Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Elonwyn stood nearby. Luthiel hadn’t noticed her approach. When she saw Luthiel raise her head she lifted her hand.

  “Come Luthiel. The road calls.”

  Luthiel gave her a puzzled look.

  “We’re going with you,” she said.

  She motioned with her hand and a short distance away Luthiel saw two more unicorn—each bearing a rider. One was tall and willowy with short cropped hair of jet and brooding violet eyes and the other was smaller, a thick braid of blood red twining down from her head reaching all the way to her waist. “This is Athina and Elone.” The Valkyrie touched their brows in greeting. Elone winked and gave her a conspiratorial smile. Luthiel grinned, flashing the sign for Oerin’s Eye.

  Othalas ran up beside her and she grabbed hold of his fur, pulling herself onto his back. They rode past animals, werewolves and Valkyrie. Goblin, spider and troll still held the river’s far side. Now and then she could see explosions of fire—trees turned into massive torches when the Demon Lord touched them.

  “Ugly lights,” she said softly to the wolf. Then, she lifted her voice. “Kind creatures of the wild, cousins of the Vale and Dark Forest!” she called to them. “So many of you came to help without my asking! So many of you followed me into danger of your own choosing. Because of you, that danger is greatly diminished. But as you can see by the fires, we have merely traded one trouble for another. Though I must leave, I ask that you please stay here and guard your cousins who sleep innocent of it!”

  Werewolves and animals looked on even as unicorn raised their horns. A flight of owls hooted in answer. We will! We will! they seemed to say.

  When she saw that they would stay, she drew Weiryendel, holding it high as she chanted—“A blessing to you all! You are each, to me, a hero! May the great lady Elwin sing you into the never-ending dream!” At this, the werewolves lifted their mouths and joined their voices in an ethereal howl. Across the river, goblin and troll held their weapons close. For even the warriors of Rimwold feared the greatest of wolves.

  With an answering cry, she was off, racing through the forest with three Valkyrie behind her. Overhead, the Khoraz, Firewing, and Faerie flew in escort. The luminaries of Firewing cascaded down, painting strange lights and shadows along the ground. They rode on for much of the night and well into the following morning before they reached the army. Exhausted and aching, she took brief naps. Othalas seemed to sense her sleeping and was somehow able to cushion her, keeping her upon his back. Though the sleep came in fits, she was almost refreshed by the time they came within sight of the army.

  Above it all flew Mindersnatch. His great silver wings cupped the rising air of morning. It was a hot sky in a hot summer. Hotter than any he remembered. Strange it seemed to him, for the air didn’t cool so much as he rose. And the sky seemed odd. The stars dimmer and more clouded—as if some fog or dust above the air obscured them. He doubted anyone but his Khoraz brothers had noticed. For even eagles couldn’t see as far as a Khoraz. The Vale had been kind to their flock, granting not only the keenest sight but also speech and long life. For of all the birds, only Khoraz were immortal.

  Mindersnatch let out a joyful caw. His silver wings spread wide, bearing him higher. For what better thing was there than flying? The world expanded and he felt he could see all that walked or crawled on the face of green Oesha. His mistress was below, borne on the back of great Othalas, and his lord and lady Vyrl too. They would want to hear his news. So he turned his keen eyes down, scouring the land about for signs.

  Below him, the Faerie army had regrouped. Mithorden seemed to have taken charge and there was movement everywhere. Wounded were tended, the healed returned to their companies. For miles around, scouts moved across the land—faerie on the wing, elves on the soft-hoofed faenmare. The animals who’d come to help Luthiel had faded back into the wildlands. But Mindersnatch saw they kept a careful account of all goings on. The rats and mice seemed especially busy. They scurried to and fro, chattering out their strange messages for miles about. A combined force of Fae and creatures of the Vale had stopped at the banks of Rendalas. Their job was finished. For no more Widdershae could be found.

