by C. L. Werner
‘It is an ill wind that brings eagles among ravens,’ Iktheon replied. He cast a scornful gaze across the assembled druchii, his air as disdainful as that of a huntmaster inspecting a pack of curs in his kennel. ‘My duty to Prince Imrik has never been as onerous as it is today.’
Malus leaned forwards on his wooden throne, raising one of his mailed hands and motioning for his courtiers to be silent. ‘If you provoke an incident here, do not think it will shatter the alliance between your prince and my king. The dream of conquest doesn’t die so easily.’ The drachau smiled as he saw a little of Iktheon’s haughtiness crack, the slightest sag in the proud, out-thrust chest. ‘Caledor fights beside Naggaroth now. There is nothing either of us can do to change that. We are friends and as friends, we must seek out our mutual enemies.’
Drusala stepped closer to the seated drachau. In the presence of Tullaris and so many of his officers, Malus noticed that the sorceress kept close to him. He wondered if she would be quite so cosy if she knew it was he who had dispatched Sarkol to kill her.
‘You have scouted the terrain between here and Avelorn,’ Drusala said. ‘Tell the drachau what you have seen.’
Iktheon hesitated a moment, the Caledorian choking on a revelation that only weeks before would have been the basest, most vile treachery. ‘A great force marches into Ellyrion. By their deployment, it can only be that they mean to hunt down the host of Hag Graef and cut it down.’ The dragon prince paused again, fighting to find the strength to disclose the rest. ‘The force marching from Avelorn is much smaller than your army, Lord Malus. Perhaps as little as a fifth the size.’
Malus tapped one finger against his chin. ‘But there is more, is there not? Something you feel uneasy sharing with friends?’
The Caledorian glared at Malus. For a breath, it seemed he would draw his sword and leap upon the drachau. The moment passed, and instead, Iktheon spoke. ‘The Phoenix Guard march in the vanguard of the army, led by Caradryan himself.’
Silar Thornblood stepped out from among the druchii nobles. ‘If the Phoenix Guard is there, then they will have phoenix riders as well.’ That statement brought a few uneasy mutters from Malus’s generals.
The drachau clapped his armoured hands together. ‘Be at ease,’ he said, the commanding note in his voice brooking no dissension. ‘We have friends with us now who will do their utmost to defend us from the phoenix riders.’ He nodded to Iktheon. ‘Surely your wyrms are the equal of any firebird?’ Malus laughed at the impotent hate he saw in Iktheon’s eyes. The prince’s sense of duty would carry him through.
‘And we have the unmatched sorcery of Lady Drusala to help us prepare for battle,’ Malus declared, letting his hand fall on the sorceress’s shoulder. She’d made a mistake in underestimating how fully the drachau might lean on her powers. Before the battle was through, Malus intended to drain her to the dregs. The Blood Coven could wait; Drusala was the more immediate concern. His only hesitancy came from the worry that it was Tz’arkan making that determination and not his own assessment of the threat she posed.
‘If we give battle to the Phoenix Guard, it must be on ground of our choosing, not theirs,’ Tullaris declared. Malus was impressed that the executioner didn’t colour his words with talk about the will of Khaine and other such zealot doggerel.
Drusala opened her hand, a soft purple fire rising from her palm. In a matter of heartbeats, the fire expanded into a representation of the Ellyrian countryside. Standing stark from the rolling hills and meadows was a jagged landscape of volcanic outcroppings. ‘Reaver’s Mark,’ Drusala explained. ‘Here the aethyr hangs close to the earth and my powers will be at their strongest. It is here that I should be able to cast the glamour you wish of me. The Phoenix Guard won’t see a single druchii until it is much too late for them.’
Malus nodded, appreciating the ploy. He would discuss the details with Iktheon, Tullaris and his generals later. For now, there was only the need to remind Drusala of her place. ‘It isn’t what I wish that concerns you, enchantress, but what I command of you. Beware you do not disappoint me.’
