The End Times, page 14
Drawing on the depths of his will, Malekith moved his roaming eye from the camp, momentarily lifting away towards the clouds for an overview of his situation.
The black tents of the druchii cut across the valley about a third of the way from its heights, crossing the river at the base and up both sides. Reaper bolt throwers in wooden forts protected the outer reaches of the camp, but there were too many warriors for them all to stay within the watch of these guard posts. Several thousand tents spread east and south down the curving vale, until swallowed by the trees at the lower altitudes. The advance parties had done their best to cut trails through the forest, but every few leagues the vanguard regiments disappeared, slain by the Chracians. Their latest efforts were like pale scars in the canopy, gashes of brown and black against the snow.
Even so, progress should have been swifter, and now that he was suffused with the winds of magic Malekith could see why. Against the flow of the vortex tendrils of magic drifted north from beyond the mountains, bringing mystical life to the trees and rocks of Chrace. Malekith knew this magic well, the energy of Avelorn, the power of the Everqueen.
He searched the valley for a sign of the asur’s spiritual ruler but there was no pocket of earth power to betray her presence. Instead Malekith detected smaller pools of life magic, and he swooped down upon the largest of these magical concentrations.
The trees themselves quivered with the magic, alerted to the presence of the druchii, filled with vengeance for the axes and fire they brought with them. Treemen and dryads, spirits that normally did not stray far from the Gaen Vale, had come north to aid the Chracians. Other beings, elemental creatures of air and stone, had been roused to attack the Ghrondian forces, moved to battle by the presence of an elf enchantress.
Her spoor was mingled with that of the tree-kin, sharper than the musty magic of ancient centuries. Malekith found her, a handmaiden of Avelorn, marshalling regiments of the Everqueen’s maiden guard not far to the east.
She was garbed in a flowing gown of deep green embroidered with blooms in reds and blues and purples, the lighter green of their leaves creating a swirl of lines and waves along the hem of the dress. Bangles of bronze set with topaz and opals and amber hung on the handmaiden’s wrists and about her slender neck was a pendant of pure sapphire, neatly inscribed with the rune of quyl-Isha, signifying the tears of Isha, a symbol of mourning and sad defiance. Her hair was golden, heavily braided and pinned to leave a single plait hanging down each sharp cheek. Eyes that matched the colour of the sapphire regarded the dispersing maiden guard with affection and contentment.
The handmaiden emanated calm resolve, like the deep spring that feeds the well or the roots of the ancient trees. The grass at her feet stood straighter, the petals on the flowers close at hand gleamed brighter in her presence.
Malekith detested the enchantress immediately.
It was just this sort of moon-faced pining for the peaceful prehistory of his people that had made them weak. The world before the Coming of Chaos would never return and no amount of poetry and prayers to Isha would change that. Only strength of will and strength of arms had protected the elves since, no matter the protestations of the Everqueen and her ilk.
The presence of the handmaiden reminded Malekith that he would have to deal with the Everqueen before the matter was settled. His previous attempts to kidnap her had been thwarted by the same individual that now sought to oppose him: Tyrion. He had it on good authority that the prince was Alarielle’s lover, and she would doubtless support her consort against Malekith’s ambition. When Chrace was in his hands, a full scale invasion of Avelorn would follow, and this time he would not leave the destruction to a feckless host of daemons led by the vain and jealous N’Kari.
The female archers, several hundred of them, were following warriors cloaked with lion pelts along the hidden tracks of the woods, ready to spring their attacks on the advancing companies of Naggarothi. They broke into groups of a dozen or fewer warriors, able to move swiftly and unseen along the game trails and hidden paths.
More than that, the Witch King realised as the enchantress started binding the winds of magic to her will. The energy swirled, delving into the life-force of the forests. Roots burst from the ground and branches bowed down, forming an archway twice the height of an elf, broad enough for several to walk abreast. Fresh shoots erupted along the outline of the gateway, bright leaves and flowers catching the light of the early sun.
