by Gav Thorpe
Thyrinor shuddered and nodded.
‘Believe me, my queen, none will ignore such warnings,’ said the prince. ‘With your leave, we will head east and make landfall again in two days’ time.’
‘Until then, Prince Thyrinor,’ said Yvraine-Althinelle. ‘The enemy will be close on your heels, do not tarry.’
With a deep bow, Thyrinor headed back to Anaegnir and mounted the throne-saddle upon her back.
‘This place is steeped in magic,’ said the dragon, flicking her tongue with distaste. ‘The air itself is cloying with the pollution of Chaos.’
Thyrinor felt it also; waves of dark magic that eddied down from the vortex in the Annulii, drawn by the conjurations of Morathi and her followers. As smoke polluted the sky, dark magic polluted the spirit. It lay like a shroud on the prince’s thoughts and he could not help but fear what would happen if their defence failed and Morathi took possession of the Aein Yshain.
With such power in the hands of the druchii ruler, Ulthuan would be plunged into an age as dark as the time of the daemons. The cytharai cults would rule over the worship of the celestial gods and the elves would be destroyed by their own savagery and sacrifice. As clear as a landscape before him, Thyrinor could imagine the pyres burning day and night and hear the screams of the priests’ victims.
He had seen such things writ on a smaller scale throughout Ulthuan, as the cults sowed terror and discord amongst their enemies. The prince felt sick at the memory of the bloodied and charred remains that had been found in secret shrines and around bone-girdled altars.
‘I will die rather than live to see such misery,’ he told himself, belting himself into the saddle harness. With a flap of wings, Anaegnir was airborne, steering back towards the fleet that lay at anchor just off the sandy shore.
‘They are desperate.’
Morathi flicked a gaze of annoyance at the underling who had interrupted her thoughts. The sorcerer shrank bank from her gaze as motes of energy danced in Morathi’s eyes. Had she been in a less favourable mood, a dread gaze would have been the least punishment inflicted on the overly talkative minion. Fortunately for him, Morathi shared his assessment as she looked at the army stretched across the narrowest strip of land ahead. This would be the last, futile attempt to hold her back.
Beyond the lines of silver and blue, red and green, lay the Gaen Vale. Morathi could taste its power, glittering like a field of golden stars across the canopy of the forest. The ground on which she was standing throbbed with magic, sending shivers of energy through her even as she coiled strands of dark magic about herself, pushing back the pure touch of the Everqueen’s protective enchantments.
‘Make ready for the attack,’ she announced, gesturing for a beastmaster to bring forward her mount.
The elf led a gigantic winged horse to his queen. Its hide was black, its wings like those of an enormous bat, ribbed and veined. The creature’s mane was like fire, bright orange and red, and its eyes were like dark rubies. From its forehead jutted three spiralled horns that had been bound in gold, and from its ears and nostrils hung talismans wrought from black iron in the shape of Khainite runes. The dark pegasus stomped and snorted, tugging back on the reins in the beastmaster’s hands, nearly dragging him from his feet.
Morathi snatched the reins in one hand, pouring dark magic into the muscles of her arm, making them as unmoving as stone. The dark pegasus flicked its head hard and tried to rear up, but was brought up short, almost falling over as Morathi stood immobile, holding it in place. It whinnied and dropped down, bending its forelegs so that Morathi could pull herself up to its bare back, nestling between the leathery wings.
‘Why are we not yet attacking?’ Morathi demanded, seeing that her army had not moved.
‘They have three dragons, my queen,’ replied a captain, pointing to the smoke-filled skies. Huge shapes flitted against the smog, licks of fire trailing from their mouths. ‘If we advance beyond the range of our bolt throwers, they will tear us apart.’
‘Sound the attack,’ said Morathi. ‘Do not concern yourself with dragons.’
With that, she snarled a word of command at her mount and was borne into the smoke-thick skies.
Trepidation washed through Thyrinor as he saw a black shape rising from the midst of the druchii army. It seemed as if a dark cloud shrouded the rider, pinpricks of light breaking through like a distant night sky. More than the prince’s eyes, his magical sense caused his unease. The pegasus rider was like a hole in the winds of magic, a sink into which all of the magic drained, the force of its accumulation dragging at Thyrinor’s consciousness. The closest he had felt to such a sensation was the presence of Thyriol, but where the mage was like a warm glow, the sorceress was a chill void, sucking all life and energy into herself.