Reaver’s Mark was a blight of ugliness marring the tranquillity of Ellyrion’s eternal summer. Great heaps of volcanic rock lay strewn about the plain, breaking the landscape into eerie expanses of wind-swept cliffs and jagged gullies. Through this haunted terrain, the asur force marched, nearly a thousand strong. No scouts ranged ahead of the army, an oversight that would have bespoke perfect arrogance in any other warriors. The Phoenix Guard were different, however. To an elf, they had walked within the Shrine of Asuryan. They had formed a compact with the Creator God, binding their lives to Asuryan in exchange for the honour of serving him and the glory of his divine blessing. To them was bestowed a sense of purpose denied to other elves; in their souls each of them had been shown the place and hour of his death. In order to preserve such dire portents, to defend the sanctity of prophecy, the Phoenix Guard took an oath of silence that no foreknowledge might slip from their tongues and send ripples of discord through the skein of things yet to come.
More than any of the others, it was their leader, Caradryan of the Flame, who had been afflicted with the curse of foreknowledge. The proud lordling had violated the holiest of holies within the Shrine of Asuryan, penetrating into the sacred Chamber of Days. What secrets had been revealed to him there were known to none but himself, yet from that hour onwards, Caradryan had borne a terrible sense of destiny and upon his brow the rune of Asuryan marked his flesh in a glowing tattoo of arcane flame.
The foresight granted to Caradryan had guarded him well through the centuries. Warriors under his command knew the tide of battle before the first blow had been struck. The disposition of enemy forces, the strength of their leaders and their regiments, these were no secrets to the captain of the Phoenix Guard. To him, the outcome of any fight was already known, the lay of any battlefield already mapped in his mind. For Caradryan, even more than the warriors of his Phoenix Guard, the future was already fact, not simply a fog of possibility and potential.
Malus could have chosen no more dangerous an enemy to face. The greatest strength the druchii had lay in deceit and treachery – strengths that would count for little against a foe who already knew the future. The only counter to the divine magic of Caradryan, of course, lay in more magic. Magic of his own. Magic ruthless enough to tear apart the veil of time and space, to mock the very essence of the future. He’d heard from Lady Eldire how dangerous such magic was – only the toad-priests of the jungles could perform such violations with impunity. A lesser mage risked not simply life but soul as well attempting such a terrible ritual.
Fortunately, Malus had a sorceress on hand who would accept such risk. By playing up to her pride, Malus was able to manipulate Drusala into becoming the vital element in his battle plan. Exterminating the Phoenix Guard would be a terrible blow not simply to the defenders of Avelorn but to the asur as a whole. The key was getting around their insufferable prescience.
Much depended upon the sorceress now. Malus looked over at where Drusala stood, the blood of a dozen slaughtered Naggorites bubbling in the cauldron before her. Arrayed about the cauldron, in a twist of irony that wasn’t lost on him in the slightest, were the Blood Coven. Handmaiden of Morathi and witches of Hellebron united in common purpose, determined to bring victory to the host of Hag Graef.
Spite snarled uneasily as the taint of dark magic seeped into the air around them. A spiral of darkness was growing around the cauldron, streamers of sorcery wrapping themselves about the sorceresses. Malus watched as the pale skins of Drusala and the Blood Coven blackened, becoming as dark as malachite. From their splayed fingers, sparkling flares of magic shot upwards, zipping off across the plain until they wrapped themselves about each of the assorted regiments in his army.
‘Dreadlord,’ Dolthaic hissed in a subdued tone. Malus turned his head slightly, trying to keep his gaze on both the knight and the witches. ‘The Phoenix Guard are almost c
lear of Reaver’s Mark. If they reach the open plain, our ambush will have no chance of stopping them, whatever magic the sorceress has promised us.’
The back of Malus’s mailed fist caught Dolthaic in the side of his mouth. The knight’s cold one snarled hungrily at the scent of the fresh blood dripping from its rider’s face. ‘I have eyes to see the same as you,’ the drachau said. ‘And I have a mind capable of forming my own appraisal of the situation. I suggest you hold your opinions in silence. If I want to hear anything from you, I’ll tell you what to say.’
