Caledor was far from convinced by this argument and warned that not until Morathi had been slain and the druchii brought to their knees would they ever consider any kind of peace. It was a difficult debate, made all the harder for the Phoenix King by his own desire to end the war.
“It would be the easy answer to believe we are on the brink of victory,” he confided in Thyriol one evening.
The two of them shared a jug of wine on a balcony of the mage’s floating palace, looking down across the moonlit Inner Sea. So tranquil was the scene, it was almost possible to forget the woes of the past thirteen years. Almost, but not quite. Caledor could not rid himself of the things he had seen, especially the carnage he had witnessed in Cothique.
Thyriol seemed much changed by his personal battles too. His daughter and grandson had turned against him, and he had slain the latter. Several mages Thyriol had once counted close allies, friends even, had been corrupted by the lure of dark magic, and sorrow lay heavily on the Sapherian ruler as he stood beside Caledor at the rail, his shoulders sagging, back bent as if weary with burden.
“I must concur with your assessment,” said Thyriol. He let out a drawn sigh and swirled the wine in his goblet, eyes gazing into the distance. “We face a foe every bit as irrational and determined as the daemons. They will not capitulate and they will not accept an easy peace. Part of me thinks you should allow an embassy, if only so that its failure will curb these false hopes that erode the resolve of our allies.”
“That would be unwise,” said Caledor. “Any hint of weakness will be seized upon by the druchii. And such entreaty will simply offer them an opportunity for manipulation. I would rather some of the princes harbour doubts than give our enemies a means to divide us even more.”
“You are right, I am thinking poorly,” said Thyriol.
The ancient mage fell silent and for a change it was Caledor that felt the need to speak, to fill the quiet to avoid the company of his own bleak thoughts.
“We have achieved nothing,” said the Phoenix King. “So many deaths, so much devastation, and for no gain by either side. Again I must wait, fearful of what the druchii will attempt next. How is it that a single kingdom can be a match for the rest of Ulthuan?”
“Greed and dread,” replied Thyriol. “The druchii fall into two groups. There are those who serve their personal greed, their desire for power and dominion. There is another part, who fear their rulers, Morathi most of all, and know that to despoil and to fight is a better fate than the one that awaits them if they disobey. Such are the benefits of tyranny.”
Caledor gulped down his wine. He was a little drunk and in a more melancholy mood than even was usual for him. He leaned over the rail and looked down, past the edge of the hovering citadel, seeing the moon-dappled waves lapping gently at the Sapherian coast.
“I do not regret our decision,” said Thyriol.
“What decision?” said Caledor, eyes fixed on the shore.
“To make you Phoenix King,” said the mage. “You are the best of us, Caledor.”
“I was the best choice,” agreed the Phoenix King. “I wonder if this could have been prevented if I had acted sooner.”
“None of us could foresee Malekith’s madness,” said Thyriol. “Of all the princes, you were the most reluctant to let the Naggarothi scheme and plot.”
“But I did not act,” said Caledor. “Had I agreed to be Bel Shanaar’s general, perhaps this war might have been avoided.”
“I do not disagree,” said Thyriol. “It was a selfish act, but no more selfish than many others that were undertaken at the time.”
The mage-prince took Caledor’s cup and moved to a low table, refilling both goblets with the last of the wine. He turned and offered the drink to the Phoenix King.
“You are not prone to regrets,” said Thyriol. “It does not suit you to start wearing them now. When the future seems so dark, it is tempting to regress to the past and relive our mistakes rather than face the present. It is not in your nature to do that, I feel.”
“No,” said Caledor. “I have had little to regret in my life, and less time for it than most. If there are lessons to be learned, I have learned them.”
Taking a deep breath, Caledor raised his glass and directed a lopsided smile towards his companion.
“A toast,” said the Phoenix King. “To deaf ears and unreasonable stubbornness.”
The mage frowned, confused by the proposal.
“Why would you laud such things?” said Thyriol.
“They might prove to be my best qualities,” laughed Caledor.
