CHAPTER TWELVE

FIRST BLOOD

Caelir drew in the reins of his horse at the foot of the domed hill to the north of Tor Elyr. Its summit was crowned by a ring of white stones, each taller than two elves, and cut with sigils of ancient power. In days long since passed, it was said that the mages of Ulthuan could travel to other dominions with a single step through such portals, but none now lived who were powerful enough to walk between worlds.

His Reaver Knights were eager for action, hungry to take the fight to the druchii, and Caelir liked that aggressive spirit. A Reaver Knight needed a reckless streak, yet one tempered with iron control. It was a contradiction of wildness and discipline that only a very few could understand or master. Above his warriors, a line of Eagle’s Claw bolt throwers were being loaded with arrows, and Caelir waved to the warriors that crewed them.

Across the river, the enemy host milled and stamped, beating axes and swords against iron-bossed shields. It was grim theatrics, designed to intimidate, and against another army of mortals it might have worked, but directed at the asur, it was failing miserably. The braying of horns echoed over the river, and Caelir felt his pulse quicken as the enemy moved towards the river.

Though they were but mortals, the warriors across the river were powerful and wolf-lean, bred tough by a life spent on the verge of extinction. Living in the harsh tundra of the north meant that only the strongest, most ruthless survived, and only by a man’s strength and power could he be measured against his foes. Clad in beaten plates of iron, wolf and bear pelts, these northern savages had a primal ferocity that could not be underestimated. Though crude, a club to the head would kill you as surely as the finest blade. They howled a guttural refrain, a deafening war-chant that was discordant, melodious, ear-splitting and hideous all at once. It spoke of delirium, the loss of control and the pleasure that could be had from surrendering all restraint.

Caelir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, feeling the clashing sounds touching some deep part of his soul. He recognised the urge to allow desire to overrule control, and hated that he shared even this scrap of connection with the enemy. The northern warriors did not advance; content simply to bang their swords and shields, lift their bloody banners high, and hurl vile taunts across the wide river.

Instead, the beasts charged.

Terrible perversions of nature, these hybrid abominations were taller and more powerfully built than all but the mightiest tribesmen. Their bodies were covered in rank, matted fur and most carried heavy clubs or crude axes. No two were identical, but each bore the unmistakable trait of some forest beast, be it mastiff, bull, fox, bear or wolf. They walked on two legs in imitation of the noble creatures of the world, but nothing could disguise the horror of their condition. Caelir almost felt sorry for them.

The beasts plunged into the river, howling and braying as its purity burned their Chaos-tainted flesh. Where a mortal warrior would be dragged to the bottom of the river, the beasts swam with powerful strokes, and hundreds of shaggy-haired monsters drew near the gently sloping banks of the river. Archers positioned on the northern flank of the army let fly with a volley of arrows, and the river ran with blood as they slashed down into the warped flesh of the beasts.

Another volley hit home, and another, but the beasts’ hides were thick and their flesh leather-tough. Some sank beneath the river, but many more pressed on through the waters to the far bank. Raucous cheers from the tribesmen drove them on, and Caelir saw that arrows alone would not stop the beasts from reaching the riverbank.

“With me!” shouted Caelir, hauling on the reins and urging Irenya to a gallop.

His knights followed instantly, riding north in a curving loop to come upon the beasts at an oblique angle. Caelir stood tall in the saddle, and craned his neck to see that numerous other Reaver bands had followed his example. Perhaps five hundred riders thundered across the plain as blocks of spearmen advanced to fill the gap they had just left.

The first of the monsters had reached the shoreline and were dragging their hulking bodies onto dry land. They shook their fur free of water and bellowed their challenges as more arrows thudded home. Caelir saw a towering monster with the head of a horned bull and a breastplate of beaten iron strapped to its body snap a pair of arrows from its stomach and roar its hate at those whose bodies were unblemished.

The Eagle’s Claws on the hill unleashed flickering volleys of arrows, and several beasts fell, pierced by a host of shafts. Scores of monsters had gained the riverbank, as Caelir raised his left fist and chopped it down to his hip.

