—<FOUR>—
Herald of Khaine
Once again Alith found himself returning to Elanardris with a secret to keep, one which burned at him more than ever. Elthyrior’s revelation that Malekith had returned had stoked the fires in Alith’s heart and he longed to announce to his family that the war for Nagarythe had begun. Yet for all his desire, Alith was haunted by the sincerity in Elthyrior’s face and tone. It was as a messenger bringing grave news rather than cause for celebration that Alith remembered the raven herald and so he kept his silence.
It was not long before Alith was relieved to hear a messenger from the lands westwards had come to Elanardris bearing the tidings of the prince’s return. The manse was abuzz with activity as word spread to Caenthras and the other allied princes at the home of the Anars.
Three days after Alith’s meeting with Elthyrior, Eoloran called the princes and nobles into the great hall to discuss their plan of action. This time Alith sat at the high table with his father and grandfather, though he was uncertain what he would say. Elthyrior’s warnings to stay in Elanardris were at the front of his mind, but he sensed that the others were keen to march forth and meet with the returning prince.
“This is joyous news indeed,” exclaimed Caenthras. “The day long hoped for has arrived and the cruel shackles of Morathi’s reign can be cast aside. Though we have chafed at those bonds placed upon us by concern for the safety of our kin, now we can let loose our spirits and fight.”
There was much approval to this from the gathered elves, not least from Eothlir. Alith’s father stood up and cast his gaze over the hall.
“For too long we have suffered, afraid of Morathi and her cults,” he declared. “We have been slaves to that fear, but no longer! Word comes to us that Malekith marches for the fortress at Ealith, and from there he will retake Anlec. It is not only our duty but our privilege to aid him in this endeavour. This is a battle to reclaim not only our own lands, but all of Nagarythe.”
Again there was assent from the others and Alith struggled to remain silent. The mood in the hall was martial, the assembled Naggarothi given a vent for years of frustration. Alith could not think of the words that could turn such a rising tide of anger, not least in part because he felt it himself. He was torn between his own desires and the warning of Elthyrior.
Alith suddenly became aware that all eyes had turned to him and realised that he had stood up. He glanced at his grandfather and looked out at the hall filled with expectant faces. If he were to speak against his father, he would invite scorn, perhaps pity. They would not listen and would think him a coward. He was heir to House Anar and all expectation was that he would raise his own voice in defiance of Anlec.
He stood in silence a moment longer, tortured. There was a whisper of disquiet and frowns appeared on the faces in front of Alith. He swallowed hard, his heart beating fast.
“I too feel the desire for retribution,” Alith announced. There were nods of approval from the crowd and Alith held up a hand to forestall any optimism. “This is a grave time, and calls for measured heads not fiery hearts. I have learnt much wisdom from my grandfather, not least the virtue of patience.”
There were a few heckling complaints but Alith continued.
“If Prince Malekith himself had called for our aid, I would proudly ride out on this campaign. Yet, he has not. It is presumptive of us to raise our blades against our fellow Naggarothi without invite from our true lord. If we take it upon ourselves to exact vengeance for the wrongs done against us, what difference would there be between those of us who hold true to the ideal of freedom and those who would enforce their tyranny with warriors?”
The grumbled complaints turned into derisive shouts. Alith dared not look at his father and instead focussed on one of the elves at the front of the crowd.
“Khalion,” said Alith, reaching out a hand. “What has changed between yesterday and today? Do you not trust in our prince to restore your lands and bring back the rule of law we desire? Why would we be so ready to unleash the cloud of war now, when under the sun of yesterday we strove for peace? Our grief consumes us, eats at our spirits, but we must not feed it with the blood of our fellow elves. Only by leave of the prince did we claim our lands and we owe it to him to respect that authority. Draw blood and we may yet start the war we have so long wished to avoid. We must temper our feelings with caution, lest our actions have consequences beyond what we see.”
There was disgust clearly written on the faces of the elves and many waved dismissive hands and sneered at Alith.
“Care not for their scorn, Alith,” declared Caenthras, striding to stand beside him. The venerable lord glared at the other elves, cowing their disrespect. “I value your reasoning and admire your courage and honesty. I do not agree with your arguments, but I think no less of you for voicing them.”
Alith let out his breath in a long sigh and sat down, closing his eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his father.
“The youngest of us might yet speak with the greatest wisdom,” said Eothlir. “I know that none here will march forth unless it is beside the banner of the Anars, and so we face a tough decision. Long we have pondered what might become of us in these dark times. For my part, I would have us go forth to whatever destiny awaits, rather than hide here while it sneaks upon us. I am not the lord of the Anars, though.”
All attention turned to Eoloran, who was sat with one elbow on the table, his chin cupped in his hand. His eyes swept the room, spending more time upon Alith than any other. Straightening, he cleared his throat and laid his hands palm downwards on the table.
“My instinct has ever been to avoid conflict, that much you all know of me,” said the head of House Anar. “Long we have endured turmoil and darkness, and it seems that stability and light can return to our lives. Though I hear your words, Alith, I am left with a singular fear. Malekith makes his bid now, and I cannot have it be said that the Anars stood by and watched it fail. It is beholden upon us to ensure the prince’s success, for the peace and prosperity of all our people in the times to come. Long we have watched and waited, biding our time for the prince’s return. That time has come. Unless you have some greater argument to make, I have reached my decision.”
Alith opened his mouth to speak but realised he had nothing else to say, no further argument he could put forwards to keep the Anars safe in Elanardris. He shook his head and sat back. Eoloran nodded and looked at his son and grandson.
“The Anars march at dawn!”
It was with a sense of foreboding that Alith marched with the other warriors of the Anars. From across the hills and mountains the army had gathered, responding to swift-riding messengers despatched by Eoloran to muster just south of Elanardris. The host marched west, numbering some twenty thousand warriors, heading for the ancient citadel of Ealith.
The Anars went forth on foot, the rough terrain of their lands not suited to cavalry; since the time of Aenarion they had fought with bow and spear rather than horse and lance. The elves moved swiftly nonetheless, and would reach Ealith in four days.
Alith strode alongside his father at the head of a company of bowmen, the honoured guard of House Anar. For the most part they walked in silence, Eothlir’s mood grim as was the atmosphere of the whole endeavour. Never before had the elves marched to war against other elves.
As twilight was spreading its shadow across the hills, Alith spied a crow flying overhead, towards the west. He followed its path and saw, just for a moment, a black-swathed rider silhouetted atop a ridge. The rider vanished into shadow in a moment, but Alith was left in no doubt that it was Elthyrior.
When the army stopped to make camp, Alith excused himself from his father, promising to bring back some game for their supper. Bow in hand, Alith picked his way quickly through the growing lines of tents and headed westwards.
Leaving behind the fires of the camp, Alith found his way lit by starlight alone. After some time, he reached the ridge upon which he had spied the dark rider and nimbly climbed its steep slope, jumping from boulder to boulder until he reached the summit. The white moon, Sariour, was rising and by her light Alith looked all about, seeking some sign of the raven herald. Some distance away on the far side of the ridge he caught sight of a black steed, standing docilely in a hollow. He took a step towards it but then stopped as he heard the sound of a whetstone on metal.
Turning around, Alith saw Elthyrior sitting on a rock just behind him, sharpening a serrated dagger. As before the herald was swathed in his cloak of raven feathers, his face all but hidden. Moonlight shone from his bright eyes, which followed Alith closely as he walked over and sat beside Elthyrior.
“I am sorry,” said Alith.
“Perhaps some things cannot be changed,” replied the raven herald. “Morai-heg weaves across the skein of our lives and we must do the best we can with the threads she leaves us. None will hold you to account for the decisions of others.”
“I tried,” sighed Alith.
“It is of no matter,” replied Elthyrior. “The path is taken; we cannot turn back, though your army must do so.”
“It is too late, my grandfather is resolute on marching to Ealith,” said Alith.
