[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Drawn by her anger, the Maiden Guard gathered in the clearing around Yvraine’s still form. In the silver-and-gold glow of the Aein Yshain, Isha’s favoured tree, the warriors of Avelorn sharpened their spears and strung their bows, waiting for their queen to resurface. They too felt the discord rampaging through Avelorn, and had come to this sacred glade to hear what would be done about it.

  There was too much death, and violence would always defeat itself. Yet the forest had to be protected and its people and creatures defended against the malice of Morathi and her soldiers.

  Yvraine returned to her mortal form, its skin shining with a faint light as her spirit took its place. She stood and looked upon her army in their golden scale and green cloaks.

  “My husband-to-be does not come to our aid,” she said with disappointment. “He proves as fallible as the others, short-sighted and selfish. He has not yet even come to seek my blessing in person, nor join with me so that the reign of the Everqueen will be sustained. Yet I sense that we will not stand alone. From across Ellyrion comes the army of his brother. Go to them and show them the paths through the forest that will take them to our enemies. Drive them from the glades and the deep woods with spear and arrow, and then return to me.”

  Her will made known, Yvraine retreated to the caves beneath the arching roots of the Aein Yshain. She sat upon her throne of curled roots while attendants busied themselves with gourds of water taken from the sacred springs, filling the pools that surrounded the Everqueen’s seat. Images shimmered in each pond, showing Avelorn from west to east, south to north. While time passed in the world outside, Yvraine shared the life of the great tree of Isha, each day like a single heartbeat of existence.

  After a few moments, she was disturbed from her contemplation by a presence within the sacred glade. Rising from her throne, green and yellow gown flowing like a gossamer waterfall behind her, Yvraine left the chamber and found one of the treemen of Avelorn waiting for her in the glade above.

  “Oakheart,” she said. “Long it has been since you first brought my brother and me to the Gaen Vale and long since you spoke to the First Council. What disturbs you to bring you to my court?”

  The treeman moved slowly, limb-branches unfolding, trunk curving gently as if in a wind, to bow before the Everqueen.

  “One is coming that should not come,” said Oakheart as he straightened with a quivering of browning leaves. He too felt the waning of Avelorn’s power, the autumn blighting what should have been an existence of eternal summer. His voice was quiet, like the sighing of wind through branches. “He has made pact with the wolves and they lead him to Gaen Vale.”

  Yvraine nodded and allowed herself to drift for a short while, seeking this person. She found him, an elf clad in nothing but a sword belt, running with a great pack of wolves.

  “You are right, he cannot come to the Gaen Vale,” she said, reclaiming her body with a shudder. “Yet he cannot be turned away unaided. I sense the spirit of the hunter in him. The time has come for Isha’s gift to be passed on. Let the wolves take him to the Lake of the Moon, and see if he has the will to claim Kurnous’ prize for himself.”

  “And if he still seeks sanctuary in Gaen Vale?” sighed Oakheart.

  “He is touched by darkness and cannot come here,” replied the Everqueen. “Guard the sanctity of our home and turn him away, but do not harm him.”

  “As the forest wills it,” said Oakheart.

  As the treeman left the glade, Yvraine returned to study the elf from her vision. He was young, barely an adult, and she watched him fight ferociously with a Naggarothi knight. He was brave, but savage at heart. As Isha had chosen Yvraine, so the hunter Kurnous had chosen this elf. The Moonbow of Isha would be enough of a reward for the young elf’s brave deeds defending Avelorn; but he would have to put it to use elsewhere.

  The evil he fought was within him as well as outside, and Yvraine could not risk having such a person in the Gaen Vale at this precarious time.

  Leaving the feral hunter to his fate, she dismissed him from her thoughts and returned to her throne chamber to witness the battle against the Naggarothi.

  The forests of Avelorn were no place for a dragon and Dorien had regrettably been given no choice but to lead his army from horseback; Thyrinor and the other dragon riders had flown further north, to seek out the Naggarothi where the mountains of Chrace shouldered down into the ancient woods.

