The prince’s cavalry charge was the final blow. As bears crushed bodies and wolves dragged down fleeing druchii, the knights hammered into the flank of the Naggarothi, cutting them down, smashing them to the ground with the impact of their steeds. His horse flailed its hooves into the face of a spearman while Dorien’s blade decapitated another.
The druchii fought to the last, knowing that the forest offered no sanctuary for retreat. Surrounded by elves and spirits of Avelorn, they sold their lives with spat curses on their lips, vowing vengeance from the pits of Mirai. Dorien’s arm was sore with the effort of slaying, for the battle continued long into the afternoon.
When it was done, Althinelle came to Dorien. The Maiden Captain’s armour was awash with blood, her fair hair stained with gore, her speartip slick. There was something feral about her appearance, and Dorien wondered at the power that had been unleashed by the fury of Avelorn.
Dismounting, Dorien gave the captain of the Maiden Guard a brief bow and sheathed his sword.
“I wonder if Avelorn ever needed us here,” he said.
Althinelle said nothing for a moment. Her features seemed to shimmer with a pale green light, and when she looked at Dorien, it was with eyes that seemed as ancient as the forest around them.
“You have our gratitude, Dorien of Caledor,” said Althinelle. “We could not defeat this enemy alone.”
“It is my honour to protect the ancestral lands of our people,” said Dorien. He felt the same shimmer of earth magic as he had during the battle, though now it was subtler, more diffused. “Without Avelorn’s intervention, I fear we might not have been victorious.”
“The Naggarothi will come again,” said Althinelle.
“I will leave what troops I can, but they are sorely needed elsewhere,” replied Dorien. “Cothique is under threat, and my brother will need my aid when he sails there after the council of princes.”
“Send my regards to your brother,” said Althinelle, surprising Dorien. He looked at her more closely and realised that he was no longer addressing the captain of the Maiden Guard. “Tell him that I look forward to our wedding. And warn him that he should not delay too long before he visits Avelorn; there are precious few moments left to us.”
Dorien dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“Everqueen,” he said. “Forgive my brother’s tardiness. He has many things on his mind, and I fear that your blessing is not one of them.”
Althinelle-Yvraine laid a hand on Dorien’s arm and gently pulled him to his feet. He kept his gaze averted, fearing to look into those deep green eyes again.
“Take your dead from this place,” said the Everqueen. “You will be guided into Chrace, and from there you may head east and meet Caledor in Cothique.”
“Thank you, Everqueen,” said Dorien. “And what of the druchii bodies? Shall we dispose of them also?”
Althinelle-Yvraine shook her head and turned to look over her shoulder.
“Avelorn will deal with them,” she said, with what seemed like sadness. “The forest will sate itself with their remains.”
Dorien looked to where her gaze was directed and saw that the trees of the forest were already enveloping the druchii dead. Roots coiled through the corpses, dragging them down into the shifting earth. It seemed as if blood dripped from the leaves of the trees as they drank deep of the slain.
“Go now.” Dorien saw that Althinelle was herself again. The wildness in her eyes had gone and she seemed as weary as he felt. “We shall leave a clearing for you to camp tonight. We will head north at dawn.”
Dorien nodded and turned away, shouting for his captains. The sooner he was out of fabled Avelorn, the more comfortable he would feel.
—
An Age Ends
“A hundred?” snarled Caledor. The herald from Yvresse flinched as the Phoenix King thrust himself from his chair and stalked towards the messenger. “A hundred spears are all that Prince Carvalon can spare?”
“We are a peaceful people,” the herald replied with an apologetic bow. “Few enough volunteer for the militia and of those, most are required to garrison our towns against the attacks of the cultists.”
Caledor turned on the others in the Shrine of Asuryan, his adopted throne room. Thyriol was with him, as were Finudel and Athielle, Dorien, Thyrinor, Koradrel, Tithrain of Cothique, the high priest Mianderin, and his chief herald Carathril. Representatives of Eataine and Yvresse huddled together, apart from the princes, watching the Phoenix King warily.
“How can I fight a war with no army?” Caledor said. “For six years we have marched and battled, and the druchii have been held. Now is the time to strike back.”
