This duel of armies continued for several years as the druchii tested the resolve of the Phoenix King and his followers. Towns were burned and populaces driven out, but as soon as the army of Nagarythe was drawn elsewhere, Caledor would visit the devastated regions, showing unity with the people he ruled.
The Phoenix King remembered the question asked of him by Mianderin and knew that he had been afraid of fully becoming the ruler of Ulthuan. He had shunned his responsibilities, choosing to focus on the weaknesses of his allies rather than his own deficiencies as king.
Though still short of temper and curt of tongue, Caledor endeavoured not only to lead by example but to encourage those around him. In battle he was implacable, striking hard from the back of Maedrethnir, always at the forefront of the fighting. In the times when retreat was necessary he was there also, his presence bolstering the resolve of those whose homes would be burned, displaying his defiance for all to see.
As Caledor was the inspiration for Ulthuan’s defenders, Malekith was the driving force of the Naggarothi. None could match him in battle, for strength or sorcery. On occasion he would ride forth with Morathi and they would sweep all before them; Malekith with his disciplined veterans, Morathi with her wild cultists. The Witch King alone was worth ten companies of spears, and when he rode Sulekh to battle there was not an army to match him.
Four years after Malekith’s return, the summer was long and dry. The army of Nagarythe was encamped on the banks of the River Ilientath that bordered Chrace and Avelorn, and looked poised to strike into Cothique once again. Tiranoc was under druchii control, its defences much improved under the regime of the Witch King. Caledor mustered his army in Saphery, hoping to lure the Witch King into the kingdom of the mages, while ready to sail across the Inner Sea to Avelorn to come at Malekith’s advance from the rear. For the whole of the summer the two armies camped, separated by no more than ten days’ marching; for the whole of the summer neither the Witch King nor the Phoenix King was willing to show his true intent.
As had been agreed in the pact between Caledor and his princes, Koradrel had left Chrace when the druchii had launched their latest attack. No prince was allowed to remain in an assaulted kingdom, lest they fall in battle or, worse, be taken prisoner and turned against their allies. Though many had never expected to become rulers, under Caledor the princes of Ulthuan had formed a close bond with each other, and the petty rivalries of the past had been forgotten, overshadowed by the common threat of the Naggarothi.
Caledor spent the hot afternoon relaxing alone in his pavilion, having invited his Chracian cousin to dine with him that evening. Riders and dragons patrolled the northern reaches of Saphery, ready to bring word of any movement from the enemy, and the Phoenix King was content that all was in order. Wary of complacency, he had spent the morning reviewing the dispositions of his forces, but could find no weakness that might be exploited by the Witch King.
The heat of the summer and a long, tense battle of wills had taken their toll on Caledor’s stamina. Having removed his armour, he dozed in his throne clad only in a loose robe of white, embroidered with the phoenix flames of Asuryan. He half-heard the shouts of the captains as they drilled their companies on the parade ground at the centre of the camp. There were clatters of plates and goblets as his servants prepared the adjoining chamber for the evening’s meal.
Still feel drowsy, the Phoenix King roused himself at the arrival of Koradrel and a few of his Chracian princes. Servants came in with trays of wine jugs and goblets, though Caledor ordered water be brought for him, fearing his thirst would make him drink too much.
The group moved to the banquet, which consisted of the finest fare Saphery had to offer. Caledor took little part in the idle conversation, content to allow the Chracians to swap well-worn hunting stories and gossip from Tor Achare. More wine flowed and a heated debate erupted as the princes argued over who had slain the most foes.
The evening had begun to cool the air and Caledor suggested that the party move outside. He had eaten little, as usual, but his guests appeared uninterested in the suggestion. Their earlier animation had dwindled and the Phoenix King noticed that Koradrel and the others were sluggish, their speech slurred. Acharion, one of Koradrel’s nephews, attempted a toast but stumbled as he stood, eventually collapsing to the ground, face red and swollen.
“Poison!” hissed Caledor, slapping the goblet from Koradrel’s hand as he raised it to his lips.
