[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “That is not my concern,” said Malekith. “Follow me!”

  Sulekh leapt across the river and with a single flap of her vast wings carried Malekith up the far slope to where his embattled soldiers were encircled by axe- and spear-wielding Chracians. Some wore the prized white lion pelts for which their kingdom was famed, the furs heavy with moisture from the rain.

  As soon as they saw Malekith approaching, the Chracians scattered, breaking off their attack to sprint back into the woods. Not all reached the safety of the eaves; Malekith unsheathed his sword, Avanuir, and launched a flurry of fiery blue bolts at the retreating warriors, slaying a handful with each detonation. The Witch King drew in more magic and with a shout unleashed it in a broad wave. Where it struck, the trees exploded into black flame, the fire quickly raging up the slope, engulfing even more of the Chracian hunters. Sap exploded and leaves turned to ash as the wave of fire continued along the mountainside, engulfing the tents and wagons of the Chracian camps.

  Sustaining the magical fire took all of Malekith’s concentration; as he weaved his metal-clad hand back and forth the fires spread further and further, the heat of the flames dissipating the mist as they engulfed the mountainside. The surge of dark energy flowing through him resonated with the runes of his armour, igniting dead nerve-endings, sending a shiver across the metal’s plates as if it were his skin.

  With an effort, the Witch King cut the flow of dark magic, pulling himself back from the brink of intoxication. The mystical flames guttered and died, revealing blackened stumps and bones littered across the mountain. The clatter of armour attracted his attention and he turned to see a squadron of knights galloping across the bridge.

  “Captain, come to me,” Malekith said, beckoning to the elf who had been in charge of the vanguard.

  The captain came forwards, a bloodied sword in his hand, breastplate rent open from a Chracian axe. He dropped to one knee, eyes averted.

  “My apologies, king,” said the soldier.

  He knelt trembling, head bowed, as Malekith steered Sulekh to loom over him. The crest of the captain’s helmet fluttered with each of the dragon’s breaths, wisps of poisonous vapour coiling from her nostrils. The Witch King could feel the elf’s fear dripping from his shuddering body.

  “Do not fail me again,” said the Witch King. The captain looked up, surprised and delighted. “Continue the march!”

  The officer bowed and hurried away, anxious that his master might have a sudden change of heart. In truth, the captain was ordered into the trap by Malekith and could not be blamed. His mother might dispense summary executions in such a situation, but her acts of spite were wasteful. The Witch King suffered no illusions about his opponents and knew he would need every soldier if he was to claim Ulthuan for his own.

  Uncertainty keeps soldiers alert, Malekith told himself. He would not want to become predictable.

  While Malekith’s army navigated the difficult passes into Chrace, Caledor’s host was poised to descend from the Dragon Spine mountains into southern Tiranoc. The border was heavily fortified, the Phoenix King’s scouts reporting a dozen citadels had been erected since the druchii occupation had begun. Caledor would have to lay siege to each if he was to advance on Tor Anroc.

  The westerly winds brought the freshness of the sea and the spring sun was bright as Caledor led his army out of the mountains. At the foot of the valley were twin castles, situated at the narrowest point, a massive iron gate between them. Flying above his army, the Phoenix King could see more ramparts had been built into the mountainsides. Batteries of bolt throwers were stationed to create a killing field in front of the gate.

  He signalled to Dorien to follow and instructed Maedrethnir to land on a spur of rock just out of range of the war engines. There was frenetic activity on the walls of the keep, a mass of soldiers boiling up to the ramparts from their barracks within.

  “A tough proposition,” said Dorien as his mount settled a little below Maedrethnir’s perch. “This could be bloody.”

  “Yes, it could,” replied the Phoenix King as he analysed the defences guarding the pass.

  The fortifications protecting the bolt throwers were little more than slits in the rock, allowing no room for a dragon to land. It would be possible to fill them with fire, but any dragon doing so would have to fly slowly into the teeth of the war machines’ fire. Even if the outer defences were neutralised, the keeps themselves were solidly built, and would provide plenty of cover against dragonfire and lance. It would take some time to build siege engines that could breach the gate.