“Our losses have been heavy too,” said Thyriol. “Each Naggarothi has trained for two hundred years for this war, and many have been fighting for much longer. You cannot expect our fresh recruits to face such foes with equality. Were it not for your dragons, Ulthuan would have been overrun by now. A counter-offensive is out of the question.”
“So we must simply wait for the next druchii attack?” said Dorien. “We let them gather their strength again while their cultist lackeys have us chase from kingdom to kingdom? We should march to Anlec and finish this.”
Tithrain laughed nervously and all eyes turned towards the young ruler of Cothique.
“Anlec is unassailable,” said the prince. “We have all heard the tales of its defences. A river of fire girds its high walls, and twenty towers overlook the approaches. Even if we were to cross Nagarythe intact, we could not take such a fortress.”
“We have a dozen dragons,” said Dorien. “No river of fire would stop them.”
“Eleven,” said Koradrel, his voice hushed. “Prince Aelvian and Kardraghnir were slain in Chrace during battle against the Naggarothi. My captains brought me the news last night. Bolt throwers, dozens of them, brought them down from the sky.”
This news was greeted with groans from some and a stony stare from Caledor. Koradrel shrugged.
“It matters not,” said the Chracian. “To what end would the capture of Anlec serve? Malekith retook his capital and it did him no good. The world has changed. The Naggarothi will never agree to peace.”
“What are you saying?” said Thyriol.
“Extermination,” said Caledor.
The mage fixed the Phoenix King with a narrowed glare.
“And what of the cultists?” said Thyriol. “Do we kill every last one of them also?”
“If we have to,” said Caledor, matching the mage’s gaze. He took no pleasure in the pronouncement, but if Ulthuan was to know peace again, every threat had to be eliminated. “We are a divided people. Prosperity and opportunity have masked those divisions, but now they have been made clear. The druchii must be slain or driven out of Ulthuan, and any that choose to follow them.”
“As you said, you have no army,” said Finudel. “You think that you could attack Nagarythe?”
“No,” said Caledor. “We have only been able to survive because the enemy have split their strength. They occupy Tiranoc, and have attacked Eataine, Ellyrion, Chrace and Avelorn at the same time, seeking swift victory. If we force them to gather in one place, and muster our own strength against them, we risk losing the war at a stroke.”
“Until we have an army that can match the druchii, we cannot test ourselves on an equal basis,” said Thyrinor. “Our greatest hope is to draw them out and defeat each army in turn.”
“Your dragons cannot be everywhere at once,” said Thyriol. “How do you plan to halt any fresh advances?”
“We cannot,” said Caledor, sitting down again. He looked at each of the princes, gauging their resolve. He was not reassured by what he saw but continued regardless. “We must deny the druchii any great victory. We retreat before them, burning the fields, razing the storehouses. Nagarythe is not a fertile kingdom, they depend upon what they take to feed their armies.”
“For how long?” said Tithrain with an expression of horror. “Those lands feed
our people too. It would be ourselves that we also starve. A season, perhaps, we could cope with…”
“For as long as it takes,” said Caledor. “We will bleed the druchii dry with hunger and battle. We must be resolved to this. Hardship will come, but with it also victory.”
“No,” said Athielle, earning herself a scowl from the Phoenix King. “The pastures of Ellyrion are too valuable to waste in this way. Our fields and herds have been nurtured for generations, we cannot throw that effort away. It would be a triumph for our enemies.”
Caledor’s stare bore down on the princess but she did not flinch. Glancing to Finudel, Caledor saw that he was in two minds, but knew he would side with his sister in any argument.
“What about Chrace?” he said, looking to Koradrel.
“The druchii have continually pillaged most of the meagre crop we grow,” replied the Chracian prince. “With our hunters at war, the monsters of the mountains grow bolder and attack our farms in greater numbers. What we have left, we need for ourselves.”
“The eastern kingdoms must provide for those beset in the west,” said Caledor. “If you cannot send soldiers, you must send food.”
