Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “Death is author as well as ender. With each death new life springs up,” he said with a tone of benevolence. “Ages must end, Luthiel. But you know this, being the harbinger of this age’s ending. The very lord you mock already uses you for a scapegoat. In my generosity, I am giving you this last choice. Marry me and I will make you a goddess! Fail to make this choice and you will become a martyr.”

  “A goddess of death!? Some dark and terrible queen? I have seen what you did to Wyrd Stones, Zalos. I will not let you do that to me. And what of my mother? Didn’t you desire her? Didn’t you want her for your wife?”

  Zalos looked down at his hand which he was clenching and unclenching. She didn’t like it. Looked like some kind of threat. “I have many wives Luthiel. Your mother is but one. If she’d only recognize me I would make her first among them and give her all of my greatest affection. Unfortunately, she does not share my sentiments.”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Many wives? What reason have you given her or me to ever love you! Leave now—before I set the wrath of the Faelands on you!”

  “Is the Faelands’ wrath even yours to set?” Zalos snapped. “And what is love?” he spat the word as if he didn’t like how it tasted. “A heart’s delusion? I never said anything about love, Luthiel. I’m offering you power and a chance to survive. Think what good you could do with that power. Think of how many you could save as this age came to its end.”

  “Don’t you realize, Zalos, it’s the magic of love that brought me here? Ruined all of your carefully laid plans? But for love I never would have left the Faelands. And you would have probably murdered the Vyrl by now. Finishing what your master started.”

  “Master? I am my own. As for Gorthar, we all end up serving him—whether we want to or not.”

  “No. To willingly serve and to fight—even without hope—are two different things. If you wish to surrender, then by all means do so. But I will take no condition. Least of all, marriage.” She was so angry she felt as if her body had caught fire.

  “Of course, you must realize, I expected this answer. This is the last chance. Have me for your husband or—”

  “What?”

  “Or become an example.” He said the words softly, slowly, drawing them out. They hung in the hot air.

  There was a ringing sound as Luthiel drew Weiryendel. “You would murder me then? The lady you just proposed to?” She pointed the sword at his heart.

  “Execution is entirely lawful. Even you must realize—sometimes, killing is necessary. If you love life, accept my offer. If not, by all means—die.”

  Luthiel paused for a moment and looked at his dangerous eyes. Then her body grew still and she felt calm flow over her. Lowering her sword, she took a step forward.

  “So it comes down to another death threat, Zalos? That’s the worst thing for you, isn’t it? I think I understand. You love life more than anything else. And so to live as an evil thing is better than to die a hero.”

  For the first time, Zalos turned his eyes and looked away.

  “Weren’t you friends with my father once? And my mother too? Didn’t you fight together to overthrow the Vyrl? Yet now you would put yourself and the Dark God in their place. What happened? Why did you change?”

  Zalos’ eyes slowly came back. “You’re just barely a woman, Luthiel. How could you begin to understand my mind?”

  “Understand? That’s too much. But I could guess. Something made you jealous or afraid a long time ago. Enough to break something in you. Now you seek power out of fear. Power to cover up for something you could never have. But I guess it was never really love that drove you to my mother but want of possession. You lacked the depth to feel love so you sought power instead.”

  “There is nothing, Luthiel. Nothing but power. Elves did not spring up from the earth. Death shaped us out of lesser creatures. We were strong and survived. Love and other such nonsense is sentiment of the weak.”

  “Elves are immortal. The oldest race.” Even as Luthiel said it she thought of Othalas. “And love is, among other things, the sharing of power. If we care for one another we can help each other. Can you tell me a deeper and more subtle power?”

  “Elves are not immortal. Elves just don’t die of disease or old age. What do they live? Five hundred? A thousand? Three thousand years? But eventually by accident, catastrophe, or foolish sacrifice, even elves die. The world is full of massive things in motion. Little creatures get hurt. As for love—it is little more than a morality for slaves.”

  “It is the morality of wholeness.”

  “A delusion of comfort.”