As one, the Reaver Knights wheeled their horses, changing direction in an instant and riding towards the monsters. Caelir hauled back on his bowstring and loosed at the bull-headed monster. His arrow plunged into its side, but it seemed not to feel the impact. Arrows flashed past him as his fellow knights let fly, but only a handful of the beasts fell. Many hundreds of the terrifying monsters had assembled on the banks of the river, and were advancing towards the glittering elven lines with a bestial, loping gait.

“Fly, Irenya!” shouted Caelir. “Ride like never before!”

Though Aedaris had been the faster horse, Irenya was still a proud steed of Ellyrion, and she rode as if all the daemons of Chaos were on her tail. The ground thundered beneath her, and Caelir loosed three more shafts before exerting pressure with his left boot and swinging his mount around.

Less than a hundred yards separated the beasts and the asur battle line, and Caelir led his Reavers into that gap. He twisted in the saddle, drawing and loosing arrow after arrow with swift economy of movement. His arrows plunged into eye sockets and open mouths, the only vulnerable areas of soft flesh on the beasts’ bodies.

“Turn about!” yelled Caelir, as Irenya pirouetted and reversed her course.

The gap between the elves and beasts was shrinking rapidly, and Caelir hoped he hadn’t left it too late to ride out. He looped his bow around his shoulder and flicked his spear free of the leather thong holding it to his saddle.

A wolf-headed beast leapt for him, and he rammed the spear into its throat. The beast howled and fell beneath Irenya’s hooves. Shimmering speartips slashed and stabbed in a terrifying scrum of bodies. Howls and grunts filled the air as the beasts fought to drag the Reavers down, but such was the speed and agility of their steeds that not a single knight was slain. Blood sprayed and his arm ached with the effort of driving his spear into iron-hard flesh. This close to the enemy, Irenya was a weapon too, her hooves caving in skulls and chests with every stride.

Then they were clear, and Caelir whooped with the sheer bliss of riding free. His weapon and armour were drenched in bestial blood, but he was alive. They had ridden into the jaws of death and spat in the eye of Morai-Heg before riding out. His heart beat a racing tattoo within his chest, but no sooner had he brought Irenya to a canter than the charging beasts struck the elven line like a hammer-blow.

Spears shivered and snapped with the impact, and a braying, honking, roaring mass of furred flesh slammed into the silver line of lowered spears. The elven line bent back, but held. Warriors in the ranks beyond the fighting rank thrust their spears forward, driving the razor-sharp points into the unclean flesh of the beasts.

Great axes and monstrous clubs slammed into the elven warriors, hurling broken bodies through the air or pounding them into the earth. Screams carried over the clang of weapons and armour, and Caelir fought the urge to ride into the fray. With their spears lowered, the Reaver Knights would wreak fearsome harm, but getting bogged down in such a brutal fight was not where they excelled.

Instead, Caelir wheeled his horse back to the river as yet more bestial creatures forded the waters. Behind them came mortal warriors from the Old World, chanting, jeering and screaming tribesmen in leather breastplates and bronze helms. They carried fleshy banners daubed with obscenities and blasphemous runes dedicated to gods whose names should never be spoken.

Riding at the head of these brutal warriors was a towering warlord, his armour a mix of leather, bronze and iron, his helm beaten to resemble a raven with swept-back wings at the sides. Caelir felt the power and threat of this champion, knowing that this was surely the master of the mortal horde. The warrior sat astride a mountainous horse, its raw-meat bulk and saw-toothed snout marking it as an abomination of Chaos.

This warrior of the Dark Gods bore a sword with many blades, a weapon that glittered with cruel light and infinite malice. Caelir had tried to keep the memories of his many torments in the depths of Naggaroth buried in the deepest, darkest recesses of his memory, but the sight of this warrior unlocked the blackest of those horrors.

He sobbed as he remembered the many violations wreaked upon his flesh, the pain and the loathsome pleasures designed to break him down to his component parts in order to rebuild him in a manner pleasing to the Hag Sorceress. He remembered this warrior’s face leering down at him, a vision of perverse beauty that repulsed and beguiled in equal measure.

“Issyk Kul,” whispered Caelir, his anger and hate rising to the surface in a bilious tide.

