Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Copyright © 2009 by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Cover art copyright © 2009 by Marek Okon

  Original maps, runes, and symbols copyright © 2005 by Robert Marston Fannéy

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Convention

  Published in the United States by Dark Forest Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Matthew Friedman

  www.luthielssong.com

  Cover design by Matthew Friedman

  Cover art by Marek Okon

  Library of Congress Catalogue in Publication Data

  Fannéy, Robert

  War of Mists/ Robert Fannéy

  p. cm. (Luthiel’s Song ; bk. 2)

  SUMMARY: At the end of Luthiel’s journey to save her beloved foster sister, Luthiel finds herself promised to defend the dread Vyrl of the Vale of Mists against an army of her kindred sent to destroy them.

  ISBN: 978-097642261-7

  To my wife, Catherine,

  who loves all creatures,

  great and small...

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue: A Meeting In The Dark

  Book III: Escape from the Vale

  The Dreaming

  A Bright Song

  The Magic of Sacrifice

  Girding

  Second Warning

  Veiling

  Leaving Ottomnos

  Sorceress

  Webs of Shadow

  The Wyrd of Saurlolth

  The Lilani

  The Air Burns

  Dragon at the Gate

  Book IV: Against the Spiders

  A Companion Lost

  A Secret Return

  The Unwelcome Messenger

  A Welcome Surprise

  Battle Plans

  To War

  Sparring

  Spiders and Mists

  Lady of Beasts

  Zalos’ Choice

  The Mists of War

  Tuorlin’s Stand

  Strife

  Third Sacrifice

  A Necessary Parting

  A Kindness Unearned

  Healing

  Huntress

  The Great Pack

  Hunting Nightmares

  Battle at the Ford

  Melkion’s Demand

  Aftermath

  Book V: Queen of the Faelands

  Dust in the Sky

  A Chosen of Sorts

  Riddles on the Road

  The Road to Yewstaff

  In Dreaming

  Lineage

  The Eighth Moon’s Head

  The Best Fish

  Yewstaff

  The Fae Lords’ Council

  Coronation

  The Dance

  A Mysterious Stranger

  A Dark Proposal

  Appendices

  Appendix I: The Elfin Runes

  Appendix II: The Suns and Moons of Oesha

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Bonus Material

  Luthiel's Song Concept Art

  Foreword

  When I began writing Luthiel’s Song, thirteen years ago, I never imagined it would be anything more than another silly tale I made up, harmlessly occupying the pages of one of my many discarded journals. I never imagined it would become a passion that would involve so much of my life and life’s work. But, from an innocent seed, it grew first into an exploration of my imagination, next into a challenge of craft, and finally into an honest search for meaning, morality, and the nature of the ancient conflict between darkness and enlightenment, between the freedom of hearts and minds and the forces of domination.

  That this conflict would surround the life of a woman—yes, a faerie creature too, but at her heart of hearts, a woman—was never a question to me. It was an idea that had grown in my mind, in my teen years, when my father first stood firm against the unjust rules of his father—who called my mother a witch. A witch for nothing more than being an independent and a spiritual lady. A witch for nothing more than raising my sister and me under the ideals of equality and not the old system of patriarchy. It was not in my grandfather’s nature to be capable of seeing the true good in my mother. Her works of charity and her honest calling to follow the brighter side of her Episcopal faith, first by serving as an educator at our church, and then as a Social Worker and counselor who has steadily guided hundreds of hearts out of the darkness of their personal struggles. For him it simply hinged on a so-called god-given right to dictate and to be obeyed without question.

  The family matter is a personal one and, for years, I have wrestled with the impulse to keep it quiet. This is, after all, a matter of my own life. And so, over the years, I have nurtured this darkness. Unwittingly letting it be by not publicly speaking truth about it.

  Perhaps it is a strange coincidence that as I wrestled, the forces of domination and dominion were growing again in the world. Beaten back after a period of unprecedented enlightenment and growth during the 40s, 50s, and 60s, the old, misled, religious guard sought again to blackmail the spirit of humankind with the ancient threat of eternal damnation. The focus of spiritual doctrine shifted from love, forgiveness, acceptance of difference, to judgment, intolerance, and prosecution. This so-called Reconstruction built an awful army of enforcers, fearmongers, and political manipulators. And a clear drive of this new, dark spirituality was to roll back many of the rights women had fought centuries to achieve.

  It took me years to finally come to grips with the terrible reality that the darkness that existed in my father’s father was firmly entrenched in the dogma, myths, and practices of my religious faith. And though it was not without a clear opposition, even within the faith itself, the visible rise of this force not only in religious power, but in political influence became a clear call to act. To shine a light on the ancient evil and attempt to banish it.

  Perhaps it was the incessant push of the religious right to roll back women’s rights. To deny ERA. To deny choice. To deny equal pay for equal work. Perhaps it was a Presidency far too cozy with the forces of intolerance and ever so willing to lie to achieve power. Perhaps it was a Vice Presidential nominee who claimed the prayers of her witch hunting pastor were the reason for her having attained such great political recognition. Perhaps it was a priest crying out against ‘rebellious women’ being widely publicized in local media. The poor ladies’ one rebellion? The cardinal sin of being gainfully employed.

