by Sean Rodden
He placed a sword that seemed more sunlight than steel on the cool crystal surface of the Stone.
“I am called Thrannien,” spoke the next of the Athair to rise. His voice was dreamy, almost wistful.
Garbed in simple green and brown, he wore neither cloak nor mantle, nor jewel or gem of any kind. He was long and lean, and something in his stance spoke of salient strength and speed. His braided hair was the lustrous hue of polished oak, his features fine and flawless. And his eyes were of gleaming gold, farseeing and forever ashine.
“I am Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin, and a Lord of the Sun Knights of the Athair.”
He placed a great bow of immaculate ivory upon the Stone of Scullain.
Then rose the third of the Athair to make a Gift of his Name.
He was shorter in stature than the others, but no less possessed of power. He was cloaked and clad entirely in black, yet light still shone from his spirit as the sun shines past the moon of an eclipse. His hair was as shining black as the darkness behind stars, his eyes strangely colourless, his features at once gleaming and gloomy. But there was yet beauty there – beauty, strength and grace.
“I am called Yllufarr.” His voice was cold and dark, like the wind of a winter night. “I am Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin, and a Lord of the Sun Knights of the Athair,” – he withdrew a long silver knife from the shadows of his cloak – “though I have neither sword nor Sun Knights left to me.”
He placed the weapon on the Stone with an audible clink.
Tall and regal was the last of the Athair to rise. Though his form was narrow and lean, an ancient puissance pulsed from his presence, a surreal strength slave to neither youth nor sinew. Vestmented in luminescent white, gold upon his brow and woven into his hair, his beauty was beyond both measure and words.
“I am called Ingallin,” said he. His voice was the sound of a sigh, a whisper on the wind of time. “I am Prime Consul and Chancellor to Gavrayel who reigns in Gith Glennin.” One fine hand moved to brush aside a lock of winter-white hair that had fallen before the shine of his silver eyes. “You may trust that I have the King’s ear.”
He paused, his argent gaze sweeping the faces of those gathered in Hollin Tharric. And then, and with some ceremony, he set a sceptre carved of perfect diamond upon the Stone of Scullain – the royal wand of the Athain King.
“You might heed my voice as you would Gavrayel’s own.”
And then there was silence – silence but for the muted roar of the Silver Stair, and for the beating of thirteen mighty hearts. So great a company had not been gathered about the Stone of Scullain since the time of Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum. The gravity, the significance of that fact was lost on none there.
Though one, perhaps, found it to be of less import than did the others.
“Well,” muttered Mundar of Dul-darad, casually breaking the soulful silence, “now that we all know one another…”
Rundul found himself in the awkward place between horror and hilarity. Beside him, Brulwar the Earthmaster frowned upon Mundar in the manner that a human father might frown upon a precocious son. Only mighty Drogul allowed himself no reaction to the words of the affable Warder of his Wandering Guard.
And of the Athair, Evangael and Thrannien were smiling thinly; dark Yllufarr’s pale eyes shone like a grin; courtly Ingallin glared at Mundar with a coldness approaching contempt.
But Alvarion, Lord of the Fiannar, laughed aloud.
Turning to his wife, “Strange and sturdy is Warder Mundar of Dul-darad, my Lady,” he observed, amusement softening the lines of care in his mien. “He bends before neither peril nor practice.”
Cerriste’s winter-grey eyes twinkled.
“Indeed, husband,” she replied, “we are fortunate for his friendship and for his forbearance. A less patient individual might find our age-honoured customs somewhat…tedious.”
“Truly fortunate, beloved,” said Alvarion, a more staid tone thickening his voice, “as we are for each and every friend of the Fiannar that assembles here in Hollin Tharric in the time of our need.”
“Very much so, husband.”
The Lord of the Fiannar spread his arms in a gesture of grateful welcome.
“Fellow Fiannar. Mighty Daradur. Noble Athair. Staunch allies tested and true, Lords and Masters all. Please. Be seated.”
The Lady inclined her head.
Alvarion’s steely eyes took a silvery sheen.
“Let us begin.”
