by Gav Thorpe
‘We shall see,’ said Imrik. ‘Return to the army and tell my captains to be ready to advance.’
‘As you command, my prince.’ The herald turned his horse away; it leapt gratefully into a gallop to race away from Imrik and his monstrous steed.
‘Let us meet Maldiar,’ Imrik told Maedrethnir.
A rumble shook the dragon’s chest, which might have been a laugh, and he powered into the sky. Dragon and rider headed towards the Naggarothi, skimming over the heath just above the height of the few scattered trees that broke the rough hillscape.
The griffon rider – Maldiar, Imrik assumed – had noted the approach of the Caledorian prince and directed his own winged mount head-on towards Imrik. As the other prince came closer, Imrik could make out more of Maldiar and his beast. The prince wore silver and gold armour inlaid with rubies; the eagle-like head of his griffon was feathered with blue, black and red, and its hindquarters were striped white and black, its claws the colour of blood.
The griffon let out a high-pitched shriek as the two princes closed in each other. Maedrethnir shook with a deep growl in reply, smoke leaking from his nostrils.
‘Force them down,’ said Imrik.
Maedrethnir surged higher, climbing above the griffon, and then stooped with wings furled, heading straight for the Naggarothi prince. Neck straight, jaw open, the dragon looked like he would crash into the griffon and rider. At the last moment, he opened his wings and stopped in mid-air, sending a rush of wind over Maldiar. The griffon swayed and dipped in the draught, tumbling a short distance before righting itself. Maldiar’s shouted curses drifted up to Imrik but the Caledorian ignored them and pointed to the ground.
With Maedrethnir hovering just above and behind, Maldiar descended, guiding his griffon to land upon an outcrop of rock rising up through the sea of gorse and grass. Imrik and his dragon spiralled around them three times before landing within lance-reach. The griffon was a large beast, three times the size of a horse, but it was dwarfed by Maedrethnir, who loomed over creature and rider with wings outspread, blocking the morning sun.
‘How dare you!’ rasped Maldiar. ‘This is an insult! By what right do you interfere with my rightful progress?’
‘I am Imrik of Caledor. You have no rights here. These will be my lands.’
‘Imrik? I have heard of you. I have heard of your jealousy of Prince Malekith, and this is a brazen attempt to steal lands that are his by rightful conquest.’
‘Those orcs say otherwise,’ said Imrik. ‘Turn your army back. You are not welcome here.’
‘I do not waste my time with Caledorian thieves,’ said Maldiar. ‘By Khaine’s bloodied fist, I should strike you down for this.’
‘Please try,’ said Imrik. Maedrethnir reared up onto his back legs and let out a deafening bellow. The purple-feathered crest on Maldiar’s helm flapped madly and the griffon darted closer, hissing and cawing. Maldiar wrestled with the reins of his mount and pulled it back.
‘Your threats are empty, Imrik,’ said Maldiar. ‘I shall clear these lands of the orcs and claim this region for Nagarythe. Your Phoenix King would think badly of Caledor if you were to dispute such a victory in his court.’
Imrik offered no comment and watched impassively as Maldiar struggled with the griffon’s reins for a moment and then directed it into the air. The Naggarothi prince sped back to his army.
Imrik sighed. Maldiar was right, he was not about to attack another army of elves. The only solution would be to destroy the orcs before the Naggarothi could get involved. As Maedrethnir headed cloudwards again, the prince saw that the matter would not be easily settled. The knights of Athel Toralien were some way ahead of the rest of the Naggarothi army, and bearing down fast on the orc camp.
As swiftly as he could fly, Maedrethnir headed back to the Caledorian army. Already the columns were marching out, no doubt ordered forth by Dorien in anticipation of Imrik’s return. The knights split into two wings either side of the infantry, holding the line unlike the reckless advance of the Naggarothi. In three columns the archers and spearmen marched south, two heading directly for the orc and goblin camp, the third angling eastwards, cutting off the greenskins’ retreat from the river. With the Naggarothi coming up fast, there would be nowhere for the orcs to run.
