[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “Awake, my kin!” bellowed Maedrethnir. “Dread times are upon us!”

  Carathril stood upon the northern tower of the gatehouse, overlooking the road into Lothern. Around him all was a wasteland. Over five years of siege, the druchii had felled every tree and lain waste to every field, razed every village and farm. Blackened ruins jutted from the bare earth. The stench of death lingered in the air. In the ruins of an outbuilding not far away Carathril could see bodies draped over the rubble, splashes of red on their pale robes, limbs twisted unnaturally. He had seen many such sights these past years, yet each innocent slain raised his anger again and reminded him why the druchii had to be stopped.

  Into the square behind him marched a column of elves. They walked wearily, toiling over the uneven white slabs, worn down in their spirits by the battles they had fought. With bleak eyes they gazed at the desolation, some of them weeping, others unmoved and utterly despondent, all the more frightening for that, their gazes dead to the suffering that had been inflicted.

  “We are too few,” said Eamarilliel, another captain of the guard. “We cannot hope to defeat the Naggarothi.”

  “They muster again,” Carathril replied dully.

  Around the city, columns of black-armoured warriors marched into position. For weeks more ships had come, disgorging reinforcements for the besieging army. Time and again the vessels of Lothern had sailed forth to impede their landings, but they had succeeded only in delaying the next assault, not halting it.

  Carathril could see monstrous beasts being goaded forwards by teams of handlers; multi-headed hydras wreathed in the fume of their fiery breath. Drums sounded the call to war, reverberating from the city walls.

  “We must hold,” said the former herald, but his voice lacked conviction.

  “We are too few,” Eamarilliel said again.

  “We were too few last time,” said Carathril. “Yet the city is still ours.”

  Sullen and exhausted, the defenders of Lothern mounted the steps to the wall and took their places at the rampart with bow and spear. From his vantage point, Carathril could see companies of druchii embarking upon vessels at the shore, to sail around the city and attack from the east as well as the west.

  “I think this will be the last battle for Lothern,” said Eamarilliel. “They gather every force they have to throw at us.”

  The attack was heralded by a flurry of burning bolts from the Naggarothi war machines. They targeted the great gate, the flaming shafts thudding into the thick wood with the sound of monstrous hail. Sparks flared from the tower and walls as more bolts crashed against the city’s defences, spraying the defenders with ripping pieces of metal and wood and stone.

  Carathril did not flinch as a bolt careened from an embrasure and speared through three elves just to his right, impaling them against each other. There were shouts for the wounded to be taken away as the druchii drums rolled and the advance began.

  Carathril looked down at the vast army, spreading from shore to gate, a slowly encroaching swathe of black and purple. He was forced to agree with Eamarilliel’s assessment. The enemy came in three great waves under the storm unleashed by their war engines, leaving no reserves; should the defenders somehow repel the attack there was nothing to stop them sallying forth in pursuit of their defeated foes.

  The former herald wondered what had brought about this change of strategy. Was it confidence that the druchii would be victorious? Had some other development forced the enemy to such decisive action? Carathril entertained the thought for a moment, heartened by the idea that the druchii had suffered reverses elsewhere and were stung by desperation.

  A forest of ladders rose up from the druchii host, while high towers ground forwards amongst the spear companies, bolt throwers raining missiles from the siege engines while iron-headed rams fashioned in the likeness of many terrifying creatures swung on chains between their spiked wheels. Carathril waited with spear in hand; there were not enough arrows in the city for every warrior and so inexpert marksmen like himself no longer had bows to use. All he could do was wait for the foe to reach the wall.

  A tower covered in wetted leathers and furs to protect against fire arrows came straight for the gatehouse, flanked by two immense war hydras to protect against counter-assault. It ground the dead of both sides under its metal-rimmed wheels, barely swaying as horses and other creatures strained at traces to bring it ever closer, whipped on by druchii beastmasters. A ramp like the jaw of some immense monster with metal fangs loomed over the wall, ready to be lowered to disgorge howling Khainites within the tower.