Malus left Dolthaic to nurse his wounded pride. He had bigger worries than the esteem of a chastened minion to concern him. The dire assessment Dolthaic had given echoed the thoughts running through his own mind. If Drusala’s promised spell didn’t exert itself quickly, the entire plan would come apart. Malus needed to cage the Phoenix Guard in Reaver’s Mark, prevent them from slipping through to the plains. If a single asur survived to make his way back to Avelorn, there would be small chance of penetrating deep within its borders before Malekith’s own forces were on the move again. The Witch King had already claimed victory at the Eagle Gate and would doubtless take credit for the conquest of Ellyrion. Malus was determined that the crushing of Avelorn would belong to him alone. With the Phoenix King dead, the greatest victory the druchii could have would be the capture of the Everqueen. With one blow, the battle for Ulthuan would be decided. Without their king, the asur were a shell of themselves. Without their queen, they would be nothing.
The tendrils of coruscating energy bound themselves in spectral rings around the Knights of the Burning Dark and the drachau who was their master. Malus felt the hairs on his neck prickle as the weird energies swirled faster and faster around him. He could see similar rings taking shape around the Har Ganeth regiments, Silar and the Hag Graef dreadspears, the Iceblades of Ghrond, even Drusala’s sinister autarii devotees, the Knives of Khaine. Iktheon’s dragons snarled as the dark magic circled them, the great wyrms voicing their distaste for this sorcery to their riders. He watched as Tullaris and his Ossian Guard closed ranks and chanted to Khaine for guidance as the spell wrapped its coils around them as well.
Malus didn’t bother to hide his amusement at the sight of Tullaris’s devotions. The executioners were praying to be guided into the thick of battle. Well, their prayers were going to be answered, more completely than they hoped. They would play an important role in the battle, but probably not the one Tullaris expected. He could pray to Khaine, but it wouldn’t be the Bloody-handed God’s doing. It would be the plan conceived by Malus and executed by Drusala.
The arcane ring circling the Knights of the Burning Dark flared, sending a pulse of energy wafting across the plain. The gyrations of the magical power grew faster, becoming more intense with each rotation. Again a pulse of power sped away from the ring. Malus could smell a copper tang in the air and felt a clammy taste in his mouth. His mind shuddered as weird sensations forced themselves into his thoughts. He could touch the colour purple, smell the sound of his heartbeat, hear the flavour of the slime oozing from Spite’s scales. The drachau clamped his hands to the side of his head, trying to blot out the obscene impressions.
Then, in a blaze of light, the bizarre sensations were gone. Malus blinked in astonishment as he found himself down in one of the gullies that scratched their way across Reaver’s Mark. Around him, Dolthaic and the knights muttered in confusion. They could be thankful their reptilian steeds lacked the wits to be similarly discomfited by the disorienting experience. Prepared as they were for Drusala’s spell, the druchii couldn’t help the awe that such mighty magic provoked in them.
What Malus and his warriors didn’t expect was the sight of the Phoenix Guard just starting to march into Reaver’s Mark. When he had last seen them, the asur were leaving the battleground Malus had chosen. The explanation was a simple one, though chilling for that very simplicity. Drusala’s spell had moved the army not merely in place but in time as well. They’d been projected forwards to Reaver’s Mark, but backwards to that moment when the sorceress had started her ritual. The realisation made Malus’s stomach clench. He could hear several of the knights being sick as the same impression struck them.
Dolthaic drew his sword, ready to lead his knights to the attack. A look from Malus made him lower his sword. ‘Wait,’ the drachau said. ‘Wait and watch. I will let you know when to sound the attack.’ Dolthaic looked doubtful as he sheathed his sword. The charge of the knights was the signal that would send the rest of the Hag Graef forces into battle. Until the knights attacked, the rest of the regiments would remain where they were, in the gullies and behind the rocks Drusala’s spell had sent them to.
Malus could understand Dolthaic’s concern. He thought the asur would escape unless the druchii attacked right away. What the knight failed to appreciate was the bloodthirsty impetuousness of Tullaris Dreadbringer and his Ossian Guard.
As the Phoenix Guard entered Reaver’s Mark, the executioners came charging out from the gully they’d been transported into. The heavily armoured druchii shrieked a murderous war cry as they flung themselves at the asur. Black draichs slashed down into shining armour and golden surcoats, rending flesh and bone with each strike. The asur were taken utterly by surprise, their shock doubled by the fact that for once Caradryan’s foresight had failed to predict the ambush. Drusala’s great conjuration had cheated the divine blessing of Asuryan’s anointed.
