[Sundering 01] - Malekith

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  In him built energies that would have torn asunder a lesser mage, and as the tide of magic grew, he began to quiver from the surging excitement that filled him. Speaking the command spell, he opened the dam of his mind and unleashed a tide of magic that flowed out of him and into the fire moat. The flames turned black and rose higher as the Naggarothi prince poured all of his will and determination into them, until they climbed a hundred feet into the air.

  Now sweating with the effort, Malekith raised up his other hand, his limbs shaking with strain. The magic of the fires wriggled and writhed, trying to escape the grasp of his spell. With gritted teeth, Malekith began to bring his hands closer together and in response the flames of the trench began to coil into tall waves, one on each side of the bridge house.

  Malekith brought his hands together with a thunderous clap and the two tides of flame rushed towards each other, utterly engulfing the castle across the entrenchment. Black fire scorched through arrow slits and poured over the roofs of the towers. Ebon flames incinerated elf and machine in an instant, reducing them to clouds of ash that billowed up into the air above the bridge. Even as the ancient planks of the drawbridge began to smoulder, Malekith pulled apart his hands and let loose his grip on the enchantment, the fires washing away and returning to their normal colour.

  With a shout of relief and joy, Malekith turned to his army and waved them forwards, his face split by a wide grin. As the spearmen of Nagarythe reached him, he reined in his horse beside Yeasir. The captain looked up at him with suspicious eyes.

  “Did you know that was going to work?” Yeasir asked.

  “Well,” said Malekith with a smile. “It’s a long walk back to Ellyrion. I would not have wanted to have come all this way for nothing.”

  Yeasir’s laughter rang in the prince’s ears as he wheeled his steed away, riding south to consult with Charill and his Chracian hunters. While Malekith outlined the next stage of his plan to his fellow prince, the Sapherian wizards alighted upon the smoking towers of the bridge and set free the bindings upon the huge drawbridges. They crashed down over the moat of fire, and the path to Anlec was open. Malekith was the first to ride across, his horse cantering forwards with jaunty high steps as the prince made a confident show for his followers.

  In truth, the next phase of the attack was the most worrisome for the prince. It was five hundred paces to the closest outcrop of the walls and a further hundred paces through a corridor of arrows and bolts to reach the gate towers. Bathinair and the mages would do what they could to occupy the defenders upon the ramparts, but Malekith knew that speed was their greatest ally here, and even if they moved swiftly, casualties would be high.

  As Yeasir led the advance towards the eastern gate, spear-sized bolts from engines upon the walls shrieked into his spearmen, slaying half a dozen warriors with each shot, their fury so powerful that no shield or armour was defence against them. Yeasir shouted himself hoarse urging on his followers in the face of clouds of black arrows, knowing that although there was no true weakness in Anlec’s defences, the war machines could not target foes within a short distance of the walls. If the army could reach the safety of the wall’s shadow the greatest danger would be passed.

  A thousand elves fell as they raced across the bloody field on foot, the knights held in reserve to attack once the gate had been breached. Yeasir was still unclear as to how this was to be accomplished, but after the feat with the fire moat, Yeasir was willing to trust that his lord had an equally accomplished ploy. In fact, Yeasir realised, he was about to wager his life on it.

  Some respite was earned for the spearmen by the warriors from the colonies, who moved forwards behind thick wooden pavises. They were armed with new weapons—repeating crossbows made by the dwarfs, which could fire a hail of short bolts in a short space of time. From behind their movable palisades, they unleashed volley after volley of darts at the walls, pinning down the bolt thrower crews and forcing the defending Naggarothi archers to seek cover. The shots did not go wholly unanswered though, as heavy bolts split the timbers of their wheeled shields and punched through to maim and slay those sheltering behind.

  Those enemy warriors out of the crossbows’ range were beset by the spells of Thyriol, Merneir and Elueneth. Storms of purple and blue lightning tore along the battlements, leaping from one warrior to the next. Fire spells in the shape of hawks, dragons and phoenixes left a charred ruin of the defenders in their wake. Bolt throwers shattered into splinters under their enchantments and armour glowed with fiery heat, scorching those within. Daggers of white magic sliced through flesh while swords conjured from nothing hacked and slashed at the cultists upon the wall.

