Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “The Blood Witch is revealed! More than three hundred of your brothers have fallen to her craft! Now she threatens the very life of the High Lord!”

  Confusion stirred in the elves’ eyes. He would have to be careful and not push them too hard.

  “You must do everything you can to take her alive. Go now and bring her back. We have seen enough hurt this day.”

  There, the old law was taking hold. He could see it in their eyes.

  With a yell, he was leading them up the hill behind Luthiel. She rushed through the faerie host driving for Tuorlin. Though Zalos knew she meant to defend him, he also knew her charge could easily be misread.

  The Mists of War, he thought to himself and laughed as he charged behind.

  The Mists of War

  Upon Othalas’ back, Luthiel led the charge. Funneling in behind and beside her, wolves, werewolves, and foxes leapt to aid her. In front, she could see Mithorden. He stood before a force of archers and Blade Dancers protecting the High Lord. Arrow, fire, and Cat-o-Fae plunged into the spiders. But the tide surged up the hill. Mithorden shouted and the sky opened. From above, a great wind rushed down, blowing the poison back as the Widdershae rushed forward. The wind held and the air remained clean enough for them to stand and fight. They drew swords and knives while others lined up, spears pointing outward. The spiders came on and didn’t even pause to fight in their rush. Some were speared. Others were cut down. But the rest climbed over their fallen fellows and elf alike as they made for Tuorlin. He stood beside Mithorden, his white-tipped spear held high. The first spider that came upon him fell, pierced as if by a thunderbolt. Then a second and a third.

  Luthiel was nearly upon him. The riders lowered their lances, ready to plunge into the spiders surrounding Tuorlin. She pointed Weiryendel at the High Lord.

  “Protect him!” she shouted in the din. Most could not hear but the motion was plain enough.

  It was then that Zalos plunged into them. The wolfriders leapt in front of their kinsmen and came to a halt, forcing them to stop. Wolf collided with wolf, riders fell to the ground.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Luthiel saw it. At first, it seemed strange to her—as if the whole host of wolfriders had collapsed into one another. And then, in an instant, she realized.

  My song only reached some. The rest—

  It was then that Othalas turned with a great growl. For Zalos was upon them, his wolf snapping at the werewolf’s flanks.

  “Defend the High Lord!” Zalos was shouting.

  “Defend?!” Luthiel shouted in fury. “You would let him die! We went to save him!”

  Zalos pointed his sword at her.

  “Liar! Lay down your weapon! You are overcome!”

  “You should call me a liar! Who would have murdered me but a babe! Who kept my mother all these years! Against her will!!” Faced now with Zalos and the prospect of her imprisoned mother, tears of rage streamed freely down her cheeks. Her impulse was to urge Othalas forward and to strike him down. But the High Lord was behind her. What would happen to the Faelands if he died? Who would replace him? She sang loud and angry as Wyrd built up around her like a storm of light.

  The wolfriders had circled round, barring her path to the High Lord. Behind, she could see the six captains draw up in a line. Darkness streamed from the boxes at their chests and their naked swords gleamed like winter ice in the pale light. In dreams their flesh seemed almost transparent and their shoulders hunched unnaturally as if something rather large had eaten a hollow in their backs and now lived there. Shuddering, she remembered the thing she flushed out of Vaelros’ Stone and wondered for an instant what it could be.

  “Let me pass!” She sang out. The werewolves gathered around her in a tight knot. Foxes and wolves flanked them, growling at Urkharim and wolfrider alike.

  “Let me pass!” She cried again and this time, slid her Wyrd Stone into Weiryendel’s eyelet. The light spilled into the blade and her song seemed to ring through the crystal. It thrummed in her hand like a heartbeat, sang out with a voice like choirs.

  Zalos also held his sword high, Wyrd Stone burning with gold and red fire at its hilt. She could see his crown of crystal thorns now. It clutched his head like a great claw, points digging through his flesh. It seemed to touch his mind and the look in his eyes was filled with a will both greater and more violent than that of any elf. In his gaze there was ruin and behind his eyes—emptiness.

  She drew in a breath and in that moment was certain of what she faced for she remembered Mithorden’s words well.