“He will not reach the citadel,” said Elthyrior. “Malekith will take Ealith but it is a trap set by Morathi. Even now, tens of thousands of warriors and cultists close in on him. If you march to his rescue, you will also be caught. I warned that it was not yet time and nevertheless the Anars have stirred Morathi’s wrath.”
Alith was incoherent for a moment, trying to comprehend what Elthyrior had said.
“Malekith trapped?” he finally managed to say.
“Not yet, and the prince is canny enough to avoid the snare,” said Elthyrior with a slight smile. “I ride now to warn him of the danger. By dusk tomorrow, others will come from Ealith, sent by the prince. Be sure that your grandfather listens to what they have to say. Add your voice to theirs if need be. The Anars must turn back now or you will not see Elanardris again.”
Alith bowed his head and clasped his hands to his cheeks as he tried to think. When he sat up he expected Elthyrior to have gone, but the raven herald had not moved.
“Still here?” asked the young Anar. Elthyrior gave a shrug.
“My steed is swift and I have time enough to enjoy the night air for a while.”
Alith took this without comment and stood up. He started down the slope and turned at a call from Elthyrior.
“I’ll save you some time,” said the raven herald and tossed something towards Alith. He caught it out of instinct and found it to be a bundle wrapped in several broad leaves bound with strands of grass. Looking back to the ridge, he saw that Elthyrior had disappeared this time.
As he picked his way down the slope, Alith opened the parcel: two snow hares trussed together by their hind legs.
As Alith made his way back down the ridge, something to the north caught his eye. Looking closely, he saw the telltale flickers of many fires on the horizon. Not knowing the portent of this discovery, he hastened back to the camp, running directly to his father’s tent.
Eothlir was deep in conversation with Caenthras, Eoloran, Tharion and Faerghil. They looked up angrily as Alith breathlessly burst through the door flap.
“The enemy are close,” blurted Alith, discarding the brace of hares upon the ground. “There are campfires to the north.”
“Why have our pickets not seen them?” demanded Eoloran, glaring at his son.
“They lie beyond a ridge to the west,” Alith intervened to save his father’s shame. “It is only by chance that I saw them.”
“How many fires?” asked Caenthras.
“I cannot say for sure,” said Alith. “Dozens.”
Eoloran nodded and gestured to Tharion to hand him a hide tube. He pulled a broad parchment from within and laid the chart out upon the table.
“Roughly where did you see this encampment?” Eoloran asked, beckoning Alith closer.
Alith looked at the map and found where he was currently stood. He traced his path westwards to his clandestine meeting with Elthyrior and located the area of the ridge he had been on. His finger then followed a line roughly northwards while he recalled the scene to his mind. The trail stopped upon a line of hills that stretched from north-east to south-west.
“They made camp somewhere at the base of these hills,” he said. “I do not think they will have seen our fires unless they are looking for them.”
“Then we still have the element of surprise,” growled Eothlir. “We should make ready to strike as soon as dawn rises.”
“What if they are a foe we cannot face?” asked Alith, recalling Elthyrior’s dire warning.
“We must ascertain their strength first,” said Eoloran with a nod, more cautious than his son. He looked at Tharion and Eothlir. “Assemble a small group of scouts and spy upon our foes so that we might know their strength and disposition.”
“Alith, you will guide us to where you saw these fires,” said Eothlir and Alith nodded, glad to have been included in his father’s thoughts. “Tharion, pick out the keenest-eyed warriors in your company and send them to me. Then ensure that all will be made ready to march come the rise of the sun.”
Tharion nodded and picked up his tall helm from a side table. He grinned briefly and then left.
“Beware of sentries,” said Eoloran. “If the enemy are unaware of us, it should remain so. Count their numbers and observe them, but do nothing else without my command.”
He stared intently at Eothlir to ensure his point was understood, and Alith’s father nodded in agreement.
“Do not worry, lord,” said Eothlir. “I’ll not scare them away and deprive you of the chance to lead the Anars in battle again.”
Eothlir assembled a handful of elves at the edge of the Anar encampment. Swathed with dark cloaks, they set out before midnight, following Alith’s lead. He took the small group westwards up the ridge, heading slightly north of where he had met Elthyrior. Though he doubted that the raven herald had remained close by—or that he would be seen against his wishes—Alith thought it best not to risk any discovery.
From the top of the ridge the campfires could clearly be seen. Alith took the time to count them. There were more than thirty fires, two of them exceptionally large. The undulating nature of the foothills meant that the enemy camp would be out of sight until the party was almost on top of it, and so Eothlir marked the direction by the stars in the clear sky and headed north-east.
After a short time the second moon ascended in the west, a sliver of bright green that spilled its sickly light over the Annulii foothills. The elves travelled swiftly over the rugged hillsides, no more distinct than the shadows of the rocks and trees around them. Sariour had set and the shadows had deepened by the time the sounds of the enemy camp came to them on the wind.
The enemy made no pretence of secrecy; piercing shrieks sounded occasionally, accompanied by roars of approval. Harsh laughter drifted towards the scouts and Alith cast an anxious glance towards his father, worried by what they would find. Crouching low, the group crested a low hill and saw the Naggarothi camp laid out before them.
A mass of black conical tents encircled an immense pyre, in the light of which Alith saw cavorting figures, their shadows flickering upon earth slick with blood. Figures flailed and cried out in agony upon the flames. Alith saw a huddled mass of elves bound with spiked chains, kicked and tormented by their captors.
As he watched, one of the prisoners was taken from the group and dragged crying towards the pyre. There she was tossed to the ground at the feet of a male elf stripped but for a daemonic metal mask and ragged loincloth made of skin. Alith recognised him immediately for what he was—a high priest of Khaine, the Lord of Murder. He held a long blade in his hand, shockingly similar to the one Elthyrior had been sharpening, and for a moment Alith feared that the raven herald had led him astray. However, the elf in the mask was taller than Elthyrior, his hair dyed white and beaded with raw bone.
Alith watched reluctantly as the priest’s victim was dragged to her feet. The Khainite slashed her across the arms and chest and cultists hurried forwards with bowls made from skulls to fill with the blood that spilt from the wounds. They clawed and bit at each other as they tried to catch as much as possible, before raising the obscene cups to their lips and taking deep draughts.
Weak, the captive fell to her knees. The priest grabbed a handful of her hair and cut the skin from her scalp, tossing the bloody trophy onto a pile behind him. Screaming in pain, the maiden was again hauled to her feet, her feeble struggle no match for her captors as she was spitted upon a spear and driven into the fire. Another great cheer rose up from the camp, chilling in its adoration of the slaughter.
“We cannot see them all from here,” said Anadriel, an elf-maiden who Alith had known for as long as he could remember. For years she had helped those who had displeased Morathi escape the clutches of the cults and brought them to Elanardris. Her sharp features were set impassively, and Alith could only guess how many times before she had witnessed the horrors unfolding below. “We need to move closer.”
Eothlir nodded, signalling for Anadriel to lead the way. They followed a snaking trail down the hillside, plunging into a grove of trees. Anadriel led them surely between the thin trunks, heading for the light of the fires.
All of a sudden she stopped, her bow in hand and an arrow ready. Alith glanced ahead and saw two figures silhouetted against the firelight. He slowly bent an arrow to his bow and joined Anadriel, glancing to the left and right to see if there were any others close at hand.
“You take the one on the left,” she said, her eyes fixed on the staggering cultists, a male and a female. It was clear what the couple intended, and disgust welled up inside Alith as he watched the pair trot hand in hand into the woods, their bodies smeared with blood.
“Now,” sighed Anadriel and Alith let go the bowstring. The arrow sped surely between the tree trunks and took the male elf in the throat. Anadriel’s shaft hit the eye of his companion. Both fell without a sound. Undiscovered, the party moved forwards again until they were hidden in the shadows of the tents.
Alith turned at the sound of metal scraping and a brief, wet noise. His father had a cultist’s body cradled in one arm, his knife bloody in the other hand.
“Swiftly, the distraction of the ceremony will not last forever,” said Eothlir, lowering the corpse to the ground and dragging it further into the darkness.
