03 - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  The pyre raged some distance away, so hot Hellebron could feel its flames on her skin though it was more than a bowshot from her. The column of smoke and fire reached high into the heavens, taking the spirits of the sacrificed to the Lord of Murder. Hellebron felt a thrill of exultation as she looked at the massive pyre and thought of the hundreds that had already been slain. Thousands more would come, until all of Cothique had fallen beneath the Khainites’ blades.

  The kingdom was ample reward for her slaying of the so-called Shadow King. It was recompense for the death of her sister at the hands of the Anar prince. More than that, it was recognition for her deeds in the cult of Khaine, and had come with praise from the lips of Morathi. Hellebron had savoured every plaudit, basking in the adulation of the assembled commanders and princes as Morathi had listed Hellebron’s achievements as an example to them all.

  She had returned to the waiting fleet as swiftly as a ship could take her, accompanying her father Prince Alandrian. In name, the army was his, the dispossessed host of Athel Toralien, but Hellebron knew they belonged to her in spirit. Through the long years of siege endured by her home city in the colonies, she had inculcated the populace into the ways of Khaine. As the forces arrayed against them had grown, the people of Athel Toralien had embraced the Bloody-Handed One.

  The other elves of the colonies had shown their weakness of spirit, and had fallen at the walls of the city time after time, their bodies recovered so that they might be offered up to the Lord of Murder in thanks for His protection of Athel Toralien. Those attackers who reached the ramparts had been taken prisoner, and their long screams had kept the besiegers awake at nights while the elves in the city celebrated in the name of their bloodthirsty deity.

  At first Hellebron had been distraught when Alandrian had informed her and Lileath that they were to surrender Athel Toralien to their enemies. Only when she learnt that the city was to be razed and the entire populace return to Ulthuan was Hellebron pleased. The Athel Toraliens had proven themselves even stronger than Nagarythe, and now returned to their ancestral home to aid the princes and captains that had once looked down upon them.

  Smiling from the memory, Hellebron joined her personal guard. Their captain was Liannin, once maidservant to Hellebron, now the fiercest of her followers. The three hundred warrior-women Hellebron called the Brides of Khaine had been the first off the ships, falling upon Cothique like a bloody storm.

  Skilled in Khaine’s deadliest arts, Hellebron’s guard were naked save for a few scraps of cloth and metal, eschewing armour in favour of speed, trusting to kill before they were killed, demonstrating their faith in Khaine’s protection. Their hair was styled with elaborate spikes and braids, held in place with matted gore. Their pale flesh was tattooed and branded with runes of devotion to Khaine, and their lips reddened from drinking blood. Many had glazed eyes, chewing narcotic leaves that left them impervious to pain, and all proudly showed their scars of battle, their old wounds painted with elaborate designs to attract attention. In battle they took other drugs to drive themselves into a frenzy, and using the secrets taught to them by Hellebron and her late sister they coated their blades in the deadliest poisons. In Athel Toralien they had been the scourge of the attackers, fighting where the battle was fiercest. In Cothique they had yet to test themselves, a fact that rankled them.

  “When will we face an enemy of worth?” asked Liannin. She rested her hands on the twin swords scabbarded at her waist and licked her lips, savouring the blood spattered on them. “Khaine is forced to feed on peasants.”

  “When the fires of Khaine can be seen from Caledor’s throne room, the Phoenix King will be forced to come,” replied Hellebron. “When the screams of Khaine’s sacrifices can be heard at the Shrine of Asuryan, Caledor will have to face us.”

  “Until then?” said Liannin.

  “Until then, Khaine will lap up such scraps as we can throw Him,” said Hellebron. “Refugees have been seen hiding in caves, in the hills to the west. Several hundred of them. Take them alive if you can. If not, slay them with the name of Khaine upon your lips.”

