Batalla de Withelan

El trasfondo de esta sección o artículo se basa en la campaña de El Fin de los Tiempos, que ha sustituido la línea argumental de La Tormenta del Caos.

Aunque era un secreto conocido por pocas personas vivas, Ariel, Reina de Athel Loren, había estudiado una vez la más oscura de las magias. Su tutora no había sido otra que Morathi, que había compartido los conocimientos con el fin de que se le perdonara la vida. Pero la Hechicera Bruja siempre había sido astuta; a través de sus lecciones, plantó una semilla secreta en el corazón de Ariel. Esta corrupción llevó la Reina de Loren a la locura. La locura con el tiempo pasó, pero Ariel no se había curado realmente. La semilla de la oscuridad se había mantenido parte de la Reina Maga en todas las estaciones que siguieron, dormida, esperando la llamada de Morathi. Aunque la propia Ariel estaba muerta, una parte de ella vivía en Alarielle, y una parte de la semilla oscura también se había traspasado. Ahora, mientras la risa de Morathi cortaba a través del claro, la cáscara de magia se abrió y malignas punzadas excavaron profundamente en el alma de la Reina Eterna.

Araloth no sabía nada de esto. Sólo oyó el grito desgarrador de Alarielle y la vio caer. El Señor de Talsyn se estaba moviendo hacia la reina, incluso antes de que cayera, incluso antes de que las raíces que ataban a la hueste de Tyrion se marchitaran y murieran. Mientras Araloth se ponía en cuclillas al lado de la Reina Eterna, se lanzaron los primeros gritos de traición, con las primeras flechas volando detrás. El Señor de Talsyn vio el líquido negro aceitoso que goteaba desde la boca y los ojos de Alarielle, pero entonces un grito de triunfo y de madera rompiéndose le dijo que Tyrion estaba libre. Levantándose, Araloth se volvió hacia el príncipe.

A pesar de los acontecimientos que se desarrollaban en torno a él, Tyrion parecía casi en calma. Guió a Malhandir hacia Araloth, e hizo apartarse al Señor de Talsyn a un lado. Como respuesta, Araloth levantó la lanza. No albergaba ilusiones en cuanto a su capacidad para derrotar a Tyrion, pero se mantuvo firme mientras la muerte venía a reclamarlo.

Nota: Leer antes de continuar - La Fuerza del Bosque

El cuerno de Orión resonó en el claro, y los demás cuernos se elevaron para unirse a él. Las fuertes notas bailaron en el aire, despertando tal ferocidad que incluso las frías y calladas hermanas de la guardia de doncellas sintieron su sangre hervir. Como uno, los guerreros de la Reina Eterna se lanzaron hacia delante con las lanzas y espadas. Las flechas fueron colocadas y disparadas a la carrera, silbando a través del aire como precursores de la futura refriega. Sólo Araloth, y un pequeño grupo de la Guardia Eterna, resistieron el sonido del cuerno. Su deber era llevar a Alarielle a las ruinas en la parte trasera del ejército, donde la profetisa Naieth guiaba las acciones de sus Cantores de los Árboles.

La batalla de Withelan no era la más grande de su tiempo, pero fue una de las más ferozmente combatidas. La sombra de Khaine caía más pesada sobre Tyrion cada día, y prestó fuerza y furia a los seguidores del príncipe como seguramente lo hizo con él. Sin embargo esos asrai que habían venido a Avelorn habían comprometido su vida a la Reina Eterna, y derramarían su sangre con mucho gusto en su defensa.

Más determinadas estaban las hermanas de la guardia de doncellas, que habían tratado a la Reina Eterna como una diosa viviente mucho antes de que sus lejanos parientes hubieran declarado que así era. Estos veteranos de la guerra contra los demonios ponían ahora en uso fácilmente sus lecciones - y sus espadas - contra sus parientes traidores sin remordimientos. Muchas de las hermanas más mayores habían pensado durante mucho tiempo que la Maldición de Aenarion hizo a Tyrion un mal compañero para su reina, y vieron ese día todas las pruebas que podrían haber deseado.

En el centro del claro, Tyrion luchaba como un animal enjaulado. Estaba rodeado por todos lados por los adeptos salvajes de Kurnous, pero sus lanzas no podían encontrar ninguna debilidad en su armadura, salvo la desgarrada muesca de la lanza de Imrik, y el príncipe tuvo cuidado de mantener ese lugar bien guardado. La sangre volaba mientras la Hacedora de Viudas golpeaba una y otra vez. A pesar de todo, Tyrion rabiaba y maldecía, decidido a llegar a Alarielle. Los jinetes salvajes caían muertos y moribundos alrededor del príncipe, pero ninguno entre ellos trató de huir.