“I fear we can offer too little in that regard,” said Thyriol. “For too long we have relied on the supplies from our colonies. Those supplies have dwindled. Elthin Arvan is in no less turmoil than Ulthuan.”
“If your people will not farm, they will have to fight,” said Caledor. “Every elf that can carry a spear must be trained. If not, they will die unarmed.”
“And while we raise a new army for you?” said Tithrain. “What will you do?”
“Wait for the druchii to come again,” said Caledor.
* * *
Every wheezing breath was like a rusty nail scratching across Morathi’s heart. She bent over Malekith’s inert form, seeing the handsome elf he had been, not the ravaged near-carcass that lay on the wide bed. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment and there was recognition. A withered hand reached out to her and she clasped it to her chest as she knelt down beside the bed.
“What news?” the prince of Nagarythe whispered from cracked lips.
“Our underlings disappoint us, my dear,” replied Morathi. “The upstart Caledor has pushed back our latest attacks. He refuses open battle, using his dragons to hit our armies on the march before withdrawing.”
“He is a coward.”
“No, he is clever,” said Morathi, placing Malekith’s hand beside him. She stroked a hand across his bare scalp, skin flaking to the white sheet. “He knows he cannot beat us, but seeks to stall our victory for as long as possible. Our commanders have played his game too long. I will force him into action.”
“And the other?” said Malekith, rising a little from the bed, eyes intent on his mother.
“It progresses well, my son,” said the sorceress-queen. “You have done well to survive these years of torment, yet you must hold on longer. Such a work takes a long time to perfect, but when it is done you will be restored to your glory.”
Malekith’s ruined face creased into a smile.
“I can wait,” he said. “My return will be triumphant and none will stand before me.”
“It will be glorious,” said Morathi. “But we must keep your survival secret still. Your sacrifice in the flames is a symbol to our people, and until your resurrection to full power it is best to let them to continue in that belief. It hurts me as much as you to know that you are denied your position as ruler of Nagarythe, but it is for the best.”
Malekith said nothing and closed his eyes. Morathi stood up.
“I must attend to some unpleasant business. Rest well.”
With a parting look at her son, Morathi left the chamber. She swept across her rooms, gathering a trail of handmaidens and servants in her wake. Walking down the sweeping steps at the centre of Aenarion’s palace, she heard wails of torment echoing from the dungeons beneath the citadel.
“I thought I said all prisoners were to have their mouths stitched shut,” she said to one of her attendants.
“I will see the torturers learn the error of their oversight,” the handmaiden replied, eyes glinting with cruel anticipation.
The entourage followed her across the great hall and down the steps of the palace into the plaza outside. Five thousand Naggarothi stood in silent ranks behind their captains and banners. They had been assembled at dawn for her inspection and now the sun dipped towards the horizon.
Dismissing her cabal with a wave of a ringed hand, Morathi crossed the square with long strides, heading directly towards Bathinair, who stood at the front of the small army. The queen stopped in front of him, eyes narrowed.
“Give me your sword,” she said.
Bathinair looked confused but did as he was told, pulling the gleaming magical blade from its sheath. Morathi took it from him and held it up, examining the fine workmanship. The prince’s eyes followed Morathi as she stalked past him and beckoned to one of the company captains.
“What is your name?” she demanded.
“Ekheriath, my queen,” the captain replied with a deep bow.
“Would you like to be Prince Ekheriath?” she said.
“Anything to serve you, my queen,” the elf replied with a shorter bow. “It would be an honour to attend your court.”
Morathi struck more swiftly than a serpent, Bathinair’s sword lancing through the captain’s gut. He fell with a stifled cry, eyes full of hurt and betrayal. Morathi twisted the sword to the left and right, Ekheriath writhing and moaning with each movement.
“Princes do not fail me,” she said, pulling free the blade.
She delivered a kick to the sprawling elf’s face and moved on, beckoning to the next captain with the bloodied sword.
“And your name?” she snarled.
“Nemienath, your majesty,” the soldier said hesitantly, eyes straying to the still-groaning Ekheriath who had slithered to his knees in a spreading pool of his blood, one hand clasped to his wounded gut.
“Would you like to be a prince?”