They made their way stealthily through the tents until the words of the high priest could be clearly heard. Eothlir despatched Anadriel and Lotherin to the left and right to count the enemy’s number.
Alith felt a hand on his arm and realised that he had made to stand, his bow in hand. Eothlir gave him a shake of the head.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow we make them pay.”
“What of those yet to be sacrificed?” demanded Alith. He felt an almost physical pain at the thought of what was about to happen. Eothlir simply shook his head again, eyes averted.
Alith forced himself to listen to the tirade of hatred spilling from the high priest.
“Hearken to me, the Herald of Khaine. As the libations of the King of Blood pour over us, let us remember that which Khaine calls upon us to do. Cast out the impure and make testament to their weakness with the offerings of their flesh. Raise your voices in praise of their deaths, and take strength from the Lord of Murder so that you might strike down those who would scorn our bloody master!”
A vicious baying and howling welled up from the assembled elves. The high priest raised his left hand above his head and in the grip of his fist a gory heart dripped blood down his arm.
“Mighty Khaine, look upon these offerings and be placated. Grant us your power so that we can slay the traitor who has disowned you, and slaughter his misguided followers upon the pyres of your glory.”
More screeching accompanied this proclamation as the cultists worked themselves into a shrieking horde.
“Let he who has turned his back upon you be cut down and his organs thrown upon the fires in repentance for his misdeeds. Let the ill-begotten heir of your chosen son perish in the ashes of vengeance. Let crimson retribution spill from his corpse to wash away the perfidies of his deeds.”
The priest tossed the heart into the crowds, who fought over their prize like a pack of wild dogs. The Herald of Khaine’s voice was calmer though it still carried easily across his followers.
“We are many, they are few,” he told the Khainites. “Even now the hated foe thinks he is on the brink of victory. Little does he suspect the agony that awaits. His is a false victory, devoid of Khaine’s blessings. Even as he rejoices in his empty triumph, he crows at the heart of a trap. None shall leave Ealith alive. Death to Malekith!”
“Death to Malekith!” chorused the crowd, at the crescendo of their frenzy, slashing at their chests and arms with daggers, matting their hair with their own gore. The mob descended upon the remaining captives. Alith turned away, filled with a mixture of loathing and dread. The blood-curdling cries of the Khainites reverberated around the camp, thousands of voices raised in bloodthirsty praise that made Alith’s skin crawl. The wind gusted towards him and the stench of charring flesh wafted between the tents, causing him to gag.
There was a flutter of shadows to the left and Lotherin returned, his face grim. Alith noticed a cut upon his cheek and blood upon his hands.
“Ten thousand Khainites, perhaps many more,” Lotherin told Eothlir. “There is a further camp to the west, where there are trained warriors of Anlec: perhaps another five thousand spears and bows.”
Eothlir nodded at this news, his expression distant. Anadriel rejoined them shortly after and confirmed Lotherin’s estimate. There were several thousand cultists attending the rituals and many thousands more scattered across the camp in narcotic stupors.
“I have seen enough,” said Eothlir, signalling for them to move back out of the camp. “Tomorrow we must be ready for battle.”
Alith prowled his grandfather’s tent like a trapped wolf, pacing back and forth as he listened to the army commanders making their plans. The words of Elthyrior gnawed at him, their sinister warning vague but nagging. As Eoloran outlined the disposition of the Anars’ companies, Alith’s exasperation took hold.
“Wait!” he barked, and suddenly felt the stares of the others fall upon him. He calmed himself before continuing, looking directly at his father. “You heard the words of the Herald of Khaine. Malekith is trapped at Ealith and we cannot hope to reach him. What purpose do we serve by throwing ourselves into the grip of our foes?”
“What other course would you suggest?” asked Caenthras, his voice cold with scorn. “To slink back to the mountains to await Morathi’s ire? We must push forwards and link up with Prince Malekith, unite our strength.”
“And if that strength is spent in this one fruitless endeavour?” countered Alith, trying to present himself as reasoned rather than fearful though the elven lord’s anger had shaken him. “On a hunt, one might get a single shot to fell the prey. The hunter learns when to shoot and when to wait. If we loose our shaft too soon, our target knows us and can react.”
“And if one dithers, the opportunity for the killing strike may be missed,” growled Caenthras. He took a breath and cast his gaze at Eoloran, who was scowling at the noble’s outburst, before returning his stare to Alith. “Forgive my anger, Alith. For long years we have waited, seeking the moment when we can attack. To hesitate invites disaster. I would not be content to sit in my hall and see that moment pass by, nagged by doubts that we stood idle when we should have acted. And on what would we base our strategy? The boastful rhetoric of an intoxicated priest? We cannot be sure that Malekith’s position is as forlorn as the Herald of Khaine would have his followers believe.”
Alith smarted at the intimation in Caenthras’ words but held his retort, knowing that Elthyrior had presaged the Herald of Khaine’s words but unable to reveal this knowledge. Caenthras turned his attention back to Eoloran and rested his fists upon the table on which the map charts were spread.
“Though perhaps we cannot aid Malekith directly, we can still help. An attack now will distract the foe, drawing the eyes of some away from the prince. If we do nothing, the thousands that camp north of us will march on Malekith’s position, closing the trap. Should we not intervene? Should we not do what we can to weaken that trap?”
“Your strategy has merit,” said Eoloran. “The fewer forces Malekith must face, the better his chances for escape.”
“I have another fear,” added Alith. “Who guards Elanardris while we fight here? Who is to say that Morathi’s next blow will not fall upon our homes rather than us? What victory is there to win tomorrow only to return to our lands to find them in the clutches of our enemies?”
This argument bit home and a look of anguish passed across Eoloran’s face. His gaze flickered between Alith and Caenthras, and then rested upon Eothlir.
“My son, this is not my decision alone,” Eoloran said heavily. “Though I am lord of the Anars, I am steward for their future under your rule. You have been silent. I would hear what you have to say.”
“Give me a moment to think,” said Eothlir.
He walked slowly from the pavilion and left the others in silence. Caenthras pored over the charts on the table, avoiding the gazes of others, while Alith took up a stool and sat to one side. The quiet was heavy with anxiety and Alith longed to leave, having said his piece. He forced himself to remain, though he could sense the resentment of some of the elves present, not least Caenthras. Fearful of alienating the father of the one he loved, part of Alith hoped that Eothlir judged in Caenthras’ favour and would allow Alith to make amends. Though Caenthras had seemed supportive before, Alith did not know how the proud elf would take the decision going against him.
The tent flap opened with a snap and all looked up. There was purpose written on Eothlir’s face.
“We fight,” he declared. “We cannot stand by while atrocity is committed, though only fate knows at what price. The crimes of the cultists cannot go unpunished. For good or ill, there is a time when we must look to others and a time when we must look to our own. Prince Malekith must be restored to the throne for the future of Nagarythe and we must play whatever part we can.”
“I concur,” said Eoloran. “Tomorrow we slay the Khainites and then we shall look again at what course of action we must take. Are we agreed?”
Caenthras nodded his assent immediately. Alith stood slowly and looked at his father and grandfather.
“None will fight harder than I,” he declared. “We will avenge.”
With the dawn sun glinting on speartips and armour, the army of the Anars broke camp and marched north. It was Eoloran’s strategy to come upon the cultists as swiftly as possible, before they moved further west towards Malekith at Ealith.
The Khainites would be ill-disciplined and eager to attack, so the lord of the Anars split his host into three parts. At the fore he sent swift-moving scouts who would circle to the flanks of the enemy and remain out of sight until the battle began. Alith was tasked with leading the right wing of this attack while Anadriel commanded the left. Eoloran was very specific that these flanking forces would target the disciplined Anlec warriors and draw them out of the camp. It was imperative that they were pulled away from the main fighting line but were not allowed to engage the scouts directly. Alith was to withdraw as soon as the enemy came close, dragging their foes away from the Khainites.
Meanwhile, Eothlir and the spear companies would form the main advance to take up a defensive position on the hills overlooking the enemy camp. The remaining archers, under Eoloran, would rain down their arrows upon the cultists and goad them into an unfavourable attack up the slopes.
