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

by Sean Rodden

  “I see,” said he, softly, dispassionately.

  Behind Tulnarron, the ranks of mirarra-mounted Fiannar were statuesque in their stillness, in their silence.

  Rundul continued, “Suru-luk has amassed an army in the hollows of the earth beneath the Bloodshards.”

  Again, without inflection –

  “I see.”

  “The Blood King readies for war.”

  The sun was high, the skies were clear, the wind was quieted and resting – a day of late summer that but for the blight of death about Fongar ur Piruth would have been halcyon, serene, without stain.

  “So war comes, then,” spoke Tulnarron. His voice was as ice, smooth and cool. Crystals of cold light twinkled in his eyes. “The House of Eccuron will welcome the thralls of the Blood King with the kiss of northern steel.”

  Rundul’s night-black eyes narrowed.

  “They are forty thousands and more.” A brief but poignant pause. “And among them is a kuarok.”

  Tulnarron stared at the Daradun Warder for a moment, meeting his eyes levelly, grey on black, ice on obsidian.

  “Even so.”

  And then the earth screamed.

  The Iron Captain held up one hand, and the ambassadorial company halted at the foot of a gently sloping hill.

  “Over this rise, Lionnus?”

  The young guardsman nodded his head enthusiastically. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Very well, then.”

  The stony façade of Bronnus Teagh’s face masked the scowl that lay beneath. He did not share the outrider’s eagerness. The Fiannar were an unknown entity to the Erelian captain, and the unknown was untested, and the untested untrusted.

  “Draconarius, Lionnus, you are with me,” Bronnus commanded. “Hastiliarius, Regorius, remain here and ward the Ambassador.”

  “Oh, that will happen,” smiled Axennus Teagh, his voice veritably dripping with sarcasm. His lively hazel eyes sparkled sardonically. “The Right Tenant and the Decan, for all their exceptional ability, may find my warding rather difficult here, when I am with you there.”

  His nod indicated the rise before them.

  The Iron Captain glared at his younger sibling.

  “Brother, you are the Ambassador, and your safety –”

  “– is assured at your side,” interjected Axennus, casually, craftily, “more so than otherwhere.”

  Bronnus glowered.

  Axennus grinned.

  And in the Teagh brothers’ unending war of wills, Bronnus may have been iron, but Axennus was steel.

  “Hastiliarius!”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Remain here. Command is yours should something ill befall me.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Regorius!”

  “Aye, Cap. Ahh…yes, Captain.”

  “The Ambassador will be coming with us,” growled Bronnus. “Ward him well.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Really, my dear brother,” Axennus sighed with exaggerated disdain, leaning forward, arms crossed upon the neck of his grey, “I assure you, the Fiannar will raise no hand against me.”

  “Perhaps,” responded Bronnus, unsmiling. “But I might.”

  The Ambassador laughed.

  “Draconarius!” barked the Iron Captain.

  The banner-bearer nudged his mount forward.

  “Ready the flag!” ordered Bronnus.

  The White Eagle rippled in reply.

  And so, five abreast – the Ambassador middlemost, the Captain at his right shoulder, the White Eagle above his left, and Lionnus and Regorius on the flanks – the company ascended the grade in the Old Road.

  Axennus’ heart pounded in anticipation. Long had he dreamed of the Fiannar, that warrior race of myth and song from whom in part the Erelian people were believed to have descended. His face glowed with childlike wonder, his eyes shone in delight. And as they attained the hill’s crown, Axennus’ spirit soared.

  Directly to the north, upon the rounded crest of the next rise, backdropped by the dark mists of Doomfall, two grey riders sat astride magnificent mounts beneath the lordly banners of their people. Upon the left fluttered the noble standard of the Fiannar, a deep green field bisected by a diagonal stripe of brightest gold. And to the right flew the ensign of the ruling House of Defurien, a flaming sword, blade downward upon a field of steely grey, like a crux of fire in a storm-gripped northern sky.

  And in the valley between the two hills, the figure of Runningwolf knelt upon the stone road, his chin to his breast, his totem at his temple. At the Left Tenant’s side, his proud Rhelnian stallion had likewise lowered his head as though in reverential deference.