The following season brought no fresh attack, adding fuel to the fires of speculation amongst the princes loyal to Caledor. Those who sided with the Phoenix King were divided on the question of where the next assault would come: Chrace, Ellyrion or perhaps even Caledor. Those who believed the Naggarothi had spent their strength argued harder than ever for some form of engagement with the enemy. These calls were hard for Caledor to deny without seeming a warmonger, but deny them he did.
The council was summoned to the Shrine of Asuryan as summer become autumn. Tithrain was noticeable by his absence, though it was understandable given the dire circumstances in his kingdom. The rebuilding of Cothique was the first topic to be raised in the council.
“Yvresse will provide such supplies as are needed,” promised Carvalon. “A weak Cothique is a threat to my kingdom. We have been fortunate enough to avoid the worst depredations of war.”
“Such aid as we can spare we will send to Cothique,” said Aerethenis of Eataine. “I fear my kingdom has not fully recovered from the Naggarothi invasion, but the fleet is at the disposal of this council as ever.”
“Saphery can offer little help,” admitted Thyriol. “Our fields have been devastated by the sorceries of the druchii and what little we have must go to our people first.”
Caledor allowed the princes to continue, content to allow them to organise a relief fleet to be sent to Cothique. There was little he could do as Phoenix King, and no spare food to offer as prince of mountainous Caledor. When the arrangements had been agreed, the conversation turned to the matter of the cults.
“Barely a murder or sacrifice has been perpetrated in Saphery since the routing of the sorcerers,” said Thyriol.
“Since the purge, there has been no trouble in Eataine,” reported Aerethenis.
“The same is true of Yvresse,” said Carvalon. “Not a cultist has been uncovered this past year.”
“That is not good,” said Caledor.
“How so?” said Finudel. “Surely this is cause for celebration. Perhaps we have not yet defeated the druchii, but their agents and sympathisers have been expunged from our kingdoms.”
“I fear otherwise,” said the Phoenix King. “They have gone to ground, but that does not mean they have disappeared entirely.”
“They bide their time?” said Thyriol.
“Maybe not,” said Carvalon. “I am inclined to agree with Finudel. Even if we have not rooted out every last cultist, they see that the tide has turned against them. Their Naggarothi masters have abandoned them.”
“Let us not be complacent,” said Aerethenis. “At the siege of Lothern, the traitors were content to remain concealed as assault after assault failed. These creatures are cunning, knowing the time to strike when it will cause most strife and destruction.”
“True,” said Caledor. “They will not show themselves again until our attention is drawn elsewhere. They wait for a new Naggarothi offensive to move our gaze from them.”
“There is little enough we can do to combat that,” said Thyriol. “If they choose to hide, it will be all but impossible to draw them out into the open.”
“There are more subtle weapons we have than dragons and spears,” said Mianderin, who had seemed to be sleeping in his chair, but evidently had been listening carefully to the exchange. “Far be it for a priest of the light of Asuryan to suggest falsehood, but it would seem to me a wise move to give the cul
tists false hope. If we wish the cults to show themselves, we should appear weaker than we are.”
“A classic manoeuvre,” said Finudel. “A feint, of sorts. Perhaps these spies will even take word to Nagarythe and prompt an ill-considered move.”
“What shall be the lure?” said Thyriol.
“An attack into Tiranoc,” said Caledor, an idea quickly forming. “We will muster an army in Ellyrion, but in truth we will also strengthen the garrisons keeping watch for the cultists.”
“The army will need to be dispersed for the winter, regardless,” said Athielle. “There is not a single kingdom that can now keep so many troops fed during the season of ice. Spread rumour that the army has moved to Ellyrion, the fleet of Lothern can make it seem so by some crossings of the Inner Sea, whilst we send the companies back to their barracks.”
“What if we succeed in the deception and the druchii decide to launch an attack?” said Koradrel. “Chrace cannot stand alone, nor can Ellyrion.”