Alith was tense with anxiety and excitement as he marched northwards at the head of five hundred elves. The rugged terrain and dawn twilight concealed the force and soon they moved out of sight of the main part of the Anar host. Alith realised that this was real and not some story; that he was in charge of a company of elves marching into battle. Unlike his grandfather and father he had never commanded other elves, and the experience was very different to the lone hunts he enjoyed so much. For the first time he truly felt as a lord of the Anars, gripped equally by the glory and the heavy responsibility.
His thoughts turned to Elanardris and his mother, knowing that she would be at the manse wondering what became of her family. He was determined to return with pride. His mind swiftly moved to Ashniel. Would she be impressed? Alith was convinced that she would be. She adored her warrior-father, and Alith’s experience in battle would surely increase his standing in her eyes.
As the sun rose and the scouts moved swiftly north, Alith allowed himself to daydream a little, picturing the scene of his triumphant return. Ashniel would be stood on the steps of the porch at the manse, a flowing dress tugged by the breeze, her hair streaming. Alith would run up the long path and they would embrace, her tears of joy wet on his cheeks. So gripping was the fantasy that Alith stubbed his toe on a rock, bringing him back to the present in a flash of pain. Chiding himself for his immaturity, Alith checked on his warriors and saw that none had seen his stumble, or were polite enough to feign disinterest. Realising that soon he would need all of his focus and skill, Alith gritted his teeth, gripped his bow tighter and strode onwards.
The thoughts of Alith’s father were very different. He was no stranger to battle, having spent several hundred years in the colonies before returning to Elanardris to start a family. This time was different. His army did not face savage orcs and goblins or bestial creatures from the dark forests of Elthin Arvan; his foe this day was one he had never thought he would face. Even in the dark times that had shrouded the latter years of Morathi’s rule, Eothlir had never envisaged fighting against his own people. The fight at the manse had been instinctual, reacting to attack. Now he found himself leading several thousand of his subjects to purposefully slay other elves.
The thought was disquieting, not least because Eothlir felt no inevitability about the battle ahead. He could have convinced his father to return to Elanardris with their weapons still sheathed, but he had chosen not to. As the tramp of booted feet sounded around him, Eothlir was perturbed by the notion that he wanted this conflict. He worried that the same desire for bloodshed that drove the Khainites to their depraved acts nestled somewhere in the dark recesses of his spirit.
His concerns brought to mind a tale his father had once told him. Eoloran had only spoken of the event once and refused to be drawn on it again. The event Eoloran had related had taken place shortly after the Phoenix King had drawn the Widowmaker from the altar of Khaine, the infamous weapon that was said to hold the power to slay gods and destroy armies. Eoloran always refused to speak of the Sword of Khaine by name, often calling it simply the Doom or “that infernal blade”. There would be a haunted look in his eye as he spoke of the Widowmaker, a distant memory of sights that Eothlir would never see, even in nightmare.
The particular story recalled by Eothlir concerned fighting at Ealith, the same fortress that Malekith currently held. A great army of daemons had appeared in the mountains and swept down across the hills, over the lands that would one day be ruled by the Anars. The raven heralds, Aenarion’s swift-moving eyes and ears, had brought word to the Phoenix King at Anlec and he had set forth with his host to confront the legion of Chaos.
At Ealith Aenarion made his stand and during an endless night of fighting through which the skies shimmered with ghostly lights and the ground itself burned underfoot, the daemons hurled themselves at the citadel’s walls. Though the greater part of the Chaotic host was destroyed, Aenarion was intent on their utter annihilation. Atop his great dragon Indraugnir, the Phoenix King led his army from the fortress, Caledor the Mage at his side, Eoloran and a hundred other great princes behind him. Eoloran had described the battle-fever that had gripped him, the jubilant singing of Khaine that rang in his ears from “that infernal blade”. He remembered nothing else but the constant slash of sword and thrust of spear, and a joyous love of death in his heart.
Eoloran had spoken of that time with shame, though the cause in which he had slain with such happiness and abandon had been the most righteous: the survival of the elves. Eothlir could never truly understand what the war against the daemons had meant for an entire generation, but if the self-loathing he felt was but a tenth of their woe he could imagine the honors that disturbed their dreams.
Another memory came to mind, much more recent: the recollection of the Herald of Khaine’s vile sermon and the sacrifices heaped upon the pyre. Unless Eothlir would see such slaughter across all of Ulthuan, this blight had to be stopped. It had consumed Nagarythe and it was clear to Eothlir that such barbarity would spread if left unchecked. The thought fortified his resolve and so he pushed aside his worries until a time when he could allow himself the luxury of doubt and compassion. He realised he must fight without joy or anger, for such temptations could awaken the ancient call of Khaine that still rang down through the centuries from the time of Aenarion.
Today he would slay his fellow elves; tomorrow he would mourn them.
Alith and his small company crept through the hills surrounding the Khainite camp, wary of sentries. Their caution proved unnecessary, for not a single figure was standing watch and as Alith came to the brow of a hill he could see that the encampment was quiet, the depraved cultists within sated by the debauchery of the previous night.
There was more activity further north and west, amongst the pavilions of the Anlec warriors. Their captains strode between the tents, bellowing orders to assemble their archers and spear companies. At first Alith thought that perhaps they had detected Anadriel’s scouts and were responding. After short observation, his fears calmed as the soldiers of Anlec formed up in disciplined ranks in the wide spaces at the centre of their camp, parading and drilling for their officers. Their activity was nothing more than the regular movement of troops in camp.
Circling eastwards, Alith allowed the Khainite camp to disappear from sight, though the smoke from its fires ensured that the archers knew where it was at all times. The sun broke strongly over the mountains to the east, casting its dawn glow across the hillsides. Despite the sunlight, the air was still chill and the breath of the archers misted in the air.
Judging that he had come north of the Khainites, Alith headed directly westwards, towards the Anlec camp. His caution returned as they neared. In scattered groups the Anars’ warriors flitted from bush to rock to tree, remaining out of sight. It was not long before they were crouched just beneath the summit of a steep hill, ready to move forwards and overlook the Anlec tents.
Signalling to a couple of his warriors—Anraneir and Khillrallion—Alith sneaked to the brow of the hill and looked out over the formations of the Anlec army. They were still practising their spear and bow drills, moving with precision and speed in a well-rehearsed choreography of simulated battle.
Alith waited nervously for a while, not knowing whether Anadriel was yet in position. He watched the skies as much as the enemy and was relieved when he saw the flitting shape of a hawk dashing from the west, climbing and swooping over the foe’s camp. The hawk circled for a while and then flew low, its wingtips brushing the grass of the hillside. With a cry, it settled upon the leafless branch of a bush not far from Alith’s right hand. He held up his arm and the hawk swept forwards to land on his wrist, its talons gripping his flesh firmly but not piercing the skin.
“We will attack now,” Alith whispered to the bird, which bobbed its head in acknowledgement before beating its wings and launching into the air once more. Alith watched it skirt around the Anlec encampment and then disappear into a small copse of short firs on the westward side of the camp.
Alith nodded to Anraneir and Khillrallion. They turned and slithered down the hill to pass the word to the other archers. Soon the company of elves were all hidden in the long grass at the hilltop, readied arrows at their bowstrings. Raising himself up to a half-crouch, Alith took a final look at his target.
The outskirts of the camp were no more than a hundred paces away, where several sentries stood with spear and bow, their eyes gazing across the hillsides.
“Now!” barked Alith, loosing his shaft at the closest sentry. The arrow took Alith’s victim low in the chest, punching through the silvered breastplate he wore. He collapsed with a shout as more arrows whistled through the air, cutting down the other guards.
The warriors of Anlec were professional fighters and responded quickly. They formed into marching columns, archers to the front, and split into companies. A vanguard of roughly a thousand warriors advanced at a quick march, cutting through the lines of tents along wide paths left for just such a reason. As they did so, Alith and his warriors shot their arrows high into the air, allowing them to fall at a steep angle amongst the ranks of the warriors. Though dozens fell to the deadly shafts, the column continued its implacable advance.
