Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “Heavier in the chest than on the shoulders,” she replied.

  Mistaking her, Rendillo moved forward, then, with a look at her, seemed to realize what she meant and stopped—bowing his head in silent condolence.

  “You’d best let me help you,” he said at last in a soft voice. Rendillo motioned to a chest where the other Grendilo had laid out her weapons—bow, knife, a strange looking baldric, a scabbard, and two quivers filled with arrows.

  She nodded.

  He slung her bow and arrows to the baldric, looping it neatly over her shoulder and across her back. The baldric was of an odd make. For fasteners of wood delicately carved in the shape of hands were placed up and down the baldric and along the edge of the quiver. Their wooden fingers intertwined holding both bow and arrows.

  “Watch me,” he said.

  Rendillo held his hand out to grasp the bow. There was a creaking as the wooden fingers released. Her mouth fell open. Before she could say a word, he placed the bow back in the hand. Fingers creaked again and the bow was held firm. Then he raised a hand over the arrows. Another set of hands, these much smaller, lined the edge of her quiver. One gracefully unthreaded its fingers, grasped an arrow, and lifted it toward his open palm.

  “You see?” the Grendilo said.

  “How—?”

  “A bit of my people’s magic.” Rendillo replied with a little smile, then flexed and uncurled his single hand at her as if to demonstrate. “We don’t use bows. Only darts and javelins. But the quiver works just as well. Now you try.”

  Luthiel shook her head and, despite herself, smiled as she practiced taking both bow and arrows from the hands. It was remarkably easy. They seemed to sense where she’d reach and adjusted if she missed a little, lifting bow or arrows till they touched her fingers.

  “You’re a wonder,” she said. But the grendilo had already moved on and seemed not to hear her. When he turned toward her again, he held the scabbard. It was long and gently curved. Fashioned of gray Sorim, all down its length and on both sides were rolling waves of blue Marim. The top foot was covered in glistening scales.

  Melkion, who was sitting in the slit window, whistled when he saw it. “That’s dragon scale,” he said.

  “It’s the scabbard for Cutter’s Shear,” Rendillo replied, holding it out to her in his single hand. “I thought you ought to have it.”

  “It’s Weiryendel now, ” Luthiel said. “Besides, I’m left handed,”

  Rendillo bobbed his head and shifted the scabbard to her right side. It came with a belt of matching dragon scale, its buckle wrought in the shape of Oerin’s Eye. Last came the trusty Cauthrim knife uncle Hueron had forged for her as a birthday present. A little more than a foot in length, the blue and red tinted metal was hot as an ember. It had already seen battle both against the Widdershae and the Vyrl when she first came to the Vale. She could feel its heat as Rendillo fastened it to her belt.

  Tense and alert, she placed a hand over her knife and shifted her bow so it rested more comfortably on her back. There was a creaking as the hands adjusted.

  “Made for killing,” she whispered as she slid Weiryendel into the scabbard. It fit snugly.

  “Lady?” Rendillo asked.

  “Something a teacher of mine used to say. I think it went—‘never carry a weapon without understanding the thing you hold is made for killing.’” It was a lesson she never thought she’d need.

  “A wise thing to remember,” Rendillo said.

  “Wish I remembered more.”

  “You look fierce. Like one who goes to battle.”

  “Aren’t I?” she replied. As she spoke, she trembled and her voice broke. Thankfully, Rendillo bowed and looked away, saving her from embarrassment.

  “So it’s finished? You’ve made me ready?” she asked the grendilo.

  “Almost. There’s just one thing more.” Rendillo then opened a little brown pouch and from it pulled a tiny black potion bottle. Bending toward her, he uncapped the bottle, placing it in the palm of her hand. A foul stink rose up from it.

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding the thing away from her face.

  “It’s made from spider venom. Weakens Widdershae poison.”

  Rendillo’s matter-of-fact manner chilled her.

  “Oh,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “It’s best if you take it now,” Rendillo said.

  Luthiel looked at Rendillo in disgust. “You drink it?”

