Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  She reached for her bow. Her fingers surrounded the cold, white wood. The hands on her quiver lifted an arrow; she drew. Its Cauthrim tip shed a dim, red glow, casting tiny fires in her silver hair. Placing arrow to guide, she pulled it back. A ‘click’ and then all was set. She dropped to a knee, staring out into the darkness.

  The wolf was not far away. After only a short time, he crested a nearby hill. His eyes blazing yellow fire. Fierce. For his mistress called. There she knelt. Queenly and yet so wild. Arrow set to bow—spilling out a bloody light.

  At the sight of her, passion filled him. It rose in his gut, swelled his chest, then burst out of his throat. It overwhelmed the air and beat against the starry roof. The howl filled the mounds, rang out through the Vale and then rolled into Minonowe.

  She had called him and here was his answer.

  The spiders were out there. Running. With Luthiel, he would hunt them.

  She heard the rush of blood in her ears as Othalas came up to her. With a spring, she was on him, burying her face in his soft fur. She could feel his great heart beating. Winding her hand through his coat, she found his hide. As Winowe taught her, she matched breathing and heartbeat to his. For a moment, she let their blood mingle through her touch. A thrill and a heat rushed through her arm.

  “What are you doing?” the great wolf growled, feeling strength rush through him.

  Pulling her hand away, she licked her palm. His blood felt like fire in her mouth.

  “My dear wolf,” she said, hugging him with both arms and legs. She held him tight for a few more heartbeats, then rose up, holding her bow high.

  “Call them my hunter!” she cried. “Gather your brothers and sisters! Tonight we hunt the nightmares!”

  The Great Pack

  Othalas tilted his head back and let out a call. It rose and it wavered. It dipped and it shuddered. Howl became growl and then howl again. Three times he lifted his voice. Three times the echoes filled the night. Then, other howls ripped through the air in answer. These were not the calls of normal wolves but savage cries. Luthiel added peals of her silver horn to Othalas’ brutal answers as the werewolf sprang away from the elfin host and toward his kindred.

  There, in the moonlight, they saw their liquid bodies streaking through the night. Their teeth gleamed like white knives. Their eyes like sparks filling the night. Hundreds leapt out over the Vale’s steep walls and filled the mounds about them.

  These were the kin of Othalas and none but he could command them—not even Vyrl. For he was the greatest and oldest werewolf, and they only hunted alone unless he brought them together. It was a very rare thing—this pack of werewolves.

  They formed a large circle and joined their voices, howling out to earth and sky, showing their flanks out of respect to him and his fae mistress.

  Still the werewolves gathered. Their large bodies flowed out of the night like great specters. Stranger and taller than Urkharim, these once-men were now the mightiest of wolves. Around Othalas and Luthiel, they came to order and by some unspoken command all fell silent. The Great Pack had formed.

  Luthiel thumped Othalas on the neck and pointed with her bow. With a leap, he shot out into the mounds. Legs ate up the ground and the Great Pack silently and swiftly followed.

  Hunting Nightmares

  They ripped holes in the night filled with fangs and fur. Earth rolled away beneath them and the chill smell of Widdershae made a path as plain and bright as coldfire. Though the spiders were still miles ahead, the scent was strong and growing stronger. For few creatures possess the speed and endurance of a wolf on the hunt. Long striders they are called. And the greatest of these are the werewolves of Oesha.

  Their senses were so acute that they did not need to call to one another. It was enough for one to lead and the rest to follow.

  Night and lands sped on by. They reached the River Rendalas in less than an hour and made a sweeping left turn at its banks. Luthiel could now see the mud pitted with spider tracks. The pack stopped and growled to one another in low voices. They sniffed and ran about. Excitement spread through them and they glanced at Luthiel and Othalas for a signal.

  “Looks like hundreds passed this way,” she whispered.

  “Yes. But not all continued. Look,” the great wolf pointed with his nose to a tree at the bank. There was a large black shape that seemed suspended by glowing strands. Two furry bodies clutched at the shape. They were spiders too. But something in the look of their eyes seemed friendly.

