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

by Sean Rodden

  Led by a resolute Regorius, the four guardsmen quickly traversed the forechamber, then ducked beneath the low, narrowed midsection of the tent and passed into the space beyond.

  This second chamber was of like size and shape to the first, but there all similarity ceased. Soft white light, gentle on the eye, illuminated the space, and the air was warm, humid yet not cloying, much like that about the Gendurii baths in Hiridith. Unfamiliar floral fragrances floated almost visibly, weaving and wafting, tingling not unpleasantly in the nostrils of the foursome.

  Two long wooden tables dominated the chamber; one close upon the entrance and extending the entire width of the room, effectively prohibiting the guardsmen from proceeding any further; the other was pressed against the rear wall of the tent. The nearer table was heaped with tomes, manuscripts, scrolls, codices and tablets, a tumultuous turmoil of papyrus, parchment, bamboo, hide, vellum, wood, wax, clay and stone. The far table was correspondingly chaotic, the whole of its surface covered by hundreds of containers of myriad shapes and sizes; ampules, bottles, flasks, bowls and basins of glass, fired clay, copper, bronze, silver and even gold, holding fluids and powders of every imaginable colour. From several of these vessels, held aloft in the arms of alien apparatuses, steam and smoke of various shades and densities seethed and slithered toward the ceiling.

  Between the two tables, in the centre of the room, beneath a veritable jungle of hanging herbs, weeds and grasses, upon a tall slender stool, sat Teji Nashi.

  The Diceman’s small frame was hunched over, his back to the quartet. He was clad only in an indigo yukata, a shimmering serpentine shape stencil-dyed in a winding pattern upon the delicate Dicese cotton. His clean-shaven head was lowered, apparently intent upon an item on the table before him, or upon something in his hands.

  Decan Regorius was reminded of a scholar absorbed in reading.

  “It is an illusion of the epicanthal folds, you see,” said Teji Nashi, neither straightening nor turning around to face his visitors. His voice was quite soft, low, almost a hum, only slightly inflected with the distinctive accent common among natives of the Dice.

  Regorius cast his three companions a confused expression punctuated by two arched stark white brows.

  Riffalo simply shrugged.

  Rooboong’s black eyes nearly disappeared beneath an even blacker frown.

  “The epicanthus, you see,” explained Teji Nashi, remaining seated, hunched and averted, “is a feature common to us all when we are born, but one which those who are not of Elder Eastern origin will eventually lose. The Elder East was a frigid place, you see, and the epicanthal folds functioned to protect the eyes of my people’s ancestors from the extreme cold and the harsh glare of the sun reflecting off overly abundant snow and ice. You might also note a fold of skin of the upper eyelid partially covering the inner corners of the eyes of the coastal Toshi people and many of the tribes of Rheln, yes? All cousins, you see, all kin, however removed and estranged. We have lost much, very much, but we retain the epicanthal folds.”

  Maddus mutely mouthed, What the bloody hell?

  “Healer. Teji.” Regorius’ tongue seemed to have thickened in his mouth. “We don’t…we didn’t…”

  Teji Nashi straightened, stood.

  “You didn’t come for a lesson, yes? Ah, but every moment is a lesson, you see. Every moment, every breath. And you, my honoured guests, have now learned that the eyes of the Dicese people are not so – how do you say? – slanty, after all.”

  Regorius’ pale features went deathly white.

  “You…you heard that? From here?”

  Teji Nashi turned and smiled.

  His face was round, his smile white and without flaw, his thin dark eyes veritably dancing with light. His smooth round skull was shaved to a shine, his skin a glowing burnished shade. He appeared to be of middling age, but he could have been a decade older as easily as a decade younger.

  At the waist of his light cotton kimono was tied a wakizashi, the companion blade to the katana, identical to its mate in all detail save length. The wakizashi was the smaller of the pair of swords that comprised the daishō, the deadly duo of weapons exclusive to the esteemed warrior class of Dicese nobility.