  “What else would you do, Lady?” Rendillo’s face revealed no emotion but Luthiel felt he was mocking her.

  With a sniff, she raised it to her lips. The smell grew and her eyes watered. Stopping her nose, she forced herself to bring it to her lips. With a quick motion, she tossed it into her mouth and swallowed. It stung her tongue and throat as she choked it down. She wiped her mouth and coughed.

  “It’s awful,” she said. Some of the stuff stuck to her teeth. It made her tongue curl.

  “Should help if you’re bitten,” Rendillo said, handing her a cup of honeyed water which she gratefully drank. “No more than one bottle a day. Any more and you may as well be poisoned.”

  “It’s worse than poison,” she said, making a face.

  “Poison and cure are often quite close,” Rendillo replied. “And Widdershae venom is deadly. Makes you bleed, inside and out. Turns your guts into a bloody mess. That’s what spiders like to eat.”

  Luthiel shuddered, trying not to imagine.

  “It’s just enough to keep you alive,” Rendillo said, handing her a small pouch filled with vials of the stuff. “Use more only if you’re bitten. But remember, one drop of Widdershae poison will still make you very ill.”

  She took the pouch and tucked it in her belt. “Thank you, Rendillo. Thank you all.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied with a bow. Behind him, the other grendilo bent low.

  “I guess that’s everything,” she said, taking a last look at the chamber. Strange how it feels so familiar.

  Melkion leapt from the window and, in a wing flap, was perched on her shoulder.

  “Best we go,” he hissed.

  “Fair fortune, lady,” Rendillo said. “Hope you return soon. The place is kinder with you here.”

  Luthiel took Rendillo’s single hand in both of her own. It was larger than the two of hers combined. “It is you who have been kind to me, Rendillo. Thank you.” She kissed his hand and he bowed deeply.

  “The lady’s blessing,” he said smiling at his hand. He bowed again before spinning on his only leg and gracefully hopping out of the room. Just as graceful, the other grendilo followed. A few turned to steal a last look at Luthiel before they, too, were gone.

  Second Warning

  Ready for war, she let Othalas lead her out. Melkion perched on her shoulder, picking dried blood out of his claws and licking it off his jowls with his raspy tongue. The remnants of last night’s hunt. Luthiel shuddered and thought of the owl.

  One by one, she counted the lights of Ottomnos’ halls as they made their way down to the courtyard. Her eyes held onto them the way an unsure swimmer might hold tight to a boat. She’d grow accustomed to Ottomnos’ dangers. Now, the way ahead of her seemed far worse than even the charred glass palace—where she was now a queen. How might elves welcome a queen of Vyrl? How might she even reach them when the terrors of Drakken Spur multiplied and set a nightmare fence across her path? When they walked out into the morning, they found the pre-dawn sky filled with crows. They flew about recklessly and those upon the battlements cawed. The flapping of wings filled her ears as three spun about her head.

  “What’s made them so frantic?” she asked Melkion.

  “Don’t know,” he replied. “I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

  She saw one that pulled away and immediately recognized Mindersnatch—leader of the great crows of Ottomnos. She watched on as his large, silver-feathered, body winged toward her. She held her arm out as the elder crow landed.

  He preened his feathers for
a short time before croaking—

  “Re – port?”

  “Yes, I’d like to know why your friends are so disturbed,” she said uneasily. “What happened?”

  The crow hesitated for another moment before squawking his message.

  “Spiders! One flock, two flocks, three flocks—a hundred! Crept over the rim! An hour after midnight! Struck the elves. Many are dead! Many more, the spiders took! Back to the Vale!”

  Luthiel’s breath caught in her throat. She stood still and stared. For a moment, The Dreaming returned and she could again hear the clicking of spider voices along with a soft-spoken reply.

  “What must we do?”

  “Tonight, strike the elves. Then, draw the noose tight. No one escapes the Vale.”

  “Luthiel?” Melkion hissed in her ear. The sudden sound made her start and Mindersnatch flapped his wings to regain balance. She could feel Melkion’s claws digging in.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s just what the owl overheard,” she said trying to compose herself.