Only one elf could wield such power: Morathi.
‘She is just a single creature,’ said Anaegnir, sensing his fear. ‘A fragile thing, easily broken.’
‘Morathi has not survived as long as she has by being fragile,’ warned Thyrinor. ‘The daemons could not destroy her, nor Prince Malekith.’
The dragon snorted and dived, angling to intercept the rising pegasus. The other dragon riders fell after Thyrinor, to the left and right. Beneath them, the druchii army started its advance, lines of spearmen and knights converging into columns to march along the narrow stretch of land. From this height, Thyrinor could see the Inner Sea on both sides, the surf a white border to the left and right of the dark mass of infantry.
Plunging groundwards, the wind tugging at his cloak, Thyrinor felt an expansion of pressure within his spirit. Half-shadows danced in his vision, leering faces formed of thick smoke and air swirled around him. He felt himself at the bottom of a great pit, sinking fast, being swallowed up. He looked up, seeing the swathe of smoke above twisting, coiling like a sea serpent, thrashing from side to side.
‘Beware!’ he shouted to Anaegnir. ‘Go left!’
The dragon did not heed him, but pressed on towards Morathi, jaw open, forelegs extended. Glancing back, Thyrinor saw a huge tendril of whirling smoke streaming down towards him.
‘Left!’ he shrieked. ‘Left!’
The dragon slipped sideways. Too late to avoid the descending column of smoke, Thyrinor and Anaegnir were caught in a maelstrom of choking smog. Buffeted and battered, dragon and rider whirled across the sky, the wreathing smoke following them, growing thicker and tighter with every passing moment.
Thyrinor slashed with his lance, meeting no resistance, yet the fog settled on his shoulders like stone, and constricted about his throat and chest like the grip of a giant. Anaegnir was struggling also, belching flame, head thrashing from side to side as scales buckled and bones creaked.
With a noise of tearing metal, Thyrinor’s breastplate caved in, crushing his chest. Ribs splintered even as his helm gave way under the pressure, shards of bone piercing lungs and heart. Anaegnir screeched, wings buckling, bones snapping as the dragon and rider were compressed by the titanic force of dark magic. Crimson streamed from Thyrinor’s eyes and ears and nose and mouth, soaking the robe he wore beneath his armour. Drowning on his own blood, the prince flopped sideways in the harness, all air expelled from his body, organs and blood vessels collapsing.
A cheer welled up from the Naggarothi army as the mangled remnants of the Caledorian and his dragon crashed into the forest. Morathi laughed with them, filled with the intoxication of the spell and joy at her enemy’s destruction. The other two dragons parted and climbed away, wary for the moment. Morathi directed her steed after the one heading north, a dragon with scales of jade and spines and claws of black. Drawing her ensorcelled blade, Morathi raised the sword in challenge as the pegasus swept up towards the monster above.
The prince atop the dragon drew his own blade, a flash of red against the black of the smoke and cloud. The two riders closed quickly, heading directly for each other, swords lifted ready for attack.
As the two were about to meet, Morathi wrenched hard on the reins,
steering her pegasus to the right, while she swept her sword in an arc towards the Caledorian. Black lightning spat from the blade, earthing itself through the dragon rider’s armour, dancing along his raised sword. Snarling, Morathi whispered fell prayers to her daemonic allies, drawing on more dark magic as she circled around the dragon, the coruscation of energy moving from the prince to his mount. Scales exploded and spines quivered as the dark magic lanced through the dragon’s enormous frame. It gave a bellow and twisted, gouting fire at the sorceress.
The cloud of darkness that surrounded Morathi solidified, turning away the flames as it encased her in a swirling sphere of power. Insulted by the attack, she directed her mount after the dragon as it pitched groundwards, seeking to escape, its movements laboured, the stench of charred flesh drifting in its wake.