  ——

  The Hammer of Vaul

  From outside the tent came the muted sound of weeping; inside the pavilion the grief and anger of those who had escaped Cothique was much louder. A handful of princes and nobles had escaped the kingdom with their households, before the routes out of the kingdom had been cut off by the druchii. Tears streaked Tithrain’s face as he listened to the impassioned pleas of the dispossessed, while Caledor looked on impassively, keeping his own thoughts to himself. Tithrain had done the right thing and obeyed the Phoenix King’s command, bringing three thousand knights and infantry south into Yvresse to join Caledor’s army. More troops came from further afield, swelling the camp that occupied a stretch of land between the forested hills of the Annulii and the Great Ocean.

  “We cannot return,” Tithrain answered those who pleaded for the prince to save those trapped in Cothique. “We should die also in the attempt, and our cause would be no better for it.”

  “We sent warriors to the other kingdoms,” argued one of the nobles, his gaze on Tithrain but his words directed at Caledor. “Where now is the pact we made to fight together?”

  “Cothique will be liberated,” said Tithrain. He glanced at Caledor and received a nod of agreement. “You have my oath on that. The Sea Guard of Lothern will join us shortly, with a large part of the fleet of Eataine. Another army gathers on the Ellyrian shore, ready for the march to Lothern.”

  “That will take too long,” said another elf, his fine robes tattered by hasty retreat. “It has been almost half a year since the druchii arrived. Why can these reinforcements not sail across the Inner Sea?”

  “Saphery is no longer safe,” said Tithrain. “The druchii have spies everywhere, and it would be best that they do not realise we weaken our guard in the west.”

  “Our people bleed and die, while you do nothing!” This shrill accusation came from an aging elf lady, who pointed a finger at Caledor. “You just sit there and do nothing.”

  The Phoenix King had heard enough complaints to last a lifetime.

  “Who was it that did nothing when first I called for aid?” Caledor snapped, rising from his chair. “I told you to give me an army and was told that there was none that could fight. Do not blame me for the consequences of your own inaction.”

  The lady was silenced by the outburst, but the noble who had first spoken took up her cause.

  “With what would we fight?” he said. “Goblets and forks? We were promised weapons, armour. Where are they?”

  Caledor frowned, surprised by the question.

  “The forges of Vaul burn day and night to equip our armies,” said the Phoenix King. “Shipments leave for every kingdom with each new moon.”

  This was answered by a barrage of questions and denials.

  “No shipments have arrived in more than three years,” said Tithrain, waving for his people to quieten. “We thought perhaps that they went to other kingdoms.”

  “That is not right,” said Caledor, shaking his head. “Hotek assured me that all who wished it would receive helm and shield, spear and scale.”

  “Perhaps they were waylaid by the enemy?” suggested Tithrain. “The arms did not reach Cothique.”

  “For three years?” said one of the nobles with a derisive snort. “It was an empty promise, admit it!”

  “Leave me,” said the king, sitting down, chin in hand.

  There were a few quiet protests, quickly stilled by Tithrain. The prince led his people out of the tent, casting a worried glance back at the Phoenix King at the door.

  “What does this mean?” asked the young prince.

  “Nothing good,” replied Caledor.

  When he was alone, the Phoenix King summoned Carathril and dictated a letter to Hotek, instructing the high priest of Vaul to meet him in Tor Caled to explain the discrepancy. Another letter he sent to Dorien, informing his brother that he would
return shortly and to expect Hotek’s arrival. He chose not to pass on the news of the missing shipments, fearing his brother would react for the worse.

  Before he could depart, Caledor had to make sure that Yvresse was free from threat. The border with Cothique was narrow, flanked by the mountains and the sea. The terrain had allowed the druchii to seize the kingdom with relative ease, but also made the route into the neighbouring kingdom predictable and simple to guard. As long as Thyriol held sway over Saphery and the Lothern fleet protected the Shifting Isles that stretched from the Yvressian coast, the druchii could not launch a surprise attack.

  Not that Caledor expected any further offence soon. From the reports of the lucky few who had crossed the border since the new invasion, the druchii were more concerned with subjugating those already within Cothique.