  “Enough!” shouted a voice of reason. And some heard the voice and added theirs to its call.

  I will no longer sit quietly holding back both the truth of my experience, nor the reasons for my convictions. I will no longer suffer the belief of Dominionists, extremists, and those who would invoke the ancient curse of witchcraft—in word or in deed—to spiritually denigrate women everywhere. Nor will I continue to keep private the purpose of writing these fantasies.

  That purpose is to reveal through mythic tales that, like my father, I will stand up in defense of women’s rights to self determine, to hold power, and to stand beside men and not beneath them. To reveal in metaphor the strength of women’s values and character—as I have experienced it through the strong women in my life. And to attempt to give hope to all ladies who have wilted against the seemingly impossible odds that history, society, dogma and laws have leveled against them.

  Like Weiryendel there is a sword for each of your hand
s. Like Weiryendel it is both stronger and more just than the awful weapons used against you. And like Weiryendel it is only waiting for your compassion, your love of others, and your value of self to forge it.

  In this world, as in the world of Luthiel’s Song, there is, indeed, magic in dreams. And if you love women, not for their submission but for their unique strengths, then you will stand with me in holding up this dream like a light to the world—there is nothing wrong with a spiritual lady, and the power of a good ‘witch’ is never to be feared. Perhaps, if we are fortunate, we can make this world a kinder place for ourselves, our mothers, our wives, and our sisters. Until that time, we are all faced with a War of Mists in our lives, our religions, and our politics.

  The War of Mists? I bet you never thought you’d get to it, especially if you were one of those kind souls who have waited three and a half years for its publication. But before I begin, I will need to beg a few more moments to thank so many of you who helped me so much along the way. If the first book was a struggle to produce, then the second was a war hard fought on many battlefields. Often, it was uncertain if the War of Mists, in some form or another, would ever reach you. But it finally has, in large part, due to the efforts of others.

  Special thanks are, therefore, due to Anne Cummings, Maria Jacobson, Anne Richards, Charlie Fontz, Julie Richardson, Debbie Harris, Joanne Pruett, Suzzanne Miller, Sue Covert and all the other Media Specialists who were so kind to invite me to present at their schools. Of them, Page Weideman is due a special mention for being the first to invite me to visit a school, for showing me the ropes, for being an amazing aunt, and for providing a springboard, without which Luthiel would be little more than a pile of faded pages. It was an honor and a gift to have had the opportunity to inspire your students! I would also like to thank Brandon Mull, author of the fantasy series Fablehaven, for his friendship, his kindness, his generosity and his excellent stories. Special thanks are also due to Matthew Friedman. Without Matthew this novel simply would not exist. The same can be said for my wife, Catherine, who has fought at Luthiel’s side through every battle, tough spot, or moment of doubt. Seena Grzeskowiak is due both kudos and gratitude for kindly reviewing the book pre-publication and for sending a hundred warm letters of encouragement on MySpace. Also, author D.S. Lliteras’ wise words and guidance have proven invaluable. Thank you Danny! You are correct, every book is, indeed, a miracle. Thank goodness this one came through. Thanks to agent Simon Lipskar for teaching me, once again, that a strong adversary is often the best teacher. Thanks to Christopher Paolini, author of The Inheritance Series for passionately seeking truth in his writing and for sending such a kind letter of encouragement at a very dark hour. Special thanks to author Tee Morris for being so darn cool. And thanks to Robert Friedman for the wisdom, kind words, a writer’s haven and for slotting me on CSPAN’s book TV. You are good friend, a kind heart, a great spirit and a brilliant intellect. It is an honor you know me as ‘one of the guys.’ To Kevin McFadden for making the Virginia Festival of the Book the grand, diverse, and exciting venue that it is. In my opinion, all the VAbook authors—past, present, and future—owe a share of gratitude to you for the fantastic house of literacy and community you’ve so graciously built for them. To Monty Joynes, author of Naked into the Night —you’re awesome and I think that says it all. To my friends on MySpace, many who have been with me now for four years—Gwen, Lucia, Shane Moore (author of the A Prisoner’s Welcome), Lee Stephen (author of Dawn of Destiny) and so many others—thank you! It is unlikely anyone would have heard rumor of Luthiel without you.

  Last of all I want to thank you. Yes you. It is the most essential thing for an author to have people read his or her stories. Without a reader’s imagination, a book would be as dead as the pages it is printed upon. Though I have written this book, your vision is what gives it life. So thank you again!

  Without any further delay, I will return you to the world of Luthiel’s Song. I hope you’re prepared. It’s quite an adventure coming up and I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on the events that are to follow—if you and Luthiel make it through. When it’s done, please send me a message at www.luthielssong.com, telling me you safely completed the journey. Until then, May your feet ever walk in the light of two suns. May the moonshadow never fall on you.