The Chracian ruler reacted slowly, turning his head with a confused expression.
“You spilled my drink, cousin,” he said, brow knotted, hand still halfway to his lips.
“The wine, it has been tainted,” said Caledor.
The Phoenix King turned to the three servants who stood at the far end of the table.
“Fetch the healers,” he demanded. “Who brought the wine?”
None of the servants answered. At first Caledor thought they had sneaked a sample of their master’s cask, but the notion was dispelled as all three reached into their robes and drew forth curved daggers. The Phoenix King saw the red glint of Khainite runes and the sheen of poison on the blades as the three advanced, two to his left and one to his right.
“Assassins!” roared Caledor, snatching up a carving knife from the carcass of a fowl.
The one to the right came first, blade flashing for Caledor’s throat. The Phoenix King ducked and lunged, his weapon passing harmlessly across the assassin’s chest as the elf stepped back. Caledor dropped and rolled to his right to avoid an attack from his left, sending a side table laden with fruit flying as he surged to his feet, the carving knife ringing against a dagger aimed at his gut.
Heart hammering, Caledor leapt onto the table, scattering dishes and plates, shards of broken crockery punching into his feet through his thin boots. The assassins broke apart, quickly surrounding him. Turning left and then right quickly, trying to keep all three in view, Caledor side-stepped to the foot of the table, towards the doorway.
Koradrel rose groggily to his feet, swinging a fist at the nearest assassin. The punch connected with the elf’s shoulder, sending him reeling into the side of the pavilion. Distracted, the attacker trying to circle behind Caledor was too slow as the Phoenix King whirled on his heel and drove a booted foot into the assassin’s face. The assassin snarled, blood dripping to his lip, and leapt up to the table.
The carving knife met the assassin’s chest, punching through ribs into lungs. The assassin’s momentum carried him into Caledor, knife blade nicking the Phoenix King’s chin as the dying elf’s weight bore him down into the serving dishes with a crash.
Pain flared along Caledor’s jaw. The wound had been minute, but the poison on the blade spread quickly, seizing the king’s tongue and throat. He gasped for breath as he pushed the assassin’s body from him and rolled off the table a moment before another dagger plunged into the wood.
There were shouts from the doorway as Caledor staggered towards it. The carving knife was still in the chest of the dead assassin and he was unarmed. He watched helplessly as the attacker floored by Koradrel jumped back to his feet and plunged his knife into the Chracian prince’s eye. Koradrel made no sound as he toppled backwards, head bouncing off the edge of a chair.
The Phoenix King felt like he was drowning. With a flailing arm he managed to seize a lamp from its chain and hurl it at the closest assassin, sending burning oil splashing across his attacker’s arm. His chest was growing tighter and tighter and his throat was raw. Dizziness made the pavilion spin and he was only dimly aware of shapes rushing past. They looked like beasts of the Annulii, white-furred with massive silver claws. Every breath rasping, Caledor managed to stagger out into the main part of the pavilion where more of the pale creatures were dashing in. He fell to his knees, choking, tasting blood.
Hands grabbed him and lifted him bodily into his throne. Another shape appeared and Caledor heard a calming whisper, though he did not comprehend the words being said. He felt hands on his face and w
armth replace the chill in his limbs. There was a golden light. He reached a hand towards it and felt soft skin.
“Rest,” said the quiet voice.
Caledor dimly recognised it as belonging to Thyriol. He slipped into a sleep, dreaming of bright meadows, though the skies above were tainted by storm clouds.
* * *
The attempt on Caledor’s life sent the army into turmoil. While the Phoenix King was caught up in a deep fever, Thyriol took charge, organising a thorough search of the camp. The bodies of three servants were found hidden in a copse of trees close to the river where the army took its water. Worse still, when the assassins were examined, they seemed identical to those elves that had been killed. Thyriol dispelled an enchantment that had been cast upon them and their faces reverted to their own, revealing the pale, harsh features of Naggarothi, cut with runes of disguise.