  “Senasarab,” she whispered. “They’ve come far.”

  Othalas sniffed the air. “They have some of your smell on them.”

  “I—” Luthiel’s voice fell off.

  “Made them?”

  She shook her head. It wasn’t quite right.

  “No. They were elves. I just saved what I could from Saurlolth. She would have turned them into Widdershae.”

  “Now they hunt Widdershae. Cunning revenge.”

  Luthiel looked at the dead Widdershae and watched the Senasarab eat it. A chill came over her at Othalas’ words. Did I do right? Or did I just match hurt for hurt? She shook her head to clear the doubt. And gave a forced smile to the wolf.

  “Never thought of it that way,” she said.

  She raised a hand and the Senasarab lifted their forelimbs in answer. The werewolves watched. A few growled at the fae spiders and then turned to follow Luthiel and Othalas as they moved on.

  They picked up the stride again and the miles shot by. Now they were coming to the lands near Flir Light Hollow and Luthiel couldn’t help but feel an aching in her chest. Yet they were on the north side of Rendalas and Flir Light was still some distance up and across the river. Part of her felt glad that it lay out of the spiders’ way. The other part longed to see the home of her childhood.

  No sooner did these thoughts pass than they came upon the first group of stragglers. They ran in fear, thin legs blindly questing eastward. Many were fat—their bodies bloated with feeding on those poor animals or fae they’d snared in their shadow-webs. These were also the most cowardly, for they had avoided the greater part of the fighting.

  Many of the fatter ones had fallen to the rear. Seeing them bloated from the slaughter, Luthiel felt anger rekindle and her pity was swallowed up by rage. She held her arrow until Othalas and the werewolves were almost upon them. The spiders must have sensed that something was wrong. At the last instant, they spun around and crouched low—screaming in their screechy voices when they realized the pack had caught them.

  Luthiel shot one of the leaders with her Cauthrim arrow. The shaft hissed out and then seemed to dive into its body. It fell into a mass of thrashing legs and didn’t get up.

  Tiolas and Violen looked down as the wolves tore into the spiders. Some grabbed at their legs as others jumped on top to snap off the heads. Othalas rushed in fearless of tine or fang. The spiders had little defense for the great wolf and Luthiel. If they reared up she shot them full of arrows. If they pounced, Othalas would swat them out of the air and then crush them in his great jaws. If they ran he would bound atop them and pull off their heads. Terribly outmatched and outnumbered, the Widdershae fell quickly.

  About halfway through the fight, Luthiel put up her bow and drew Weiryendel. The sword sang out as she struck again and again. There was little happiness to the music now. Instead, its melancholy song filled the night. The sword passed as easily through flesh as it did through air and many spiders fell to her blows with some part of them cloven off.

  But a few seemed unhurt and, instead, fell into what seemed a peaceful sleep. As the battle ended, Luthiel drew close to a sleeping spider and inspected it. There were no wounds, only a thin silver scar where Weiryendel had passed through it. What has happened here? she thought. When werewolves circled in to finish them, she called them off.

  “Let them rest!” she shouted. “They’ll do no more harm!”

  At this, she got a few growls and angry looks from the wolves. But Othalas would brook no dissent
and these he pinned or flashed his teeth at till they walked off—tails between legs.

  “Why do you spare them?” he growled as the last few werewolves straggled off.

  “It is my father’s sword that does. I feel some part of his will lives on in it. I want to honor its choices.”

  The great wolf snorted at this and then they were off again—hunting the spiders as Oerin’s Eye began to splash first dawn across the east.

  As light grew, she began to notice more dead spiders across their path. Othalas approached one of these—sniffing and looking it over.

  “Animals killed this one,” he said. “Bears and maybe a wild Urkharim too.”

  Luthiel nodded. She was still puzzled about the animals. It was as if some strange will were guiding them to help her. For a moment, she thought of the owl. It started with him. But I still don’t understand.