  For there, before man and horse, were two further grey-cloaked Fiannar upon splendid silver-maned mirarra. One rider was evidently tall, bright of both face and hair, and carried a long-shafted spear. The other was smaller in comparison, dark of lock though fair of complexion, and wore a long sword at the waist and a small oval shield upon one arm. Both were women.

  Axennus beamed. He had never seen such grandeur, such grace, in living breathing beings. The Fiannar and the mirarra were incarnations of courage and elegance, so very fine of form, one complimenting the other so perfectly, so seamlessly. Ah, such glory! The Ambassador had dreamed of this moment, this meeting, since before he could differentiate between the real world of the awakened child and the fantasia of the sleeping one. In some small way, the moment seemed more a memory, a thing of the long past, a reenactment, or a returning.

  The Iron Captain was not so moved.

  “What manner of beings are these Fiannar that Left Tenant Runningwolf pays them such homage?” Bronnus’ visage was as dark as a thundercloud. “Why does he prostate himself so?”

  “Prostrate, dear brother. Prostrate.”

  “If you say so.”

  Smiling, the Ambassador shook his head. “Whatever regard Runningwolf may hold for the Fiannar, I suspect this display of respect is not for their benefit.”

  “For whose, then?”

  Axennus’ eyes sparkled.

  “For that of their steeds,” he replied softly. “I believe Runningwolf bows before the glory of the mirarra.”

  “The mirarra?” The darkness upon Bronnus’ mien deepened. Incredulity knotted his brows. “He bows to the horses?”

  “Not horses, dear brother,” contended Axennus. “No mere beasts are the mirarra. They are to horses as the Fiannar are to Men. Apart and above. The Rhelman, being what he is, sees this.” The Ambassador’s keen gaze flicked to Runningwolf’s Rhelnian stallion, the creature’s noble head low upon its powerful chest. “Evidently, Featherfoot sees this also.” Axennus glanced to his brother and smiled impishly. “Can it be that a simple beast might understand that which you do not?”

  Bronnus growled and his knuckles whitened on the reins.

  Decan Regorius shifted uneasily in his saddle.

  The Ambassador’s grin moved from the Captain down to the valley. Across the short distance, his gaze met eyes as grey as smoke and as bright as nightbound starlight.

  The smaller, raven-haired Fiann returned Axennus’ smile in a flash of perfect pearl-white teeth. The taller blonde woman sat astride her mirarran, still of face and form, the light in her own eyes turned inward as though upon her very soul.

  His gaze yet fastened to the faces of the Fiannar, Axennus placed one long hand on the Captain’s shoulder.

  “Shall we, brother?”

  Bronnus nodded curtly.

  “As we must.” He then reached up to grasp Axennus’ wrist in a grip of iron. “You will behave,” the Iron Captain commanded coldly.

  Axennus blinked innocently.

  “Oh dear,” muttered he, more than a shade of mockery to his tone, “it is as you have said – you are more the father than the brother!”

  “Axennus!”

  The Ambassador sighed.

  “You need not concern yourself, Bron,” he assured, his voice impatient, purposefully patronizing. “I am beco
me a diplomat of the Republic. I will be” – he paused briefly, cocking his head to one side – “diplomatic.”

  The Captain grunted, choosing to respond to the words rather than the tone.

  “Very well,” said he coarsely, releasing Axennus’ wrist. “We will go down to these people, these Fiannar – and their horses.”

  The five descended the grade at a canter and approached Runningwolf and the two grey figures of the Fiannar.

  That which had not been entirely evident from the vantage of the hilltop became plainly and pleasantly obvious when the fore-company drew near to the two female Fiannar. Both women seemed relatively young. And both were beautiful. Exquisitely so. Their drab raiment of grey and forest green did little to mask their feminine forms, the one long and slender, the other small and shapely. The Erelians halted as they came before the women, each man finding that his thoughts had been stilled as though held in awe by objects of transcendent splendour.

  The smaller of the two had her raven hair pulled back and away from her soft oval face, the grey of her large eyes specked with sapphire, her pink lips things of which men might only dream. Her grey-mantled shoulders were slight, but square and proud, possessed of secret strength, and her bosom was high and full. One fine small hand was wrapped about the hilt of her sword in a perfect union of delicacy and danger, and the silver shield upon her arm was light but sure. The gold of her rillagh lay across her uncloaked breast like a stroke of sunlight.