Detrás de los jinetes salvajes llegaron otros señores de los caballos, guerreros de la marca celeste y Witherhold cuyas flechas volaban más certeras a galope que las que otros disparaban en reposo. Tras ellos llegaron las lanzas de la guardia eterna, y las grandes hachas de los leones, con sus portadores llevando un serio semblante en macabro contraste a los saltarines bailarines guerreros que rápidamente los alcanzaban. Al borde del claro, se movían formas a través de los árboles mientras ágiles dríades buscaban enemigos incautos en los que clavar sus garras. Más atrás, las sombras se cernían más vastas, con la tierra temblando mientras Durthu dirigía un grupo de hombres árbol contra el flanco norte de Tyrion.

Al ver a su señor asediado, los caballeros de Ghrond y Cothique se impulsaron hacia delante, pero su carga se rompió mientras Orión lideraba más jinetes salvajes a la refriega. El Rey del Bosque chocó contra las gruesas filas de caballeros gélidos, indiferente de las garras y las puntas de lanza que se clavaban en su carne. La Lanza de Kurnous golpeó, destripando a tres caballeros en armadura de placas y lanzando a otro de la silla. Durante un momento, el elfo oscuro gimió en el suelo, ya que sus piernas se habían roto con la fuerza de su caída. A continuación la pezuña de Orión bajó, las costillas del caballero se astillaron y los gritos cesaron. Orión continuó presionando a través de la batalla, con cada uno de sus pasos acercándolo a la que había vencido a su reina. Sin embargo, al igual que Tyrion era acorralado por sus enemigos, también lo estaba el Rey del Bosque. No había mucha distancia entre los dos, pero bien podrían haber estado en orillas opuestas del Gran Océano.

Esta ya no era una batalla de arqueros, sino de espadas. Las descargas iniciales se habían cobrado un alto precio en la hueste de Tyrion, pero ahora los escudos se levantaban juntos, y las flechas de Avelorn y Athel Loren perdían su fuerza contra la madera y el acero. Korhil lideraba el flanco sur, con sus veteranos soldados de Cracia de su fallida campaña. Adranna luchaba a su lado, con los encantamientos oscilando entre la luz y la oscuridad mientras equilibraba la tutela de décadas con las artes siniestras que Morathi había inculcado en su interior. Más al norte, Dalroth y Dannor incitaban a los guerreros de Ghrond y Cothique a la masacre. Donde Korhil se esforzaba por conservar su maltrecho honor, los hermanos no conocían tal restricción. Tratando de superar las crueldades de los otros, lanzaban a sus guerreros a la batalla como harina para ser molida en el molino, haciendo caso omiso de las vidas perdidas debido a su imprudencia. A medida que los cuerpos de sus súbditos se apilaban en el campo de batalla delante de ellos, el Príncipe Geron, uno de los asesores de mayor confianza de su padre, trató en dos ocasiones de atemperar la necedad de los hermanos. En el segundo intento, Dalroth abrió la garganta del viejo soldado antes de tirar su cuerpo en la boca de un kharibdyss.

El claro se sacudió cuando los dos ejércitos se enfrentaron seriamente, con los salvajes gritos de batalla de los elfos silvanos en duro contrapunto a los melodiosos cánticos de guerra de los altos elfos. Sólo los guerreros de Ghrond luchaban en silencio, como era su costumbre. Poco importaba, ya que su señora era lo suficientemente estridente como varias veces su número.

La risa de Morathi era un viento racheado que llegaba a todos los rincones de Avelorn, y a muchas tierras más allá. Esta confrontación no había sido culpa de sus manipulaciones, pero la Hechicera Bruja estaba determinada a drenar cada dulce gota del cáliz que se le presentaba. No había olvidado su humillación cuando Ghrond había caído bajo los elfos silvanos hacía mucho tiempo, y si Ariel estaba fuera de su alcance, entonces la Hechicera Bruja buscaría tomar venganza sobre sus herederos. Los vientos de la magia, tan gruesos y dulces mientras flotaban a través Avelorn, se adaptaban fácilmente a la voluntad de Morathi, ondulando e hinchándose mientras profundizaba con avidez. La risa tomó ahora la forma de hermosas palabras, subiendo y bajando de tono mientras la reunida magia latía. Cuando el encantamiento de Morathi alcanzó su clímax, hubo un crujido ensordecedor.

Korhil sintió el aire ir silencioso y sin vida y vio la nube de turbulenta niebla negra salir de las manos de la Hechicera Bruja. Elfos y dríades se apartaban de su trayectoria. Tentáculos segmentados, gordos y rosas, sobresalían del vapor, dejando ronchas de un verde lívido dondequiera que golpearan. El capitán vio una partida de guerra de elfos silvanos huir mientras la nube se abalanzaba sobre ellos, con los guerreros tirando a un lado sus lanzas mientras trababan de apartarse. No todos llegaron a la seguridad. Unos pocos, los más lentos, se desvanecieron cuando la niebla pasó sobre ellos. Otros gritaban de pánico mientras los tentáculos se ataban alrededor de sus extremidades, arrastrándoles hacia atrás de manera constante hacia la insondable oscuridad. Korhil vio a un elfo ser arrastrado a la nube, mientras trataba de ayudar a su compañero, y otro se liberó cuando una flecha certera cortó el tentáculo alrededor de su cintura. Sangre verde brotó de la herida y hubo un gemido agudo desde algún lugar de la oscuridad, pero aún así la nube continuó, dejando un rastro de hierba marchita y un ejército de limpios esqueletos tras de si.

