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

by Sean Rodden

  “Very true, Ruby,” conceded the Decan. “He must want us to know. He obviously has a plan for us.”

  The four fell silent then, save grunts and curses, as they scrambled over a particularly treacherous stretch of moss-slicked scree.

  All shared the same simple thought.

  Shit.

  Attaining the High Land, the ambassadorial party once again turned north along the lip of the precipice above the city toward the head of the Silver Stair, then west against the flow of the River Ruil. In some time, the company came to a broad bridge of carved stone spanning the Ruil, and they crossed through mist and moonlight to the northern shore.

  There, along the riverbank, were a series of disparate structures, generously distanced from one another, each surrounded by a cluster of outbuildings. Each main structure was distinct from the next in character and architecture, and all were very unlike the Fiannian delvings and design at Druintir. Though neither Harlastian nor Varonin spoke aught of the buildings – they were men not given to unnecessary narration – Axennus readily deduced the nature and purpose of each building.

  The Embassies of the Free Nations, structures as diverse and as defined as the cultures they represented.

  Eastmost was a greathouse walled of large stones and roofed with thatched sedge. The sound of flute and harp, of laughter and song, rode the glowing wings of lantern-light through glassless openings set into the stone. A group of men and women decked in coloured woolen wraps danced and frolicked upon the dew-silvered grass, pausing in their ribaldry only long enough to watch the Southmen pass, marking every movement of the outlanders with bright suspicious eyes. Above the greathouse, light of moon and star revealed a sunburst against a field of green, the flag of redoubtable Rothanar proudly aflutter in the northern nightwind.

  The company then passed a great manor of clay-packed pine-wood, a tall chimney of mortared stone rising at the rear, from which a thick oily cooking smoke slithered snakelike into the night. The heavy odours of pork and port emanated from the main doorway, about which stood a knot of tall, thick-bodied men, long of hair and beard, and clad in fur and leather, one of whom raised a closed fist to the Erelian troop and shouted, “Sea and slaughter!” From a pole of pine undulated a scarlet sea serpent in an ocean of blue, the binding banner of the wild and warlike Nothirings.

  Then came a small keep of carven stone, polished and pristine. The design of the structure was simple and sound, the styling sensibly subtle, consisting of a central donjon encircled by low walls that connected a series of crenellated turrets. The wrought iron gate set into the front wall had been thrown wide in trusting welcome, though a pair of helmed, armoured and halberd-bearing sentries were at rapt attention, one to a side. From the spire of the main tower reared a trio of white lions upon a plain of gold, one major rampant flanked on either side by a minor – the brave banner of the neophyte city-state of Ithramis.

  And lastly and westmost was a whitestone citadel worthy of the most gifted artisans of Hiridith. Consisting of a single tower of gleaming marble rising betwixt two long wide wings with white-limed outer walls, and fronted by an impressive colonnaded stair, the structure was very much in character with the most modern of Erelian designs. From the spire of the tower rose a tall brass flagstaff, a lustrous arm reaching toward sky and heaven, the lofty but yet unclaimed perch of the noble White Eagle of the Republic.

  “The Erelian Embassy, Ambassador,” Varonin of the Grey Watch monotoned, the first and only words either Fiannian warder had uttered since departing the Colossus of Defurien.

  “Surely, this is the work of Erelian hands,” the Iron Captain stated.

  To which Harlastian contended, “We may be a people much diminished, Captain, but skill in stone and timber has not wholly forsaken the Fiannar.”

  And with no further word of either wisdom or welcome, the two Watchers turned and rode back into darkness, grey ghosts of power and peril, extraneous essences of the very night.

  The brothers Teagh shared a shrug.

  The younger said, “Should they be a diminished people, one can only wonder what they may have been in the days of their glory.”

  And the elder replied, “A little less lacking in courtesy, perhaps.”

  “Their invitation was a courtesy in and of itself, dear Bron, and this marble manor with which they have gifted us is a gesture beyond compensation. There can be no doubt that our own Senate had neither word nor hand in the erection of this palace.”

  “Very true, Axo,” Bronnus grudgingly admitted. “Only two nights past, I went to my bedroll with visions of pitched tents upon grasses browned by horse dung.”