  We become what we do.

  In dreams, she could see Zalos and his six all the clearer. They were consumed by the dream of death. They bore it, housed it, fed it on blood and dreams. She had a name for this death dream—nightmare. But in the tongue of Elohwë there was an older name for it. Ming. It was a name that recalled the first ending in all the worlds. The first great loss that was to herald all loss and terror to come.

  Ming. They serve it.

  So she named the six Mingolë—servants of nightmare. And Zalos was their chief—the Morithingol. Deathlord.

  “Mingolë! Baby killers! Mother takers!” she sang mockingly at Zalos. “I know who you serve! Let me pass or, by my hand, fate will send you to meet him early!” She drew the Cauthrim blade and Othalas showed him his teeth.

  Zalos was laughing for this was his language. With one eye, he was watching Tuorlin’s struggle. It was mighty. It was hopeless. And he’d cornered her. Now for the bait.

  “You forgot one thing.” He spoke the next words slow and with emphasis. “Father betrayer.”

  It was enough. Her mind leapt the gulf in an instant. Weiryendel shuddered in her hand as her song turned into a howl.

  Too much! It was all too much!!

  The rage filled her and the next thing she knew she was charging Zalos. Othalas sprang muscles exploding forward driven by her anger and all the hot rage of his kind. He raged now for Luthiel. Her loneliness. Her terrible sense of loss.

  Zalos saw her coming and his smile broadened. They were in full charge and a mongrel pack of animals followed them. With a shout to his wolfriders, they drew tight and held out their lances. He lowered his own wolf into a crouch and waited. When Othalas was nearly upon him, Zalos’ wolf sprang. The collision was so violent that both Luthiel and Zalos were flung free as the wolves tore into one another. Fangs flashed and red sprang up on their coats.

  Had she not been in the World of Dreams the fall might have broken bones or at least winded her. But in dreams she barely felt the impact. As soon as she hit the ground she was rolling and then standing. It took her only a few moments to find Zalos again. With a yell, her sword and knife raised high, she charged him. There was nothing in her other than the urge to kill this villain. The drive came deep. Her mother. She must protect mother. She must free mother.

  That it was a mother she’d never known made the drive all the stronger. Here was the one who’d separated them. Who’d tried to kill her. Who would force Merrin to marry him. Who by his own admission had betrayed her father.

  It all flashed through her mind as she charged. And with each step. With each heartbeat. Her rage grew.

  Zalos stood in a slight crouch, sword held low and to the side. There was something deadly in the stance, the way he let himself be open to her with sword out to the side ready to come slicing in. She focused on the sword. He may well have more skill than her. But all she had to do was touch the blade with Weiryendel’s edge and she could break it. So she struck with both knife and sword at his weapon.

  Zalos had fought in the great war against the Vyrl and a hundred wars after. He had sparred with Valkire and was among the first Blade Dancers. Though Luthiel didn’t know it, he was a legend even to the most highly skilled of swordsmen. His discipline in the art was without compromise or compare. He knew well enough the power of Aeowinar to cut a thing. Even his moonsteel blade would be parted like grass. But there were ways to position and strike that did not require
blades to meet. In this swift and deadly art, Zalos held the mastery. So as Luthiel struck for his sword, he flicked it down and away. Continuing in an arc, he came up under her guard and struck her square on the chin with the flat of his blade.

  He was tempted. Oh how tempted!! To turn the edge in and remove Luthiel of head and himself of a major problem in less than a blinking. But he also knew, if he were to hold the Faelands in his power he would have to do more than kill Luthiel now. She had come with Vyrl and animals to defeat the Widdershae. Even now, the tide of battle was turning. No, there were many who would see her as a hero. Before he could kill her, he had to kill her character.

  The blow caught her hard on the chin. The moonsteel was both real and solid in dreams. Its force lifted her from her feet and laid her on her back.

  “Protect the High Lord!” Zalos shouted to the wolfriders.