  The Phoenix King spent a considerable time with his commanders, making detailed dispositions for the army. The dragons were his greatest weapon, though far from all-powerful as had been demonstrated, and it was the princes of Caledor that would form a hard-hitting reserve, based in Yvresse. Should the druchii attempt to cross into Yvresse, the dragon riders would respond in strength while the rest of the loyal forces gathered to meet the threat.

  Confident that he could return to his kingdom to address the issue of the armaments, Caledor took flight on Maedrethnir. On his way to Caledor, the Phoenix King met with Thyriol in Saphery and Prince Aerethenis in Lothern. All was as well as could be expected. The dark mages had ravaged much of Saphery with their sorceries but had been driven into the mountains by those loyal to Thyriol. Aerethenis assured him that his fleet held the Inner Sea against any encroachment from northern Ellyrion or devastated Avelorn.

  There was little news from the west, which troubled the Phoenix King, but for the moment he was convinced the focus of the druchii was on Cothique. Diverting to Tor Elyr for several days, Caledor spoke with Finudel and Athielle, who kept watch on the druchii-held fortresses in the north and the keeps guarding the mountain passes. There was little activity to report and it seemed that for the moment the war had shifted to the east in its entirety.

  Worryingly, all of the princes spoke of receiving fewer weapons than had been promised, and none for some time. Caledor hoped that Hotek would offer reasonable explanation for the deficits—a shortage of ore perhaps—but he feared forces more sinister were at work, though he could not see in what way. If there were traitors in the Caledorian fleet he would have thought their treachery would have been revealed by now; the druchii sorely needed ships to contend with the vessels of Lothern.

  Finally coming to Tor Caled, the Phoenix King was greeted with little ceremony. Such warriors as might present a guard of honour were more gainfully employed patrolling the border with Tiranoc. Dorien met him with a handful of household servants and the two of them made their way to the throne room.

  “I feel like a caged animal,” said Dorien as Caledor settled into his throne. Retainers appeared with food and wine, but Caledor waved away the fare, concerned by his brother’s attitude.

  “I cannot be king unless I know Caledor is safe,” he replied. “I have entrusted its guardianship to you, because I know you will protect our lands before all other things.”

  “There is no war here,” complained Dorien. “There is not a whisper of battle from Tiranoc, and I sit idle. Finudel does not need my aid, and there are no cults to drive out. I am wasted here, Imrik, when I could be fighting in Cothique.”

  “When I am ready to drive the druchii from Cothique, I will call on you,” said the king, ignoring his brother’s use of his old name. “You are the first I would have fighting beside me.”

  “So why are you here and not leading your army into Cothique?” said Dorien, helping himself to some wine.

  “Has Hotek not yet arrived?” said the Phoenix King.

  “No, I have not seen him for more than a year,” replied Dorien. He noticed his brother’s grim expression and shared his frown. “Is something amiss?”

  “I do not know,” said Caledor. “The supply of weapons has dwindled. I summoned Hotek to meet me. He should have arrived by now.”

  “Perhaps his labours occupy him,” said Dorien. “He spoke to me of his desire to create the greatest artifices since the war against the daemons. He has forged several magical blades for the princes of Caledor.”

  “Whatever it is, it can wait for the moment,” said Caledor. “We will go to the shrine tomorrow. Tonight, I will spend with my family.”

  And so it was. Anatheria and Tythanir met the Phoenix King in his apartments. His wife’s welcome was genuinely affectionate, much to his surprise, though his son carried himself with polite aloofness.

  After a meal, the three of them sat on a balcony overlooking Tor Caled. For the first time in more than three years, Caledor wore robes instead of armour. He savoured the wine from his crystal goblet—a vintage from before the war—and enjoyed a brief moment of simple contentment before wider affairs crowded his thoughts again.

  “When do I learn the words of dragon-taming?” asked Tythanir.

  “When you are old enough,” replied Caledor.

  “I will reach my maturity in two years’ time,” said his son. “Dorien refuses to teach them to me. How will I be ready to join the war when I come of age if I do not know how to be a dragon prince?”

  “Dorien is right,” said Anatheria. “You are too young to think about such things.”

  “When I am an adult, you will have to teach me,” said Tythanir.