  Axennus laughed. “You are beset by strange demons, Bron.”

  Fresh feed and clean water awaited the wearied horses, and within the White Manor – for that was the name swiftly bestowed upon the Embassy – an array of sweet fruits and spiced meats and casks of chilled summerwine had been set out in the mess for the men. Beyond the mess, within the eastern wing they found the barracks, four guardsmen to a chamber, and past these were beautiful Gendurii baths. The western wing likewise held the bedchambers, baths and offices of the Ambassador and the men of rank.

  And located centrally toward the rear, beneath the belly of the tower, the tiered seating of a grand oval theatre sloped downward to the Council Circle, a large round table of polished stone about which had been placed thirteen tall-backed chairs of knotted ash.

  The Circumforum.

  “Thirteen,” Axennus muttered thoughtfully. “A number of peculiar choosing. I wonder of the significance.”

  “Perhaps none,” Bronnus replied dismissively.

  “Perhaps,” Axennus conceded, though his tone evidenced some skepticism – for the Fiannar had impressed upon him that they were a people not given to practices without purpose.

  Lionnus approached.

  “Ambassador. Captain. We have guests, sirs.”

  Axennus and Bronnus followed the young guardsman to the pillared front hall of the White Manor and found waiting for them there a group of bonhomously curious Rothmen.

  “Welcome, Southfolk,” said their apparent leader, his distinctive acrolect particular to the court at Cara. The Rothman’s eyes sparkled with innate inquisitive intelligence, their bright green light ever appraising, assessing. “I am Ambassador Dowdall.” And he thrust a flagon of ale into Axennus’ hand. “Get that down ye, and it will surely do ye good.”

  Knowing something of Rothic custom, Axennus threw the bitter brew back at a guzzle, wiping the residual froth from his lip with the back of his hand.

  “Up the High King!” he praised loudly.

  “Up the Republic!” grinned the Rothmen as one.

  Axennus smiled in turn.

  “That rolled easily off your tongues, my friends.”

  “Aye, it did,” replied the Rothic Ambassador. “Sure, didn’t it just sound right? One day, perhaps. Nothing against the present regime, of course.”

  “I think I would prefer pocheen to politics this night, Ambassador Dowdall.”

  Dowdall’s green eyes gleamed.

  Bronnus’ dark ones rolled in their sockets.

  The Rothmen laughed in recognition of Axennus’ kindred heart, convened an impromptu conspiratorial collogue, then urged the young Ambassador and his retinue to accompany them to the Fifth Folly, the local common house, where there had gathered “such a rabble of salt-suckers and iron-asses as to make ye wish ye could shite out yer eyes!”

  The poetic parlance of the Rothmen was often beyond even their own comprehension.

  When the horses had been rubbed down and stabled, and the men fed and quartered, Axennus and Bronnus gave the guardsmen leave from all duties for the night, and all but an abstaining few followed their newfound friends to the promising delights of the Fifth Folly.

  Set some distance north of the embassies of the Free Nations, the common house was little more than a ramshackle tavern of weathered pine plank and pillar, loud with shout and song, and warm wi
th the odours of drink and man and Rhelnian tobacco. Nothirings there were in number, tall and broad and raucous; and Rothmen, verbose and volatile; and Ithramen, though few, relatively reserved beside their Nothiric and Rothic counterparts.

  Warders of the Grey Watch observed in sepulchral silence from the shadows.

  “Preservers of the peace, I presume,” said Bronnus as he surrendered his weapons to a watchful warder. The Iron Captain’s tempestuous glower had seemingly become a permanent fixture on his face.

  “Welcome to the Fifth Folly,” beamed Ambassador Dowdall, unstrapping his sword belt. “What the first four may be, sure, I have no idea, but the fifth likely has something to do with what we Roths call the craythur.”

  “The craythur?”

  “The ‘creature’, Bron. We call it drink.”

  “Of course. Silly me.”

  Axennus clapped a hand on his brother’s broad shoulder. “The task set before us is clear, noble Captain.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  “What task is that, Axo?”

