pass fell to the Phoenix King in the following year, and Unicorn Pass in the next.
Caledor almost went too far in his attempts to seize Dragon Pass; a swift and deadly counter-attack by Malekith almost caught the Phoenix King’s army, which was pursued halfway across Avelorn before the Witch King relented, fearing he was being lured from Nagarythe as part of some grander scheme.
In the twenty-fifth year of his reign, after two and half decades of war, Caledor once more called his council to the Isle of the Flame. The princes were filled with apprehension as the Phoenix King entered; it had been several years since he had brought them all to this place.
‘We are winning the war,’ the Phoenix King declared as he sat on his throne, though his expression was grim rather than jubilant. The council members exchanged confused glances, unsure what this meant. ‘Our armies are blooded and our tactics well tested. The druchii are weary, labouring out of fear of their rulers. Now we strike.’
‘For Anlec?’ asked Dorien, making no attempt to hide his joy.
‘For Anlec,’ Caledor replied.
Caledor’s plan was a simple one, which he considered the best kind. Late in the spring, he launched another attack into Tiranoc, reclaiming Tor Anroc from the druchii. On this occasion he did not stay in the city, but drove northwards, driving the druchii before him. By midsummer he came to the Naganar, the fast-flowing river that separated Tiranoc from Nagarythe. Here he made a great show of camping his army, marching east and west as if looking for a suitable crossing. On the opposite bank, the Naggarothi shadowed his movements, ready to contest any crossing he might make.
The manoeuvres were a subterfuge. While the druchii had retreated, Caledor despatched parts of his army eastwards, replacing them in camp with fresh recruits, and even elves too young or old to fight dressed in fake armour and given hastily-made spears. Dorien took command of this force – from any distance two gold-clad riders on red dragons were indistinguishable – and Caledor flew across the mountains in secret. It was a tremendous gamble, the only one Caledor had ever taken. If Malekith had any hint of the deception, he would be able to sweep across the Naganar and destroy the false army, and continue south into Caledor.
The true army mustered in northern Ellyrion, every soldier and knight from each of the allied kingdoms marching and sailing to the border with Avelorn. Beneath their banners they gathered. Spearmen and archers, Silver Helm knights alongside reavers from Ellyrion, mages and princes; the Phoenix Guard of Asuryan came from the Isle of the Flame and the White Lions led the Chracian host. The sight of the gathered army filled Caledor with trepidation. All of his strength was brought here, enough in his reckoning to take the Witch King unawares and smash his army, but if not the last of Ulthuan’s strength would be spent.
If he was victorious, the road to Anlec would be open. If he had judged wrongly, there would be no force in Ulthuan that could stop the Witch King. For the first time since walking into the sacred flames, the Phoenix King said a prayer to Asuryan. When he was finished, he gave the signal for the army to march, heading north to Phoenix Pass. He hoped the name was a good omen.
For good or bad, this would be the last battle of the war.
‘You would leave Anlec defenceless.’ Morathi’s shrill protest jarred Malekith’s nerves. ‘An army camps on our border and you would have our troops simply leave them.’
‘It is a ruse,’ said Malekith.
He waved a hand and a glimmering image of northern Ulthuan appeared in the air in front of his huge throne. It was more than a map, it was a picture of the region, every river glittering as a thin line, every road and field, farmhouse and ditch recreated in minute detail.
‘If Imrik intended to attack, he would not have paused at the Naganar, but would have pressed straight across while the defences were weakest,’ the Witch King explained.
‘Why are you so sure that he attacks from the east?’ said Morathi, poking a finger through the hovering apparition of Nagarythe. ‘Why Phoenix Pass?’
‘Your memory is short, mother,’ Malekith replied calmly. ‘Do you not recall, when I retook Anlec?’
Morathi’s only reply was a spat curse.
‘You were wrong then, and I was victorious,’ said Malekith, enjoying his mother’s indignant expression. His humour faded as he considered the impudence of Imrik. ‘The upstart thinks he can trick me with the strategy I devised? No, that will not happen. I will remind him of his folly as he begs for my forgiveness.’