Imrik soared over the army, the shadow of Maedrethnir passing over the lines of warriors. The morning mist had melted away in the strengthening sun and the clouds above had thinned, leaving patches of bright sunlight on the heathland. Dorien and Thyrinor steered their dragons towards Imrik and took up station on either side of their general, all three dragons easily keeping pace with the marching columns with steady beats of their wings.
‘I said they would not listen,’ called Dorien. ‘We have wasted time treating with the Naggarothi.’
Imrik said nothing in reply. For all the speed of their advance, the knights of Athel Toralien were now dangerously separated from the support of the Naggarothi infantry and war machines. Maldiar had caught up with the swift vanguard and swooped to and fro above the cavalry.
The Caledorian general turned his attention to the real enemy. Bands of wolf-riding goblins criss-crossed the moorlands as pickets. The dragons were easy to notice and the distant sound of brash horns sounded the warning of attack. Through the smog of the fires, Imrik could better see the orc encampment; it was larger than he had anticipated, stretching for some distance along the river bank. He could see the waters fouled downstream of the greenskins, a slick of filth washing away to the south.
The orcs needed no tents for shelter, though there were a few crude stockades holding packs of giant wolves and droves of large boars. Imrik could see orcs and goblins clambering into these enclosures with whips and goads.
Something larger caught his eye. Close to the centre of the camp burned the largest fire, surrounded by ragged banners and crude totems. To one side a scaled, winged beast strained at chains run through rings hammered into its flesh, binding it to the ground. It was almost as large as a dragon, though it had no forelegs, its scales deep green in colour, its head surrounded by horns and a yellow crest.
‘Wyvern,’ growled Maedrethnir, also seeing the monster. The dragon quivered with anger. ‘Twisted spawn of the mountains. We shall slay it.’
‘And its master,’ added Imrik as a huge orc emerged from the throng of greenskins and approached the wyvern.
The orcs were mustering quickly, gathering in tribal groups around barbaric standards of skulls and bones topped with ugly, fanged faces fashioned from wood. The smaller goblins seemed more reluctant to leave the camp, and clustered together in several crowds behind their larger cousins.
A shrieking cry split the air and the wyvern climbed awkwardly into the air, the orc warlord upon its back. The sound of cheering and roars of approval drifted across the moorlands, joined by a vigorous banging of drums and discordant horns.
Imrik directed Maedrethnir downwards, the pair swooping across the Caledorian army less than a bowshot above. The general signalled to his captains to make ready the battle-line and then soared high again, watching the enemy. Beneath him the two columns of infantry spread out, alternating archer and spear companies, while the bolt throwers were unloaded from their wagons and assembled at the flanks of the long rows of elven warriors. One wing of cavalry rode on to reach the river; the other held back in reserve, ready to press home a breakthrough or counter any reverse inflicted by the orcs.
To the west, on Imrik’s right, the Naggarothi cavalry had divided into squadrons, each several hundred strong and riding in an arrowhead formation, their fluttering banners at the apex of each wedge. It looked as if they planned to charge into the heart of the greenskin camp; a reckless strategy. Imrik could see the orcs forming up to face the charge of the knights; masses of fanged, muscled warriors carrying wooden shields and all manner of cleavers, swords, axes and mauls.
For a moment, Imrik had lost sight of the wyvern. He found it again, on the ground at the heart of the gathering orc a
nd goblin horde. The warlord was gesturing madly, trying to convey some rough battle-plan to its subordinates. The wolf-riding packs of goblins were coming together, riding between the Naggarothi knights and the infantry following some distance behind. The goblins harried the elven cavalry with short bows, sending ragged volleys from the backs of their wolves. The shooting had little effect against the heavily armoured knights, but here and there an elven rider fell or a mount was killed, leaving a thin trail of dead and wounded in the wake of their rapid advance.
The orcs had also mustered their cavalry; two masses of boar riders had gathered at the far end of the strengthening orc line, further to the west. Bullied by the orcs, a swathe of goblins was driven east and north, towards the Caledorians. The plan was simple and immediately obvious to Imrik’s experienced eye. The goblins would keep the Caledorians busy while the tougher, stronger elements of the army would see off the Naggarothi attack.
The orc warlord’s plan could well work, Imrik decided. Maldiar’s desire to embarrass Imrik had outweighed his judgement. No matter the prowess of the Naggarothi knights, there were too many greenskins to sweep away with an unsupported charge.