  “Effective compotation and jollification, dear brother. We must bring some southern civility to these northern barbarians,” Axennus resolved, ignoring Bronnus’ disapproving scowl and accepting from a decidedly delighted Dowdall a proffered jug of unidentified inebriant.

  “Let the lesson begin!”

  And thenceforth, the events and particulars of Axennus’ initial night above Druintir became increasingly resistant to recollection.

  Father and daughter had halted beneath the natural glory of the Andalorian Arch, the marble masterpiece marking the entry to the ancient city of Druintir. Carved by neither hand nor iron, but by millennia of wind and the primordial run of the Ruil, a course long since altered, the stone arc soared sixty feet at its highest, six-score across its base, raw, resplendent, regal. The Arch spanned the marble road, softly aglow in pale moonsheen, its thick northern pier rearing from the south shore of the Ruil, plinth and haunch and crown all formed of the same unbroken stretch of bedrock. Named for the Lord of the Fiannar who had wisely forbidden forever any carving or working of the natural rock formation, the Arch remained as it had been long, long, long before any mortal creature applied measurement to Time.

  There were no guards, neither inspector nor inquisitor, none to record who came, who went. Any who approached the Andalorian Arch, the gateless gateway to Druintir, would have successfully endured the icy-eyed scrutiny of the Grey Watch – or would have somehow destroyed those several hundred shadowy sentinels utterly.

  Caelle glided from the back of her mirarran, landing lightly, quickly relieving the shimmering stallion of his trifling tack. She ran one loving hand through the long silvery mane, the silken strands like warm wind sliding between her fingers. The beautiful beast lowered his noble head, touching temples with the Fiann. Caelle patted the sleek grey neck, smiled for the answering nicker, then whispered the animal away to the fair fields of the Miramarch.

  The Shield Maiden stood beneath the Arch, her mirarran’s tack slung across her slim shoulder, mist from the falls and light from the moon silvering her dark hair. One fine hand curled about the haft of her sword.

  Grim Eldurion remained mounted, his bald blade upon his lap.

  Caelle gazed up at him, her shining eyes speckled with sapphire starlight.

  “I will take some air, father. The road has been long. My knees plead for blood, my mind for solitude. I will join you in the Hearthhold presently, and there the Lord and Lady shall have my report.”

  “Be not overlong, daughter.”

  “I will not.” Then, “You spoke harshly of Tulnarron, father.”

  “I spoke of the Master of the House of Eccuron as I see him. He is rash and impetuous. He acts without thought, is reckless and unheeding of any counsel but his own. He mistakes boldness for bravery. Tulnarron is the Warden of the East. His place is here.”

  “But father,” she smiled impishly, pointing, “east is that way.”

  Grated grey Eldurion, “Impetuosity, it seems, is not the province of Master Tulnarron alone.”

  “Tell me, father,” mused the Shield Maiden, “how is it that the very qualities you consider reprehensible in Master Tulnarron, you find so endearing in me?”

  “Not so endearing, daughter.”

  But beneath the iron in his voice was a belying softness and warmth.

  “I just might tell mother you said that.”

  High atop the back of his mirarran, Eldurion’s arctic eyes glittered in the black tundral night of his hood. Caelle felt her father smile. There are some things even the deepest shadows cannot conceal.

  She pointed once again.

  “East.”

  A tempting lure, but the Marshal did not bite.

  “What of the Daradur, daughter?”

  “Brulwar will come,” she replied, lowering her hand to rest on the grip of her sword once more. “And Mundar. Rundul, also. It was the latter who discovered the abomination beneath the Bloodshards. We agreed it would be wise to have the Wild One remain at Doomfall. Though he does not name them foe, Dulgar harbours no great abiding love for some among the Athair. Assuming the Neverborn answer our call.”

  “Prudent,” nodded the Marshal. Whether the prudence was in the remaining or in the harbouring was unclear. “And Drogul? Will the Lord of Doomfall come?”

  Caelle shook her head.

  “Drogul was not there. He is somewhere in the Far North. I know neither why nor where, and Brulwar did not seem inclined to share.”

  Eldurion was silent for a moment. Within the shadows of his hood, the brightness of his eyes seemed to decathect.

  “Drogul will be missed. Both at the table and on the field.”