Behind the vanguard, more companies were surging out of the camp towards Alith. Bass horns sounded from the Naggarothi warriors, sending a chill across Alith’s skin. Those same notes had once signalled the attack of daemons, calling the loyal followers of Aenarion to war. It seemed perverse to Alith that he and his warriors were now deemed the aggressors, fighting against the armies of Anlec. The tramping of boots sounded heavily in the morning quiet, accompanied by the jingling of mail and the scrape of metal.
There were other pained shouts from the far side of the camp and Alith glanced across the expanse to see the arrows of Anadriel’s company filling the air to the west. The Anlec vanguard continued on its course while the companies behind hesitated at a shout from their commander, unsure whether he was responding to a feint or a real attack.
“Keep shooting!” ordered Alith, standing fully to loose a stream of arrows into the Anlec warriors.
The vanguard had reached the edge of the camp and the archers split from the spears. Soon, black-shafted arrows were singing their way through the air back towards the Anar scouts. Alith heard shouts of pain and looked to his left to see several elves lying in the thick grass, arrows protruding from their bodies. Two were not moving, two more quickly pulled free the shafts and bound their wounds.
The spearmen were no more than seventy paces away and the storm of arrows from the camp’s defenders became relentless. A dozen more were wounded as the cloud of shafts fell amongst the Anar scouts.
“Carry the dead, help the wounded!” yelled Alith, letting loose a final shot at the advancing spearmen. “Head north-east, draw them from the Khainite camp.”
Under the barrage of arrows, the scouts slinked back down the hillside and cut to their right. At a run, they broke from their cover and followed Alith down the dell and up the mound on the opposite side. Here Alith called for them to halt, once more out of sight of the archers in the camp, and they turned their bows upon the spearmen as they crested the hill in front.
The spearmen fell back from the hilltop, and reappeared shortly after, flanked by their supporting archers. As he called for his scouts to retreat once more, Alith wondered how Anadriel was faring and if the Khainites had yet responded. Focussed on the enemy ahead of him, he realised that it was going to be a long morning.
* * *
The hawk circling high above signalled to Eothlir that Alith and Anadriel were about to start their attacks. All was ready above the Khainite encampment as well. He was stood beside Eoloran looking down on the Khainites. In his left hand Eothlir carried the furled banner of House Anar, in his right he held the golden blade Cyarith, the Sword of Dawn’s Vengeance. The weapon felt warm to his touch, feeding upon the rays of the morning sun that broke over the mountains, its keen edge glittering with magical energy.
Behind Eoloran stood Caenthras, a curling ram’s horn decorated with bands of silver in his hand. At a nod from the lord of the Anars, Caenthras raised the instrument to his lips and let forth a long pealing note, high in pitch. Three times more he sounded the blast, the notes echoing from the hillsides and reverberating across the camp below.
Eothlir waited a few moments while the stupefied elves roused themselves at the sound of the horn. He saw the Herald of Khaine striding from a pavilion with bloodstained walls, his burnished mask gleaming. The priest was gesticulating wildly, summoning his followers from their slumber. When a good number had gathered around their leader, Eothlir let slip the knot upon the standard and the great flag unfurled. He lifted it high so that the symbol could clearly be seen.
Planting the banner into the soft turf of the hilltop, Eothlir took a step forwards. Caenthras blew another long, high note to ensure that all eyes were upon the hillside.
“Behold the mighty Eoloran Anar, lord of these lands,” shouted Eothlir. “You are trespassers in this realm. Lord Anar demands that this ragged mob departs immediately and slinks back to the dark holes that spawned it. He renounces the accusations of cowards who would slaughter those that cannot protect themselves, and dares his unworthy foes to match their blades against true warriors. He is not without mercy and will hear the pleas of all who beg forgiveness for the crimes they have committed. All who recant their false faith will be granted the peace of Isha.”
Eothlir took a step back as Caenthras sounded the horn once more to signal the declaration was complete.
“That should get their attention,” said Eoloran with a grim smile. “I think the ‘peace of Isha’ part in particular will get them going.”
Eothlir could not help but smile himself, knowing that the taunts would have precisely the effect he had intended. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the thousands of the Anars’ warriors standing ready out of sight. Archers were lined up just below the crests of the surrounding hills, the spear companies arranged behind. Banners slapped in the morning air and the sun shone from the keen edges of speartips and the points of arrows. Dressed in dark blue, the host looked like a deep lake glittering in the sunlight.
“Here they come,” muttered Caenthras.
Eothlir turned his attention back to the camp to see several hundred Khainites racing from the tents towards the Anars. He shook his head slightly, almost embarrassed by the ease with which the ploy was working. Truly their foes had given up any right to be considered sane and civilised folk.
Eoloran turned and marched down the hill, signalling for the archers to move forwards. He crossed to join the right wing of the army as the first of the Khainites reached the foot of the slope in front.
These were the worst fanatics, utterly heedless of their own lives as they charged forwards, knives and swords in their hands, their skin patterned with bloody handprints, their hair slicked into gory spines. Their headlong rush did not falter as the thousands of archers appeared at the summit of the hill.
Eothlir heard his father give the command and watched without emotion as a black cloud of shafts filled the air. The arrow storm dropped down the hillside, falling upon the cultists in a dark mass. Not a single charging Khainite survived that first volley.
The Herald of Khaine was mustering a more coherent force. His hoarse screams could be heard on the wind as the high priest and his underlings moved along the unsteady line of Khainites, sprinkling them with blood from the sacrifices, exhorting them to slay the offenders of the Lord of Murder. As during the ceremony of the night before, the cultists were baying and howling and screaming, offering praises to Khaine or simply giving wordless voice to their seething rages.
Drums joined the cacophony of bellows and shrieks, pounding out a rapid beat that thundered from the hillsides. Just hearing their martial rhythm caused Eothlir’s heart to thump faster, his pulse singing in his ears. That there was some magic woven into the incessant drumbeats was inescapable as he felt his anger rising and had to fight the urge to charge forwards. A glance showed that Caenthras and the others were suffering similar temptation.
“Hold fast!” Eothlir called out. “Await my command!”
He raised his right arm outwards and held out Cyarith at shoulder level, as if it were a barrier to the thousands of spearmen waiting behind him. His hand trembled for a moment, the grip of the ancient sword growing ever hotter in his palm as his excitement fuelled its magic further. Eothlir could feel the sword drawing in energy from the air around him, and he licked his dry lips.
The Herald of Khaine strode forwards at the head of thousands of his followers. The drumbeats continued and were joined by the pattering of bare feet on hard soil. The cultists’ screeching had become a singular chant—“Khaine! Khaine! Khaine!”—which caused Eothlir’s skin to crawl as dark energies churned in the skies above. Though the air was clear, the redness of the dawn light deepened, turning to a crimson shroud above and around the elves. Eothlir’s magical senses thrummed to an invisible pulsating in tune with the rapid beating of his heart.
Advancing faster than his warriors, the Herald of Khaine stopped a dozen paces in front of them. He theatrically drew two knives from his belt and Eothlir almost flinched at the sight of the sacrificial daggers. Though impossible for even an elf to see at that distance, Eothlir could feel the runes of Khaine etched into the blades, a burning mark in his mind.
Crossing his arms so that he held out each blade to the opposite shoulder, in one fluid motion the Herald of Khaine drew their edges across his chest. Blood welled up from the wounds as he flung his arms out to the sides. Droplets of crimson fluid flew from the tips of the blades and hung in the air.
A sickness gripped Eothlir as he watched the droplets dissipate into a growing red mist, a cloud of blood that increased in depth until the Herald was obscured from view. The cloud continued to expand, rolling up the hillside towards Eothlir and cascading down the slope to envelop the Khainites.
“Shoot!” Eothlir called out to his father, realising that soon the enemy would all be hidden.
