The closest knights twisted left and right, caught between the raven heralds and the Shadows. Alith covered the gap at a full sprint, his blood surging as he sped through the long grass.
One of the knights dragged his horse around and tried to charge but Alith was too close, nimbly leaping aside from the lance point directed towards his chest. With a shout, Alith grabbed the knight’s arm and used it as a lever to jump up behind the rider.
Alith drove his sword into the knight’s back, the point cleaving through cloak and mail. Tossing the elf’s body aside, Alith slipped from the steed’s haunch as it galloped on, the knight’s dead grip tight on the reins, his body dragged through the grass.
Alith threw himself down as another lance flashed towards him, its point passing a hair’s-breadth above his head. Diving between the legs of the knight’s steed, Alith swept upwards with his blade, cutting through the cinch of the saddle. With a shout the knight toppled sideways, crashing heavily beside Alith. The Anar prince drove the point of his sword through the knight’s visor and then looked for a new foe.
Ahead the fight between the knights and heralds had become a vicious melee. Swords rang against each other and curses were spat. Horses fought as well, flailing hooves and gnashing teeth at one another while their riders slashed and stabbed. It was no place for an elf on foot and Alith kept his distance with the Shadows, looking for stragglers to ambush.
A knight staggered from the fighting, clutching his arm. Blood flowed freely down his mail skirt as he fell to one knee. The Shadows pounced, driving their swords into him. As Alith wrenched his blade from the dead knight’s chest, he cast his eye over the battle.
The Anlec cavalry had been beaten on the first charge, yet though they had lost more than half their number they fought on stubbornly. Those of Alith’s followers that still had arrows occasionally loosed a shaft into the swirling press of bodies, picking off such targets as presented themselves. Naggarothi corpses of both sides were trampled beneath iron-shod hooves while the wounded tried crawling to safety. The Shadows tended to the injured raven heralds with bandages torn from their cloaks; and to the wounded knights with their swords.
The crows whirled and swooped around the fight, adding to the confusion. They fluttered into the faces of the knights, pecking at exposed lips, digging their beaks into visors seeking eyes. Some of the flock had settled on the corpses, tearing at cloaks and robes, clawing at any exposed skin, peeling strands of bloody flesh from the fallen.
Alith noted that the carrion birds feasted only on the slain knights, avoiding the dozens of raven herald corpses that were heaped in the long grass.
The knights fought to the last elf, a captain clad in ornately etched armour of silver and gold. He had discarded his lance and struck out at his enemies with a long sword whose blade flashed with magical fire, every blow he landed cutting through body or limb with ease. His identity was concealed by a full helm styled in a daemonic, snarling face, his eyes hidden in shadow. As his horse turned and wheeled, the raven heralds pulled back from the druchii officer, a dozen of their number already lying dead around him.
Without any spoken command, several of the riders stowed their spears and brought out their bows as the circle widened around the captain. The druchii realised what was about to happen and kicked his steed into a run, levelling his sword for a final charge. Eight arrows converged on him before he reached the raven heralds, taking him in the head and chest, flinging him ignominiously to the blood-wetted grass amongst those he had slain.
The raven heralds gave no cheers of victory, waved no weapons in celebration. They weaved their horses around the piles of the dead and injured, their speartips seeking any surviving foes. Alith watched without emotion as they plunged their spears into any knights still drawing breath, and then he turned away to look to the south.
Alith could not see much beyond the river, only a chaotic mass of white and black pitted against each other. He saw the banners of Ellyrion mingled with the standards of Nagarythe, and could make little sense of the confusion. Manoeuvre and strategy had played its part, but the battle would ultimately be decided by strength, skill and courage.
A shadow fell across Alith and he looked up into the face of a raven herald. He held a blood-stained spear in his right hand, his arms and gloves slick with crimson.
Emerald eyes shone from the depths of his hood and Alith smiled.
“Morai-heg must have some devious plan for me indeed, to save me once again,” said the lord of the Anars.
“It was not The Allseeing One that brought me here,” replied Elthyrior.
