[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Where its blood spilled forth, the filthy fog spilled also. Its touch was corrosive, flaking metal and melting skin. The elves that were unfortunate enough to breathe in the toxic mist fell back with hoarse screams, dropping their spears to claw at burning throats. The merest touch of the deadly fume petrified flesh, turning eyes and hands into a rough, grey, stone-like substance.

  Recovering from the initial shock of the basilisk’s attack, the spearmen closed ranks, using their shields to waft away the poisonous fog. Eyes closed, they thrust blindly at the monster, trusting to instinct and elven senses to guide their blows.

  More fell to its teeth and claws, but eventually the holes and cuts upon the basilisk’s hide were too much. Ichor and blood oozed from dozens of wounds as it collapsed, sending up more of the foul vapour. The creature’s handlers fled as the spearmen parted around the rapidly rotting body of the basilisk.

  Carathril gasped, drawing in a ragged breath. Through stinging eyes he saw the druchii spearmen advancing to meet the line. The bitter tang of the basilisk clung to Carathril’s robes and his face itched from the passing of its fume.

  These distractions fell away as he looked upon the sneering, shouting faces of the enemy. He thought of Prince Aeltherin burning himself alive. He remembered the hard days of riding back and forth for Bel Shanaar. He recalled the bloody mess of Ealith and the seductive wiles of Drutheira. The carnage of the Shrine of Asuryan haunted him still. Twenty-six years of war crowded into his mind; the siege of Lothern and Aerenis’ death by his hand foremost amongst the many dreadful things he had witnessed and done.

  It was not in his nature to hate, but for that moment he was filled with loathing for the elves that came towards him. It did not matter if they were as scared as he was. It was of no consequence that many would have families. Some he might even have fought alongside before Malekith’s treachery. All such considerations were irrelevant. They were the druchii, the dark elves, and they would kill or enslave all of elfkind if they were victorious.

  “For Caledor!” Carathril shouted, raising his spear, the call echoed by those around him. Though no command was given, the company broke into a run, heading straight for the oncoming druchii. Carathril relaxed, knowing that if he died he would know peace. The enemy surged forwards in response and Carathril shouted again.

  “For Ulthuan!”

  The first clash of the armies crashed across the moor. Flying high above the battle, Thyriol watched the lines of black and white undulating as first one side and then the other pressed forwards and fell back. The Witch King’s attack was focussed on destroying Caledor, his army driving forwards on a narrow front. The Phoenix King had predicted this and laid his plans accordingly. Using himself as bait, Caledor had placed himself in the centre of the army, a lodestone for the fury of the druchii.

  The White Lions and Phoenix Guard bore the brunt of the first assault, while archers poured arrows into the advancing druchii knights. The phalanx of Caledor’s spears pushed forwards as far as possible, creating a funnel effect that further encouraged the enemy to attack towards the Phoenix King’s best warriors. Dragons and griffons and manticores whirled about the skies, forced high by the massed bolt throwers on both sides, the riders of each army duelling for dominion of the air.

  While spear and sword, axe and lance contested the battle on the ground, a far more esoteric but no less deadly fight was being waged in the air. The winds of magic churned, ripped this way and that as Morathi’s sorcerers and Thyriol’s mages struggled with each other. The daemonic cloud that roiled over the battlefield filled the Sapherian prince’s mind, sitting heavy in his thoughts like a coagulated mass of darkness.

  Lightning split the air from staff tips and balls of fire screamed across the clouds. Hails of glittering crystal spears sliced through the druchii while whole companies of Caledor’s soldiers were swallowed by great maws that opened in the ground beneath them.

  The air was thick with spell and counterspell, forming a glittering landscape no less real than the moorland below. Inhuman things screeched as they erupted from the Realm of Chaos, plucking knights from their saddles and devouring horses. Fire-bodied eagles soared over the heads of the Phoenix King’s soldiers, their flaming wings incinerating the clouds of bolts and arrows launched at them by the enemy. Cascades of white energy fell from Thyriol’s sword as his pegasus swept low, the magical sparks setting fire to a battery of bolt throwers as the mage-prince passed over them.

