No sooner had the words left his lips than a dark mass appeared in the gloom, quickly resolving into running figures. Thousands of Khainites poured up the slope, yelling and panting, wielding wicked daggers and swords with serrated blades. Their faces were twisted into leers of hatred and masks of total fury as they charged.
The cultists hurled themselves at the Anar spearmen, leaping from their feet a few paces distant and descending with flashing blades. Shields were raised to ward off the blows and the clash of metal echoed dully through the mist. Anar battle cries and praises to Khaine filled the air along with the chime of blades meeting.
Eothlir could not see clearly what was happening, but soon his concern was drawn directly ahead as more Khainites came rushing up the slope.
“Take prisoners if you can,” growled Eothlir. “My father would question those who plot with Morathi. Take the Herald of Khaine alive, if possible.”
The cultists were barely a dozen paces away and sprinting towards the Anars. Eothlir raised Cyarith in one hand and slipped a dagger from his belt with the other. When the cultists were no more than six paces away, the Anar prince leapt to the attack, Cyarith cutting the head from one Khainite while his knife slashed across the bare chest of another.
Dodging a blade aimed for his face, Eothlir parried another attack and drove the point of his sword into the throat of a third cultist. A moment later, the spearline crashed into the Khainites all around him, unleashing the chaos of battle.
The wall of speartips scythed down the foremost cultists and the Anars pressed on, stabbing with their spears and smashing aside their wounded foes with their shields. The controlled ferocity of the phalanx was more than a match for the raw aggression of the Khainites, who were thrust back by the counter-attack.
“Keep to the high ground!” bellowed Eothlir, worried that the momentum of the spearmen would carry them too far down the slope.
Keeping their line, Eothlir’s company backed off to the crest of the hill. The Khainites renewed their assault, ducking beneath the spears to hack at the legs of their enemy. Eothlir parried, chopped and slashed with Cyarith, cutting down any cultist that approached. The wounded of both sides were quickly mounting, as injured elves fell into the grass crying out in pain. The Khainites were unheeding of their losses and pushed on, driven by their bloodthirst. The spearmen were resolute in the face of the deranged murderers, stepping forwards to fill the holes in the line left by the fallen.
Caught in the maelstrom of blades and screams, Eothlir could do nothing but fight for his life. He chopped the arm from a raging cultist and drove his dagger into the groin of another. Blades shrieked from his armour as he punched a Khainite in the face, his gauntlet breaking bone. A wide swing with Cyarith severed the leg of yet another foe, who tumbled down the slope still screaming obscenities.
Eothlir felt a wave of dismay, almost like a chill breeze upon his flesh. It came from the right, accompanied by shrill cries of pain and lamenting wails. Cutting through more cultists, Eothlir pushed his way towards the disturbance. As he shouldered aside one of his own warriors, the melee opened up and Eothlir saw the Herald of Khaine.
The blood-drenched high priest was surrounded by a pile of several corpses, his long daggers held out to each side. Scarred runes upon his flesh burned with dark flame and his daemon mask writhed and snarled with magic. Leaving ghost-like red shadows in his wake, the priest leapt forwards and slashed with his right-hand blade, the dagger slicing clean through a shield and sending the arm holding it flying through the air. No blade or armour could hold against those Khaine-cursed daggers, and more elves fell to their wicked attentions in moments.
A spearman dragged himself to his feet behind the Herald of Khaine, leaning heavily on his weapon. With visible effort, the warrior thrust his spear into the priest’s back until the point lanced from his stomach.
The Herald of Khaine fell to his knees, but only for a moment. Surging upright, he turned, ripping the spear from the elf’s grasp. A hand flicked out and a dagger appeared in the spearman’s face, sending him screaming to the floor. Snapping the shaft transfixing him, the Herald of Khaine ripped free the spear and cast the two parts upon the ground. Blood gushed from the wound and spilled onto the ground at the priest’s feet.
“Accept this offering, my most beloved of lords!” the Herald cried out, lifting his bloodied hands into the air.
