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

by Sean Rodden

  Then, his voice sifting like an invisible sea upon the bemurked sands of twilight, the Ambassador said softly, “I was unaware that wisdom and reason abandon you so readily, dear brother.” His tone was utterly bereft of banter, yet free of condescension.

  Sensing the end to mirth, all impulse for laughter departed the men of the Ambassadorial Guard, and they sat mounted in quiet, deferential stillness.

  Bronnus seethed but did not speak.

  “Be you truly of the opinion that our fortune, past or present, is dictated by the vivacity of my loins, then your ignorance is severe indeed and should not be so flagrantly and willfully flaunted.”

  Bronnus said nothing.

  The Ambassador’s voice, though he did not raise it, carried clear and strong so that all would hear and know:

  “The glorious North March Mounted Reserve was not disbanded for the reason proffered here. Our term of service ended when the war ended. We were neither a professional nor a voluntary force, but rather one conscripted of the idle, the unruly, the criminal and the simply odd. We were assembled solely to relieve the garrisons in the north, enabling the regular Legion forces stationed there to engage the Southfleetians at the front. Little more was expected of us than the policing of the provinces, and none would have even predicted that we would see battle.

  “I would like to believe I was awarded my original commission as a tenant in the North March Mounted Reserve by Legion Command because they wanted a young officer of some intelligence to whom this motley assemblage of misfits could relate. The truth of the matter is likely something else entirely, and is neither here nor there nor anywhere. But imagine my surprise when I learned the legendary hero of the Four Forts had also been assigned to the Reserve. I am still unraveling how my overly protective elder brother managed that, but it likely has something to do with debt owed our father’s estate by certain men of influence within Legion Command. That would explain the ‘how’…the ‘why’ remains a mystery to this very day. Whatever the reason, old Commander Cassus was ecstatic to have a true hero and proven warrior in the person of Bronnus Teagh as his second in command – so came the Iron Captain to the North March Mounted Reserve.

  “But when the old man came to the end of his tale, and no replacement was forthcoming from Legion Command, Captain Bronnus Teagh, in wisdom or in folly, declined command in favour of me, a junior officer with little practical battle experience, but whom the Captain considered a decent strategist and tactician. Again, it is unknown – to me – how a mere tenant came to be promoted to Commander, but diligent forensic accountings of the Teagh family fortune and Legion Command’s war chest would probably shine some light on this dubious mystery.

  “Yet what need had a policing force in the provinces for an able battle-planner? None. But Captain Teagh well knew I could not sit idle in the wilderness when the enemy was breaching Erelian defenses to the east and threatening the lands all along the River March. Thus it must have come as no surprise to him that my first decision as Commander was to muster the entire Reserve and ride east to the succour of beleaguered Northkeep.”

  Night was falling fast. The eastwind carried a dark chill. But neither dark nor cold caused the shivers that took each and every soldier of the Ambassadorial Guard.

  “The North March Mounted Reserve broke the siege of Northkeep. The Mounted Reserve made possible and performed the Miracle at Anthum. The Reserve came timely and unlooked-for to the Battle of Silver Bridge, wresting Republican victory from the black grasp of defeat and destruction. And the Reserve, war-weary, sleep-deprived, famished and exhausted, held the centre of the line in the final, decisive battle at Rhille-haven in the Delta.

  “Thus a legend was born.”

  The Men of the Ambassadorial Guard listened fixedly, absorbed, their attention rapt; the memories too near in time and dear in heart to have faded.

  Mists of the falling night, or of another origin altogether, dampened Captain Bronnus Teagh’s eyes.

  As one entranced by his own voice, the Ambassador to Lindannan continued:

  “The Reserve fought thirteen major engagements of the war, Erelian victories all, and we were ever foremost into the fray. Early on, we had simply, somewhat dismissively and often inimically, been called ‘Bronny’s Bastards’ by those few in Legion Command who acknowledged our existence. But soon, when referring to the Reserve, both friend and foe were to hiss the epithet ‘Ghost Brigade’, the former in prayer and hope, the latter in horror and despair. Forsooth, the very rumour of our proximity to the field came to cast the Southfleetians in fear and doubt, and soon their velvet-hatted masters put prices of ten thousand gold rods upon my head and another ten upon that of the invincible Iron Captain.” He glanced at his brother, and Bronnus lowered his eyes briefly. “A further ten thousand would have been awarded to the Southfleetian who might wrest our standard from us, so feared and notorious was the Blue Banner. But the Teller was to tell a different tale, and all these prizes would go unclaimed.

