by C. L. Werner
That wouldn’t play into Drusala’s plans. She’d waited months for Malus to become weak enough to let loose the daemon. Now that Tz’arkan was free, she wasn’t about to lose this opportunity to the loremaster’s meddling. Snapping stern orders to Absaloth and the spearmen from Ghrond, Drusala dashed to her dark pegasus. A single word from her sent the winged steed soaring up into the sky. She laughed as archers loosed arrows at her, the missiles exploding into splinters as they crashed against the magical shell she’d woven about her steed.
High up in the beak of the stone eagle, Drusala could see Shrinastor siphoning magic down from the mountains into the head of his staff. It was a bold, even reckless conjuring for the mage to perform. She smiled maliciously. The loremaster was panicking, he was trying to draw too much too fast. He knew how powerful Tz’arkan was. He knew that no simple conjuration could restrain it. Pride, desperation, some foolish notion of duty – something made him unwilling to accept that reality. He was trying to hasten his spell by feeding more and more magic into it. The failing of the asur, the great weakness of their decadent breed, was that they couldn’t accept when it was necessary to watch their own kind die.
The sorceress brought her pegasus soaring towards the eagle. A bolt of black lightning incinerated a clutch of archers who tried to drive her away. She stretched forth her hand and a cloud of dark, poisonous fog enveloped the bolt throwers as their crews tried to train the weapons on her. From the head of her staff, a finger of darkness struck out, ripping the souls from the armoured swordsmen who surrounded Shrinastor.
Laughing with murderous delight, Drusala leapt down from the back of her pegasus and danced over the bodies of her victims. She was alone upon the beak of the eagle. A blast of arcane fire melted the bronze door leading inside the fortress, transforming it into a wall of metal, ensuring that no rescuers would be able to rush up from below. Then she turned her attention to the loremaster.
Shrinastor had drawn a complex protective circle about himself, the asur rendition of the mandala employed by the druchii. Drusala scowled at the glowing glyphs, knowing the power they contained. It would be no easy thing, breaking such a ward.
The winds of aethyric energy Shrinastor was drawing down into the circle appeared to her magically attuned eyes as a translucent spiral of whirling colour and light. There was darkness there, too, but only the smallest traces. The mage was trying to strain the darker energies from his spell. That observation gave Drusala an idea.
Raising her staff high, Drusala whipped it through the air overhead. Faster and faster she spun the staff, and with each rotation, wisps of crawling darkness appeared in the air. The shadows coiled together, slithering into a thick morass of blackness, a patch of midnight thrust into the light of day. With a gesture, the sorceress sent the nexus of dark magic streaming into the aethyric spiral Shrinastor was calling down.
It wasn’t malignant in its own right. All she had done was send more power into the energy Shrinastor was summoning. That lack of focus, that absence of immediate malevolence, allowed the dark magic to shower down into the circle. At once, it had an effect.
Shrinastor’s eyes, previously unfocused and staring down towards the breach, now took on an expression of horror. His face became contorted, though his lips maintained the discipline to continue his conjuration. By degrees, the bright glyphs turned dark, their shine becoming more shadowy with each heartbeat. Threads of blackness began to ripple through the loremaster’s body, squirming inside his veins.
Shrinastor’s lips faltered, a syllable of his spell was lost. At once, the elf’s mouth became distorted, twisting until the lower jaw tore away. Before it could strike the ground, flesh and bone had dissolved into soot. The dissolution spread as the rampant magic – far too much for the loremaster to control – ripped him apart. A hand detached itself, sprouted chitinous wings and flew away. An ear exploded into green flame, melting its way through the asur’s tall helm. Lungs tore through the ribs that held them, expanding in an insane spasm of unrestrained growth.
Amidst the horrors assailing his body, Shrinastor was able to turn his gaze upon Drusala. In that last moment, a look of shocked recognition shone there. Then the eyes dissolved like wax, spilling down his face in a gelatinous tide.
Drusala sneered at the dying loremaster. Before she turned her own attention to the breach, she intensified the spells that guarded her. It might be that Tz’arkan’s release had weakened some of them. It wouldn’t do to take any chances.
Not until it was too late to stop her plans.