Araloth llegó junto a Naieth mientras los místicos del ejército trataban de deshacer el conjuro de Morathi. La nube negra ya se acercaba al anillo de lanzas de Torgovann y arcos de Avelorn en los que se cobijaba el grupo de Naieth, y no había tiempo para medidas sutiles. A Araloth le pareció que el bosque gemía mientras Naieth forjaba su contrahechizo. A su alrededor, hojas que habían permanecido verdes desde el principio de los tiempos se marchitaron y cayeron sin vida al suelo. Los árboles que habían soportado el paso de siglos envejecieron a polvo mientras los Cantores de los Árboles absorbían la magia de sus raíces para contener la arremolinada nube. Con un fino silbido, el vórtice de oscuridad se dispersó como humo en la brisa, y una ovación corrió por las filas de elfos silvanos. Tres de los cantores de los árboles se derrumbaron, podridos desde el interior por la magia que habían deshecho, y Naieth cayó pesadamente hacia adelante sobre su cayado, con su fiel búho aleteando consternado sobre su cabeza.

Mientras Araloth colocaba cuidadosamente a Alarielle en el suelo, Naieth convocó a otros magos a su lado. La nariz de la profetisa se arrugó con disgusto, pero aseguró a Araloth que el daño podría deshacerse, si les daban tiempo. Por desgracia, parecía que el tiempo era lo único que los elfos silvanos no podían permitirse. Mientras Naieth se dedicaba a la elaboración de una bendición para expulsar el veneno de Morathi, un grandísimo grito estalló más allá de las líneas de Torgovann.

Nuevos enemigos habían llegado, riendo y bailando mientras despedazaban a través de las líneas de lanzas. No llevaban armadura, estas recién llegadas, sólo máscaras de oro a semejanza de los demonios. Luchaban con una gracia increíble, con cada movimiento fluyendo sin problemas hacia otro, con sus látigos de tela metálica arremetiendo para cortar gargantas y venas. Dejando a Alarielle bajo la atención de Naieth, Araloth ordenó a su propia partida de guerra sumarse a la lucha. Sin embargo, aún cuando el Señor de Talsyn corría, el centro de la muralla de lanzas se desintegró, y el camino hacia la Reina Eterna quedó abierto. Con un fresco coro de triunfo, las atacantes cargaron hacia la brecha, y Araloth supo que no llegaría a tiempo. Pero había uno que si podía.

Pasando a través de los cadáveres con una seguridad que contrastaba con su ceguera, Daith de blanca melena, Señor de Torgovann, gritó un desafío a las doncellas de látigos Naggarothi. Con sus pulmones ardiendo con el esfuerzo, Araloth escuchó a la gladiadora que las lideraba hacer algunos comentarios de burla, y entonces la vio caer muerta sobre el suelo, con su cabeza cortada limpiamente con un solo golpe impecable. Araloth ni siquiera había visto moverse la espada de Daith. Las otras atacantes enmascaradas se lanzaron hacia adelante antes de que la cabeza de su líder golpeara contra el suelo. Llegaron juntas, con sus látigos dando vueltas, tratando de abrumar al viejo elfo tanto con su número como por habilidad. No tenían por qué haber hecho el esfuerzo.

Mientras los pateantes pies de Araloth se comían el suelo entre él y las líneas Torgovanni, se dio cuenta de que, incluso si él llegaba a la venerable edad de Daith, que nunca sería capaz de luchar como lo hacía el señor ciego. Donde las enmascaradas Naggarothi eran salvajes y teatrales en sus ataques, Daith era comedido y eficiente, sin mover la espada una pizca más de lo necesario. Con un movimiento de su muñeca, la amplia punta de la espada de Daith apartó un látigo de púas a un lado; con otro, abrió la garganta de una atacante hasta el hueso. Los movimientos de Daith eran obras de arte, tan delicados pero inflexibles que hacía a todos los demás parecer torpes en comparación. La brecha en la línea era de quince escudos de ancho, y los atacantes un enjambre de látigos y escudos, pero Daith las contuvo.

Por fin la partida de guerra de Araloth alcanzó la brecha. Daith ladeó la cabeza para encarar sin ver a Araloth, y luego torció los labios en una sonrisa. Alzadas lanzas condujeron a la última de las mujeres enmascaradas a distancia, pero no antes de un último acto de despecho. Una de las elfas enmascaradas, que había estado fingiendo su muerte a los pies de Daith, se levantó e internó una daga profundamente hasta la empuñadura en su pecho. Con un grito que mezclaba el dolor y la ira, Araloth arremetió con su lanza hacia adelante para matar a la agresora. De repente, descorazonado, el enemigo huyó. Abandonando su arma, Araloth atrapó a Daith mientras caía.

Un grito desde atrás de Araloth le dijo que los elfos oscuros habían reunificado su valor. Posando suavemente el cuerpo de Daith en el suelo, el Señor de Talsyn tomó su lanza una vez más y volvió a la lucha.

