Whispers of War: The War for the North: Book One

by Sean Rodden

  “You’re not off the anvil yet, mudfucker.” The Wild One’s tone was flat, bereft of inflection.

  Rundul said nothing, only lowered his head.

  Then he felt his Captain’s hand grasp the forepart of his wounded, useless arm. A surge of heat coursed from Dulgar’s strong grasp into the immobile flesh of Rundul’s limb. Almost immediately, health and power returned to Rundul’s arm, and his own hand answered the Wild One’s vigourous clasp. Invisible tongues of healing flame licked Rundul’s assortment of wounds. The gash in his forehead closed, the strength of his leg was restored. And the burning of his back cooled.

  From somewhere at the edge of the euphoric glee he felt at his healing, Rundul heard Dulgar deadpan, “Like I said…fuck you, Rundy.”

  Rundul’s eyes were at once blacker than the night and brighter than any star when he raised them to his Captain’s fierce face.

  Grinning wildly, madly, Dulgar held forth Rundul’s axe.

  “Time to get off the fuckin’ anvil.” A twisted grimace that served as a smile. “Brother.”

  A cold wind battered at the stones of Fongar ur Piruth as Rundul reclaimed his weapon. The night shrieked with rage as his pursuers flooded over the sixth hill. Rank upon roiling rank of Unmen, a phalanx of enormous Urkroks, Graniants as tall as oaks. They poured down the last slope like a black sea of savagery and slaughter.

  Within him, Rundul’s warrior heart pounded in anticipation. His eyes and axe-blades shone in the night.

  There would be no more running.

  Let the come, Rundul insisted one last time.

  Dulgar released his own axe from its bindings at his back. The weapon’s steel was as red as the Captain’s wild mane of hair, as crimson as freshly spilled blood. A sound like laughter rumbled in the back of the ferocious Darad’s throat. The laval fire of madness burned in his solitary eye. As the thralls of Shadow swarmed up the grassy shoulders of Fongar ur Piruth, blood seeped from beneath the cracked iron of his eyepatch like a tear-stream of joy.

  Together, shoulder to shoulder and axe to axe, the two Stone Lords faced the rising tides of night, onslaught and death.

  Chuckled the Wild One, “Stupid fuckers.”

  And so.

  2

  THE ERELIAN AMBASSADOR

  “Honour the nation that has heroes,

  And pity the hero who has no nation.”

  Valerian, first King of New Erellan

  Cold and hard and sheer was the rock face of the great Westwall. One and a half thousand feet high and as many miles long, an ancient product of the earth’s deep and dangerous volatility, the colossal cliff cut in a roughly northeastern arc from the Erelian capital of Hiridith in the south to the abrupt break at Doomfall in the north. Behind and above the Westwall, near its precipitous rim, rose the gargantuan stone masses of the Haunted Mountains – a vast and towering range wreathed in the mists of time and the myths of men, casting the final three hundred leagues of the Westwall’s northern run in evergloom and deepest silence.

  But nigh unto dark Doomfall that silence was to be ignominiously broken.

  The grey mizzle that had dogged the mounted company of Erelian guardsmen since their departure from Hiridith had done nothing to douse the flames of their captain’s ire, an ire the revered veteran of both Trade Wars had endeavored mightily to contain. But forty long grey days and thirty-nine cold damp nights on the rough trail beneath the Westwall had effectively eroded the fetters of Captain Bronnus Teagh’s self-imposed silence. Five hundred leagues of wet difficult riding through endless scree of fallen stone had corroded his iron determination to leave the matter alone. Only his martial discipline, hardened by years of warfare, honed keen by bitter lessons learned on distant battlefields, had enabled him to stay his tongue and say nothing.

  But no longer.

  “The Senator’s daughter!”

  The baritone bellow echoed off the stony face of the Westwall like a series of thunderclaps.

  Startled, the guardsmen on the path before Bronnus swung their mounts to face their seething captain. Those behind him immediately reined in their steeds. There ensued a hushed and nervous stillness broken only by the wet breaths of horse and wind. But Captain Bronnus Teagh’s outburst had not been entirely unexpected. The guardsmen braced themselves, a collective tautness gripping their throats. One hundred seasoned soldiers felt their hearts pound just a little faster.