  “Remarkably, of the twenty-two hundred men that first rode to the relief of Northkeep and two years of war, twenty-one hundred and sixteen returned whole and hale to their grateful capital of Hiridith. And when the Republican Legions paraded in triumph and splendour through the streets of the Silver City, the people’s loudest, most raucous cheers were saved for the men of the North March Mounted Reserve – the grand and glorious Ghost Brigade.

  “Indeed, we had become more than a collection of unlikely heroes. We had become icons – men of steel, polished in legend and mythos. Men revered us, children adored us, women desired us. Balladeers, bards and poets immortalized us. Our coin was of little or no worth in the taverns, inns and brothels of the Republic – our acclaim was our currency. And the passage of time did not diminish our standing – to the contrary, our renown grew with each tale of our deeds retold.

  “But even in Hiridith – nay, especially in Hiridith – not all ears that heard these tales were particularly friendly.”

  The darkness deepened, seeming to slide from the starless firmament as though down a slope greased with midnight. The wet wind whistled eerily against the blackened face of the Westwall. The chill intensified to a more bitter cold. The horses nickered and snorted. But the Erelian soldiers said nothing. Only the white mists they exhaled betrayed they breathed at all.

  “Men of small minds in high places, namely the Senate, Legion Command, and – Teller forfend – the Temple of the Tome, grew wary of our popularity, and eventually came to fear the fervour of our fame. However foundless this fear may have been, for none among us possessed any political aspirations or want for power, our leaders deemed it wise to release us from service. The war won, the day of the North March Mounted Reserve, however bright it may have been, was done.

  “But what to do with the more than one-hundred-score veterans of the Reserve in their midst at Hiridith? Our presence in the Silver City made the men in power increasingly nervous, as they well knew their own popularity had waned, that the people had grown weary of the leadership’s self-serving ambitions.

  “Indeed, prior to the war, the Senate had so neglected the military that the Southfleetians, the wounds to their pride yet sore from their inglorious defeat in the First Trade War, had been understandably emboldened. Legion Command was rife with fools and imbeciles, puppets of the Senate whose only claim to command was fostered in so-called noble blood and nepotism. So when the Southfleetians struck, not only was the military ill-prepared and under-equipped, but incompetently led. The valour of the Legion soldiery and the Reserve notwithstanding, but for the intervention of the Nothirings at sea and the ride of the Rhelmen to our aid at Rhille-haven, the Republic would most certainly have been lost.

  “And the people of the Republic knew this to be so. They shouted down the legitimacy of the establishment. Dissentient voices called for change. And they cried my name in the hope that I might enact such change. And the Blue Banner became a symbol for that change. It is no great wonder that the small-minded men
believed we were preparing an insurrection, conspiring to replace the incumbent powers with a military dictatorship – for that is what they themselves would have done.

  “My father, in conveying to his sons the virtue of honesty, once said, ‘The true punishment for the dishonest man is not that he is not trusted, but that he can trust no one else’. Would that Jophus Teagh had saved some wisdom for the fools in power before he came to the end of his tale. Not that they would have listened.

  “Those same fools and small-minded men sought to end the peril we supposedly posed to their power. But they could neither execute nor banish us without dangerously inflaming the populace. They could not discredit us publicly, as our conduct while in uniform and in active service was exemplary. Admittedly, some of our activities since our discharge from service have been colourful, but no more so than those of any other group of Legion veterans. The powers were at a loss for a way to deal with us – and then, as is often her wont, Fate intervened on behalf of all.

