Luthiel's Song: Dreams of the Ringed Vale

by Robert Marston Fannéy

For some reason, it gladdened Luthiel that her father would will it to her. She took her time gathering the shards of Cutter’s Shear—the masterwork of her father. She looked at each fragment, at each perfectly formed inch of blade.

  My father’s hands made this, she thought.

  When she was finally done gathering the pieces she rose with a sigh and left her room.

  Melkion and Othalas were waiting for her outside.

  They seemed to sense her need for quiet and didn’t speak as they walked down to the courtyard.

  “I need to stand in the sunlight for a bit,” she said. “Then I’ll be ready for the council.”

  Armies Gather

  Luthiel spent the rest of her time wandering the grounds of Ottomnos with Melkion and Othalas. She noticed that the Vyrl had cleared the courtyard of bones and carcasses. She could see a few wights and grendilo scrubbing the charred glass of the fortress.

  “Getting out the blood,” she whispered.

  Melkion glanced at her.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s nothing,” she replied.

  All throughout the fortress, she found signs that the Vyrl were trying to make the place look more inviting. The halls were better lit. Silver or white basins of water were placed at intervals throughout the fortress. Here and there censures of incense burned filling the air with sweet aromas.

  In stark contrast to these efforts, Luthiel noticed other work being done—the work of war. Barrels filled with arrows, javelins or spears were being placed at intervals across the battlements, and upon the towers great engines of war were being constructed by bark-skinned giants. The machines looked alien—like giant insects made of wood and metal. But, even to her, their intent seemed clear enough—they were killing devices.

  Iron trap doors in the base of the courtyard were flung open and from their depths a great smoke rose and she could see the flickering of firelight within the darkness. From out of the pits there came a clangor of metal upon metal. The forge masters of Ottomnos were hard at work turning out weapons of every kind, readying for a war the Vyrl no longer wished to fight.

  The wights that scurried to and fro were now clothed head to foot in armor; and upon the battlements great watch fires blazed even though it was still afternoon. The sky was filled with birds. A great cloud of them circled over Ottomnos. But from this cloud outriders swarmed over the land, hugging the hills, dipping beneath treetops. As she watched, a silver feathered raven broke from the flock and winged his way toward her. She cried out, startled, when it landed on her shoulder.

  “Report!” it cawed. The sound, loud in her ear, made her flinch. She noticed that its glittering eyes were fixed on the ring she wore.

  “Report!” it cawed again.

  “What does it want?” she asked Melkion who was perched on her other shoulder.

  Mirthful smoke curled from Melkion’s nostrils.

  “It wants to give you a report,” he said.

  “Report?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

  The silver feathered raven who had been watching her with one eye took her ‘Report’ as a cue and immediately burst into cawing speech.

  “South and east we flew! Through mists! Under leaf and branch! All the way to rim and back! Spiders in shadows! A flock, a pack, a swarm! Out along the rim! One, two, a few! Deeper in the Vale!”

  Not waiting for any reply, the raven launched itself into the air where it joined with a flock of hundreds before winging off to the north where they disappeared into the mists.

  “What was that about?” Luthiel asked, startled by the noise and movement.

  “That was a Khoraz—a raven of the Vale,” Othalas said. “By the look of him, it was Mindersnatch, one of their chieftains. He was telling you what he and his kinsfolk discovered on their flight to the southeast.”

  “Spiders? Widdershae?” she whispered. “Melkion, then what we saw a few days ago was a shadow web?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Melkion replied. “While you rested, the Khoraz have given a hundred reports like the one you just heard. It seems that the Widdershae are gathering just inside the rim. But some have moved deeper. We’ve sighted them as close as the near lakeshore.”

  He looked at her meaningfully.

  She trembled, remembering the black mists that had driven the Vyrl mad with hunger.

  “We found spider tracks on the lakeshore the night you gave blood to the Vyrl.” Othalas growled.

  “Could they have done it?”

  “There are some among them who know the dark arts.” The dragon replied. “Their queen is a master of such enchantments.”

  “I’m glad Mithorden and Vaelros have come to Ottomnos,” she said.