  Othalas glanced at her and chuckled to himself. Just when I think I know enough about this little one, she surprises me again. Then, he caught a scent that made him lift his head. They’d made their way along a ridge that looked down on the river and the surrounding lands. As light grew, it gave them a wide view for miles around. What Othalas saw made even the great wolf’s ears prick.

  “Unicorn,” he growled.

  “I saw one with the animals who helped us—” Luthiel stopped short. Unicorn! More than she could count! They’d formed into a line and were sweeping over the land. Spaced about twenty feet from one another, their line stretched about two miles from end to end. They would surge forward and then collapse into bunches. Luthiel strained her eyes to see them attacking Widdershae.

  “Ëvanya bless us, there must be hundreds,” she gasped.

  Othalas nodded in agreement. But the great wolf had noticed something else. “Look closer. There are riders.”

  At this, Luthiel’s ears tingled and she started. She scanned the line again and, this time, she saw them—riders in glittering mail carrying bows or spears, swords and graceful axes. There weren’t many. Luthiel thought she could count twenty.

  “Daughters of Elwin?” she asked in awe.

  “Valkyrie,” Othalas growled in answer.

  “Why would they come here? All the way from the Dark Forest?”

  “I don’t know,” the great wolf growled. “Might have something to do with you.”

  Luthiel’s brows lowered. “What would the Dark Forest have to do with me?” It was more a question out of fear than one of disbelief.

  “You’re the grandchild of Elwin and the Dark Forest Lord.”

  “Elwin sleeps and the Lord hated my father.” Tears rose into her eyes but she quickly wiped them away.

  Othalas could hear the distress in her voice so he stopped talking. Instead, he sprang down the slope and toward the distant black mass of spiders.

  “That’s enough tears,” he growled. “Today’s chase will be hard enough without them.”

  Luthiel sniffed and wiped at her face with one hand as she held tight to the wolf with the other. “Today only? I intend to follow them all the way to the mountains. I don’t want them to ever think of returning.”

  Othalas snorted. “Don’t you know me yet, girl? You ride with werewolves. We could make the mountains by nightfall in a straight run. Spiders are slower. My guess is we’d see Metheldras and the Gates of the East before next sunsrise.”

  “Then we’ll catch them?” she asked with a grim smile.

  “Well before then.”

  They fell silent and Luthiel kept alert to what was going on around her. The werewolves fanned out in a line that stopped at the river. Between the unicorns sweeping down from the north and the werewolves coming in from the west, the Widdershae could either stand and fight or run in hopes of reaching the mountains before tooth or horn found them. They were strung out and only the lead group moved with any kind of coordination.

  They’d taken terrible hurt in the battle on the first night. The following day, as Luthiel was sleeping, the Vyrl’s army and many of the Fae had thinned them even further. Less than half the spiders who’d crept down from the mountains remained alive come the next nightfall. Saurlolth knew if she had any hope of living she must run. The Vyrl’s giants and grendilo were burning deep paths through her webs. Their wights were undaunted by pain or poison and the Vyrl themselves fought like demons. Joined by Blade Dancers, the fiery Gormtoth, and what seemed like every animal in all the Faelands, the spiders found themselves terribly outnumbered. Their usual tricks of snatch and kill didn’t work when a hundred tiny birds followed each spider and made a ruckus that was impossible to ignore. There was simply no way to hide. Even worse, those who were caught in shadow webs were burned free by the strange fire-winged birds of the Vale. Khoraz could talk to birds, elves, and Vyrl, and they were soon flying everywhere with messages.

  The cover of darkness gave them some respite. But the nocturnal owls quickly replaced the day-birds. These were much quieter. So quiet that they even surprised the spiders with their sudden hoots and shrieks. The spiders were in terror for their lives as, one by one, they were found and killed. Saurlolth drew those she could together and fled en masse. Swift animals, elfish cavalry, faerie, and other creatures of wing gave chase. But the spiders quickly outdistanced grendilo, wights, giants, and those elves who fought on foot. Still, enough were able to follow the spiders to turn the flight deadly.