Más al norte, la batalla se estaba tornando en favor de la Reina Eterna mientras los guerreros de Ghrond se dispersaban ante los hombres árbol. Las falanges de Cothique, más disciplinadas que sus primos oscuros, mantuvieron su posición, pero con poco éxito. El asalto de los hombres árbol era tan lento e inevitable como una raíz rompiendo a través de la roca. Las lanzas se hacían añicos contra la gruesa corteza, y los huesos se rompían cuando los nudosos pies caían hacia abajo. Los elfos gritaban de repentino miedo mientras las enredaderas izaban sus pataleantes cuerpos hacia lo alto, para arrojarlos de nuevo sobre sus semejantes.

Viendo el peligro de los hombres árbol, Dalroth ordenó que las bestias de guerra de Ghrond fueran enviadas contra ellos. Los látigos resonaron afiladamente en el aire frío mientras los monstruos de Naggaroth eran lanzados hacia la trayectoria de los hombres árbol. Enormes kharibdyss, tan torpes en tierra como feas eran, se deslizaron hacia delante, con sus fauces abriéndose y cerrándose con avidez. Las hidras llegaron detrás, eructando llamas que prendían rápidamente en la carne de los espíritus del bosque.

Muchos hombres árbol perecieron, consumidos por el fuego o derribados por oscuros hechizos, cada uno llevándose gran número de víctimas del enemigo antes de morir, pero Durthu era imparable. Ningún fuego prendía sobre su corteza, y ni garras ni colmillos podían perforarle. Su espada rúnica brilló en un arco de plata, y la sangre maldita de los kharibdyss cayó azul sobre la hierba. Una hidra rugió y se lanzó hacia Durthu, pero la espada destelló para cortar dos de sus cabezas, y una tercera se hizo pulpa bajo el impacto de un poderoso puño.

EN CONSTRUCCION

Though it was a secret known to few living, Ariel, Queen of Athel Loren, had once studied the darkest of magics. Her tutor had been none other than Morathi, who parted with the knowledge in order that her life be spared. But the Hag Sorceress had ever been cunning; through her lessons, she planted a secret seed in Ariel’s heart. This corruption led the Queen of Loren into madness. That insanity eventually passed, but Ariel was never truly cured. The seed of darkness had remained part of the Mage Queen in all the seasons that had followed, slumbering, waiting for Morathi’s call. Though Ariel herself was dead, a part of her lived on in Alarielle, and a part of the dark seed had transferred also. Now, as Morathi’s laughter cut across the clearing, the husk of magic cracked open and vile shoots burrowed deep into the Everqueen’s soul.

Araloth knew none of this. He heard only Alarielle’s piercing scream and saw her collapse. The Lord of Talsyn was moving to the queen’s side even before she fell, even before the root-snares that bound Tyrion’s host withered and died. As Araloth crouched at the Everqueen’s side, the first cries of treachery flew forth, the first arrows hard on their heels. The Lord of Talsyn marked the oily black fluid seeping from Alarielle’s mouth and eyes, but then a bellow of triumph and a shattering of wood told him that Tyrion was free. Rising, Araloth turned to face the prince.

Despite the events unfolding around him, Tyrion seemed almost calm. He guided Malhandir towards Araloth, and commanded the Lord of Talsyn to stand aside. As reply, Araloth raised his spear. He harboured no illusions as to his ability to defeat Tyrion, but he stood unflinching as death came to claim him. Orion’s horn echoed through the glade, and others rose to join it. The bold notes danced upon the air, awakening such ferocity that even the coldly-reserved sisters of the maiden guard felt their blood come afire. As one, the Everqueen's warriors surged forward with spear and sword. Arrows were nocked and loosed on the run, whistling through the air as harbingers of the melee to come. Only Araloth, and a small band of Eternal Guard, fought the horn’s cry. Their duty was to bring Alarielle to the ruins at the army's rear, where Naieth the prophetess guided the actions of its spellshapers.

The Battle of Withelan was not the grandest of its time, but it was amongst the most savagely fought. Khaine’s shadow fell heavier on Tyrion each day，and it lent strength and fury to the prince’s followers as surely as it did to him. Yet those asrai who had come to Avelorn had pledged their lives to the Everqueen, and spent their blood gladly in her defence.

More determined were the sisterhoods of maiden guard, who had held the Everqueen a living goddess long before their distant kin had declared it so. These veterans of the war with the daemons now readily turned their lessons - and their blades - upon traitor kin with little remorse. Many of the elder sisters had long thought that the Curse of Aenarion made Tyrion an ill mate for their queen, and saw that day all the proof they could have wished for.

In the centre of the glade, Tyrion fought like a caged beast. He was surrounded on all sides by the wild adepts of Kurnous, but their spears could find no weakness in his armour, save the rent torn by Imrik’s lance, and the prince was careful to keep that spot well-guarded. Blood sprayed forth as Widowmaker struck again and again. Through it all, Tyrion raged and cursed, determined to reach Alarielle. Wild riders fell dead and dying all around the prince, but not one amongst their number sought to flee.