  And then the heavy, anxious air was pierced by the most incongruous hoot of unmitigated glee.

  Grinning like a fool, resplendent in cerulean cloak and silver chain of office, a young man of evident distinction nudged his lean grey mare forward to touch noses with Bronnus’ powerful roan stallion.

  “Teller of the Tale!” exclaimed Ambassador Axennus Teagh, chuckling. “The giant of my brother’s wrath at long last wakes from its overlong slumber!”

  The Captain glowered in the drizzle.

  The Ambassador’s handsome, expressive face then sank swiftly to a mask of exaggerated dejection.

  “But alas, dear brother, you have lightened my purse considerably – and fattened that of good Decan Regorius – for in lasting ignorance of my own sibling’s nature, I had wagered you would suffer through no fewer than forty-one days of silence on the subject.” Axennus smiled, a smile both beautiful and infuriating, then glanced at the dreary skies. “Alas, I had not foreseen this weather...”

  Some among the guardsmen lowered their eyes, stifling the laughter reflexively swelling in their bosoms. Not least among them was Regorius, a stocky, muscular albino with a penchant for gambling, whose horse now hoofed at the ground as though she were an equine extension of her master’s own apprehension.

  Another guardsman leaned across the neck of his mount and muttered, “Cap’s gonna remember that, Whitey.”

  Stark white eyebrows knotted above piercing pink eyes. “So what, Maddy? I bet on him, not against him.”

  Maddus leaned back and grinned. “Goin’ a little pale there, mate.”

  Regorius growled something obscene.

  But the entirety of the Captain’s attention, the whole of his anger, was focused solely on Axennus, his proverbially precocious younger brother.

  Axennus sat astride his mare, grinning.

  A flush took Bronnus’ broad stubbled features, his teeth grinding in his jaws. He held the reins of his steed in white-knuckled fists. Disregarding his brother’s characteristic mirth, Bronnus slowly, emphatically repeated his concern:

  “The Senator’s daughter.”

  Newly appointed Ambassador of the Erelian Republic to the Fiannian land of Lindannan – the first to ever hold that lofty title – Axennus Teagh was an exquisitely handsome man who seemed years younger than the thirty-five summers he had seen. Tall and lean, he wore his fine dark hair long and loose, and his keen hazel eyes sparkled with fiendish intellect. The perennially whiskerless face was agile and emotive, and its perfect smile ranged easily from the beatific to the cold and deadly. His presence exuded both a limitless energy and an almost boyish hunger for adventure.

  It was no great wonder that such a man of passion, action and irresistible diablerie would find himself embroiled in more than a proprietary allotment of controversy.

  Thus the Senator’s daughter.

  Axennus slumped slightly in his saddle, long fingers folding casually about the polished horn. His features reassumed the look of disappointed hurt.

  “My dear brother, it would appear that you believe me to be the cause of some…discomfiture.”

  Bronnus snarled silently, but refused to leap to the bait.

  The Ambassador’s flexible features swiftly transformed his face into that of a grinning imp. The laughing light of his eyes was so very bright in contrast to the damp misty gloom of the boulder-strewn trail. Neither the imposing Westwall nor the corporeal darkness of the Haunted Mountains could cast a shadow on Axennus’ indomitable spirit.

  “However, as is your wont,” continued the Ambassador, “you have founded your con
clusion upon haste and half-knowledge.”

  “My conclusion?” Bronnus frowned his confusion. “Half-knowledge?”

  “Half-knowledge,” affirmed the Ambassador, eyes flashing gleefully.

  “Nonsense!” Bronnus waved his hand dismissively. “I have half-knowledge of nothing!”

  The Ambassador actually giggled.

  Strange strangled sounds escaped the throats of several guardsmen as they struggled to fight their laughter back and down. Regorius coughed. Maddus sputtered into his gauntlet. Others turned away, torn between love for the Ambassador and respect for their captain.

  Realizing belatedly that he had, despite his greatest efforts, swallowed his brother’s bait and resembled a hooked trout flopping helplessly on a rocky shore, Bronnus inhaled deeply, effectively burying the colourful barrage of profanity that threatened to explode from him. He crossed his thickly muscled arms about his chest and glared at his tormentor.