“Then by what guidance do you come to my rescue?”
“By the request of Princess Athielle,” said Elthyrior. “On the first night after our arrival, she asked me to return north and bring back those heralds that still opposed the darkness of Anlec.”
“Your intervention is timely, nonetheless,” said Alith.
“The battle is not yet won,” Elthyrior said, nodding out across the river. “Finudel and Athielle are attacking and Kheranion makes his final move.”
Alith spun quickly and searched the skies. To the southeast a black shape descended like a thunderbolt. Wings furled, thick vapour streaming from its mouth and nostrils, the black dragon plunged earthwards towards the reavers. For a moment it seemed as if the beast would slam into the ground, but at the last moment its wings flared open and the dragon levelled just above head height, its claws raking a massive furrow through the ranks of the Ellyrian riders, carving through elf and steed alike. As the monster climbed back into the sky it lifted up two more riders, flinging them to a bone-crushing death amongst their kin as it banked away.
Alith saw this destruction at a distance, unmoved until his eyes fell upon the small shape of a golden rider: Athielle. The dragon soared over her reavers, arrows pattering harmlessly from its thick hide.
Alith cast about for a spare steed, for there were many left riderless after the fighting. He ran to the closest, the unarmoured horse of a dead herald, and leaped onto its back.
“What do you think you can achieve, Alith?”
Alith did not reply, but simply urged the horse into a gallop, heading for the ford. He glanced over his shoulder constantly, keeping watch on the dragon as it circled and dived down, mauling yet more Ellyrians before spiralling back towards the clouds. At this distance Alith could hear nothing of the slaughter. The carnage being wrought was like a tableau picked out in a tapestry, a representation of something horrific yet almost beautiful.
Water splashed up Alith’s legs as his steed forged across the ford but he did not notice, nor did he feel the bite of the wind on his skin or hear the splash of the river. His eyes were fixed on Athielle and her reavers; Finudel’s companies of riders were already driving into the rear of the druchii fighting close to the river. The dragon continued to menace the Ellyrian cavalry; with fang and noxious breath it gouged holes in the reavers. Many of the riders were fleeing the beast, but around Athielle a knot of several hundred held their courage, sending showers of ineffectual arrows towards their monstrous tormentor.
The horse reached the opposite bank and surged up through the reeds, almost toppling Alith. He swayed wildly and as he righted himself his gaze passed to the south. For a moment all thoughts of Athielle and the black dragon were dispelled.
Alith saw his army marching northwards to the aid of the princess, but it was not this that stunned him so. Behind them came another host, many thousands strong, in lines of silver, green and red. Above the army four lithe shapes swept through the air, two red and two a deep blue in colour.
The dragon princes of Caledor!
Alith called his steed to halt with a word and sat in amazement as the four dragons glided effortlessly over the plains, flying so low that their wingtips almost brushed the grass. Fire snaked from their mouths, leaving a trail of grey haze whipped into vortices by their beating wings. Each dragon bore a rider upon a throne, long pennants of red and green streaming fr
om poles and lance tips.
Alith gave a shout of wordless joy at the sight, and then fell silent, admiring the power and grace of the dragons as they swept onwards towards Kheranion’s army. The druchii commander seemed unaware of his peril as he and his monstrous steed ravaged Athielle’s bodyguard.
Two of the Caledorians broke to the left, heading towards the battle at the river. They flew past Alith barely fifty paces away, gusts of wind from the dragons’ wings washing over Alith as they sped on towards their foes. The other two dragon riders peeled to the right, straight towards Kheranion.
The druchii prince laughed as he plunged his lance through the gut of another Ellyrian. Beneath him, Bloodfang tore and ripped and shredded with teeth and claws, revelling in the slaughter. Kheranion fixed his eyes upon the gold-armoured princess, imagining the agonising delights he would visit upon her that night. He would take her alive, and her brother, and shame them both before handing their broken remains to the priests and priestesses of Khaine.
