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

by Sean Rodden

  And she strode swiftly away.

  Dun…

  Alone with his brother, Axennus followed Bronnus’ gaze to the mountain, hearing the hollow thunder of the Daradun drums, feeling the earth rock and roll beneath the hard leather heels of his boots.

  “The truth of our own ancient histories is oft obscured by time and mistelling,” he offered Bronnus in consolation, “but of the Daradur one detail is constant, and that is that they are roused from their stone halls by two things only.”

  Dun…

  The Iron Captain looked upon his brother’s intelligent, handsome face. Quietly, “And those two things are…?”

  Dun…

  A peculiar gleam brightened Axennus’ eyes.

  “Wrath and war.”

  Doom.

  The drums in the earth were indeed a summoning.

  The threnody of netherearthen thunder thrilled through stone and soil to all Wandering Guard that had ventured away, urging them to return to the rearing rock of Raku Ulrun, beckoning them back into the bosom of the Dragon.

  Wrath and war.

  They had been called. The mara Waratur of the Daradur. Mighty of the mighty, guardians among Guardians.

  Had been called.

  And were coming.

  They came from the foot of the hoary Peacekeepers. They came from the blasted wastes of far Horachia. From the murk and dark of Mroch Durva. From the fetid Fen of Zelrecha. From the burning dusts and sands of the Dunelands. From all the wicked and wretched places to which their unceasing war of watchfulness had taken them.

  And they came from beneath the blood-drenched standing stones of Fongar ur Piruth.

  Bearded faces set with grim resolution, eyes bits of heated obsidian, Dulgar and his troop of Wandering Guard had chased the sun across the Plains, had seen it fall, had raced the risen moon in the descended darkness, running on through the night and into the dawn. Their short, stout legs churned like powerful machines beneath the considerable weight of their heavily muscled frames, propelling them tirelessly across the Plains. Their feet hammered the earth, making it a drum of their own, pounding, pounding, heedless of any who might hear them, might see them.

  Such was their haste. Such was their need.

  Like juggernauts of war, the Wandering Guard raced before the rising sun, mighty revenants riding the spearpoints of dawn. Hours passed. Leagues passed. They did not tire. They did not slow. The sun sailed toward its zenith. And the Daradur rushed onward. Onward and westward.

  Harkening to the heart-song of the Dragon.

  “You tarry, mudfucker,” growled Dulgar as he fell back to Rundul’s side at the rear of the race. The crimson-maned Captain’s solitary ebon eye seemed to flare in disapproval, in accusation.

  From between clenched teeth, Rundul replied, “You don’t need to be reminded of my shame. Neither do they. Dishonour and disgrace are things better left unflaunted.”

  Dulgar snorted, spat.

  “Shame is for those without fuckin’ honour, Rundy.” His words were punctuated by the heavy rhythmic thudding of his footfalls. “And I’ve already told you that what you did was honourable. You fuckin’ doubting me, fuckbeard?”

  Rundul scowled into the wind, and he asked bitterly, “I wonder, brother, would you have run?”

  Abruptly, the Wild One laughed, and there was something of madness in the sound.

  “You know that I wouldn’t have fuckin’ run, brother,” he responded fiercely, his beard and hair flaring wildly about him like fire in a whipping wind. And again, with certainty, “I would never fuckin’ run.”

  Rundul said nothing. The pounding of his feet on the turf returned him in mind and time to his furious flight from the Bloodshards, from the abominable secrets within its dark deeps. The shrieks of past pursuers echoed in his ears, careening within his memory, cackling. Each thump of boot on earth seemed to emphasize and reiterate his unworth, as though the very ground shuddered in a shared and sorry shame.

  “Yeah, I would’ve stayed,” continued the Wild One. The light in his eye took a maniacal sheen. “I would’ve fuckin’ stayed. I would’ve feasted on blood and death and the fuckin’ slaughter of the foe. I would’ve hewn a fuckin’ holocaust in the hollows of the earth. The catacombs would’ve become veins gushing with the blood of my fuckin’ enemies. I would’ve stood until I could stand not one fuckin’ moment longer. When I could stand no more, I would’ve fought from my fuckin’ knees. And then I would’ve been killed.” A small pause punctuated by the percussion of feet flailing hard earth. “And I would have died with fuckin’ honour!”