  A sudden pressure, a build-up of dark magic, drew his attention to the north. He felt a wave of daemonic energy tearing at the fabric of reality. The ground erupted and an immense serpent with a fanged maw and dozens of writhing tongues burst up beneath a regiment of archers. Lashing tentacles ensnared the helpless warriors, tossing their bodies into the air and dragging them into the creature’s slavering mouth.

  With a word to his mount, Thyriol turned towards the daemonic apparition, words of banishment in his mind. As the creature devoured more elves, the mage dived down towards it, chanting the incantation of unbinding. A golden glow enveloped the summoned monster, turning pustule-pocked flesh to shimmering dust. The daemon thrashed, letting out an unearthly wail, appendages rippling, its clustered black eyes glaring at Thyriol. Channelling the winds of magic through his staff, the mage hurled a bolt of white into the creature’s maw, setting a white flame burning within it. Its scream still lingering on the wind, the daemon was consumed, burning away to nothing.

  Occupied by his banishment of the daemon, Thyriol had not noticed a black-winged shape approaching closer, a trail of black flames left in its wake. Too late he felt the sorceress’ presence and looked up. He saw a hate-filled face wreathed with a halo of black hair, and felt the rush of dark magic from the skull-tipped staff in her hands.

  He threw up a silver shield to counter the spell, but the wave of dark magic blasted it aside, turning it to falling magical splinters. Thyriol braced himself, his amulets glowing protectively, but the next spell was not directed at him.

  His pegasus gave a choked cough and spasmed, blood pouring from thousands of small cuts that appeared in its flesh. Feathers fluttered from its wings as it fell. The mage could feel bones breaking in the body of the pegasus, as if a giant hand was crushing it. With a last whinny of terror, the pegasus died and Thyriol plummeted towards the ground.

  Morathi laughed at the spectacle of the falling mage. His robe fluttered and his staff fell from his grasp as he frantically waved his arms, perhaps trying to imitate a bird. Her laughter died away as a pair of insubstantial silver wings shimmered from the mage’s shoulders, bearing him lightly to the ground. As the sorceress circled around for another attack, the mage brushed down his robes and held out a hand, his staff flying into his grasp from where it had fallen.

  Sword in one hand, skull-headed staff in the other, Morathi plunged towards the impudent mage. As she came closer she recognised Saphery’s ruler and she remembered bitterly the mage’s role in the insults and woes that had been heaped upon her. He had spoken at the First Council, and it had been his wards that had imprisoned her within Bel Shanaar’s palace.

  Thyriol turned, sensing her approach. A shaft of blue energy sprang from his eyes. Morathi countered the spell with a snarled incantation, a shadow uncoiling from the tip of her staff to meet the column of light. The two spells clashed with an explosion of energy that sent Morathi reeling against her mount and hurled the mage to his back.

  Pulling herself upright as her pegasus landed, Morathi pointed her sword at the supine spellcaster. Energy flickered around her blade, coalescing into an icy spike that flew towards the mage’s chest, splitting into thousands of shards. The mage lifted his staff at the last moment, a disc of gold appearing in front of him. The ice storm deflected from the magical barrier, turning to a cloud of mist.

  Pushing himself to his feet, the Sapherian lifted an open hand towards Morathi. Whispering a dispel, she watched as a dove appeared in the mage’s palm. It took off and circled around the mage�
��s head, cooing gently. Morathi laughed again. It was a cheap cantrip used for the entertainment of children, nothing more. She summoned more dark magic, her mind reaching up to the daemonic cloud to tap into the raw power of Chaos.

  As she prepared to unleash her next assault, the dove began to circle faster, the arc of its flight growing wider and wider. Its eyes glittered like crystal, mesmerising as it dipped and rose, weaving a complex series of curves and angles around the mage.

  Morathi snapped away her gaze, just in time to rein in the dark power that was building inside her. Her skin crawled for a moment with excess magic, her teeth buzzing and her nerves dancing. The dove grew in size, its feathers changing to every colour of the rainbow, wings becoming iridescent trails of flame.

  The phoenix hurtled towards Morathi, its keening cry ringing in her ears, driving into the core of her mind. She clenched her jaw and tightened the grip on her staff as the dark magic thrashed inside her, trying to escape. The phoenix-spell struck her full force, setting fire to her hair and throwing her from the back of her mount.