In the wild riders’ wake came other horsemasters, warriors of Skymark and Witherhold whose arrows flew truer at full gallop than others’ did at rest. Behind them came the spears of the eternal guard, and the great axes of rangers, the wielders’ brooding countenances a grim contrast to the leaping wardancers who swiftly overtook them. On the fringes of the glade, shapes flitted through the trees as lithe dryads sought unwary enemies to set their claws upon. Further back, vaster shadows loomed, the ground shaking as Durthu led a band of treemen against Tyrion’s northern flank.

Seeing their lord embattled, knights of Ghrond and of Cothique spurred forward, but their charge broke apart as Orion led more wild riders into the fray. The King in the Woods crashed into the thick ranks of cold one knights, uncaring of the claws and lance-tips that raked his flesh. The Spear of Kurnous swept out, disembowelling three plate-armoured knights and striking another from his saddle. For a moment, the dark elf mewled upon the ground, for his legs had broken with the force of his fall. Then Orion’s hoof came down, the knight's ribs splintered, and the cries ceased. On Orion pressed through the battle, his every step bringing him closer to the one who had laid low his queen. Yet just as Tyrion was penned in by his foes, so too was the King in the Woods. No great distance lay between the two, but they might as well have been on opposite shores of the Great Ocean.

This was no longer a battle of archery, but of blade. The initial volleys had taken a heavy toll of Tyrion's host, but now shields locked together, and the arrows of Avelorn and Athel Loren wasted their force on timber and steel. Korhil commanded the southern flank, his soldiers the Chracian veterans of his failed campaign. Adranna fought at his side, her enchantments flickering between light and darkness as she balanced the tutelage of decades with the sinister arts Morathi had instilled within her. Further north, Dalroth and Dannor goaded the warriors of Ghrond and Cothique into the slaughter. Where Korhil strove to retain his battered honour, the brothers knew no such restraint. Seeking to outdo one another’s cruelties, they threw their warriors into the fray as flour to be ground in the mill, heedless of the lives lost to their recklessness. As the bodies of their subjects piled upon the field before them, Prince Geron, one of their father’s most trusted advisors, twice tried to temper the brothers’ folly. On the second attempt, Dalroth slit open the old soldier’s throat before throwing his body into a kharibdyss’ maw.

The clearing shook as the two hosts clashed in earnest, the wild battle cries of the wood elves a harsh counterpoint to the mellifluous war songs of the high elves. Only the Ghrondian warriors fought in silence, as was their wont. It hardly mattered, for their mistress was raucous enough for many times their number.

Morathi’s laughter was a gusting wind that carried to every corner of Avelorn, and to many lands beyond. This confrontation had not been borne of her manipulations, but the Hag Sorceress was determined to drain every sweet drop from the chalice presented to her. She had not forgotten her humiliation when Ghrond had fallen to the wood elves long ago, and if Ariel were at last beyond her reach, then the Hag Sorceress sought to take vengeance upon her inheritors. The winds of magic, so thick and honeyed as they blew through Avelorn, bent easily to Morathi’s will, rippling and billowing as she greedily delved. The laughter now took the form of beautiful words, rising and falling in pitch as the gathered magic pulsed. As Morathi’s incantation reached its pitch, there was a sudden, ear-splitting crack.

Korhil felt the air go still and lifeless, saw the cloud of roiling black mist sweep forth from the Hag Sorceress' hands. Elves and dryads scattered from its path. Segmented tentacles, fat and pink, whipped out from the vapour, leaving livid green welts wherever they struck. The captain saw a wood elf warband break apart as the cloud bore down upon them, the warriors casting aside their spears as they dove clear. Not all of them made it to safety. A few, too slow by far, vanished as the cloud rolled over them. Others screamed in panic as tentacles lashed around their limbs, dragging them steadily backwards into the seeping darkness. Korhil saw one elf dragged into the cloud as she tried to aid her comrade, and another pulled free as a well-aimed arrow severed the tentacle around his waist. Green blood spurted from the wound and there was a shrill wail from somewhere in the darkness, but still the cloud moved on, leaving a trail of withered grass and an army of clean-picked skeletons in its wake.

Araloth reached Naieth’s side as the army’s mystics sought to unmake Morathi’s conjuration. Already the black cloud was drawing nigh on the ring of Torgovann spears and Avelorn bows that sheltered Naieth’s band, and there was no time left for subtle measures. It seemed to Araloth that the forest wailed as Naieth wrought her counterspell. All around him, leaves that had remained green since the beginning of time wilted and fell lifeless to the ground. Trees that had endured the passage of centuries aged to dust as spellweavers drew magic from their roots to contain the swirling cloud. With a thin hiss, the vortex of darkness dispersed like smoke on the breeze, and a cheer went up from the wood elf ranks. Three of the spellweavers collapsed, rotted from the inside by the magics they had unmade, and Naieth fell heavily forward onto her staff, her faithful owl fluttering concernedly about her head.

