[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  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.

  The line of elves pitted against them was thin, a sliver of silver and gold and blue against the treeline of the Gaen Vale. Clarions sounded the rally and they gathered about their standards, clearing away the piles of the dead so that they could form up behind their shield walls and thickets of spears.

  As the druchii advanced, a lone figure emerged from the ranks of the defenders. Her green and yellow gown trailing on the breeze, Yvraine came before them, long locks of hair streaming, arms outstretched.

  “The Gaen Vale will never be yours!” the Everqueen cried out, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “You cannot stop me!” Morathi shrieked back. “All I have to do is reach out and take it.”

  “That cannot be allowed,” replied Yvraine.

  The ground began to tremble and the light within Yvraine grew brighter, gleaming from her eyes, particles of energy flowing from her splayed fingertips into the ground.

  Althinelle dashed forwards towards the Everqueen.

  “We can win!” shouted the Maiden Guard’s captain. “Do not do this!”

  Yvraine turned her head, light glimmering from her mouth as she spoke.

  “It is too late,” said the Everqueen. “Ulthuan is wounded, but the Gaen Vale must survive.”

  “But your power…” Althinelle cast down her spear and reached out an imploring hand towards her queen.

  “Better that it is gone than is stolen for evil purpose,” replied Yvraine. “We can no longer be trusted with it.”

  “What are you doing?” screamed Morathi, spurring her horse into a gallop, whipping her sword from its scabbard.

  The ground heaved, throwing both armies to the ground, sending Morathi toppling from her steed. Only Yvraine remained standing, as immobile as the Aein Yshain itself, an eternal part of Avelorn. From behind her, at the heart of the Gaen Vale, a golden glow filled the sky, burning away the late afternoon clouds, stilling the wind.

  “Run,” said Yvraine. “Run while you can.”

  Pushing herself to her feet, Morathi heard these words and glared at Yvraine. She was about to spit a retort when the ground moved again, ravines cracking apart the isthmus from shore to shore. A wall of foaming water crashed along the welts rent in the earth of Avelorn, descending upon both armies.

  The elves needed no encouragement. The remnants of the Naggarothi fled back into wasted Avelorn while the defenders headed for their boats on the very edge of the Gaen Vale. Morathi, caught in the middle of the destruction, looked left and right and behind her, and saw that the water would be upon her before she could reach the higher ground.

  “Spirits of Anaekhian, hearken to your dark mistress!” she cried, throwing aside her sword to lift up her arms. “It is time to play your part in our bloody contract!”

  Thousands of black moths erupted from the flesh of Morathi, their wings marked with red runes of Chaos. They engulfed the sorceress, becoming part of her, turning her body to shadow as they bore her upwards even as the two walls of the inrushing sea crashed together beneath her.

  The waters swirled around Yvraine, bearing her up also, a spiralling waterspout carrying the Everqueen gently back to the Gaen Vale as the isthmus sank beneath the waves. Many from both sides had been too slow and were swept away, Althinelle amongst them; the bodies of the dead covered the swirling, frothing sea, tossed this way and that by the tumult of the waves.

  Alighting on the shore of the Gaen Vale as the ships of the other elves were pushed out by the foaming currents of the new strait, Yvraine looked at the druchii army retreating from the far shore. She sighed, feeling empty and exhausted. No more were the Gaen Vale and Ulthuan linked together, the breaking of the isthmus symbolic of the magical rent the Everqueen had wrought between her sanctuary and Ulthuan.

  She turned her back on the settling waters and walked into the woods, heading for her chambers beneath the Aein Yshain. She had protected the sacred glade, but at the cost of the eternal diminishing of her powers. The trees parted for her, opening up a wide avenue to the Glade of Eternity. Ahead, the shining tree of Isha dimmed, its leaves losing their shimmering gleam, its bark no longer bright with golden energy.

  The Everqueen still ruled Avelorn, but the true power of Ulthuan would now reside with the Phoenix King.

  PART THREE

  The Bloody-Handed God

  The Witch King Rides Forth

  Assault on the Eastern Kingdoms

  The Battle of Maledor

  The Sundering

  ——

  Rivers of Blood

  The carnage in Avelorn and the Everqueen’s dramatic actions brought a cessation to the open fighting. The absence of marauding Naggarothi armies lessened the pressure on Caledor, though the mustering of the force to Avelorn had depleted garrisons across the eastern kingdoms and the cultists increased their sacrifices and murders.

  A relative peace descended upon Ulthuan, as both sides regrouped and considered their next strategies. In the last days of the autumn, the princes were again called to the Isle of the Flame for council, and as before they were divided over the best course of action. Caledor spoke little, and allowed the princes to argue amongst themselves.

  “The Naggarothi cannot recover from their latest defeat,” insisted Dorien, addressing the council in full armour. “Now is the time to press an attack into Nagarythe.”