Distrust and paranoia ruled, verging on panic. All in the camp were potential suspects and new watch rotas were drawn up. Soldiers were swapped between companies and all were commanded to go about their duties in groups of at least ten. Thyriol enacted a curfew between dusk and dawn, save for the guard patrols which were reinforced to thirty-strong parties drawn from the White Lions and the Phoenix Guard, who were reckoned the most loyal warriors of all.
Scouts returned the next day, reporting that the druchii had broken camp. No doubt expecting the assassination to have succeeded, Malekith was making his move. With Caledor incapacitated and the army in dread, the princes quickly agreed that a retreat was the only option. Determined that no advantage would be gained by a hasty rout, the princes organised an orderly break of camp and a withdrawal southwards to the shore of the Inner Sea. Thyriol despatched messenger hawks to the Lothern fleet, asking for immediate help.
Attended to by healers and Thyriol, Caledor’s fever broke on the sixth day, but he was still weak from the poison. He was coherent only in brief snatches, but was able to add his endorsement to the princes’ plan of retreat. The Naggarothi came east through the ruin of Avelorn, marching hard for Saphery.
The princes had no choice but to split the army; to wait for enough ships to evacuate all of the king’s warriors risked being caught by the swiftly advancing army of Malekith. Thyriol took Caledor and a quarter of the troops east, summoning the city of Saphethion to provide sanctuary. Half of the army continued south, before crossing the mountains into Yvresse. The remaining force, acting as a rearguard, awaited the arrival of a fleet from Lothern.
Too few ships arrived to take all of the troops that had been left behind. Tithrain, who had volunteered to remain as commander of the rearguard, ordered that lots be drawn to find out who could embark. To their credit, every elf in the small army refused, their commanders passing on the message that they would all live together or die together. Mindful of Caledor’s decree that no prince be slain or captured, Tithrain was in two minds whether to remain with his troops or leave with the ships.
Tithrain elected to stay, determined that he would not abandon his people again. The army spent what time it had fortifying the shoreline. Repeater bolt throwers were brought from the ships to create defensive batteries, and every spare plank, mast and spar was used to construct ramparts along the grassy dunes that lined the beaches. Trenches were dug and filled with oil from the ships’ lanterns and stores, ready to be set alight.
When the scouts reported that the druchii were only a day away, Tithrain ordered a feast dedicated to Asuryan. All of the food left with the army was cooked and prepared and the tables sagged with the weight of it, brought out under the sun for the banquet. The prince of Cothique laughed and joked, saying that he would rather such fine food was not left to the Naggarothi, whose palates could not appreciate its quality.
Beneath the jollity was a current of fear. Smiles were strained and the conversation purposefully light-hearted. Yet as the day wore into evening, there were many in the army who set down to compose their death poems, or sang mournful dirges, accompanied by sombre pipes and lyres.
As the soldiers settled down to sleep their final sleep, Tithrain walked about the camp. There was an air of calm, the army resigned to its fate. He walked to the shore and stared at the dark expanse of water, the stars in the clear skies reflected in the rippling waters.
He was about to leave and return to his pavilion when he saw a light far out from the shore. At first he took it to be a shooting star, as the light seemed to move across the sky. Then another appeared, and another, shining white and red and blue, and growing brighter as he watched.
Soon there was a swathe of bobbing stars, of every colour of the rainbow. Tithrain wondered if he was asleep and dreaming. A shout from the warships at anchor not far from the beach attracted his attention.
“Sail to the west!” The cry was taken up from every masthead.
In the moonlight and glow of their lamps, a flotilla of small vessels approached the shore. Fishing boats and traders, coastal barges and oar-propelled scows appeared out of the darkness. There were dozens of them, and even more lights were coming nearer.
Something blotted out the stars above and Tithrain caught the distinctive crack of a dragon’s wing beats. The monster dropped down to the beach, the draught of its landing kicking up a storm of sand. Tithrain stared in surprise at the golden-armoured figure upon its back.