‘Set spears!’ Silar Thornblood shouted at the dreadspears around him. He could see the warriors hesitate. He could understand their alarm. The ground beneath their feet trembled with the fury of the Tiranoc chariots as they came rushing down the pass. Only the discipline of centuries as warriors of the Hag kept them in formation, that and the appreciation that if they tried to run now they would be slaughtered. If they held their ground, at least they had some slight chance.
Silar wasn’t putting too much trust in those chances. As soon as his orders were given, he was falling back. He had other forces to command. Forces that had a real chance to blunt the asur attack.
The chariots came rushing from the distance, their silver-chased armour gleaming in the sun. Each of the chariots was drawn by two powerful horses, matched animals that had been paired for exactness of stamina, speed and strength. Two elves rode in each chariot, an armoured driver and a bowman. While the driver charged the lethal mass of the chariot towards the dreadspears, the archer loosed arrows into the massed ranks, felling warriors with each draw of the string.
Whether out of discipline or resignation, the dreadspears held their ground. Troops from the rear ranks stepped forward to replace those shot down by the archers. Horns blared, advising the soldiers how much distance yet lay between them and the enemy. When the chariots finally crashed into the ranks, a few were brought down by the wall of spears. Most, however, barrelled through, their pounding hooves and bladed wheels slashing through the packed druchii.
When the chariots won clear, however, they found Silar waiting for them. Two hundred darkshards arrayed in a double-rank opposed them now. At Silar’s command, they fired their repeating crossbows into the asur. A thousand bolts punched into the chariots, slaughtering elves and horses alike. Of the Tiranocii who punched their way through the dreadspears, not a single chariot was able to retreat back into the pass and regroup with the rest of their army.
A shout, a cheer of murderous triumph, rose from Silar’s troops. Even if for only a moment, the army of Hag Graef had driven off their attackers. The druchii gave small concern to the spearmen who had been sacrificed to bait the trap. Destruction of the asur was all that mattered at the moment.
With the cheers of his troops still ringing in his ears, Silar turned and gazed towards the Eagle Gate. If Malus could only seize the breach, they might yet claim the fortress.
Then his gaze rose to the skies above the Eagle Gate and Silar knew that the time for fantasies about victory was over. There was no victory for them here, only the ignominy of a useless death.
In the sky, Silar could see mighty shapes soaring towards the fortress, great winged figures of gold and crimson. What Malus had feared from the start had come to pass. The dragons of Caledor had been awakened.
The dragons were coming to save the Eagle Gate.
FOURTEEN
A resounding cheer rose from the battlements as the dragon princes of Caledor soared into the pass. Banners were unfurled, flags waved wildly, trumpets blared. The Eagle Gate was saved! There wasn’t a chance the hated druchii could take the fortress now. In the hour of need, Caledor had come.
For the druchii in the pass, the immense reptiles flying towards the fortress were nothing less than heralds of utter doom. Many of these warriors had stood against the hordes of the Witchguard of Naggor and their doom-wings. The flying demi-reptiles had seeme
d terrible, then. Now the memory of the doom-wings was blotted out by the enormity of the dragons. The smallest was thirty feet from horned snout to spined tail. Many were far larger, two and even three times as great. Coated in thick scales of white and gold, each of their powerful legs tipped in mighty claws, their reptilian heads adorned with sharp horns and spiny crests, the dragons were a terrifying sight. Their great leathery wings fanned the air, sending a hot, mephitic wind into the pass, the musky odour feared across the world as ‘wyrmreek’.
Silar Thornblood didn’t bother to redeploy his troops. If they scattered into the hills, some of them might survive, for a time, until the shadow warriors of Nagarythe tracked them down. For Silar, the verminous existence of a hunted creature didn’t appeal to him. Defiantly, he held his head high and watched as the dragons began to descend. Around him, most of the druchii followed his fatalistic example. They were resigned to die and dragonfire would present them with a speedy death.
The roars of the dragons were louder than any thunder as the ancient reptiles hurtled down from the sky. The druchii cried out, final prayers to Khaine, as they saw their doom rushing down upon them. Then, abruptly, the great dragons turned, swung away from the army of Hag Graef. Silar blinked in utter shock as he saw the wyrms dive upon the Eagle Gate. The dragonfire he had expected to feel melting the flesh from his own bones was now unleashed upon the asur behind the battlements. By the hundreds, the horrified garrison were transformed into living torches, their blazing bodies raining down from the walls.