Black flame enveloped the Herald of Khaine’s fingertips, spread down his arms and then coruscated across the priest’s wounded body. His flesh cracked and burned, but as the flakes fell away they revealed untarnished skin, and the grievous wound was no more.
As the magical fire flickered and faltered, the Herald stepped forwards and stooped to pull his knife from the dead spearman. In moments the Herald was attacking again, cleaving a bloody path through the Anars’ warriors.
Eothlir slashed his way through the throng of cultists surging forwards in the gory wake of their leader. He cut at arms and legs, plunged Cyarith through breastbones and hewed through necks in a constant whirl of blades.
“Face a true son of Nagarythe!” roared the Anar prince as he burst from amongst the falling bodies of his foes.
The Herald of Khaine whirled to face Eothlir, white flame burning in the eyeholes of his mask. The glare of that unnatural gaze froze Eothlir with terror for it seemed as if he looked into the eyes of the Bloody-Handed God himself.
“Your agony will be most pleasing to my lord,” crowed the Herald, his voice harsh, edged with the ring of metal. “None triumph in battle without his blessing, and your fate is sealed.”
The Herald of Khaine dashed forwards, breaking the link between his eyes and Eothlir’s. Out of instinct, the prince ducked and threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding the priest’s daggers, which screamed as they cut the air.
Rolling to his feet, Eothlir knocked aside the next blow with the blade of Cyarith and lunged forwards with his knife. The Herald swayed away from the jab and backed off, stepping quickly on the balls of his feet. He wove his knives in a complex pattern, their fluid movement mesmerising. Eothlir kept his eyes fixed upon his opponent’s mask, ignoring the horror that crawled up his spine from the entwining sigil drawn in the air by the knife blades.
Eothlir dropped his left shoulder and then spun to the right, Cyarith flicking out to catch the wrist of the Herald. The priest’s hand spun through the air still clutching its baleful dagger. Eothlir jumped back as the Herald struck back as quick as a serpent, the tip of his knife flashing less than a finger’s width from Eothlir’s throat. Edging sideways, Eothlir looked for an opening to attack the Herald’s good arm, hoping to disarm him of the weapons that gave him so much power.
Just as he saw his opportunity, Caenthras dashed past, roaring with anger. He held his spear two-handed—Khiratoth, the Ruinclaw—and drove its point clean through the Herald’s chest. Blue fire erupted from Khiratoth, tearing the Herald of Khaine apart, the priest’s body exploding into a pall of smoke-wreathed destruction. Without a backwards glance, Caenthras charged through the dissipating remains of the priest and into the cultists, who had momentarily stopped their attack, dismayed at their leader’s demise.
Caught unawares by Caenthras’ sudden attack, Eothlir hesitated a moment, trying to clear his head. Though some cultists broke and ran from Caenthras, many crowded forwards, growling and snarling, hungry for vengeance. Eothlir gathered his nerve as the spearmen around him closed ranks and prepared to face a fresh assault.
* * *
Despite Alith’s best efforts, the Anlec host had pushed his scouts out of bowshot from the camp. The enemy stood just out of range, serried ranks of spearmen glowering from the opposite hilltop. The sun was nearing midday as the two forces faced off against each other, their commanders waiting to see what happened next.
“So, we have their attention, what do we do now?” asked Anraneir.
“Something is troubling me,” replied Alith, giving voice to a doubt that had been slowly growing
within. “I see bows and I see spears, but I see no horses. The armies of Anlec are based upon archers, spearmen and knights.”
“So, where are the knights?” asked Anraneir, looking over his shoulder as if to see enemy cavalry approaching at that moment.
“Perhaps the Khainites ate their steeds,” laughed Khillrallion.
“I would guess that they have moved ahead towards Ealith, to threaten Malekith,” said Alith.
“What if they return?” Khillrallion said with a grimace. “We cannot outrun knights.”
“We must remain here so that the Khainites receive no reinforcement,” said Alith. “For better or worse, there is little we can do about the situation. If we withdraw, the warriors will simply move south and attack my grandfather’s army.”
“It would be wise to have a plan for what happens if their cavalry show up,” said Anraneir.