  Prologue:

  A Meeting In The Dark

  On a bald hill, ringed by trees, strange and macabre creatures gathered. First came spiders, drifting through the wood like ghosts, black bodies whispering through branches. Clusters of green eyes shone from tapered heads. Horns rose up in place of ears. Away and behind them lay a trail of venom drops and dead grass. They stopped just before the woodline and flexed their legs, pulling shadows overhead like a blanket. Not a sound passed between them as they waited for no one knew what—the owl certainly didn’t.

  Strange happenings in these parts, he thought. He knew well enough the spiders were dangerous and best left alone. But he stayed, for he was oddly curious and felt confident no one would notice him at his perch high in a nearby tree.

  Next came a dragon, slithering upon its belly. Smoke covered it, but the owl’s keen eyes spied the oily snake-form. It rose and whirled, taking long switchbacks, jigging and jagging up the hill until, at last, it came to a halt across from the spiders. Dragon eyes shone through the murk. Wary, the owl slipped deeper into the leaves.

  There was a long pause in which both dragon and spiders sat still. Moons and clouds slid by and drowsiness fell over the owl. He was about to drift off when a cold voice sang out. Startled, the owl fluttered awake. The howl rose like a winter wind, beginning as a low moan and then building as it was joined by first one and then another. Soon, a chorus of six voices filled the night. Then came six white wolves, each bearing a dark rider. There was something wrong. As the owl watched, he slowly noticed that the wolves didn’t breathe and neither did their riders.

  Terrified, the owl forced his wings to keep still.

  Overlapping plates of gray armor covered them head to foot. Only faces were exposed—wan and sickly, like those of drowned men bobbing in a slate sea. In their hands they held dim swords.

  Can’t move now, the owl thought after a moment of panic, that dragon will notice.

  When they came to the hilltop, they stopped. There they stood, still as statues.

  The spiders watched them, but made no move; the dragon watched them, but it sat silent in its smog. Moments passed, a breeze rustled the trees, a flutterfler, its slumber disturbed, unfurled its hind wings and let the wind carry it off into the night. Then, for a while, all was still.

  Finally, a lonely figure approached. Robed in black, it seemed to glide more than walk as it climbed the hill. Wolves lowered bodies to ground and six riders sheathed swords. The dragon nodded and spiders swayed nervously on creaking legs.

  “Are we alone?” the figure asked. His voice was both fair and commanding. The owl recognized it immediately. And though he had never seen them, he knew the six riders from stories.

  “There are none here but those we called,” the first rider replied.

  None but one, the owl thought slyly.

  “Then let us begin,” the dark figure said.

  Slowly, the spiders slipped out of hiding. They were cautious, moving until only their heads and forelimbs were visible. The dragon moved only its head. It rose until it was level with the figure on the hill.

  The figure turned, taking them all in. Then he approached one of the riders.

  “Tell them what you told me,” he ordered.

  “Yes, Lord,” the rider replied and turned to the monsters. “The Vyrl want peace.”

  The spiders snapped their forelimbs in astonishment and the dragon snorted smoke.

  “Worse,” the rider continued, “There’s a woman with them. She seems to have an influence over Vyrl. A sorceress, I’d say, and dangerous. We lost Vaelros to her.”

  The figure motioned with his gloved hand. “Sorceress?” he asked.

 
; The rider looked at him with thin eyes. “If I misspoke, Lord—”

  “You did not,” the figure replied. “But humor me and say witch instead.”

  “By your will,” the rider said. His lips drew thin lines around the words as they slipped, hollow, from his mouth. “A witch, then.”

  “Do you know who this witch is?” the dragon hissed. A plume rose from her mouth and her voice sounded like water on hot coals.

  “She wouldn’t give her name,” the rider replied. “Instead she left a riddle.”

  The spiders scraped their forelimbs together and a clicking, screechy sound rose in the night.

  “A riddle?” they asked. “Tell us.”

  “She said she’s a web foiler and a Vyrl saver, the singer in dreams and secret daughter of the Moon Queen, among other things I cannot remember.”

  “Perhaps you remember enough,” the figure in black replied. “There’s only one Moon Queen. We know her well.”

  “Merrin,” the dragon hissed.

  “Yes,” the figure answered. “And there was a dream singer.”

  “The one who was so loud?” the rider asked.

  The dark figure nodded.

  “Her tracks led toward the Vale,” the rider whispered.

  For a while, there was silence among the macabre ensemble. The owl rustled his feathers.

  Daughter of Merrin? he thought. It slowly dawned on him what it meant and how much it would change things. What news! What wondrous news! I must get away! I must tell them! Then, he almost leapt off the branch, almost made a desperate rush to escape the hillside. Just at that moment, the dragon lunged as its great jaws clamped shut. There was a puff of feathers and a shrill bird call suddenly cut off. A dimril, nighthawk of the mounds, had flown too close. The owl trembled and decided to stay put.