The pegasus jinked and swerved to match the dragon’s panicked descent, the more agile beast closing quickly as the dragon turned slowly to the left and right. Seeing that it could not escape, the dragon banked as sharply as possible, slashing its tail towards Morathi. She ducked, the armoured spine of the tail passing less than a hand’s breadth from her head. Slashing up with her blade, Morathi carved a ragged wound across the base of the dragon’s tail, pouring dark magic into the grievous laceration so that the exposed flesh and muscle boiled and bubbled, blood steaming into the sky. With a strangely piercing wail, the dragon rolled over, lashing out with its back legs. A claw caught the pegasus across the flank, leaving a wound as wide as Morathi’s fist.
The queen of Nagarythe summoned up all of her scorn, ignoring the shrill cries of the pegasus, and plunged the tip of her blade into the dragon’s exposed underside. With a feral howl, she channelled the dark magic from her spirit into the blade, pouring every vile curse and hex she knew into the belly of the dragon. As her pegasus turned limply away, blood streaming from the cut in its side, she watched the dragon’s scaled hide erupting from within. Decay burst out from the wound in its gut, spreading rapidly, scales withering and flaking away, flesh turning to dust, bones crumbling.
The creature that had lived for millennia was engulfed by the rotting of eternity, body parts falling away, flesh dropping in mould-encrusted clumps, turning to scattering motes on the breeze.
Exhausted by the magic coursing through her, Morathi allowed the dark pegasus to fly back to the ground. Slipping from its back, she almost collapsed, gasping for air as daemonic voices whispered in her ear and the flame of Chaos fluttered in her mind. For a moment, the cloud that followed her closed tight, forming a ring of tiny whirling figures, each miniscule fanged face laughing and jeering at her.
Straightening, Morathi sheathed her blade and cut her other hand through the whirling mist, breaking the ring. She took a breath and snarled.
‘No. The time for your payment has not yet come. Leave me in peace, you filth of the other worlds.’
Exerting her will, she gathered in the tendrils of dark magic that had been leaking away, locking them up within her mind, whispering an incantation of control and calm. The cloud settled, seeming to drift into her body, sucked in through every pore, leaving Morathi’s pale flesh glowing with unearthly light.
When she had the Aein Yshain, she would have no need of such dangerous pacts. All of Ulthuan’s power, and all of the magic of the vortex, would be at her command.
A tremor of fear washed through the army defending the Gaen Vale as a second dragon tumbled from the sky. Yvraine felt the dread wash over her like a cold wind. Now was not the time for faint hearts. The Everqueen knelt in the grass, her green robe seeming to merge with the earth. Sinking her fingers into the dirt, she closed her eyes and let herself become one with Avelorn.
She gasped with pain, feeling the felled trees like cuts, the scorched glades like burns on her skin. The stain that was Morathi’s presence seared into her, her tread corrupting the ground beneath her feet. Fighting through the agony, Yvraine touched upon the lode that was the Aein Yshain. Gift of Isha, goddess-mother, the sacred tree pulsed with the energy of life and the light of love and harmony. The Everqueen tapped into that golden stream, healing the wounds upon her spirit caused by the destruction of her forest. She allowed the rays of warmth to flow from her fingertips, spreading through the fertile earth.
Around the Everqueen bushes and flowers blossomed into life. Rippling out in a circle, the life energy spread through the elven army, bringing with it the scent of spring and the warmth of summer. She felt Isha’s power touching upon the hearts and minds of her defenders, leaving an imprint on each, filling her army with renewed faith and resolve.
Trumpets rang out defiance, drowning out the drums and horns of the druchii. Clear voices rose up in song, the anthems of the assembled kingdoms ringing out in a developing harmony, silencing the curses and war cries of the Naggarothi.
Yvraine reached further, out to the shores of the isthmus, tasting the salt of the Inner Sea and the tang of the weeds beneath the water. She sailed upon the waves, bodiless and free, beyond the taint of the smoke to where the sun shone bright upon the water. Drawn up by the sunlight, Yvraine danced amongst the clouds, ethereal hands beckoning the winds to her, swirling and circling at her whim.