  Luthiel scrambled to regain her feet. The fear was in her now. There must be little hope for Tuorlin if Zalos was moving to protect him. She rolled onto her heels and into a crouch. Her vision was blurred and she could taste blood in her mouth. Zalos’ sword lashed out. She caught the blow on her knife and it flew from her hand. In that instant she knew she’d lost. Zalos was far too skilled. There was nothing left but desperation. She did the first thing that came to her. Had she tried it with a normal weapon, the act would have been futile. But all things perished at Weiryendel’s edge. So she did the only thing she knew might surprise the Faelord. She threw the sword.

  It lifted through the air and cut toward his face. Nothing but reflex and three thousand years of constant training saved Zalos from decapitation. All he saw was the rapid flick of Luthiel’s hand and then a strange glimmer of light upon the crystal blade as it sliced toward him. He ducked and swatted at the flat part with his sword tip. There was an odd humming sound as metal met crystal and the reflexive block caused Weiryendel to spin wildly. It lifted over his head, but as it did it sliced clean through his crown’s crystal. One great thorn fell to the ground.

  Weiryendel landed point down and slid into the earth.

  Sudden and intense pain filled Zalos. It brought him to his knees. The crown on his head seemed afire and for a moment he was filled with doubt. What if he was wrong? What if all he’d done would amount to nothing? In a flash he had a vision of all his power crumbling to naught. And then the death-fear was upon him again. This time more intense and powerful than ever.

  No, he would survive. There was nothing else. Kill or be killed.

  When his vision cleared, she saw Luthiel scrambling across the ground for her sword. He beat her back with the flat of the blade and struck her open-handed across the face. She fell and he dragged her away by the hair.

  She kicked, struggled, bit. But there was nothing she could do. Strong hands were on her now. They were binding her arms, pulling a bitter cloth over her mouth. The dreams were wrenched from her and the Stone went out. She didn’t have to try to close it. It was as if some oppressive hand had snuffed it out. The dreaming left her and she was only Luthiel. Tears streamed freely from her eyes as she watched Zalos in rage. How could she have been so stupid! How could she let him bait her!

  Beside her there was a snap, then a growl, then silence. The body of Zalos’ wolf fell limp to the ground. Othalas’ eyes focused on Luthiel and he sprang toward her with a forlorn howl.

  “Kill the werewolf!” Zalos shouted.

  Lances lowered. Urkharim barred teeth.

  But Othalas knew well he couldn’t save Luthiel from Zalos, the six, and a thousand wolfriders all alone. Even he could not match such might or numbers. But he still held out hope and his eyes fixed on a different prize. In his great jaws he snatched up the hilt of Weiryendel and he sprang away—tearing off through a gap in the wolfriders. The other wolves gave her one last sad look and rushed out behind Othalas—heads and tails low, shoulders hunched. Then they were gone and she was left alone with the Lord of Ashiroth.

  Tuorlin’s Stand

  The monsters rushed all about Tuorlin, grasping with their great legs, lashing out with their terrible fangs, belching poison. It didn’t help that with his third eye he could see them as they once were. Here was an elf who’d served him well for three centuries. There a young warrior freshly recruited to Ithilden’s army. All turned to spiders. All broken by pain, fear, madness.

  He struck with his spear and another spider fell, fire licking through the cracks in its shell. Mithorden and Vanye fought beside him. Melkion flew above, spewing long streams of fire in the spider’s faces. Cat-o-Fae swished through the air, forming a deadly cloud around him. But the spiders came on heedless of all defense and soon he knew he’d be overwhelmed.

  Then he saw Luthiel charging—the white rider on the black wolf—and he thought he would be saved. The wolfriders had joined her and they flowed like a tide up the hill. With a yell, he struck out with renewed fury. Melkion took up the cry.

  “Luthiel! Luthiel is coming!” His rainbow wings flared in the sunslight and fire surged from his mouth with each shout. Beside him the Firewing gave out an eerie cry. It rose and wavered, taking up a piercing note that made Tuorlin think of ghosts and wind howling over a barren crag.

  Then the charge crumpled and the hope vanished.

  The spiders surged in and he was unable to see her anymore. But what he’d glimpsed was enough.