Alith looked around, seeing only the scattered bushes and trees of the Annulii foothills. Though these were his family’s lands, he did not know them with the intimacy of the mountains. He might well have been in Saphery or Chrace for the little local knowledge he had.
“This might help,” said Anraneir, proffering a rolled-up parchment. Alith took it and let it fall open, revealing one of Eoloran’s maps.
“Where are we now?” asked Alith, wishing that he had paid more attention at the war council.
With a sigh, Anraneir pointed to the north-west and then to the map.
“Ealith lies that way, we’re on the edges of the foothills, here,” the scout explained. “If we need to hide from cavalry, I suggest the Athrian Vale, north and east of here. If enemy cavalry approach, we can be under the eaves before they’re upon us.”
“Provided that we get enough warning,” added Khillrallion.
“Good point,” said Alith. He nodded at Anraneir, handing back the map. “Take five scouts and head north to keep watch for unpleasant arrivals.”
Anraneir placed the map back in his pack and set off at a trot, calling out names. Alith tapped his fingers on the broad silver buckle of his belt, seemingly deep in thought. The spearmen opposite had remained in place and gave no sign that they intended to attack.
Alith turned suddenly towards Khillrallion.
“Any suggestions for what to do now?” asked Alith.
Khillrallion thought for a moment, a smile creeping across his lips.
“I know some good songs…”
Whoever commanded the Anlec force, Alith admired his patience, if not his loyalties. Noon came and went and the black-armoured warriors stood guard against an attack from the scouts, standing in silent ranks while the air grew hotter and hotter. It would have been foolish to chase the lightly-armoured elves, for there was no hope of catching them. Instead, the Anlec officer was content to wait. The enemy’s contentment unnerved Alith. He fretted that he was missing some kind of trick, and worried that his opponent knew something Alith did not—such as when the cavalry would be returning.
Every now and then, Alith led his scouts forwards a little way, shot some arrows at the Anlec ranks and then withdrew to a new position. He did this mainly out of boredom, though he justified it to himself with the notion that such harassment would be sapping the morale of his foes. The truth was that his scouts were left with perhaps half a dozen arrows each, and if the enemy decided to come after them there was little they could do except run.
As midday passed into mid-afternoon, Alith looked constantly to the south for some sign of his father and grandfather; he gazed to the north for warning of approaching cavalry. He was confident that the main force would be victorious over the Khainites, but as time passed he longed to see the banners of the Anars appearing over the hills.
“Look,” said Khillrallion, nodding to the south.
“Finally,” Alith sighed as he saw the telltale silvery shimmer of armoured warriors crossing a distant hilltop.
The enemy commander had also noted this development. Ignoring the scouts, his companies turned quickly southwards and deployed to meet this new enemy. Alith was about to give the order to close in behind the Anlec columns when a shout drew his attention to the north.
“Riders!” yelled Anraneir, running along a ridgeline to the north. “Hundreds of them!”
“North-east!” bellowed Alith, rising to his feet. “Run!”
The scouts sprinted down the slope, leaping nimbly over bushes and rocks. Keeping a swift but steady pace they headed towards the woods of Athrian Vale, casting glances to the north. Alith spied a cloud of dust on the horizon, growing nearer with some speed, though the riders themselves were yet hidden from view.
“Faster!” he urged his warriors, picking up speed.
* * *
The trees of Athrian Vale came into view as Alith reached the crest of a tall hill. In the vale below, a stream meandered down from the distant mountains. Slender pines crowded to the river’s banks and spread out across the deep valley where the waterway widened, an expanse of trees large enough to conceal the fleeing elves.
Alith could feel the ground trembling from thousands of hoofbeats, a rumbling that grew louder and louder as he sprinted towards the first few trees scattered around the border of the woods. The jingle of harnesses was audible too, as were shouts. Ducking beneath the branches of a tree, Alith risked a glance to his left and saw long lines of riders cresting a hill barely two hundred paces away.
Swathed in the dust thrown up by their galloping mounts, the riders appeared through the murk. These were not the sinister black-armoured knights of Anlec. They were dressed in bright blue and white, with armour of silvery mail. Their banners bore blazons of white horses and horses’ heads and their helms were decorated with gaily-coloured feathers.
