[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  From the flat roof of the tower, Illeanith could see the length of the valley stretching northward. The slopes were covered with snow, a uniform blanket of whiteness that lay across the frozen streams and dark boulders, swathed fir forests and hid the caverns and lodges that dotted the mountainsides.

  Against the grey sky there was a lighter patch of cloud, tinged with a golden gleam that had nothing to do with the sun dipping below the peaks to the west. Illeanith watched it for a while, her followers silently standing behind her.

  “Bring up all of the prisoners we have left,” she said, looking at her acolytes. “You know what to do.”

  “We can still get away,” said Andurial. “The tunnels beneath the tower lead to the south. Why stay to be trapped like rats?”

  “They killed my son!” snarled Illeanith. “He killed my son, his own grandson. I will make him pay for such a crime with blood. Cease your cowardly doubts and begin the preparations.”

  From his own pinnacle at the heart of Saphethion, Thyriol looked south towards the citadel jutting from the forested slope of Anul Tinrainnith. He could feel the dark magic that haunted this place and knew that he had correctly divined Illeanith’s hiding place. She was the last of the sorcerers and sorceresses that had turned against him. And she had come here, to the tower where she had been born. It was so predictable, Thyriol was a little disappointed.

  In the valley below, covered by the shadow of the floating city, four thousand archers and spearmen marched towards the tower. Thyriol suspected that Illeanith had followers of her own who would fight—cultists and agents of the undergods, friends who had remained loyal after her treachery, locals bewitched or threatened into service. For all that, the ruler of Saphery knew that this battle was unlikely to be decided by an arrow or spearpoint. Magic was the weapon both sides had employed, and it was magic that had laid waste to so much of his kingdom.

  Even though it was his daughter he faced, Thyriol had no thought of mercy for the sorceress he was to face. She was blighted by her hunger for power, and countless were the lives that had been taken on her quest to master the darker arts. Thyriol could detect the taint of blood sacrifice in the winds of magic.

  As the sun was almost set, the sky coloured deep red and purple to the west, Saphethion reached the tower. Thousands of magical lanterns gleamed from the windows of the city, creating an artificial field of multicoloured stars over the valley.

  The tower also shone, with light of unnatural yellow hue and forbidding red. The ruddy glow dappled the snow-tipped trees and reflected from the icy slopes above.

  In the chambers beneath the palace, the mages of Thyriol gathered to begin their work. He could picture them now, gathered in a circle around the giant crystal at the centre of Saphethion, clad in white robes, laden with charms and bracelets, crowns and rings; the chanting would be calm and quiet, slowly drawing the magic of the world into the shining diamond-like heart of the city.

  In contrast the mountainside and the tower’s courtyard echoed with pained screams and shrill incantations. Thyriol felt the churning of dark magic below as his followers brought Saphethion closer to the citadel. Beasts of the mountains bayed and howled as they were let free to run amok in the valley. Hoarse shouts announced the emergence of a column of black-armoured warriors from the tower’s gate, their jagged spearpoints gleaming in the flickering light of torches.

  He let his mind touch upon that of Menreir, who was leading the ceremony within the city’s depths. All was ready and he commanded his followers to unleash the power of Saphethion’s heart.

  Magic crackled across the city, leaping in sparks and bolts from the tips of the towers, crackling along a latticework of crystal woven into the structure of every building upon Saphethion’s craggy foundation. The city shone like a star for a moment as the magic blazed along streets and across rooftops.

  The crystal lodes within the city’s bedrock glittered into life, bathing the tower below with white light. Thyriol gave the order and the mages unleashed the fury of Saphery.

  Blue lightning rained down upon the tower, forks of magical energy streaming from the underside of Saphethion. Bricks exploded and roof tiles shattered, stones crumbled and flagstones erupted into splinters under the onslaught. The magical storm raged across the walls and towers, flaring in intensity before dimming and then flaring again. Gatehouses collapsed, their thick doors turned to ash, their ramparts hurled into the air.

