by Gav Thorpe
‘Finally,’ the Witch King said, all thoughts of Athielle forgotten. He raised his voice in challenge, his words a metallic roar that carried over the din of battle. ‘Come to me, Imrik! Come to me!’
The companies of the White Lions and Phoenix Guard surged forwards into the Naggarothi below while Malekith’s black dragon leapt up to meet the Phoenix King head-on. Maedrethnir plunged down from the clouds uttering a roaring challenge. The shock of the dragons’ impact almost threw Caledor from the saddle-throne, the two titanic beasts slamming into each other in a ferocious welter of claws and fangs. The Phoenix King thought he heard mocking laughter from the Witch King as Maedrethnir bathed the other dragon with fire.
The two beasts parted and circled, gashes pouring blood from both dragons. Caledor levelled his lance for the next pass, aiming for Malekith’s chest. The rune upon the Witch King’s shield burned into his mind, writhing and shifting. The blood-red symbol, the True Name of Khaine, bombarded Caledor with the cacophony of war and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
Shaking his head to clear away the effects of the dread rune, Caledor saw that Malekith was almost upon him. He swung his lance as Maedrethnir rolled to the right, the weapon’s shining tip scoring a wound across the flank of the black dragon as she passed by overhead.
The black dragon turned swiftly, almost catching Maedrethnir’s tail in her jaw. The dragon dipped in the air to avoid the attack, exposing Caledor to the beast’s raking claws. He turned and brought up his shield just in time, claws as hard as diamond ripping across its surface as protective energies blazed.
Gliding towards the ground, the two dragons closed again, snarling and roaring. Fire sprang from Malekith’s sword, surrounding Caledor with crackling intensity. The enchantments of his armour protected the Phoenix King from harm, the blue flames passing around him harmlessly. Maedrethnir grappled with the black dragon, their longs necks swaying as each sought to sink fangs into the other. Claws raked back and forth, sending scales and blood spilling to the ground.
Bucking and twisting, the dragons descended, locked together by jaw and claw. Caledor let his lance fall from his grasp and pulled free Lathrain, just as the Witch King lashed out with Avanuir. The two swords met with an explosion of lightning and blue fire. The shock numbed Caledor’s arm and it was with a surge of will that he parried the next attack, turning aside Malekith’s blade as it screamed towards the Phoenix King’s head.
The dragons gave no thought to their riders as they savaged each other. Caledor was tossed left and right as Maedrethnir struggled with his foe, wings flapping and tail whipping. Malekith clung to his iron reins with his shield hand, steam and smoke rising from his armour.
The gaze of the Phoenix King met the eyes of the Witch King. They were like bottomless pits filled with black fire, dragging his life from him. The Sapherian charms hanging on Caledor’s armour glowed as they warded away the Witch King’s sorcery. Again he turned aside a stroke from Avanuir as the two dragons came close enough for Malekith to strike.
The battle continued to rage around them. In their frenzy, the dragons trampled over friend and foe without distinction, Khainites and Ellyrians, White Lions and Naggarothi clawed and trampled by the two behemoths.
Caledor kept his focus on the Witch King, seeking an opening to strike. When the black dragon reeled back from an attack from Maedrethnir, the Phoenix King saw his opportunity. His sword cut down into the Witch King’s shoulder, biting deep with a scream of tearing metal. A wave of energy pulsed up Caledor’s arm, sending agony shooting through every part of his body.
Maedrethnir gave a pained howl as the black dragon’s claws found purchase around his neck. Jaw snapping, Caledor’s mount seized hold of his enemy’s wing, biting through bone and sinew until the black dragon released its grip in a spasm of pain. Blood was gushing from Maedrethnir’s neck. The red dragon stumbled back leaving a stream of crimson on the rucked earth.
As the Witch King wrenched on the chain of the black dragon’s reins, the beast lunged at Caledor. Her jaws closed around his arm, teeth cracking against the ensorcelled ithilmar. The Phoenix King’s arm was already numb with pain and Lathrain tumbled from his grasp. The straps of the Phoenix King’s harness parted as the black dragon shook her head, dragging Caledor from the saddle-throne, casting him to the ground.