  “How do we attack?” asked Dorien, showing little of his usual enthusiasm as he looked at the forbidding fortress.

  “From Lothern,” replied Caledor.

  Though the wasted march pained the Phoenix King, he had realised that it would be far better to attack Tiranoc from the sea. As the army headed back eastwards, Dorien confronted him in his tent one night.

  “Why did we not sail to Tiranoc from the outset?” his brother asked. “Spring will nearly be summer by the time we return.”

  “I had to have a look,” answered Caledor. “If we attack by ship, we must retake Tor Anroc. A retreat to the fleet will be very dangerous. Should we be cut off, the passes of the Annulii stand between us and sanctuary in Ellyrion. A hard withdrawal also.”

  “And when we take Tor Anroc, what then?” said Dorien. “There are druchii outposts all over Tiranoc. We will be an island in a sea of enemies.”

  “We will not be staying,” said Caledor. “We need to hold the city long enough for Malekith to respond. When he does, we will leave and sail to Chrace to threaten from there.”

  “Why not dispense with all of this play-acting and simply land on the coast of Nagarythe?” said Dorien, who had not been at the council and had confessed some doubts over his brother’s intentions when he had been informed.

  “Enough!” snapped Caledor. “You do not tame a dragon by putting your head between its fangs. Malekith has always known victory. When I deny him, he will become frustrated and make mistakes. That is when we strike, and not before.”

  Dorien did not seem satisfied by Caledor’s explanation, but did not raise the matter again on the march across Caledor and Eataine. By the time the host arrived in Lothern, the fleet of the city was waiting for them. It took several days to embark the army upon the eighty ships, but the winds held fair for the journey around Ulthuan’s western coast.

  Since the destruction of the captured Tiranocii ships at the siege of Lothern, the greatest disadvantage of the druchii had been a lack of vessels. Though they had enjoyed a brief naval ascendancy when the colony fleet had returned, several battles along the Cothique and Yvresse coasts had restored the advantage to Caledor’s forces.

  So it was with justified confidence that the Eataine captains sailed their vessels to the coast of Tiranoc, expecting little resistance. Aided by pilots who knew the waters off this stretch of shore, Caledor had selected four landing spots; isolated bays and small harbours that were unlikely to be defended. Even if the Naggarothi left their port at Galthyr the moment the fleet was spotted, it would still take them four days of hard sailing against the prevailing winds to reach the closest landing. By then, Caledor was determined to be at the walls of Tor Anroc.

  As the Phoenix King had expected, the landings went unopposed. Five thousand knights and four times that number of infantry marched east along the neglected roads of Tiranoc, converging on the capital from the west and south. They encountered a few small garrisons, most of whom tried to flee upon seeing the approaching army but were chased down by the dragon riders.

  The people of Tiranoc were in jubilant mood, crowding the roads and villages to welcome their liberators. Unlike Cothique, the Khainites had not been let loose and the kingdom was for the most part prosperous. That was not to say the druchii occupiers had been gentle or subtle in their domination; Caledor heard many woeful tales of their oppression as he passed through towns and hamlets thronged with cheerin
g and singing crowds.

  Eager to press on, he found little time for the celebrations that were thrown in his honour, and even less time for the local dignitaries that threw them. Every delay niggled at the Phoenix King’s patience. Grateful Tiranocii filled the roads and slowed the march and it was five days before the army sighted Tor Anroc.

  Unsure of the enemy’s strength, Caledor spent a day scouting the city and surrounding countryside from the back of Maedrethnir. The other dragons he sent north and east to look for druchii armies on the march, along with Thyriol and Finreir on their pegasi and a prince of Yvresse, Namillon, who rode a white-feathered griffon. The flying patrols spied no druchii force larger than a company, while Caledor’s inspection of the city’s defences was curtailed by a hail of bolts from the towers as Maedrethnir swept over the city.