The interior of the gate shimmered with magic, an image of blurred brown and green that resolved into a vision of a forest glade. Malekith could see that beyond the gate lay a tunnel that wound its way through the vortex, leading to the south. By this means did the warriors of Chrace and Avelorn bypass the sentries and patrols.
‘I’ve found you,’ declared Malekith, manifesting a projection of his spirit in front of the enchantress.
The maiden guard reacted quickly, surrounding the apparition of the Witch King with a ring of golden spears and arrowheads. The handmaiden looked shocked, but her fear dissipated as she realised that Malekith was present in spirit only.
‘Tell me your name,’ said the Witch King, ‘so that your kin can lament your passing in proper fashion.’
‘I am Ystranna,’ said the handmaiden. ‘I am the right hand of Astarielle and by her command I will not let you pass.’
‘You think to stop me with an army of vagabonds and hunters, earth-witch?’ sneered Malekith. ‘Or perhaps you hope that the blessings of Isha will be a match for my magic?’
‘Strength eternal guards our lands, despoiler,’ Ystranna replied, tilting her head to one side to regard Malekith with sapphire eyes. ‘Have you not learned the lesson yet? Ulthuan does not want you as her king.’
‘Ulthuan will be bound to my will just the same as every creature upon it,’ Malekith said. He clenched a fist in front of Ystranna, fire leaking from the gaps in the gauntlet. ‘You can tell Ulthuan that I will cut such wounds across her that she has never known and when I am finished she will never remember the days of green that once blessed her.’
The Witch King became aware of a nagging sensation, something relevant to his physical body. He looked at the maiden guard that surrounded him and waved them away with contempt.
‘This is the elite of Avelorn? My Black Guard shall water the trees you love so much with your blood, and they shall fertilise the ground with your bones. If you desire peace, return now to your mistress and lay down your weapons. Only those that resist need fear my retribution.’ None of the warrior-maidens moved. All regarded him with cold, unflinching stares. ‘I thought not, but the warning has been given. Ystranna of Avelorn, you must bear full responsibility for what happens next.’
Malekith did not give her time to reply as he banished his projection and allowed his spirit to fly back to his mortal shell. Opening his eyes, he saw that Kouran had been joined by two elves dressed in the manner of the shades, and by a herald swathed in the cloak of a dark rider.
‘A witch of Avelorn has bolstered the forces of the Chracians,’ Malekith told his lieutenant. Blazing eyes regarded the scouts. ‘You have fresh news of your own, I see.’
‘An army from the west, my king,’ reported Kouran. ‘Less than a day’s march away.’
‘From Nagarythe,’ Malekith said quietly. ‘It seems that Alith Anar has decided he wants to play.’
‘My king, our position has become vulnerable,’ Kouran added quietly. ‘If we press into Chrace the shadow warriors of Anar will attack the rear echelons.’
‘And if we turn to face Anar the Chracians will do likewise.’ Malekith turned his eye to the mountains in the west, where the sky was still purple, barely touched by the spreading dawn light. ‘I presume that you bring me this news accompanied by a suggested strategy.’
‘We should turn south and leave the forest to the tree-witch and her kin,’ said Saidekh Winterclaw, whom Malekith had not recognised beneath the mask of blood dried on his face. His voice was husky and dry, never more than a whisper.
‘A tempting thought,’ said Kouran, nodding his agreement. ‘There is little force in Ellyrion to stop a swift march. We would fall upon Tyrion’s host unexpectedly. Perhaps we will even reach them before they have eliminated Darkblade’s army, and the prince will be set upon from two directions, instead of us.’
‘Tempting, but wrong,’ said Malekith. ‘We merely delay the entrapment. Anar’s army can cross the mountains more swiftly than mine, and if not to bring battle then to speed warning to Tyrion. Even should they remain solely in pursuit, I cannot afford to leave a sizeable force at the rear, gnawing away at my reserves, threatening to attack any day.’
Before the Sundering he had made the mistake of not cowing every kingdom completely before moving on, driven by unseemly haste. Though time was short – all time was short if Teclis was to be believed – Malekith would not fall prey to the same impulses that had beset him before. ‘We will crush Chrace and seize the crossings to the Blighted Isle and with that route secured move into the weaker eastern kingdoms. The plan has not changed.’