As Araloth carefully laid Alarielle upon the ground, Naieth summoned other mages to her side. The prophetess’ nose wrinkled in distaste, but she assured Araloth that the harm could be unmade, given time. Alas, it seemed that time was the one thing the wood elves could not afford. Even as Naieth set about crafting a blessing to drive out Morathi’s poison, a great whooping shout broke out beyond the Torgovann lines.

Fresh enemies had come, laughing and dancing as they tore through the lines of spears. They wore no armour, these newcomers, just golden masks in the likenesses of daemons. They fought with incredible grace, each move flowing flawlessly into another, their chain-link whips lashing out to slit throats and veins. Leaving Alarielle to Naieth’s care, Araloth ordered his own warband down into the fight. Yet, even as the Lord of Talsyn ran, the centre of the spearwall disintegrated, and the way to the Everqueen opened. With a fresh chorus of triumph, the attackers charged into the gap, and Araloth knew he would not reach it in time. But there was one who could.

Stepping across the corpses with a surety that belied his blindness, white-haired Daith, Lord of Torgovann shouted a challenge to the Naggarothi lash-maidens. His lungs burning with exertion, Araloth heard the leading gladiatrix make some mocking comment, then saw her fall dead upon the ground, head struck clean off by a single faultless blow. Araloth had not even seen Daith's blade move. The other masked attackers threw themselves forward before their leader’s head struck the ground. They came together, whips whirling, seeking to overwhelm the aged elf through numbers as much as skill. They need not have made the effort.

As Araloth’s thudding feet ate up the ground between him and the Torgovanni lines, he realised that even if he reached Daith's venerable age, he would never be able to fight as the blind lord did. Where the masked Naggarothi were wild and theatrical in their attacks, Daith was measured and efficient, his sword never moving a hair’s breadth further than it needed to. A flick of his wrist, and the broad tip of Daith’s blade struck a barbed whip aside; with another, an attacker’s throat was opened to the bone. Daith’s movements were works of art, so delicate yet unyielding that they made all others appear clumsy by comparison. The gap in the line was fifteen shields wide, and the attackers a swarm of lashes and shields, but Daith held them.

At last Araloth’s warband reached the gap. Daith tilted his head to stare sightlessly at Araloth, then twisted his lips into a smile. Levelled spears drove the last of the masked women away, but not before one last act of spite. One of the masked elves, who had been feigning death at Daith’s feet, rose up and slammed a dagger hilt-deep into his chest. With a cry that mingled grief and anger, Araloth thrust his spear forward to slay the assailant. Suddenly disheartened, the foe fled. Abandoning his weapon, Araloth caught Daith as he fell.

A cry from behind Araloth told him that the dark elves had regathered their courage. Gently setting Daith’s body on the ground, the Lord of Talsyn took up his spear once more and returned to the fight.

Further to the north, the battle was turning in the Everqueen’s favour as the warriors of Ghrond scattered before the treemen. Cothiqui phalanxes, more disciplined than their dark cousins, held their ground, but to little avail. The treemen’s assault was as slow and inevitable as a root breaking through rock. Spears shattered on thick bark, and bones broke as gnarled feet stamped down. Elves screamed in sudden fear as vines hoisted their struggling bodies high, then hurled them back down onto their fellows.

Seeing the danger of the treemen, Dalroth ordered Ghrond’s war beasts sent against them. Whips cracked sharply in the cold air as the monsters of Naggaroth were goaded into the treemen’s path. Massive kharibdysses, as ungainly on land as they were ugly, slithered forth, their maws snapping hungrily. Hydras came in their wake, their belched flames taking swift root in the forest spirits' flesh.

Many treemen perished, consumed by fire or felled by dark sorceries, each levying a great toll upon the foe before he died, but Durthu was unstoppable. No fire could find purchase on his hide, and neither claw nor fang could pierce it. His runesword shone in a silver arc, and the foul blood of kharibdysses was blue upon the grass. A hydra bellowed and pounced at Durthu, but the sword flashed to sever two of its heads, and a third pulped under the impact of a mighty fist.

In the centre of the glade, Tyrion at last fought his way free of the wild riders. The prince now looked more daemon than elf, for his armour was slick with blood, and his face a sharp-visaged rictus of abandon. Kicking the last of the Sons of Kurnous from the Widowmaker's blade, the prince spurred Malhandir on through the chill air, shouting at the knights about Orion to make way.

The King in the Woods fought atop a mound of bloodied dead no less grim than that which Tyrion had left behind. Elves of both Naggaroth and Ulthuan had perished beneath the spear of Kurnous, the most brutal of Hag Graef’s knights and the flower of Cothique’s houses slain as thoughtlessly as any other quarry. Orion bled from a dozen small wounds, and two savage rents besides, but his strength was undimmed. One wolfhound crouched at its master's feet, its fur matted by its own blood and that of the knight whose throat it had torn out. The other lay unmoving, having taken a lance thrust meant for Orion’s heart.