With this in mind, Kheranion wrenched back on the gilded chains that served as Bloodfang’s reins, arms straining to pull in the beast’s bloodthirsty enthusiasm. The dragon swept a rider from his horse with raking claws and looked back at its master, lips rippling with annoyance.
“Do not harm the princess!” Kheranion commanded. “She is mine!”
Bloodfang gave a growl of disappointment but offered no argument, turning his bloody attentions back on the Ellyrians. His jaws snapped shut around the head of a horse, decapitating it in one bite. A lash of Bloodfang’s barbed tail speared three more riders, buckling breastplates, smashing ribs and pulverising vital organs.
The path was almost clear to Athielle; barely a dozen more reavers stood in Kheranion’s way. He could see the princess clearly as she fixed him with a contemptuous stare from beneath the flowing waves of her long hair. Kheranion wondered how defiant she would be when that hair had been cut from her scalp and her beautiful features had felt the caress of a dozen blades. The prospect sent a thrill of excitement through the prince and he urged Bloodfang forwards again.
Bloodfang took a step, striking out with a clawed wing to send more knights tumbling, and then stopped. The dragon arched his neck, nostrils flaring, and then turned suddenly to the left.
“What are you doing?” demanded Kheranion, heaving back on the chains with all of his strength.
Bloodfang ignored his question and bunched his muscles, ready to spring into the air. Kheranion quickly cast about for the source of the dragon’s distemper. Looking south the prince saw two immense shapes hurtling through the sky towards him.
“Khaine’s bloody mercies,” Kheranion whispered as Bloodfang hurled himself into the air, the dragon’s wings creating a downdraught that sent riders tumbling, toppling horses to their flanks. Kheranion could feel his mount’s heart thundering, hammer-like vibrations pounding through the seat of the prince’s saddle-throne and along his spine. Bloodfang’s breaths came in stentorian blasts, clouds of oily vapour forming a fog around rider and beast as the dragon strove to gain more height.
The foremost dragon rolled right and then turned sharply left, the prince atop its back angling his long lance over the monster’s neck. Bloodfang twisted away and the lance bit through the membrane of his right wing, ripping a large and ragged hole in the scaled skin. In a flash the dragon flew behind them, crashing its tail against Bloodfang’s flanks as it passed.
The other Caledorian steered his mount higher and the great creature folded its wings into a stoop, coming at Bloodfang from above. Kheranion twisted in his saddle and set the butt of his magical lance against Bloodfang’s flesh to absorb the impact, angling the point towards the approaching dragon prince. Bloodfang’s wounded wing spasmed and faltered in its beat, sending the dragon lurching to the right, taking Kheranion’s lance tip away from his foe.
Kheranion stared at his rival. The Caledorian’s snarling face was framed with a shock of platinum blond hair that streamed back in the wind of the dragon’s descent. There was nothing but anger in the prince’s deep blue eyes as they met the druchii’s gaze. Kheranion met that gaze with a curse upon his lips, a moment before the Caledorian’s lance hit home.
Its tip sheared through Kheranion’s breastplate in an explosion of magical fire, piercing a lung and shattering his spine. The prince was already dead as the impact lifted him from his throne, breaking his legs as he was torn free from the lacquered straps that had secured him there. His grip broke and the chains fell from his dead grasp. The Caledorian twisted his lance with a flick of his wrist, sending Kheranion’s body spiralling to the ground far below.
The first dragon circled around and raked its claws across Bloodfang’s snout, shredding skin in a spray of thick scales. Bloodfang gave a roar and spewed forth an immense cloud of poisonous gas. Pumping his wings, blood streaming from the injury, the black dragon turned and raced away, heading for the Inner Sea.
Fusing into the clouds, freed of Kheranion’s mastery, Bloodfang fled.
—
A Bitter Fate
With Aneltain as escort, Alith rode into the Caledorian camp. He had already met with Tharion and learned that over four hundred of his warriors had fallen in battle and more than twice that number were badly wounded. The arrival of the Caledorians had turned the balance, but the druchii had fought on fiercely, breaking only as the sun dipped towards dusk. The army of Anlec had fled back towards the pass, pursued by the vengeful reaver knights and the dragon princes.