  “They’re not the only ones,” Othalas said, bounding up the stairs toward the battlements. “Come up here and take a look.”

  She followed the great wolf up the steps. Her legs ached with stiffness and pain but she ignored it. When she cleared the final stair, she turned her head, looking out over the land surrounding Ottomnos.

  All the way to the lake and out to the forest’s edge she could see grendilo, giants, chimera creatures and other strange beasts she couldn’t put name to. Tents of hide or makeshift wooden structures filled this area as cook and watch fires burned, adding to the mist with their long tails of blue smoke. A group of well ordered grendilo and giants were busy constructing palisades.

  Luthiel didn’t know what to say at first as she looked out over the gathering. There were thousands of them. Finally, she found her voice.

  “I guess this means there will be war,” she said.

  “No, not yet,” Othalas replied. “Sometimes the best way to prevent war is to show your strength. This lets the enemy know what he’s in for. Sometimes, it’s enough. In this case, the Vyrl ordered the mobilization when they first heard word of Widdershae in the Vale. Those spiders are not to be trifled with.”

  Luthiel nodded.

  “No, they are terrible,” she said. “But do you think a great army, sitting in one place, would be the best defense against spiders? I wonder if it wouldn’t draw them here. To me, they seemed like hungry creatures.”

  Othalas snorted.

  “The spiders are cowardly,” he growled. “They will strike from darkness and then let their foul venoms do the dirty work. After the victim has passed, or is helpless, then they’ll return to feed. If we stick together, it’s more difficult for them to pick us off one at a time—as is their way.”

  Luthiel felt fear pricking up her spine.

  “I see,” was all she could bring herself to say.

  The widdershae who devoured the elves of the mountains, she thought to herself.

  “We’d better get back to the great hall,” Melkion said. “The council should be starting any minute now.”

  Luthiel took one more look at the thousands gathered around the fortress of Ottomnos before following the werewolf back down the stairs and into the black glass fortress.

  A Secret Council

  They entered the great hall to find Mithorden, Vaelros, and the three Vyrl waiting for them. With them was a great giant who, sitting down, was taller than the standing Ecthellien, who, in turn, was seven feet. A smell like burning metal filled the room and Luthiel noticed that Gormtoth was standing to the left of the Vyrl. His eyes blazed white in the pits of his dragon-skull helm.

  As Luthiel entered, her mind suddenly became filled with the Vyrl’s thoughts.

  There you are! Ahmberen thought. Then, looking her from head to foot. That will not do.

  Ecthellien, taking his queue from Ahmberen, turned to Rendillo.

  “Bring Luthiel’s weapons and the armor we set aside for her. If this is to be a council of war, then we will have her dressed for it,” he said.

  It was then that Luthiel noticed they were all girded as if for battle. The Vyrl Ahmberen and Ecthellien wore great hauberks of black Narmiel and Elshael wore a mail shirt of smoky Sorim. In Elshael’s hand was a spear of Silen—coming to a grac
eful, if wicked, point. Ecthellien and Ahmberen’s greatswords hung from their belts. The giant wore a studded leather shirt and resting across his legs was a black iron hammer. Even Mithorden wore a sword. The scabbards of both Ahmberen’s and Gormtoth’s blades leaked smoke.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not know this was a council of war.”

  “No matter,” Ahmberen said. “You were resting.”

  “Now, we can begin once Vaelros returns,” Mithorden said.

  “Luthiel, please have a seat,” Elshael indicated her Silen and white-wood chair. When she sat down, a grendilo brought her a steaming cup of tea. She noticed that a map was laid out on the table in front of her. It was a map of the Vale and the surrounding lands. She felt a slight twinge in her chest when she noticed that both Lenidras and Flir Light Hollow were on the map. Glass markers of every color were scattered over it. She guessed they were meant to show positions of forces. But she couldn’t make out what was what.

