02 - Shadow King

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  Khillrallion nodded and withdrew, leaving Alith with his tumultuous thoughts.

  Finudel and Athielle chose to make their stand upon the meadows of Nairain Elyr, less than a day’s march from the mouth of Eagle Pass, where the Irlana flows from the mountains and loops widely to the north before continuing east towards the Inner Sea. The Ellyrians put their infantry upon the right, with their flank protected by the river, while their cavalry they kept to the left, giving them the freedom of the wide fields to the south. Alith encamped his small army, four thousand in all, even further to the south. Here he stayed within his tent, and dismissed all visits from his lieutenants.

  The following dawn Alith was roused from his sleep by Tharion.

  “One of the Ellyrians wishes to see you,” said the captain.

  Alith nodded and signalled for the messenger to be brought to the pavilion. A few moments later Tharion entered with Aneltain in tow. Alith nodded in greeting but did not rise from his cot.

  “The druchii have been spied by our scouts,” said the Ellyrian. “They will be upon us before noon.”

  “And you still intend to meet them in open battle?” asked Alith.

  “There is no other choice,” replied Aneltain.

  “Send your infantry across the river, and take your riders to the east,” said Alith, his tone off-hand. “That is one alternative to throwing your lives away in this pointless gesture.”

  “You know that we will not retreat,” said Aneltain. He took a step forwards, his expression imploring. “Fight with us and we can win.”

  “Four thousand spears and bows will not win this battle,” said Alith. “Even Naggarothi spears and bows.”

  “Then at least promise that you will hold this position,” said Aneltain. “At least give Finudel and Athielle your assurance that you will defend the southern flank.”

  Alith looked at Aneltain with a frown, sensing the accusation implicit in the request.

  “I swore to defend Ellyrion as if these were my own lands,” Alith said sharply. “I do not make such oaths lightly Though I do not agree on this course of action, I will not abandon my allies.”

  Aneltain’s relief was palpable as he bowed in thanks.

  “I remember a time when it was I that came to the aid of the Anars,” he said.

  “I am glad that I was not wrong to do so.”

  Alith pushed himself from his bed and strode up to Aneltain, staring him in the eye.

  “Perhaps you think that I owe you this favour?” snarled Alith. “You think that I feel some debt?”

  Aneltain stepped back, aghast at Alith’s aggression. His expression of gratitude became one of anger.

  “If you do not feel the debt, then I will not claim it,” Aneltain said fiercely. “If it does not matter to you that brave Ellyrians died restoring Malekith to his throne, and Chracians and Yvressians as well, then perhaps you should consider who it is that you wish to fight for.”

  “I do not fight for anyone!” roared Alith, forcing Aneltain to retreat quickly to the tent’s opening. “I fight against the druchii!”

  With a venomous glare, Aneltain left, shouting for his horse to be brought to him. Tharion directed a sharp glance at his prince.

  “Would you have us left with no allies?” said the veteran captain.

  “No allies would be better than poor allies,” Alith replied, slumping back onto his bed. “They talk of honour and glory, as if that counted for anything. They do not understand the manner of foe they fight, even though they have looked it in the face a dozen times. Fear is all the druchii understand, and fear is a power we can wield as well if we choose. Morathi and her commanders do not fear the cavalry charge or the volley of arrows. No, it is the darkness they have unleashed, it causes them to pause for thought, wakes them in the cold hours before dawn. They look over their own shoulders, dreading to see who wields the knife for them. Fear binds them more than loyalty, and with fear we will break them apart.”

  Tharion considered this for a moment, doubts scribed upon his brow.

  “What is it that you fear, Alith?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “There is no pain that can be visited upon me that I have not already felt. There is no torment I can suffer that my memories do not inflict upon me every day. I have nothing left to be taken away, save this existence that hurts me with every breath. I do not seek death, but I have no fear of being sent to Mirai. There I will find my family again, and take vengeance upon those that killed them. Beyond even death my hatred will continue.”

  Tharion shuddered and turned away, terrified by the look in Alith’s eye.