  “You’re pale,” Melkion sniffed near her face, “and you’re terrified.”

  Luthiel fished a biscuit out of her pack with a shaking hand and offered it to Mindersnatch.

  “Thank you, Mindersnatch,” she said. The crow bobbed his head, then gently plucked the biscuit from her hand before flying off to the battlements.

  Melkion was still looking at her.

  “So I’m scared. You should be too. They planned this.”

  Smoke curled from Melkion’s nostrils and his wings stiffened in anger. “Spiders,” he hissed.

  She nodded. A thin sweat had covered her and now she shivered in the cool air.

  “Elves will think the Widder are with us,” Othalas growled.

  Luthiel frowned. She was still thinking about her Dreaming.

  “I wonder how many spies the spiders left behind?” she said. “It would only take a few hidden in a thicket or some dark, out-of-the-way hole waiting to creep back with news of when and where and whom to snatch.”

  Melkion hissed and Othalas growled but neither they nor Luthiel spoke any more as they waited for Mithorden, Ecthellien, and Vaelros.

  Veiling

  Wights stood along the battlements or scrambled back and forth. As she walked into the courtyard, their eyeless sockets followed her and they tilted their heads back to sniff the air. Their bodies twitched and trembled but the wights who once had tried to claw out her eyes kept their distance, held back by the Vyrls’ iron will. Grendilo also filled the courtyard. They wore their strange armor of overlapping bands and intermittent spikes. In their strong hands were greatswords, shortswords, or spears. Towering over them were giants. One was busily loading boulders into an insect-like contraption; another was bending a bow the size of a tree. On his back—a quiver of shafts the size of long spears.

  “We should attack the spiders,” she said finally. “Show the elves we aren’t with them.”

  Othalas snorted.

  “What if the spiders run before us, attacking the elves?” he growled.

  Luthiel pursed her lips. “Then we’ll catch them between us.”

  “Wouldn’t work,” the great wolf grumbled.

  As she stood there, Vaelros strode through an archway. He wore an olive cloak over his armor and his golden Wyrd-Stone was set in the pommel of his sword. It gleamed dimly in the half-light and the glow spilled onto his face. Green eyes reflected the Stone’s light back at her and his brown hair sparkled with shades of flax and russet.

  “Is it wise to?” Luthiel asked, gesturing toward his Stone.

  “I’ll cover it when we enter the woods. For now, it gives comfort,” he said. His eyes lingered on her.

  Luthiel nodded. She understood. There were many times when she’d sought comfort in Methar Anduel’s light.

  Reaching out, Vaelros took her hand, pressing something there.

  When she dropped her eyes, she saw a star shade. The flower’s blue petals seemed to glow in the pre-dawn.

  “I wanted to give you something,” Vaelros said warmly. “Something that might suit you. I found this. But it doesn’t seem to match up.”

  Luthiel looked up and found Vaelros’ eyes.

  “What I saw this morning was far more lovely than any flower,” he said.

  Now Luthiel flushed.

  “I hardly thought about it,” she said through her embarrassment. “Please. Stop staring.”

  Vaelros’ eyes dropped and he was about to turn away when she grabbed his hand.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, giving it a little squeeze. Before he could reply, she bounded off for Othalas. The werewolf had laid down and set his great predator’s eyes on Vaelros. As she came to him, she could hear the low rumble of a growl.

  “Stop,” she said to the wolf. “He’s no harm.”

  “Is he?” But they said no more about it as Vaelros stood awkwardly on the other side of the courtyard, picking through the petals of a second flower he’d found.

  Minutes later Ecthellien broke the tension when he entered the courtyard. Hair the color of blood spilled over a cloak like a rain cloud and armor of midnight. On one hip hung his longsword; on the other dangled a horn of bone and a metal. Vyrl’s eyes, black with small specks of swirling light, stared out at her through the dim morning. The sight, though one she’d grown used to during the time she’d spent in the Vale, put her ill at ease.

  Are you ready? he thought. She must have still looked afraid, for she could feel his concern.