Those wood elves who looked upon Orion’s striving that day marked a determination they had not before observed, not in all the many rebirths their king had known. None knew the cause - none save Alarielle, and she was sworn not to speak of it. When the ring of knights about Orion parted at Tyrion’s command, the King in the Woods did not falter, but threw himself readily against the prince with a wild cry.

Seldom since before the days of Aenarion had such a battle been seen. Blow and counterblow rang out as the Sword of Khaine clashed with the Spear of Kurnous, each sound an echo of a long-ago battle in the heavens. Then, as now, Kurnous fought Khaine with Isha as the prize. Then, as now, it would be a battle beyond mortals. Tyrion's knights, not daring to intervene in their lord’s battle, turned their blades outward, fending off the wood elves who came howling to their king’s aid. Soon a ring of blood and corpses bounded the godly contest, but neither eternal guard nor wardancer pierced the circle.

Orion could feel his strength fading. The Widowmaker had pierced the king’s flesh in many places, and the fires he had denied for long months were now sparked to fresh fury by the blade’s kiss. As the Spear of Kurnous shattered beneath the Widowmaker’s strike, Orion rose up and seized Tyrion by the throat with one hand, the other coming about to slam against the prince’s armoured ribs. The golden armour of Aenarion buckled beneath the impact, and two of Tyrion’s ribs snapped. A third gave way as Orion hammered at his foe again, this second blow at last forcing a cry of pain from the prince’s lips.

Widowmaker came about in a wild blow, guided more by instinct than design. Orion ducked low, but one of his horns fractured under the impact. With a mighty bellow, the King in the Woods butted Tyrion full in the face, and half dragged the prince from his saddle. As he did so, Orion gathered up a fragment of his spear’s shattered tip. As Tyrion struggled in his grasp, Orion drove the sliver of metal through the rent Imrik had opened in Tyrion’s armour, and snapped off the point in the prince’s flesh.

That act took the last of Orion’s strength. He staggered back, skin glowing from the fires burning beneath. Ignoring the blood seeping from his own wounds, Tyrion hauled himself high into Malhandir’s saddle once more. He spurred forward and brought the Widowmaker down one final time. With one last cry, Orion, King in the Woods, fell dead. Moments later, he was ash. The cycle had ended once again, the hunter slain at the Destroyer’s hand. All that now remained was for the Mother to be claimed.

Orion’s final shout did not go unmarked. In the moment of its sounding, Alarielle’s eyes shot open, the Everqueen roused as much by that cry as by Naieth’s attempts to revive her. Gripped by sudden purpose, Alarielle rose to her feet only to see Tyrion marshalling his surviving knights. Alarielle had not blindly chosen Withelan as the site of confrontation. Though Morathi’s gambit had nearly undone her, the Everqueen had known the Hag Sorceress would have some poisonous scheme at hand, and had trusted in her own followers. The price had been high, but there were no easy triumphs to be had any longer - just victory at any price, or defeat.

The ruins of Withelan were not elven. They had been raised in antiquity by a being of terrible power who sought to bend the magic of Avelorn - stronger at Withelan than any other place save the Gaean Vale - to his own will. The monuments had fallen, as all works one day must, but the reservoir of power remained. Morathi could not wield it, for it was the magic of light and life, but it was the Everqueen’s to command, and now she called it forth.

The ground rumbled as a spiral stair burst from the ground beneath Alarielle’s feet, raising her almost to the leafy canopy above. As she rose, the Everqueen marked the look of consternation and surprise on Morathi’s face as she tried and failed to wrest control of the unleashed magics. Alarielle felt only disdain. Like so many before her, the Hag Sorceress had not thought Alarielle a worthy foe, had seen only a matron whose role was to nurture and protect. It was an attitude Alarielle had faced for as long as she could remember.

As the spiral stair shuddered into stillness, Alarielle took in the battlefield. She could see the burnt ground where Orion had perished, the mound of corpses where Daith had striven, the banners of three great elven nations as they strove to decide her fate. But most of all, Alarielle saw Tyrion at the head of his knights, their blades and lances carving ruin amongst those who dared to bar their path.

ENOUGH!

Alarielle was not aware she had spoken, but her shouted word echoed across the glade. Magic flowed out of the ground and up the spiral stairs at her call. It pulsed across the battlefield; horses and cold ones reared up as it reached them, casting knights from their saddles. As the riders tried to regain their feet, Alarielle’s spell took hold. The knights felt their limbs grow heavy and agony rip through their minds. They called up to the Everqueen, arms lifted imploringly at she who now commanded their fate. But Alarielle knew no mercy that day.

The knights’ skin thickened and cracked as the magic raced across it; armour and cloth fell away, scattering to dust. Their legs became roots, and dug deep into the thick soil; their arms, raised in supplication, splits apart into swift-growing branches, and leaves of brilliant green burst forth from gnarled skin. In moments, only Tyrion remained, protected as he was by the Widowmaker. Of his knights, the only sign they had ever existed were enchanted heirlooms entangled in branches, and patterns in the bark that might once have been faces wracked with pain.

