Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Leaving Ottomnos

  Oerin’s Eye slowly rose as they made ready to depart. Mithorden and Ecthellien took turns checking to make sure packs were full and weapons secure. No mounts could make it through shadow webs. So they would travel afoot. All but Luthiel, whom Othalas ordered to ride him. She smiled at the wolf’s gruff command and knew he was only concerned for her safety. As they readied, Melkion sprang up to a high battlement and peered out over the Vale. Luthiel watched him, feeling tension settle on her like a heavy weight. Everything, all their plans and preparations, would now be put to the test. She wondered if it would be enough.

  At last there was a shriek of chains and the grinding of wheels. The spiked portcullis and toothed draw bridge opened, revealing the path leading away from Ottomnos. Ahead of her were the standing stones where she’d slept the night before the Vyrl rode out to claim her. The path wound past them and on to Miruvior before plunging into the Vale’s dense woods.

  Mithorden took a step ahead of her and then turned to look her directly in the eyes. “Are you ready?”

  At a loss for words, she nodded. But her heart thumped as she thought again of Mindersnatch’s news. It was something Mithorden should know. “Did you hear about the spiders?” she asked at last, almost flinching. She dreaded to even talk about them. Poison to make you bleed everywhere. Slinking around to snatch and murder.

  “More crow’s news?” Mithorden asked.

  She nodded.

  His brows lowered and those sharp eyes took her in with frightening seriousness. “What did they tell you?”

  She could tell by the subtle touch on her mind Ecthellien was also troubled. At first she couldn’t say anything. It was too awful to imagine, much less speak of.

  “It’s terrible,” she finally managed. “They attacked after midnight. Many elves were taken prisoner.”

  Mithorden’s brows overshadowed his eyes and he frowned. “Widdershae don’t take prisoners. Only slaves and food. The elves will think Vyrl sent the spiders.”

  Othalas rumbled in affirmation. “It will provoke them.”

  “We must reach the elves before they act,” the sorcerer said.

  “When?” Luthiel asked.

  “Possibly today,” Mithorden said.

  Luthiel didn’t like it. “So soon?”

  “Possible. They should send scouts first.”

  It was almost as bad. She wanted to call back Mindersnatch. To have him send the elves a warning. But what would happen to her Khoraz friend? Would the elves shoot him from the air?

  “Scouts?” she said, almost pleading. “But spiders will catch them!”

  Mithorden gave Luthiel a look of concern. “Careful as cats, quiet as owls, the scouts of Ithilden are not ones to be misestimated. Many of those sent will return. They may even send Blade Dancers.”

  Luthiel felt her throat tighten.

  “Vanye?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. Unless he’s still waiting with your sister for Othalas,” Mithorden said.

  “I hope he’s not in danger.”

  “Blade Dancers are always in danger,” Mithorden replied, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Vanye’s ready for it.”

  “Far more than I,” Luthiel said. “What if it’s just to set a trap for the elves?”

  Mithorden looked away into the lightening sky. “It is almost certainly a trap. All more reason to hurry.”

  The sorcerer looked at each of them in turn and, as if by an unspoken signal, they made their way out through the gate of Ottomnos. Mithorden led the way, his sharp, hawk-like features undulled by the soft light of Oerin’s Eye. Luthiel followed atop Othalas, his vast body giving some sense of comfort. Vaelros came after her and as he passed the gates he set a hand to his sword, looking left then right. Ecthellien strode behind them, standing head and shoulders above all but Luthiel upon Othalas. Hair the color of blood framed eyes like a black sea beneath a starry night.

  For the first time since the reign of Vlad Valkire, a Vyrl set out to depart the Vale of Mists. Never was there a time more dangerous for a Vyrl to leave. And for the first time in an age Ecthellien recalled remorse and compassion. Yet the old predator’s instincts did not ebb away. If anything, they were more urgent now that his only lifeline to reason and goodness lay in the frail girl before him.