  Yet the central spire remained untouched, surrounded by a miasma of curling black energy that leached away the power of the magical onslaught. Illeanith knew well the power of Saphethion, had learnt the enchantments that powered the city, and had devised counterspells to protect her cabal.

  More than this, she knew the city’s weaknesses too.

  Thyriol felt the surge of dark magic and almost retched at the sensation as dozens of sacrifices were made, their bloody, horrific deaths sending a pulse of noxious energy through the winds of magic.

  Balls of fire erupted from Illeanith’s towers, hurled upwards on columns of dark energy powered by the blood of the slain. They crashed into the rock of Saphethion, smashing the crystal conduits, shattering the geodes and channels that linked the city’s magical web together.

  For a long time the two sides battled, exchanging lightning and fire that melted the snow and set fires in the forest on the slope above the tower. The sounds of fighting drifted up from the valley where Thyriol’s soldiers met the followers of Illeanith.

  Saphethion slid over the tower like an eclipse in reverse, obscuring the citadel from Thyriol’s view. The city shuddered with the impact of every magical bolt and hummed with the power of high magic. Around him the mages fought for control of the winds of magic, wrestling with the followers of Illeanith below, each trying to draw in more power than the other. Thyriol had his mages and the crystal heart of Saphethion; Illeanith had her cabal with their bloody knives and a seemingly endless stream of victims to sacrifice.

  Slowly Thyriol won the duel, the vortex raging and swirling around the floating city as he struggled for control. The fires from the tower diminished and then died out altogether, yet still the dark shield around the central keep held firm against the renewed storm of Saphethion.

  Thyriol called for the attack to cease and left his tower for the courtyard. Here servants waited with his pegasus. Mounting the winged steed, the Sapherian prince flew high above Saphethion, joined by dozens of lesser mages on the backs of giant eagles and more pegasi.

  With blazing staff in hand, he signalled for them to descend on the tower.

  Illeanith watched the mages cascading over the edge of the city towards her, each holding a gleaming staff and burning sword.

  She had miscalculated.

  “Turn them back,” she snapped at her followers. She waved a dagger at the remaining sacrifices, no more than a dozen left amidst the slaughter atop the tower. “Use them all.”

  She hurried down the stairs to her chambers as the snap of magical lightning and the shriek of the sacrifices erupted from the tower roof. Wrapping a thick cloak about her shoulders, she hastily filled a bag with books and sorcerous accoutrements. The sounds of her adepts dying rang down from above and she quickened her pace, dashing down the steps towards the catacombs. The tower shuddered again, sending plaster dust showering from the ceiling. Debris filled the stairways and passages, and twice she had to use her powers to clear a route, blasting through the obstacles with raw bolts of magic.

  As Illeanith descended the ebb and flow of magic increased. The stones of the tower vibrated with energy and the air was thick with dark power seeping up from the rocks below. Flames crackled and unnatural wails sounded from above.

  She heard her father shouting her name, his voice echoing along galleries and down stairwells. Illeanith did not hesitate in her flight, slamming shut a portcullis behind her with a wave of her hand as she ran into a rough-hewn chamber under the citadel. With a few prepared words, she muttered an incantation as she ran. Th
e rock walls throbbed with power and the ground rumbled for several heartbeats. With a deafening crack the ceiling behind her collapsed, sealing the vault.

  Ahead the dark tunnels stretched under the mountains. She pulled a wand from her belt and its tip gleamed with power, the light bouncing from moist walls and the uneven, puddle-littered floor. The drip and trickle of water was everywhere.

  It was not the end she had anticipated, but she was not yet dead. Illeanith was not so proud that she could not admit defeat. One day she would avenge herself upon her father.

  As she reached a fork in the tunnels she felt the surge of magic and heard a pounding against the rockfall she had created. Her pursuers were not far behind and it was a long way to Nagarythe.