Eoloran did not question the command of his son and signalled for his archers. In long lines they loosed their missiles upon the chanting mob below. Many Khainites fell to the volley, pierced by the Anars’ arrows, but soon the survivors were swathed in the red mist. The archers continued to shoot into the roiling mass as it boiled towards them, though with little hope of finding their marks.
Eothlir realised that soon the whole hill would be engulfed by the enchantment and the archers rendered useless. Without waiting for any order from his father, he turned to the spearmen upon the slopes behind.
“Advance to your positions, quickly!” he bellowed, raising his sword above his head and swinging it forwards as if he could drag the spear companies into position. Horn blasts signalled the advance and soon the steady march of thousands of booted feet sounded on the hillside.
The crimson fog was at the summit of the hill and within moments Eothlir could taste blood upon his tongue as the unnatural cloud swallowed him into its ruddy depths. Trickles of blood ran down his face and stained his silver mail, gathering in pools between the fine links. His grip upon Cyarith became slick and, looking down at his hand, Eothlir realised that so tight was his fist, his nails had drawn blood from his palm, his own blood mixing with the roiling cloud around him.
Dark figures appeared in the fog around him, ruddy shapes silhouetted by the rising sun behind them. With a sigh of relief, Eothlir saw familiar faces—Thorinan, Casadir, Lirunein and others loyal to the Anars. Elegant white shields to the front, black-hafted spears levelled forwards, the warriors of House Anar gathered around their commanders.
Hundreds of archers lined the hilltops surrounding the Anlec camp, more than a match for the bows under Alith’s command. The scouts were dispersed along a ridgeline looking west towards the Anlec warriors, taking what cover they could amongst the scattered bushes and high grass.
A tap on the shoulder drew Alith’s attention to Anraneir, who pointed to the south. Alith could see a strange hue in the distance, a red miasma that swathed the hills surrounding the Khainite encampment. He did not understand what he saw, but knew it did not bode well.
At that moment, Alith heard the tramping of boots resounding from beyond the hillside opposite. Though the source of the noise was hidden from view, after a while it was clear that the sound was moving southwards. With his apprehension rising, Alith realised that the Anlec spearmen were heading out of the camp towards the main Anar army, content that the archers protected them.
“It seems our prey does not wish to bite on the bait anymore,” said Anraneir.
Alith nodded, his brow knotted in thought. The plan had been to draw away the Anlec warriors, but it had failed. There was little that a few hundred bows could do against such a host if the enemy considered them no threat.
“We have to get their attention,” said Alith, backing down the slope of the hill and gesturing for Anraneir to follow him. “When the prey eludes the hunter, the hunter turns to Kurnous.”
Anraneir looked on in puzzlement as Alith drew an arrow from the quiver at his back. The young noble rang a finger thoughtfully along the shaft from feather to tip, his finger lingering on the sharp arrowhead.
Alith then spoke the word of fire used in the shrines of Kurnous and the arrow’s head sprang into flame, burning bright yellow. Angling his bow high into the air, Alith fired the flaming arrow in the direction of the camp. The flickering of the fire sailed high into the air and then disappeared out of sight.
“Spread the word to the others,” said Alith. “Target the camp with fire.”
Anraneir smiled appreciatively before hurrying along the line of scouts to pass on Alith’s orders. Alith took out another arrow and repeated the process of lighting its head, before shooting again. Soon flares of light arced out from along the hillside, descending into the camp beyond the enemy archers. Alith could not tell how many shafts found a mark, but after several volleys, thicker, blacker smoke rose into the air.
“It’s working,” Anraneir laughed, returning to Alith’s side.
Crawling forwards to the brow of the hill, Alith saw that the Anlec archers were advancing, arrows nocked to their bows. If the scouts simply retreated directly away from their advancing foes, they would soon be out of range of the camp.
“Circle to the north, keep out of sight,” commanded Alith, stowing his bow and crawling back to Anraneir. “Though I have danced very little, I know enough that one should take the lead.”
“And what a merry dance it shall be,” said Anraneir.
The red mist obscured all sight beyond twenty paces, and Eothlir was tense as he peered into the shifting depths, seeking some sign of the enemy. Their howling and shouting was getting closer, but the sound was muffled by the unnatural fog.
“Silence!” Eothlir bellowed and within moments the lines of spearmen had fallen still, so that not a clink of armour or whispered word broke the quiet.
Eothlir listened carefully to the approaching noise of the Khainites. It seemed loudest to his left.
“Look to the west!” he warned.
No sooner had the words left his lips than a dark mass appeared in the gloom, quickly resolving into running figures. Thousands of Khainites poured up the slope, yelling and panting, wielding wicked daggers and swords with serrated blades. Their faces were twisted into leers of hatred and masks of total fury as they charged.
The cultists hurled themselves at the Anar spearmen, leaping from their feet a few paces distant and descending with flashing blades. Shields were raised to ward off the blows and the clash of metal echoed dully through the mist. Anar battle cries and praises to Khaine filled the air along with the chime of blades meeting.
Eothlir could not see clearly what was happening, but soon his concern was drawn directly ahead as more Khainites came rushing up the slope.
“Take prisoners if you can,” growled Eothlir. “My father would question those who plot with Morathi. Take the Herald of Khaine alive, if possible.”
The cultists were barely a dozen paces away and sprinting towards the Anars. Eothlir raised Cyarith in one hand and slipped a dagger from his belt with the other. When the cultists were no more than six paces away, the Anar prince leapt to the attack, Cyarith cutting the head from one Khainite while his knife slashed across the bare chest of another.
Dodging a blade aimed for his face, Eothlir parried another attack and drove the point of his sword into the throat of a third cultist. A moment later, the spearline crashed into the Khainites all around him, unleashing the chaos of battle.
The wall of speartips scythed down the foremost cultists and the Anars pressed on, stabbing with their spears and smashing aside their wounded foes with their shields. The controlled ferocity of the phalanx was more than a match for the raw aggression of the Khainites, who were thrust back by the counter-attack.
“Keep to the high ground!” bellowed Eothlir, worried that the momentum of the spearmen would carry them too far down the slope.
Keeping their line, Eothlir’s company backed off to the crest of the hill. The Khainites renewed their assault, ducking beneath the spears to hack at the legs of their enemy. Eothlir parried, chopped and slashed with Cyarith, cutting down any cultist that approached. The wounded of both sides were quickly mounting, as injured elves fell into the grass crying out in pain. The Khainites were unheeding of their losses and pushed on, driven by their bloodthirst. The spearmen were resolute in the face of the deranged murderers, stepping forwards to fill the holes in the line left by the fallen.
Caught in the maelstrom of blades and screams, Eothlir could do nothing but fight for his life. He chopped the arm from a raging cultist and drove his dagger into the groin of another. Blades shrieked from his armour as he punched a Khainite in the face, his gauntlet breaking bone. A wide swing with Cyarith severed the leg of yet another foe, who tumbled down the slope still screaming obscenities.
Eothlir felt a wave of dismay, almost like a chill breeze upon his flesh. It came from the right, accompanied by shrill cries of pain and lamenting wails. Cutting through more cultists, Eothlir pushed his way towards the disturbance. As he shouldered aside one of his own warriors, the melee opened up and Eothlir saw the Herald of Khaine.
The blood-drenched high priest was surrounded by a pile of several corpses, his long daggers held out to each side. Scarred runes upon his flesh burned with dark flame and his daemon mask writhed and snarled with magic. Leaving ghost-like red shadows in his wake, the priest leapt forwards and slashed with his right-hand blade, the dagger slicing clean through a shield and sending the arm holding it flying through the air. No blade or armour could hold against those Khaine-cursed daggers, and more elves fell to their wicked attentions in moments.
A spearman dragged himself to his feet behind the Herald of Khaine, leaning heavily on his weapon. With visible effort, the warrior thrust his spear into the priest’s back until the point lanced from his stomach.
The Herald of Khaine fell to his knees, but only for a moment. Surging upright, he turned, ripping the spear from the elf’s grasp. A hand flicked out and a dagger appeared in the spearman’s face, sending him screaming to the floor. Snapping the shaft transfixing him, the Herald of Khaine ripped free the spear and cast the two parts upon the ground. Blood gushed from the wound and spilled onto the ground at the priest’s feet.
