There were piles of bodies everywhere; of slain elves, and gruesome green-skinned creatures with fanged mouths and slab-like muscles, clad in crude armour. The current attack appeared to be at a gate tower some two hundred yards further along the wall. A motley assortment of elves, some wearing armour, others in robes, beat back with spears and knives against a swarm of the wildly shouting orcs.
More orcs were pouring up from four ramshackle ladders leaning against the wall.
“Form up for advance!” bellowed Malekith, unsheathing his sword, Avanuir.
The spear companies fell into disciplined ranks six abreast, their shields overlapping, a wall of iron points jutting forwards. Malekith waved them to advance and they set off at a steady pace, their booted feet tramping in unison upon the hard stone.
“Clear those ladders,” the prince told his archers before running to the front of the advancing column.
The archers moved to the wall’s edge, some standing upon the battlements, and loosed their bows at the savages climbing up the ladders. Their aim was deadly accurate and dozens of the greenskins tumbled to the ground below, black-fletched arrows piercing eyes, necks and chests.
The orcs had gained a foothold upon the wall and more of their number clambered over the rampart, howling and waving brutal cleavers and axes. The Naggarothi advanced relentlessly, as groups of orcs broke from the main body and ran towards them.
When the first orc reached the black-armoured company Malekith despatched it with a simple overhead cut that left its body cleft from shoulder to groin. The next he slew with a straight thrust through the chest, and another with a backhanded flourish that spilled its entrails onto the stones of the wall.
Malekith continued marching forwards, hewing down an orc with every step, his spearmen tight behind him slaying any orc that evaded the prince’s deadly attentions. The Naggarothi stepped over the bodies of the fallen savages as they advanced, never once wavering or changing direction as they headed for the knot of greenskins crowding about the ladders. The elves of Athel Toralien took heart with the arrival of their saviours and fought with greater vigour, stopping the orcs from gaining further ground as the Naggarothi closed in.
Wielded by Malekith, Avanuir sheared through shield, armour, flesh and bone with every strike of the prince, and a line of orc bodies trailed him along the wall until he reached the ladders. No clumsy blow from his foes found its mark as he feinted and swayed through the melee.
Signalling his spears to deal with the other ladders, Malekith leapt up to the battlement by the closest, kicking an orc face as it appeared over the wall. The orc reeled from the blow but did not fall. Avanuir swept down and lopped the orc’s head from its body, the lifeless corpse tumbling down the ladder, dislodging more orcs so that they fell flailing to the ground.
As he hewed through another attacker, Malekith held up his left hand and a nimbus of power coalesced around his closed fist. With a snarled word of power, Malekith thrust his hand towards the orcs and unleashed his spell. Forks of blue and purple lightning leapt from his outstretched fingertips, earthing through the skulls of the orcs, causing flesh to catch fire and armour to melt. Down the ladder writhed the bolt, jumping from orc to orc, hurling each to the ground trailing smoke. With a thunderous blast, the ladder itself exploded into a hail of splinters that scythed into the orcs waiting at the foot of the wall, cutting them down by the score.
The spearmen had toppled two more ladders, and as Malekith turned from the wall, the fourth and final ladder collapsed, sending the orcs upon it plunging to a bone-cracking death on the hard earth below. The archers turned their shots now onto the orcs who had gathered around the fallen ladders, shooting any that tried to raise up the siege ladders, until the orcs lost heart and began to retreat.
An elf in bloodstained mail emerged from the knot of weary defenders, his helm scored with many blows, and walked slowly towards the Naggarothi company. He pulled off his tall helmet with a grimace, to reveal blood-matted blond hair, and dropped the helm wearily to the stones.
As he approached, Malekith stooped and tore a rag from one of the orcish dead to clean the gore from the blade of Avanuir. The prince raised an inquiring eye to the approaching elf.
“Captain Lorhir?” asked Malekith, sheathing his blade.