9
THE HALFLORD
“The mind is a killing field
Upon which good and evil vie
For the favour of the heart –
And the prize is the soul.”
Intimos XIII, Denarro Primus, Tome of the Rock
Dawn seeped in from the east, oozing over the plains like vile violescent sludge, pressing against the risen rock and iron of U’gloch Nur, thrusting its sinister shadow relentlessly westward. All creatures save those which fed on death fled the cold touch of the dawn-spawned darkness. Beneath a crown of standing stones, millions of bh’ritsi flies and larvae feasted in the soiled blackness of that shadow, chewing ceaselessly, interminably gnawing, the sound of their mastication a pervasive wet whisper that curdled the blood like rotting red milk.
The troop of Bloodspawn rode into the raw light of the whitening sun. They skirted the black shadow of U’gloch Nur, neither for fear nor loathing, but of necessity, for even among the horrible mar ren-dera there were some that would not abide that sour shade.
The Halflord rode at the head. At his flanks and back were a picked guard of Black Shields, set there not to ward their leader from danger but to prevent his two small charges from approaching and annoying him. Not that the Halflord was easily annoyed. But his preternatural patience was known to have limits that, when surpassed, could result in dismemberment, decapitation and death. And for a reason awaiting explanation, Kor ben Dor did not wish to kill the human children. Yet.
Waif and Urchin rode atop a render in the middle of the company, seated before a watchful and wary ’Spawn warrior. Both children were clad in improvised tunics of sackcloth tied with lengths of rope. The boy sat behind the girl, his little arms clinging about her waist. Waif sat in sulking silence, her angelic face pouty and petulant, her blue eyes intense, angry. She glared away a lone bh’ritsi that dared alight upon the precious burned thing at her breast.
Insolent bastard.
Who, me? No, I am not. I’m not, I’m not.
Not you, brother. The Halflord. You’re simply irritating.
Oh? I thought he was magnificent…exquisite.
Waif stared straight ahead. She did not miss the lack of superfluous repetition in her brother’s words. The little shit was developing a spine.
Be careful of your courage, brother.
I was just saying, just saying, saying.
Of course you were. We approach the camp, brother. It will not do for me to treat with these mortals whilst irritated.
By me? Me, me, me?
Not you, brother. Him. Well, you, too. But you know what I mean. The Halflord has…unbalanced me. I must relax.
Relax, yes. Relax, relax.
Waif guided Urchin’s small hands to her thin thighs.
Distract me, brother.
Kor ben Dor did not deign to glance at unholy U’gloch Nur as the party of Bloodspawn passed to the north of the fortress and angled around behind. He knew the castle to be empty. Not devoid of denizens, though indeed most of the Blood King’s army were encamped without those black walls now, sufficiently south and east so as to escape the throw of U’gloch Nur’s evening shadow. No, not uninhabited, but truly empty. Empty of purpose, empty of meaning. The empty indulgence of an arrogance teetering toward extreme insecurity. Like the pillared mansion of a rich man, a dazzling demesne far surpassing his needs, its functions few and self-serving: To attract attention; to flaunt wealth; to shout his success at the world. Status. Power. Balled fists and a querulous
voice crying, Look at me, look at me, look at me!
Kor ben Dor did not look.
“This fortress is a monstrosity, Prince Kor,” said the Black Shield at his right shoulder. She craned her neck, peering up, up, up into the halflight, seeing the ill incarnadine vitriol froth over the rim of the great foul chalice, seeing it seethe, slither, slowly sliding down the slick black length of the central tower. “Do you think the Blood King realizes what it looks like?”
“No.”
“A terrible waste of power, Prince Kor.”
“Yes.”
“Power that would have been better employed elsewhere and otherwise.”
“Yes.”
Ev lin Dar smiled at her lord’s loquaciousness. Oftentimes, especially at night, Kor ben Dor did not trouble himself to respond at all.
“I believe there is something wrong with those human children, Prince Kor,” she said, her pretty brows beginning to knot. “They are… strange.”
“Agreed.”
Ev lin Dar’s ivory eyes regarded the Halflord. “They are not entirely human.”
“Wrong.”