The greater part of Tyrion’s army would have perished that day, had it not been for Morathi - though she doubtless acted to save herself more than any other. While the bow wave of magic flowed across the battlefield, the Hag Sorceress called upon magics of her own. As the transformation took hold amongst the front ranks of Tyrion’s phalanxes, the Hag Sorceress let cry a forbidden word. There was no laughter in her voice now, just a tone of desperation.

A wave of black magic rose at Morathi’s call, drawn not from the bedrock of Avelorn, but from the tainted souls of those who followed Tyrion. It clashed with Alarielle’s spell mere feet away from the Hag orceress, and the air shone a dozen colours where the two tides met. For a moment, there was a terrible wailing noise which echoed across the clearing, the crux point of the sorceries rippling like flame as they clashed. Then, with a deafening report, both spells imploded, the backwash striking Morathi from Sulephet，s back and sending Alarielle sprawling from her summit.

Morathi toppled back into the thick grass of the clearing, blood streaming from her eyes and ears, her black soul afire with pain. Handmaidens clustered around their mistress and bore her away from the glade. Adranna was amongst them and, had she the opportunity, would have driven a dagger into the Hag Sorceress’ heart. However, the princess judged there were too many loyal handmaidens in attendance to guarantee success. Sacrificing a life to rid the world of Morathi was one thing; to do so needlessly was something else entirely.

On the other side of the glade, a great cry of sorrow went up as the Everqueen fell, but one amongst the host chose action over dismay. Ignoring the spears that pricked at his thick flesh, mighty Durthu broke into a run. Then, demonstrating a grace few knew he possessed, the treeman leapt towards the spiral stair. As Durthu's gnarled fingers sought purchase on the ancient stones, he let fall his sword and snatched Alarielle from the air. The clearing shuddered as the treeman let go his grasp on the spiral stair and crashed to the ground below, a dazed Everqueen in his grasp.

As Durthu gently set Alarielle down, Tyrion spurred forward from the twisted grove that had once been his knights, Widowmaker flashing. The sword smouldered as it speared into Durthu’s hide, the thick black smoke of its passing rising from the wound. It burned Durthu as the long ago dwarfish fires had once burnt him, but the treeman uttered no sound of pain. Instead, he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the exposed length of blade and dragged the godly steel from his flesh. For a heartbeat, the treeman and the prince stood locked in a strange tableau, neither willing to relinquish their grasp, Durthu silent, Tyrion raging. Then the treeman’s lips cracked into a snarl, and he suddenly wrenched the blade free. Tyrion, still unwilling to surrender his weapon, was yanked from his saddle and whirled in a half-circle about Durthu’s head. With one last mighty heave, Durthu hurled the prince - Widowmaker and all - back over the remaining Cothiqui phalanxes and deep into the forest behind.

As the crash of branches accompanying Tyrion's departure sounded across the glade, Malhandir whinnied loud, and galloped off in search of his master. Even as the steed’s hooves thundered away, Durthu creaked to one knee, smoke gouting from his wound. Alarielle, on her feet once more, ran to the treeman’s side and laid her hands upon his rough skin, white light flaring about her fingers as she sought to stem the damage.

The elves of Tyrion's host did not yet know that their prince still lived. They saw only their sorceress fallen, their knights slaughtered and their prince humbled. Battle-lust faded from hearts and eyes, and urgent horns began to sound the retreat. Dalroth and Dannor were amongst the first to turn tail, for the princes had learnt much of ruthlessness under Tyrion’s tutelage, but little of bravery. Korhil was the last of Tyrion’s commanders to leave, ushering his soldiers before him. As he slipped away into the forest, the captain realised that he had experienced his second defeat in as many battles. To Korhil’s mild surprise, he discovered that he wasn’t at all sorry for the loss.

As matters transpired, Malhandir found Tyrion nearly a league into Withelan's deepwoods, and at first the prince was determined to renew the battle. However, he marked the colours of Cothique and Ghrond streaming past him, and the dark cortege that bore Morathi from the field, and knew that he would find only defeat in Avelorn that day.

Bitterly, the prince hauled himself into Malhandir’s saddle to join the retreat.

Tyrion had been dealt a sore blow, and had the elves of the Everqueen's host made any attempt at pursuit it would have been far worse.

What little harrying there was of the retreating army was left to the dryads, who chased their fleeing foes to the very borders of Avelorn. As it was, the elves of Athel Loren and of Avelorn were weary with battle, and had their own dead to attend to. Orion’s ashes were gathered into a silver urn, and the slain carried upon litters fashioned from shields and spears. Daith’s body was accompanied by an honour guard of some five hundred elves. Though few amongst the host knew the secret that Araloth had been made privy to, all knew the smith from his deeds and reputation. As dusk fell, Alarielle awoke the worldroots, and the sombre procession returned to Athel Loren.

The only true victors of the Battle of Withelan were the trees forged from the flesh of Tyrion’s warriors. Reborn into a more serene and contemplative form, their roots would feast well upon the corpse-mulch of their former allies, their foliage growing ever more luxurious as the season deepened.

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Fuente

• The End Times III - Khaine