  Alith stood at the edge of the Naggarothi camp, looking out over the two armies as the druchii advanced. In long lines of silver, white and blue, the Ellyrians stood their ground against the encroaching black host. White steeds stamped and whinnied, sharing the excitement of their riders. A hundred banners streamed from silver poles, and golden horns were lifted to lips to let forth peals of defiance.

  The reaver knights were split into two forces, one led by Finudel, the other by Athielle. The princess sat upon Silvermane at the head of the closest division, her long hair flying free in the wind, her slender form encased in silver armour studded with sapphires. In her hand she held aloft a white sword, the winterblade Amreir, and upon her left arm hung a shield in the shape of a horse’s head, its mane a flowing mass of golden thread.

  Finudel was no less impressive. He carried Cadrathi, the starblade lance forged by Caledor Dragontamer, whose head burned with a golden flame. In gold panoply sat the prince, a cloak of deep red flapping from his shoulders. His steed Snowhoof, sister to Athielle’s mount, was enveloped by a long caparison of gilded ithilmar, every scale of armour inscribed with a rune of protection.

  Studying the druchii, Alith saw that their standards also bore runes, of bloodthirsty gods and wicked goddesses. Many had painted or embossed symbols of cults upon their shields, twisted script that seethed with dark magic. In columns the Naggarothi advanced, black and silver snakes whose coming was heralded by the tramping of thousands of boots.

  The knights of Anlec turned to the south, to face the reavers. Harsh battle cries and shrill horns announced their challenge to Finudel and Athielle while black and purple pennants snapped upon golden lances. Their steeds were black, with chamfrons of silvered armour decked with blades, flanks covered with shining links of mail.

  Sorcerers and sorceresses there were too, prowling amongst the regiments, their magic coiling and weaving around them. Dark clouds swathed the sky at their commands, flickering with lightning, thunder matching the crash of the army’s advance. The shadow of the storm swept over the plains, shrouding both armies in gloom.

  Glancing at the heavy skies, Alith saw a dark shape, enormous and winged. Despite his earlier words, for a moment he was gripped with fear as the dragon circled menacingly. His father’s bloodied face flashed in front of Alith, and his muscles twitched with the memory of the terror that had filled him.

  “Kheranion,” Alith snarled, allowing his anger to flood away all dread.

  Turning on his heel, Alith shouted for his captains. They came running from across the camp and waited breathlessly for their commander’s decree.

  “We attack,” said Alith. “Sound the muster, gather your regiments. Today we will slay these druchii dogs and send a message back to Anlec. Bring me the head of Kheranion.”

  There was no argument from the lieutenants, who hurried back to their companies, calling for musicians and banner bearers to signal the attack. Alith returned to his tent and took up bow and arrows, given to him by Khillrallion.

  “Shadows, to me!” he called upon returning outside. Soon he stood at the centre of a circle of black-swathed archers, bitter survivors of Dark Fen. “Today I lead the Shadows again. The enemy bring their own darkness, and that suits us well. Show no mercy. Every arrow brings death. Every sword thrust is vengeance. Every drop of blood is owed to us. We will be the nightmares once more, and the druchii wi
ll remember well why they fear the Shadows.”

  In all, more than two hundred of the Shadows had survived the disaster at Dark Fen, and clad in their black cloaks they followed Alith westwards, circling around the right flank of the druchii host. The rest of Alith’s army stood ready at the camp, with orders to engage the enemy if they came too close. Not until Alith returned from his foray were they to move forwards.

  It was the druchii that started the battle. They had brought with them repeater bolt throwers: war engines that hurled half-a-dozen spear-sized shafts with each salvo. The opening volley from ten of these machines screamed into the air above the advancing druchii and plunged down into the Ellyrian infantry. To Alith it was clear that Kheranion thought the reaver knights unable to match his columns and sought to destroy the spearmen and archers first and then drive away the cavalry with weight of numbers.

