[Sundering 03] - Caledor

by Gav Thorpe - (ebook by Undead)

  “I never agreed to a reply,” said the daemon, not looking back. “Take it yourself.”

  With a growl, Malekith extended his hand, fingers splayed. Magic twisted, forming a net of barbed darkness that surrounded the daemon. It squealed and tried to run back to the flames that had birthed it, but Malekith tugged back his hand, dragging the infernal creature across the road.

  “Even one of insubstantial form such as you can suffer a multitude of torments,” Malekith told the creature. The daemon howled and squirmed as the dark net tightened and lifted into the air, guided by a gesture from the Witch King. Malekith closed his fingers a fraction and the daemon screamed as black thorns dug into its flaming body. “All I have to do is close my fist.”

  “All right!” wailed the daemon. “What is the message? I shall take it to Anlec.”

  “To the sorceress Morathi, delivered to her alone, my words exactly,” said Malekith.

  “Of course,” replied the fire-daemon. “Your exact words. I swear.”

  “Tell Morathi that I have received her message,” said the Witch King. “She is to send ten companies from the Anlec garrison to fortresses on the Naganar. She is to do nothing else without my command.”

  “Don’t trust her not to go charging off?” laughed the daemon.

  Malekith tightened his fingers and the daemon let out a piercing screech.

  “I did not ask for your opinion,” said the Witch King. “Deliver my message and return to the realm that spawned you.”

  “I will, I promise!”

  Malekith released the spell and the daemon fluttered down to the road like a burning leaf. Grumbling and muttering, it shuffled back to the burning building and climbed within the flames. It turned to Malekith and made an offensive gesture of contempt, before melting into the fires with a cackle.

  The Witch King stared into the flames long after the daemon disappeared, weighing up his options. Imrik was making a gamble, believing Malekith would not be willing to give up Tor Anroc for Tor Achare. For that to work, the usurper would have to convince Malekith that he was willing to use Tiranoc to attack Nagarythe directly. The Witch King doubted Imrik had the mettle for such an assault. The sensible thing to do would be to proceed with the capture of Tor Achare to call Imrik’s bluff.

  However, a shadow of doubt crossed Malekith’s mind. To capture Tor Achare was a simple matter, to keep it was another. It was vulnerable to attack from Avelorn, Ellyrion, Cothique and Saphery, not to mention a possible landing on the coast. Perhaps Imrik really was willing to sacrifice Chrace in the knowledge that occupying the kingdom would weaken the defences of Nagarythe. He had allowed Cothique to fall beneath the blades of the Khainites, and that demonstrated a ruthless nature Malekith could admire.

  He wracked his brain for a third alternative, a means by which he would force Imrik into battle. The Isle of the Flame sprang to the Witch King’s mind, but was quickly dismissed; he had not nearly enough ships for an expedition across the Inner Sea. Lothern was a similarly valued prize, but was too far away from Nagarythe for an extended campaign without possession of Tiranoc.

  Tor Achare or Tor Anroc? The question nagged at Malekith as he sent word for his commanders to attend him. Push on to the capital of Chrace and subjugate the east, risking an invasion of Nagarythe? Another factor entered his thoughts: Morathi. He could not wholly trust her to be obedient to his wishes. It would take some time to capture Tor Achare, leaving his mother to make her own schemes. She would take it as a personal affront that Imrik threatened Nagarythe and would respond. Such a reaction would be reckless, committing Malekith to a war both in Chrace and Tiranoc.

  The runes of the Witch King’s armour glowed white hot as his anger returned, stoked by Imrik’s cowardly plans and his own uncertainty. Malekith’s subordinates converged on the central square of the town as buildings burned and the fighting continued. They kept some distance away, eyes narrowed against the fiery glare of their master.

  With a deep growl of annoyance, Malekith made his decision. He could not allow Imrik to recapture Tor Anroc, but there was no reason to take the circuitous route back through Nagarythe.

  “Rally the army,” he told his commanders. “We head south, to Ellyrion.”