The other nodded and extended a hand in greeting. Malekith ignored the gesture and the elf withdrew his hand. Uncertainty played across Lorhir’s face for a moment before he recovered his composure.
“Thank you, highness,” Lorhir panted. “Praise to Asuryan for guiding you to our walls this day, for I feared this morning we had seen our last sunrise.”
“You may have yet,” replied Malekith. “I have space upon my ships only for my own troops; there is no room for evacuation. I do not think there is escape by land.”
Malekith pointed out over the wall, to where a sea of orcs seethed along the road and beneath the boughs of the trees. Half a dozen huge catapults stood in clearings slashed raggedly from the forest, mighty pyres burning next to them. Scores of trees swayed and crashed down in every direction as the orcs cut timber to build new ladders and more war engines.
“With your aid we can hold the city until the prince returns,” said Lorhir.
“I do not think the prince will be returning soon,” Malekith said. As he spoke, others of the Toralien defenders gathered about to hear his words. “Why should I and my soldiers shed our blood for this city?”
“With all the favour of the gods, we few could not hold against this horde for another day,” Lorhir said. “You must protect us!”
“Must?” said Malekith, his voice an angry hiss. “In Nagarythe, a captain does not tell a prince what he must do.”
“Forgive me, highness,” pleaded Lorhir. “We are desperate, and there is no one else. We sent messengers to Tor Alessi and Athel Maraya and other cities, but they have not returned. They have been waylaid, or else our calls for aid have fallen upon uncaring ears. I cannot hold the city alone!”
“I cannot throw away the lives of my warriors defending the lands of a prince who would not defend them himself,” Malekith said sharply.
“Are we not all elves here?” asked one of the other citizens, an ageing elf, who held a sword with an edge chipped and dinted by much use and little care. “You would leave us to the tortures and brutalities of these orcs?”
“If this city were mine, I would defend it to my last breath,” Malekith said, appearing to relent. Then his face hardened. “But Athel Toralien is not my city. We came to the new world to build a new kingdom, not to spill our blood to protect one of a prince who flees for safety at the first hint of menace. Swear loyalty to me, place yourself under the protection of Nagarythe, and I will defend this city.”
“What of our oaths to Prince Aneron?” replied Lorhir. “I would not be known as a traitor.”
“It is Aneron of Eataine who has broken his word,” Malekith told them. “Yes, I know him. He stands upon the labours of his father and abandons his people. He is worthy of no oath of fealty. Stand by me, join the Naggarothi, and I will save your city and from here we will conquer this wild and plentiful land.”
The elves huddled together in forlorn conference, occasionally looking out over the walls at the green-skinned army beyond, and at Malekith’s stern demeanour.
“Take us with you on your ships, and we will swear our loyalty to Anlec,” Lorhir said finally. “What can we few hundred do against that tide of hated beasts?”
“Your eyes must be weary,” said Malekith, waving a hand towards the docks. “Look again.”
The elves gaped in awe as they watched the Naggarothi host disembarking from the warships. In long columns of black and silver they snaked down the piers, banners fluttering above them. At their head came the knights, already mounted upon their black-flanked destriers. Rank upon rank of spears formed up on the dockyard, moving with poise and precision born of a lifetime of training and fighting.
“A thousand knights, four thousan
d spears and a thousand bows stand at my command,” Malekith declared.
“The enemy is too great for us to hold the city, even with such numbers,” argued Lorhir. “Prince Aneron had ten thousand spears and he could not hold the walls.”
“His warriors are not Naggarothi,” Malekith said. “Each soldier in my host is worth five of Eataine. They are led by me. I am the son of Aenarion, and where my blade falls, death follows. Simply swear oaths of fealty to me and I will save your city. I am the prince of Nagarythe, and where I march, the undying will of my kingdom follows. If I so command it, this city will not fall!”
Such was the bearing and greatness of Malekith at that moment that Lorhir and the others fell to their knees, uttering words of loyalty and dedication.
“So be it,” said Malekith. “The orcs will be dead by nightfall.”