The daemons had ravaged much of Chrace, but Malekith would see the remainder wiped out. No resistance would remain, and the death of the kingdom would serve as a warning to the others. The message would be learned – that this time Malekith would see Ulthuan accept him as its ruler or be totally destroyed. While his own armies were driven by the knowledge that there was no place for them to return, the princes of the ten kingdoms would come to realise that the only future left to them was at the mercy of the Witch King.
‘But the threat that arises in the west, my king,’ Kouran said to Malekith as the Witch King surveyed the mountain pass, knowing it was filled with traps and foes but there was no other way to get to his goal. ‘The traitor warriors of Nagarythe have followed us along Phoenix Pass and will attack within the next day or two.’
‘Let them,’ said Malekith. ‘If we turn to confront Anar he will disappear as surely as the shadows from which he takes his name. Archers in front and behind, and not an elf amongst them willing to stand and fight like a true warrior. I tell you, Alandrian, I will not be thwarted this time. Saidekh, gather together all of your clans – you are to lead the next attack. If the Chracians think their wild homeland has made them expert woodsmen and hill fighters, let them test their blades against the best of the Iron Mountains.’
‘Their skin will make fine cloaks and we will gamble around the fires with their teeth,’ said the shades’ leader. ‘Their hair we will weave into trinket bags for our children and their bones we shall leave as an offering to the Cytharai, whose wrath we will embody.’
‘Just make sure their resistance is broken – what you do with them afterwards is no concern of mine.’ Malekith looked at the dark rider, who had been summoned by Kouran to take messages to the army. ‘Have Imrik and his dragons raze the lower slopes. Burn everything. If Ystranna and her allies wish to retreat from this valley, they must do so through dragonfire or across a charred desolation. She can risk the open ground or face the blades and missiles of Saidekh – the choice is hers.’
The rider turned towards his steed but was called back by Malekith.
‘Ask Prince Imrik nicely,’ the Witch King added. ‘Be sure to say “please”.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE BATTLE OF THE WHITEWEALD
For the remainder of the day it was as Malekith commanded. In their hundreds the shades swept through the forest, a match for any Avelorn spearmaiden or Chracian hunter. Ahead of them, to the east, the dragon princes set about turning the forest to cinders. Dragonfire scoured the mountainside, slaying hundreds of beasts large and small but not a single elf corpse was found amongst the charred remains. Night fell but full darkness never came to the Whiteweald. A twilight cast by the burning forest lit the sky while smoke swathed the moons and stars.
To Malekith’s growing anger, his foes would not show themselves. While his army stood guard in their camps, laughter and singing taunted the druchii and Caledorians. Arrows scythed from the darkness to slay sentries and patrols, but none dared go after the hidden archers while fey lights flickered between the trees and mysterious hisses and groans were carried on the wind.
Kouran arrived at Malekith’s pavilion early the next morning, trailing muddy footprints across the hide rugs, blood on his armour from recent fighting. He bent to one knee before the Witch King’s throne, Crimson Death held out before him as an offering to Malekith.
‘The fighting sounds close,’ remarked the Witch King. ‘It is as though I can hear the blades crashing and the arrows singing from here. Have the enemy finally decided to fight?’
‘They have, my lord, but our forces fare poorly,’ said Kouran, avoiding his master’s eye. ‘The initial attack came not from Anar’s shadow warriors but out of the Whiteweald. Our eye had been drawn to the west too far, my king, and now the enemy have already slain the outer companies and are pressing towards the encampment.’
‘The forces to the west moved in response and the traitor Naggarothi attack from Phoenix Pass?’
‘Just as you say, my king. While the Karond Kar regiments broke camp the shadow army fell upon them. Three thousand are dead – the rest have formed a defensive encirclement and are surrounded.’
‘A well-coordinated assault.’ Malekith rose and strode past his underling, keen to see for himself the unfolding battle. ‘Clearly Ystranna and Anar have been communicating in some fashion I have been unable to detect.’