  Rundul cringed inwardly. The wound on his back burned. Shame scorched his soul, something other than wind seared his eyes.

  He condemns me.

  And Dulgar concluded, “And in doing so I would have fuckin’ sacrificed us all for the sake of my terrible fucked-up pride.”

  Rundul glanced sidelong at the fierce and ferocious kor uri Waratur running at his side. The Wild One’s face was hidden within a hurricane of red hair, and nothing but black light and the sharp gleam of lunacy could be seen in his solitary eye. Yet there had been something in his words, in his voice. Something like understanding. Perhaps even forgiveness.

  Do you absolve me, brother?

  And then, without forewarning, Dulgar declared, “Our uldwan Dor has sent word that when the foe descends upon Doomfall, you won’t number among those who are to stand against them.”

  Rundul’s heart broke.

  His damnation was complete.

  Fuck.

  Well past middle-morning, when the shadows on the stone were short and shrunken, the drums in the earth fell silent.

  An invisible wave of relief rippled through the riders of the ambassadorial company. The air appeared to warm in the ensuing quietude, and the sunlight seemed stronger, brighter.

  Caelle rode in solitude and aphony at the head of the column, her raven locks flowing behind her like a cloak of midnight. The Fiann took little notice of the abrupt end to the Daradun drumsong. She had been unusually reticent since the breaking of camp and had insisted upon riding alone at the fore of the company for much of the morning. She had set a quick pace, leading at a trot.

  Neither the Ambassador nor the Captain had pressed her for reasons, diffidently falling in a few lengths behind the Shield Maiden’s magnificent mirarran.

  “The lady rides as one pursued by demons,” observed Bronnus coolly.

  Axennus nodded. “Or as one pursuing them.”

  Upon the left, the Dragon’s Head moved steadily southward, its twin horns honed and horrible, its dark and angry eyes ever watchful. The company drew parallel with Northhorn at midday, where the stone of the road gave way to hard packed earth, and then forked, the one branch continuing north to where the River Ruil rushed fast and frothing, the other breaking eastward toward distant Arrenhoth, seat of the noble House of Eccuron.

  But no path led into Eryn Ruil.

  The Ambassador, the Captain and the Shield Maiden gathered amidst a cluster of large broken stones some distance from the Road. Caelle sat atop a sizeable boulder, legs crossed beneath her, forearms resting easily on her knees. Axennus settled upon a stone, his back against another, booted feet atop a third, sipping from a waterskin. Bronnus remained standing, soldier straight, though he relaxed his martial bearing enough to lean one hand against a rearing rock.

  “We have come to the pass called Eryn Ruil,” stated Caelle as she accepted Axennus’ offered skin with a minute but gracious nod. “The pass is bounded by the Dragon’s Head to the south and, to the north, by the River Ruil beneath the knee of Rothrange. The eastern approach to Eryn Ruil is warded by a series of rises called the Seven Hills, by the golden Field of Cedorrin and by the ancient evergreen forest of the Fend.” She paused, sipped the water, and smiled. “You need look neither far nor overdeeply to find much beauty here, my friends.”

  “Truly spoken, Shield Maiden,” responded the Ambassador, his eyes absorbing the green of the land about him
. “The glories of Eryn Ruil and, indeed, of all Lindannan, are not altogether unknown in the South.”

  Caelle’s smile widened whitely.

  “What way to Druintir?” interposed Bronnus gruffly.

  Axennus laughed aloud.

  “You might forgive my brother’s blunt nature, Shield Maiden. Though he holds little appreciation for delicacy, he possesses a certain fondness for directness and clarity.”

  “Not unseemly qualities in these troubled times,” mused Caelle.

  And for a moment her mind seemed to wander elsewhere.

  Then, “Here the Old Road ends, my friends. We will take the path to the river, skirt the eastern edge of the Hills, then turn west again along the southern bank of the Ruil, behind the Maples, around the Warwatch, across the Field of Cedorrin, up and through the Fend and on to Druintir.”

  Bronnus frowned. “Sounds very…indirect. Can we not cross the Seven Hills themselves? Surely, the way of the Hills would be the shorter journey in both distance and time.”