  Rendillo returned with her bow, quiver and a mail shirt of white Lumiel balanced in a pile upon his head. She already had her Cauthrim long knife and the shards of Aeowinar tucked into her belt. Rendillo helped her into the mail shirt, as she refastened her belt. The mail was light and she could barely feel its weight. Then, Rendillo slung the bow and quiver over her shoulders. Uncle Hueron had taught her how to use a bow when she was only five. For an instant, she felt the urge to test the bow Ecthellien had given her.

  Melkion watched her from his perch on the back of her chair.

  “Now there’s a fierce Fae princess,” he said. “You have the look of a Valkyrie.”

  Luthiel laughed at the compliment even as she felt a twinge in her chest. She’d heard myths of the Valkyrie and always thought of them as fine bits of fancy—a happy tale to tell children. But she’d never believed in Vlad Valkire either, much less thought that she might be his daughter.

  My grandmother is the mother of all Valkyrie, She thought. The Vyrl turned their heads toward her, nodding their affirmation.

  “Better than any Valkyrie, I have Melkion of Dragons as my friend and advisor,” she said.

  Melkion grinned, showing his needle-sharp teeth. Smoke leaked between the gaps. Then, he swung his head around to stare at Othalas with his violet eyes.

  “Valkyrie ride unicorn. You’ll have to go without.”

  Othalas mock growled at Melkion’s jibe.

  “She has better than unicorns. If we go into battle, she’ll ride with me! The eldest werewolf!”

  “Eldest and toothless!” Melkion replied.

  “What do you think these are?” He flashed his teeth at Melkion.

  “A fine collection of ivory,” Melkion said, showing off his own collection. In the light, they shone like steel.

  Luthiel couldn’t help but laugh. After all that had happened, she wanted to laugh. Chuckles rose from Mithorden and even the bark-skinned giant laughed. But his laughs sounded more like the low rumble of thunder. Still, there was a dark undertone in her mirth. Ride to battle?

  Am I ready for war? she thought.

  “The dragon speaks truth!” the giant roared. “The lady looks as fearsome as a Valkyrie.”

  “Only nobler!”

  The voice that sounded from the great hall’s entrance was crisp and direct, bearing no hint of mirth. She turned her head to see Vaelros striding toward her. Like the others, he was dressed head to foot in armor. Its overlapping plates sparkled in the blue firelight.

  He stopped in front of her. Then, in one crisp movement, fell to a knee. With an equally precise movement, he drew his long, black, sword; kissed it, and presented it to her.

  “Vaelros, what are you doing?” she said. “Stand up.”

  “Not until you accept this,” he replied.

  For a moment, she was paralyzed. Accept his sword? The sword of Zalos’s captain?

  “Why? Are you—?”

  “If you don’t, I understand,” he whispered. “I was a monster. But not anymore. Since we met I’ve had the life I forgot. Death would be clean now—a good ending.”

  He raised the blade to his neck.

  “If you wish, I will make my end now.”

  She looked down at Vaelros. His sword, inches away from his neck, trembled. When her eyes met his, he looked away.

  This is the old way, Ecthellien thought. The way elves once offered themselves to Vyrl.

  She reached down and gently pushed the sword away from his neck. Then, she put her fingers under his chin lifting until their eyes met.

  “Vaelros, there is no reason,” she said. “I am not a Vyrl.”

  “No reason?” he said. “After all that I’ve done?”

  Her voice caught in her throat, she didn’t know what to say.

  He turned his eyes from her.

  “I did terrible things.”

  “You were driven to do them,” she replied. “I know this.”

  “Then take my sword.”

  “Dear Vaelros,” she whispered, laying a trembling hand across the guard. She had to concentrate to make it steady.

  “Take it, or I end this now.”

  Finally gathering her resolve, she lifted his blade. It was cold and she trembled when she touched it. She noticed that the metal, which she thought was only black, contained swirls like billows of a cloud. It seemed to hint at shapes that her eye could not quite distinguish. A chill fell over her. It drew her eyes and the more she looked the more she saw that made her afraid. Tearing her eyes away from the metal, she pressed her lips against the place where he had kissed it. It was cold and there was frost where his lips had touched it.

  Hastily, but carefully—as though she were handling a live and dangerous snake—she returned the sword to his hands. Then, bending over him, kissed his forehead.