—
Slaughter at Athel Toralien
It was not long before companies of archers lined the outer wall, and after a few shambolic attacks the orcs soon learned that to approach within a hundred paces was to face certain death. The greenskins tried as best they could to redirect the fall of their catapult shots, but scored only one lucky hit against the rampart while the rest of their fire landed well short or flew over the city into the harbour beyond.
Malekith arrayed his spearmen by companies, near the westernmost of the three gates, and commanded his captains to drive forwards into the enemy. With a fanfare of clarions, the gates were opened and the host of Nagarythe marched forth. At the orders of their commanders, the Naggarothi stepped out in unison, filing through the gate five abreast, their spear tips shining in the light of the orcs’ fires. A wall of black shields went before them, and against this barrier the wild arrow shots of the orcs never found a mark.
The vanguard halted some fifty paces from the gateway as the orcs began to gather into rude mobs, clamouring about their haggard standards, the largest of their kind bullying, bellowing and punching their underlings into a rough semblance of order. The main part of the elven column parted to the left and right, and took up positions in sloping echelon beside the vanguard, to form an unbroken wall of spear points that ran from the north-east to the south-west, one flank guarded by the wall, the other by the sea.
Behind them, half of the archers ran swiftly down from the walls and took up positions from which they could shoot over the heads of their kinsmen. Malekith watched this from the gatehouse, Lorhir and a few other worthy citizens of the prince’s new realm beside him.
“We still have a company or more of warriors, and we would not have it said that we did not fight for the future of our city,” said Lorhir.
“I do not doubt your gallantry,” said Malekith. “But watch, and you will see why no elf may stand in the line of Nagarythe without first passing a hundred years training upon the fields of Anlec.”
The prince signalled to a hornblower stood with the group, and the herald raised his instrument and played out three rising notes. Almost instantly, the battleline of the elves shifted position.
With seamless precision, the companies on the right, nearest the wall, turned and marched northwards, each angled to protect the flank of the company in front. Through the gap thus created came the archers, who spread out into a long line three deep. The shouted commands of their captains still ringing from the wall, the archers let loose a single storm of arrows that sailed high into the air as a dark cloud. The shots fell steeply into the gathering orcs, slaying and wounding hundreds in a single devastating volley.
No sooner had the first salvo hit its mark than another was in the air, and eight more times this was repeated, an unending stream of arrowheads that pierced armour and green flesh and left piles of orcish dead littering the forest and road.
Many of the orcs fled from this ceaseless death, but the largest and fiercest were goaded into action and ran towards the elven line, chanting and screaming. As they approached, their charge gathered more momentum and those orcs that were fleeing turned back and rejoined the attack, bolstered by the headlong assault of their betters. When the green horde was no more than a hundred paces from the elves, the archers let loose a flurry of shots into their ranks, but the onslaught did not cease or even pause.
Malekith gave another signal to his musician and the hornblower let out a long, pealing blast that dipped in pitch. The orcs were no more than fifty paces away, but the lightly armed archers seemed unperturbed. They split their line, every second archer stepping to his right. Through these channels, the spearmen swiftly advanced and then reformed, scant moments before the orcish attack hit.
With a crash that could be heard upon the walls, the orcs hurled themselves at the Naggarothi. Spear pierced green hide and heavy blade cut through shaft and shield as the orcs tried to batter their way through the line with brute strength and impetus. Here and there, elves fell to the sheer ferocity of the assault, but other elves quickly stepped forwards and closed these gaps, leaving no path through the shield barrier. All along the line, spears were drawn back and thrust forwards in a rhythmic pulse, undulating from south to north in a wave that left hundreds of orcish dead.
Against the weight of the orcs’ numbers, the elves slowly began to give ground, steadily and calmly taking steps backwards towards the wall as the fighting slowed and then renewed. It was then that Lorhir realised what was happening.
“You are drawing them closer to the walls,” he said in amazement.