  The Shield Maiden shook her head. “The Hills are forbidden,” she averred flatly.

  No further explanation was forthcoming.

  Momentarily, Axennus pursued a different course of conversation.

  “You have said that the Hills are seven, Shield Maiden. This is true also of the Hills of Hiridith, though they have not the greenery of those before us now.” He pursed his lips. “Where another might see coincidence, I see pattern.”

  Caelle smiled demurely, and her manner lightened. She tossed the waterskin back to the Ambassador.

  “Your mind is seldom idle, Southman.”

  “As is his mouth,” muttered Bronnus.

  Caelle grinned for the brotherly banter.

  “The histories of your people and mine are long intertwined, Master Ambassador.”

  Axennus gazed appreciatively, almost longingly, at the oak-crested escarpment of stone rearing near to the north.

  “Painful is it that such beauty be forbidden.”

  The Shield Maiden only smiled and said, “All will be made clear in time.”

  The Captain frowned.

  “You tantalize us with many promised revelations.” He leaned forward ever so slightly. “You demand much blind trust, Shield Maiden.”

  Caelle cocked her head to the other side, twirling a long lock of ebon hair around one fine finger. The gesture was disarmingly innocent, charmingly adolescent.

  “Not blind, Captain,” she said softly, “but simply…delayed in seeing. I ask only for patience.”

  “Passive ignorance, dear brother,” grinned Axennus. “Something with which you are not unfamiliar.” And then to Caelle, “Again, I ask forgiveness on my brother’s behalf, Shield Maiden. He is a suspicious man and abrasive by nature. Perhaps our father spanked him too often.”

  Bronnus directed a look toward Axennus that would have chilled the blood of any but the bravest of men.

  “The Captain’s concern is not misfounded, Ambassador,” replied the Fiann. “His is the responsibility for many brave good lives, and such a charge frequently inhibits forbearance.” Her sapphire-speckled eyes swam over to Bronnus. “His instincts reveal to him that I am troubled, yet he knows not why. I will answer him this. I have sent word to Druintir with Sarrane, but have received none in return. I ride blind – or delayed in seeing – knowing only that a time of grave peril is upon us and that my proper place is at my Lady Cerriste’s side.”

  The Iron Captain said nothing, but his brow smoothened, and he inclined his head slightly toward the Shield Maiden. Bronnus Teagh knew something of the burdens of responsibility, of duty.

  Of worry.

  The Ambassador, however, seemed distracted as he sipped at his waterskin. His bright hazel eyes appeared to belong to a face other than his own, as though his thoughts were focused not on the present, but on the past, or on the future. He ran a hand through his long dark hair, steadying himself in the aftermoments of a difficult decision made. He then met Caelle’s steady inquiring gaze.

  “Shield Maiden, it is my belief that we are come to Eryn Ruil in a time of war.”

  Bronnus Teagh’s jaw clenched, shut fast in shock.

  The Shield Maiden’s smoke-grey eyes peered coolly past her own surprise to the Ambassador. Her smile faded, but did not altogether fall. The hair twirled about her finger sprang free.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that assertion, Master Ambassador,” Caelle replied quietly, gently, her voice the sigh of the very wind. She rose gracefully to her feet, dropped lithely from the boulder, her hand falling reflexively to the haft of her weapon. “I know only that we are come to Eryn Ruil. However, should war be come also, the enemy will find me at my Lady’s shoulder – and will have cause to wish that I was not.”

  A chill ran the length of each Erelian’s spine. The cold in the wake of the Shield Maiden’s words would surely have made the empty eternity of the Neverending Ice seem decidedly tropical.

  Axennus swallowed. Hard.

  War it is, then.

  In the rearguard of the company, three of the four friends dutifully inspected their armour, their weapons, their gear, their mounts. Regorius, however, stood with his arms crossed upon his bronzed breastplate, a shock of white hair falling over his severely knotted brow. One foot tapped the earth repeatedly.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered aloud to himself. “I just don’t get it.”

  Hearing the Decan, Maddus followed his gaze past many milling guardsmen and mounts to where the little Diceman sat placidly astride a small steed, practically a pony, patiently awaiting the imminent call to ride.