“Accept this offering, my most beloved of lords!” the Herald cried out, lifting his bloodied hands into the air.
Black flame enveloped the Herald of Khaine’s fingertips, spread down his arms and then coruscated across the priest’s wounded body. His flesh cracked and burned, but as the flakes fell away they revealed untarnished skin, and the grievous wound was no more.
As the magical fire flickered and faltered, the Herald stepped forwards and stooped to pull his knife from the dead spearman. In moments the Herald was attacking again, cleaving a bloody path through the Anars’ warriors.
Eothlir slashed his way through the throng of cultists surging forwards in the gory wake of their leader. He cut at arms and legs, plunged Cyarith through breastbones and hewed through necks in a constant whirl of blades.
“Face a true son of Nagarythe!” roared the Anar prince as he burst from amongst the falling bodies of his foes.
The Herald of Khaine whirled to face Eothlir, white flame burning in the eyeholes of his mask. The glare of that unnatural gaze froze Eothlir with terror for it seemed as if he looked into the eyes of the Bloody-Handed God himself.
“Your agony will be most pleasing to my lord,” crowed the Herald, his voice harsh, edged with the ring of metal. “None triumph in battle without his blessing, and your fate is sealed.”
The Herald of Khaine dashed forwards, breaking the link between his eyes and Eothlir’s. Out of instinct, the prince ducked and threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding the priest’s daggers, which screamed as they cut the air.
Rolling to his feet, Eothlir knocked aside the next blow with the blade of Cyarith and lunged forwards with his knife. The Herald swayed away from the jab and backed off, stepping quickly on the balls of his feet. He wove his knives in a complex pattern, their fluid movement mesmerising. Eothlir kept his eyes fixed upon his opponent’s mask, ignoring the horror that crawled up his spine from the entwining sigil drawn in the air by the knife blades.
Eothlir dropped his left shoulder and then spun to the right, Cyarith flicking out to catch the wrist of the Herald. The priest’s hand spun through the air still clutching its baleful dagger. Eothlir jumped back as the Herald struck back as quick as a serpent, the tip of his knife flashing less than a finger’s width from Eothlir’s throat. Edging sideways, Eothlir looked for an opening to attack the Herald’s good arm, hoping to disarm him of the weapons that gave him so much power.
Just as he saw his opportunity, Caenthras dashed past, roaring with anger. He held his spear two-handed—Khiratoth, the Ruinclaw—and drove its point clean through the Herald’s chest. Blue fire erupted from Khiratoth, tearing the Herald of Khaine apart, the priest’s body exploding into a pall of smoke-wreathed destruction. Without a backwards glance, Caenthras charged through the dissipating remains of the priest and into the cultists, who had momentarily stopped their attack, dismayed at their leader’s demise.
Caught unawares by Caenthras’ sudden attack, Eothlir hesitated a moment, trying to clear his head. Though some cultists broke and ran from Caenthras, many crowded forwards, growling and snarling, hungry for vengeance. Eothlir gathered his nerve as the spearmen around him closed ranks and prepared to face a fresh assault.
* * *
Despite Alith’s best efforts, the Anlec host had pushed his scouts out of bowshot from the camp. The enemy stood just out of range, serried ranks of spearmen glowering from the opposite hilltop. The sun was nearing midday as the two forces faced off against each other, their commanders waiting to see what happened next.
“So, we have their attention, what do we do now?” asked Anraneir.
“Something is troubling me,” replied Alith, giving voice to a doubt that had been slowly growing within. “I see bows and I see spears, but I see no horses. The armies of Anlec are based upon archers, spearmen and knights.”
“So, where are the knights?” asked Anraneir, looking over his shoulder as if to see enemy cavalry approaching at that moment.
“Perhaps the Khainites ate their steeds,” laughed Khillrallion.
“I would guess that they have moved ahead towards Ealith, to threaten Malekith,” said Alith.
“What if they return?” Khillrallion said with a grimace. “We cannot outrun knights.”
“We must remain here so that the Khainites receive no reinforcement,” said Alith. “For better or worse, there is little we can do about the situation. If we withdraw, the warriors will simply move south and attack my grandfather’s army.”
“It would be wise to have a plan for what happens if their cavalry show up,” said Anraneir.
Alith looked around, seeing only the scattered bushes and trees of the Annulii foothills. Though these were his family’s lands, he did not know them with the intimacy of the mountains. He might well have been in Saphery or Chrace for the little local knowledge he had.
“This might help,” said Anraneir, proffering a rolled-up parchment. Alith took it and let it fall open, revealing one of Eoloran’s maps.
“Where are we now?” asked Alith, wishing that he had paid more attention at the war council.
With a sigh, Anraneir pointed to the north-west and then to the map.
“Ealith lies that way, we’re on the edges of the foothills, here,” the scout explained. “If we need to hide from cavalry, I suggest the Athrian Vale, north and east of here. If enemy cavalry approach, we can be under the eaves before they’re upon us.”
“Provided that we get enough warning,” added Khillrallion.
“Good point,” said Alith. He nodded at Anraneir, handing back the map. “Take five scouts and head north to keep watch for unpleasant arrivals.”
Anraneir placed the map back in his pack and set off at a trot, calling out names. Alith tapped his fingers on the broad silver buckle of his belt, seemingly deep in thought. The spearmen opposite had remained in place and gave no sign that they intended to attack.
Alith turned suddenly towards Khillrallion.
“Any suggestions for what to do now?” asked Alith.
Khillrallion thought for a moment, a smile creeping across his lips.
“I know some good songs…”
Whoever commanded the Anlec force, Alith admired his patience, if not his loyalties. Noon came and went and the black-armoured warriors stood guard against an attack from the scouts, standing in silent ranks while the air grew hotter and hotter. It would have been foolish to chase the lightly-armoured elves, for there was no hope of catching them. Instead, the Anlec officer was content to wait. The enemy’s contentment unnerved Alith. He fretted that he was missing some kind of trick, and worried that his opponent knew something Alith did not—such as when the cavalry would be returning.
Every now and then, Alith led his scouts forwards a little way, shot some arrows at the Anlec ranks and then withdrew to a new position. He did this mainly out of boredom, though he justified it to himself with the notion that such harassment would be sapping the morale of his foes. The truth was that his scouts were left with perhaps half a dozen arrows each, and if the enemy decided to come after them there was little they could do except run.
As midday passed into mid-afternoon, Alith looked constantly to the south for some sign of his father and grandfather; he gazed to the north for warning of approaching cavalry. He was confident that the main force would be victorious over the Khainites, but as time passed he longed to see the banners of the Anars appearing over the hills.
“Look,” said Khillrallion, nodding to the south.
“Finally,” Alith sighed as he saw the telltale silvery shimmer of armoured warriors crossing a distant hilltop.
The enemy commander had also noted this development. Ignoring the scouts, his companies turned quickly southwards and deployed to meet this new enemy. Alith was about to give the order to close in behind the Anlec columns when a shout drew his attention to the north.
“Riders!” yelled Anraneir, running along a ridgeline to the north. “Hundreds of them!”
“North-east!” bellowed Alith, rising to his feet. “Run!”
The scouts sprinted down the slope, leaping nimbly over bushes and rocks. Keeping a swift but steady pace they headed towards the woods of Athrian Vale, casting glances to the north. Alith spied a cloud of dust on the horizon, growing nearer with some speed, though the riders themselves were yet hidden from view.
“Faster!” he urged his warriors, picking up speed.
* * *
The trees of Athrian Vale came into view as Alith reached the crest of a tall hill. In the vale below, a stream meandered down from the distant mountains. Slender pines crowded to the river’s banks and spread out across the deep valley where the waterway widened, an expanse of trees large enough to conceal the fleeing elves.
