[Sundering 02] - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  A mass of black conical tents encircled an immense pyre, in the light of which Alith saw cavorting figures, their shadows flickering upon earth slick with blood. Figures flailed and cried out in agony upon the flames. Alith saw a huddled mass of elves bound with spiked chains, kicked and tormented by their captors.

  As he watched, one of the prisoners was taken from the group and dragged crying towards the pyre. There she was tossed to the ground at the feet of a male elf stripped but for a daemonic metal mask and ragged loincloth made of skin. Alith recognised him immediately for what he was—a high priest of Khaine, the Lord of Murder. He held a long blade in his hand, shockingly similar to the one Elthyrior had been sharpening, and for a moment Alith feared that the raven herald had led him astray. However, the elf in the mask was taller than Elthyrior, his hair dyed white and beaded with raw bone.

  Alith watched reluctantly as the priest’s victim was dragged to her feet. The Khainite slashed her across the arms and chest and cultists hurried forwards with bowls made from skulls to fill with the blood that spilt from the wounds. They clawed and bit at each other as they tried to catch as much as possible, before raising the obscene cups to their lips and taking deep draughts.

  Weak, the captive fell to her knees. The priest grabbed a handful of her hair and cut the skin from her scalp, tossing the bloody trophy onto a pile behind him. Screaming in pain, the maiden was again hauled to her feet, her feeble struggle no match for her captors as she was spitted upon a spear and driven into the fire. Another great cheer rose up from the camp, chilling in its adoration of the slaughter.

  “We cannot see them all from here,” said Anadriel, an elf-maiden who Alith had known for as long as he could remember. For years she had helped those who had displeased Morathi escape the clutches of the cults and brought them to Elanardris. Her sharp features were set impassively, and Alith could only guess how many times before she had witnessed the horrors unfolding below. “We need to move closer.”

  Eothlir nodded, signalling for Anadriel to lead the way. They followed a snaking trail down the hillside, plunging into a grove of trees. Anadriel led them surely between the thin trunks, heading for the light of the fires.

  All of a sudden she stopped, her bow in hand and an arrow ready. Alith glanced ahead and saw two figures silhouetted against the firelight. He slowly bent an arrow to his bow and joined Anadriel, glancing to the left and right to see if there were any others close at hand.

  “You take the one on the left,” she said, her eyes fixed on the staggering cultists, a male and a female. It was clear what the couple intended, and disgust welled up inside Alith as he watched the pair trot hand in hand into the woods, their bodies smeared with blood.

  “Now,” sighed Anadriel and Alith let go the bowstring. The arrow sped surely between the tree trunks and took the male elf in the throat. Anadriel’s shaft hit the eye of his companion. Both fell without a sound. Undiscovered, the party moved forwards again until they were hidden in the shadows of the tents.

  Alith turned at the sound of metal scraping and a brief, wet noise. His father had a cultist’s body cradled in one arm, his knife bloody in the other hand.

  “Swiftly, the distraction of the ceremony will not last forever,” said Eothlir, lowering the corpse to the ground and dragging it further into the darkness.

  They made their way stealthily through the tents until the words of the high priest could be clearly heard. Eothlir despatched Anadriel and Lotherin to the left and right to count the enemy’s number.

  Alith felt a hand on his arm and realised that he had made to stand, his bow in hand. Eothlir gave him a shake of the head.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow we make them pay.”

  “What of those yet to be sacrificed?” demanded Alith. He felt an almost physical pain at the thought of what was about to happen. Eothlir simply shook his head again, eyes averted.

  Alith forced himself to listen to the tirade of hatred spilling from the high priest.

  “Hearken to me, the Herald of Khaine. As the libations of the King of Blood pour over us, let us remember that which Khaine calls upon us to do. Cast out the impure and make testament to their weakness with the offerings of their flesh. Raise your voices in praise of their deaths, and take strength from the Lord of Murder so that you might strike down those who would scorn our bloody master!”

  A vicious baying and howling welled up from the assembled elves. The high priest raised his left hand above his head and in the grip of his fist a gory heart dripped blood down his arm.