  Grendilo, giants, and a thousand strange and colorful beasts stopped to watch them as they passed. A horn sounded from the fortress behind them. Luthiel turned to see Elshael, Ahmberen, and Gormtoth standing atop the outer wall. The Vyrl both wore armor of the darkly glistening moonsteel—Sorim. Ahmberen had a greatsword as tall as Luthiel strapped across his back and Elshael held a spear tipped with a shining blue head. Gormtoth was a giant and even made the Vyrl seem small. His wrought-iron armor gleamed dully from the inferno it encased. Thin streams of smoke leaked out the cracks and from the mouth of his great dragon helm. Through the helm’s opening, Luthiel could see his fiery eyes following her as she passed the standing stones.

  Oerin’s Eye cast his soft light down upon the great castle which seemed to be sending off a cloud in farewell. She felt her breath catch as the light gleamed from battlements and glittered off crenellated towers so each seemed capped with a star. Though still gray, Ottomnos threw more of the light back than she remembered. In places, the glass seemed clear and clean. Another note sounded and the two Vyrl lifted their hands.

  Keep her safe, they thought to Ecthellien.

  I will, he thought. I must. Lifting his horn, he sent a peal up in answer.

  Luthiel realized this might be the last she saw of Ottomnos for a long while. It was odd, but she felt a twinge of regret along with her fear.

  For all the death and danger that surrounds it, I’ve grown accustomed to this place.

  She realized, though, that she must return.

  If I live.

  In silence, they passed into the woods and Ottomnos was soon lost behind the trees.

  Sorceress

  Mists lay thick over the forest floor. Looking about her, it seemed the wood rose up from a sea of smoke. It was so dense they couldn’t see the path and many times wandered off the road. Even Othalas grumbled. There was little they could do but pick their way, taking small turns and switchbacks. Soelee’s rise did little to disperse it. Instead, the mists turned dull red, then yellow, and finally white as Soelee began her climb toward mid-sky.

  “Never seen it like this before,” Othalas said, “It’s not normal they lay so low and thick.”

  Despite the slow going, they made their way toward the Vale’s east rim. At first, the land dipped into a marshy place, then it rose up toward the cliffs. From Othalas’ back, Luthiel could see the rounded caps of the Mounds of Losing. Somewhere beyond those hills lay Flir Light. With the thought came a tugging in her heart and, for a moment, she forgot her fear and longed for her family. For Kindre’s gentle licks. And for Leowin.

  I’ll see her again, she realized. It gave her a thrill of happiness that faded just as fast as it came on. If we make it.

  A flock of crows gathered above them, flying escort as they continued on toward the cliffs. The birds wheeled and swooped, combing the land before and around them.

  They stopped for a brief lunch at midday. Shortly after, they noticed the first web. In the distance, a great tree cast shadows that lay strangely about it. Like broken bits of a black egg. Looking at it, she lost all thought of home and wondered if she’d even see tomorrow.

  I was lucky the first time, she thought with a shiver, remembering the two spiders and her near death. If I’d blinked, it would’ve gotten me. It was enough to make her wish she could keep her eyes open all the time and never blink again.

  Mithorden gathered them around him and, one by one, laid hands on them, saying the word Ethelos. After, they seemed to fade before her eyes. She had difficulty finding them even though they stood beside her or, in the case of Melkion, sat on her shoulder. Even Othalas was difficult to see.

  When Mithorden came to Lu
thiel he stopped.

  “Now you try,” he said.

  For a moment, she didn’t understand. Then, slowly, it dawned on her that he meant her to do magic. “But I don’t know how,” she replied.

  “Just do as I say and we’ll see what you know and what you do not. Are you ready?”

  “How could I be?” she said, feeling embarrassed.

  Then Mithorden took her hands and looked her straight in the eye. “Just this morning, you did high magic,” he said.

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Oh it was!” And Mithorden gave her such a serious look that she immediately shut her mouth. “Now clear your mind and think of what it’s like not to be noticed. Once you’ve gathered all your notions of solitude and of stillness, then speak the word Ethelos—which means secret—and touch your finger to your garments.”