  Though not one of the great fortresses of Ulthuan like Anlec, Tor Achare or Tor Caled, Tor Anroc was still an imposing city. The capital of Tiranoc, once the seat of the Phoenix King, was built atop a white-stoned hill that was bordered by steep cliffs facing west towards the approaching army. About the foothills of the mount were white buildings roofed with red tiles, some of them abandoned and half-ruined. They nestled amongst poorly kept fields that were dotted with wooden sheds that had not been built when Caledor had last visited. The stench and swarms of flies revealed the purpose of these outhouses: abattoirs where meat was still hanging on the hooks, recently deserted.

  There was only one approach to the city, from the east. Caledor split his army and they circled north and south around Tor Anroc. Knowing that there were likely secret tunnels through the rock of the mound, the Phoenix King left several companies camped beside the cliffs, far enough away to be out of bolt thrower range but close enough to keep watch on the cliff sides.

  From the east the city looked even more spectacular, though its white walls were marred with cracks and swathes of unpainted plaster and fresh stone. Caledor regretted his abortive attempt to enter from the mountains, judging that the defences had been shored up with the forewarning that the expedition had given the druchii. He dismissed his worries; there was nothing he could do to change the past.

  Spearing straight across the landscape from the mountains to the east, a road of pitted hexagonal tiles ran up to the closed gate. Wide enough for five chariots abreast, the wood and iron of the massive portal were exposed, the plates of gold that had once gleamed in the sun stolen by the city’s invaders. A great gatehouse barred the approach to the city, a bastion upon a wall twice the height of an elf that arched backwards into the mount itself, all carved from the naked rock. Two pale towers flanked the roadway, devoid of openings except for high arrow slits that looked upon every approach. On each of the flat tower tops stood a bolt thrower, mounted upon an assembly of bars and thin ropes so that they could be swung with ease in any direction.

  Beyond the gate, the road split and spiralled east and west towards the city proper. From high walls, the black and purple flags of Nagarythe flew on banner poles, the spring wind teasing out the long pennants. There were other more grisly decorations; the heads of elves hanging from chains and impaled atop spears, and skeletons and half-rotted carcasses sealed in gibbets that stirred in the breeze. Towers and citadels carved from the white rock broke above the curving crenellations of the curtain wall, but these in turn were dwarfed by a central spire that pierced the morning sky like a shining needle.

  Once that tower had burned with a blue flame, signalling the occupation of the Phoenix King. Now the palace of Bel Shanaar was in disrepair. Even from outside the city Caledor could see broken windows, sagging tiled roofs and crumbling balconies. While he had held no deep affection for Bel Shanaar, to see the legacy of the city he had built so shamed brought the Phoenix King’s ire to the surface and he snapped orders at his commanders to make camp either side of the road.

  The elves erected their pavilions in the ruins of walled orchards, where rows of apple and cherry trees were breaking into blossom, a strangely bright and cheerful apparition amongst the aura of gloom that seemed to emanate from the occupied city. Caledor’s household erected his tent in the grounds of a farm protected by high walls of white stone overgrown with creeping plants, the gateways empty, the silver and gold gates that had once lined the road taken like those of Tor Anroc.

  Little was left of the summer manses of Tiranoc’s nobles. Many of the white towers that stood atop the surrounding hills were tumbled or blackened with soot. Caledor despatched companies to investigate each of these, in case they harboured enemies that could launch raids from behind the siege lines.

  Caledor also sent a large company to the wooded hills north of the city; Chracian woodsmen and artisans from Lothern. They were to fell timber and construct the siege engines that would be needed to assault the city.

  As rows of red and white and blue tents rose up in a second city around Tor Anroc, Caledor summoned his princes and captains to discuss his plans for the initial attack.

  Far to the north, the druchii pressed on towards Tor Achare. Villages and towns had fallen to their advance, and another was about to. Spearheads clattered harmlessly from Malekith’s iron skin, as dozens of Chracians tried to surround the Witch King. He swept his flaming sword from left to right, parting spears, shearing through shields and slashing through armour and flesh. Stepping over the burning bodies of the dead warriors, the Witch King drove his sword through the shield and chest of another foe. Overhead, Sulekh flew back and forth, clouds of green vapour billowing from her maw as she hunted through the narrow streets of the town. The black dragon landed atop a row of houses, the roofs buckling under her weight.