Now, Silar noticed for the first time that among the red and gold wyrms of Caledor, there were creatures of a far different and darker cast. Black-scaled dragons from Naggaroth! He could see the Caledorian nobles on the backs of the other dragons, but astride each of the black beasts there was a druchii lordling.
Silar was slow to accept the evidence of his eyes. Caledor had betrayed the asur! They had sided with Malekith! Even when he saw a flight of dragons swoop away from the walls and glide down into the pass to assault the host from Tiranoc, the highborn had difficulty accepting the unbelievable turn of events. Even as he watched the dragons of Caledor burn the asur with their fire while the dragons of Naggaroth smothered them with noxious clouds of gas, he struggled to understand. It was only when four of the dragons launched themselves at the great gates themselves and tore them asunder with their mighty claws that the truth became undeniable.
The Eagle Gate was taken! Victory was theirs!
As the druchii swarmed towards the fortress they had fought so hard to claim, the greatest of the black dragons swooped down before them. Seated upon the giant reptile’s back was a figure no elf could fail to recognise. The Witch King himself, Malekith.
From the back of his monstrous steed, in a voice that was magnified by magic and boomed across the battlefield, the despot addressed the battered warriors of Hag Graef.
‘The Eagle Gate is mine,’ Malekith thundered. ‘Caledor has acknowledged my right as true heir of Aenarion.’ He raised his sword and thrust it towards the broken fortress. ‘Spare all who wear the dragon,’ he commanded. ‘Kill the others!’
A monstrous snarl rose from the druchii. The frustration and fear of the previous days of fighting burst forth in a mad rush towards the Eagle Gate. It wasn’t the organised march of an army now, but the vengeful rage of a mob. The battle was over, the dragons sweeping the walls of all organised resistance. Even the phoenixes had fled, their magical fire no match for the power of dragons.
No, the battle was over, but as Silar joined the throng charging into the fortress, he knew the killing was far from finished.
Now was the hour of slaughter and massacre. The hour of murder.
The hour of Khaine!
A veil of shadow cloaked Drusala as she hurried through the anarchy and confusion of the Eagle Gate. The betrayal of Caledor had shocked her every bit as much as the asur. Morathi had seen much in her divinations, but she hadn’t foreseen the shift in alliance by the dragon princes. The entire purpose of her exodus from Ghrond seemed pointless now. Drusala had been scheming to thwart Malekith’s invasion, to prevent the Witch King from gaining a hold on Ulthuan. She’d decided her best pawn in this endeavour was Malus Darkblade. If the entire army of Hag Graef were lost to him, Malekith would have been forced to reconsider his plans.
Spells to excite and enrage the daemon inside Malus had worked on the mind of the drachau. Careful strategies had been discarded in favour of bloody, ruthless slaughter. Malus had hurled his army against the Eagle Gate like a stoker shovelling coal into a furnace. A few more days of siege, and the largest army in the entire druchii armada would have been bled white by its possessed general.
The treachery of Caledor had foiled that scheme. There was no keeping Malekith from taking the Eagle Gate, no preventing his forces from securing a presence in Ulthuan. Drusala would have to adjust her plans. To do so, she’d need to return to the one she had thought almost at the end of his usefulness.
Ghost-like, Drusala stole past the stunned asur defenders. Her dark pegasus had fled when the dragons came, even its twisted heart unable to withstand the terror of so many ancient wyrms. A simple gesture had burst the beast’s heart and sent it plummeting from the sky. Drusala had no pity for those who betrayed her, be they elf or brute. Without her winged steed, however, she was forced to weave an enchantment over herself, a mystic obfuscation that redirected the gaze of those who looked at her. For the asur, the only hint of her presence was a flash of movement glimpsed out of the corner of the eye.
The sounds of fighting grew louder as Drusala neared the section of wall that had been breached by the plague daemon during the last battle for the Eagle Gate. From the battlements, she could see the hulking, monstrous shape of Tz’arkan unleashed. The daemon king had left a trail of mutilation and carnage behind it as the thing glutted its appetite for death and destruction. The horrendously maimed bodies of asur and druchii alike were strewn about it.