  “You have lost your heart, Zalos. A hollow man. Dead on the inside. And yet you ask me to marry you? But not out of sentiment. Not out of any sense of mystery or value of something in me. Other than what power you could gain through me. And I, I am supposed to be tempted by blackmail. To have my life spared. To become powerful. And to save others’ lives by subjecting myself to you.

  “But listening to what you say, I don’t see where anything would be saved. You would make as many become like you as you could and then prey on the rest.”

  “So your answer is no?” Zalos said quietly. He seemed to tense. His body lowered into a slight crouch.

  “As life sprang up in defiance of death eons ago. No! As worlds call for peace and love of the life they bear. No! And as a woman given a false proposal to marry from a hollow heart. No! A thousand times no!”

  “Wellenwythe,” Zalos hissed.

  A thin stream of shimmering air formed the shape of a sword in his right hand. Through the air, a coil of fire burned, sending off a wisp of smoke. “I didn’t expect you to say yes. I always knew you for one who lacked sense,” he snapped. “I Zalos, lord of Ashiroth and heir to the Faelands place you under arrest for High Treason! Lay down your sword! Submit to judgment! Confess your wrongs and you will be spared!”

  Luthiel held Weiryendel before her in defense. Over the past weeks she’d learned much in her sparring with Vanye. Yet she was certain it could never be a match to the mastery of Lord Zalos. She knew it was hopeless to fight him. But as the blood pounded in her ears and the rage rose within her, she knew she must.

  “Never Zalos. Not till my body is dead and broken. Not till I have breathed my last.”

  “Yield Luthiel. You don’t want me to take you by force.”

  “Come and try it. I’ll give you the justice you earned.”

  His first strike came on vicious and direct. She lifted Weiryendel to block and on contact Zalos’ Wyrd-formed blade exploded into a burst of hot air. It hit her like a hammer and sent her flying back. She rolled and when she stood little bits of her clothing smoldered. She felt dizzy. But the moment passed and she steadied herself. In the brief moment she had away from him, she cut her lower dress away. Legs freed, it was easier to crouch, move, jump.

  Zalos clenched his fist and the blade of air and fire reformed. “Something I made with you in mind,” Zalos said with a vicious smile. Hopping on the balls of his feet, he shook the Wyrd-formed blade at her. Then, he lifted his left hand.

  “Cauth!” he said. A ball of black and orange fire formed. The firelight flickered in his face a moment giving his handsome features a demonic cast. Then he tossed it at her. Luthiel leapt up and back and then landed on a root some fifteen feet away. The fire struck where she stood only a moment before and exploded. The blast cast flame beneath her feet.

  “First you demand to marry me? Now you want to burn me?”

  “There are two ways to tame a witch. One is by marriage. The other is by burning.” With the last words, he threw another ball of fire.

  “Eshald!” she sang out. A white glow appeared in front of her and the fire exploded around it, leaving her untouched.

  Zalos smiled. “Mithorden’s teaching you then?”

  “Yes,” she growled.

  “Good. Did he show you this—”

  He lifted his hand and made a snapping gesture.

  “Narbarak!” he cri
ed.

  Her light shield filled with black cracks and shattered. One of the pieces cut her as it shot by leaving a little streak of blood on her temple.

  In that instant she was jumping up and over Zalos, flipping in the air then coming down behind him. The sweep of her sword aimed directly at his head. He was there one instant and not the next. With a casual sidestep, he avoided her blow and then struck at her with his Wyrd-sword. She saw the flame blade slicing toward her and dropped beneath it, cutting at Zalos’ legs. Now Zalos sprang away and her blade met only air. But as he did he dropped another black and orange ball of flame. She saw it fall and sprang up an instant before it hit ground.

  The fire licked at her legs—blistering them and leaving them covered in little red burns. Worse, the black stuff gummed her shoes and when she landed she found herself stuck.

  “Ethelos!” she sang and then with two swift cuts of Weiryendel ran free. She drew her Cauthrim knife and, barefoot, charged Zalos. So great was Luthiel’s talent for hiding that even Zalos was fooled. His face became a mask of doubt as he strained to see her.

  “Betrayer! Betrayer!” she shouted as she leapt at him. Yet Ethelos even masked her cry so that to Zalos it seemed an eerie whisper.