  The Caledorian prince was nervous. It was not the prospect of battle with the Naggarothi that disturbed him—he relished the coming fight—but the strange nature of his environs and his quiet allies. The Maiden Guard had met his army on the border of Ellyrion and Avelorn. In a quiet but determined way, their captain had told Dorien he was to follow her warriors through the forests. No elf was to leave the trail that was set, and though no warning had been given as to what might befall such a wanderer, such were the tales of Avelorn that every elf under Dorien’s command knew to obey the edict.

  By twisting paths that seemed to spring from the woods at the army’s approach, the Maiden Guard had led Dorien through the deep forests, heading ever north and west. When asked about the enemy, the Avelorn warrior-maidens would say only that there were several thousand of them and that they were currently being waylaid. The march took several days, and at night Dorien lay awake in his tent, listening to the murmuring of the trees, the screech of owls and the howling of wolves. Each morning when he left his pavilion, he was convinced the forest had changed. Pathways had opened up from the clearings that had not existed the evening before, and even rivers seemed to have diverted their courses so that the army could pass without hindrance.

  Dorien was a native of the mountains and whole days would pass without sight of the sky beyond the thick canopy, fuelling his fears. He considered himself at home in the wilds, like many elves, but it was only on coming to Avelorn that he realised just how tame the wildernesses of Ulthuan had become under the moulding of the elves’ desires. Beyond Avelorn every wood and dale had a sculpted quality; carefully managed to appear untamed, yet in comparison to the forest of the Everqueen they were as ordered and safe as a manse’s gardens.

  The sentries on night watch whispered about the constant creaking and groaning of the woods; of flickers of faerie lights and strange eyes in the moonlight. The Maiden Guard assured Dorien that there was nothing to fear, and hinted that for all the unease the elves of the other kingdoms felt at Avelorn’s strange ways, it was nothing compared to the terror being heaped upon the Naggarothi invaders. Dorien was pleased to hear this but could get no answers when he pressed for more information.

  After seven nerve-wracking days and nights traversing the wild woods, Dorien was told that the Naggarothi were close at hand. The smoke of fires carried on the breeze, and it seemed that the trees were even more active than before.

  “While the Maiden Guard are at home in such a place, my army is not meant for warfare in such close confines,” Dorien complained to Althinelle, the captain of the Maiden Guard.

  “There is no need to lament,” she replied. “Your knights shall have even ground on which to charge and your archers shall have clear fields over which to loose their arrows.”

  “While I am thankful for the assurance, I cannot see how we shall lure the Naggarothi onto this open ground you have prepared,” said the prince. “I fear we will be outmanoeuvred.”

  “Our enemies do not yet know the field of battle, but they will have no choice but to come there,” said Althinelle. “Avelorn will bring them to you. Make ready your army and head due west. Battle will be upon you before noon.”

  Offering no other explanation, Althinelle left Dorien to his confused thoughts. The Maiden Guard departed the camp, heading westwards, while the army prepared to march. Dorien mounted his horse and joined the knights of Caledor in the middle of the army, while archers and spearmen were sent forwards in the vanguard to seek the open space of which Althinelle had spoken.

  Without the Maiden Guard to lead the way, prog
ress was slower. Dorien gazed constantly up through the leaves to track the rising of the sun, fearful he would miss some appointment whose time and place he did not exactly know.

  He had no cause for such fears. Shortly before midday, scouts returned with news that fighting could be heard to the west, though they had not been able to locate the Naggarothi army itself. Following the scouts, the army headed towards the shouts and cries that echoed through the trees.

  As if pushed aside by some vast hand, the woods abruptly stopped not far to the west. The trees lined a vast sunlit glade, the floor of which was carpeted in thick grass and meadow flowers. Dorien was amazed by the sight of it, but his wonder was short-lived; on the other side of the clearing, black-robed figures marched into view. Some were helping wounded companions and the sounds of fighting came closer.

  More and more Naggarothi emerged, staggering into the daylight, arrows falling on them from the darkness of the wooded eaves of the glade. Several thousand in all hastily gathered their ranks as Dorien’s army spread out to north and south, the knights on the right end of the line, ready to sweep around the enemy.