  “One day in midsummer, an emissary from the Fiannar in Lindannan arrived in Hiridith and approached the Senate with a proposal. The Lord of the Fiannar had invited all the Free Nations of the world to establish embassies in Druintir, grand city of the Fiannar at the Pass of Eryn Ruil. Nothira, Ithramis and Rothanar had already accepted the invitation – would the Erelian Republic care to be represented at Druintir by a delegation of her own?

  “Those that lack vision due to the smallness of their minds do not necessarily also lack cleverness and agility of thought. Indeed, I am told that Senator Fallus was extraordinarily swift to suggest that I be selected to lead the Republican delegation in the new Erelian Embassy at Druintir. His motion was quickly seconded, and in a matter of moments, the decision was unanimous – confirming my father’s oft-offered notion that fools seldom differ.

  “And so the dilemma presented by the Reserve was solved – behead the beast and the body will die. I was to be appointed Ambassador of the Erelian Republic to the ancient Fiannian land of Lindannan, ostensibly as a reward for my service to the Republic during the war. I accepted the honour graciously – for an honour it truly is, however maliciously intended. Lindannan! Druintir! The Fiannar! Strangely enough – and it hurts me sorely to admit this – my desire and that of the Senate were and remain one and the same.

  “With me to Druintir would go five-score men of my choosing as an elite Ambassadorial Guard, the only stipulation being that said one hundred were to be drawn of the veterans of the North March Mounted Reserve. I requested volunteers. To a man, the other twenty-one hundred and fifteen veterans of the Ghost Brigade – including the Iron Captain – offered me their services. I was permitted but one hundred. I chose only those men who had neither wife nor offspring, nor binding ties to the Republic of any kind, and whose only great romance was with life itself.

  “And so, amidst great fanfare and aplomb, we rode forth from the Silver City. Rather than follow the well-traveled North Road with its taverns and brothels and sordid way stations, I chose the Old Road under the Westwall for its beauty, its quietude, its remoteness. None protested. Along this ancient way of our forefathers, there is wonder even in the rain, and magic in the mist.

  “I am contented – even should there be some among us who are not.”

  The falling darkness, though tangible, was not yet complete, and through its ermine folds Bronnus saw the shadowed mask of his brother’s face. Whether a result of Axennus’ monologue or a trick of the night, the young Ambassador appeared older in some way. There was a certain depth, a wisdom that comes seldom to the young, underlying that youthful, malleable countenance. Bronnus saw something of their beloved father in his brother’s night-dimmed visage.

  “Well told, little brother,” he said sincerely, the stillness of the gathered guardsmen silently echoing the sentiment. “Perhaps I have been overswift in finding fault with you. Should all be indeed as you say, then I would withdraw my harsh words, naming them false and unfounded.”

  “But you are not entirely convinced.”

  “No,” replied Bronnus. “I am not. There remains the matter of the Senator’s daughter…ahh…daughters.”

  The Ambassador gazed at his brother, his eyes glinting in the night.

  “Ah, dear brother, the skull truly does thicken with age, does it not? Admittedly, I am not without my human failings, foremost among them my predilection for beautiful women, and second most, my inability to forgive a maliciously intended wrong done me. When Senator Fallus named me Ambassador, in effect exiling me from the nation I love – however pleasant that exile might prove – he sparked in me the fires of my two greatest flaws. Thus, in the matter of the Senator’s daughters, I look to the old adage of felling two game fowl with but one arrow.”

  Bronnus’ brows furrowed as comprehension once again eluded him.

  “You see, good Captain Bronnus,” the Ambassador explained blandly, though laughter pranced joyously in his eyes, “we were not ushered from our country because I bedded the Senator’s daughters – rather, I bedded the Senator’s daughters because we were ushered from our country!”

  Amid the uproarious laughter of one hundred guardsmen, the Ambassador flashed his perfect smile and, in a dark swirl of cloak and hair, swung his mount away from his gape-mouthed brother.

  And in that moment the persistent miseries of the mizzle and the Captain’s ire both sighed themselves away.

  “The Captain was not amused.”