  “I am Phoenix King,” said Caledor, smiling grimly. “I do not have to do anything.”

  “And I am your heir,” replied Tythanir. “One day I will be Phoenix King. I learn the sword and spear and bow, and as a prince of Caledor I have the right to know the secrets of the dragons! Would you rather your successor knew nothing of war?”

  “The other princes will choose the next Phoenix King,” said Caledor. His smiled faded. “I could die in the next battle and you would certainly not be chosen. If you become king, welcome it. Do not expect or desire it. Look to the folly of Malekith if you feel otherwise.”

  “Nevertheless, I will one day rule Caledor, and it would be shameful if I was not a full dragon rider.”

  “You have still to master your weapons,” said Caledor. “Do not think yourself ready to fight.”

  “I shall be one of the greatest warriors in Ulthuan,” declared the young prince. “A leader does so by example.”

  “And so does a father,” said Caledor. “When you are old enough, I shall teach you the secrets of the dragons, but not before.”

  Annoyed, Tythanir excused himself and left the king and his wife looking over the city.

  “He is proud to be the son of the Phoenix King,” said Anatheria.

  “He should be proud to be a prince of Caledor above all other things,” the king replied. “No good comes of seeking high station.”

  “Do not hold him back with your own reluctance to rule,” replied his wife. “Ambition is not always the same as greed.”

  “It matters little,” said Caledor. “I strive for victory, but it is not close. A year from now, who can say how the world will be? I cannot see tomorrow, and Tythanir’s future is a long way away.”

  “Do not be disheartened,” said Anatheria. She moved from her chair to sit on the couch beside Caledor, laying a hand on his knee. “I spoke with Carathril and he told me of what happens in Cothique. It is not your fault that the people suffer. You did the right thing.”

  “I know that,” said Caledor. “I do not regret my decision.”

  “And if Athel Toralien has fallen, you can expect reinforcements from the colonies.”

  “They have not yet arrived,” said Caledor. “The only cause for delay can be reluctance. I fear that with the Naggarothi driven from Elthin Arvan, the leaders of the other cities are not so concerned with the fate of Ulthuan.”

  “As king you must make it their concern,” said Anatheria.

  Caledo
r nodded in half-hearted fashion.

  “We shall see,” said the king. “Let us see what tomorrow brings.”

  Tomorrow brought an overcast sky and a chill wind as Dorien and Caledor flew south to Vaul’s Anvil, greatest shrine to the crippled Smith God of the elves. The evening was settling fast when Caledor saw a bright fire in the distance. Situated at the very end of the Dragon Spine range, separated by a wide valley from the rest of the mountains, a solitary peak cast its shadow over the water’s edge, shrouded with cloud and fume. To the northern slope the dragons turned, where steps were carved into the black rock, winding back and forth up the steep incline leading to a carved opening flanked by two gigantic pillars. Atop the columns were statues of bent-legged Vaul; on the left the god of craftsmen laboured over an anvil, a hammer of thunderbolts in his hand; on the right he was bound in chains, weeping over the Sword of Khaine he had forged.

  Before these pillars landed the dragons. Their arrival did not go unnoticed, and acolytes garbed in heavy aprons and thick gloves came out of the shrine’s opening to assist the dragon princes in dismounting.

  “Your arrival is unexpected,” said one of the young elves, his undamaged eyes wide with surprise. “Is it Hotek you seek?”

  “It is,” said Caledor. “Take us to him.”

  “He is busy at the moment,” replied the acolyte. “He and the principal smiths have been working hard in the inner sanctum. I shall send word that you are here.”

  Caledor permitted himself and Dorien to be led into the caves of the shrine. They were taken to a side chamber whose smooth rock walls were covered with thick tapestries showing the various labours of Vaul and his priests forging weapons for Aenarion. The sound of hammers rang through the bare corridors and the smell of sulphur tainted every breath.

  The two princes waited for some time, each keeping his thoughts unsaid, until they were stirred by the echo of raised voices. The words could not be discerned through the distortion of the shrine’s maze of chambers and tunnels, but there was anger in the tone.