  Mindersnatch looked further east where he found animals and werewolves, unicorn and Valkyrie facing a force of Goblins and Trolls led by the Demon Lord Thrar Taurmori. Clever demon! Mindersnatch thought as he looked over his force. I saw the dragon who bore you east. And the goblins and trolls gathered there a week before. But I bet this wasn’t what you’d have used them for! To Mindersnatch it looked like a follow-on force, one equipped for conquest.

  Turning his eyes north and east he saw Zalos’ wolfriders just entering Arganoth. They’d ridden hard ahead of those who’d deserted the Faelands. These marched or rode in long lines raking out across the Minonowe and just beginning to enter Ashiroth’s lands. At their front were the first goblins to leave and behind came those who’d believed Zalos. Those who feared the witch.

  Further out, he saw Widdershae creeping back into the mountains’ shadow. Atop a great peak, he thought he glimpsed a flicker of silver and rainbow wings. So, he thought, Melkion has returned to his father.

  Dust in the Sky

  “We’re nearly there,” Othalas growled.

  Luthiel opened her eyes. The first thing that struck her was the heat—strong even for High Summer. The light wasn’t as bright as she’d remembered and she looked skyward expecting a cloud but only found a muddled blue. It was odd. As if the sky were dirty. Even the suns seemed a bit dimmer.

  “Is there dust in the air?” she asked.

  Othalas’ nostrils flared. “Seems clear.”

  “It is dust,” Elonwyn said. “But not in the air.”

  “Where then?” she asked.

  “In the sky.”

  “Is it normal? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Not normal at all. It’s a sign of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Elonwyn exchanged looks with the other Valkyrie.

  “Elwin is losing,” Athina said.

  “Losing what?” Luthiel asked.

  “As Elwin sleeps, she dreams, ” Athina replied. “Just as Gorthar dreams. She is fighting him there. Her dreams keep him at bay.” Athina’s bright eyes shone in fear as she turned toward Luthiel. “He’s trying to blot out the lights. Not just in winter. But for all time.”

  Luthiel trembled as she remembered the song they’d made to mock her. Will eat the light till all things die. “Mithorden’s skystorm,” she whispered. “They’ll blame it on me.”

  A Chosen of Sorts

  In silence, they passed down the hill and into the Fae army. Looking around, she was stunned at its order. When she’d left only days before it had seemed a broken thing. Now it moved like a living creature—each part with its purpose. Bundles were packed, weapons stowed, faenmare fitted for riding. The wounded were now mostly healed. The few still too hurt to walk rested on bowers laid across giant, long-legged walking sticks that crawled throughout the army. A cheer rose up at first sight of her and grew louder as they noticed Valkyrie. Legends for their role in the War of Dreams against the Vyrl, the elves watched them and their unicorn steeds with reverence. Luthiel didn’t expect the reaction but, as she heard the cheer rise up, she was doubly glad for their company.

  Vanye, mounted on a black Faenmare, rode out to meet them. The horse wore Silen barding—silver in the sunslight. Twin horns of pale metal rose out of its faceplate, making both horse and Blade Dancer seem like strange angels. Luthiel involuntarily lowered her eyes at his approach. His face, always full of purpose, seemed even more stern than she remembered. His tenuous balance between grace and violence—on the verge of snapping. The Cat-o-Fae on his shoulder gave violent flicks and spins in mirror to his mood. When he pulled up alongside her, she fully expected to be berated for riding off to hunt. Instead, he surprised her with a bow.

  “Queen Luthiel,” he said, his tone formal. “Welcome back. I hope all went well?”

&nbs
p; Surprised only for a moment, she followed his lead with relief. “Well as can be expected. We ran down nearly half. The rest escaped because of Thrar Taurmori. He had an army at the fords of Rendalas. They fought us.”

  “Khoraz told of the battle,” Vanye said. “And of your new allies.” He inclined his head to the Valkyrie and then motioned toward the cheering army. “They celebrate your victory!”