  Alith found it curious that the druchii prince remained in the skies, observing the unfolding battle from the back of his black dragon. At Dark Fen he had only become involved when it was obvious that the Naggarothi were losing. Perhaps he was a coward? Or perhaps there was some other reason Kheranion feared to commit to the fighting.

  As he pondered this, Alith signalled for the Shadows to halt. The long grass of Ellyrion reached above waist height and provided ample concealment for the scouts. The storm overhead continued to growl and rumble, growing in intensity, shrouding the meadows with a yellowing gloom close to twilight. In the darkness, the Shadows readied their bows and waited for Alith’s next command.

  As he looked at the druchii army, Alith was surprised to see that they had brought no hydras with them. He had no idea why they had left their monstrous war-beasts behind, but was pleased that such was the case, though it was small comfort when he remembered the dragon climbing and swooping through the storm clouds.

  The druchii halted their advance just out of the range of the Ellyrian bows as the repeater bolt throwers continued to unleash their deadly volleys. The closest of the war machines was about four hundred paces from the Shadows, its crew working quickly to replace an empty magazine.

  “Split into fives, target the bolt throwers,” Alith told the others. “I want the crews dead.”

  In small groups, the Shadows broke away, flitting through the long grass towards their targets. Alith and his four companions headed directly for the closest while the other Shadows fanned out around the rest of the battery. Companies of spearmen stood close to the war machines, guarding against any attempt by the Ellyrians to circumvent the main line, but their attention was focussed to the east not the south and the Shadows approached unseen.

  Alith stooped in a crouch about seventy paces from the repeater bolt thrower. He fitted an arrow to his bowstring, rising just enough to see his target. The bolt thrower was crewed by two druchii, protected by breastplates and helms but no heavier armour. Having removed the empty shaft box from the top of their engine, they were carrying a new magazine of bolts back to the war machine.

  “Now,” Alith said calmly, sighting upon the leftmost of the two druchii.

  With a gentle exhalation, Alith loosed his string and the black-fletched arrow whistled just above the tips of the grass, taking his target in the right shoulder. Another shaft hit him in the thigh, punching deep through the flesh and out the other side. The druchii dropped his burden, spinning to the ground while three arrows found their mark on his companion, one of them hitting him through the eyehole of his helmet’s mask.

  The only sound was the clatter of the magazine tumbling from their dead grip, easily lost in the wind. Alith dropped down and made his way to the war engine as quickly as possible, exchanging his bow for a long hunting knife. With occasional glances to check that he was unobserved, he reached the bolt thrower.

  Alith sawed at the rope coils that provided the tension for the war engine’s mechanism. His sharp blade quickly parted the cords twisted around one launching arm and the rope fell slack. It would take hours to restring the machine, but for good measure Alith used the tip of his knife to pry out the trigger mechanism from the main body of the machine. He levered out several springs from the delicate workings and tossed them into the grass.

  Satisfied with his work, Alith began to head back southwards, keeping a close eye on the nearby druchii regiments.

  As the other Shadows unleashed their attacks and more war machines were dismantled, the captains of the spear companies realised something was amiss. The rate of fire had fallen dramatically and officers turned back towards the bolt throwers to find out why. There were shouts of alarm as black shadows flitted between the engines. The captains’ commands ringing in their ears, the druchii warriors brought up their weapons, their eyes searching the grass for the mysterious archers.

  Alith made a long screech of a hawk, the signal for the Shadows to withdraw and rejoin him. He kept his eye on the closest regiment of druchii, who had begun to wheel in his direction, though they were several hundred paces away. Alith could not believe that the Shadows had been seen, but then amongst the front rank of armoured warriors he spied a slender, semi-naked figure.

  It was a sorceress, her long white hair flickering like the lightning in the clouds above, her pale flesh painted with runes of mystical power. She lifted a slender arm and pointed in Alith’s direction, turning to the captain marching beside her.

  Even as Alith saw motes of magic dancing from the sorceress’ fingertips he felt a strange pressure, a build-up of dark magic in the air around him. A moment later a crackling bolt of energy leapt from the druchii’s hand, exploding just to Alith’s left, hurling him sideways with the force of its detonation.