‘So what do you plan to do?’ Morathi glared at the gently drifting image. ‘Call the army back to Anlec. It is the best course of action.’
‘Again, that served you so well,’ laughed Malekith.
‘The treacherous Anars were the only reason you took Anlec from me,’ Morathi snapped.
‘Who can say that they will not do the same again?’ said the Witch King. His voice turned harsh. ‘Is not my crown upon the head of Alith Anar, stolen from this palace while you looked on? Your cultists are worthless as warriors, and worth even less as guards.’
Morathi stalked away, hair and gown billowing like a storm cloud.
‘Here,’ Malekith whispered to himself, pointing a burning figure at a stretch of barren land between Anlec and Phoenix Pass. It was perfect. Marshes bounded it to the north, while any army trying to escape south would come against the cold waters of the Lianarrin River. ‘Here is where I will wait for you, Imrik. At Maledor.’
TWENTY
A FATEFUL CLASH
It was Dorien that voiced the concern in the minds of all the princes. They were gathered outside Caledor’s pavilion, dressed in full armour, cloaks swirling in the strengthening breeze.
‘Can we win?’ asked the Caledorian prince. It was Dorien who had first seen the dark blot on the horizon from the back of his dragon and reported the druchii army waiting to the west. ‘For years we have avoided this clash, by your desire and command.’
‘We must win,’ replied Caledor. ‘If not now, then never. To retreat would be to admit defeat and destroy the morale of the army.’
That army was gathering on the rugged heathland of Maledor. Every kingdom loyal to Caledor was represented. Spearmen and archers from every realm gathered beneath standards displaying the colours and runes of their princes. Amongst them were the serried companies of the Lothern Sea Guard, decked in armour that shimmered like fish scales, armed with both spear and bow, their robes and banners of sea green and turquoise picking them out amongst the expanse of white-clad soldiers.
Knights of Caledor and Eataine formed up in long squadrons, their lances decorated with bright pennants, their silver helms adorned with fabulous crests of feathers. Batteries of bolt throwers were erected, protecting the flanks of the mustering host.
Overhead flew the pegasi of Saphery, Thyriol’s mages weaving their protective enchantments over the army with flashing staves and gleaming wands. There were more of their order amongst the regiments of the kingdom, wielding swords of flame, shielding the troops with golden arcs of power.
The centre of the line was held by the Chracians. Flanked by companies of spear and bow, the White Lions, Caledor’s chosen warriors, waited with long-hafted axes. To their left stood the silent ranks of the Phoenix Guard, their cloaks shimmering in the sunlight, halberd heads gleaming.
To the south, the left end of the line where the ground heaped up over bush-covered hummocks, the mass
ed reaver knights of Ellyrion waited for the return of Finudel and Athielle. Their horsehair plumes tossed in the wind, which carried their laughter and conversation to the rest of the army.
Last were the dragons. Eight had survived the long war. Surrounded by a smog of fumes, they rumbled and growled to each other in their own language, Maedrethnir standing proud at their centre with wings outstretched.
‘We can win,’ Caledor said again. ‘Be bold and stay strong.’
The battle-plan was agreed and the princes returned to their troops. The Caledorians mounted their dragons and took to the air while Athielle and Finudel joined their reavers. Tithrain rode to the head of Cothique’s small company of knights and Carvalon mounted a griffon that had been nurtured by the prince since it first hatched. Thyriol’s pegasus climbed towards the clouds as the mage-prince flew to his acolytes.
Trumpets were raised and their clear notes rang out over the plain. The shouts of the captains echoed the command and as one the host of Caledor advanced. To the west, a spreading darkness approached.
As the dragons of Caledor soared into the sky, Sulekh let out a deafening screech, neck arched. Her three children roared in reply, the terrifying sound rolling over the advancing army of Nagarythe.