  The other was tall, her bright golden tresses free and long, her brow high and fair. Her features were more precise than her companion’s, but no less fine, no less feminine. She was long of trunk and limb, like a sapling of the forest, as straight and as rigid as the spear she held balanced in the crook of one arm. Her soft white hands were folded before her as one might do in deep thought or prayer. Grey were her eyes, ringed in violet, fathomless pools of faith and fortitude, with an introspective turn that bespoke knowledge and wisdom. The golden gleam of her sash shone past the close wrap of her woolen cloak as though its light, its strength, could not be concealed.

  And the eyes of the mirarra shimmered silver in the sunshine.

  The smaller Fiann’s lips curved into a smile, soft and sweet.

  “Hail! Men of the South, cousins of the long past!” Her voice was as a song, or as the flow of a mountain spring. “The Fiannar welcome you.”

  Silence.

  The small one turned to her companion.

  “It seems that our friends from the South have remembered their blades, but forgotten their tongues.”

  Her companion responded with but the faintest of smiles.

  The speaker turned again to the men.

  “Long has been your coming along a road seldom taken by your people.”

  Axennus Teagh was the first to recover his voice.

  “I have oft been accused of taking the road less traveled,” said he quietly, as though from a great distance.

  The Fiann’s smile broadened whitely.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Ambassador Teagh.” Her speckled grey eyes flicked to Bronnus. “As does yours, Captain. The sons of Jophus Teagh are not unknown to the Fiannar.”

  “Then you have us at a disadvantage, my lady,” the Ambassador complained gently.

  The speaker returned her gaze to Axennus and laughed lightly.

  “My apologies, Master Ambassador,” said she cordially. “I am Caelle, Shield Maiden to the Lady Cerriste of the House of Defurien. With me is Sarrane, Mistress of the House of Eccuron and Seer to the Lord Alvarion. In the names of Lord Alvarion and Lady Cerriste, we welcome you to Lindannan, land of the Fiannar.”

  The Iron Captain regained his voice at last – and immediately wished he had not.

  “I did not know, Shield Maiden, that your people claimed ownership of any of the Middle Land under the Westwall.”

  Caelle peered at Bronnus thoughtfully, though not reprovingly, and there was no malice in her gaze.

  “The Fiannar claim ownership over nothing, Captain Teagh,” she countered casually, “but all land under our immediate protection and care we call Lindannan. And this –” she spread her arms “– is Lindannan.”

  “I intended no offense, Shield Maiden,” atoned Bronnus.

  “And I took none,” she replied. “Much of what once was commonly known is now forgotten in the South.” Then she smiled widely once more, playfully this time. “There is some irony in that you instructed your brother to ‘behave’, think you not, Captain?”

  Bronnus’ eyes widened and his jaw fell slack.

  “How did you…?”

  Caelle’s laugh was akin to a young girl’s giggle, and a childlike light danced in her eyes.

  “Even at a distance, Captain, the movement of your lips and tongue might be easily read by one capable of doing so.”

  Reflexively, the Captain’s mouth clapped closed, and he said no more.

  The Ambassador’s grin threatened to split his face in two.

  The black-tressed Fiann’s attention returned to Axennus.

  “Ambassador Teagh, know that the initial intentions of Lord Alvarion and Lady Cerriste were to greet you themselves, as they hold your coming to be a great honour,” she stated with irrefutable sincerity. “However, their attentions have been,” and for but the briefest of moments the smile departed the Shield Maiden’s lips, “deflected by matters unforeseen and of some consequence.”

  Axennus’ malleable mien deftly adopted an expression of appropriate tact.

  “Be assured, Shield Maiden,” replied the Ambassador with practiced adroitness, “we came bearing no such expectation, therefore we suffer no disappointment.”

  The Fiann’s smile returned, a knowing one. Something akin to mischief coloured the light in her eyes and tugged at the corners of her finely formed mouth.

  “I did say that your reputation precedes you, Ambassador.”