“Stop staring and rouse your troops,” the Phoenix King shouted down to the stunned prince. “There is no time to waste.”
As the word spread through the camp and the small ships beached to take on as many warriors as they could, their crews explained that Caledor had been racing up and down the Sapherian coast, entreating every village and town to put any ship it could claim onto the water. The larger vessels towed small boats, some of them holding only half a dozen elves, and it was a slow process to bring them up to the beach, which was not large enough for the boats all to land at the same time.
Dawn was tinging the horizon and the blaring of the druchii horns could be heard. There were still nearly two thousand warriors to embark. Naedrein, a captain of Cothique who had survived the Khainite purges, approached Tithrain and Caledor.
“My company will man the bolt throwers,” he said. “We will hold back the druchii and give the others time to get away.”
“You will not survive,” replied Caledor. “Are you sure you wish to do this?”
“We are sworn to it,” said Naedrein. “All of us lost loved ones to the druchii scum. We consider a score requires settling.”
“It is an honour to have such warriors fighting with me,” said Tithrain. “Hold them for as long as you can, and watch for Malekith. He will make short work of the defences if you allow him to approach.”
“If we are lucky, we might even kill that accursed dragon of his,” said the captain.
He raised his sword in salute, the gesture returned by the prince and king, and marched away.
“Kill as many as you can!” Caledor called after him.
Naedrein and his warriors were as good as their word. While the sun was still rising, the sound of the bolt throwers was carried along the shore.
“Perhaps we should help them,” Maedrethnir said to Caledor. “Those elves will not hold back Malekith for long.”
“If we fight the Witch King, we will die,” Caledor replied. “That cannot happen.”
“You consider yourself too important to risk battle?” said the dragon, a note of disapproval in his deep voice.
“That is one reason,” said Caledor.
“And the other?” asked Maedrethnir.
“I have no desire to die,” the Phoenix King admitted. “Not without good purpose.”
The dragon rumbled with laughter and took to the air, carrying Caledor up to where he could see the advancing druchii and his own followers. The last of the small vessels were sailing away and the remaining troops were being shuttled to the warships by boat. It was clear that the last of them would be aboard before the druchii reached the shore, but the Inner Sea was no barrier
to the Witch King and his mount. There was still considerable harm that could be suffered.
Looking at the enemy army, the Phoenix King realised his concerns were misplaced. Malekith held back, the dark shape of his dragon looming behind the massed ranks of infantry that advanced on the beach, wary of the bolt throwers.
“I am not the only one that wishes to live,” Caledor remarked.
* * *
The assassination attempt and subsequent retreat shook the confidence of the princes and Caledor had to work hard to keep them sworn to his strategy. The loss of Koradrel was also a bitter, personal blow. So far the druchii had claimed Caledor’s brother and two of his cousins, as well as a number of more distant family from Caledor and other kingdoms. A memorial was held for the dead Chracian prince, and his body interred in the mausoleum at Lothern until Chrace could again be secured.
There was no obvious successor to wield Achillar, and Caledor feared that infighting over the rulership of Chrace would bring more turmoil. It was with some surprise that he received a visit from the most powerful claimants, all three distant cousins of the Phoenix King. They presented Caledor with an agreement that they had all signed, along with many other nobles of Chrace, nominating Caledor to be bestowed the title of regent in the absence of any clear claimant. The Phoenix King duly accepted, and just as swiftly chose Thuriantis, the oldest cousin, to be his representative in Tor Achare.
“If only we could all be so pragmatic,” remarked Thyriol when Caledor related this meeting to the mage at the next gathering of the council.
The attack in Saphery was only the first of several such incidents over the following years. Ambushes were laid to waylay Caledor as he travelled between the kingdoms, and there were more attempts to poison him. Despite every precaution the guile of the Khainite killers, and Malekith’s determination to see the Phoenix King slain, meant that he was in constant danger. The cults, though much diminished in size and power, still had their agents and networks, and the only place Caledor felt truly safe was on the back of Maedrethnir or during his infrequent returns to Tor Caled.
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