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

by Sean Rodden

  Allowing his words to carry their import, the Lord of the Fiannar stood in silvered silence for a moment, pausing for emphasis, for exigency, before resuming his seat.

  Another mute moment passed in the hollowed stone of Hollin Tharric.

  Then Chancellor Ingallin, Prime Consul to the Athain King in Gith Glennin, floated to his feet. He sighed imperceptibly, the sound of soft wind on sand.

  “Am I to understand, Lord Alvarion,” Ingallin inquired, pushing a shock of white hair from his brow with one slim beringed hand, “that this army of the Blood King was assembled with neither sign nor clue beneath the vigilant watch of the Fiannar?”

  The Lord of the Fiannar met Ingallin’s silver gaze evenly. “That is so, Chancellor.” No trace of emotion touched Alvarion’s tone.

  “How might this oversight, this shortcoming, be explained?”

  At Ingallin’s side, the Athain Princes Evangael and Thrannien exchanged golden glances, and Yllufarr peered palely at the Prime Consul. But the three Sun Lords of the Neverborn said nothing.

  “Readily enough, Chancellor,” replied Alvarion calmly. “The minions of the Wraithren came by ways unknown to us, by dark roads far beneath the earth, by paths that our eyes do not see, that Deathward boots do not tread.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Ingallin delicately. “Beneath the earth.” He folded his long thin hands together before him. “Thus, were it not for one incompetent Unmannish warlord’s decision to lead his troops across the Northern Plains for our heroic Darad to…chance…upon their trail and follow them into the underearth, we would have had neither warning of the Blood King’s return nor any inkling of his designs for your destruction.” Something pulled at one corner of his finely formed mouth. “The fault, then, the blame for this lapse in vigilance lies not with the Fiannar, but with those who watch and ward the dark roads in the earth.”

  There came an inaudible rumbling from the Daradur gathered about the Stone of Scullain – a rumbling not unlike the unheard, unfelt foreshocks of the earth before it breaks in seismic rage.

  “There has been no failure, Chancellor,” stated Alvarion quietly but emphatically, one fingertip absently tracing the raised hatches of his scarred cheek. “There can be no blame.”

  “What, then?” Ingallin’s silver eyes flashed strangely. There was a hiss akin to vehemence underlying the velvet of his voice. “Are we to consign our hope to the ineptitude of our foes and to the whims of fickle fortune?”

  Thrannien and Evangael traded sidelong looks once more. Yllufarr gazed at Ingallin, and the cast of that Sun Lord’s colourless eyes was cold.

  But it was the Lady Cerriste of the Fiannar who gave answer.

  “Our hope lies in unity, Chancellor,” she said, her voice the rush of rain on a torrid summer night, “not in division and derision.”

  And then Brulwar of Dangmarth, broad and black, lumbered to his feet. The argentine air in Hollin Tharric thickened like cream, and the light of the Stone seemed to dim as though shadowed by the powerful presence of the Daradun Earthmaster.

  “The Chancellor’s concern is a valid one,” came Brulwar’s smooth marble voice. His black eyes were as inscrutable as obsidian, as cool as coal in the bosom of the earth.

  Ingallin inclined his head, spread his hands.

  “I thank you, Earthmaster.”

  “I might have raised such a concern myself in his place, were I ignorant of the powers arrayed against us.” Something moved in Brulwar’s black eyes as his gaze fell upon the Athain Chancellor. A flicker, a flash. A reminder to all there that even the coolest of coal might burn. “Fortunately, I cannot boast such ignorance.”

  A shifting of Ingallin’s bone-white brows hinted at consternation, then apprehension. Beside him, the three Athain Princes sat in silence, their faces averted. Slowly, the Chancellor lowered himself to his seat.

  “The known ways under the earth are aptly watched and ably warded,” affirmed Brulwar. “The minions of the enemy did not come to the Bloodshards by these paths. They came by ways that the Daradur do not know, ways so deep in the earth that no mortal being might safely traverse, for the air there is a poisonous mixture of noxious vapour and toxic gases. These netherearthen paths are below the reach of Maiden Earth’s consciousness, beyond her awareness. Thus the army of the Blood King could march in secrecy, well hidden from the wary eyes of the warders of the West.”

  “But if the air there is poison…?” asked the Lady Cerriste.

  “They were protected by a power that until recently was unfamiliar to us,” explained the Earthmaster. “Warder Rundul has spoken to you of the earthblight, of the foul force infesting the earth, of the ill incarnadine pool of power in the bowels of the Bloodshards. It was this very power, this urthvennim, that permitted and enabled the army of the Blood King to pass unseen and unharmed through the mantle of the earth.”

  “What is this earthblight?” asked Alvarion gravely. “What is the nature of this…this urthvennim?”

  “It is the Earth’s power and capacity for destruction and devastation,” replied Brulwar. “Not evil in and of itself, but tapped and taken by the Blood King, corrupted, twisted, perverted. It is no longer what it once was.”

  “Do you tell us that Maiden Earth has been corrupted, friend Brulwar?”

  “No, Lord Alvarion, not that. Never that. The Maiden is incorruptible. But you might safely suppose her to have a darker, deeper sister with little conscience and a proclivity for destruction.”