  There was fury in her such as she’d never imagined. Tears fell from her eyes. She knew this was it. The only chance she’d ever have against this dread lord who’d done so much hurt to her family. Not since coming to the Vale of Mists had she felt so wild. So full of rage and fear. Weiryendel made a ringing cry and seemed to leap out toward him. Despite her yelling, a quietness seemed to come over her as instant followed instant.

  She struck low.

  Though Zalos still couldn’t see her, somehow he sensed the attack. He dropped his Wyrd blade to block even as she circled, spinning away. She caught his sword on her Cauthrim knife then she struck high with Weiryendel.

  “For Father!” she cried.

  In an instant she would cut through his neck and all would be finished.

  But Zalos’ mind and senses were far beyond the ken of even Fae. For he’d mastered black arts taught by Gorthar himself. His magic touched even the strange dreams of time and chance. So Zalos moved at the last moment and Weiryendel only cut him on the jaw. Yet it shaved deep. Blood flowed, spilling on the ground.

  The blow was enough to make him stagger away. The Wyrd sword dispersed and he swiftly drew a Narmiel sword. It was purer than even Vyrl’s blades. Its black and blood-red steel seemed to drink up the light and a rime of ice glittered over its jagged length. A chill mist fell from it, spilling onto the ground.

  He seemed to slump with weariness and she made for him. She struck out. The cold blade snaked through the air, slapping Weiryendel on its flat. At contact, Weiryendel gave off a sound like a bell’s toll and her hand become numb with cold.

  Zalos’ eyes focused and fell upon her. “I see you!” he growled and then swung at her viciously. Now she was forced to spring away. She tried to cut the sword, but he was too swift and each ringing contact stung her hand with both its force and its cold. There was an opening and Zalos punched her on the chest.

  The air was crushed from her and she rolled to the ground, spinning away, barely keeping hold of Weiryendel. He walked toward her. His steps were lazy now. When she stood, she found herself perilously close to the great tree’s fire.

  “You fought well. But it’s over.”

  He lifted his left hand and at the entrance she saw five figures approaching her.

  “Mingolë,” she whispered, and she could see their maskless faces. She gasped—any sign of their humanity was gone beyond recall. Where eyes once were, only sunken pits remained. Their noses seemed to have blended into their faces and their mouths were sewn shut. Around each neck was a black and blood-red box. Their movements were impossibly smooth, as though some will beyond fae imposed utter and perfect control over their bodies.

  Behind them came six massive creatures. Their heads and wings black like those of great ravens. But their bodies were in the shape of a massive black cat. They were large—larger than Urkharim—and she could hear their claws clicking along the pebbled floor as they approached her.

  “What did you call them?” Zalos asked as he walked toward her.

  “Mingolë!” she growled.

  “Servants of nightmare?” he said the words as if he savored them. “A fine name! And what better captains to have in battle? What better to serve you in time of war than a horror?”

  He looked at her and there was naked admiration in his eyes and sadness too. Luthiel felt her breath catch in her throat. How could he possibly pity me?

  “You’re naïve, Luthiel. But there is more than a touch of your father in you. You have his flair for naming things. I think I’ll keep Mingolë, if you don’t mind?” He gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement to her then waved a hand at the great raven-panther creatures. “And these already have a name. They are graven. Some of the most vicious beasts in all the Faelands. These ones came from Arganoth and are, of course, quite tame.”

  Now Luthiel hovered on the edge of a second rage as Zalos gloated over her. But she knew he’d bested her. In a moment she might have won. But that moment had passed. She couldn’t beat him alone now, much less with five of his Mingolë and six graven. So she moved away slowly.

  Think! she chided herself, eyes looking around, rapidly taking in the chamber. She circled away from the fire blazing beneath her and Zalos gave a nod, eyes glittering. I need to know what’s really going on!

  “So you’ll burn me then? Cast me into the fires now and have an end of me?”

  “Not now. No. There must be a trial first. Without law there would be chaos. Even I cannot act without its precedent.” He touched at the blood on his face. His fingers came away wet with it.