  Amongst the cacophony of battle, Carathril was distracted by another noise; shouting from the city behind. He looked over his shoulder and saw with horror smoke rising from the buildings around the Strait of Lothern. Warehouses burned and he could see figures running in the streets carrying flaming brands; the cultists had emerged in force in response to the attack of their Naggarothi masters, perhaps brought forth by secret communication of the besiegers’ intent.

  Others on the wall had noticed the treachery unfolding within the city behind them and they were torn between guarding their positions and returning to the city to confront this new threat. Squadrons of knights raced through the streets, scattering the saboteurs, but as quickly as they were dispersed the cultists gathered again, ambushing their would-be pursuers with stones, blades and fire.

  Carathril did not know what to do. The siege tower was less than a bowshot away, rumbling forwards steadily. Cultists were entering the square behind the gate, no doubt intent on opening the doors to allow the druchii within. Spearmen streamed down from the towers to protect the mighty portal, which had withstood everything the druchii had thrown against it for the last five years but had no defence against traitors within.

  “Archers, hold the wall!” Carathril called out. “Spearmen with me!”

  As he turned towards the steps leading down towards the plaza, Carathril came face-to-face with Aerenis; his friend led a company of his own, promoted to captain during the long siege.

  “We must see the gate secured and then return to the wall,” Carathril told the other captain. “Follow me.”

  Aerenis shook his head and stayed where he was. A feeling of dread crept up Carathril’s spine as he noticed the strange expressions on the faces of the soldiers in Aerenis’ company.

  “I cannot allow that, friend,” said Aerenis.

  “What madness is this?” demanded Carathril, pushing aside a spearman to confront Aerenis.

  “I am sorry, Carathril,” said the other elf, with a look of genuine hurt. “You should have listened to me.”

  Already unnerved, Carathril reacted out of pure instinct as Aerenis’ sword slashed towards his throat. He caught the blade on the haft of his spear, the weapon almost knocked from his grasp. Stunned, the former herald barely had time to bring up his shield to ward away the following blow.

  “Have you gone mad?” Carathril said, batting away another swipe. “The enemy will be upon us in moments!”

  “The enemy is already here,” said Aerenis. “Do you not see?”

  Horrified, Carathril saw that the rest of Aerenis’ company had set upon the spearmen on the wall. Fighting broke out between the two towers of the gatehouse, company against company, while the siege tower lumbered ever closer.

  “Why?” said Carathril, jabbing the point of his spear at the traitorous captain.

  “You would keep me from beautiful Glaronielle,” said Aerenis, sweeping his blade towards Carathril’s legs, forcing him back into the press of the warriors fighting behind him. “Ereth Khial has granted me the love I always desired.”

  “The Queen of the Underworld?” Carathril was shocked. He had never suspected such a thing of his friend, even in his most melancholy of moods. “That is why you betray your city?”

  “With the priests of Nagarythe to aid us, we will bring back the departed and I shall be with Glaronielle as I could not in life.”

  Carathril laughed har
shly and drove his spear at Aerenis’ chest, the attack warded away by the edge of the other elf’s shield.

  “You will be sent to Mirai to meet Glaronielle, that is sure enough,” said Carathril. “The priests of Nagarythe will offer you up to Ereth Khial for their own bargains with the Dark Queen.”

  The suggestion incensed Aerenis; his expression of morose resignation twisted into a feral snarl, eyes wild. Carathril raised his shield and weathered a frenzy of blows, each numbing his arm with their ferocity.

  “I will see Glaronielle again!” raged Aerenis as he rained down blow after blow. “We will be together and we will wed and have children!”

  “You will certainly be together,” snarled Carathril, despising what he saw had become of his friend.

  He turned aside the next sword blow with a twist of his shield, spinning Aerenis to one side. In one fluid movement, Carathril lunged, his spear piercing his friend’s side below the arm. Aerenis gave a cry of pain and spun to the ground, sword falling from his grasp. Carathril did not hesitate. He dragged free his spear and plunged it into the neck of Aerenis, driving with all his strength, fuelled by anger at the treachery of his friend. The spearpoint crashed off the stone of the rampart, almost severing Aerenis’ head from his body.