  Picking himself up, Alith saw a charred circle of grass, at its centre the distorted, broken body of Nermyrrin, her skin blackened, her eyes nothing more than dark holes from which two wisps of vapour coiled. More magical blasts leapt across the meadow as the sorceress advanced with her bodyguard, setting the grass alight and hurling smoking bodies into the air.

  “Fall back!” Alith called out, picking up the remains of Nermyrrin. She was strangely cold to the touch. “Bring the dead!”

  One hundred druchii spearmen locked their shields as the Shadows covered their retreat with arrows. The sorceress stepped back into the press of bodies, shielding herself from harm as black shafts felled the warriors around her.

  Alith stowed his bow and hiked Nermyrrin’s body over his shoulder. Turning away from the druchii, he hurried back through the grass, sensing the presence of the other Shadows around him moving swiftly but stealthily across the meadow. A glance back showed that the spearmen had been called to a halt, and mocking shouts followed the Shadows as they headed back to the Anar camp.

  The druchii’s contempt was ill-placed. Half of the druchii war machines could no longer fire and the crews of several more were dead. Without the weight of fire from their machines to pressurise the Ellyrians into an attack, the druchii were forced to continue their advance. Drums rolled once more and horns blared as the massive shape of Kheranion’s dragon swooped down over his army. The monstrous creature landed in the midst of the host for a moment, the druchii general atop its scaled back bellowing orders to his lieutenants. Alith had barely taken three breaths before the dragon sought the skies again, lifting itself higher and higher with powerful sweeps of its clawed wings.

  Alith noted this with interest, realising that Kheranion was taking great pains to spend as little time as possible on the ground. Clearly the strength of the dragon and its lance-wielding rider were on the attack, smashing into the foe at speed. For the moment, Alith could think of no way of grounding his enemy though, and so turned his attention to other matters.

  Neither side wanted to commit themselves to the attack. The Naggarothi and Ellyrians closed within bow range of each other, exchanging clouds of arrows. The reavers led by Athielle darted forwards to loose volleys before wheeling away out of range of the repeater crossbows of their enemies. All the while the menacing knights of Anlec stayed in the reser
ve, waiting for the crucial moment to unleash their devastating charge.

  The druchii wizards conjured up storms of blades that slashed through the Ellyrians, and cast spells that wracked their enemies with bone-deep agony, searing their flesh and stripping away skin. There was little the Ellyrians could do to counter these spells, and they were suffering badly from the disadvantage.

  Alith called his Shadows to him again as they gathered on the edge of the camp.

  “Hunt the sorcerers,” he said. “Make every shot count. Attack and then fade north and we’ll regroup on the right of the Ellyrian infantry.”

  The Shadows nodded their understanding and melted away into the greyness, Alith following. For some it would appear foolhardy, sneaking between two armies about to engage each other. Alith knew better. Across Nagarythe the Shadows had tormented and terrorised the druchii using the same tactics. Approach close and unseen, kill the enemy and then vanish. It made soldiers think they faced more foes than they actually did, and made commanders fear for their safety. The disruption would serve the Ellyrians well and Alith hoped that Finudel and Athielle were wise enough to take advantage when the time came.

  Alith approached the closest druchii at a crouch, sliding effortlessly amongst the grass blades, barely another ripple amongst the swaying caused by the storm winds. He was close enough to hear the chatter of the spearmen as they stood in their ranks waiting for the order to advance.

  “These horse fondlers are no match for Naggarothi blades,” one lieutenant said, drawing harsh laughter from her comrades.

  That the druchii still dared to call themselves Naggarothi bit at Alith’s temper. They had spurned all right to that claim when they had turned on Malekith, the heir of Aenarion, and cast him from Anlec. They were traitors—dark elves—and nothing more. Alith forced himself to relax, aware that the enemy were little more than two dozen paces away. With deliberate slowness, he drew up the hood of his cloak, whispering a few words to draw his hunter’s magic into its fibres.