  “Zalos has betrayed us!” He yelled to those around him even as he fought desperately for his life. He knew these were his final moments so he chose his words carefully. Three spiders rushed upon him and he let one spit itself on his spear. The other two pulled his shield away before he could turn his spear to them.

  “Listen all who can hear me! For I would name my successor!” There was something in the wind that carried his voice and all the Blade Dancers around him as well as much of Ithilden’s host heard him shout.

  “I name Luthiel as High Lady of all the Faelands! I name Vanye Faelord of Ithilden!”

  Then the spiders bore him down. He speared one and Vanye cut the legs out from under a second. But where two fell, ten more surged in. They gathered around him, pinning him to the ground. Legs flashed and his armor broke. More were felled, but still more pressed in. They beat him into the ground. They bit his head. His blood spilled on the earth and his breath rattled. The Blade Dancers rushed in and pushed the spiders away.

  He was covered in blood and his body trembled. He opened his mouth and struggled to draw a rasping breath. Ugly spider bites covered his head. But he still kept the power of speech and he struggled to shout.

  “I refuse Ashiroth and Rimwold!!” he croaked. “They are henceforth rebel provinces and will be until their lords are removed from power!!”

  He lifted a broken and misshapen arm to Vanye who’d knelt beside him.

  “Grandfather,” the Blade Dancer whispered, tears streaming from his cheeks.

  “I’ve failed,” Tuorlin choked. “In my wanting to keep the land whole I abided a cancer. Now I fear there will be nothing but violence and terror. I go into darkness, but I leave a greater darkness behind me.”

  “No!” Vanye shouted taking his hand. “You have given hope.”

  “Too little! But I must go.” His ruined hand lifted to Vanye’s face. “You are a good man of great heart. You’ve made me proud beyond imagining. Remember. When all other stars go out, she will give light.”

  Then the light in his own eyes faded and the single eye in his forehead grew milky.

  “I will remember, grandfather,” Vanye whispered. “I promise.”

  Strife

  The battle ended strangely. The moment the High Lord died, the cursed spiders were consumed in gouts of flame. The fires roared high, spilling black tails into the clean air. Seeing this, the other spiders fled into the wood. Senasarab stalked after them, catching a few stragglers in webs of light and mists. Animals, The Vyrl’s army, and those fae who could still fight gave chase and paid the spiders back terribly for the night’s killing. But many escaped into shadow an
d waited for the cover of night even as the webs were burned around them.

  After the spiders left, a general confusion fell upon the fae. The Vyrl had come to help them, but none wanted to approach the terrible rulers of the Vale of Mists. They stood off and eyed the Vale’s lords and their strange army with suspicion. The animals moved in among them, and those who would let them near found their wounds licked by tongues great and small. It seemed a wonder to even the Fae who’d kept close ties with all things of earth and air, of wing and paw. Many attributed it to Luthiel, and depending on whom you spoke to this was either a good or bad thing.

  And there lay the point of strife.

  Many had heard the High Lord’s proclamation. Many had also seen Luthiel’s charge up the hill. Some believed she meant to save the High Lord. Others to kill him. Worse, Ashiroth and Rimwold, who almost wholly believed Luthiel to be an evil witch bent on destroying the Faelands, were labeled rebels by the now deceased High Lord. Even Ithilden’s force had fallen into confusion and bickering spread rapidly throughout the entire Faerie army.

  Mithorden, Vanye, Melkion and Othalas moved through the confusion like an island of calm. Behind them were a score of the Blade Dancers. They were focused on one thing and one thing alone—Luthiel had been taken by Zalos. Vanye had taken Weiryendel from Othalas. The crystal blade swung lightly in his left hand. Its music whispered in his ears and he wondered at both its sadness and its strange comfort. Still agitated, his bloody Cat-o-Fae swooped around him like a deadly bird. Elayethel had joined them and a train of Tyndomiel in bear form followed in her wake.

  “The damned liar,” Othalas growled. “I’ll bite his head off. He broke her heart. Then he beat her to the ground.”

  “We’re fortunate she’s not dead,” Mithorden said. “But Zalos plays a deep game.” He looked out at the army. “Still thinks he can win them. When he realizes he can’t, things will get dangerous.”