At the forefront of the army were Hellebron and her Khainites, supported by her father Prince Alandrian with a force of knights from Athel Toralien. The two were in stark contrast; the near-naked Brides of Khaine howling and wailing, eyes wide and wild from frenzy-inducing drugs, hair spiked with the gore of sacrifices, bared flesh pale in the sunlight beneath an icon of Khaine made from bone and draped with entrails; the knights armoured from head to toe in plate and mail, their black steeds protected by heavy caparisons of golden scale, the banner of Athel Toralien proudly flying above.
To either side stretched the legions of Nagarythe, rank after rank of spears and repeater crossbows. Standards of red, black and purple fluttered in the wind, and the sun shone from twenty thousand barbed spearpoints. Runes of Ereth Khial and Atharti, Khaine and Anath Raema adorned their shields. Drums of elfskin sounded the beat of the march and gilded bone horns blared the call to war.
The air above the army writhed with dark energy. Like a black pall, daemonic forces churned, held in check by the incantations of Morathi’s acolytes. Malekith could see them more clearly with the aid of his circlet; horned and fanged monstrosities that bayed and growled as they clawed at the sky seeking entry into the mortal world.
The beastmasters had brought forth every creature of the mountains: hydras and manticores, hippogryphs and chimeras. Packs of savage hounds with spiked collars and iron-tipped fangs and claws howled and strained at their iron leashes. Whips cracked and goads were thrust into scaled hides to propel the beasts towards the enemy, flames and smoke wreathing their advance. The winged monsters took to the air in a mass of feathers and fur and leathery wings.
Just in front of the Witch King advanced the pride of Malekith, his knights of Anlec. Across Elthin Arvan they had crushed armies of orcs and goblins, slaughtered hosts of forest beasts; across Ulthuan their charges had scattered the elves of the Phoenix King and cut them down as they fled. Their lances gleamed with magical power, fashioned by Hotek and his smith-priests. The runes on their shields and armour flared with power as the winds of magic surged, the mystical energy that swept across Ulthuan whipped into the storm by the coming battle.
Malekith could feel the magic around him. Fire and blood drew it, gold and silver harnessed it, fear and hope swelled it, life and death shaped it. Through the circlet he experienced the constant flow, through the air and the ground, in every arrowhead and heart.
When the upstarts were crushed, there would be no power in the world greater than the Witch King. The conquests of the past would pale in comparison to the empire he would build. He had brought the elven people to the brink of destruction, but it was from the ashes of that war that they would arise stronger than ever. When he was Phoenix King, he would lead his people to even greater heights of glory and power.
From his throne on Sulekh’s back, Malekith turned to his mother, who was sat to his right astride a newly tamed raven-hued pegasus.
‘At last I shall have my battle,’ the Witch King said. ‘Imrik has misjudged a step and it is time to end this interminable war.’
‘You shall see him humbled,’ replied Morathi. ‘The usurper will bend his knee as you were forced to bow before Bel Shanaar. He will weep at your hands, begging forgiveness for taking your throne. The blades and acids of the Khainites will eke out every drop of agony from his wretched body. My sorcery will visit upon him every nightmare ever conceived.’
Malekith regarded his mother with burning eyes, bemused by her vehemence and melodrama. He no longer dreamed of a broken Imrik pleading for his life; his visions were filled with the pure joy of standing over the usurper’s corpse. For twelve years it had been only a dream. For twelve years he had suffered humiliation and torment, the thought of which hurt as much as the pain of his still-burning flesh.
‘I would rather he just died,’ said the Witch King. He let out a moan of pleasure at the thought. ‘The sooner, the better.’
He wrenched on Sulekh’s chains with unnatural strength, signalling her to launch into the air. The other black dragons followed as Malekith steered his mount over his army. Holding Sulekh’s reins in his shield hand, the Witch King drew Avanuir. The magical blade burst into blue flame and Malekith’s voice roared out his simple command.
‘Attack! Kill Imrik!’
Gripping shield and spear tightly, Carathril advanced at the head of a company of spearmen from Eataine. His skin felt oily and slick from dark magic and he nervously eyed the convulsing cloud of darkness gathering over the moor. There were whispers on the edge of hearing, cruel and seductive, beguiling and threatening. He drove them from his thoughts, focussing on the enemy ahead.