Neither the deep furrows of her frown nor the tigress tattoo it caused to snarl menacingly detracted from Ev lin Dar’s inherent natural beauty.
“How am I wrong, Prince Kor?”
“Backward.”
“Backward? I am backward?”
“Your words.”
“My…? How so?”
“Not ‘not entirely human’. But entirely not human.”
Ev lin Dar glanced back, saw the little girl’s blue eyes flutter closed, her pouty pink lips part. The Black Shield looked away, the line of her mouth severe and grim.
“Agreed, Prince Kor ben Dor.”
The camp sprawled for miles. Camps, rather, as there were at least nine separate and distinct tent towns, divided by a shambolic series of roughly scooped latrine ditches which seemed to emit an anthropogenic haze, a flavescent fog hovering above the blighted plains, offensively odoriferous. The rancid reek of multitudes. Unmen of Waldard, of murky Mroch Durva and the Hebbingore Roots. Urkroks of the Blackbones and harsh Horachia. Gigantic Graniants from the blasted lands beneath Earthfall. Wild Wulfings of icy Var. A spattering of Norian mercenaries. And the Bloodspawn who could claim no country in that world or any other.
“Home,” adverted Ev lin Dar sardonically.
The Halflord’s render huffed. Kor ben Dor made a similar sound. Ev lin Dar thought to comment on the odd echolalia, but quickly decided against it. Perhaps her Prince favoured her, perhaps he did not; either way, vocally drawing a parallel between the Halflord and his mar render was…unwise. Heads had gone missing for less.
“Gren del Mor comes,” she said instead, as she caught a knot of Black Shields approaching from the direction of the Bloodspawn encampment. “And he doesn’t look overly happy.”
“Gren del Mor is never happy, Shield,” responded the Halflord. “That ’Spawn makes me seem positively giddy.”
Ev lin Dar smiled. Her ivory eyes shone. The sound of the Prince’s voice was like a bolt of silk fluttering on a warm whisper of wind, as soft as a sigh. There was beauty in him, she knew, a beauty beyond her modest own. A beauty she could not touch.
Gren del Mor and his retinue reined in before the Prince of the Bloodspawn. Above them rippled the Black Jack, the battle banner of the Bloodspawn, a diagonal bar of silver transversing another of copper on a field of deepest obsidian. The background of the ensign, it was rumoured, had been dyed in the blood of the Halflord’s victims, blood that had dried coal black, lending the standard a second name – the Killer Krux.
“Report,” commanded Kor ben Dor.
Gren del Mor inclined his head. He was gaunt for a Bloodspawn, thin of arm and slender of shoulder, his face long and lacertilian, his black hair fastigiated to a sharp point atop his narrow head. When he raised his white gaze, a look of severe distaste darkened his lizard-tattooed face.
“I have spoken with all the leaders, as you ordered, Prince Kor,” the Black Shield grated irritably. “Scum, every last one of them. Worse, stupid scum. Even worse, stupid ugly scum. And still worse –”
“Report.”
“The kings and chieftains and generals, if that’s what I must call them, assemble in the command tent, as directed. Some really should’ve bathed first.”
“Dissenters?”
“It is an enclosed space, after all.”
“Dissenters.”
Gren del Mor shrugged.
“The Wulfic pup will not be pleased. The Waldard Unman’s loyalty lies not with the Blood King but with the Skull King – he follows none here. And the Graniant – what’s his name? Armpit? – will balk, of that I am certain.”
The Halflord’s mar render grunted. As did the Halflord.
Ev lin Dar said nothing.
Kor ben Dor nudged his render forward.
“Follow.”
“Scum, I tell you,” muttered Gren del Mor as the company rode behind their Prince toward the command tent. “Stupid ugly stinking scum, every last one of them.”
Much better, brother.
Urchin slid his fingers from his mouth. Licked his lips. Smiled.
Yes, much better, much, much.
Do you feel strong, brother?
Yes, sister. I feel strong. Very strong. And hungry, hungry, hungry.
I hunger, also. We will feed soon, I promise.
Feed, feed, feed.
The Halflord remains an issue. He irks me. I cannot tolerate him.
