The Alterra Histories: The Fire King (6 page)

Aincor rode at the head of the column, resplendent in his own scarlet armor, his dragon-helm flashing in the early morning sun upon his proud head. Beside him rode Asgar, bearing the battle-standard of the Fire- heart, and Talon, who always fought at Aincor’s right hand. Vathan was there as well, for he would not abandon the King whether he agreed with him or not. His son, Aldamar, rode beside him.

Aincor looked around for Faelani, finally catching sight of her standing upon one of the tall parapets near her private quarters. He knew she would not come down to him, but at least she had put in an appearance for the sake of his reputation. They had quarreled that morning, and she had threatened not to appear at all. “You are so full of your own importance, you surely won’t need any additional well- wishers,” she had said. Those words still stung a little, as he had only tried to reassure her that her fears were groundless. After all, he was right about most things, and he was right about his decision to attack Lord Wrothgar. About the time he had cursed her for her stubbornness, she had stared at him in open-mouthed incredulity, whirled on one heel and stormed from the chamber, throwing the oaken door shut with finality.

Now he raised his right arm to her, bringing his hand down to rest upon his heart in a gesture of farewell. Even from this distance he could see the worry in her pale face. She extended her right hand toward him and brought it to her heart, but there was no joy or enthusiasm in either the gesture or in her melancholy expression. Aincor sighed and shook his head once before putting her out of his mind, wondering if he would ever really understand what motivated her.

A more magnificent sight had not been seen in Tal-elathas. The three Asari stood upon the walls, their arms extended in a gesture of farewell, and began to glow with powerful Inner Light. This light flared forth from their hands and enveloped the army in a soft, radiant glow—a parting blessing.

Aincor raised his right hand to acknowledge the gift, and his warriors all followed suit. Then he blew his great horn—a beautifully carved, gilded dragon—and spurred his powerful red horse toward the North.

~~

After he had gone, Faelani returned to her private chambers. She had preparations to make. Once the great gates had closed again, the City would return to its usual business, but though Faelani had been appointed by the King to rule in his absence, she had no intention of remaining in Tal-elathas. Everyone would assume she had gone into temporary seclusion to lament the departure of her life-mate—she had, in fact, laid the groundwork for that assumption—but her plans were quite different. She had to keep them secret for as long as she could, for they would greatly upset her younger son, Dardis, who was already broken-hearted enough.

~~

Dardis had not attended the departure of Aincor’s army, retreating instead to his underground study to await the return of his master, Léiras. He truly had not wanted to say goodbye to his father and brother, for he knew of Léiras’ premonition, and he was afraid.

Léiras finally appeared in Dardis’ study-chamber, the sadness evident on his ageless face. “We tried to dissuade him, my friend,” he said, placing a gentle hand on Dardis’ shoulder in an effort to comfort him.

“I don’t understand why he wouldn’t listen…why he
never
listens!” said Dardis, his voice unsteady, tears starting in his eyes. “I almost wish h e
had
known some humiliating past defeat—something which could have made him see that he
can
fall to an enemy.Léiras drew a deep breath.

“So do I. Wrothgar is an enemy that may be beyond him. There is no worse one in the West, at any rate. But perhaps he will prevail…my premonitions do not always come to pass.”

Dardis raised one eyebrow. “Can you tell me of one which has not?”

He waited for several moments, but Léiras did not reply.

~~

Wrothgar had been preparing for this day for many years. He had assembled a far greater force than anyone was aware of, sending them forth a few at a time. They had amassed in quite respectable numbers within striking distance of each of the realms of Elves, Dwarves, and Men, including Tuathas, the Cavern-realms, the Greatwood Forest, and the City of Light. These underground armies went undetected, for they were hidden by the Shadowmancer’s art. He had placed them into a sort of dark sleep, to awaken only when he summoned them. Each force was commanded by a dark, fearsome Bödvar.