Heaving in a gasping breath, Caledor pushed to his feet, seeking Lathrain. He saw the glitter of metal in a tussock not far away and set out towards it, hand outstretched.
A massive blow caught him in the back, lifting him through the air. The Phoenix King crashed down amid the bodies of the slain Ellyrians, coming face-to-face with Finudel’s dead visage.
Lying on his chest, Caledor felt the ground trembling. He rolled to his back, expecting to see the black dragon looming over him. It was not. Malekith wrestled with the beast’s reins, trying to direct her towards Caledor. The black dragon struggled, eager to pursue Maedrethnir, who had withdrawn, limping heavily, flanks scored with dozens of ragged gashes. The black dragon had fared little better, her wings tattered, face and neck marked by claws and fangs.
The will of the Witch King prevailed and the dragon’s head was steered towards the fallen Phoenix King. Flapping ragged wings, the black dragon pounded forwards, jaws wide, dripping bloodied saliva.
Caledor looked up into the dragon’s glassy eyes, seeing himself reflected in the black orbs. There was nothing to read there, just reptilian coldness. He heard Malekith’s triumphant laughter.
A rush of hooves engulfed Caledor. A squadron of knights galloped past, some of the steeds leaping over the prone Phoenix King as they charged. Lances crashed against the scales of the dragon, while fire roared from Malekith’s sword.
When the last of the knights had passed, Caledor saw that they flew the colours of Tithrain. Discarding their broken lances, they drew gleaming swords and rode around the black dragon, hacking at its flesh. The dragon struck back, stomping a clawed foot onto one of the knights, crushing rider and horse, while its jaws engulfed another.
Caledor tried to stand but pain shot up his back from his right leg. He fell to the side, hands sinking into the blood-slicked mud. Looking down, his saw his leg was twisted, the armour buckled and ruptured. Pushing back the pain, he sat up again in an attempt to see what else was happening.
The battle was still in full flow. Dragons and manticores ripped at each other above. Spells of destruction and protection flared and the whine of bolts and arrows tore the air. Still the dark roiling cloud of the daemons stretched across the sky, bubbling and burning with infernal energies. The spear companies clashed, the roars of their battle cries joining with the ring of metal, the ground trembling beneath the hooves of charging horses and the booted feet of thousands of warriors.
Caledor dragged himself across the bloody grass and propped himself up against the body of Finudel’s horse. He looked at Malekith and the black dragon and saw that more than half of Tithrain’s knights had been slain and still the beast and its master lived.
As he watched, Tithrain was lifted from his saddle in the dragon’s jaws. The prince rained blows upon her face with his sword, opening up welts in the scales. Then the jaws closed fully and Tithrain was slain, his limp body hanging from the black dragon’s fangs as it opened its mouth to let out another cloud of noxious vapour.
With the death of their prince, the nerve of the knights broke. As they fled, Malekith again struggled to direct his mount towards Caledor while it wanted to pursue the retreating riders. Under the Witch King’s urging, the dragon took three steps closer to Caledor, blood streaming from dozens of wounds. This time Caledor looked up at the Witch King, whose flaming eyes blazed red. The Witch King had his arm upraised, Avanuir pointed to the sky.
The Phoenix King felt strange warmth fill him. His vision danced, half-blinded by the sun setting behind Malekith. He thought he saw a figure in the rays of the sun, a lithe elf with hair of ivy and eyes of blossoms. The figure drifted towards him surrounded by an a
ura of gold and green, and the smell of grass and trees came to his nostrils.
‘Victory will be yours, Caledor,’ said the apparition. ‘You just have to reach out and take it.’
The Phoenix King glanced at Malekith, expecting the mortal blow any moment. The Witch King seemed frozen, as was the rest of the battle. There was no sound save for the sighing of wind through leaves and the creak of swaying branches.
The maiden looked down to Caledor’s right and smiled, the expression sending a wave of strength through the Phoenix King’s body, driving away the exhaustion and pain.