  He turned his horse and led them toward the army’s center. There five banners waved—four for the Faelands, including the Vale but missing Ashiroth and Rimwold, and one for the Faequeen. Mithorden stood beneath them surrounded by the army’s captains. He spoke to each in turn and then to them all. At his words, she saw heads nodding, eyes gleaming with respect—some grudging, some outright. With a final word from the sorcerer, the captains dispersed—each with a mission.

  “Mithorden held command. He said you left him with it,” Vanye said.

  Luthiel slowly nodded. It made sense. He was certainly the most experienced. But she’d left no instructions at all.

  “Wiley sorcerer,” she whispered to the wolf.

  Othalas gave a gravelly laugh.

  “He does seem to have everything well in hand,” she said louder. “I’m glad he understood the spirit of my intent, if not the words.”

  At this Vanye gave a rare grin, which he swiftly concealed. “I should let you know, then, that we plan to leave for Yewstaff at first light. The fae lords want a proper coronation. They want to meet you.” Then he lowered his voice. “Of course, Rimwold and Ashiroth will be absent. My coronation as King of Ithilden will be settled there as well.”

  “Yewstaff?” Luthiel asked. Even as she said the word, she felt uneasy. Though in Minonowe, and Belethial’s capital, Yewstaff also housed The Seat of Dreams—a place where the order of sorcerers called Wisdom held regular meetings. There they were said to work to keep many ancient mysteries and beliefs safe. Elag was, until recently, their chief. “Do you think it wise?”

  “Queen Luthiel,” Mithorden interrupted. “I’m glad you’re back!” He made his way toward her. Taking her hands, he guided her from the werewolf’s back. Leaning close he whispered in her ear. “If we are to win hearts and minds, the Wisdom must stand with you.”

  “Must?” she whispered back. “I don’t think it’s likely. There’s a reason Elag was elected to lead them.”

  “Many of those sorcerers are gone now,” Mithorden said, even as he nodded approval. “How did you know?”

  “I kept track. The sorcerer always scared me. Anyway, Leowin told me.”

  “You’re wise to be wary. It’s a gamble. But one we must make.”

  Luthiel felt as though the heat were draining from her.

  Vanye, catching her terrified look, nodded grimly and whispered. “Welcome to rulership.”

  As Luthiel nodded, she saw Leowin walking toward her with Vaelros and Galwin.

  Vaelros had pulled his cloak close, as if against a chill, even with the blaze of summer painting sweat on his cheeks. The effects of poison still lingered on his body and the memory of Ashiroth’s captains was still fresh in his mind. But his beautiful face had brightened at her presence. He smiled and did his best to push them out of his thoughts.

  In those chiseled features Luthiel could see the face of Zalos now, in those eyes that endless depth of passion. Yet, in that moment, she knew Vaelros to be a good heart. She wondered how it happened despite his terrible grandfather. The father he was forced to kill must have been a good man. And where was his mother? Why had he never spoken of her?

  Galwin’s face, though not so fine, was strong and earnest. She could tell by his look that he was glad she’d returned. There was worry and a deeper strain that she recognized all too well.

  Leowin ran over to her, catching her up in her arms. “You dangerous girl!” she whispered in her ear. She pulled her close despite her anger. “Why must you always rush off into trouble?” Then she held her at arms length and looked her straight in the eye. “Next time, tell me? I might save your life one day.”

  “I might get you killed one day,” Luthiel returned.

  Saying these words aloud made her gut clench. She looked at each of them in turn, one to the other, and realized that here was her family. Not a family of blood, except for the Valkyrie, but a family of spirit. She looked away, wondering who might die next and if they would be the last before her sword was finished. Would it be one of these eight? Again, she felt the urge to fling the beautiful thing far away and run as fast as she could in the other direction. But it was the strongest link to her past. To her blood father. She remembered Leowin’s words but found in them little comfort. Whether it was because her magic gave the deaths significance by remaking the sword or by some awful curse, the result was the same. In order for the sword to be whole more people must die.