Most of the druchii, it seemed, had the sense to understand that this was a battle they couldn’t win. They were retreating from Tz’arkan, fleeing back past the rampart of dead cold ones. She could see the commander of Malus’s mercenaries, the renegade noble Dolthaic, trying to regroup his knights and drive them back to the attack. Drusala smiled at that absurdity. To think his knights had any chance against the daemon was idiotic. It was a testament to his fear of Malus that a cunning opportunist like Dolthaic would consider such a plan. She wondered what he would think if she were to tell him that his master was gone. The drachau was dead.
Well, to all intents and purposes, Drusala corrected herself. Unless she took certain steps and intervened.
While the druchii retreated, the asur remained stubbornly defiant. The ragged remains of the Eataine Guard continued to attack the ghastly daemon king, refusing to submit meekly to the monster’s advance. Tz’arkan took vile delight in tearing its enemies limb from limb, sometimes deliberately presenting a weakness so that some elf would rush at it. It would endure the wound the warrior delivered, then snatch him up in its claws and take its time pulling its captive apart.
As amusing as the sight of asur being butchered was, Drusala had bigger things to think about. She looked out towards the breach. Fresh druchii troops were filing past the rampart now – her own spearmen from Ghrond. She could see the cold figure of Absaloth among them. The sinister warrior had been one of Morathi’s lovers once, and for that pleasure she had burned away his will and his identity. He was somewhat like a puppet now, one of the merciless Voiceless Ones. With his mind and soul chained to Morathi by links of magic and blood, his larynx had been fused into a knot of useless meat so that his words might never betray his queen. But he still had a tongue, he still had a mouth. With a minor incantation, Drusala made use of both. She had some commands to amend.
‘The mistress orders that the daemon be captured, unharmed,’ Drusala said. Below, she could see the Ghrondian
spears turn in surprise as Absaloth repeated her command in a dry, rasping hiss. ‘Keep Tz’arkan from leaving. Your mistress will join you soon.’
Drusala didn’t linger to watch her spearmen charge towards the hulking daemon. Already she was hurrying down steps littered with rubble and the corpses of fallen asur. Once or twice she encountered elves wearing the heraldry of Caledor locked in mortal combat with hunters from Chrace and swordsmen from Ellyrion. Such fratricide pleased her, despite what it boded for her plans. If only all of the asur could be so obliging.
She reached the ward at the base of the walls just as the last member of the Eataine Guard was torn in half by the warpsword in Tz’arkan’s fist. The daemon bellowed mockingly at the asur archers and axemen who had been supporting the noble elves.
‘Are there no wolves left?’ Tz’arkan raged. ‘Must I drink the souls of dogs now?’
In answer to the daemon’s challenge, the purple-cloaked Ghrondian spearmen rushed at Tz’arkan. The daemon swung around in amusement. It wasn’t surprised. With senses far more keen than those of sight and sound, it had detected the druchii warriors stalking towards it. Now the fiend exulted in the opportunity for new atrocities.
‘Your countrymen, Malus,’ Tz’arkan hissed. ‘Tell me, flesh-worm, are any of these walking corpses your friends? I dearly hope so!’
Laughing, Tz’arkan pounced towards the Ghrondian troops. One was crushed flat beneath the daemon’s hooved feet. Another fell clutching at the string of organs the monster ripped from his bowels. A third was cleft in twain by the warpsword, his body bisected so cleanly that for a single step, the elf continued his charge before his body slopped to the ground.
The daemon’s laughter became a cry of pain as one of the Ghrondian spears stabbed into its side. Tz’arkan reached a claw to the wound, surprised at the fiery ichor dribbling from the cut. Like the runesword of Prince Yvarin, the spears of Drusala’s warriors could hurt the daemon. It wasn’t by accident that she had dispatched these soldiers to confront the fiend. They were trained and equipped to face such foes. The sorcery within Ghrond had acted as a beacon to the twisted entities of the Wastes, drawing them down across the frontier time after time like moths to a flame. The warriors of Ghrond had been that flame.