  She grimaced. Ready as I can be. How is someone ever ready to go out and meet such danger? How is someone ever ready to face the almost certain hate of their people?

  Vlad Valkire was a hero for turning Vyrl, Ecthellien thought.

  A hero for turning tyrants against one another, Luthiel replied. I’ll offer excuses for children lost and beg elves to believe it will never happen again.

  You will offer yourself in the place of children that it may never happen again.

  Luthiel tensed and her brows lowered. She didn’t like thinking about it that way. But it was the truth.

  Would it be enough? After all your crimes? Would it ever be enough?

  Ecthellien was silent and she chided herself for seeking sympathy from a Vyrl. It was like asking a wolf to understand what’s wrong with hunting and killing the sick and young. She glanced at Othalas and wondered what he would think about such things. Might he understand, once being an elf himself? Or had he lived a wolf for so long that all sympathy for them was erased? She shook her head and sighed. If morals weren’t good for protecting one’s own kind, then what were they good for? She sensed her actions estranged her and, being a little different all her life, knew well the likely fear and hate she would face.

  Finally, Mithorden entered the courtyard. Her eyes and thoughts turned to him and away from her worries. His worn traveler’s clothes were the least splendid of any in their company. But the look of him was greater than his clothes could tell. Brows like a painting of fire rose off eyes that seemed to shine out in the darkness, and a crest of dark hair as noble as any crown pulled back from his forehead. The broad frame of his shoulders put his cloak in a shape that reminded Luthiel of wings, and his sword seemed to float more than hang from his hip. Staring at him in the pre-light, Luthiel was reminded of a bird of prey, still sleek with the brightness of youth, but old beyond even the telling of elves. In that moment, he seemed grand and there was little she could do but stare.

  “Vaelros,” he said, gesturing to the naked Wyrd-Stone, “it is wise to keep hidden.”

  “I already told Luthiel. I’ll cover it once we start.”

  Mithorden nodded, but his face was troubled.

  “Best not be reckless,” he said. “They attract attention.”

  With a sharp look at Mithorden, Vaelros pulled a leather wrapping over the Stone.

  Luthiel noticed that the Vale’s green lights were coming out. Contained in those tiny sparks were lost spiri
ts robbed of both body and memory by the Vale’s mists. Ever since she’d come to the Vale they’d seemed attracted to her. Now three swirled ’round her head, crowning her with their eerie glow. It made her feel a thrill to have them close and she wondered if they found comfort in being near her. With the feeling came a sense of melancholy. The Vale was so full of changed and lost things. It had even almost changed her. Without the protective magic in her Wyrd Stone, Luthiel had little doubt she would now roam the Vale in a shape far different from her own. Her eyes returned to Othalas. Long ago, the Vale’s Mists had changed his body—leaving him in the form of a great wolf. She wondered if he was happy or if he missed his lost life.

  Turning to Luthiel, Mithorden handed her a bundle.

  “You should wear this.”

  “What is it?” she said, eyeing the bundle.

  “Your disguise,” Mithorden said.

  Luthiel opened it. Underneath was a veil, a big gray cloak with a deep hood and a pair of long gloves.

  “You were too careless when the Seven came. For now, I wish you to remain hidden. There’s a subtle magic on the garments that will disguise your voice and mask your features.”

  Luthiel looked at the veil with distaste. “Why should I hide?” Even as she asked the question, she dreaded the answer. It had worried her all morning. Worried her since she’d decided to help the Vyrl. Elves would hate her for what she did. Mithorden’s disguise only served to prove her fears. Despite her doubts, she did not like the idea of hiding. Her face fell into a frown as she stared at the clothes in her hands.

  “To confuse our foes. But, far more important, the elves aren’t yet ready to know you. It’s well you stay hidden until they are.”

  “Mouthy today, aren’t you?” Othalas growled to the sorcerer, who ignored him. Beside her, she could hear Vaelros chuckle. Grudgingly, she donned her disguise. But she tied the veil around her neck without using it to cover her face. It could wait.