The situation put Imrik in a dilemma. He could rapidly change his own plans and support the Naggarothi attack or he could hold to his position and allow the knights of Athel Toralien to be destroyed.
He raised his lance high, the signal for Dorien and Thyrinor to fly within earshot. They did so, just a little behind Imrik, the tips of the dragons’ wings almost touching.
‘Thyrinor, tell the army to make general advance,’ said Imrik. ‘Kill the goblins and attack the orc flank.’
‘The Naggarothi won’t thank you for rescuing them, brother,’ shouted Dorien. ‘If they want to dash their lives upon the rocks of pride, let them.’
‘Every elf slain by an orc hand is a stain upon the honour of all of Ulthuan,’ said Imrik. ‘I cannot allow it. Follow me!’
Ignoring his brother’s further protests, Imrik called to Maedrethnir to bank to the right and head for the Naggarothi. He did not check to see if Dorien came after him, knowing that despite his brother’s ill wishes towards the Naggarothi, he would obey the command of his general.
Dragon and prince climbed towards the clouds, the air growing colder the higher they flew. Imrik’s breath came as wisps of mist and his skin was chill by the time they had reached the Naggarothi. He looked eastwards and saw Thyrinor leading the Caledorian attack. Archers and bolt throwers reaped a heavy toll of the massed goblins as the spearmen closed from the front and the left wing of the cavalry swung along the river. Looking down, he saw that the third infantry column was not far behind the knights of Athel Toralien, a short way ahead of the Naggarothi army.
The boar riders could hold their enthusiasm no longer and they raced from the orc lines, spears lowered for the charge. The Naggarothi cavalry had been expecting such a move and the lead squadrons parted before the greenskin assault, leaving them to the following companies. Confused by the manoeuvre the orcs tried to rein in their madly running mounts and anarchy engulfed the riders while they tried to redirect their charge. They were too late, as hundred of lances were lowered and the gold-clad elven knights smashed into their flank.
From his vantage point high in the air, Imrik could appreciate the precision of the charge, three spearpoints of riders hitting the boar riders in echelon; the first charge split the front of the orcs from the rest and the next two hammered into the side of those at the back, cleaving into the dark mass like a golden shaft of light piercing shadow.
The riders that had avoided the boars galloped on, veering to the left to attack the point of the orc line where the orc mobs were fewest in number. Imrik saw what Maldiar intended; to break through between the orcs and goblins and then attack the line from the rear. The Caledorian revised his earlier judgement of Maldiar’s generalship. It was a bold tactic, but if it worked the greenskin army would be thrown into turmoil, confronted with marauding knights at their rear and several thousand infantry approaching from the front.
The problem was that once they were behind the orcs, the knights would be trapped against the river, as the orcs had been, and hindered by the boggy ground. They were too far ahead of their support and the greenskins would have time to turn and face them before the infantry arrived.
‘What is you plan, brother?’ called Dorien.
‘To kill orcs!’ Imrik shouted back, directing Maedrethnir into a steep dive.
Dorien followed, the two dragons racing to the ground at incredible speed, the wind whipping at the princes’ cloaks, threatening to tug the lance from Imrik’s grip as he levelled it for the attack. Behind him, the banner poles of the throne-saddle bent madly, pennants snapping.
Maldiar had his own idea for supporting the knightly charge. As his cavalry smashed into the greenskins, his griffon swept over the rear ranks, claws slashing, the Naggarothi prince’s sword a blaze of blue fire that sliced through the greenskins by the handful.
As the ground rushed closer, Maedrethnir let out a terrifying roar. Orcs scattered across the moorlands in all directions, forgetting the rampaging knights in their dread. Many were hacked down as they ran, others turned in desperation to fight the elven cavalry but were ill-prepared; the knights of Athel Toralien cut through their ranks as easily as a ship’s prow parting water, leaving a mangle of bodies as they continued their charge into the camp.
Dorien and Imrik hit the orcs simultaneously, their dragons bellowing dark fire from their maws, claws raking huge gaps into the orc mobs like ragged welts on green flesh. Imrik’s lance gleamed white from the runes etched into it, a trail of dancing motes left in the air as its tip slashed throats and punched through bodies without pause.