  Bathinair played his part too. He and Redclaw left a swathe of dismembered and headless bodies along a stretch of the wall north of the gate, until the weight of bow fire from the defenders against him grew so much that he was forced to soar away, both he and his mount bleeding from many wounds. Crimson dripped from the griffon’s beak and claws, falling onto Yeasir and his spearmen as the winged beast glided overhead.

  The captain had no time to marvel at such spectacles. A third of his warriors lay dead or wounded upon the killing ground, and they were only halfway to their target. Close enough, it appeared, for the defenders to worry that they might yet reach the wall, for the massive gate yawned open in front of them.

  From under its great arch there spilled a tide of wild depravity that Yeasir recognised all too well. Nearly naked but for loincloths and gauzy rags, their long hair spiked with gore, cultists of Khaine screamed and shrieked as they charged forwards. A mix of male and female worshippers, their skin daubed with blood, wearing grotesque jewellery made from sinew and innards, the cultists wielded long, serrated daggers and wicked-looking swords. They poured forth from the open gate in a stream of flesh and blood, hundreds of fanatical blood-worshippers.

  Yeasir remembered well the feral snarls and wide eyes of the Murder God’s chosen disciples, and knew that they were oblivious to everything but the spilling of blood, their battle-frenzy fuelled by the vapours from narcotic incense and potions brewed by the priestesses who ruled their cult.

  The Commander of Nagarythe called for the spearmen to slow and rank up, ready to receive the Khainites’ charge. In such formation they were more vulnerable to the arrows stinging down from the walls above, and Yeasir had no doubt that the defenders would not hesitate to fire into the forthcoming melee, heedless of the risk to their own comrades; such was the point of unleashing the cultists. With a crash, the gates closed once more.

  A thundering of hooves attracted Yeasir’s attention, and he turned to see the reaver knights of Ellyrion galloping forwards. They swept around the spearmen, ducking and swaying in their saddles to avoid the arrows raining down from the ramparts. Expertly loosing their bows as they dashed in, the reavers began to pour arrows into the cultists. In-and-out, left-and-right they galloped, sometimes turning nearly all the way around to fire backwards as they raced past their foes. Some turned their weapons upon the walls, their aim impeccable even at speed, their shots picking out any head or limb that could be seen.

  The riders formed two circles running counter to each other around the spearmen, and under the cover of their bows Yeasir ordered the advance to begin again, the circles moving forwards to keep position with the spearmen.

  When only a few dozen Khainites remained, the Ellyrians broke off their shooting and stored their bows, taking up their spears instead. With Finudel and Athielle at their head, their famous weapons in hand, the Ellyrians charged in. The Khainites would not break before their attack: so intoxicated with blood-frenzy had they become that they fought until the last of them lay dead upon a heap of bodies, his dying breath a curse upon his enemies.

  The path was open to the gates and the Ellyrians directed their steeds away, leaving passage for Yeasir and his warriors to enter between the high walls that led to the immense portal. Behind them came Charill and his hunters of Chrace, and behind them the spearmen of Yvres
se stood ready to push forwards through any breach.

  As the shadows of the walls loomed above them, the spearmen began to glance upwards at their forbidding heights, expecting death to be unleashed upon them at any moment. Yeasir risked a glance backwards, seeking some sign of Malekith’s intent. The prince was sat upon his horse a little way back, arms casually folded across his chest. Malekith somehow felt the eyes of his lieutenant upon him and gave a playful wave, before pointing towards the gatehouse.

  Yeasir looked up at the menacing towers and saw black-hooded figures appearing at the battlements. They carried bows in their hands and looked down upon the spearmen with arrows nocked.

  “Stand ready!” Yeasir shouted, hefting up his shield.

  At that moment, the black banner that flew above the gatehouse fluttered and then fell, as if its pole had been cut. In its place there was raised a new standard: white threaded with silver, with a blazon of a clawed griffon’s wing upon it. Yeasir stumbled, almost losing his footing in disbelief, for he recognised it as the banner of House Anar.