“There is too little time left for the enemy to take enough ground before the snows come,” said Caledor. “Nagarythe is a harsh land and the enemy will have even harder supply problems than we. If they seek to act in any way, it will be through the cults. If they are foolish enough to venture forth they will find little to sustain them.”
“And in the spring?” said Thyriol. “Whether the cults are drawn out or not, their destruction will not force the enemy’s surrender.”
“A double bluff,” Caledor said with a smile. “We let it be known that the plan to attack is a ruse. In reality, we will bring the army to Ellyrion as quickly as we can and strike at Tiranoc. I am sure there are many still in the kingdom who would be happy to swell our ranks.”
“Attack?” said Carvalon. “Are we so sure of our strength that we would risk it?”
“I am sure that delay will make us no stronger,” said Caledor.
The plan was set in motion. Messengers were despatched openly to the garrisons, informing them of the proposed deception in the hope that the orders would be intercepted and passed on to the druchii. Meanwhile the princes returned to their kingdoms with the real plans, under strict instruction not to entrust them to any other. In the spring, Caledor would send word for the army to be gathered to Thyriol, who would in turn inform the princes by means of his message crystals. By the time the druchii heard of the army gathering in Ellyrion it would be too late for them to react.
For the first time in many years, Caledor left the council with a little confidence. Wary of the optimism that had been dashed by the retaking of Cothique, the Phoenix King did not indulge too much hope, but was nevertheless pleased to be taking positive action again. He spent the winter in Tor Caled with his family, whose company he was better able to tolerate than on his last visit.
The Caledorian winter was especially harsh. Strong winds and driving rains lashed the mountains for the whole season, and no elf ventured out except when no other option presented itself. The dragons sought refuge in their caverns, and Caledor spent much time at the palace windows gazing to the north, wondering if the fierce weather was some conjuration of his enemies.
In the last days of winter a hailstorm engulfed Tor Caled, balls of ice the size of fists hammering into the tiled roofs and crashing upon the cobbled streets. Ice rimed the eaves of the houses and palaces, and the sentries on the walls sought the shelter of their guard rooms, warming themselves beside the fires of magical braziers.
Amongst the downpour appeared a lone figure, heavily swathed against the onslaught from the skies. He rode up to the gates of the city and demanded entry, revealing himself to be Carathril, the Phoenix King’s chief herald. Knowing that nothing but the most urgent news would bring the messenger forth in such horrific weather, the guards conveyed Carathril to the palace as swiftly as they could while messages were sent ahead to warn Caledor of his arrival.
The herald was a bedraggled sight as he came to Caledor in his throne room. He had divested himself of his heaviest furs and cloak, but his long hair hung lank across his soaked robes, a blanket thrown about his shoulders by the Phoenix King’s servants. The king ordered hot wine to be brought for his herald, waved him to one of the seats that circled the throne, and sat down next to Carathril.
“The druchii march,” said the herald between chattering teeth. His face was pale and drawn, exhaustion dimming his eyes, lips bloodless. “Word came to the Isle of the Flame from Finudel. The fortresses of northern Ellyrion have been emptied, their garrisons gone. An eagle came, warning that a dark army marched south along the Annulii, heading for Eagle Pass. Finudel and Athielle will muster what army they can but request that you summon your host to meet the attack.”
Attendants appeared with food and drink. Caledor commanded Carathril to rest and restore himself while he considered the news he had brought. The Phoenix King met Dorien in his chambers and told his brother of what was happening.
“I will ride to the dragon caves,” said Dorien. “While I rouse the drakes from their hibernation, you must take what troops you can to the aid of the Ellyrians.”
“Send your swiftest riders to Lothern and have the Sea Guard make haste for the coast of Ellyrion,” said Caledor. “I will send Carathril back to the Isle of the Flame to take the news that we march. Bring the dragons to Tor Elyr, and the princes shall ride with me.”
“The druchii are mad to march in winter,” said Dorien. “In Nagarythe the snows must have taken their toll.”
“Something has driven them to it,” said Caledor. “Unless they control the elements. Perhaps our ploy to lure them out has succeeded better than I had hoped.”