Nemienath did not reply, eyes darting left and right like a trapped animal.
“Well?” Morathi’s snapped question made the captain flinch.
“All who serve you wish to be included in your favours,” he said, not meeting her gaze.
“Kill Bathinair,” Morathi said, thrusting the sword into Nemienath’s hand. “You can replace him.”
Bathinair spun around on hearing this, eyes wild with fear. Morathi smiled approvingly as Nemienath showed no reluctance, dashing across the square with the sword raised for the attack. Bathinair tried to catch the blow on his armoured arm, but the mystical blade sliced through without stopping, shearing just below the shoulder. With a cry, Bathinair fell to the ground, blood spraying. Nemienath glanced back at Morathi before delivering the killing blow, plunging the sword into Bathinair’s exposed neck.
Morathi waved Nemienath to approach and kneel before her. He did so, bending to one knee, head bowed. The queen stooped to cup his chin in her hand, lifting his head to look at her, a smile on her ruby red lips.
“What does it feel like to be a prince?” she purred.
“It is an honour, my queen,” replied Nemienath. “I will bring glory to Nagarythe in your name.”
“You will?” Morathi said sweetly. Nemienath nodded, locked to her gaze. Morathi’s smile twisted to a snarl. “I had to give you a blade to bring me honour! Why have you failed me so many times before?”
Magical energy crackled from her fingertips, engulfing Nemienath’s head. Black lightning coursed through his shuddering body, burning and splitting flesh, bursting blood vessels. Morathi let the smoking corpse drop to the marble slabs, Bathinair’s sword clattering from the dead grasp.
The queen rounded on the assembled Naggarothi warriors.
“None of you are worthy to serve me!” she cried. “You are incompetent or you are traitors, I cannot tell which. I give you the might of Nagarythe and you throw it away. I ask you
for a simple thing, such a simple thing but you cannot do this for me. All I wanted was Yvraine’s head.”
“The Everqueen, her powers are too great,” one of the warriors called back. “How do we fight Ulthuan itself?”
Morathi was about to spit back an angry reply, but stopped herself. The anonymous warrior did have a point, though it was no excuse for the defeats suffered. Yvraine possessed the power of the Everqueen, and that was a fine prize. To control Avelorn, to seize the strength of Yvraine would be a better victory than her simple death. There was another reason to see Yvraine humbled before she died. Daughter of Aenarion by his first wife, she had colluded with the princes at the First Council to deny Malekith his right to be Phoenix King. She would beg for mercy at the feet of the true ruler of Ulthuan, and admit that she had been wrong to oppose her half-brother.
“I can match the power of the Everqueen,” Morathi announced, smiling again, pleased with her conclusions. “When I take her magic from her and see her broken before me, all will recognise the ascendancy of the Naggarothi and the true queen of the elves. Draw together what forces you can, bring forth the Khainites and the beasts of the Annulii. Gather an army worthy of my command!”
The sky was choked with the burning of Avelorn. A pall of smoke covered the land from the mountains of Chrace to the Inner Sea. Driven on by Morathi, the army of Nagarythe scoured everything in its path, leaving a swathe of ruin through the realm of the Everqueen. Pushed hard by their queen, terrified of her reprisals for any delay, the Naggarothi princes and commanders swept aside all resistance.
As before, Yvraine stirred the forest to its own defence, but this time the Everqueen contended against the magic of Morathi and her cabal of the most powerful sorcerers and sorceresses. Against the dark incantations of the Naggarothi, the enchantments of Avelorn failed and like a blight spreading across a leaf the druchii advance continued.
Fearing the worst, Yvraine sent word to Caledor, reminding him of his duties to the Everqueen. The Phoenix King did not come, but sent Thyrinor and two other dragon princes with an army of ten thousand warriors, for the most part freshly trained troops begged from the eastern kingdoms. On the ships of Eataine, Thyrinor brought this host across the Inner Sea and landed on the coast of Avelorn ahead of the druchii advance. Here he was met, like his cousin and Carathril before him, by the Maiden Guard of the Everqueen. As then, Yvraine spoke through her chosen captain, Altharielie.
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