  “Mighty Khaine, look upon these offerings and be placated. Grant us your power so that we can slay the traitor who has disowned you, and slaughter his misguided followers upon the pyres of your glory.”

  More screeching accompanied this proclamation as the cultists worked themselves into a shrieking horde.

  “Let he who has turned his back upon you be cut down and his organs thrown upon the fires in repentance for his misdeeds. Let the ill-begotten heir of your chosen son perish in the ashes of vengeance. Let crimson retribution spill from his corpse to wash away the perfidies of his deeds.”

  The priest tossed the heart into the crowds, who fought over their prize like a pack of wild dogs. The Herald of Khaine’s voice was calmer though it still carried easily across his followers.

  “We are many, they are few,” he told the Khainites. “Even now the hated foe thinks he is on the brink of victory. Little does he suspect the agony that awaits. His is a false victory, devoid of Khaine’s blessings. Even as he rejoices in his empty triumph, he crows at the heart of a trap. None shall leave Ealith alive. Death to Malekith!”

  “Death to Malekith!” chorused the crowd, at the crescendo of their frenzy, slashing at their chests and arms with daggers, matting their hair with their own gore. The mob descended upon the remaining captives. Alith turned away, filled with a mixture of loathing and dread. The blood-curdling cries of the Khainites reverberated around the camp, thousands of voices raised in bloodthirsty praise that made Alith’s skin crawl. The wind gusted towards him and the stench of charring flesh wafted between the tents, causing him to gag.

  There was a flutter of shadows to the left and Lotherin returned, his face grim. Alith noticed a cut upon his cheek and blood upon his hands.

  “Ten thousand Khainites, perhaps many more,” Lotherin told Eothlir. “There is a further camp to the west, where there are trained warriors of Anlec: perhaps another five thousand spears and bows.”

  Eothlir nodded at this news, his expression distant. Anadriel rejoined them shortly after and confirmed Lotherin’s estimate. There were several thousand cultists attending the rituals and many thousands more scattered across the camp in narcotic stupors.

  “I have seen enough,” said Eothlir, signalling for them to move back out of the camp. “Tomorrow we must be ready for battle.”

  Alith prowled his grandfather’s tent like a trapped wolf, pacing back and forth as he listened to the army commanders making their plans. The words of Elthyrior gnawed at him, their sinister warning vague but nagging. As Eoloran outlined the disposition of the Anars’ companies, Alith’s exasperation took hold.

  “Wait!” he barked, and suddenly felt the stares of the others fall upon him. He calmed himself before continuing, looking directly at his father. “You heard the words of the Herald of Khaine. Malekith is trapped at Ealith and we cannot hope to reach him. What purpose do we serve by throwing ourselves into the grip of our foes?”

  “What other course would you suggest?” asked Caenthras, his voice cold with scorn. “To slink back to the mountains to await Morathi’s ire? We must push forwards and link up with Prince Malekith, unite our strength.”

  “And if that strength is spent in this one fruitless endeavour?” countered Alith, trying to present himself as reasoned rather than fearful though the elven lord’s anger had shaken him. “On a hunt, one might get a single shot to fell the prey. The hunter learns when to shoot and when to wait. If we l
oose our shaft too soon, our target knows us and can react.”

  “And if one dithers, the opportunity for the killing strike may be missed,” growled Caenthras. He took a breath and cast his gaze at Eoloran, who was scowling at the noble’s outburst, before returning his stare to Alith. “Forgive my anger, Alith. For long years we have waited, seeking the moment when we can attack. To hesitate invites disaster. I would not be content to sit in my hall and see that moment pass by, nagged by doubts that we stood idle when we should have acted. And on what would we base our strategy? The boastful rhetoric of an intoxicated priest? We cannot be sure that Malekith’s position is as forlorn as the Herald of Khaine would have his followers believe.”

  Alith smarted at the intimation in Caenthras’ words but held his retort, knowing that Elthyrior had presaged the Herald of Khaine’s words but unable to reveal this knowledge. Caenthras turned his attention back to Eoloran and rested his fists upon the table on which the map charts were spread.