Wrothgar planned his uprising carefully, knowing that his dark forces would likely prevail in a surprise attack. After all, his power was at its peak, despite his leading Aincor to believe otherwise. Word reached Wrothgar’s ears that Tal-elathas had been “sealed”…that no emissaries had been allowed to warn their allies of the impending conflict. The Shadowmancer chuckled from within the flames of his stronghold. There would be no warning given. Everything was as he had predicted.

Aincor had been the one obstacle of real concern—Wrothgar had never met another like him. This Elf did not fear the Bödvari, a fact Wrothgar still could not fathom. Aincor had fortified Tal-elathas until it was impenetrable, or nearly so. His warriors were the fiercest in all of Alterra—they could summon their Light at will, though only Aincor could maintain it without tiring. Aincor believed himself to be invincible, which made him the most dangerous of enemies, one who is without fear. Still, Wrothgar knew that if all went according to plan, Aincor would be defeated. Wrothgar intended to lure him deep into his own dark realm, to put the King at a fatal disadvantage.

He positioned some of his forces, including one of his specially- bred dragons, in an outer battalion to the south of his stronghold. These would engage the Fire-heart, falling back before him, luring the Elven army ever-closer. Wrothgar would then send forth a much larger and more powerful defense force, although there would be no Bödvari—they had been sent to command his outer armies, which were already laying siege to the realms of Aincor’s allies.

It made little sense to risk the Bödvari to defend the Pale Fortress. Wrothgar already knew that Aincor could prevail over them. Bödvari relied on their two weapons: fear and flames, which they cast with deadly accuracy. Aincor, who had once defeated a dragon single-handed, was obviously not afraid of fire. And he didn’t even seem to be aware of the black, oppressive aura of fear surrounding the Bödvari; he charged forward with his dragon-shield before him, his Inner Light flaring, blinding and slaying them before they could even react.

Wrothgar would need to rely on his legions of Ulcas, his remaining dragons, trolls, savage men, and other dread creatures. He hoped that the sheer numbers of his defenders would fell the majority of Aincor’s warriors, but if not, he was unconcerned. It didn’t matter whether he faced five attackers, or five hundred, or five thousand, or merely Aincor himself. Wrothgar possessed a weapon of such power that his enemy’s defeat was all but certain, and he needed nothing more than his own evil nature to summon it.

~~

When the Elves of Tal-elathas first engaged Wrothgar’s outer battalion, Aincor believed his instincts were well-founded. All was as he had thought—Wrothgar was indeed weak and fearful if this was the extent of his resistance.

Vathan wondered. Surely Lord Wrothgar was expecting Aincor to attack. After all, they had done nothing to keep themselves hidden, riding forth in splendor, their horses and wagons raising dust that could be seen for miles. The weather grew colder the farther north they traveled, and soon it would become really difficult. Vathan knew that Aincor was planning to attack swiftly and vanquish his enemy with all speed. That alone should have alarmed Wrothgar, yet there were no Bödvari and only a single dragon. Wrothgar must have known that a pathetic rabble of Ulcas and hill-trolls was no match an army of seasoned Èolar. Vathan wondered what still awaited them.

Wrothgar’s forces would doubtless put up a better show with the second wave. Aincor’s army had drawn within sight of the Pale Fortress, which rose above the barren landscape as a rotten, stinking pile of stone. It radiated corruption and hopelessness in a cloud of foul, icy mist that hung about the edifice like a death-shroud. The horses would not draw nearer to it; they shifted unhappily beneath their riders, snorting and lifting briefly onto their hind legs. The Elves had little choice but to make an encampment there, for they were travel-worn. They posted sentries and waited for darkness, knowing the battle would then begin anew.

~~

Elsewhere, attacks had already begun. The Dwarf-realms of Rûmm and the Deep-caverns were besieged, as was the Elf-city of Eádros. The realm of the Northmen had also been forced to engage Wrothgar’s dark army, and the Greatwood stood upon the brink of battle. It would take too much time to send word of the assaults back to Tal-elathas; by then the Èolar would be embroiled in their own conflict if all went according to plan.