  The serpentine stencil decorating his yukata revealed itself to be the image of a great golden dragon entwined about the man’s small frame, the beast’s head resting comfortably on one shoulder.

  “I have been expecting you, friends.”

  The four guardsmen stared in startled shock at Teji Nashi’s hands.

  The diminutive Diceman held his arms before him, elbows bent square, hands shoulder-width apart, index fingers pointing inward toward one another. From the tip of each extended digit a thread of golden flame arced toward the other, burning softly, casting little light and less shadow.

  Teji Nashi then lowered his hands and the string of golden fire was gone.

  The foursome remained riveted where they stood, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

  The Diceman smiled sweetly.

  “Left Tenant Runningwolf told me you would come, you see. He visited me last night, after your little experience with the Fist of Fate. I sought to ease his concerns, but the Rhelman is a stubborn fellow. Did the Left Tenant speak to you tonight?”

  The four guardsmen were able to exchange odd glances.

  “Well, yes, healer. Teji. He was very…strange.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Nashi…Teji…healer. He said we should come see you. Then, for some bizarre reason, he insisted that we stop…uhh…pleasuring ourselves.”

  Teji Nashi’s smile was saintly.

  “Despite his intellect and estimable efforts in the matter, the Rhelman’s developing mastery of the Westspeech has yet to embrace many inherent idiosyncrasies and subtleties of the language. A difficult thing at times, you see.”

  Regorius frowned. He did not see. He did not understand, not at all.

  “I think so, healer…Teji….uhh…what do we call you?”

  “Ah, yes, Decan, we have had little opportunity to socialize, you, your friends and I, so it follows that you would not know. Your martial prowess and good fortune are such that you have seldom been in need of a healer. Thus, four years of service in the same company notwithstanding, our paths have crossed but infrequently. Would it surprise you to learn that I was of the rank of undercaptain while in the Reserve? No, no, do not salute, the trappings of military hierarchy neither become nor interest me. Those who have had the misfortune to require my services simply call me ‘Doctor’, often abbreviated to ‘Doc’, a moniker of which I have admittedly become rather fond.”

  The four men lowered the fists they had raised to their hearts and managed dumb nods.

  “But come, come, friends. I am remiss. My preoccupations render me rude, you see, and I forget my more hospitable nature.”

  Teji Nashi gestured to the right with one hand, and the four guardsmen found themselves edging past a gap between the end of the interposing table and the tent wall, a gap that each would have sworn had not been there a moment earlier. When they had come around, there awaited them four stools identical to that upon which the Diceman had been sitting. These, too, each man would have insisted had not been present when they had entered.

  “Do sit, friends, and share with me your troubles.”

  The four companions settled silently upon the stools. All seemed to have wilted somewhat. Withered. Regorius appeared to have gone yet another shade paler. Even Rooboong looked a little less black.

  None spoke.

  “Forgotten your worries so soon?” said the Diceman, something like delight prancing in his bright brown eyes. “Good, very good. Stress is such an unhealthy burden, you see, and in this case so very unnecessary.”

  Teji Nashi seated himself once more, his hands folding together into the billowed sleeves of his dragon-emblazoned yukata.

  “Perception is paramount, yes? Thirteen stones in a circle, another at the centre, a bone cross held within, two more bones wit
hout. So many would see this as a disturbing portent, the terrible Crucible of the Dying Man. An understandable interpretation, as the cross is indeed evocative of a crucifix, you see. Understandable, even excusable, but awfully erroneous. The Left Tenant and the Ambassador must be forgiven their conclusions, yes?”

  Dumb nods.

  “Often, we see that which we wish to see, or that which we fear to see. Our ability to decipher truth objectively is incessantly afflicted with preconceived notions, prejudices, desires, dreads. It is in our nature to follow the easiest path, to leap to the simplest conclusions. The committed investigator must avoid such snares, yes?

  “Allow me to demonstrate.