  The streets of Tor Anroc rang with the clash of battle. The smoke-choked tunnel-roads of the city were packed with spearmen of both sides, while about the palace the dragons of Caledor laid waste to the citadel’s defenders with claw, fang and flame. The great doors of the palace were barred, but Tor Anroc’s central spire had not been designed as a bastion of war. Druchii warriors on tiered balconies fired volleys from their repeater crossbows, while the Phoenix King’s mages hurled lightning bolts and balls of fire through the high windows into the halls within. Stained glass was shattered, tapestries and curtains burned.

  Black-clad soldiers dashed from one of the tunnels leading into the palace square, pursued by the silent Phoenix Guard, their halberd blades slick with blood. After them came Caledor’s favoured White Lions, who broke towards the noble houses surrounding the plaza, which had been quickly fortified by druchii defenders. A swathe of spearmen and archers followed, pushing towards the palace doors.

  Maedrethnir settled on the roof of a tower overlooking the west gardens, where bolt throwers unleashed hails of spears from behind ornamental hedges and beneath blossoming fruit trees. Claws scraping gouges across the stained stones, the dragon launched himself at a battery of the engines situated behind a white-painted wall. Sweeping overhead, he bathed the lawn with flame, setting fire to mountain roses and sun-petals, scorching grass that had once been carefully tended by a small army of gardeners. Stowing his lance and unhooking his harness, Caledor dropped from the back of his mount, landing sure-footed beside a shallow pool that gently steamed, dead fish floating on the surface. A shadow swept over him as Dorien’s dragon flew past, bathing the roof of the great hall with fire.

  The Phoenix King drew his sword and ran up to the glass-panelled doors that stretched along one wall of a feasting hall. He dimly remembered eating in the long chamber as his armoured boot crashed against a lock and sent the door crashing from its hinges. Plunging inside, he found broken furniture barricading the doors into the rest of the palace. Lathrain cut through the upturned tables and chairs with ease, and within moments Caledor was through the door into the corridors of the palace proper.

  He headed north towards the great staircase that led to the upper levels. The gallery was deserted, the sounds of battle outside muted as his boots rang on the marble floor. Busts of Tiranocii princes sat in alcoves on either side, each broken and defaced by the druchii.

  As he reached the entrance chamber, he came across a group of druchii guarding the main doors. They turned at his approach, swords and shields raised. Lathrain blazed as Caledor cut them down, even as a deafening boom sounded from the doors. Twice the massive portal shook. On the third, the oak doors exploded inwards, filling the entrance hall with splinters that rattled from the Phoenix King’s armour. In the smoke and dust, Caledor saw a slender figure approach.

  It was Thyriol, his raised staff glowing with power. The mage’s eyes were alight with golden energy, his skin writhed with magic. His pale hair surrounded his head like a nimbus, streaming with its own life.

  “I thought it polite to knock,” said the Sapherian prince, smiling.

  As the mage stepped over the threshold, more of Caledor’s followers poured up the steps, their war cries echoing around the large hall. Caledor led them up the eastern staircase, heading towards the royal apartments where Bel Shanaar and his family had once lived.

  Footfalls muffled by the thick carpets, the Phoenix King and his warriors moved from chamber to chamber, searching for foes. They found much evidence of the druchii’s depravity: trophies taken from victims, tomes of evil prayers, fetishes of the cytharai adorned each apartment.

  Coming to the chambers of the former Phoenix King, Caledor kicked open the door, sword in hand. The apartment was empty of the living,
but two bodies lay sprawled near the window. The elves, one male and one female, were dressed in the finest robes and jewellery. Flopped over a low couch, their faces were painted pale, eyes surrounded by dark kohl, lips black. A broken crystal phial lay on the floor close by and Caledor could smell the distinctive scent of black lotus.

  “Cowards,” the Phoenix King said with a sneer.

  There was a fire in the grate, books and parchments used as fuel. Crossing the chamber, Caledor saw a pool of blood leaking from the door leading to the bedchambers. Steeling himself, he opened the door.

  On a blood-soaked bed lay three children, the oldest no more than fifteen years. They too were dressed in rich robes and gems. On the floor around the bed were the bodies of five more elves, garbed as servants, their throats slit. Disgusted, Caledor turned away, slamming the door closed.