  Luthiel took a deep breath and nodded.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  The sorcerer clapped her shoulder.

  “Then do it,” he replied.

  She took another breath, then gathered her thoughts. It wasn’t difficult for her to think of what it was like not to be noticed. As an orphan, she’d grown used to it. She knew Glendoras and Winowe cared about her, they just focused on their own children more. And why shouldn’t they?

  When Luthiel was satisfied that she had the right feeling, she touched her cloak.

  “Ethelos,” she whispered.

  There was a twinge, a slight tingling in her skin and a distant rushing in her ears. Then it was gone.

  She frowned.

  “Did anything happen?” she asked.

  Mithorden looked at her curiously. His eyebrows furrowed and he seemed to consider her for a moment. Everyone was looking at her.

  “Nothing happened,” she said with a sigh. It was strange, but she felt disappointed. “I told you. I’m no sorcerer.”

  “No, nothing happened,” Mithorden replied. “But I don’t know why. Did you think of solitude like I told you?”

  She nodded.

  He stared at her for a few more moments and then his eyes brightened.

  “Ah yes!” he said finally. “How could I be so thoughtless? It’s been so long since I taught anyone. I simply forgot.”

  “What are you talking about?” Luthiel asked.

  “The Wyrd—it’s different for everyone. Most find it easier to speak the words. From time to time there are some who draw them. Even more rarely, you’ll find someone for whom it is entirely natural to sing them. The words aren’t necessary; they’re just a focus.”

  Luthiel blinked her eyes. It made sense. Singing was how she awakened the Wyrd Stone and, at some deeper level, she realized she thought of magic and music as related. Again she wondered at what the sorcerer was saying.

  Could it be true, after everything else that’s happened?

  She thought of The Dreaming and remembered her struggle to turn Vaelros’ Stone. She thought of her battle with the Dimlock in the Cave of Painted Shadows. She thought of Weiryendel.

  It was sorcerery. I thought it was the Wyrd Stone all along.

  It was you, Ecthellien replied. Only a sorcerer can use a Wyrd Stone.

  “Go on, try again,” Mithorden encouraged.

  “All right,” she said, still somewhat doubtful.

  Luthiel took a deep breath and thought of what it felt like not to be noticed. It was harder to find the sensation this time. The others were still staring at her. She closed her eyes to shut them out. In that moment, she wished she could hide. It was hard enough to concentrate without their stares. Finally, she was able to settle her mind and recall the safety of solitude. It was a different feeling from the loneliness she’d felt the first time.

  At last, she was satisfied. She was about to sing Ethelos when an inspiration took hold of her. The memory of her struggle with Vaelros’ Wyrd Stone suddenly came back to her. In that moment she realized what she must do. She opened her mouth and began to sing softly. Without having to think, the words flowed from her lips.

  Softer than the lightest breath

  That silent over waters blow

  Dimmer than the dimmest shade

  That rests in twilight fair

  Untouched by motes

  To light I’m lost

  Where no eye turns

  Ethelos!

  For a moment, the world seemed to blur. Then, the feeling of solitude slid over her and she had a sense she’d slipped into a blind spot in the world’s eye. It was an unremarkable place; one happily overlooked.

  “Good!” Mithorden said. “Very good! For someone who’s not a sorcerer.”

  “You were right,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the silence.

  “It was well done.” Vaelros said. “Now I can’t see you at all.”

  “I’m here,” she replied.

  Vaelros turned his head. But she could tell by the look on his face he stared through her.

  “We’ll have to link hands,” Mithorden said. “Otherwise, we’re likely to lose each other. I’ll lead, followed by Vaelros, then Luthiel, next comes Ecthellien and Othalas will take the rear.

  “You can see us, can’t you?” he asked the werewolf.

  “I can,” the great wolf rumbled. “Though I might see Luthiel better.”