  “A trial? How would you try me when I am queen?”

  At this question, Zalos grinned broadly. “Oh things have changed quite a bit in the few minutes since we entered this chamber. I trust the Fae Council will be reassembled now with all its proper members. The rest, well, the force I brought was overwhelming and few of yours were ready to fight. Some even helped me. But less than I expected.” He said the last with a nod to her. “You are a worthy foe, Luthiel. Only hopelessly outmatched. Even Merrin unwittingly worked against you. Her party was the perfect diversion. I would have never been able to plan this otherwise.”

  Luthiel fell to her knees.

  Zalos’ smile broadened.

  “I had help. Armies. Mithorden. Secret Finders.”

  “You mean the rats? Well, unfortunate for you, I already knew about them. And once you know the presence of spies, it’s easy enough to feed them false information.”

  He took another step forward and he was nearly within reach of her. He lifted his empty hand showing her his blood. “You’re a better fighter than I thought. Both on the battlefield and off. More people believed you than I considered possible. And news of you spread far. I’m afraid there will be rebellion if I execute you. But the only way for you to live is by marriage and submission. You see that now, don’t you?”

  Tears streamed freely down her cheeks. She felt as if a part of her had been hollowed out. With a shudder, she looked at the Mingolë.

  Marry?

  Now she had her information. It was not what she wanted to hear. But it was enough. Luthiel didn’t know how much was truth and how much was a lie. What she did know was she had to escape. To get as far away from Zalos and his servants as possible. First that meant getting out from beneath Yewstaff. And, if necessary, away from Yewstaff itself.

  She looked around at the roots poking out into the chamber. They reminded her of branches. The branches she and Leowin had hopped to and from a thousand times in their tap and turn games.

  Zalos took another step forward and she sprang up and back, tearing the Wyrd Stone from where it hung around her neck. She landed on the first branch and Zalos eyed her curiously.

  “Luthiel!” she sang and the W
orld of Dreams swirled around her. No sooner did that wavering light pass over the chamber than she was launching into another song. A spell of Wyrd. One she hoped would help her escape.

  Lunen Estel Celesti!

  Lunen Solari Elenti!

  Nani a mi Lunen!

  Lunen Eni Methar Anduel!

  Lunen Eni Luthiel!

  Which means—Light of stars in heaven! Light of suns eternal! Here be my light! The light of Methar Anduel! The light of Luthiel!

  And with those words a light so brilliant it blinded all those around her erupted from the Stone. Never had she seen such a light. Not even at the Stone’s first awakening. Nor when Weiryendel reformed. And not when Tuorlin cast his spell to stop the elves. Yet somehow she was able to keep her eyes open and to see about her. As even Zalos held his hand up against the light and the Mingolë used their cloaks to blot it out, she sprang from root to root. A graven snapped blindly as she passed. Its beak caught in the roots and then she was away beyond it. Her only loss was a bit of sleeve which the graven had snipped off. Then she was out from beneath the tree, racing for the open hillside. What she saw made her heart quail. All around, the hilltops burned. In the sky, she saw a fire like a bloody comet and knew in a moment it was Narhoth.

  Before her were the guests—sitting under the guard of Gruagach, troll, and goblin. A quick glance was all she managed. She could not see her mother, sister, or any of her friends. Oh please let them have escaped!

  Those seated below saw her light and many had to turn from it. Others sang out with joy for the sight of her gave them hope. But their cries turned to anguish as behind her rose up a great shadow. She glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye and sprang away.

  There was a shout among a group of nearby Gruagach. They pointed, holding hands up to block the light. Their captains barked orders, and a score of soldiers charged her. Blade Dancers and Cat-o-Fae rushed toward her from the opposite side. She lifted Weiryendel high in challenge even as she sprinted for freedom. Yet the darkness grew large behind her and, with a roaring battle cry, a group of trolls pounded over the rise before her. She turned left, running for a small cut in the land that led out to open woods. Darkness pushed in from every corner, blocking out her vision, until all she could see were the ten feet around her. She rushed on blindly—making for what she guessed was woodline.