With a thunderous crash of returning noise, the vision passed. The foetid breath of the dragon passed over Caledor, making his skin prickle. Not knowing what he did, he reached out his right hand to where the apparition had looked, eyes still set on the Witch King.
His gauntleted fingers closed around the haft of a spear, its touch warm with magic in his grasp.
The black dragon pulled back its head, ready to lunge, drawing in a massive breath. Caledor looked at the cracked and bloodied fangs, and saw the monstrous forked tongue tasting the air.
He brought his arm forwards with all his strength, hurling Finudel’s spear.
Mirialith gleamed as it flashed towards the open maw of the dragon. The spear punched through the roof of the dragon’s mouth and into the creature’s skull.
Sulekh roared and reared, her whole body thrashing in her death throes. Iron links parted and the chains of her harness snapped. Malekith was cast backwards and to the left, falling from the black dragon’s back. He slammed into the ground with a crash of metal, flames and steam billowing from his armour.
Still jarred from the impact, Malekith raised himself to one knee, throwing aside his shield to free his hand. Beside him Sulekh continued to writhe and thrash, keening loudly. The Witch King fixed his baleful stare on Imrik, who lay slumped over the body of a horse. The usurper met his glare with a defiant stare.
A moment later, Sulekh’s body slammed into Malekith, crushing him into the ground. Pinned by her massive weight, he heaved at her mass, trying to free himself, letting out a bellow of frustration. He dropped Avanuir to the ground so that he could use both hands to push at the massive corpse that lay on top of his legs and waist.
A prickle of sensation shuddered through Malekith; the touch of magic. He turned his head to the left seeking the source.
A wave of white fire poured towards him. It was beautiful, glittering like moonlight on the sea, flecked with gold and silver. He recognised the flames. He had stood within them to receive Asuryan’s blessing. Now the lord of gods had come again to aid Malekith, as he had Aenarion.
With a surge of power, Malekith heaved free the body of Sulekh. He stood up and faced the oncoming fire, arms spread wide to receive Asuryan’s blessing. The white flames crackled closer and closer, a chill wind against his red-hot armour. He closed his eyes as the fire engulfed him, waiting for the release from the agony that had been his companion for more than two decades.
Fresh pain seared through his chest and arms. Malekith gave a cry and opened his eyes.
It was not the flame of Asuryan that surrounded him, but the halberds of the Phoenix Guard. Each blade burned with the white fires of Asuryan, every blow they landed upon the Witch King igniting the flame that had been set within his flesh by the lord of gods.
The physical pain was as nothing compared to the pain of betrayal. As his iron flesh was rent and ripped by the swinging halberds of the Phoenix Guard Malekith realised he had not received Asuryan’s blessing. His father had not endured the agony he had endured.
The Witch King’s delusion fell away and he saw his punishment for what it was. Asuryan had shunned him, cursed him with everlasting torment. The shock of it brought Malekith to his knees as more blows rained down upon him, carving furrows in his black armour.
The moment of woe passed, quickly replaced by anger; a deep-rooted rage fed by the burning that seethed inside the Witch King. His armour exploded with fire, hurling back the Phoenix Guard, their flesh withered, armour melting, hair and cloaks in flames.
Lacking any weapon, Malekith set about the servants of his tormentor with flaming fists, his iron hands punching through breastplates and ripping off limbs. Towering above the Phoenix Guard, he summoned dark magic, feeding off the escaping life force of his foes, twisting it to his own ends.
He tried to draw the magic into himself, to heal the rents in his armour. The dark magic swerved and writhed, failing to take purchase in his body. Where the blades of the Phoenix Guard had marked him, tiny golden flames burned, keeping the dark magic at bay.
Dread filled Malekith’s heart. Unable to heal his wounds, which streamed with rivulets of molten metal like blood, he realised he was about to die.
‘Never!’ he roared.
He drew himself up to his full height. The dark magic he had summoned to cure his wounds swirled around him, forming blades of blackened iron that slashed through the Phoenix Guard. With a final pulse of dark magic, he blasted the forest of magical swords into his foes, driving them back.