  “No surprise there, Whitey,” shrugged Maddus. He shook the little leather pouch filled with pebbles and finger bones. “He’s called the Iron Captain, and iron’s got no bloody sense of humour. It’s not like he’s called the Happy Captain.”

  The night was old and cold and bitterly damp, and a hoary chill gnawed both flesh and bone. While most members of the Ambassadorial Guard not posted as pickets or paddock wards had long retired to the comparative comfort of their bedrolls, a small group of determined diehards remained huddled on their haunches around the low orange glow of the last surviving campfire. All about them, from within weather-stained tents, rumbled the snores of their comrades, some deep and droning, others wet and wheezing.

  Maddus spat against the resulting sonorous buzz in his brain.

  “I dunno, Maddy,” replied a long gangly youth, his whiskerless cheeks ruddy from the chill. “Maybe he just hides it well. I like to give Cap a little more credit.”

  Maddus snorted and shook the small bag more vigorously.

  “Always lookin’ on the bright side, aren’t ya, Riff? Gets bloody annoying after a while. Look, the man was in a huff for forty days, mate. He isn’t gonna get over it anytime soon. And by the Teller’s Tongue, we’ll be the ones paying the price, that I promise you. Probably catch the rearguard gig tomorrow.”

  “Just toss down already, Maddy,” grumbled Regorius impatiently. “Shake that thing any more and it’s gonna burst in your hand.”

  “Bet he’s used to that, Dec,” commented the huge black-skinned man beside him.

  The albino Decan chuckled softly. “Even I wouldn’t take that bet, Ruby.”

  “Rooboong.”

  “What?”

  The big man frowned. “My name is Rooboong.”

  “So?”

  “So call me Rooboong.”

  “Why? We’ve been calling you Ruby for, what, almost four years now…”

  “I’m black. A ruby is red. Maddy might get confused. He’s only just wrapped his head around calling you ‘Whitey’, after all.”

  Regorius and Riffalo shared a snicker.

  Maddus scowled, the lines upon his brow seeming like actual cracks in his weatherworn skin.

  “Sometimes I’m sorry the Legion broke your buggered black ass free of those ’Fleetian fetters, Ruby. Other times it just pisses me right off.”

  “Maybe you should toss down before Ruby decides to step on you, Maddy,” suggested Riffalo banally. “My annoying optimism notwithstanding, I doubt you’d survive the experience.”

 
Maddus made a face, gave the bag a final furious shake, then spilled its contents on a clear patch of ground by the fire.

  The four guardsmen stared in startled silence.

  Thirteen stones, each flat and round and carved with a number on one side, had landed bare face up in a perfect circle. Within that circle, a dozen intricately etched finger bones had come to rest in the distinct formation of a cross, three to an arm, with the fourteenth and largest stone at the origin, its numbered face down like all the others. Two further phalanges, the smallest ones, had fallen some distance outside the circle, one resting against the other.

  The four guardsmen rose as one, each backing away a step, then two, exchanging quick anxious glances.

  The game they had been playing was called Stones and Bones, a confoundingly complex pastime popular among the more cerebrally gifted members of Legion soldiery, its rules differing slightly with each platoon, with each squad, often in the decided favour of the resident ‘bagmaster’. As a game, beyond the very real possibility of making paupers of reckless players – and for those who tossed down under the sharp eye and very malleable rules of a certain albino bagmaster that possibility leaned quite heavily toward probability – Stones and Bones was usually relatively harmless.

  But Stones and Bones had not always been just a game, and losing a month’s pay was not the cause of the deep discomfort the four veterans gathered about the guttering campfire now experienced. Each man was aware that the game had derived from an ancient method of divination, a method still employed by some seers and soothsayers in Hiridith’s seedier sections. None of the guardsmen knew the specific relevance of the circle-and-cross portent that had so peremptorily presented itself. Nevertheless, all felt a chill colder than the dark damp night sliding like black ice over their souls.

  Eventually, Maddus cleared his throat. “That’s…ahh…odd.”

  “Very,” affirmed Riffalo, nervously brushing a wayward shock of wheaten hair from his eyes.

  “Know what it means?”