Between them, Kul and Morathi had tainted everything of worth in his soul, and Caelir would never forgive them for that. As the warriors of the Dark Gods approached the riverbank, Caelir waved his spear in the air and loosed an aching cry of grief and pain.

Irenya reared up, startled by his sudden outburst, and his Reaver Knights milled around in confusion. Caelir spun his spear and scanned the battle raging between the elven line and the beasts. More of the beasts were pouring into the fight, punching ragged holes in the elven host, which were swiftly filled with warriors from the rearmost ranks. Blue-fletched shafts dropped amongst the beasts from archers behind the spears, plunging into shoulders and skulls.

A cold wind, icy and filled with the actinic tang of magic flowed across the river, and Caelir saw the surface of the water grow sluggish and gelid. Frosted patterns crazed across the river as rippled ice began to form. Ellyrion was a land that never knew the touch of winter, yet the northern stretch of the river was freezing solid.

A carnyx formed from the bones and skull of some long-dead leviathan echoed over the frozen waters, and Issyk Kul led his warriors onto the ice.

“Reavers, with me!” shouted Caelir, riding for the river.

Poets told that the goddess Ladrielle had woven Korhandir’s Leap from starlight and moonbeams when the gods first shaped Ulthuan for the asur. Given to the horse lords in ancient times in gratitude for their aid during the coming of the daemons, it was a trysting place for the young of Tor Elyr, and the young bucks of the city would leap into the river from its crystal arches to impress their chosen fillies.

Now it was a killing ground.

Druchii warriors bearing kite-shaped shields emblazoned with the heraldry of their dark houses charged asur warriors positioned at the midpoint of the bridge on the crest of its grandest arch. Wide enough for only twenty warriors to stand abreast, it was a perfect choke point to stymie the druchii advance. Silver-tipped spears splintered shields and drew chill blood, as cold-forged iron hacked through mail shirts in return. Warriors heaved against one another, grunting and stabbing and cutting.

This was battle at its most primal, strength against strength, blood upon blood until one force could stand no more of the slaughter. It was the kind of war fought by savages, not the elegant, sophisticated warriors of the asur. Yet all too often, war chooses its own form, regardless of who fights it, and warriors either adapt or die.

Eldain rode Lotharin along the banks of the river, loosing shafts across the water to slay druchii warriors crouched on the opposite bank who unleashed iron-tipped crossbow bolts into the flanks of the warriors defending the bridge. His Reavers traded barbs with dark-cloaked druchii kin with ebony weapons pulled in tight to their shoulders, like the uncouth black powder weapons of the dwarfs. Loosing several bolts from top-mounted magazines with every squeeze of the firing bar, they were lethal at close quarters, but lost power swiftly at range.

Eldain’s bow suffered no such loss in power and most of his shafts sent a druchii warrior tumbling into the river. The battle on the bridge was the key to the southern flank of the elven army. Hold the bridge and the druchii could not bring their superior numbers to bear. Lose the bridge and their flank would be turned.

Along the line of battle, the elven host sent arching flocks of arrows over the river, and Eldain relished the thought of the suffering the enemy would be enduring. Flickering bolts of pellucid white flames zipped across the river, answered by crackling arcs of purple lightning and cold streams of icy air as the mages sent from the White Tower did battle with the magickers of the Hag Sorceress.

Freezing fog obscured the land to the north of the battle line, and Eldain saw only the faintest outline of the hill of waystones. He could see nothing of Caelir’s Reaver Knights, and whispered a short prayer to Asuryan to look kindly on his younger brother. Eldain cast his gaze over the river, watching the enemy host jostle for position as yet more blocks of infantry moved up to the river, spear-armed warriors, heavily armoured warriors with executioners’ blades, screeching hydras and rank upon rank of crossbowmen crouched at the edge of the river.

Movement far to the south caught his eye, and Eldain saw numerous groups of black-cloaked horsemen apparently riding away from the battle. They were pushing their mounts hard, and though their direction made no sense, Eldain guessed their destination; a gently curved portion of the river that foamed white where buried rocks broke the surface. Eldain immediately saw the danger and turned to his lieutenant, a rider named Alysia. Her hair was crimson and gold, held in place by a silver pin shaped like a butterfly.