  Crashing to the ground, Morathi gasped for air, tendrils of black energy escaping her throat. She gritted her teeth and surged to her feet, sword thrusting towards the mage. Crescent blades of black iron appeared in the air, spinning towards the Sapherian. The mage again summoned his golden shield, but Morathi had expected as much. The scything blades became needle-fine darts, each a tiny sliver of pure magic. They punched into the mage’s shield. Most were stopped, but some smashed through, reducing the shield to golden shards before engulfing the mage. The Sapherian’s robes were reduced to tatters in a moment and his flesh was a mass of grazes and scratches.

  Extending more power, Morathi followed the path of the spell with a spat curse, the dark magic winding along the course followed by the bolt, seeping into the open wounds in the mage’s flesh. Every tiny cut began to suppurate, blistering outwards with small explosions of pus and blood. The mage cried out in pain, falling to his knees. Morathi stalked closer, pouring more and more magic into the hex, driving the infection deeper and deeper into the Sapherian.

  With a defiant shout, the mage flung out his arms. White fire erupted from within his skin, burning away the magical plague. He staggered to his feet as the flames continued to rage, his eyes blinding orbs, hair dancing wildly in the mystical fire. With visible effort, the Sapherian brought his hands together, still clutching his staff. The flames burst along his arms and out of the staff, engulfing Morathi.

  Out of desperation, the sorceress hurled herself to the ground, clutching her arms to her chest, turning her skin to stone. The flames washed over her, touching but not burning. They raged for a long time, while she was cocooned within her own flesh. Morathi fought back the dark magic that flowed through her blood vessels and caused her heart to pound.

  Eventually the fires dissipated. Morathi reversed her spell, but the transformation was slow. Like a waking statue, her limbs turned back to flesh and she straightened. Dust flaked away from her face as she opened her eyes.

  The mage had fled, borne aloft on the magical wings that had saved him from his fall. For a moment she considered chasing after him, but a screeching cry from above drew her eye.

  Out of the clouds dropped a griffon, claws extended, red and black wings held back as it stooped. On its back rode a prince clad in golden mail and blue robes, a sword of sapphire in his fist. His long shield bore the symbol of Yvresse, against a background of midnight stars.

  Malekith too noticed Carvalon’s attack. He had been watching the progress of the battle with some satisfaction. His knights had broken through to Caledor’s war engines and were wreaking havoc amongst the bolt thrower crews. The line of the Phoenix King’s spears had been halted and was slowly being pushed back. Everywhere he looked, Malekith saw a constricting ring of black and silver closing in on Caledor.

  Sulekh launched towards the prince of Yvresse as Carvalon dived towards Morathi. The sorceress flung an arm towards the griffon, black lightning springing from her fingertips. Fur and feathers burned and the monster pulled out of its dive, swerving to avoid the crackling energy.

  The black dragon struck like a thunderbolt, claws ripping through the griffon’s smouldering wings. Malekith saw the prince’s eyes widen with shock within his visor as the Witch King crashed Avanuir down on Carvalon’s shield, splitting it in two.

  The griffon was cawing and screeching in agony as Sulekh tore bloody chunks of flesh free with her massive jaws, parting muscle and sinew, snapping bone. Carvalon leapt from the dying beast’s back, landing on Sulekh’s shoulder. Surprised, Malekith reacted slowly as the Yvressian prince slashed his sapphire-bladed sword across the Witch King’s chest.

  Sparks flew from the wound and molten metal trickled like blood from the gash in Malekith’s breastplate. He looked down, astounded, and then felt the pain.

  Snatching hold of one of Sulekh’s spines, Carvalon raised his sword for another blow.

  Enraged, the Witch King struck, thrusting Avanuir into the prince’s chest. Enchanted armour buckled and then split as the blade erupted from the prince’s back, flickering blue flame igniting Carvalon’s robes and hair. Malekith reached out and grabbed hold of the prince as he was about to topple. Burning fingers seared through gilded pauldrons and sank into flesh.

  With a snarl, Malekith brought up Avanuir, shearing through spine and ribs, parting Carvalon like a roast hog. Blood splashed onto the Witch King and hissed into nothingness on his hot armour. Feeling nothing but contempt, Malekith let go of the prince’s split body and brought down Avanuir, striking off the head as the corpse fell from Sulekh.