“Ellyrians!” laughed Alith, sliding to a stop on the fine carpet of needles beneath the gloom of the trees. He knew not how they came to be here so far from home, but grinned widely at the sight. He turned and jogged back to the edge of the wood to watch the reaver knights of Ellyrion sweep down the hillside. Other scouts stood close at hand looking at the same spectacle.
The riders carried leaf-bladed spears in their hands and the bright tack of their steeds glinted in the sun. As they came closer, Alith could see their faces, and the sight sent a shiver running through his body. They were grim of expression as they lowered their spears for a charge. Others had bows in their hands and loosed arrows at the fall gallop, the shafts falling towards Alith and his scouts.
“Into the trees!” he yelled, bounding towards the nearest trunk and leaping up into the branches with the surefootedness of a cat. Climbing higher through the pricking needles, he ran to the end of one branch and crouched there.
“Friends!” he shouted out, cupping his hands to his mouth to be heard over the panting of steeds and the thunder of hooves. “Stay your weapons!”
Dozens of reavers converged upon the tree, bowstrings bent and arrows nocked. A knot of knights came forwards beneath a long pennant displaying a silver horse on a circle of blue, the banner decorated with a white mane.
“House Anar!” shouted Alith though he did not know whether the name would be of any import to the Ellyrians.
A rider with a golden helm topped with a horsehair crest rode from the circling elves, his spear couched beneath one arm, a gold shield embossed with a rearing stallion on the other.
“I am Prince Aneltain of Ellyrion,” the elf called out, shielding his eyes against the sun to peer at Alith.
“Alith Anar,” replied Alith, standing up warily. “Announce your allegiance and explain your presence in our lands.”
“I have sworn loyalty to the Phoenix King and have just this past night ridden to war alongside Prince Malekith, rightful ruler of Nagarythe. I head for the Pass of the Unicorn to take word back to Prince Finudel, my liege.”
Alith leapt nimbly from the branch and landed in the long grass not far from Aneltain. He raised a hand in welcome as the mounted elves closed in around him, circling menacingly.
“I a
m son of Eothlir, grandson of Eoloran Anar,” Alith announced. “We fight the same foe as you.”
Alith turned and pointed to the south.
“Even now, the warriors of House Anar fight the traitors of Anlec. Your presence would be most welcomed by my grandfather. Later you can tell us how Prince Malekith fares at Ealith.”
Aneltain leaned over and said something to one of his knights, who brought out a curling horn of gold and sounded a series of notes. At the ringing command, the Ellyrians broke away from the trees and formed into long columns once more, leaving Aneltain alone with Alith. The Ellyrian prince nudged his horse closer to Alith and bent down in the saddle to speak to him. Closer, Alith could see a fresh cut upon the prince’s cheek and the dirt of hard travelling on his cloak.
“Ealith was a trap,” Aneltain said with a woeful shake of the head. “Malekith retreats westwards to take ship at Galthyr. You would do well to return to your homes. We will speak more of this once the enemy at hand are destroyed.”
Before Alith could utter any answer Aneltain had wheeled his horse away and broken into a gallop, heading for the front of his army. Another clarion burst set the knights moving forwards, cantering away to the south, heading for the army of the Anars.
Laughter filled Eoloran’s pavilion, a sound that Alith had not heard for some time. Aneltain and his Ellyrian captains toasted the victory with silver cups of wine. Eothlir was smiling also, though Eoloran’s expression was pensive.
“You have the thanks of House Anar,” said Eoloran, raising his own goblet towards Aneltain.
“As you have already told us a dozen times, Eoloran!” replied the Ellyrian prince. “You owe us no gratitude, for without your host we would have faced the Khainites alone. It was by fortune, or perhaps the weavings of Morai-heg, that Prince Malekith asked me to lead some of my number directly south. Had he not done so, the knights we destroyed not far from Ealith would no doubt have been a match for your army.”
[Sundering 02] - Shadow King Page 7