  Then came the unicorn and werewolves. Saurlolth began to wonder if even she would escape the blood-letting. It had all gone so dreadfully awry. By now, they should have been feasting on fae blood. The armies crushed, all the Faelands would have become their hunting grounds. But there was this Luthiel. This daughter of Vlad Valkire and not yet much more than a girl. Somehow, she’d swept in and gotten elf and Vyrl to work together. Even worse, it seemed that all of nature had come to her aid. When her ‘swift legs’ came in to report of unicorn and Valkyrie, she understood that Elwin had become involved.

  “She protects her granddaughter,” the spider queen had hissed upon hearing the news.

  For Saurlolth, the time for secrecy and hiding was finished. So she sent her ‘swift legs’ north and south to beg help from her allies. Of the north she expected little.

  He is too deep in his game. Still thinks he can win. And he might! That deception with Tuorlin had sown a deep doubt and division.

  She’d stroked her legs together in pleasure when she’d seen so many fae slip off to join the Faelord of Ashiroth—and not too few Blade Dancers! She’d also noticed that many who stayed were in doubt. She could taste it on the air as well as an ocean shark could taste blood in the water. But for the doubt to fester, they must leave. A visible enemy could unite the elves and spoil all of Zalos’ work. So the runners she sent north were little more than a gesture.

  But the ones sent south—on these lay her dark hope. There was strong darkness in her jagged mountain home. Masses of spiders and shadow webs and something else too—a bloody secret. There she could return and regroup. There she could wait for Zalos to do his work.

  Not so far off, she could hear the werewolves’ howling and the battle horns of the Valkyrie and not for the last time she wondered if her spiders would have to choose a new queen after today.

  Luthiel let out a cry when she spotted a group of Widdershae running through a nearby thicket. The wolves howled in answer and rushed in to surround the spiders. It was only ten and they were quickly overtaken. The werewolves hemmed the spiders in and then attacked in a rush. A few scrambled into trees but Luthiel shot them with her bow. It was quick and bloody work. A few werewolves ran from body to body—biting to make certain they were dead.

  It was past noon and this was just one of many contacts they’d had with stragglers. They were nearing the main group of Widdershae and, as they drew closer, other animals joined them. Wolves, bears, even horned deer ran with the pack. Some could not keep the werewolves’ pace and these fell away. But more came than left, and soon there was an animal for every werewolf.

  They
’d come far now and Luthiel found herself in unfamiliar country well past Flir Light Hollow. The terrain became rougher; the hills carved out of steep ravines. Rendalas grew narrower and, in places, filled with rocks and rapids.

  As they rushed away from their latest skirmish and ran up a hill, Luthiel noticed a big bend in the river ahead. It was wide—but shallow and filled with boulders cast down from the mountains in some past flood or other calamity. The mass of spiders was drawing near the river and the leaders were making their way across—swift spider legs clambering over boulders or picking through the shallows.

  Close by, she could see the unicorn. A beautiful Valkyrie rider raised her sword in salute to Luthiel. Aside from the Valkyrie’s blood-red hair, Luthiel was stunned by how much she resembled her. The Valkyrie could be her mother or sister. The shape of the eyes, the face, her height, her strong but streamlined body. Luthiel raised Weiryendel in answer and the lead Valkyrie let out a cry.

  “Elwin! Elwin! Fair mother of dreams, fighter of Gorthar and nightmare! Hear me! I have found your grandchild!”

  At these words, Luthiel trembled. But she wouldn’t let herself be overcome by emotion. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered into Othalas’ ear.

  “Let’s join them.”

  Battle at the Ford

  Luthiel rode up to the Valkyrie. Because of Othalas’ great height she looked down at her. Here was her father’s sister. One of many who’d raised and looked after him in his youth and exile. For every Valkyrie was a daughter of Elwin—and Vlad Valkire was her only son.

  She gave the sign for Oerin’s Eye. “A heart-gift to meet you—”

  The Valkyrie nodded and returned the sign. “A heart-gift to meet you, Luthiel. I am Elonwyn.”