“It will have succeeded only if we can defeat this army,” said Dorien. “This pre-emptive assault has caught us off-guard.”
“It is troubling,” agreed the Phoenix King. “I fear our secrets have not been kept and the druchii know something of what I intended. What other explanation is there for such a rash campaign?”
“Do not ponder it too long, brother,” said Dorien, opening a chest in which his armour was stored. “The druchii do not think rationally, and to attempt to understand them is to share their madness.”
Caledor bid his brother a safe journey and returned to the throne room. Carathril looked a little restored from his wintry ordeal, and wore a resigned expression as Caledor explained that he would have to leave the next day to bear messages to the other kingdoms.
“I wish you could enjoy the hospitality of my realm a while longer,” said Caledor, laying a hand on the other elf’s shoulder. “None have given more energy to our cause than you.”
“It seems that Morai Heg has chosen a life in the saddle for me,” said the herald. “My ship awaits my immediate return. There is no point delaying, I will ride again tonight.”
Caledor nodded his thanks and gripped Carathril’s shoulder even tighter.
“Bel Shanaar made many mistakes, but his choice of herald was not one,” said the Phoenix King.
Carathril managed a smile, hands clasped to a steaming mug of mulled wine. Caledor left the herald and went to his wife and son to explain that he would be departing soon.
The march north was unpleasant, the winter storms not abating in their violence as the army of Caledor pushed on through the wind and rain. The mountain roads were more like shallow streams, and mudslides and tumbled boulders frequently blocked their path, making progress even slower.
As they descended into the foothills between Caledor and Ellyrion, the weather eased, though was by no means conducive to a speedy march. The army travelled light of supplies and equipment, the baggage wagons left at Tor Caled due to the harsh conditions. The Ellyrian army would be similarly bereft of war machines—such engines did not suit their fast-moving columns of reaver knights—and so Caledor devised a strategy to suit the forces he would have at his disposal. To attempt to contain the druchii in Eagle Pass would be reckless, and he would have to persuade Finudel and Athielle to allow them onto the plains where the Phoenix King’s dra
gons and cavalry would have their greatest effect.
The weather improved steadily as they crossed into Ellyrion. The storms became showers and eventually abated when the spires of Tor Elyr appeared on the horizon. Caledor was relieved to see a great many pavilions and herds around the Ellyrian capital; the kingdom’s army had not yet set out. His confidence improved further when he saw six dragons in the skies above, keeping watch for any approach of the enemy.
His meeting with Finudel and Athielle was brief. They agreed to his plan and despatched squadrons of their lightly armoured cavalry to Eagle Pass to watch for the arrival of the druchii, two dragons sent as escort to ensure they would not be waylaid. The combined army was moved west for two days, the better to keep Tor Elyr safe from attack.
It was a tense wait. None knew the full extent of the Naggarothi host and it was always in Caledor’s mind that the attack was a diversion, created to draw his attention from some other objective. He despatched one of his dragon princes to the north, to warn Koradrel in Chrace that the druchii might attempt a fresh attack on his kingdom, assuring his cousin that he would march to his aid as soon as possible if this proved to be true.
The reavers sent to watch for the enemy returned three days later, confirming that a large body of druchii had moved out of Eagle Pass and was heading for Tor Elyr. A black dragon came with the army, along with several riders on griffons and manticores. These did not overly concern the Phoenix King; his dragons would be the match of the druchii beasts.
With the agreement of Finudel and Athielle, Caledor ordered the army to march. The sooner the druchii were confronted and destroyed, the happier the Phoenix King would be. With this latest assault driven back, he would be free to respond to another offensive or, as he hoped, be able to muster his army for an attack into Tiranoc in the early spring.
The sky was overcast as the armies of Caledor and Ellyrion headed towards Eagle Pass. Winter had not relinquished its grip entirely and flurries of cold rain swept the plains, brought down from the mountains.
[Sundering 03] - Caledor Page 31