  “We suffered badly too,” said Tithrain. “What troops I managed to raise were all but slain in Avelorn. The cytharai worshippers run amok through Cothique. To send what remains of my army now would be to abandon my people.”

  “Tithrain is right,” said Carvalon, the ruler of Yvresse. “With the Naggarothi beaten back, we should make efforts to secure our homes against attack from within.”

  “The Naggarothi are not beaten,” said Finudel, slapping a gauntleted hand on the table at which he sat. “There are still many of them in northern Ellyrion. We should muster our strength there and drive them back across the mountains.”

  “Do not forget Tiranoc,” said Thyriol. The mage tapped his fingers in agitation, eyes moving constantly between the other princes. “It would be a mistake to think the druchii have fled back to Nagarythe. They still hold several passes across the mountains and threaten Caledor, Ellyrion, Chrace, even Eataine. We cannot defend all of these places at once.”

  “Has there been any news from the Anars?” asked Athielle. “Do they still wage war within Nagarythe?”

  “Alith Anar is dead,” replied Caledor.

  Athielle gasped in horror and there were m
urmurs of unease from the other princes.

  “The druchii have been crowing about it for some time,” explained the priest, Mianderin. “Apparently Morathi’s assassins caught him. We can expect no aid from inside Nagarythe.”

  “The last time we waited for the Naggarothi to act, Avelorn was all but destroyed,” Dorien snapped. “Which kingdom will be sacrificed next?”

  “The druchii will not move again until spring,” Caledor declared. “Use the winter to root out the cultists that persist in your kingdoms. The dragons will patrol the mountains, and we will set garrisons to guard the passes. We will gather what forces we can in Ellyrion, Caledor and Chrace when the season turns again.”

  As the Phoenix King commanded, so it was. The warriors of Chrace and Caledor, whose kingdoms had been freed of the cultist threat, followed the Phoenix King on a purge through Eataine and Yvresse. Progress was slow, for the cultists were skilled at hiding in plain sight and when discovered fought to the death, knowing that they could no longer expect mercy. By the time the winter had passed, Lothern and Tor Yvresse had been secured, and all passage in and out of the cities was carefully watched to prevent the cultists returning.

  In the spring, the securing of Yvresse occupied the Phoenix King. This task proved even more difficult than he feared; the many isles that lined the kingdom’s coast provided hundreds of hidden sanctuaries for those that sought to undermine the Phoenix King’s rule and strike out at those who followed him.

  The ships and Sea Guard of Eataine were placed at Caledor’s disposal, in return for two dragons sent to guard Lothern against possible druchii naval attack. Even the most experienced ship pilots found the straits and channels of Yvresse a troublesome prospect, as small flotillas prowled the coastline seeking to intercept the cultist groups as they sailed to the mainland on their raids.

  Caledor was frustrated by every delay, but was not a leader to abandon a pledge simply because it proved difficult. Day after day he consulted with the captains and cartographers, plotting the patrol routes and launching expeditions against the larger isles to eradicate any cult encampments. The Phoenix King occasionally joined these maritime forays on Maedrethnir, flying above the fog-shrouded isles seeking telltale signs of cult inhabitants. Several innocent fishing vessels and villages were terrified by the arrival of the Phoenix King and his monstrous mount, crashing out of the skies ready for battle.

  Eventually, as spring became summer, Caledor prepared to move on to Cothique with a smaller army, having despatched a number of warriors and his dragon princes across the Inner Sea to help guard Ellyrion and Chrace. The druchii had launched nothing more than a few raids since the autumn and the Phoenix King suspected that Morathi planned a new offensive.

  Ever wary of the occupation of Tiranoc neighbouring his home kingdom, Caledor appointed Dorien as warden, effectively giving his brother rule while he immersed himself in his duties as Phoenix King. Dorien was displeased by this development, thinking that being sent back to Tor Caled was some kind of punishment for his outspoken views on taking the fight to Nagarythe. Despite the Phoenix King’s assurances to the contrary, and emphasising the trust he was placing in him, Dorien sent frequent messages from Caledor demanding that he be allowed to lead an army to free Tiranoc.

  Worried that his brother would do something rash, Caledor paused in his advance to Cothique, thinking to return to his kingdom to settle Dorien’s spirit. On the morning he was due to fly south, a messenger hawk bearing a crystal from Thyriol arrived. The bird flew directly into Caledor’s tent, startling the Phoenix King and his Chracian guards.

  “Leave it be,” said the king as one of the White Lions stepped towards the bird of prey.

  Caledor abandoned the maps he had been studying and took the pouch tied to the bird’s leg. Several times had Thyriol sent word in this way, but as Caledor took the crystal from the bag and set it upon a low table he felt the bird’s hasty arrival foreshadowed important news.

  He was right.

  Thyriol’s shimmering image appeared in the centre of the pavilion, pacing back and forth across the rugs. The mage was fidgeting even more than usual, wriggling his fingers and shaking his head as he spoke.