  Beyond the Naggarothi the prince could see shapes moving through the woods; he assumed it was the Maiden Guard from the continued sounds of conflict and death that rang across the clearing.

  Dorien ordered the musicians to signal the advance and his army paced towards the Naggarothi, spears and bows at the ready. The druchii formed a short, solid line of spears and repeater crossbows, at the heart of which sat a few hundred knights in reserve. There was not a patch of high ground to defend, and the Naggarothi were sorely outnumbered.

  “They are fools to stand and fight,” said Laudneril, riding to Dorien’s right bearing the prince’s household standard.

  “I think they would rather take their chances with us than the woods,” said Dorien.

  “I do not think they have any choice in that!” Laudneril replied with shock, pointing towards the far edge of the glade.

  The trees were moving. It was hard to see exactly how, but the wall of trunks and branches marking the border of the clearing was creeping closer to the Naggarothi. The ground rumbled gently, causing the knights’ horses to whinny and stamp.

  Arrows sliced the air as Dorien’s archers came within range. The druchii crossbowmen ventured closer, casting suspicious eyes at the advancing woods, and returned the volleys with missiles of their own. Though they had marched at least five hundred paces into the vast clearing, the Naggarothi now found the trees no more than two hundred paces from their backs. Keening cries and shrill calls came from all around. To the north and south, the woods closed in as well, girding the clearing with an almost solid ring of trees.

  Unable to retreat, the Naggarothi held their ground as Dorien’s army pressed in for the attack. The druchii knights cut to the north, seeking to head off Dorien’s cavalry, while spear blocks manoeuvred for advantage and the bolts and arrows of both sides passed overhead.

  As the two armies converged, Dorien remembered the warnings of his brother. Though the druchii were outnumbered, they were veterans of war, raised in bloody Nagarythe, tested in the colonies. For the most part his own army, save for a core of Caledorians who had seen battle in Elthin Arvan, were largely untested. It was the dragons that had broken the siege at Lothern and routed the Naggarothi at Ellyrion Plains; he wished he had known Avelorn would provide an open field of battle and not sent the dragons north.

  He pushed such thoughts from his mind as the two columns of cavalry charged each other. The druchii knights were armoured from toe to scalp in mail and plate, faces hidden behind narrow-visored helmets, their horses protected by chamfrons and scale barding.

  Black and purple pennants fluttered from lowering lance tips and the ground thundered beneath the iron-studded hooves of their black horses.

  Dorien drew Alantair, an heirloom of the war against the daemons. The slightly curved blade glimmered with runes, orange fire playing along its edge from hilt to tip. The Caledorian prince lifted his shield and singled out a foe to attack, guiding his steed with gentle nudges with his knees. He chose a druchii clad in golden armour, a black cloak swirling from his shoulders. His helm was masked with a daemonic face and curling silver horns topped it as a crest. He rode beside a banner of red cloth embroidered with the rune of Anlec in black; a captain, Dorien thought, or perhaps even a Naggarothi prince.

  “For Caledor!” the prince bellowed, the war cry answered by the Silver Helms around him.

  The Naggarothi were chanting as they charged, a dirge-like chorus in time to the beating hooves of their mounts. Barbed and jagged lance tips gleamed in the sunlight.

  At the last moment, Dorien’s horse swayed to the left, the Naggarothi’s lance smashing into the prince’s shield with a crackle of energy. The impact almost threw Dorien from the saddle but he gripped tight with his legs and swung his sword over the horse’s head as the two riders passed, the flaming blade shearing through the shield of his foe, sending the druchii’s arm into the air.

  Dorien had no time to finish off the Naggarothi; another enemy knight crashed into him, lance missing the Caledorian’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth. Dorien chopped into the back of the druchii as he galloped past.

  The impetus of both sides dissipated by the mutual charge, the two forces of knights swirled about each other in a spreading melee. The druchii discarded their lances and drew axes and swords, while Dorien slashed left and right, Alantair’s burning blade slicing through flesh and armour. The noise was deafening, metal ringing on metal, the shouts of the warriors, the stamp and whinnying of their steeds.