Because he resists you? Or because he dismisses you?
Because he irks me! And I would ware your boldness, brother. Your digits are not as deft as you deem them. My own are the nimbler.
You wound me, sister, you hurt me, hurt me.
Remorse is such a tawdry thing.
You are so hard, so hard, so very hard.
You will recover. As will I. Now I must ponder this Prince of the Bloodspawn. I did not foresee his recalcitrance.
He gave us the army, sister. Is that not what you wanted, what you wanted?
The army was never his to give. He simply rid himself of a thing he did not wish to have: Command of the Blood King’s host.
Command is what we want, what we want.
Yes, but the Blood King’s host is a rough lot, brother. And the diamonds in that rough the Halflord kept for himself.
But the army is ours now, sister. Ours, ours.
First we must win these little kings and captains. Win them or ruin them.
Do you think they will bow to us, sister? Will they bend, bend?
That which does not bend, breaks. And you do like to break things, brother, do you not?
I do, yes. I do, I do, I do.
The grey morning yawned over the encampment as the Halflord’s party halted outside the command tent. Set at the centre of the comparatively small and orderly Bloodspawn enclave, the enclosure was by far the largest in all the disparate tent towns of the Blood King’s host. Dozens of roughly hewn timber poles held aloft a ceiling comprised of hundreds of oiled skins, not all of which appeared to be animal in origin, providing clearance high enough to permit a render and rider to pass unhindered. A crude rail system allowed the canvas sides to be pulled open and closed as weather, warmth and certain olfactory conditions required. That morning, despite Gren del Mor’s persistent grumbling, the sides had been slid shut and sealed securely – a room without walls is a room without secrets.
Several Bloodspawn warriors awaited at attention by the entrance to the tent, great grey giants, steadfast and sure.
“All are here, Prince Kor,” announced one with a lupine tattoo.
“Perimeter,” ordered Kor ben Dor as he dismounted his monstrous mar render.
The Bloodspawn near the entry and most from the Prince’s company immediately moved to surround and encircle the tent.
The Halflord reached up and folded his hair-wings back on their intricate invisible hinges, so very like a great raven gathering
in its glistening black pinions. He briefly brushed brows with his render, patted the behemoth’s neck, ushered it away. He then adjusted the massive mace in its harness at his back, loosened the fastenings. Rolled his strong square shoulders. Stamped dust from his boots.
“Bring them.”
Ev lin Dar gestured.
The ’Spawn warrior in whose care and under whose watchful eye the children had been placed came forward with his two small charges.
Kor ben Dor regarded the tiny twins, his chiseled features empty of expression, his pearly gaze impassive.
“Down.”
The twins glided lithely from the back of the mar render, clasped their little hands and glissaded before the Halflord, gazing up with wide blue eyes, smiling. They stood only slightly taller than Kor ben Dor’s knees.
He speaks to us as though we are dogs not gods!
Smile, sister. Smile, smile.
The Halflord peered down at them.
“I will speak. You will not.”
Waif opened her mouth, but she felt Urchin squeeze her hand, and she clapped her lips closed, clutched the burned thing to her chest. Both children nodded.
“When I am done, you may have your say. Some will not listen. You may find a demonstration of your powers to be necessary. I understand this.” The Halflord’s eyes narrowed to slits of white fire. “But know this: Any assault upon myself or the Bloodspawn will be met with your swift and certain destruction. Your powers may be vast, but they are yet in their infancy. My own are…not so.”
Impertinent half-breed!
“Oh, but we feel strong, Prince of the Bloodspawn,” smiled Waif beatifically. Her nails dug into the burned thing. “Yes, indeed, quite strong. Strong enough to inflict a great deal of pain. You do remember pain, do you not?”
Careful, sister. Please, please, please.
Kor ben Dor stared down upon her in silence.
Waif beamed up at him. Her face immaculate, angelic. Bright, shining. Beautiful.
Half-breed shit!
The Halflord only stared.
And then Waif’s smile seemed to falter, and lines knotted the pretty brow beneath her gleaming golden curls. Her eyes darkened. She heard Urchin whimper for the tautness of her grip on his hand.