  “King Caledor, I fear my eye has been drawn away from Saphery too long,” the mage said. “While I helped you spy out the cultists in other kingdoms, darkness has festered in my own realm. Though I have striven to suppress them, agents of Morathi have long attempted to sway some of my followers to the dark path. I thought I had taught them the folly of seeking the power of sorcery, but my warnings have fallen on ears deaf to them. Only this day I have discovered the practise of sorcery within my palace. My grandson Anamedion is dead and my daughter Illeanith has fled with the dark mages.”

  Thyriol paused in his striding, lifting a hand to his brow for a moment, head bowed. He straightened and resumed his pacing.

  “That is of no consequence directly. The palace is secured and I have moved it to a safe place in the mountains. If you wish to return a message to me, the hawk will find me. The sorcerers are free to wreak whatever ruin they can. They have corrupted some of my students and I cannot overstate the harm they may yet do.”

  The mage stopped and reached a hand towards the crystal, half imploring, half in apology.

  “I regret that until this threat had been dealt with, my mages must return to their kingdom and seek out these dark practitioners, I know that this leaves you with little defence against Morathi’s sorceries but it must be done. The towers of Saphery hold many precious secrets that cannot fall into the hands of the druchii. I also know that you can spare few troops to aid us at this time, but any that you can send to Saphery will be invaluable. Even more than Cothique or Yvresse, we are not a kingdom ready for outright war. Yet it has come to us and I know in my heart the battles to come will be terrible.”

  Thyriol gave a perfunctory bow.

  “I must go and prepare for the coming battles, my king. I will send word again when I know more.”

  The image shimmered and disappeared. Caledor frowned at the crystal, annoyed that he could not respond immediately. Instead, he called for a scribe to take a letter and composed a brief message to Thyriol, promising his immediate support. Another herald was summoned to travel to Dorien, telling the king’s brother that Caledor would not be returning. With this done, the Phoenix King summoned his princes and commanders to discuss their next move.

  The news of Saphery’s turmoil spread through the camp. Several captains from Eataine and Yvresse, bordering Saphery, sought leave to return to their princes so that their kingdoms could be protected against any threat that spilled from the imminent war between the mages and sorcerers.

  Caledor flatly refused all such requests and announced that the army would march to Saphery to assist Prince Thyriol. It was also in the Phoenix King’s mind that this would bring his forces closer to the Inner Sea, should the Naggarothi make any fresh move in the west.

  The following day as the army was forming up in column to march across the mountains to Saphery, a group of riders hastily entered the camp bearing the colours of Prince Tithrain. The exhausted heralds refused all refreshment and insisted they be admitted immediately into Caledor’s presence. The Phoenix King met them on the open field as servants broke down his pavilion ready for the march.

  “What is it?” said the Phoenix King, fearing that the inexperienced ruler of Cothique distracted him with some petty concern or imagined fear. It would not be the first time.

  “The Naggarothi have returned,” said the chief herald, sweeping his helm from his head and bowing low. “Cothique is under attack!”

  “How?” demanded Caledor. “How have they come through Chrace so swiftly?”

  “They have not, my king,” said the herald. “They arrived in a huge fleet and landed on the coast not more than six days ago. An army at least thirty thousand strong marches inland across the Anul Annurii. Prince Tithrain cannot hold them back with the few thousand troops he has.”

 
For a moment Caledor was stunned. How had the druchii held back such an army until now? And where had they got so many ships to carry them? The answer came to him quickly enough.

  “Elthin Arvan,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, my king, I don’t understand,” said the herald.

  “The druchii have abandoned Athel Toralien,” said the king. “They have brought back all of their warriors from the colony to launch a fresh attack.”

  “As you say,” said the herald. “With what message shall we ride back to our prince?”

  Caledor did not reply for some time. He could march north immediately, but his army and the dragons were spread across Ulthuan. To confront the enemy with the host at his disposal would be pointless. He needed to pull as many troops as possible back from the west, though he was wary of leaving Ellyrion and Chrace unguarded.

  “Tell Tithrain to hide,” he said eventually. The declaration was met with stunned expressions from the messengers. Irritated, Caledor expanded on his instructions. “He must avoid battle at all costs and preserve as many warriors as he can for my arrival.”

  “What of the people of Cothique?” asked the horrified herald. “What will they do while our prince hides? How can you abandon them?”

  “They must hide as well,” said Caledor, hardening his heart to the decision. “Or they will die.”

  The moans of the prisoners and the shrieks of those dying on the altars were a symphony in the ears of Hellebron; an orchestration of pain and suffering and death that seemed like the anthem of Khaine Himself. She raised her voice in praise to the Bloody-Handed God as she watched another Cothan dragged to Khaine’s altar, futile in her attempts to wrest free of the cultists’ grip as they threw her over the bloodied stone table.