  “No surprise there, Whitey. You don’t understand much.”

  The Decan did not respond to the joust.

  “What doesn’t Dec understand, Maddy?” asked Riffalo, mounting his charger in his usual awkward manner.

  “Didn’t I just say ‘everything’, you long-shanked shite?”

  “Well, no,” said Riffalo, grimacing, “not actually.”

  Regorius shook his head.

  “I don’t get the Doctor, Riff. Aside from his armour, his swords and his clothing, the only thing that man has with him is the chest that was at the foot of his bed. It’s there, strapped behind him. But even that looks smaller than it did.”

  “Maybe all his stuff is in the chest,” shrugged Rooboong.

  Maddus laughed aloud.

  “Ruby, you’re even stupider than you are black, mate.”

  He didn’t even see the huge fist that knocked him silly.

  Seeing the most abrasive of his four former visitors go down, Teji Nashi casually turned his back to the rearguard, lest the increasingly curious and vigilant Decan see his smile.

  And in doing so found himself face to face with the Shield Maiden of the Fiannar.

  The Doctor’s smile died.

  Oh. Dear me.

  Caelle only peered at the Diceman from aback her great grey steed, her marvelous mien a mask of marble, her steely stare like a sharp and shining spear.

  Probing, piercing, penetrating.

  A moment only. Then those lovely lips curved into a small and knowing smile. And she whispered –

  “Thank you.”

  Then a horn sounded the resumption of the ride, and the magnificent mirarran turned and bore the Shield Maiden away.

  Teji Nashi sighed softly.

  Most welcome.

  As they moved east and north, then north and west, upon the outer marches of the Seven Hills, the men of the ambassadorial company shared a collective wonder for the lustrous landscape of Eryn Ruil. The southmost of the seven rises was crowned in oaken splendour, sylvan stands rising heaven-high into the crisp light of the afternoon sun. Then came one, two, three softly rolling hills, each blanketed in whispering waves of green and gold, grassy seas rippling before a gentle wind. Behind these and westward could be seen two formations of stone – the majestic crag of Sentinel Ridge and the imposing weather-hewn rise of the Warwatch. And lastly and northmost c
ame a hill crested with mighty maples of height and girth and strength to rival those of their great oaken cousins to the south.

  Shortly before the party reached the Maples, there came a change in the afternoon air, a subtle cooling and a dampening. Soon the breeze brought the sound of wildly rushing waters, of rapids cutting through rock. The roar rose as the men rode northwestward, a cacophony of crash and crush, the shouted surge of the white-crested River Ruil. They came upon the run of the Ruil with risen hearts and brightened eyes, each man an awestruck witness to the river’s white-watered rush from the upper land down into the east. Steep upon the Ruil’s northern shore, above the swift current’s mist and spray, rose the great grey rock of time-weathered Rothrange, the mountainous southern boundary of the highland kingdom of Rothanar.

  A subtle gesture from Runningwolf directed the Ambassador’s attention skyward. There, level to the soaring summits of Rothrange, the great winged form of a throkk floated effortlessly on the high northern breeze.

  “Magnificent,” marveled Axennus beneath the sailing silhouette of the lordly warbird. Both sunlight and wonderment reflected in the Ambassador’s upturned eyes.

  “The very wings of the Fiannar!” he called to Bronnus.

  But his voice was taken and drowned in the roar of the Ruil, and his brother rode onward at his side, unhearing and oblivious.

  The company turned westward along the Ruil’s stony southern bank, the lush green of the Maples to their left, the rush of the river and the rising rock of Rothrange upon their right. The ground began to slope noticeably upward as the Erelian party moved past the treed hill toward the towering flat-topped stone of the Warwatch. Leaving the riverway, the Shield Maiden of the Fiannar led the Southmen about the stony base of the Warwatch, the clamour and crash of the Ruil’s white waters receding with each falling hoof.

  “Curious,” said the Captain as they rounded the Warwatch. “We are so near to the city, yet neither soul nor sign do we see.”

  “Quite singular,” agreed the Ambassador. “One would think the land unpeopled.” He raised an eyebrow toward Runningwolf. “What say you, Left Tenant?”