  “Consider yourself fortunate, little brother,” rumbled the Captain, “that I, in my folly, swore an oath to our passing father that I would never cause you actual physical injury.”

  “A good and wise man was Jophus Teagh,” nodded Axennus, smiling in warm reflection. An eyebrow then rose roguishly. “And also a man of some intellect who would not have missed my meaning.”

  Bronnus’ frown deepened, darkened. “Missed your meaning? Of what, exactly?”

  “Half-knowledge,” replied Axennus promptly.

  Bronnus cast a beseeching gaze to the grey indifference of the gloomy skies. He sighed. “Half-knowledge again.”

  The Ambassador nodded, feigning impatience.

  “Yes, Bron, half-knowledge.”

  Bronnus glowered. He knew instinctively, and from more than a little experience, that his brother was manipulating the conversation in a particular but as yet unrevealed direction. And just as instinctively, and from equal experience, Bronnus rued treading that path. Nevertheless, in the company of the inimitable Axennus, such journeys were often brutally necessary.

  “To what half-knowledge, specifically, do you refer, Axo?”

  The laughing light sparkled playfully in the young Ambassador’s hazel eyes.

  “Why, to that concerning the question of the Senator’s daughter, of course.”

  Bronnus closed his eyes. The discussion had come full circle, and along the arc the flames of the Captain’s original anger had been doused, leaving only the embers of everpresent aggravation. And from that char and ash was sprouting the seed of understanding.

  “I see,” grumbled Bronnus. “You are saying that I know only half of the story.”

  The Ambassador clapped his hands together in delight.

  “Precisely!”

  The Captain pondered in momentary silence, the wet wind cooling the ruddy heat in his face. Half of the story. And then, suddenly, Bronnus’ dark eyes widened in something akin to horror – for what had been but a seed had flowered and bloomed. And with that understanding came shock and disbelief, twin leeches sucking the blood from Bronnus’ countenance, leaving him uncharacteristically pale and waxen.

  “Teller of the Tale,” he whispered, more prayer than curse, “you did not!”

  Axennus assumed a posture of disinterest, apparently distracted by an imperfection in an otherwise flawlessly manicured fingernail. Then his eyes flicked back to his brother, two little lights dancing with glee.

  “Oh, but I did,” he said softly.

  Bronnus’ mouth fell open, his jaw flapping like the wing of a wounded bird.

  “The Lady Prescia and the Lady Cartia? Both?”

  “The very two.”

  Axennus winked in wickedness at Regorius who was veritably choking on the laughter suppressed in his bosom. Several other guardsmen were likewise afflicted.

  The Captain’s mouth clapped shut.

  The Ambassador absently stroked the mane of his steed. The grey nickered, as though she shared her rider’s amusement.

  “The two lovely daughters of the esteemed Senator Fallus,” Axennus confirmed in a tone of fond reminiscence. “Musically gifted, as you may have heard. Voices like a cool rain on desert sands. Exquisite! Their tongues work together in such beautiful harmony –”

  “Enough!”

  Flames of ire flushed Bronnus’ mien with heat once more. The sheen of thin rain steamed from his cheeks. His dark eyes flashed in the quarterlight of swiftly falling dusk.

  “Your banter, little brother, beguiles and befuddles but signifies nothing. Ever have you tried my patience and the goodness of my nature. Though our features betray our shared blood, you have aged me before my time – so much so that I appear more the father than the brother. But you are my brother and I am honour-bound to love you.”

  Axennus pursed his lips. “How very generous of you…brother.”

  Bronnus was undeterred.

  “Nevertheless, I am not so compelled to like you. Neither you nor what you do. Fraternal love need not render eternal tolerance. And I will tolerate your antics no longer.” He leaned closer to his younger sibling. “You must learn, Axennus, that people – my own lost cause notwithstanding – are not your playthings. Nor are women your toys, objects of pleasure and pretty little keepsakes to be petted and then tossed aside when your whims alter. No action is without consequence, dear brother, and your own has earned us disgrace and exile!”

  “Disgrace and exile,” echoed Axennus, raising a hand to his mouth. “Dear me, I am a menace! I should be locked in an oversmall cage and poked with pointy little sticks!”

  Bronnus glared.