  The warriors of the Anars tossed bloodied corpses over the battlements, and Yeasir saw it was the bodies of cultists and warriors loyal to Morathi, their throats and bellies slit open. The gate ground open again before Yeasir, and he let out a great roar of triumph.

  Fearing that the way in might close any moment, he broke into a run, his spearmen close behind. With the lion warriors of Chrace and the spearmen of Yvresse close on his heels, Yeasir was the first to cross the threshold into Anlec. He shouted again as he passed under the shadow of the gate of his home city, exalted at his return.

  * * *

  Inside, the city was utterly unlike the home Yeasir had left behind many centuries earlier. The great square beyond the gate had once been dominated by a large statue of Aenarion seated upon a rearing Indraugnir; now instead it was lined with statues of the cytharai. Atharti cavorted naked atop a marble stone, snakes twining themselves about her limbs. Anath Raema, the huntress, held her bow in one hand and the severed head of an elf in the other, her waist girded by a belt of severed hands and heads. The god Khirkith was depicted crouched upon a pile of bones, a jewelled necklace in his hands as he admired his looted treasure.

  There were many others, of gods of destruction and death, and goddesses of strife and pain. A brazier burned before each, sputtering with dire contents, the bloodstains upon the statues’ plinths testament to the foul practices of the cultists.

  When Yeasir had left Anlec, the buildings around the square had been busy trading forums, bustling with wares from all across the globe. Now the open-fronted facades had been turned into animal pens, with bars across their high arches, and all manner of unnatural beasts in the darkness beyond.

  Mutated bears growled and gnawed at their cages, while two-headed orthruses howled and a stinking fume drifted into the square from the pens of half-bull bonnakons. Gaseous clouds issued forth from the cages of wild chimerae and hideously large serpents spat venom through the bars. Other things wailed, cavorted and roared menacingly from the shadowy confines of their prisons.

  From one cage there billowed a great cloud of smoke, and licking tongues of flame could be seen lighting the smog. A gate was thrown open and there came a great screeching, as of many creatures shrieking in concert. From out of the gloom there emerged a titanic beast, a seven-headed hydra with flames flickering from its nostrils. Its scales were of deep blue, and many welts and scars upon its flesh told of its ill treatment by its keepers. Its heads were protected by plates of golden armour, as was its spined back and muscled flanks.

  Behind the hydra came a pair of handlers wielding vicious goads and whips, with which they urged the monster forwards, shouting and hurling abuse. Enraged, the hydra stalked forwards, its claws gouging rents in the stone flags of the plaza, its heads swaying and writhing like a nest of serpents. From the cage came another of the huge beasts, of red flesh and silver armour, with blades and barbs hammered into its scales, and spiked collars about its five necks. Its tail was likewise armoured and beweaponed, and thrashed left and right as its handlers scourged its sides with the tines of their long spears and the cruel thorns of their lashes.

  Not since the shaggoth had Yeasir known such dread as he looked at the two behemoths crashing across the square towards his spearmen. Mastering his fear, he called out for his warriors to form a shield wall, though he doubted such a manoeuvre would be any defence against the monstrous creatures bearing down upon the Naggarothi.

  Growls and roars sounded to the right and the lion chariots of Charill raced forwards, the prince at their front. The handlers of the foremost hydra turned their beast towards the Chracians and with another lash from their whips sent it charging forwards.

  Seven blasts of yellow fire gouted from the creature’s throats, directed towards Charill’s chariot. A shimmering blue aura leapt up around the Chracian prince and his lions, a jewelled amulet hanging upon his bared chest glowing bright with power, and the flames lapped around the prince’s magical ward without harm.

  The lions leapt to the attack, biting and clawing at the hydra’s scaled flesh. The hydra’s heads snapped forwards, their dagger-like fangs tearing chunks of bloody ruin out of the lions, whose yelps of pain resounded around the square. The hydra reared up with two lions clamped in its fearsome jaws, wrenching them into the air amidst the tangle of their frayed traces, overturning the chariot. Charill and Lorichar leapt free from the splintering wood and twisted metal, and regained their feet as the other chariots attacked.