The breeze was light at first, just a quiet susurration in the treetops. Yvraine concentrated, pulling in the elements, coaxing the currents of the air to follow her. The wind strengthened, setting banners flapping and crests flying. Stronger and stronger it blew, bending the branches of the forest, tugging at cloaks and robes, flattening grass. Still Yvraine called on the wind for more. Keening through the canopy of the forest, it became a gale, trunks creaking with the strain, fallen branches and leaves were whipped up by the wind, turning around and around, faster and faster.
The songs of the elves fell silent, the last syllables carried away by the howling wind. Deeper and deeper Yvraine reached, kept to her body by the most slender of silver threads, almost lost within the spell she had cast.
The wind struck the Naggarothi as a solid wall, hurling elves from their feet, slamming horses into one another, tearing standards from their poles and the poles from the grasps of those holding them. Bolt throwers were picked up, scattering their missiles, sent tumbling over the sward of the isthmus. Monstrous creatures bellowed, eyes slitted against the hurricane, while the druchii tumbled into each other, spears breaking, shields flying.
Then came an explosion of dark magic from Morathi. Like a black fire, her counterspell raged through the winds, burning up their energy. Wind and fire contested and in their meeting, Yvraine’s mind touched upon that of her foe.
The Everqueen and sorceress recoiled from one another, minds flung apart by the contact. Yvraine was snapped from her immobility and collapsed to the ground; Morathi sank to her knees.
The moment had been so transient as almost to have never happened, yet Yvraine felt herself tainted by it throughout her being. The darkness of Morathi had seeped into her; Morathi felt sickened by the touch of the Everqueen, the light of her nature like a fire in her mind.
Mutually spent, the two queens sought the help of their followers; Morathi staggered to her cabal, Yvraine to the Maiden Guard. While they recovered, the two armies marched upon each other.
Ten years of bitter war left no room for mercy. The elves of the Everqueen and the Naggarothi threw themselves into the battle with pitiless fury. Repeater crossbows savaged the opposing spearmen. The air was thick with the missiles of the bolt throwers on both sides. The surviving dragon rampaged through the knights of Nagarythe, while hydras, basilisks and other Chaotic creatures brought from the pens beneath Anlec ravaged their prey with claw and bite and petrifying gaze.
When the elves of the Everqueen gained the upper hand, the druchii had only to think of the price of failure to redouble their efforts. When the Naggarothi pressed for advantage, Avelorn’s defenders looked to Yvraine for strength, knowing that perhaps they fought for the future of their whole race.
The bloody fighting continued for most of the day, with neither si
de gaining any significant advantage. Morathi’s sorceresses hurled dark bolts of magic while mages of Saphery cast shimmering shields over their troops to ward away the missiles of the enemy. The spirits of the forests fought alongside the elves, treemen and dryads wreaking havoc amongst the Naggarothi infantry surrounded by wisps of arboreal magic. Naggarothi princes mounted on half-tamed manticores laid about the Silver Helms of Cothique with flaming swords, their bestial mounts roaring and biting, stinged tails puncturing breastplates and barding.
Crushed together by the thin strip of the isthmus, the battlefield was clogged with the dead and the dying. The groans and shouts of the wounded were louder than the fierce battle cries of those still able to fight.
Morathi laughed at the carnage and hissed threats to her commanders, urging them to finish off Avelorn’s protectors. Yvraine wept at the slaughter, the blood of elves poisoning her lands, tainting the aura of Isha that guarded the Gaen Vale.
Dusk was approaching when the breakthrough came.
Chasing down a squadron of fleeing knights, Prince Melthiarin and his dragon strayed too close to the massed bolt throwers of the druchii. Black shafts filled the sky, engulfing dragon and rider, piercing the monster’s hide in many places. Seeing their foe grounded, the fleeing knights rallied and charged, finishing off the Caledorian and his monstrous steed with lance and sword; though a great number fell to the prince and dragon before they were slain.
The fighting lulled and the two armies briefly parted, the leaders of both sides recognising that their fates were about to be revealed.
Their strength almost spent, the druchii knew that their last chance for victory was at hand. Taking a steed from one of her commanders, Morathi joined her troops, waving them forwards with her sword, the air crystallising with mystical ice around the enchanted blade. Around her the druchii mustered for a final push, even the wounded dragging themselves to their feet lest they be deemed cowardly for not fighting to the last.