  Axennus made no reply, as he had none. Instead, his eyes dropped to the yet motionless kneeling form of Runningwolf, then returned to Caelle with one brow raised.

  “Master Abbawontandontas communes with the mirarra,” explained the Shield Maiden. “I cannot be certain, but I would guess the Rhelman’s totem animal is the mirarran.”

  The Ambassador raised his other brow.

  “He named himself to us in the Rhenian fashion,” Caelle imparted. “And it is well possible that a mirarran came to him during his Rite of Becoming in the wilderness, the Rhelnian ritual of passage from child to man. Understand that the mirarra are not wholly unknown upon the fields of the Horse Masters. Indeed, is not the Rhelnian breed of horse descended in part from the noble mirarra from Erellan of antiquity?”

  Abruptly, wordlessly, Runningwolf rose and fluidly mounted Featherfoot, the stallion then moving to one flank of the Erelian party. The Rhelman’s countenance bore a certain excitation beneath its characteristically taciturn exterior, and his loamy eyes gleamed with renewed life and light. Both Caelle and Sarrane nodded to him. And the intelligent argent eyes of the mirarra glittered in recognition of what had passed between beast and man.

  “You are well, Master Abbawontandontas?” Axennus Teagh grinned.

  Regorius, Lionnus and Draconarius, though yet captivated by the majesty of the Fiannar, found themselves able to chuckle.

  “I am well,” responded Runningwolf, his tone as flat as ever.

  In that instant, silent Sarrane’s head snapped eastward as though startled by a scream that had passed the ears of the others unheard. Her comely but stern countenance tensed, becoming suddenly severe. The violet that encircled the grey of her eyes blazed like rings of fire. Her hands unfolded only to wrap tightly about the shaft of her spear. She sucked a breath inward with an audible hiss.

  The laughter upon the lips of the Erelians died swift deaths. The Iron Captain edged nearer to his brother. Ambassador Teagh instinctively gripped the haft of his sword.

  Both mirarra turned and took two, three paces eastward.

  Caelle looked up
on her companion with visible concern.

  “What is it, Sarrane?” asked the Shield Maiden gravely. “What do you see?”

  The Seer of the Fiannar did not immediately respond, but only peered eastward, her widened eyes straining in their sockets as though shocked by that which only they could see. All gazes followed the Seer’s, only to fall upon the sun-gilded grasses of the rolling Northern Plains, a picturesque pasture of peace and tranquility. The summer skies were without cloud, the air warm and carried on a soft breeze. All was still and soundless, so very serene.

  Moments passed, and still Sarrane made no reply. Her eyes grew impossibly large, their rings of violet fire swirling violently. Yet she remained as rigid as a rod, as silent as the hush of death.

  And then, with a sharp and salient suddenness –

  “Ware! Ware!” cried the Seer, her voice fell and terrible. “A red wind comes!”

  Ambassador Teagh met Runningwolf’s knowing brown gaze.

  We must beware the wind’s return.

  The Rhelman blinked placidly.

  Peril awaits us.

  “There is sorcery at work,” continued Sarrane, her voice fallen to a chill calm. “A red wind is spawned of blood magic and carries terror to the west on crimson wings.” And colder, calmer still, “We must resist this thing.”

  Caelle reacted instantly. She swung her mirarran to face Bronnus.

  “Captain! Your men are in danger! You must summon them. This valley may provide some shelter.”

  Bronnus Teagh hesitated, for he neither saw nor sensed any peril. And he had ever given mindsight and sorcery little thought and less credence.

  “Captain!”

  Whether for the urgency in the Shield Maiden’s voice, for the iron of the command it held, or for Axennus’ imperative tug on his arm, Bronnus raised a silvered battle horn to his lips and blew. The blast battered the hills like the peal of a southern storm. The rumble of massed hoofbeats was evident before the note’s echoes ended. Fourscore and fifteen guardsmen crested the hummock, bronze armour aglitter, and galloped down the hill’s northern grade in a wave of Erelian blue.

  A subtle gesture from Caelle, and the Fiannian standard-bearers descended to the Shield Maiden from atop the northern rise, two tall warriors grey of eye and mantle.