  “He may yet come, father. He has never failed us before.”

  “You possess your mother’s optimism, daughter.”

  “Balanced by a fair share of my father’s cynicism,” she chirped. “Each in moderation, of course.”

  “Of course. And the Southmen?”

  Caelle could not suppress a smile.

  “Well, you saw them, father.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I seek your opinion, daughter. I am aware of my own.”

  The Shield Maiden cocked her head to one side.

  “They are an interesting pair, father. Nay, intriguing. Ever at odds, yet never so. Always competing, but truly cooperating. Constantly quarrelsome but never quarreling. However unaware of it they may or may not be, their love for one another is abundant and absolute.

  “The elder is the simpler of the two, but only for the lack of superfluous complexity of character. He is direct, honest and sincere. Neither his courage nor his care for the men in his command may be questioned. His prowess in battle is the stuff of legends.

  “The younger is complex, intelligent, and his seeming immodesty is in truth a douce humility. He surfeits in daring and diablerie, yet he is also a man of reason, of cold calculation, and this balance served him with notorious lethality in the last Trade War. Indeed, he is a man of many humours, each captivating in its own way. He possesses and wields an almost fiendish intellect, yet can at whiles appear absurdly foolish. Forsooth, he is frequently a contradiction unto himself, at once a carefree child and the wisest of elders.”

  “A young spirit but an old soul.”

  “Precisely, father.”

  “The very man Sarrane saw in her vision.”

  “More.” Caelle smiled devilishly. “Not exactly hard on the eyes, either.”

  The Marshal’s mount stamped.

  The Shield Maiden cocked her head once more, disarmingly demure, waiting.

  The shadows in Eldurion’s woolen hood revealed nothing. His breath came as algid steam from the hollows of the cowl. One breath, two breaths, three. Then the Marshal’s mirarran tossed its regal head and turned.

  Rasped grim, grey Eldurion:

  “Welcome home, daughter.”

  And the night took him.<
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  “So what did he say, Dec?”

  Regorius looked up from his third jug of Nothiric mead. Or was it his fourth? The pink of his eyes had darkened to a distinct and disconcerting red. The chatter and laughter infusing the boisterous Fifth Folly hummed harshly in his head.

  “What did who say to…? What?”

  “The Left Tenant. Runningwolf. What did he say when you tried to tell him about the Doctor? He must have thought it very odd, you standing there, mouth open, saying nothing.”

  “That certainly is bloody odd,” muttered Maddus between swigs of undiluted uisce beatha. The vacuous aspect of his grizzled face indicated he had no inclination that he had spoken aloud. “Bloody Roths know their spirits, I’ll give them that.”

  Regorius ignored him.

  “Yeah, it was the strangest thing, Riff. He just stared at me in the way he does. You know the look, lads. Like he’s weighing your very soul – and judging it highly combustible. He just stared and stared. And then…well.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, then he just shrugged and ordered me to stop playing with myself.”

  “Again? What the –”

  “Aye, mate. It’s like he knows,” mumbled Maddus into his whiskey.

  As though struck, Regorius, Riffalo and Rooboong stared at their companion.

  “What?” Maddus looked up, left, right. Blinked. “What’d I say?”

  Rooboong turned to Regorius.

  “Listen, Whitey, we know you’re a Decan and everything, but can Maddy sleep in your tent from –”

  “Not a chance.”

  There had been a burning.

  The night reeked of sour smoke and fired flesh. The lingering memory of madness slashed the darkness with phantom blades, silent shrieks of terror tore at the edge of awareness, echoes of horror dragging cracked fingernails down the black slate of night.

  Kor ben Dor raised his milky white gaze from the soot-soiled trail he had been following. The spoor was old now, too old to have been of any actual interest, but he had followed it for the last few hours, doggedly even, though he did not know why, nor was he entirely aware he had been doing so. Darkness did not diminish the keenness of his vision, not in any physical sense, but it often drew a portion of him away and apart from himself. When this happened, he would drift in a half-haze, sometimes for hours, principally alert and acute of thought, but also separate, remote, removed. It had been so since his first real memory, a memory of agony, of penetrating pain, early in his twentieth year. A long time ago now. A very long time.