  Axennus smiled.

  Bronnus blinked. His broad shoulders sagged. His chest heaved a heavy sough as his anger passed from him once more. All semblance of intelligent discourse with his irrepressible sibling had been ever futile. This particular discussion had, in a matter of minutes, rendered Bronnus emotionally spent. Silently, he cursed the misty drizzle and wished he had said nothing.

  In a tone of fatigued surrender, Bronnus said, “Would the one daughter have not sufficed?”

  The Ambassador cocked his head to one side. Mercifully, he did not gloat upon his victory. His smile remained, but was soft and silent.

  The Captain waited, straight and square in his saddle, his oilskin cloak drip, drip, dripping.

  At some small length, the young Ambassador chuckled softly. “The question, dear brother, was one not of sufficiency but of opportunity.”

  Bronnus shook his head and grimaced.

  “Are your carnal needs so insatiable, Axo? Indeed, I am somewhat surprised that no invitation was extended to the mother!”

  Axennus arched an eyebrow.

  “Oh, you did not!” exclaimed Bronnus.

  The Ambassador laughed, and glibly waved a hand.

  “Unfortunately, the Senator’s lovely wife was otherwise occupied with a pressing concern in the sleeping chamber of a nobleman other than the one to whom she is lawfully wed.”

  “I see.”

  “But do not find fault with the Lady Evia’s indiscretions. Her esteemed husband, the principled Senator Fallus – an unfortunate name, that, yet somehow exceedingly appropriate – reserves his affections exclusively for athletic young men, thereby relieving the lady of any real blame in the matter. Indeed, the paternity of the daughters Prescia and Cartia should be the subject of some intriguing debate, think you not?”

  “I do not trouble myself with the private lives of politicians and their spouses.”

  “No?”

  The Captain of the Ambassadorial Guard chortled in spite of himself. “You, dear brother, are no politician.”

  “None at all, nor do I desire to become such a creature,” agreed the Ambassador. “I am, however, the Erelian Republic’s chosen representative to the Fiannar at Druintir in Lindannan, this world’s most noble and storied people and land, and the founders – should you believe the histories – of our own great and wondrous nation.”

  Bronnus grunted. “You speak of your appointment as though it
were reward and approbation rather than penance and banishment.”

  “I speak of it as I see it.”

  “Nevertheless, your bedding and deflowering of the ladies Prescia and Cartia –”

  “Bedding and deflowering?” interrupted Axennus, straightening, seemingly truly taken aback. “To the former I readily admit, but in regard to the latter I must protest my innocence! Your knowledge of women in general, and of the ladies Prescia and Cartia in particular, is scant and found wanting. Believe me, dear brother, there were no flowers of which to speak.”

  “Nevertheless,” persisted Bronnus, frowning, “had it not been for your lecherous interlude with the Senator’s daughter –”

  Axennus grinned

  “– daughters,” growled Bronnus, glowering, “the glorious North March Mounted Reserve would not have been disbanded, you would not have been exiled as delegate to a land of faded legends and little else, and – most significantly – I and these good men would not be nearly fifteen hundred miles from home, cold, damp and miserable, and with no foreseeable prospect of return.” He leaned forward. “Forgive me, please, should I appear underjoyed and a little lacking in gratitude.”

  Axennus Teagh’s grin faded, fell. He studied his brother with slightly narrowed eyes, the cunning light that swam in those grey-green pools flickering sharply. Then he turned his gaze away.

  The dusk had thickened the gloom beneath the Westwall. High above the towering cliff’s precipitous lip, the violet vanguard of night merged with the huge shadow of the mist-crowned Haunted Mountains, a mating of eternal powers, a primordial bond bearing all into inevitable blackness.

  Axennus Teagh, Ambassador of the Erelian Republic to ancient Lindannan, watched the deepening darkness in sobre, almost meditative silence. The wind rose and tousled his long hair. When, in time, he returned his hazel gaze to his brother’s rough visage, Axennus was no longer the young rogue prone to impish trickery and verbal play. Rather, he had once again become the intelligent, precise man who had brilliantly commanded a force of twenty-two hundred men in the recent Second Trade War against the invading hordes of the Southfleetian Empire. His face was rigid, stony, and his eyes were deep with knowledge.