  “Three men might perceive a thing in three very different ways, yes? Take this tent, for example. What image might it evoke in their individual minds, minds molded by uniquely personal histories and experiences? The first might see an hourglass knocked over on its side; the next, the figure of the number eight; the last, the mathematical symbol of infinity, eternity. All would be correct in their perceptions. But all err, also. The error is in not what they see, but rather in that which they do not.”

  Silence.

  “Perhaps an example with which you can more easily identify might be more helpful, yes? In the cities of Southfleet, the Decan’s albinism would be seen as an imperfection; worse, a curse, a mark of evil. Erelians differ in that they regard albinism to be an oddity, generally, grotesque perhaps, but not an overly foul affliction. I, however, see a man simply stricken with the hereditary inability to produce a particular pigment necessary for the more common peachy-beige colouring of the skin and whatever hue the hair and the eyes might ordinarily take.

  “As an aside, Guardsman Rooboong, obviously, does not suffer this same deficit; in fact, he produces the essential pigment in some plentitude, yes?”

  Utter silence.

  “Do I digress? Please forgive me, honoured guests. I will strive to make myself more easily understood.

  “The thirteen stones of the circle represent the moons of the year, the fourteenth being the sun, properly situated at the centre, around which all things are bound and revolve. The bones divide the circle into four equal sections – what else, but the four seasons, yes? There is a craftsman in Toshi who has created a most intricate mechanism, so compellingly similar in appearance to the circle and cross portent in question, a mechanism whose sole function is to measure and trace time. No, you would not know that, but the information is essential if you are to comprehend the true significance and import of the portent.

  “It is, in simple sooth, nothing more than a symbol of Time.”

  The little Diceman grinned.

  “Ah, I must infer from your silence that the revelation has captivated you so thoroughly that you now meditate upon its momentousness, yes? Good, good. Ponder the Circle of Time, friends. The curious mind must ever be nurtured.

  “But there is more, you see.

  “The stones all landed smooth side up, yes? This is significant, as it indicates that the immediate future has yet to be determined, that fate, destiny, predetermination have nothing whatsoever to do with what may occur over the next year. For good or ill, we are our own masters, you see. We will decide what is to come. Given the goodness of our natures and the innocence of our intentions, this can be seen only as a positive thing, yes?

  “But there is indeed a darkness to the portent, one which all have overlooked – all, save my own humble self, of course.”

  The four guardsmen fidgeted quietly upon their stools.

  “Consider the two little bones that fell outside the circle. A random roll, perhaps? Unlikely. I can only conclude that a pair of entities, yet to be identified, lying outside the Circle of Time, beyond its moderating sphere of influence, are to play an integral part in our futures. Unbound and unknown. Disturbing, yes? Not good, not good.

  “But do not trouble yourselves, friends. I will think on this.”

  The four guardsmen nodded as one.

  “Oh, and pay the red wind no mind. Simple blood magic, inexpertly wielded. Nothing to lose sleep over.”

  A minute gesture.

  Regorius and his companions rose.

  “Dwell no more on these things. And speak of our little chat to no others, yes? I would not wish to be thought of as anything more than a medic of some modest skill.”

  They nodded once more.

  The Diceman’s smile was exquisite.

  “Good, very good. I must think now. That is all, friends.”

  Moments later, as the four guardsmen moved away from the Doctor’s tent, in a burst of unpent emotional and physical tension –

  “What the bloody hell just happened in there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Me neither, Riff. How ’bout you, Ruby?”

  “Not a clue, Whitey.”

  “We barely got a word in!”

  “Did we even ask him a question?”

  “I think you asked his name or something.”

  “Where’d the bloody light come from? There were no lanterns!”

  “Not even a candle.”

  “No fire, neither.”

  “So how was it so bloody warm?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, there was that string of fire between his hands. I mean, did you see that?”

  “Freaked me right out!”

  “Me, too!”

  “Where did the chairs come from?”

  “There wasn’t even any bleedin’ poles holding the bloody tent up!”

  “Anyone else see the table shrink?”