“The river, can it be forded there?” he demanded, pointing to the river’s curve.

“When the rains are mild,” she said. “But it is too deep for even one such as Korhil to cross.”

“But not so deep that it would trouble a lightly-laden cavalryman,” snapped Eldain, dragging Lotharin’s reins around and urging him southwards. “Ride! All of you, with me!”

Eldain’s Reavers swirled around him as he rode south along the riverbank, forming a wedge of horsemen with him at its tip. The druchii riders, seeing their manoeuvre was discovered, threw off any pretence at subtlety, the disparate groups coming together and galloping for the river.

Laurena Starchaser’s Reaver band joined Eldain’s knights, and he waved to their flame-haired leader. He had met Starchaser the night before, her long limbs, auburn hair and strikingly angular features reminding him of a hunting bird. With both bands joined together, nearly two hundred warriors now rode to intercept the flanking riders.

The enemy had the lead on them, and reached the ford first, splashing into the river and striking for the far bank. The water reached up to their horses’ necks as they crossed the ford, walking slowly but surely through the river. Eldain cursed that neither Lord Swiftwing nor Galadrien Stormweaver had thought to mention this ford. Forty riders had made the crossing already, and hundreds more were already halfway across.

Eldain nocked an arrow to his bow and let fly. The shaft pitched a druchii from his saddle, and a host of arrows flashed past Eldain to engulf the cloaked riders. Only a handful fell, for these riders were almost as nimble as his Reavers. Like the enemy warriors by the riverbank, these riders were armed with the deadly repeater crossbows, and swarms of deadly bolts were fired in return.

Eldain heard screams as his knights were struck, and loosed another shaft. His target swayed aside at the last moment, raising his crossbow and firing a pair of bolts in return. Eldain leaned low over Lotharin’s neck as one bolt flew past his ear and the other ricocheted from the ithilmar boss on his mount’s bridle. More of the dark-cloaked riders had gained the riverbank, enough to pose a threat, but not enough to outnumber them.

Eldain slung his bow and raised both his arms, before spreading them out to the side. Both groups of Reavers split apart, Eldain’s heading straight for the druchii, Starchaser’s swinging around in a sweeping curve to come at them from the flank. Arrows and crossbow bolts sliced the air, and Eldain ducked and swayed in the saddle to avoid being struck.

The druchii charged out from the river, but Eldain’s larger band of warriors met them spear to spear. Warriors and horses screamed as the two hosts met in a clash of blades and flesh. The black horses of the enemy were vicious beasts, biting and butting heads with their Ellyrian cousins, but such steeds were not without their own fire. While the warriors in the saddle fought with spear and sword, the horses kicked their back legs and pawed the air with shod hooves to crush ribcages and pitch riders from their mounts.

Eldain thrust his spear into a druchii’s belly, twisting the blade and pulling it clear before the suction of flesh could trap it. He slammed the haft into a screaming warrior’s face; then reversed the weapon to open the throat of a crossbowman as he reloaded. His spear spun, stabbed, blocked and thrust, drawing blood, breaking bones and parrying slashing blows of swords. The noise of battle was incredible: grunting, snorting horses, shrieked calls of the murder god’s name, and the shrill clash of blades and armour.

Lotharin bucked as a crossbow bolt sliced across his rump, cutting a long furrow, but not lodging. His back legs snapped out, cracking into the thigh of a druchii circling around him. The warrior howled as his femur was crushed, and he dropped the sword he had been about to plunge into Eldain’s back.

“My thanks, old friend,” said Eldain, as Lotharin snorted in a way that perfectly captured an admonishment to watch his back.

Warriors swirled around each other in a chaotic, heaving mass of desperate combat. There was little shape to the battle, simply horses and warriors weaving an intricate, formless dance around one another as they fought for a killing position. The Reavers were having the best of the fight, and many more of the black horses were without riders than the brown and silver horses of Ellyrion.

More of the dark-cloaked riders were crossing the river, but not in so great a number that gave Eldain the fear that they would be overwhelmed. His spear snapped as a druchii sword slashed down and took a chunk out of the haft. The lower half of the spear spun away, but Eldain grabbed what was left of the speartip and plunged the blade into the swordsman’s heart. The broken weapon was wrenched from his hand, and he drew his sword as Starchaser’s Reavers slammed into the battle.