Leaking metal and fire and blood, Malekith turned and ran, leaving burnt prints in the bloodied grass. He would not die yet; not here on this dismal moor, with the usurper looking on, laughing. The Witch King drew on the power of his circlet, reaching out into the winds of magic, grabbing all of the power he could. An oily black cloud formed around him, flickering with lightning, obscuring him from his pursuers. It spread further and further, a churning, living mass that snatched up the Phoenix Guard who came after him, twisting their bodies and snapping their bones.
So it was that Malekith the Witch King fled the field of Maledor and returned to Anlec, broken and bitter-hearted, his ambition destroyed upon that bloodied heath.
Morathi saw the flight of her son and knew that the battle had been lost. Yet she was not yet convinced that the war could not be won. Long she and her son had spoken of their most ingenious plan, that would guarantee victory. Leaving the army to fend for itself, she sent the command to her sorceresses to withdraw and turned her pegasus westwards.
The loss of the Witch King was a blow from which the druchii army could not recover. Seeing their lord and general flee broke the spirit of his followers. Such princes and knights as could escape followed their master, fleeing westwards to Anlec. Here and there Naggarothi companies managed to break loose and retreat to the south towards the keeps guarding the Naganar, Hellebron and the remaining Khainites amongst them.
Caledor was in no state to command the army and it fell to Dorien to lead the pursuit. The army of the Phoenix King swept to the west, driving the remaining druchii into the marshes north of the battlefield. Many druchii drowned in that mire, dragged down by their armour, but the treacherous ground halted all pursuit save for the three dragons that had survived and a lone Sapherian on his pegasus.
As night fell, Dorien was forced to return to the army, his remaining foes disappearing into the darkness, fearful for the welfare of his brother. He flew back to the Phoenix King and found him being tended by the healers. The White Lions stood protectively around Caledor, the silent ranks of the Phoenix Guard close by.
There was no sense of victory, no jubilation amongst the warriors of the army. The princes of three kingdoms had fallen to the Witch King and their armies were wracked with grief. The elves wept at their losses; many thousands would never return to their homes. The strength of Nagarythe had been broken, but at tremendous cost.
As the night deepened, Caledor was numb in body and mind. He refused to leave the battlefield until all of the other wounded had been attended, sitting against Finudel’s steed where he had slain the black dragon of Malekith.
Campfires were lit, far from where the fighting had taken place for none wished to look upon the heaps of the dead; a grisly task that would wait until the next day. Finally Caledor allowed himself to be lifted onto a bier. He was about to be taken back to his pavilion when a shout of challenge cut the darkness.
By the flickering glow of the fires, indistinct figures could be seen. Hooded and cloaked, they hovered on the edge of vision. Caledor heard a whisper from one of the elves carrying him.
‘The spirits of the druchii!’ the captain hissed. ‘Even in death they hate us.’
‘Not so,’ said a voice from the darkness.
The White Lions brought up their axes as a black-clad figure emerged from the shadows. He pulled back his hood, revealing himself to be Alith Anar.
‘There are still some Naggarothi alive on Maledor this night,’ said the Shadow King.
‘You are late,’ said Caledor.
‘For your battle?’ said Alith, his voice tinged with scorn. ‘I told you that I do not fight for the Phoenix King.’
‘What do you want?’ said Caledor, too tired and sore for an argument.
‘I want you to leave Nagarythe,’ said Alith. ‘You are not welcome in my lands.’
‘Your lands?’ barked Dorien, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
Alith moved quickly, so fast it appeared that one moment he was standing with arms crossed, the next he had his silver bow in his hand, an arrow pointed at Dorien’s throat.
‘My lands,’ said the Shadow King. He spoke to Caledor, but his eyes did not move from Dorien. ‘Three thousand of my warriors surround your camp. If any of your soldiers raise a weapon against me, they will cut you down.’
Caledor looked into Alith’s eyes and judged that this was no empty threat. He waved Dorien to stand down.
‘Malekith has survived, so too Morathi,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘I must go to Anlec to finish this.’
‘You have done your part,’ said Alith. ‘What remains is the business of Nagarythe and no other kingdom.’