As Maedrethnir landed, crushing more orcs beneath his scaled body, Imrik reached back and unhooked his shield. The dragon swept a dozen orcs into the air with a sweep of his tail while more blackish-red flames engulfed twice that number.
Less than a spear’s throw away, Dorien and his mount inflicted similar damage, the orcs boiling around him flailing futilely at his dragon with axes and cleavers, their blows bouncing harmless from massive scales. Imrik could hear his brother’s clear voice, ringing out with a battle-poem of his homeland.
As Maedrethnir snapped his jaws around two orcs, biting them in half, Imrik looked around, wondering what had become of the warlord and his wyvern. He found the answer as a dark blur rushing at Dorien from above and behind the prince.
The general shouted a warning, but it was not needed. Dorien had been playing ignorant and as the wyvern dived in for the attack, the Caledorian prince’s dragon lunged from the ground, wings unfurling. The wyvern’s jaws and claws missed by less than the length of a sword, though the orc warlord slashed a black-headed axe across the dragon’s tail, sending blood and scales showering to the ground.
The two monstrous creatures raced upwards, spiralling and snarling, each seeking to gain height on the other. Dorien’s dragon was stronger than the wyvern, rising more swiftly with each beat of his wings. As the wyvern strained to keep pace, the dragon twisted with surprising agility, dipping a wing to plunge down, claws ripping at the wyvern’s neck.
Dorien’s lance plunged through the wyvern’s right wing as the orc warlord swung its axe at the dragon’s shoulder, the strangely burning blade slamming deep into flesh. Wyvern and dragon locked together, ripping and biting; Dorien stowed his lance and drew a longsword that glittered like moonlight. Prince and warlord rained blows upon each other as the beasts plummeted, the orc lashing its weapon wildly while Dorien’s sword was a shimmering gleam of movement.
Imrik was distracted from the duel by the clatter of arrows against scale and armour. He saw that the orcs around him had fled and in their place a knot of goblins loosed crooked-shafted arrows ineffectually from a bush-filled dell to his left.
‘Burn them,’ Imrik told his mount.
Maedrethnir swung his head and opened his cavernous mouth. The goblins let out shr
ill screams a moment before the hollow was awash with smoke and fire. Imrik turned his attention back to his brother in time to see Dorien’s dragon heave itself away from the wyvern moments before hitting the ground. With a damaged wing and blood streaming from scores of wounds, the wyvern could not right itself in time and plunged sideways into the moor, shedding scales in a flail of legs and tail. The warlord was tossed clear by the impact, landing head-first in a small stream some distance away.
While Dorien swapped his sword for his lance once more, his dragon circled around the fallen wyvern, bathing it with fire. The grounded beast hissed and roared, ungainly on its two legs, tail thrashing awkwardly in the flames.
‘Up,’ said Imrik. Maedrethnir bounded into the air and took the general above the battle.
All semblance of two coherent battle lines had been lost. The goblins had broken before the advance of the Caledorians, fleeing back towards their camp in their hundreds while Imrik’s knights bore down on them from the direction of the river. Several companies of archers had split from the main host and were pouring volleys of arrows into the orc camp, each shaft tipped by magical white flame.
Beyond the dying wyvern, Maldiar and his griffon were mauling the remnants of the boar riders; the hybrid monster tossed squealing hogs into the air with beak and claws while the Naggarothi prince chopped heads and limbs from the riders. The Naggarothi infantry had now reached the battle, driving the goblin wolf riders before them with spear and arrow. Along the river bank, the Naggarothi knights were reforming, ready to charge again into the fray.
Imrik caught sight of the orc warlord surging up from a thicket of reeds, axe still in hand.
‘Let Maldiar argue when I have the warlord’s head,’ Imrik told Maedrethnir. The dragon gave a deep-throated rumble of approval and turned towards the orc leader. Maldiar had spied the enemy as well and his griffon soared over the Naggarothi advance, speeding towards the warlord.
‘A fool races a dragon,’ said Maedrethnir, cutting across the moorlands with swift wing beats, the ground rushing past so close that the dragon’s wingtips brushed the stands of grass and bushes.