  “Just where the hell did all that stuff come from, anyway? He’s only got the one goddamn horse!”

  “I swear that bloody dragon on his robe winked at me!”

  In their wake, as the four befuddled men picked their way through camp back to the comparative haven of their own tents, Lionnus met Draconarius’ amused gaze across the guttering flames of the campfire.

  Both men smiled.

  “Baaaaa-aaaaa-aaaaa…”

  5

  ERYN RUIL

  “Behold Colossus:

  Carved of intellectual steel and emotional stone,

  Hewn of granite sinew and iron bone,

  A monument to unyielding will –

  ’Tis but a strong man standing still.”

  Rodannus, Poet Primus of Hiridith

  The drums came with dawn.

  Sourced deep within the Dragon’s Head, their low thunder reverberated through earth and stone, a rhythmic rumbling in the rock.

  Dun-dun-dun-doom.

  There was a primal beauty to the sound, a primitive simplicity akin to flame and flowing blood. And the thrumming of the drums was accompanied by a rolling requiem, vociferous voices in the earth chanting a death dirge in harmony with the heartbeat of the mountain.

  Dun-dun-dun-doom.

  The Iron Captain threw aside the flaps of his tent, stepped forth, his brow furrowed, his face flushed.

  “What devilry is this?”

  Axennus appeared at his side. “Hardly devilry, Bron.”

  “What then?”

  The Iron Captain’s hand instinctively strayed to the pommel of his sword. His chest swelled.

  “Drums, brother,” grinned Axennus. His tone was light, free of care.

  Dun-dun-dun-doom.

  Bronnus’ frown darkened. “I know of no drum that can make this sound.”

  “Really, brother, one should not flaunt one’s ignorance so liberally.”

  The elder Teagh turned upon his sibling, his countenance dark with anger.

  But he then saw Caelle’s curiously unconcerned smile at Axennus’ shoulder, and his wrath deserted him, the blood of his ire ebbing from his face.

  “You hear the drums of the mighty Daradur, Captain,” the Shield Maiden elucidated. The light of the dawn sun played over her like a halo of gold. “Seldom are they heard, and never by mortal man, save only in times when need is most dire.”

  Dun-dun-dun-do
om.

  The Iron Captain’s frown became a black thing. “These drums are…in the earth.”

  “The Daradur are of the earth, Bron,” Axennus explained.

  “The Daradur are the earth,” corrected Caelle.

  “Surely that cannot be,” Bronnus protested softly, though the thrumming in the ground underfoot was as real as the rock.

  Caelle of the Fiannar placed one small hand on Bronnus’ arm.

  “I do not intend to further diminish the value of your beliefs, Captain.”

  Bronnus closed his eyes and was briefly silent as he willed himself to absorb and accept the latest alterations to his reality. He was a soldier, and adaptation was survival. And physically, intellectually, spiritually, Bronnus Teagh was a survivor. When he opened his eyes once more, they shone clear and bright, twin orbs of determined defiance glowering at the twin-horned enormity of the Dragon’s Head.

  “These Daradur must be commended on their courtesy, at the least,” Bronnus grumbled reluctantly. “They waited for dawn to commence their drumming. I will give them that.”

  “Courtesy.” Caelle laughed softly, truly amused. She released the Captain’s arm. “Not a quality often attributed to the great Stone Lords.”

  “What purpose do these drums serve?”

  “I am uncertain of their purpose, Captain, for even the Fiannar are not privy to the myriad mysteries of the Daradur. But I would suggest this drumming is a calling, a summons of sorts, becking all Daradur abroad to hasten to Raku Ulrun, this mountain that men call the Dragon’s Head.”

  Dun-dun-dun-doom.

  “And what dire need now compels them?”

  The Shield Maiden smiled, and for the first time her smile seemed forced, even false. And her only reply was, “Time will tell that tale.” A small pause, and a blue light swam in the grey pools of her eyes. Then, “Dawn is done. We will depart.”