  “I pledge my life to you,” he said. “And I swear to serve and defend you with all that I am.”

  “Noble Vaelros, I accept your pledge and in return I promise to protect you, as best as I am able. Stand now and know that to serve me requires no kneeling or bowing—only honesty and a good heart.”

  Vaelros stood and returned his sword to its sheath.

  “Thank you lady,” he said then turned and took his place at the table across from her.

  “Now that was a heartening thing to see,” Mithorden said. “Though unexpected, I think it is an excellent beginning.” He rose from his seat and walked toward the head of the table.

  “For those of you who do not know me, I am Mithorden, friend and, very briefly, tutor to the lady Luthiel. And, for everyone’s benefit, this is Vaelros, former Captain of the Seven of Ashiroth, and, as you just witnessed, knight and protector of the lady Luthiel. Beside him are the three Vyrl—Elshael, Ahmberen and Ecthellien, the last of their kind; they are the great and terrible masters of the Vale. They are now also pledged, if not to serve Luthiel, then to protect her. Here is Othalas, the first werewolf born of mists, greatest of his kindred, cohort of Vyrl and, recently, of the lady Luthiel. Here too is Melkion of dragons, son of Faehorne the terrible, now also bonded by boon to the lady Luthiel.”

  “You’re forgetting me!” the giant in the corner grumbled. “And though she’s fair, I have no loyalty to this lady. Today’s the first time I’ve seen her.”

  “I was just getting to you,” Mithorden replied, somewhat exasperated at the interruption. “The impetuous brute before me is Norengar, king of the giants called Maltarmir who live in the Vale of Mists and who are sworn, by blood pacts made long ago, to serve the lords and ladies of Ottomnos.”

  Mithorden turned to Luthiel.

  “Show him the ring Kelebrith,” he said.

  She raised her hand, displaying the brilliant ring with its white stones to the giant, who gazed at her in amazement.

  “The Vyrl have again accepted one as their equal, Norengar. I am afraid that you are indeed loyal to the lady.”

  Mithorden smiled mirthfully.

  “If you had grace, you would ask her forgiveness for your impertinence
.”

  “Hmph!” the giant replied. “I, King of Giants, ask forgiveness of this tiny creature? I’d rather ask forgiveness of a flutterfler! Or of one of these flir bug bulbs—which I’d sooner sit on!”

  Mithorden turned to Luthiel.

  “Lady, they’re mighty and brutish—impressive to look upon—but don’t call upon even their king for wit, or tact, or any other grace.”

  Despite herself, Luthiel laughed.

  The giant harrumphed again, but this time there was mirth in his eyes.

  “Now we come to Gormtoth,” Mithorden continued. “Narcor of Eledweil and before of starlight. I have not forgotten that you once served both Malcor and dark Vyrl before Valkire turned you. You too owe this lady your allegiance, for she is the daughter of the one who freed you.”

  To Luthiel’s surprise, the Narcor nodded.

  “I knew this,” he said. His voice was deep and filled with the sound of fire on damp coals. “For eyes of flame pierce even the flesh, laying spirits bare.” He paused before continuing. “All spirits,” he said.

  Mithorden nodded.

  “Good, very good,” he said. “Now that we are all introduced—”

  “All but one,” Vaelros interrupted.

  “Now that we are all introduced,” Mithorden continued more firmly, “all but one. I must ask each of you to swear secrecy to what now is about to be revealed. Some of you know of it, others may have guessed. But from this point forward, no one but these here should know the true identity of Luthiel until we decide to reveal it.”

  Luthiel, guessing what Mithorden had in mind, didn’t quite understand the reason for secrecy.

  “Why can’t we talk about it?” she asked. “What about family? Surely, they can be trusted.”

  “No, not even they can be trusted,” he said. “The fewer who know now, the better. I am less afraid of your loved ones than of the ears that might catch a few wrong words carelessly whispered. Then what would happen to them? There are terrible things walking in the world, beneath both suns and moons; and a black will of ancient evil stirs where it once lay dreaming upon Gorothoth.”