Alith could feel the ground trembling from thousands of hoofbeats, a rumbling that grew louder and louder as he sprinted towards the first few trees scattered around the border of the woods. The jingle of harnesses was audible too, as were shouts. Ducking beneath the branches of a tree, Alith risked a glance to his left and saw long lines of riders cresting a hill barely two hundred paces away.
Swathed in the dust thrown up by their galloping mounts, the riders appeared through the murk. These were not the sinister black-armoured knights of Anlec. They were dressed in bright blue and white, with armour of silvery mail. Their banners bore blazons of white horses and horses’ heads and their helms were decorated with gaily-coloured feathers.
“Ellyrians!” laughed Alith, sliding to a stop on the fine carpet of needles beneath the gloom of the trees. He knew not how they came to be here so far from home, but grinned widely at the sight. He turned and jogged back to the edge of the wood to watch the reaver knights of Ellyrion sweep down the hillside. Other scouts stood close at hand looking at the same spectacle.
The riders carried leaf-bladed spears in their hands and the bright tack of their steeds glinted in the sun. As they came closer, Alith could see their faces, and the sight sent a shiver running through his body. They were grim of expression as they lowered their spears for a charge. Others had bows in their hands and loosed arrows at the fall gallop, the shafts falling towards Alith and his scouts.
“Into the trees!” he yelled, bounding towards the nearest trunk and leaping up into the branches with the surefootedness of a cat. Climbing higher through the pricking needles, he ran to the end of one branch and crouched there.
“Friends!” he shouted out, cupping his hands to his mouth to be heard over the panting of steeds and the thunder of hooves. “Stay your weapons!”
Dozens of reavers converged upon the tree, bowstrings bent and arrows nocked. A knot of knights came forwards beneath a long pennant displaying a silver horse on a circle of blue, the banner decorated with a white mane.
“House Anar!” shouted Alith though he did not know whether the name would be of any import to the Ellyrians.
A rider with a golden helm topped with a horsehair crest rode from the circling elves, his spear couched beneath one arm, a gold shield embossed with a rearing stallion on the other.
“I am Prince Aneltain of Ellyrion,” the elf called out, shielding his eyes against the sun to peer at Alith.
“Alith Anar,” replied Alith, standing up warily. “Announce your allegiance and explain your presence in our lands.”
“I have sworn loyalty to the Phoenix King and have just this past night ridden to war alongside Prince Malekith, rightful ruler of Nagarythe. I head for the Pass of the Unicorn to take word back to Prince Finudel, my liege.”
Alith leapt nimbly from the branch and landed in the long grass not far from Aneltain. He raised a hand in welcome as the mounted elves closed in around him, circling menacingly.
“I am son of Eothlir, grandson of Eoloran Anar,” Alith announced. “We fight the same foe as you.”
Alith turned and pointed to the south.
“Even now, the warriors of House Anar fight the traitors of Anlec. Your presence would be most welcomed by my grandfather. Later you can tell us how Prince Malekith fares at Ealith.”
Aneltain leaned over and said something to one of his knights, who brought out a curling horn of gold and sounded a series of notes. At the ringing command, the Ellyrians broke away from the trees and formed into long columns once more, leaving Aneltain alone with Alith. The Ellyrian prince nudged his horse closer to Alith and bent down in the saddle to speak to him. Closer, Alith could see a fresh cut upon the prince’s cheek and the dirt of hard travelling on his cloak.
“Ealith was a trap,” Aneltain said with a woeful shake of the head. “Malekith retreats westwards to take ship at Galthyr. You would do well to return to your homes. We will speak more of this once the enemy at hand are destroyed.”
Before Alith could utter any answer Aneltain had wheeled his horse away and broken into a gallop, heading for the front of his army. Another clarion burst set the knights moving forwards, cantering away to the south, heading for the army of the Anars.
Laughter filled Eoloran’s pavilion, a sound that Alith had not heard for some time. Aneltain and his Ellyrian captains toasted the victory with silver cups of wine. Eothlir was smiling also, though Eoloran’s expression was pensive.
“You have the thanks of House Anar,” said Eoloran, raising his own goblet towards Aneltain.
“As you have already told us a dozen times, Eoloran!” replied the Ellyrian prince. “You owe us no gratitude, for without your host we would have faced the Khainites alone. It was by fortune, or perhaps the weavings of Morai-heg, that Prince Malekith asked me to lead some of my number directly south. Had he not done so, the knights we destroyed not far from Ealith would no doubt have been a match for your army.”
Alith wondered at these words, having already heard from Aneltain that Malekith had sought the Ellyrian out after the battle for Ealith and directed him to ride back to Ellyrion along the Unicorn Pass. It seemed more than coincidence that Elthyrior had promised Alith others would come to confirm his warning that Malekith was trapped. He had no doubt that the rightful ruler of Nagarythe was aware of what the Anars were doing and had sent aid in their direction. As before, Alith chafed at having to withhold this information, knowing that to announce what he knew would betray the pact he had made with Elthyrior.
“Do you think Malekith will reach Galthyr?” asked Caenthras, looking up from the map table where he had been staring at the charts since Alith had arrived. “By what route will he march to the port? In whose hands will he find it?”
Aneltain shrugged.
“I cannot answer those questions, any more than you can,” said the prince. “I entered Nagarythe for the first time only days ago. These are not my lands; I know nothing of their people. I will say that if any of us can escape the clutches of the cultists, it is Malekith. His army is strong and the march not overly long. The prince himself is the greatest warrior and most skilful commander I have ever seen. His personal fleet waits at Galthyr and I hope that the city’s rulers remain opposed to Morathi.”
“That is a rare hope in these times,” said Eothlir, becoming serious. “Yet it is heartening to think that it is not the Anars alone that would resist the power of Anlec.”
“Will Malekith return?” asked Caenthras, staring intently at the Ellyrians.
“Not before spring, I would say,” said Eoloran. “Though he has not suffered true defeat as yet, this attack seems to have been… hasty, I would say. One does not merely walk up to Anlec and knock on the gates to be allowed entry.”
“We must do what we can to pave the way for that glorious return,” said Eothlir. “Morathi knows Malekith’s intent now, and all surprise is lost. We have raised our weapons against Anlec as well, and we do not know when the return blow will come.”
“We should harass a few more of Morathi’s armies, keep her busy while Malekith regroups,” said Caenthras. “When Malekith returns, he should not face a united, well-composed foe.”
Alith was worried by these words and the look of consideration on Eoloran’s face. The Anars had suffered little in the battle that day; Elthyrior’s warning had to relate to matters not yet known to Alith.
“That would be unwise,” said Eothlir, much to Alith’s relief. “Now that we have truly stirred up the wasps’ nest, we should seek sanctuary in Elanardris.”
“From what little I heard from the raven heralds, that would seem the best course of action,” said Aneltain.
The mention of the raven heralds drew Alith’s attention immediately, and also that of his grandfather.
“Raven heralds?” said Eoloran, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What dealings have you had with those dark riders?”
Aneltain was taken aback and gave a defensive shrug.
“They act as Malekith’s scouts and brought us to Ealith by secret ways,” replied the Ellyrian. “Word came to us at the citadel that armies from the north and west and south were converging at Ealith to trap the prince and destroy his army. I fear that House Anar will fare no better if you remain out in the open.”
“Already we have helped Malekith,” Alith said, directing his words towards his father and grandfather. “The army we have crushed today will not threaten Malekith, and we have bought him time to make his retreat, as was Caenthras’ suggestion. Our losses are comparatively few as yet, but if we remain here that might not hold true for long. And who can say what forces will march on our homes once Malekith has slipped away?”
Eoloran sat down behind the map table and rubbed the side of his nose, as he was wont to do when deep in thought. He closed his eyes, seeming to block out the rest of the world as he contemplated his decision.
“We return to Elanardris,” he said, eyes still closed.
Alith stopped himself from crying out with relief. The anxious energy that had filled him since his meeting with Elthyrior drained away and he suddenly felt very tired. He excused himself from the continuing discussions and made his way to his tent, exhausted but happy. Elanardris would remain safe and soon he would see Ashniel again.