  Sheathing his sword, Malekith dabbed a hand to the wound in his chest. The metal that had bubbled free was already cooling, forming a weld across the breach in his armour. The pain subsided, but it was a salutary lesson: he was not immortal.

  Looking down at the unfolding battle, the Witch King saw a swathe of pale skin and red driving through the line of Imrik’s army, like a spear aimed directly for the usurper.

  Malekith smiled. Perhaps the Khainites would slay Imrik for him.

  Ducking beneath an axe blade, Hellebron slashed the sword in her right hand through the white pelt cloak of the Chracian in front of her, slicing off his arm, while plunging the blade in her left into his eye. Kicking aside the falling body, she leapt over a swinging axe, burying both blades through the helmet of the elf wielding it.

  Around her, the Brides of Khaine shrieked praises to the Bloody-Handed God as they battled the Chracian bodyguards. They ducked and dodged the slashing axe heads of their foes, poisoned blades licking out like serpent’s tongues, finding exposed flesh. To Hellebron’s right, a Bride was cleaved from shoulder to gut, spattering the Khainite priestess with blood. Hellebron licked her lips, savouring the taste.

  The Chracian stepped over the mangled corpse and swung his axe at Hellebron’s neck. She dropped to all fours, legs split, the blade whistling over her head. In an instant she sprang up again, slashing both blades across the Chracian’s throat. He fell back, arterial blood coating Hellebron like the blessing of Khaine Himself. Heart pumping, she vaulted over the crumpling corpse, plunging a sword into the back of another warrior.

  Over the melee, Hellebron could see the towering form of the usurper king’s dragon, the accursed Caledorian on its back. She swayed aside from another axe, eyes fixed on Imrik, and cut off the hands that wielded it. Without a pause, she swept a blade across the warrior’s face. The carnage thrilled her, fuelling her body, sharpening her mind. Blood racing, the sacred brew of Khaine flowing through her, Hellebron stalked on. Through the rushing of blood and the pounding of her heart, the ring of metal engulfed Hellebron, a symphony of destruction that gave voice to Khaine’s gift—

  Senses heightened to a preternatural degree by the narcotic leaves she had ingested, Khaine’s Chosen One eluded every blow aimed towards her while her blades were a constant flicker of silver leaving dead and dismembered foes. She fought without thoug
ht, reacting to the slightest movement, her swords moving as if they had a life of their own.

  A new sound pierced the haze of death: the clear note of a trumpet. The ground was trembling underfoot. Despatching another Chracian with a back-handed slash, Hellebron turned towards the sound. Over the heads of her Brides, she saw a wall of white horses and silver-clad riders bearing down.

  In a wave of streaming horsehair plumes and green pennants, the Ellyrians crashed into the Khainites with lowered spears. In Finudel’s hand blazed the ancient spear Mirialith. Dozens fell to the charge, caught on spearpoints and crushed beneath galloping hooves. Finudel struck left and right as his horse surged through the press of foes, every thrust slaying a Khainite.

  Burning with anger at memories of the atrocities he had seen in Cothique, the Ellyrian prince fell upon the Khainites with merciless ferocity. Beside him, Athielle carved a path through the enemy with her silver sword, her long hair flowing like a cloak behind her.

  The prince and princess drove into the heart of the Khainites, pushing towards the grisly standard, their reavers following behind. Finudel’s eyes met those of a feral witch, her face caked in blood, hair outlandishly spiked and braided. The prince lowered Mirialith towards her in challenge and urged his horse on.

  As the impetus of the Ellyrians’ charge diminished, the Khainites swarmed around them. Finudel lost sight of the Khainite leader for a moment as he was surrounded by a press of shrieking faces and poisoned blades. He slashed with his magical spear, hurling back the wild attackers.

  The Khainite witch reappeared to his left, somersaulting onto the back of a horse, her blades leaving a red gash across the rider’s chest. With unbelievable dexterity and balance she sprang from the horse to another, slashing the head from another knight before jumping again, leaping from one steed to the next, leaving a trail of falling bodies behind.