  Bodies of horses and elves piled on the blood-slicked grass as both sides fought mercilessly. Dorien’s steed stumbled and righted itself in the gore, leaving the prince open to an attack from his right. An axe blade crashed against the side of his helm, protective runes flaring with magical power. Still, he was dazed, and could only clumsily fend away the next blow with the blade of Alantair. Dorien could feel blood trickling down the side of his neck and his head throbbed. As if in response, the ache in his leg returned. The healers had done everything they could, but there had been no time to properly rest and recuperate.

  Another knight surged between Dorien and the attacking druchii, his sword thrusting into the other elf’s visor with a spray of blood. The Naggarothi toppled sideways, crashing to the ground. Dorien gave the Caledorian knight a salute of thanks and kicked his steed into the press of cavalry, seeking a fresh foe.

  By mutual desire, the two sides slowly parted, seeking clearer ground for another charge. As Dorien had feared, the druchii had matched his knights despite their fewer numbers; there were more bodies of friends than foes littering the clearing. As the squadrons reformed a couple of hundred paces apart, Dorien turned his attention to the infantry. There also the momentum of the attack had been halted and a sprawling fight now raged.

  Arcs of black energy revealed the presence of a sorcerer. White-robed spearmen were thrown back by the magical blast, their armour crackling, skin burning. The white glow of protective talismans enveloped Theriun, the prince leading the infantry, as another hail of dark energy flickered along the line. The knights needed to outflank the druchii, but there was no way to do so with the enemy cavalry still threatening. If they charged now, Dorien’s squadrons would in turn be attacked in the rear. He cast a hasty glance towards the druchii knights and saw that they were already advancing again.

  Dorien could feel the dark magic surging through the air, like a pressure in the back of his skull. The sensation was tinged with the power emanating from Alantair. Yet it was something else that had attracted Dorien’s attention to the ebb and flow of the winds of magic. He felt power seeping through the ground, gathering quickly.

  The druchii charged again, banners fluttering. Still reorganising themselves, Dorien’s Silver Helms hastily formed to face the renewed attack. Dorien fervently wished he had a dragon or two as he watched the block of black and gold bearing down on h
is unprepared warriors.

  The magic of the earth surged. To Dorien it felt as if the ground shifted, so violent was the build-up of mystical energy. Beneath the steeds of the druchii, the grass erupted. Vines with thorns like daggers shot into the air, coiling and snaring, ripping the druchii from their steeds, strangling and tripping horses. In moments, a massive briar enveloped the Naggarothi, tightening around necks and limbs, barbs piercing mail and flesh. The scream of dying horses and the panicked shrieks of the druchii accompanied a dread-inducing creaking and slithering as more and more tendrils burst from the earth, lashing with violent life.

  Beyond the clashing lines of infantry, Dorien saw that the forest was on the move again. Only this time shapes emerged from the trees. Massive, gangling creatures with flesh of wood and skin of bark strode into the clearing. Behind them came a host of smaller creatures, bounding and running on branch-like limbs. Winged spirits with small bows flitted about the branches of the treemen, shooting glimmering darts into the backs of the druchii.

  With them lumbered giant bears and packs of black-furred wolves raced into the clearing, snarling and slavering. Hawks and owls swept down from the tree-tops, leading flocks of smaller birds that engulfed the druchii repeater crossbows, pecking at faces, talons scratching.

  Looking back at the Naggarothi knights, he saw that all but a few dozen had been slain. The survivors, many unhorsed, hacked their way free of the magical briar. Dorien commanded half of his knights to finish off the enemy cavalry, and ordered the rest to follow him as he pointed his sword at the beleaguered Naggarothi infantry.

  As the Silver Helms charged, the treemen reached the line of druchii soldiers. Club-like fists smashed bone and buckled armour. Fingers filled with the power of delving roots prised open helms and punched through breastplates. The spears and swords of the druchii chopped harmlessly at the treemen, who were as impervious to the blows as the mightiest oak. Crushed and trampled, trapped against the resurgent spearmen of Dorien, the druchii died in their hundreds.