“Now see the true strength of the Naggarothi host,” Malekith told his companions.
Two short horn blasts followed by a long piercing note then rang out and the archers still upon the walls moved to the battlements. From here they could fire directly into the orc mass, their shots passing no more than a hand’s breadth from their comrades, yet loosed with such accuracy that the Naggarothi were never in danger of hitting their own warriors.
Between the spearpoints and arrows of the Nagarythe host, the orcs’ enthusiasm for fighting began to waver. Their leaders bellowed and beat those that turned away from the melee, and took up great swords and axes and hewed at the elves as a treecutter might hack at a log. Encouraged by the spirit of the orcish chieftains, the green horde kept fighting.
The crews of the catapults now tried to direct their fire upon the spearmen, and scored a few hits that opened up holes in the elvish line. However, the archers poured arrows into these breaches to hold back the orcs, while the spearmen reformed again and again to keep the companies steady. Boulders and flaming balls of tar-covered wood fell more upon the orcs than the elves, to the perverse delight of the war engines’ crews. It seemed that they cared not who died beneath the crushing shots of their engines.
Now the greater part of the besieging army had been drawn forwards onto the spears of the elves, and Malekith enacted the final part of his strategy.
Another signal from the horn, and the northern gate opened allowing the knights of Nagarythe to ride forth. Pennants streamed from their lance tips, and silver and black gonfalons fluttered from a dozen standard poles as the thousand knights charged the greenskins. With the war cries of Nagarythe upon their lips and the horn blasts of their musicians ringing around them, the knights of Anlec carved a swathe into the flank of the army pressed up against the elven line.
The orcs were defenceless against this manoeuvre, unable to turn to face this new threat without exposing themselves to the spears of the infantry. Spitted upon lances and trampled beneath the hooves of the knights’ steeds, hundreds of orcs died in the first impact of the charge. The momentum of the knights carried them forwards into the midst of the orcish host, and the infantry pressed forwards again to ensure that the noble cavalry were not surrounded.
Lorhir gave a cry of dismay and pointed eastwards. Not all of the orcs had yet joined the fray and a group of several hundred now marched swiftly from the far end of the wall. They sprinted eagerly towards the battle and would come up behind the knights, or could otherwise turn through the open gate of the city.
“I said that you are not yet part of the Naggarothi army,” the prince said sternly.
“But you have no other reserve!” cried Lorhir. “Archers alone will not deter them, who else will hold them back?”
“I will,” said Malekith. “If each of my warriors is worth five of yours, then I am worth at least one hundred!”
With that, Malekith turned and sprinted eastwards along the wall. As he ran, he began to chant quickly under his breath, drawing the winds of magic towards himself. He could feel them churning in the air around him, heaving through the stone beneath his booted feet. Though not as dense as the magic condensed by the vortex in Ulthuan, the strands of mystical energy that swirled across the whole world blew strongly here, in the northern parts. Malekith was filled with exhilaration as his sorcery grew in power, suffusing his body with its boundless energy.
With a shout, Malekith drew his sword and bounded up to the rampart before leaping from the wall. Silver wings of magic sprang shimmering from his shoulders and carried the prince aloft.
As he sped swiftly towards the orc reinforcements, Malekith’s sword glowed with magical power, a piercing blue light burning from its blade. The light spread until it enveloped the whole of the prince so that he became a gleaming thunderbolt of energy.
The orcs stumbled and gazed upwards in amazement and awe as Malekith sped down towards them, one fist held in front of him, his sword swept back ready to strike.
Like a meteor, the prince of Nagarythe crashed into the orcs in an explosion of blue flame that sent burning greenskins and steaming earth flying for many yards in every direction. Dozens more were hurled from their feet as magical flames licked at their flesh. Smoke drifted up from the crater, revealing the prince crouched on one knee. With another shout he sprang forwards, sword in front of him like a lance point, and the blade slid through the chest of the nearest greenskin.
[Sundering 01] - Malekith Page 3