  Wrenching free his weapon, Carathril glanced over his shoulder and saw the looming shadow of the siege tower. The traitorous spearmen had been vastly outnumbered and were all but slain, but their turning had spread anarchy across the gatehouse. The siege engine was less than twenty paces away. Carathril could see the chains holding the ramp quivering, ready to be let free.

  “On me!” he cried, standing directly opposite where the assault would come, lifting his spear above his head to rally his warriors, “Fight to the last!”

  Carathril glared at the cruel face painted onto the timbers of the tower, staring it down as if it were some real beast to be cowed. He set his shield and spear, legs braced, and waited for the ramp to crash down.

  He heard a thunderous crack and a blast of wind threw him to the stones. Suspecting sorcery, Carathril glanced around for a sign of Eltreneth, though he had felt no surge of magic.

  A moment later the siege tower exploded into thousands of splinters, bloodied bodies cascading from its ruin as it toppled to the ground. A green-scaled dragon burst from the cloud of debris, corpses and tangles of wreckage hanging from its mouth and claws as it swept up over the gatehouse shedding debris.

  Carathril stared wide-eyed as the monstrous creature turned sharply and dived down upon the remains of the siege tower spewing fire, incinerating all that had survived its devastating charge.

  “There must be a dozen of them,” muttered a spearman lying beside Carathril.

  Laughing from shock, Carathril staggered to his feet to see more dragons sweeping back and forth across the druchii ranks. War hydras snarled and spat flame as beasts with scales of red and green and blue and silver and gold rampaged through the Naggarothi army, smashing war engines, ripping swathes through the archers and spearmen, grappling with the enslaved monsters of the druchii.

  The former herald recognised the standard flying from the throne-saddle of the largest, a massive red beast; the pennant of King Caledor. The Phoenix King’s lance cut through armoured knights by the dozen as his dragon slashed and snapped a bloody trail through the mounted Naggarothi.

  Carathril dropped his spear and shield and grabbed the spearman’s breastplate, dragging him to his feet. He swept his arms around the other elf’s shoulders and brought him into a tight embrace as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Caledor is here,” Carathril wept. “Caledor has come…”

  There was no greater thrill than leading a flight of dragons into battle. Dorien laughed from the joy of the experience as his mount swept low over the army of the Phoenix King, Thyrinor, Earethien and Findeir following behind. His dragon, Nemaerinir, rumbled in echo of his laughter, sharing the prince’s excitement.

  The army marched north, having wintered in Caledor. A brief foray into Eataine had revealed the dire situation at Lothern, but the Phoenix King had also been brought word of a fresh druchii offensive against Ellyrion. The dragon riders had flown to the besieged city as swiftly as possible, smashing the Naggarothi forces in a single afternoon while the infantry and cavalry moved towards Tor Elyr.

  Prisoners captured at Lothern had revealed a much greater threat than Dorien could have imagined. All of Nagarythe seemed to be on the march, striking simultaneously for Lothern, Ellyrion and Chrace. The other kingdoms could barely muster the troops to quell the murderous cultists within their borders and Caledor had been forced to split the dragon princes. The Phoenix King himself had flown to the Isle of the Flame to call a new council of the princes of the eastern kingdoms, leaving Dorien in charge of the army.

  Dorien had felt the urgency of his brother’s words as the Phoenix King had despatched him to the north; the victory at Lothern would be for nothing if Ellyrion was allowed to fall. Dorien had argued hard for all of the dragon princes to fly forth to Ellyrion, but Caledor had refused, claiming that they would be sent to fight across Ulthuan to show that they did not fight for one kingdom alone. It seemed a nonsensical gesture to Dorien but he had not pressed his disagreement, fearing that too much resistance would see him replaced as general by Thyrinor or one of the other princes.

  Below the dragons the army followed a straight road that led to the Eagle Pass, where the next druchii attack was expected. The warning had come from Finudel and Athielle, along with a promise to march with the army of Ellyrion. The letter had ended with an impassioned plea for aid that had added to Dorien’s sense of haste.