  “Though perhaps we cannot aid Malekith directly, we can still help. An attack now will distract the foe, drawing the eyes of some away from the prince. If we do nothing, the thousands that camp north of us will march on Malekith’s position, closing the trap. Should we not intervene? Should we not do what we can to weaken that trap?”

  “Your strategy has merit,” said Eoloran. “The fewer forces Malekith must face, the better his chances for escape.”

  “I have another fear,” added Alith. “Who guards Elanardris while we fight here? Who is to say that Morathi’s next blow will not fall upon our homes rather than us? What victory is there to win tomorrow only to return to our lands to find them in the clutches of our enemies?”

  This argument bit home and a look of anguish passed across Eoloran’s face. His gaze flickered between Alith and Caenthras, and then rested upon Eothlir.

  “My son, this is not my decision alone,” Eoloran said heavily. “Though I am lord of the Anars, I am steward for their future under your rule. You have been silent. I would hear what you have to say.”

  “Give me a moment to think,” said Eothlir.

  He walked slowly from the pavilion and left the others in silence. Caenthras pored over the charts on the table, avoiding the gazes of others, while Alith took up a stool and sat to one side. The quiet was heavy with anxiety and Alith longed to leave, having said his piece. He forced himself to remain, though he could sense the resentment of some of the elves present, not least Caenthras. Fearful of alienating the father of the one he loved, part of Alith hoped that Eothlir judged in Caenthras’ favour and would allow Alith to make amends. Though Caenthras had seemed supportive before, Alith did not know how the proud elf would take the decision going against him.

  The tent flap opened with a snap and all looked up. There was purpose written on Eothlir’s face.

  “We fight,” he declared. “We cannot stand by while atrocity is committed, though only fate knows at what price. The crimes of the cultists cannot go unpunished. For good or ill, there is a time when we must look to others and a time when we must look to our own. Prince Malekith must be restored to the throne for the future of Nagarythe and we must play whatever part we can.”

  “I concur,” said Eoloran. “Tomorrow we slay the Khainites and then we shall look again at what course of action we must take. Are we agreed?”

  Caenthras nodded his assent immediately. Alith stood slowly and looked at his father and grandfather.

  “None will fight harder than I,” he declared. “We will avenge.”

  With the dawn sun glinting on speartips and armour, the army of the Anars broke camp and marched north. It was Eoloran’s strategy to come upon the cultists as swiftly as possible, before they moved further west towards Malekith at Ealith.

  The Khainites would be ill-disciplined and eager to attack, so the lord of the Anars split his host into three parts. At the fore he sent swift-moving scouts who would circle to the flanks of the enemy and remain out of sight until the battle began. Alith was tasked with leading the right wing of this attack while Anadriel commanded the left. Eoloran was very specific that these flanking forces would target the disciplined Anlec warriors and draw them out of the camp. It was imperative that they were pulled away from the main fighting line but were not allowed to engage the scouts directly. Alith was to withdraw as soon as the enemy came close, dragging their foes away from the Khainites.

  Meanwhile, Eothlir and the spear companies would form the main advance to take up a defensive position on the hills overlooking the enemy camp. The remaining archers, under Eoloran, would rain down their arrows upon the cultists and goad them into an unfavourable attack up the slopes.

  Alith was tense with anxiety and excitement as he marched northwards at the head of five hundred elves. The rugged terrain and dawn twilight concealed the force and soon they moved out of sight of the main part of the Anar host. Alith realised that this was real and not some story; that he was in charge of a company of elves marching into battle. Unlike his grandfather and father he had never commanded other elves, and the experience was very different to the lone hunts he enjoyed so much. For the first time he truly felt as a lord of the Anars, gripped equally by the glory and the heavy responsibility.

  His thoughts turned to Elanardris and his mother, knowing that she would be at the manse wondering what became of her family. He was determined to return with pride. His mind swiftly moved to Ashniel. Would she be impressed? Alith was convinced that she would be. She adored her warrior-father, and Alith’s experience in battle would surely increase his standing in her eyes.