Eldain’s knights and the druchii had struck together, but Starchaser hammered into the druchii with all the power of an Ellyrian charge. Her warriors attacked with spears lowered like lances, and the druchii were skewered like meat on a spit. Picking out one horseman to strike in the midst of such a frenetic battle was a feat beyond any but the most skilled riders.

Child’s play to an Ellyrian Reaver Knight.

Nearly a hundred of the druchii riders were killed in the first moments of the charge, and Eldain rode into the stunned survivors as they reeled from this sudden reversal. He killed three warriors in as many blows, and laughed with the primal ferocity of this fight as the druchii fell back in disarray towards the river. He rode after a fleeing warrior, and lanced his sword into his back. The druchii fell from the saddle, and Eldain saw the riders in mid-crossing pause as they realised the battle on the riverbank had been lost. They milled in confusion until a barking command was shouted and a hunting horn blew.

Eldain lifted his gaze to the far bank and his heart chilled as he saw the group of bolt throwers dragged there. The crews slammed home heavy magazines of bolts on the firing mechanism and worked the windlass in readiness to fire.

“Back!” shouted Eldain. “Get back from the banks!”

The Reavers obeyed instantly, but even that was too slow, as the bolt throwers spoke with a whickering voice that filled the air with hundreds of black-fletched arrows. Elves and horses went down in the withering hail, dozens pierced by four or more shafts. Eldain turned Lotharin away, making him a smaller target. An arrow sliced over the skin of his neck and another struck him between the shoulder blades. The impact was painful, but his armour held firm and the arrow dropped free without piercing his skin.

Arrow-pierced horses flailed on the ground, screaming in pain and kicking their legs as the barbed tips of the arrows tore their flesh. Reaver Knights lay where they had fallen, many shot through the head and neck. Eldain and Lotharin galloped away from the riverbank as the bolt throwers’ crew worked to unleash another volley.

Eldain saw Starchaser, her shoulder and hip streaming blood.

“We must yield the bank,” she cried.

“No,” said Eldain, riding alongside her and turning his horse. “Enough of us remain to hold them here. We wait until the druchii gain the bank and then charge in again. They won’t shoot while their own warriors are in the way. We can do this!”

“I do not doubt it, but if we do not pull back we will be cut off from the rest of the army! Look yonder to Korhandir’s Leap!”

Eldain twisted in the saddle and saw the druchii warriors on the bridge fall back as bulky reptilian quadrupeds of dark scale and wide, fang-filled jaws lumbered onto Korhandir’s Leap. Eldain knew of these creatures, called Cold Ones by their masters, but had never seen one in the flesh. Monstrously powerful, and ridden by tall warriors in plate of black and gold, their eyes were dull and listless, and frothed saliva drooled from between teeth like daggers. The druchii upon their backs carried long lances and their helms were fringed with flaring blade-wings.

“The warriors on the bridge will not be able to resist such a charge,” said Starchaser, and Eldain knew she was right. “If we stay here, we will be trapped. Druchii to the left and right and the sea at our backs. Not a place any Ellyrian should find themselves.”

The idea of yielding the riverbank galled Eldain, but the idea of being trapped offended his Reaver Knight sensibilities even more.

He nodded and turned Lotharin back to Korhandir’s Leap.

“Then we form a new line at the bridge,” he said.

The sounds of battle drifted over the centre of the elven line, the sounds tinny and distant, though blood was being shed and lives were being lost no more than a few hundred yards from where Menethis stood. A thick fog had gathered over the river to the north, obscuring the fighting until only the tips of the waystones atop the rounded hill could be seen.

Beyond Korhandir’s Leap, a sprawling clash of horses raged, though Menethis could not tell who was in the ascendancy. He supposed the Ellyrians could, but even after his ride with them to harry the druchii vanguard, Menethis was still a foot soldier at heart. He preferred the ground beneath his feet as he fought; a longbow or sword as his weapons of choice.

