The End Times | The Curse of Khaine
- Автор: Торп Гэв
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd.
- ISBN: 978-1-78251-676-7
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
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‘We should turn south and leave the forest to the tree-witch and her kin,’ said Saidekh Winterclaw, whom Malekith had not recognised beneath the mask of blood dried on his face. His voice was husky and dry, never more than a whisper.
‘A tempting thought,’ said Kouran, nodding his agreement. ‘There is little force in Ellyrion to stop a swift march. We would fall upon Tyrion’s host unexpectedly. Perhaps we will even reach them before they have eliminated Darkblade’s army, and the prince will be set upon from two directions, instead of us.’
‘Tempting, but wrong,’ said Malekith. ‘We merely delay the entrapment. Anar’s army can cross the mountains more swiftly than mine, and if not to bring battle then to speed warning to Tyrion. Even should they remain solely in pursuit, I cannot afford to leave a sizeable force at the rear, gnawing away at my reserves, threatening to attack any day.’
Before the Sundering he had made the mistake of not cowing every kingdom completely before moving on, driven by unseemly haste. Though time was short – all time was short if Teclis was to be believed – Malekith would not fall prey to the same impulses that had beset him before. ‘We will crush Chrace and seize the crossings to the Blighted Isle and with that route secured move into the weaker eastern kingdoms. The plan has not changed.’
The daemons had ravaged much of Chrace, but Malekith would see the remainder wiped out. No resistance would remain, and the death of the kingdom would serve as a warning to the others. The message would be learned – that this time Malekith would see Ulthuan accept him as its ruler or be totally destroyed. While his own armies were driven by the knowledge that there was no place for them to return, the princes of the ten kingdoms would come to realise that the only future left to them was at the mercy of the Witch King.
‘But the threat that arises in the west, my king,’ Kouran said to Malekith as the Witch King surveyed the mountain pass, knowing it was filled with traps and foes but there was no other way to get to his goal. ‘The traitor warriors of Nagarythe have followed us along Phoenix Pass and will attack within the next day or two.’
‘Let them,’ said Malekith. ‘If we turn to confront Anar he will disappear as surely as the shadows from which he takes his name. Archers in front and behind, and not an elf amongst them willing to stand and fight like a true warrior. I tell you, Alandrian, I will not be thwarted this time. Saidekh, gather together all of your clans – you are to lead the next attack. If the Chracians think their wild homeland has made them expert woodsmen and hill fighters, let them test their blades against the best of the Iron Mountains.’
‘Their skin will make fine cloaks and we will gamble around the fires with their teeth,’ said the shades’ leader. ‘Their hair we will weave into trinket bags for our children and their bones we shall leave as an offering to the Cytharai, whose wrath we will embody.’
‘Just make sure their resistance is broken – what you do with them afterwards is no concern of mine.’ Malekith looked at the dark rider, who had been summoned by Kouran to take messages to the army. ‘Have Imrik and his dragons raze the lower slopes. Burn everything. If Ystranna and her allies wish to retreat from this valley, they must do so through dragonfire or across a charred desolation. She can risk the open ground or face the blades and missiles of Saidekh – the choice is hers.’
The rider turned towards his steed but was called back by Malekith.
‘Ask Prince Imrik nicely,’ the Witch King added. ‘Be sure to say “please”.’
Fifteen
The Battle of the Whiteweald
For the remainder of the day it was as Malekith commanded. In their hundreds the shades swept through the forest, a match for any Avelorn spearmaiden or Chracian hunter. Ahead of them, to the east, the dragon princes set about turning the forest to cinders. Dragonfire scoured the mountainside, slaying hundreds of beasts large and small but not a single elf corpse was found amongst the charred remains. Night fell but full darkness never came to the Whiteweald. A twilight cast by the burning forest lit the sky while smoke swathed the moons and stars.
To Malekith’s growing anger, his foes would not show themselves. While his army stood guard in their camps, laughter and singing taunted the druchii and Caledorians. Arrows scythed from the darkness to slay sentries and patrols, but none dared go after the hidden archers while fey lights flickered between the trees and mysterious hisses and groans were carried on the wind.
Kouran arrived at Malekith’s pavilion early the next morning, trailing muddy footprints across the hide rugs, blood on his armour from recent fighting. He bent to one knee before the Witch King’s throne, Crimson Death held out before him as an offering to Malekith.
‘The fighting sounds close,’ remarked the Witch King. ‘It is as though I can hear the blades crashing and the arrows singing from here. Have the enemy finally decided to fight?’
‘They have, my lord, but our forces fare poorly,’ said Kouran, avoiding his master’s eye. ‘The initial attack came not from Anar’s shadow warriors but out of the Whiteweald. Our eye had been drawn to the west too far, my king, and now the enemy have already slain the outer companies and are pressing towards the encampment.’
‘The forces to the west moved in response and the traitor Naggarothi attack from Phoenix Pass?’
‘Just as you say, my king. While the Karond Kar regiments broke camp the shadow army fell upon them. Three thousand are dead – the rest have formed a defensive encirclement and are surrounded.’
‘A well-coordinated assault.’ Malekith rose and strode past his underling, keen to see for himself the unfolding battle. ‘Clearly Ystranna and Anar have been communicating in some fashion I have been unable to detect.’
Malekith stepped out into the dawn light. The sky overhead was still grey, the mountain clouds low despite the summer season. The distinct noise of battle rang through the valley, the clash of weapons, battle cries and screams of the dying and wounded. A constant whispering of bowstrings and arrows added a counterpoint to the more raucous sounds. Dragons roared and flames crackled as the Caledorians to the east responded to the Chracian and maiden guard offensive. Malekith could detect the hiss of hydras and snarl of cold ones.
There were other noises, of a more supernatural origin. The creak of trees and thrash of leaves magnified a hundredfold, accompanied by booming voices and the trilling of smaller forest spirits. The ground rumbled as animated boulders smashed through ranks of warriors, while the air carried a sibilant chorus from hundreds of wind sprites.
He smelt the smoke of dragonfire and the reek of cold ones, mingled with the aroma of sweat and fear. The pine resin scent of the forest was swamped by the iron tang of fresh blood, driving the army’s manticores into a frenzy of frustrated bellowing as they strained at their chains.
‘The ravens, my lord.’ Kouran stopped a few paces from Malekith, cautious of the flames rippling across his armour. ‘The shades caught several yesterday and learned that they were working for the Shadow King. We sent harpies to hunt them down but…’
Malekith turned his head to look down at Kouran. ‘There are a lot of ravens in Chrace?’
Kouran nodded. ‘Yes, my king.’
Malekith had to concede one point of admiration to his foes – when they committed to the attack they did not do so in half measures. It was as though the forest itself assaulted his army. More than a dozen treemen led the attack, crashing into the outer companies of druchii with fists pulping bodies and whip-crack branches severing limbs and necks. Behind them came smaller tree-kin and the dryad spirits, flooding around the treemen to despatch those trying to surround the ancient forest herders.