  Feeling sickened, he tossed Lathrain onto a table and slumped into a padded chair. The city was his, the capture of the palace a certainty. He could let others do the fighting for a while. Exhaustion tugged at his mind and body. Closing his eyes, he drifted into a light sleep.

  He awoke to find Dorien standing over him, a grim smile on his brother’s lips.

  “We are victorious,” said Dorien. “The druchii are all slain.”

  “Good,” said Caledor.

  He hauled himself to his feet, retrieved his sword and strode to one of the windows opening onto the royal balcony. Dorien followed him out onto the white parapet, which offered a magnificent view of the city. From here, high in the palace, the breaches in the wall looked small. The bodies littering the square below merged together, druchii and loyalist heaped alongside each other in death. Fires burned across the city and a column of elves were streaming down the roads and out of the shattered gate.

  “A sorry sight,” said Dorien. “Bel Shanaar’s legacy has been humbled.”

  “Better Tor Anroc than Tor Caled,” said Caledor, leaning on the balustrade.

  “True,” replied his brother. “I am sure Bel Shanaar would understand. Let us hope that Tor Achare has not suffered a similar fate.”

  The Phoenix King did not reply, his attention drawn to a shape against the clouds to the east. As it neared the city, it resolved itself into a pegasus and rider. It was Anamatheir, one of Thyriol’s adepts. The mage flew straight for the palace.

  “Such haste cannot bring good news,” said Dorien, following his brother’s gaze.

  Driven on by their relentless master, the druchii surged south through Avelorn and into Ellyrion. Day and night the army marched; a winding serpent of black and gold in the sun; a ghostly line of torch and lamp by moonlight.

  The army did not burn, did not slaughter. Ellyrion was not the Witch King’s target, though he faced a difficult decision as he approached Eagle Pass. Two days east lay Tor Elyr. It was an easy target, with no wall or keep, no bastions or towers. For that reason, it was also a worthless target. The destruction of the city would take several days for no reward save the misery of Finudel and Athielle. Tor Elyr was not a capital like Anlec or Lothern; the Ellyrians spent most of the year with the herds, and even the nobility spent all but winter in camps spread across the plains. Though it would add only six days to the march, the city’s destruction would be a distraction, one that might allow Imrik to escape.

  Malekith’s decision did not sit well with his commanders, who had spent a fruitless spring chasing Chracians and being ambushed. Their protests were not voiced, but the Witch King could tell by their sullen demeanours and pointed silence that they did not approve. He did not care one bit. Any that spoke against him, openly or in secret, would betray their lack of loyalty and would be dealt with accordingly.

  The army turned west and marched for Eagle Pass and Tor Anroc.

  * * *

  That spring signalled the course of the next stage of the civil war. Malekith force-marched his army across Tiranoc, only to find the capital abandoned by Caledor and his troops, the ancient city deserted save for vermin. The Phoenix King’s army travelled north on the Lothern fleet, raiding Galthyr in the midsummer before they moved eastwards and landed in Chrace to reinforce Tor Achare.

  Rather than chase his elusive enemy, the Witch King set about rebuilding the fortifications of Tor Anroc. From here he could easily move north to counter any invasion of Nagarythe, whilst threatening Caledor and Ellyrion. Morathi joined her son as summer became autumn, riding south with a caravan of cultists and other strange elves. Malekith was not of a mood to welcome her in extravagant style and refused her thousands-strong entourage entrance to the city.

  Furious, Morathi made her way to the palace of Bel Shanaar where Malekith had formed his new headquarters. The citadel was half in ruin; the disrepair of the druchii occupation and the damage caused by Caledor’s forces had left whole wings as piles of rubble or burnt-out shells. Through broken windows the setting sun streamed jagged shadows across the floor of the throne room as Morathi entered.

  “Why must my people live like cattle in the fields?” she demanded, striding across the cracked slabs.

  “There is little enough room in the city for my army,” replied Malekith. He sat on the broken remnants of Bel Shanaar’s throne, the wood blackened by his armour. “If they do not find conditions to their liking, they can return to Nagarythe.”

  “It is an irritation that I must come here at all,” said the sorceress. “Why do you dally here, when you could be marching south to Caledor?”

  “Do not think to advise me on strategy, mother,” said the Witch King, the visor of his helm glowing with pale flame.