Arrows and bolts flew in clouds from both armies. The cries of the dying and the wounded were already loud. A hail of spear-like shafts slammed into the company of elves to Carathril’s right, ripping a hole through their ranks. Bolts clattered from shield and scale coats as the missiles of the druchii fell into the advancing elves of the Phoenix King.
There was little Carathril could do but trust in fate and believe that Morai Heg was not so cruel of humour that she had carried him through this war so far only to have him spitted on a bolt or punctured by quarrels.
A hideous beast, an unholy hybrid of lizard and dog and lion, the size of a horse, padded across the spongy ground towards the Eataine company. A thick miasma surrounded the creature, pale yellow in colour, its sulphurous stench carrying to Carathril. Behind, beastmasters goaded it forwards with long-tined tridents and lashes barbed with cruel hooks, the faces of the druchii swathed with scarves.
‘Basilisk!’ Carathril shouted in warning.
As the beast approached, Carathril hoped that one of the bolt thrower crews would sight the beast and slay it, but as the basilisk broke into a run, baring fangs like black knives, he knew the hope was empty.
The company halted to receive the monster’s charge, shields raised and spears lowered. Carathril swallowed down his fear, his mouth dry.
The basilisk barrelled full-pelt into the spear company, roaring and slashing. Shields were rent by its claws and scales of armour shredded by its teeth. Spears snapped upon its thick hide as the elves struck back, though not all were turned aside and bloody wounds were opened in the basilisk’s scaled flanks.
Where its blood spilled forth, the filthy fog spilled also. Its touch was corrosive, flaking metal and melting skin. The elves that were unfortunate enough to breathe in the toxic mist fell back with hoarse screams, dropping their spears to claw at burning throats. The merest touch of the deadly fume petrified flesh, turning eyes and hands into a rough, grey, stone-like substance.
Recovering from the initial shock of the basilisk’s attack, the spearmen closed ranks, using their shields to waft away the poisonous fog. Eyes
closed, they thrust blindly at the monster, trusting to instinct and elven senses to guide their blows.
More fell to its teeth and claws, but eventually the holes and cuts upon the basilisk’s hide were too much. Ichor and blood oozed from dozens of wounds as it collapsed, sending up more of the foul vapour. The creature’s handlers fled as the spearmen parted around the rapidly rotting body of the basilisk.
Carathril gasped, drawing in a ragged breath. Through stinging eyes he saw the druchii spearmen advancing to meet the line. The bitter tang of the basilisk clung to Carathril’s robes and his face itched from the passing of its fume.
These distractions fell away as he looked upon the sneering, shouting faces of the enemy. He thought of Prince Aeltherin burning himself alive. He remembered the hard days of riding back and forth for Bel Shanaar. He recalled the bloody mess of Ealith and the seductive wiles of Drutheira. The carnage of the Shrine of Asuryan haunted him still. Twenty-six years of war crowded into his mind; the siege of Lothern and Aerenis’s death by his hand foremost amongst the many dreadful things he had witnessed and done.
It was not in his nature to hate, but for that moment he was filled with loathing for the elves that came towards him. It did not matter if they were as scared as he was. It was of no consequence that many would have families. Some he might even have fought alongside before Malekith’s treachery. All such considerations were irrelevant. They were the druchii, the dark elves, and they would kill or enslave all of elfkind if they were victorious.
‘For Caledor!’ Carathril shouted, raising his spear, the call echoed by those around him. Though no command was given, the company broke into a run, heading straight for the oncoming druchii. Carathril relaxed, knowing that if he died he would know peace. The enemy surged forwards in response and Carathril shouted again.
‘For Ulthuan!’
The first clash of the armies crashed across the moor. Flying high above the battle, Thyriol watched the lines of black and white undulating as first one side and then the other pressed forwards and fell back. The Witch King’s attack was focussed on destroying Caledor, his army driving forwards on a narrow front. The Phoenix King had predicted this and laid his plans accordingly. Using himself as bait, Caledor had placed himself in the centre of the army, a lodestone for the fury of the druchii.