  As the sun rose and the scouts moved swiftly north, Alith allowed himself to daydream a little, picturing the scene of his triumphant return. Ashniel would be stood on the steps of the porch at the manse, a flowing dress tugged by the breeze, her hair streaming. Alith would run up the long path and they would embrace, her tears of joy wet on his cheeks. So gripping was the fantasy that Alith stubbed his toe on a rock, bringing him back to the present in a flash of pain. Chiding himself for his immaturity, Alith checked on his warriors and saw that none had seen his stumble, or were polite enough to feign disinterest. Realising that soon he would need all of his focus and skill, Alith gritted his teeth, gripped his bow tighter and strode onwards.

  The thoughts of Alith’s father were very different. He was no stranger to battle, having spent several hundred years in the colonies before returning to Elanardris to start a family. This time was different. His army did not face savage orcs and goblins or bestial creatures from the dark forests of Elthin Arvan; his foe this day was one he had never thought he would face. Even in the dark times that had shrouded the latter years of Morathi’s rule, Eothlir had never envisaged fighting against his own people. The fight at the manse had been instinctual, reacting to attack. Now he found himself leading several thousand of his subjects to purposefully slay other elves.

  The thought was disquieting, not least because Eothlir felt no inevitability about the battle ahead. He could have convinced his father to return to Elanardris with their weapons still sheathed, but he had chosen not to. As the tramp of booted feet sounded around him, Eothlir was perturbed by the notion that he wanted this conflict. He worried that the same desire for bloodshed that drove the Khainites to their depraved acts nestled somewhere in the dark recesses of his spirit.

  His concerns brought to mind a tale his father had once told him. Eoloran had only spoken of the event once and refused to be drawn on it again. The event Eoloran had related had taken place shortly after the Phoenix King had drawn the Widowmaker from the altar of Khaine, the infamous weapon that was said to hold the power to slay gods and destroy armies. Eoloran always refused to speak of the Sword of Khaine by name, often calling it simply the Doom or “that infernal blade”. There would be a haunted look in his eye as he spoke of the Widowmaker, a distant memory of sights that Eothlir would never see, even in nightmare.

  The particular story recalled by Eothlir concerned fighting at Ealith, the same
fortress that Malekith currently held. A great army of daemons had appeared in the mountains and swept down across the hills, over the lands that would one day be ruled by the Anars. The raven heralds, Aenarion’s swift-moving eyes and ears, had brought word to the Phoenix King at Anlec and he had set forth with his host to confront the legion of Chaos.

  At Ealith Aenarion made his stand and during an endless night of fighting through which the skies shimmered with ghostly lights and the ground itself burned underfoot, the daemons hurled themselves at the citadel’s walls. Though the greater part of the Chaotic host was destroyed, Aenarion was intent on their utter annihilation. Atop his great dragon Indraugnir, the Phoenix King led his army from the fortress, Caledor the Mage at his side, Eoloran and a hundred other great princes behind him. Eoloran had described the battle-fever that had gripped him, the jubilant singing of Khaine that rang in his ears from “that infernal blade”. He remembered nothing else but the constant slash of sword and thrust of spear, and a joyous love of death in his heart.

  Eoloran had spoken of that time with shame, though the cause in which he had slain with such happiness and abandon had been the most righteous: the survival of the elves. Eothlir could never truly understand what the war against the daemons had meant for an entire generation, but if the self-loathing he felt was but a tenth of their woe he could imagine the honors that disturbed their dreams.

  Another memory came to mind, much more recent: the recollection of the Herald of Khaine’s vile sermon and the sacrifices heaped upon the pyre. Unless Eothlir would see such slaughter across all of Ulthuan, this blight had to be stopped. It had consumed Nagarythe and it was clear to Eothlir that such barbarity would spread if left unchecked. The thought fortified his resolve and so he pushed aside his worries until a time when he could allow himself the luxury of doubt and compassion. He realised he must fight without joy or anger, for such temptations could awaken the ancient call of Khaine that still rang down through the centuries from the time of Aenarion.