  The Chracians raced past the monster, axes and lion’s fangs scoring wounds upon the creature’s hide before they swerved away from its whipping tail and snapping heads. In their wake came the hunters, swinging their axes in wide arcs, lodging their blades deep into the creature’s tough hide. Though blood streamed from dozens of wounds, the hydra was relentless, powerful jaws and savage claws wreaking red furrows through the Chracians.

  Charill bellowed his war cry and joined the attack, Achillar burning with white light in his hands. With the fabled axe he smote a great blow upon one of the creature’s necks, severing it utterly, so that neck and head fell to the floor and continued to writhe for a while like a snake. Blood spumed briefly from the injury, but to the Chracian’s horror, the great wound swiftly closed over. Flesh bubbled, veins and arteries, muscle and sinew knitted and grew afresh, so that within moments a new head had grown in the place of the old.

  Several dozen hunters and the shattered remains of three chariots now surrounded the beast as the Chracians were hurled back by its savagery. With a wordless shout, Lorichar ran forwards, the speared tip of the household banner aimed towards the monster’s chest. Lorichar drove the point of the standard deep between the creature’s scales, all of his weight behind the blow. His thick muscles straining, his face a mask of effort, Lorichar drove the banner point deeper and deeper.

  Yeasir had not the time to see what happened next, for the second hydra was almost upon the Naggarothi.

  “Where’s Prince Malekith?” Fenrein asked from beside the captain.

  Yeasir did not answer, although the thought had also occurred to him. He had not seen the prince since they had entered the city, and the Naggarothi captain dearly wished his lord was beside him; sorcery and Avanuir would make short work of the horrendous creature that now loomed above the Naggarothi.

  Unearthly chattering and screeches briefly distracted the lieutenant as he saw more cultists unbarring the other cells. All manner of beasts and monsters ran forth, howling and yammering. Scaled and feathered, majestic and misshapen, the captured denizens of the Annulii poured forth from their dens like a nightmare made real. The Yvressians moved forwards, spears at the ready to meet the bizarre horde.

  Yeasir could spare them no more thought as he turned his attention back to the hydra now just two dozen paces away.

  He saw it drawing its heads back, and yelled a warning to his warriors. As one they dropped to a single knee and raised up their shiel
ds just as the hydra’s fire roared out. Yeasir felt his shield heating in his hands, burning at his fingers as the flames engulfed the spearmen. There were cries of pain and the smell of charred flesh filled the captain’s nostrils. Surrounded by a pall of smoke, the Naggaroth captain looked up and saw that a great swathe of his company now lay burning upon the ground; many thankfully dead, others screaming and sobbing as they clutched scorched limbs or rolled about on the stone, their hair and clothes alight.

  Black-fletched arrows whickered overhead as the archers of House Anar shot from the gatehouse. Their aim was not for the monstrous hydra, but for the cultists cowering behind its bulk. Several arrows unerringly found their marks and the two handlers dropped, bodies and necks pierced and bloody.

  Suddenly free of the goading whips and spears of its handlers, the hydra slowed. Three of its heads bent back to examine their unmoving corpses, the other four rose into the air, nostrils flaring as they caught the scent of basilisks and khaltaurs. Fiery venom dripping from its maws, the hydra heaved around its bulk and spied its enemies from the mountains. With deafening hisses issuing from its many throats, the hydra lumbered into a run, heading for the other monsters.

  Its closest prey was a gigantic wolf with glowing eyes and iron fangs, which turned at the hydra’s approach and leapt at one of its throats. No longer under any control, the hydra tore apart the wolf-thing and barrelled forwards, tail and claws smashing and crushing the lesser creatures before it. All control disappeared as the beasts of the mountains fell upon each other; blasts of fire and lightning danced amongst the mutated creatures and blood of all colours stained the square as the ferocity of the monsters was unleashed. The Yvressians retreated with shrieks of alarm as the ragged corpse of a basilisk was hurled into the ranks, its poisonous blood burning their skin.