  “And yet I find I must do just that,” said Morathi. She sought amongst the broken and burned furniture for an intact seat and eventually found a bench. Righting it, she sat down, legs crossed, her eyes fixed on her son. “Why do you waste your time in this hovel?”

  “I cannot invade Caledor,” Malekith said, resting gauntleted hands on his knees. “We have been fortunate that more dragons have not woken. Should Sulekh and her spawn enter the mountains, I am sure the other dragons would be roused by it. There is another reason. The moment I cross into Caledor, Imrik will surely set out from Tor Achare to take Anlec. Do you desire that I swap my father’s palace for that of the Dragontamer?”

  Morathi’s scowl was deep but she had no quick answer to Malekith’s taunting question. She tapped black-painted nails on the pale surface of the bench, small sparks of dark magic flickering between her fingertips to earth themselves in the wood.

  “What is it that you intend?” she said eventually. “Surely you do have a plan?”

  “I have a strategy, but it will not be swift,” said the Witch King. “While Imrik has his fleet, he can move much faster, along the coast or across the Inner Sea. If I march on Chrace through Ellyrion he will move back to Tiranoc. If I advance through Tiranoc and Nagarythe, he will come south via Avelorn into Ellyrion or Saphery.”

  Malekith raised a finger and drew a circle of smoke and fire in the air.

  “I could spend eternity chasing Imrik around Ulthuan and never catch him.”

  “Then we are at an impasse,” said Morathi, speaking as if the words pained her to say. “Imrik is willing to leave any kingdom to our mercy, and we can hold no place hostage to force him to battle. Yet he will not fight us directly, and so neither side can achieve a lasting victory.”

  “It is a duel,” said Malekith. He laughed, a harsh metallic noise that rang coldly around the empty hall. “Feint and thrust, parry and counter-attack. The first to flinch, to blink, to make a mistake will lose.”

  “I hear you say a lot, but I am no wiser regarding your plans,” said Morathi. “How will you break the deadlock?”

  The Witch King stood and approached his mother, dimming the flames of his armour so that he could stand over her. He reached down a hand and graciously helped Morathi to her feet.

  “What is this weakness?” she asked. “What have you seen? One of the princes, perhaps? One who can be turned to our cause?”

  �
��No, they are all loyal to Imrik,” said Malekith. “Imrik is the weak link in the chain.”

  “You are mistaken,” said Morathi. “He is considered by some to almost be your equal. Nonsense, of course, but he is not without intelligence and skill.”

  “I have no doubt that eventually I would prove myself superior, but the world might turn an age before that happens,” said Malekith. He walked towards the doors, Morathi hurrying to keep up with the long strides of her son. “He is the finest of the princes, in battle and as a leader. That is why our enemies look to him, why they follow him. That shall be their undoing.”

  “Our foes have one weakness, one chink in their armour to exploit,” said Morathi, gaining understanding of Malekith’s intent. “They rely on Imrik. It is his stubbornness and his bravery that keeps them fighting.”

  “Precisely,” said the Witch King. He stopped and picked up a lump of masonry that had fallen from the vaulted ceiling. It turned to powder as he closed his fist. “Without him, resistance will crumble. Imrik knows that he cannot defeat me and seeks to destroy my army piece by piece. I know that I cannot destroy his army if I cannot catch it. So, I will march to and fro, keeping his eyes on me, testing the resolve of his allies. His determination to avoid open battle will be his weakness. I am not so proud that he must die by my hand. There are many ways to slay a foe.”

  Morathi smiled as Malekith thrust open the doors to the hall and stepped into the antechamber. The Witch King’s voice filled the room.

  “Kill Imrik and we will win the war!”

  ——

  A Deadly Dance

  As Caledor had predicted, the druchii lacked the strength for an all-out assault across Ulthuan. Refusing the pitched battle that Malekith needed for victory, the Phoenix King and the princes allied to him were able to temper the druchii offensives whilst minimising their losses. Sometimes Caledor took the initiative, probing at the passes between Nagarythe and Ellyrion, sending expeditions to make joint raids with the Anars across the border with Chrace. Always Caledor tried to goad his foe into a rash move, but the Witch King was too canny a general to split his forces or over extend his advances.