  Another group of Chracians dashed from a side street, axes swinging. Malekith blocked their blows with his massive shield, the rune of Khaine on its surface blazing with baleful energy. With a growl, he smashed his sword through a handful of attackers, separating limbs and heads with one blow. As the Witch King’s warriors advanced up the street, the Chracians fell back, disappearing into a warren of gardens and alleys.

  Striding after them, the Witch King noticed an elf crawling into the shadow of a collapsed wall. He sheathed Avanuir and dulled the flames of his armour before reaching down and seizing the Chracian by his ankle. Dragging the unfortunate elf across the rubble, Malekith released his grip on the elf’s leg and seized hold of his breastplate, lifting him from the ground.

  “Where are they hiding?” growled the Witch King.

  The Chracian said nothing, his face a mask of defiance. The elf did not even attempt to struggle, but hung limply in Malekith’s grasp, blood spilling from a wound in his shoulder. The metal of the Chracian’s breastplate buckled and tore as the Witch King tightened his grip.

  “Where is Imrik?”

  “King Caledor will fight you when he chooses,” replied the Chracian. “He has more important things to attend to.”

  With a snarl, Malekith hurled the elf against the collapsed wall. The Chracian’s broken body crumpled to the ground, neck snapped.

  “Kill everyone, destroy everything,” the Witch King bellowed.

  He turned away from the fighting, seeking to calm himself and master the frustration that boiled within him. For the whole of the spring he had fought his way across the mountains. Every valley and peak had been a struggle for his army. Never gathering in one place, the Chracians had gnawed at his army like rats, emerging from their holes to nibble away at his troops before scuttling back to their lairs. It mattered not how many towns he burned, how many villages he put to the sword, his enemies refused to meet him in true battle.

  Only the day before he had received word that the Anars were raiding the supply caravans to the west. Companies sent to forage in the woods came back bloodied from ambushes. They had broken the bridges across the raging rivers and blocked the roads with felled trees. None of their actions could halt his advance, and even the casualties they inflicted were tolerable, but the disruption and delays were a source of constant irritation.

 
; As he watched Sulekh ripping down the tower of a noble’s manse, Malekith pushed back his anger and reviewed the situation. Despite the Chracians’ tactics, he was less than five days’ march from Tor Achare. The plains of northern Chrace were open before him. Caledor would have no choice but to meet him there. The alternative was to allow Tor Achare to fall, giving Malekith a stronghold from which to launch further attacks into the Inner Kingdoms and the east; even Caledor could see the folly of allowing an enemy such a fortress.

  A strange whispering distracted the Witch King. He sensed an odd flow in the winds of magic: a daemonic presence. Turning to his right, he saw the flames of a burning cottage glowing red and purple. As he watched, the fires coalesced into a diminutive figure. It jumped down from the pile of burning timbers, awkward and lopsided, stubby wings trailing sparks from its back. Its face was beaked, though the daemon’s features constantly shifted, the number of eyes and mouths changing from moment to moment in the dancing flames.

  It padded forwards, gangling arms swaying like branches in a wind, pink smoke bubbling from its fiery body, a line of little ash footprints left across the slabs of the street. Stopping just in front of Malekith, it squatted down and looked up at the Witch King with a scowl.

  “I have been bid to deliver you a message,” the creature said, its annoyance obvious.

  “Then deliver it,” said Malekith.

  “The glorious Morathi, queen of the elves, mistress of the black spheres, sends warning,” said the daemon, the words delivered in a bored monotone. “The treacherous Imrik and his followers have laid siege to Tor Anroc. She of the Thousand and One Dark Blessings entreats you to make haste to lift the siege lest the southern border of Nagarythe be threatened.”

  The daemon stood up and turned away.

  “Wait!” snapped Malekith. “I have a reply for you to take to Anlec.”