  Ellyrion was a land of low hills and rolling pastures, curving between the Inner Sea to the east and the Annulii to the west. The fields the army marched past were deserted, the famous herds of Ellyrion having been gathered at the capital for the kingdom’s army. The scars of past battles could be seen from the air; burned settlements and scoured fields where the druchii had been held at bay by the Ellyrians and Caledor’s army.

  The elves marched throughout the days and for most of each night, resting only for a short while before every dawn. Dorien fretted at the delays, knowing that his dragon riders could have arrived at Eagle Pass several days earlier if they had not been forced to keep pace with the infantry and knights. Every morning he dreaded to receive a messenger from the Ellyrians bringing word that the reinforcements had arrived too late; every morning Dorien dreaded to look to the north-east, towards Tor Elyr, half-expecting to see columns of smoke from a razed city.

  Yet no smoke had been seen and no messenger had arrived, and the army was less than a day’s march from the eastern end of Eagle Pass. Dorien had commanded that the dragons fly ahead to locate the druchii army if possible and ascertain the whereabouts of the Ellyrians. If the two forces combined, they would be more than a match for any army of Naggarothi—in Dorien’s opinion at least, though Thyrinor continued to voice Caledor’s warnings against overconfidence.

  It was nearing midday when Dorien first noticed darkness on the northern horizon; a glowering storm cloud that stretched far from west to east, lightning dancing against the black thunderhead.

  “That is no ordinary storm,” said Nemaerinir. “It stinks of sorcery.”

  “That it does,” replied Dorien, feeling dark magic blowing down on the winds from the Annulii. “A conjuration of the druchii, no doubt.”

  The prince signalled for the other dragon princes to fly closer. He darted a look back and saw his army below, marching as swiftly as possible along the road. Thyrinor drew up alongside him atop Anaegnir.

  “It seems that we arrive too late,” said Thyrinor.

  “Perhaps not,” Dorien called back. “We must fly with all haste to see what happens.”

  Rising higher, the dragons flew abreast of each other, heading directly for the storm. As morning became afternoon, they approached the dark cloud. The gloom had thinned somewhat and two armies could be seen spread o
ut on the meadows below. The dark army of the Naggarothi was like a spear thrust between two parts of the bright Ellyrian host.

  Heavily armoured knights closed in for a charge against the Ellyrian infantry, who had their backs to a winding river on the other side of which spread a thick forest. The Ellyrian reaver knights were further east, an ebbing and flowing line of white horses and silver-clad riders that charged the druchii and retreated again and again, like surf crashing against rocks; like a receding tide, with each withdrawal they were forced further east.

  “What’s that?” cried Thyrinor, pointing almost directly below.

  Dorien could not quite believe what he saw. It seemed as if another army was advancing into the southern flank of the druchii; another army also clad in black and silver and bearing banners of Naggarothi design.

  “The traitors fight amongst themselves!” he laughed. “Perhaps we should leave them to it?”

  Thyrinor’s reply was drowned out by a bass growl from Nemaerinir that shook the whole of the dragon’s body, reverberating up Dorien’s spine.

  “A black dragon,” Nemaerinir snarled, and banked to the east.

  Sure enough, an ebon-scaled drake menaced the Ellyrian cavalry, sweeping low through their ranks.

  “Thyrinor, with me,” called Dorien. “The black dragon is ours! Earethien, Findeir, destroy the Naggarothi knights!”

  The other riders lifted their lances in acknowledgement and the dragons divided into two pairs, heading north and east.

  The enemy seemed oblivious to the arrival of the dragons, undetected against the storm clouds. The black dragon and its rider were slaughtering the Ellyrians, each scything dive ripping a swathe of dead and wounded through the ranks of the cavalry. As Nemaerinir dived down, Dorien could see the target of the enemy general’s cruel attentions; a shining figure of white and silver that rallied the elves against the dragon’s attack. As he approached, the prince saw long locks of flowing golden hair and knew immediately that he looked upon Athielle, ruling princess of Ellyrion.