  ——

  A New Power

  As before, the war had ground to a stalemate. Still reeling from the shock of Hotek’s betrayal, Caledor was heartened by news from Saphery. Thyriol and his mages had triumphed over the druchii and driven them from the kingdom, though much of Saphery had been devastated by the magical battles that had raged and most of the dark practitioners, including his daughter, had survived to blight the world with their evil magic. The sorcerers and sorceresses had fled, presumably to Nagarythe, and the prince was quick to invite Caledor to a fresh council in his palaces to discuss their next move.

  The princes gathered at Caledor’s summons, and they marvelled at the floating citadel of Thyriol. Though its white towers bore the scars of bitter fighting, the huge gliding edifice was awe-inspiring as it lifted from the ground, the assembled princes on the palace balconies with their retinues watching the world drop away below them.

  As the castle drifted over the hills of Saphery, Thyriol called the council together. Representatives from all of the kingdoms save for Nagarythe and Tiranoc were present; even Yvraine had deigned to send a delegation to speak on her behalf, though for the most part they spoke only to say that the Everqueen could do little else to help in the war and all of her attention was focussed on the rebirth of Avelorn. She had done it before, after the war of the daemons, and seemed content to let the war rage across Ulthuan without further interference.

  Pledges were renewed, by Caledor and the princes. The sacrifice of Cothique had been a hard blow to the princes, who had feared that their own kingdoms would suffer a similar fate. True to his word, Caledor had not allowed the druchii to spread beyond Cothique, and with the securing of Saphery there was general consensus that the war in the eastern kingdoms had reached a plateau. This was not to the liking of Tithrain.

  “You speak as if we were at peace,” said the prince of Cothique. “My people still suffer misery and torment at the hands of the Khainite horde unleashed upon them. Do not make the same mistakes we did and believe the threat has passed. One day, maybe not for many years but as sure as the sun rises, the druchii will bore of the sport they make of my people. They will come for yours, and where then should I lend my support?”

  “You make a good point,” said Finudel. “I would gladly lead the army of Ellyrion across the Inner Sea and attack from Saphery. If others strike from Yvresse, we would trap the druchii between us and see to their destruction for good.”

  “A worthy plan,” said Carvalon. “As neighbour to Cothique, Yvresse does not sleep soundly knowing that the druchii could be at our doors at any time. Give me a year and I will assemble as many companies as I can. I will draw such troops from the colonies as can be spared.”

  “A year?” cried Tithrain. “A year more of torture and sacrifice for those I swore to protect!”

  “A year,” repeated Carvalon. He looked at the other princes and received nods of agreement, and finally turned to Caledor. “If the Phoenix King wishes it, of course.”

  Caledor regarded the faces of those sat in Thyriol’s throne room. He saw determination, expressions grown hard from the time he had first set eyes on many of them more than a decade before. Then, at the outset of the war, the threat had seemed distant, perhaps even imagined. Now they had all seen the menace posed by the druchii. The marshalling of armies was quickening, as the common folk of every realm suffered daily the tales of woe brought about by the Naggarothi. Those who had long professed a love of peace were now resigned to bloodshed.

  “I agree,” said Caledor. “A year from now, the kingdoms will join together as we should have done long ago. We will drive the enemy from Cothique. When that is done, we shall turn our eyes westwards and free Tiranoc from its overlords. Nagarythe shall be isolated.”

  The year passed without great incident. Rumour abounded of fighting in Nagarythe, and Caledor heard stories that the followers of Alith Anar had renewed their war against Morathi’s troops. As the princes lent their full backing to Caledor and used all of their political might and skill, ships of elves came back across the Great Ocean, from Elthin Arvan and further afield, ready to serve the Phoenix King. Most were of second and third generation colonists, who were setting foot on Ulthuan for the first time. They brought a strange atmosphere of optimism, their visions of their homeland coloured with nostalgia, free from the taint of war’s reality.

  The druchii were not entirely idle. They continued to make forays into Chrace, seeking to take the kingdom and link Cothique with Nagarythe by land; the Eataine fleet still ruled the seas and frequently intercepted ships taking supplies back to the Naggarothi kingdom from the occupied eastern lands.