Menethis stood in the front rank of the citizen levy of spear gathered by Lord Swiftwing, for the rank of sentinel had been bestowed upon him for his service at Eagle Gate. The two-hundred strong host was largely made up of warriors who had already lived a life of war and had hoped never to see another battle. Others had yet to see the ugly face of war, and it was these warriors Menethis was heartbroken to see arrayed in armour and bearing long-hafted spears. These were the young of Ulthuan, the hope for the future, the inheritors and shapers of the future.

Now there might not be a future for any of them.

As much as Menethis tried to remain optimistic about the coming fight, he found it difficult in the face of such a ferocious enemy that came in such numbers. To either side of his warriors were long lines of archers, resplendent in long cream robes over shirts of mail. Each archer in the front rank had emptied their quiver, placing their arrows in the ground before them, indicating that they would not run in the face of the enemy.

Their lines were thin, and would not stand long against a determined enemy charge.

Numerous spear hosts formed the centre of Lord Swiftwing’s army, though the finest troops were positioned just behind the front lines. Stormweaver’s Silver Helms looked magnificent in their polished ithilmar armour and gleaming helms, but there were only two hundred of them. Every warrior’s helm was decorated with ribbons, gemstones or golden edging, indicating that these were the bravest of Lord Swiftwing’s knights. Galadrien Stormweaver rode at their centre, his helm additionally embellished by swept-back eagle feathers of gold and white.

The enemy army was marching towards the river, and Menethis fixed his gaze on the disciplined ranks of druchii warriors directly across from him. They wore heavy hauberks of blackened iron and purple robes embroidered with fierce runic emblems of death. Bronze helms concealed their faces, and the fearsome swords resting on their shoulders marked them out as Executioners.

The weapons they carried were known as draich, killing blades forged in the blackest temples and blessed by priests of Khaine. Menethis had seen their skill with such executioners’ swords on the walls of the Eagle Gate, and shivered at the bleak memory.

Behind these veteran warriors came something huge and crafted from bronze and jade, a towering effigy of murder and blades. A red-lit mist billowed around it, and hideous shrieks were carried on the wind alongside the bitter taste of iron. The red mist seeped out to envelop the Executioners, and their chants grew louder as they breathed in the sanguineous fog. Some drew their palms along the blades of their swords, while others reached up to touch their loathsome battle standard, a hateful icon with a grotesque mannequin chained to the upright and crossbars.

Its limbs jerked and twisted in a horrid parody of life, and Menethis turned away from the vile creation, but a broken voice called out to him from across the river. Suspecting some druchii trickery, Menethis paid the sound no mind, but it came again, and though it was the last gasp from a ruined throat there was a familiarity to the sound that was unmistakable.

He looked back at the Executioner’s banner in horror as he realised it was no mannequin, but a living being nailed to timbers, one who had been horrifically disfigured through unimaginable torments only the insane could devise. His eyes had been put out, his limbs broken and every portion of his anatomy burned and flensed with skinning knives, yet this was a living being Menethis recognised.

It was Alathenar.

“Isha’s mercy…” hissed Menethis.

The warriors to either side of him glanced over at his reaction, and Menethis knew he should reprimand them for such a lapse in focus, but he could not tear his eyes away from the horrors wrought upon the archer’s body. How could he even know Menethis was here? Had he somehow sensed his former comrade’s presence, or had he simply been repeating a familiar name ever since his capture?

The archer’s lipless, toothless mouth worked up and down, crying out for Menethis, and he felt his heart moved to pity despite Alathenar’s treachery. No one deserved such a fate, and Menethis pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. He pulled back on the string, sighting down the length of the arrow, letting his breathing slow and imagining the path it would take. His focus shifted from the arrowhead to the mewling wreckage of the archer’s body.

Menethis loosed between breaths, watching as his arrow arced out over the river. The point glittered in the weak sunlight as it slashed downwards. Alathenar turned what was left of his ravaged features to the sky, as though sensing his torment was about to end.

The arrow buried itself in Alathenar’s throat, and the archer’s head slumped over his chest as he died. A bawdy cheer went up from the Executioners, and Menethis hated that he had provided them any sort of pleasure.

“I give you peace, Alathenar,” Menethis said, “but I do not forgive you.”