Malekith stepped out into the dawn light. The sky overhead was still grey, the mountain clouds low despite the summer season. The distinct noise of battle rang through the valley, the clash of weapons, battle cries and screams of the dying and wounded. A constant whispering of bowstrings and arrows added a counterpoint to the more raucous sounds. Dragons roared and flames crackled as the Caledorians to the east responded to the Chracian and maiden guard offensive. Malekith could detect the hiss of hydras and snarl of cold ones.
There were other noises, of a more supernatural origin. The creak of trees and thrash of leaves magnified a hundredfold, accompanied by booming voices and the trilling of smaller forest spirits. The ground rumbled as animated boulders smashed through ranks of warriors, while the air carried a sibilant chorus from hundreds of wind sprites.
He smelt the smoke of dragonfire and the reek of cold ones, mingled with the aroma of sweat and fear. The pine resin scent of the forest was swamped by the iron tang of fresh blood, driving the army’s manticores into a frenzy of frustrated bellowing as they strained at their chains.
‘The ravens, my lord.’ Kouran stopped a few paces from Malekith, cautious of the flames rippling across his armour. ‘The shades caught several yesterday and learned that they were working for the Shadow King. We sent harpies to hunt them down but…’
Malekith turned his head to look down at Kouran. ‘There are a lot of ravens in Chrace?’
Kouran nodded. ‘Yes, my king.’
Malekith had to concede one point of admiration to his foes – when they committed to the attack they did not do so in half measures. It was as though the forest itself assaulted his army. More than a dozen treemen led the attack, crashing into the outer companies of druchii with fists pulping bodies and whip-crack branches severing limbs and necks. Behind them came smaller tree-kin and the dryad spirits, flooding around the treemen to despatch those trying to surround the ancient forest herders.
The Chracians formed one flank of the attack, driving a wedge into the darkshards and corsairs to the north-east, while the maiden guard formed a solid line to the north-west, their wall of glittering spears keeping knights and dark riders at bay while their bows took a toll of the same with relentless volleys of white-fletched arrows.
More archers rained arrows from a secondary line, targeting the druchii war machines and beast handlers. These were aided by several mages, including Ystranna. Malekith could detect the swirling winds of magic where the spellcasters summoned energy for their enchantments. Scything, razor-edged leaves swept out of the trees to slash through a regiment of shades that were trying to go around the flank of the asur force, while muddy behemoths rose up from the ground to wrestle with hydras and dragons. More traditional fireballs and magical lightning betrayed the presence of at least two Sapherian mages assisting the handmaiden of the Everqueen.
The western approaches were no less embattled. Overnight Alith Anar and his shadow warriors had stalked within striking distance and dawn had marked the start of the attack. The first volleys had cut down lookouts and patrol captains, silencing any alarm that might have been raised. The shadow warriors had stolen into the encampment and sliced the throats of hundreds of warriors in their sleep before the contingent from Karond Kar had finally been roused. Their leaders assassinated, enemy in their midst, the Ghrondians had retreated piecemeal to higher ground and were now being whittled down by deadly archery from an enemy hidden by surrounding gullies and boulders.
The Caledorians were slow to assemble, the princes fatigued by the previous day’s labours scorching the lower slopes. The crackle of dragonfire was intermittent as some of the Caledorians sought to counter the awakened woodland bearing down on their camp while the horns of other princes summoned their steeds from their slumbering.
The speed and ferocity of the enemy attack was almost overwhelming. After endless days of chasing shadows, the druchii army had been taken unawares by the sudden change in strategy.
‘What are your orders, my king?’
Malekith realised that his host was in danger of being overrun before it was fully mobilised. Kouran’s question snapped Malekith from his contemplation.
‘Give ground,’ he said. ‘Consolidate. Our line is too long, and we need to draw their archers out of the trees. Summon the tower captains of your regiment to stop it turning into a rout, and tell them that we must make an orderly withdrawal three hundred paces. Tell Imrik to form his dragons into two wings, one to act as a reserve to cover the withdrawal and counter any enemy breakthroughs, the other to harass the shadow army to the west. The two asur forces must not be allowed to link up, despite the retreat.’