There was an air of celebration in the encampment. Fires burned and songs and laughter drifted between the red and white tents. The pavilion of the dragon princes rose high above the rest of the camp, its roof held up by three mighty poles, flags of Caledor streaming from their tips.
Warriors came to take their horses as they dismounted outside the open flaps of the huge tent. Entering, Alith found himself in a swirl of elves; Caledorian and Ellyrian.
The conversation was animated, eyes were bright and faces flushed with victory and wine. The four dragon princes were holding court at the centre of the pavilion, still bedecked in their blood-spattered armour. With them stood Athielle and Finudel, smiles upon their faces.
All turned at Alith’s approach, but it was Athielle’s reaction that he noticed. Her expression grew sombre and she stepped away, placing her brother between her and Alith. Before Alith could speak one of the Caledorians interrupted, his voice deep, his tone unwelcoming.
“What do we have here?” said the prince, his deep blue eyes gauging Alith coolly.
“I am Alith Anar, prince of Nagarythe.”
“A Naggarothi?” replied the Caledorian with a dubious eyebrow raised, recoiling slightly from Alith’s presence.
“He is our ally, Dorien,” said Finudel. “Were it not for Alith’s actions I fear your arrival would have found us already dead.”
The Caledorian prince regarded Alith with contempt, head cocked to one side. Alith returned the look with equal disgust.
“Alith, this is Prince Dorien,” said Finudel, breaking the awkward silence that had rippled out through the nearby elves. “He is the younger brother of King Caledor.”
Alith did not react to this, meeting Dorien’s stare.
“What of Elthyrior?” Athielle asked, stepping past her brother. Alith broke his gaze from Dorien to look at her. “Where is he?”
“I do not know,” Alith replied with a shake of the head. “He is where Morai-heg leads him. The raven heralds took their dead and vanished into Athelian Toryr. You may never see him again.”
“Anar?” said one of the other Caledorians. “I have heard this name, from prisoners we took at Lothern.”
“And what did they say?” asked Alith.
“That the Anars marched beside Malekith and resisted Morathi,” replied the prince. He extended a hand. “I am Thyrinor, and I welcome you to our camp, even if my intemperate cousin will not.”
Alith shook the proffered hand quickly. Dorien snorted an
d turned away, calling for more wine. As he marched off through the crowd, Alith saw that the prince walked with a limp.
“He is in a grumpy mood,” said Thyrinor. “I think he has broken his leg, but he refuses to allow the healers to look at it. He’s still full of fire and blood after the battle. Tomorrow he will be calmer.”
“We are grateful for your aid,” said Athielle. “Your arrival is more than we could have hoped for.”
“We were brought word of the druchii marching along the pass four days ago and set out immediately,” said Thyrinor. “I regret that we cannot stay here, for we are needed in Chrace. The enemy have all but overrun the mountains and the king sails with his army to thwart them at the border with Cothique. Tomorrow we continue north and then through Avelorn to strike at the druchii from the south. Today is an important victory, and Caledor recognises the sacrifices made by the people of Ellyrion.”
Alith suppressed a snort of derision, turning away to hide his expression of disgust. What did these folk know of sacrifice?
“Alith?” said Athielle, and he felt the princess at his shoulder. He turned back to her.
“I am sorry,” said Alith. “I cannot share your enthusiasm for today’s victory.”
“I would think you happy that Kheranion is dead,” said Finudel, joining his sister. “Is that not some measure of payment for your father?”
“No,” Alith said quietly. “Kheranion died swiftly.”
Athielle and Finudel fell silent, shocked by Alith’s words. Thyrinor stepped up beside Finudel, proffering a goblet towards Alith. The Naggarothi prince took it reluctantly.
“Victories have been few for us,” said the Caledorian. He raised his own glass in toast to Alith. “I give you my thanks for your efforts and those of your warriors. Were the king here, I am sure he would offer you the same.”
“I do not fight for your praise,” said Alith.
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