  “I was counting on your hunter’s eyes,” Mithorden said with a nod. “The charm will last for a number of hours. While it covers us, we will be very difficult to see or hear. We should go quietly all the same and if we can, stay out of sight. Is everyone ready?”

  They nodded.

  With a whispered word, Mithorden faded and then they set out again—making their way deeper into the forest.

  Webs of Shadow

  Shadow webs began to come into view. At first they appeared overhead—running crooked through the tree canopy and casting all into an unnatural twilight. Further on, they shot down from the treetops or jutted over the ground at odd angles, twisting in such a way as to make even sunslight seem wrong. To Luthiel, it looked as though the world had cracked. Running through everything were thin fissures of darkness. Where they walked at the border between webs and open land, light and color streamed through those dark lines. Further ahead, the shadow webs grew thick and flowed together—cutting off the rest of the world before tapering into a great black clot in the distance.

  Worst of all, nothing the webs touched could escape. Creatures of every kind from the tiniest insect to the greatest beast were trapped—most already dead. All the rest just hung there, bleeding from every part. The whole mess of it smelled like nothing in all her experience. Once, she’d seen a herd of sheep driven off a cliff by wolves. There were so many the pack couldn’t eat them all. Hundreds of bodies lay rotting. An odor rose on the wind and carried for miles until all of Flir Light stank.

  The smell here was far, far worse. Even carrion birds and insects were caught. So there was nothing but rot to feed on rot. The whole place seemed to fester and that uncanny chill Luthiel had noticed upon passing the webs going into the Vale was far deeper and clammier than she remembered.

  “The venom causes it,” Melkion whispered, pointing at the bloody bodies with his tail.

  “I saw a bear caught in their webs once,” she said. “It was crumbling to dust.”

  “It turns the guts to liquid. When the work’s finished, the spiders return. They drink it all through a hollow tooth.”

  Luthiel’s stomach bound itself up in a knot. She regretted eating. One of them—a cat-like creature with a mane of white and rose feathers—looked at her. Its eyes leaked blood.

  “Rendillo told me,” she whispered. “Can’t we do something?”

  “Only a few things can break a shadow web.” He stared at her with his violet eyes. “Fire will burn through it. But it takes time. Your father’s sword may cut it quick. But even if you could part the web, it might bring spiders.”

  She stared up at the poor creatures. They looked so terrified. She couldn’t imagine what it was like, dangling upo
n a shadow web, knowing there wasn’t a thing you could do other than wait for death. But if she helped them and the spiders noticed, it would likely mean that it was she who dangled on a strand of shadow.

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “Told you before. I lived in the mountains.”

  “Did they trouble you?” she asked.

  But Melkion didn’t reply. He just sat on her shoulder, swinging his silver head back and forth, keeping alert to every sound and movement. Soon afterward, they encountered a great shadow web hanging across the trail.

  Mithorden turned left into the wood—making his way deeper into the webs. At first, it was easy going. They set a swift pace toward the Rim Wall. Small animal paths made for fast travel, and as the rock walls grew Luthiel’s heart swelled with renewed hope. It’s getting closer, she thought, stealing another look through a gap in the canopy. We might yet make it. But, less than a half mile further on, the gaps in the webs overhead slammed shut and she could no longer see the Rim at all. The land became rough—shot through with crags or littered with rocks that had tumbled, ages ago, from the cliff face. At the same time, the shadow webs pressed in from all sides—filling the gaps between trees and boulders and even overlaying gullies or other places where the land fell. So they had to go very slow—walking in each others’ footsteps to make sure they didn’t stumble into the ever-thickening webs.

  As they picked their way through, Luthiel noticed it was easier to see her companions. They appeared as indistinct against the dark background, drifting like spirits through the misty wood. She realized her eyes were growing used to the enchantment.

  Shadows pressed in, the chill deepening until her breath blended with mists. She kept looking for clear swaths—straining to see the Rim. It must be near, but webs drew closer with each step, forcing them to turn away. Gradually, the webs blocked out the light. Twilight dimmed into false night and finally, though it was still mid-afternoon, black of first winter.