Fortunately, both the Tuathar and the Wood-elves of the Greatwood had received messages from Vathan’s wind-walkers, and were not taken entirely by surprise. They had little time to prepare, but at least they were aware of their enemy. The others had not been as fortunate. The distance to Tal-elathas was too great for the message to be carried to the Dwarf-realms, or to Eádros. Of the fate of those messengers, little is known.

Even with advance warning, there was little the Wood-elves or the Northmen of Tuathas could do against Wrothgar’s Bödvari, and a dark cloud descended over the realms of Light as the war began in earnest.

~~

As predicted, Wrothgar’s defenders swarmed Aincor’s encampment just after sunset. They met with five hundred of the most highly-trained and powerful of the ancient Light-bearers. Neither Ulca nor troll could stand before the radiance of an Èolarin warrior alight with blue-white flame, a Light far more painful and destructive to those who cannot bear the sun. The Light of an enraged Èolarin Elf will wither and blister the very skin from an Ulca, and a troll who draws too near will find itself hardening into the stone from which it was made. Aincor’s forces had little to fear from either.

Dragons posed a far greater problem, and several of Aincor’s warriors were killed in the melee, literally cooked inside their impressive armor. Talon made a particularly impressive showing when he leaped astride the neck of one of the dragons, which, at the time, was spouting massive flames from its horned snout. Using his knowledge of dragon-lore, Talon worked a stout blade between the diamond-hard plates beneath the beast’s neck, slashing one of the great vessels there. The blood rushed forth, drenching and spraying over many of Wrothgar’s minions who had, unfortunately, rallied around the great beast.

Talon watched in fascinated horror as the Ulcas, whose skin was already festering with sores and ulcerations, reacted to the dragon’s blood as though it were liquid fire. Their flesh seemed to dissolve, sending up poisonous tendrils of green vapor. Talon knew then that this dragon’s blood was deadly poison—a rarity, but not unheard of. The conflict had now reached a whole new level of difficulty.

The dragon writhed and screamed, reaching forward with clawed wings to tear away its attacker. Talon hung on as best he could, but the wildly thrashing beast, now slick with its own blood, was too much for him. As he fell, he sliced his right hand open on one of the razor-like spines. Talon hit the ground running, for he knew the beast would not long keep its feet. It crashed sideways in a roiling mass of dying flesh and bloody scales, still sending forth a last burst of flame.

Talon saw that even Aincor had taken notice of his bravery, raising a hand to him in congratulation, but the heat of battle was on him and he could not approach. Talon grimaced, knowing he was gravely wounded, the dragon-venom burning slowly up his right arm. His slashed hand was stained with dragon’s blood, and the wound was deep.

From out of nowhere one of the wagon-drivers appeared beside him, grabbing his other arm. “Follow me if you would live,” he said, pulling Talon from the fray. “Where does the burning end?” asked the driver, breathless beneath the hood hiding his face. He held Talon’s right arm, extending it.

“Here,” gasped Talon, who nearly doubled over from pain, indicating his right forearm, near the elbow. The poison was working its way up the arm with frightening speed.

The driver opened the scaled leather armor with a practiced stroke of a keen blade, took a firm grip on Talon’s right wrist, muttering “Forgive me…” and slashed down with all his might. It was not a clean cut and Talon howled in surprised agony, pulling back with all his strength. The driver muttered a curse, twisting Talon’s arm at the elbow, slicing through the tough cords and strips of meat that still bound it. Another slash, and the arm came free in a tangle of gristle and glistening white sinew. Unfortunately, there was also a veritable fountain of blood. Talon remained on his feet for a few astonished seconds before sinking to his knees, the color draining from his face.

“Be still!” hissed the driver, encircling the stump with a stout strap in an attempt to stop the alarming flow. Talon sank all the way to the ground then, his teeth chattering, his eyes rolled back, as the driver screamed for aid in bearing him from the field. Talon’s last thought before the darkness took him was that the voice had sounded…feminine, somehow.