  As much as she hated and feared how the sword was being remade, she loved the sword itself. The way its music rippled the air, the grace of its form, the balance and the vibrant hum in her hand, the way it sometimes granted mercy. Could it really be so bad a thing?

  How can I judge? Am I a good or a bad thing, even? Yet now I must be a queen. Dear Ëvanya help me!

  For though Luthiel was young, she was no fool. She knew that many would hate her as a queen, feared they’d blame her for a thousand things she didn’t know or understand, felt in her deepest part that it must all make for a terrible end. The prophesy they sang as they deserted her formed half-images in her mind—like grotesque shadows on a jagged wall. These dark hints of what may come teased at the edge of her thoughts, refusing to become clear enough for her to know with certainty what lay ahead.

  She shook her head to clear it. Whatever happens will happen. I cannot change it. I can only change how I act in the face of it.

  “So I’m to be Queen of the Fae?” she said to Mithorden.

  The sorcerer nodded. There was a sad look in his eyes. For some strange reason this made her smile.

  “I’d rather be a Chosen for Vyrl. Doesn’t seem so dangerous.”

  “But you are a Chosen of sorts,” Leowin said sadly. “This time, the monsters are with us.”

  Riddles on the Road

  Banners raised, they set out at first light. With no attempt to hide their movement, the army spread over the land. A show of power. A declaration of victory. She rode at its heart upon great Othalas. To her left, Leowin sat atop a white faenmare with Vanye on his dark charger beside. To her right, Queen Elayethel, in the form of a unicorn, glided along beside Mithorden. Ahead, the three Valkyrie took point with Galwin. His hand clutched the standard, its flag hanging in the still, hot, air. Vaelros kept just behind her. Aside from a few simple words, she resisted his attempts to talk.

  Mithorden looked sidelong at her. Inclining his head, he edged away from the group. The dimness in the sky was growing. A strange mist gathering above the clouds. Suns still shone bright but the night before only the most brilliant stars were visible. Moons now wore red halos. It reminded her of winter. How a rising Gorothoth would pull up a darkness that consumed all but the greatest lights and even robbed the suns of heat.

  She leaned a little, slowly guiding Othalas toward the sorcerer.

  “They say Elwin is losing,” she said softly to the sorcerer as she looked at the sky.

  The sorcerer followed her gaze and slowly nodded.

  “Who told you?”

  “Valkyrie. But I don’t understand. What is Elwin’s battle? How does it change the sky?”

  He glanced ahead, then gave Luthiel an appraising look. “To think only weeks ago I found you trying to trade your life for your sister’s. Now look at you!” His eyes traced her foot to crown as he gave a small smile. “I will tell you what I know soon. But you must promise to indulge me first,” he said with a wink. “Important things are happening. Not the least is your forging Weiryendel.”

  Her hand crept to her sword hilt. “My sword? What about it?”

  Mithorden raised a hand to her—palm open, fi
ngers extended. “It is truly yours now. May I?”

  Reluctant to let even the sorcerer hold it, she slowly drew the sword. As it cleared the scabbard, a pure and beautiful music filled the air. It seemed louder than usual and the tiny motes in the blade flared like a rain of stars. The light and music seemed to grow even brighter as she extended the sword to Mithorden. As his hand touched it, the song changed—becoming both subtle and powerful.

  “Sounds like greeting,” she said, captivated by the new music.

  “It is,” Mithorden said as he raised the blade. “It remembers.”

  “Is it alive?”

  “Alive as a dream.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes—Weiryendel, as you renamed her, is of the deep magic. She is a true dream.”

  Luthiel looked at her sword with new awe. “Something that crossed over?”

  “As your father made her—the dream that cuts. A killing dream.” Mithorden looked at her and there was respect in his eyes. “Do you realize what you’re doing?”

  Luthiel looked at the sword and felt a pang run through her. She thought of the past days of violence. Of all the things she’d killed and of those things that were somehow also spared. But she stayed silent—unable to give voice to her feelings.