  From those freed in these boarding actions, the Phoenix King’s followers learned of the terrors unleashed upon Cothique. The druchii were ruled over by a savage Khainite priestess called Hellebron, herself a child of the colonies. The populace had been enslaved, set to work in the fields and mines with whips upon their backs, to provide food and ore for Nagarythe. All resistance had been broken. Any elf that so much as looked wrongly at the druchii overseers was dragged to the temples of Khaine that had sprung up across the kingdom.

  Fear ruled Cothique and the slaves believed they had been abandoned. Without hope of succour, many had turned to the druchii way, embracing their dark worship of the cytharai, and so turned upon family and friends.

  It was this news that most disturbed Caledor. The slightest hint that cooperation with the druchii was possible could not be allowed. The alliance between the kingdoms was fragile. A fresh setback would splinter everything that had been built, common cause divided by selfish interest.

  Caledor did not sleep well for that year. He expected to hear of a new druchii attack at any moment, and since the episode at Vaul’s Anvil, he suffered occasional seizures of the mind and body brought about by aftereffects from the blast of the Hammer of Vaul. He missed Thyrinor’s friendly counsel, and longed for the solitude he had once enjoyed. He returned once to Tor Caled, but could not find respite from his worries; Dorien and the rest of his family were a constant source of distraction and interruption, and after only a few short days Caledor left for the sanctuary of the Isle of the Flame.

  The ministrations of Mianderin and his priests did little to improve the Phoenix King’s disposition, but at least the Shrine of Asuryan was quiet. The silent Phoenix Guard continued their vigil, but their presence, and their reluctance to speak of his fate, added to Caledor’s frustrations. He spent a long time standing on the shore, looking out across the calm waters of the Inner Sea, seeking some source of stability, some spark of hope.

  Mianderin found him there one day, gazing at the sunset.

  “Not even Aenarion knew such troubles as you,” said the high priest.

  “You knew him?” replied Caledor, surprised.

  “No,” said Mianderin, with a lopsided smile. “I was speaking figuratively.”

  The Phoenix King snorted with disappointment and returned to looking at the orange-dappled waves.

  “The enemy was clear for Aenarion,” the priest continued, ignoring Caledor’s rebuff. “When we fight ourselves, when do we know we have been victorious?”

  Caledor said nothing, but stopped short of telling the priest to leave him alone.
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  “What you fight is a taint, a malaise of the spirit,” said Mianderin, stepping up beside the Phoenix King. “It is not something you can pierce with a spear or cut with a sword. Aenarion was victorious not because of the weapons he wielded, but because of the symbol he became. He could not defeat the daemons alone, but he fought and that inspired others. They invested him with their hopes, and that made them real.”

  “You have a point?” snapped Caledor.

  “A question,” replied the priest. “Why does the Phoenix King hide here, away from his subjects?”

  Caledor turned and began to walk up the white beach, his back to Mianderin. He had little time for pointless philosophy.

  “Think about it,” the high priest called after him. “When you know the answer to that question, you will know what to do!”

  Caledor returned to Yvresse to find a host of warriors awaiting him. True to their oaths, the princes had striven to provide him with an army worthy of the Phoenix King. Nearly thirty thousand elves awaited his command; ten thousand more were with Thyriol and Finudel in Saphery, ready to march across the mountains and attack from the west.

  Battle-plans were laid and messenger hawks flew back and forth between the armies as Caledor finalised his strategy. His army would strike fast along the coast, supplied by the Lothern fleet. Cut off from their ships, the druchii would be caught between Caledor’s force and the army arriving from Saphery. As a last measure, Koradrel was despatched back to Chrace to shore up the defences of his kingdom, lest the druchii launch an offensive from Nagarythe to link up with their army beset in Cothique.

  The appointed day came, early in the summer. Caledor felt something of his old pride as he mounted Maedrethnir and watched the column moving along the coastal road. Years of reaction and inaction had sapped his will, but on this morning he felt in control of his destiny again. Should the campaign go well, his army would be well poised to march through Chrace and take the fight to Nagarythe.