Lesser warriors would have broken under the ferocity of Tullaris’s attack. The Phoenix Guard, however, were the staunchest of Ulthuan’s soldiers. Under the ghastly punishment of the Ossian Guard, the warriors reformed their ranks, drawing back in orderly fashion. Golden halberds crunched down into the blackened mail of the executioners. Now it was the druchii who paid a butcher’s bill. The spearmen and swordsmen with Caradryan’s force entered the fray from the side, assaulting the flank of the Ossian Guard. Caught between the two forces, Tullaris was swiftly outnumbered. Malus had no fear that the Chosen of Khaine would try to escape, however. The executioners would fight so long as they had the opportunity to take some of their foes with them. Final offerings for the Lord of Murder.
‘Tullaris will be overwhelmed,’ Dolthaic pointed out.
Malus turned a contemptuous look on the knight. ‘The Ossian Guard will keep the asur pinned down while our forces recover from Drusala’s spell,’ he declared. ‘Tullaris will simply have to hold until we are ready to ride to his relief.’
A seething roar from the rocks to his left had Malus spinning around in Spite’s saddle. He turned his eyes skywards as three immense creatures took flight. Crimson wings flashed overhead as the Caledorians guided their dragons across the battlefield. Malus slammed his fist against Spite’s side in a pique of frustration. Iktheon, for all his distaste for the role, was behaving like a good ally. Despite the change in allegiance, the dragon prince was still thinking like an asur and no asur would sit back and watch comrades in arms being massacred.
As the dragons flew towards the fray, twelve fiery shapes arose from the asur ranks. Phoenix riders, and leading them, mounted upon the back of the ice-winged Ashtari, was Caradryan the Flame. The captain of the Phoenix Guard was himself taking the fight to the dragons. If the sorcerous ambush had taken Caradryan by surprise, it seemed the treachery of Caledor hadn’t. Without hesitation, the phoenixes hurtled towards the dragons like arrows loosed from a bow.
‘Sound the charge,’ Malus growled at Dolthaic. He’d wanted to wait until the problem of Tullaris was settled, but the honour of Iktheon had made that impossible. The druchii had to attack now and in full force. If the dragons were overcome by the phoenixes, the devastating toll on the morale of Malus’s troops would render them almost useless. If the wyrms made short work of the phoenixes, then the asur would break and any chance of striking Avelorn with any element of surprise would be lost.
As the cold ones charged out from the gully, hundreds of darkshards and drea
dspears marched out from their own positions. The Iceblades, the grisly swordsmen from Ghrond, filed out from behind an outcropping of black volcanic rock. The Har Ganeth warriors came rushing out from one of the gullies, eager to aid their embattled Chosen of Khaine. Stealing along the periphery of the battle, the autarii, Merikaar and his shades worked their way towards the rear of the Phoenix Guard.
Cries of alarm rose from the soldiers supporting the Phoenix Guard. But for the stolid presence of the warriors of Asuryan, the rest of the asur would have broken and fled. The size of Malus’s army was incomparably vast compared to their own. It was the presence of the Phoenix Guard that made them stand their ground, the reminder that they fought beside elves whose devotion to their god was stronger than fear. Unlike the Voiceless Ones from Ghrond, the Phoenix Guard held their silence not from physical mutilation but from their own oaths and determination. When one of them was cut down by an executioner, even at the moment of death he refused to let a sound pass his lips. No screams, no cries, only the silent acceptance of his doom. As the vast druchii horde came thundering down upon them, the Phoenix Guard displayed the same iron resolve, prepared to meet the foe with the same fatalism that guided all their deeds.
Malus spurred Spite onwards, reaching the asur battle line at the forefront of his knights. The warpsword flashed down, splitting the helm of a warrior of the Phoenix Guard while the flashing fangs of his horned one ripped open a second elf’s pelvis. A twist of Spite’s head and the asur was dragged from his regiment and tossed under the driving claws of the cold ones charging into the fight.
‘Send them to sleep with their king!’ Dolthaic roared, laughing as he skewered the throat of an asur spearman.
The laugh ended in a wet gurgle as the warpsword raked across Dolthaic’s neck. The knight slumped in his saddle, his sword falling to the ground as he clapped his hands to his mangled throat. His eyes stared in horrified confusion at his murderous lord.