  Cerriste said softly, “In the hands of the Blood King...”

  “Precisely.”

  Alvarion’s eyes darkened. “What danger does this power pose us?”

  The Earthmaster frowned.

  “I do not know how the Blood King intends to wield the urthvennim. Thus far he has only used it to make bad air good, and to augment his mastery of blood magic. I cannot be certain, but this enhancement seems to have spawned a hybrid sorcery of blood and fire, red and rotten – an ‘illincarnadine’, for want of a better name. It is quite possible that the peril posed by this perverted power, this Illincarnadine, is very great indeed.”

  Brulwar resumed his seat.

  Tulnarron, Master of the House of Eccuron, rose.

  “I have seen what this Illincarnadine can do,” said the Master from his great height. “The red wind summoned and sent by the Blood King has slain by terror and by madness every man, woman and child of the race of Man between Druintir and the Bloodshards. They died in towns and temples, hamlets and homesteads, on farms and fields, in little lanes and rutted roads, terribly twisted and torn, uncounted corpses, and nary a wound from enemy iron.”

  Alvarion nodded slowly, solemnly, a movement that seemed to say, They were under my protection – I have failed them. His eyes grew colder, harder, and their cast softened only with the caress by Cerriste’s hand of his own.

  “We will send riders to find each of these unfortunate fallen,” Alvarion vowed, “to give them proper service according to their beliefs, that they might find the peace in death that they did not have in dying.”

  His hand beneath Cerriste’s was warm, but the cold did not leave his eyes.

  “There is no need, Lord Alvarion,” replied Tulnarron. “Arrenhoth has answered these atrocities. Even now, the embers of a hundred pyres crumble to ash on the Plains.” A meaningful pause. “Other, more aggressive answers shall follow.”

  The Lord of the Fiannar nodded in silence.

  “I was there,” continued Tulnarron, “there upon the hill of the Teeth of Truth, when the Blood King used this Illincarnadine to bring forth his great black bastion from the bowels of the earth. I saw the monstrosity come into being with my very eyes, a thing so vast and foul that I thought I had witnessed the resurrection of unholy Mekkoleth. But Dulgar of the Daradur who was with me, and who had fought at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum, assured me otherwise.”

  Alvarion nodded once more.

  “Indeed, Master Tulnarron. Your wife, my Seer, gave us fair warning of this dark and
dreadful thing, for of a recent night did its vile immensity haunt her dreams. Only, I failed to heed the boding of her sight, thinking it to be a vision of a time and place past, rather than the shadow of a thing soon to come.

  “In this, wise Seer,” he inclined his head toward Sarrane, “I erred sadly and sorely.”

  The violet eddies of the Seer’s eyes swirled slowly, silently.

  And then rose Evangael, Prince of the Neverborn, bright and beautiful.

  “Hold, Lord Alvarion,” said the golden Sun Lord of the Athair, raising one hand. “Your natural humility moves you to chasten yourself without cause. You did not err in supposing the object of your Seer’s vision to be of the past, for of the past it certainly was, and to the past it surely belongs.” His gaze swelled with sunflame. “For it was the shadow of foul Ungloth, ancient lair of Unluvin the Treacher, that tormented your Seer so.”

  “That cannot be, noble Prince,” replied Alvarion, frowning, “for Sarrane saw precisely that which the Blood King has reared from the ruins of the Bloodshards here on this Second Earth. And Ungloth was of the First World.”

  “Both are true, Lord Alvarion,” came Evangael’s even response, “for the past and the present need not exclude one another.”

  “I do not understand, Prince Evangael.”

  “Neither the Seer Sarrane nor you might be expected to recognize this bastion of the Blood King. And for this you should feel no shame, for blameless are they who know not better. But I beseech you trust in the memory of one who was there when I tell you this black bastion newly raised is the very one in which Unluvin dwelt so long ago and so very far away.” Evangael’s eyes were like shining suns in the silvered firmament of Hollin Tharric. “It is Ungloth, or it is nothing.”

  Alvarion looked to the two other Athain Sun Lords and the Prime Consul.

  “Do you concur, Princes Thrannien and Yllufarr? Chancellor Ingallin?”

  “It is so, Lord Alvarion,” answered Thrannien. “As surely as the cruel citadel of the Seer’s vision and the bastion of the Blood King are one, so surely are they one also with unholy Ungloth of olde.”

  Yllufarr nodded his consensus.

  Ingallin only brooded behind folded hands.

  “How is this possible?” Cerriste quietly asked. “The Wraithren are of this Second Earth, as is this earthbane, this Illincarnadine. Ungloth was of the First, and was rendered in ruin with the fall of its dark master long ages ago.”

  “I cannot tell you how it is so, Lady Cerriste,” replied Evangael, lowering himself to his seat. “I can only tell you that it is so.”

  Cerriste looked upon her husband, studied his chiseled countenance, saw his mind move in the depths of his wintry eyes.

  “The Athair are of the First Earth, and the Fiannar trace their ancestry there,” commented Alvarion, the turn of his tone contemplative, assessing. “The dragons and the kuarokur are also refugees from the First Earth, as are the demons against which the Daradur make constant war in the deep places of the earth. There is much memory among these expatriated fiends of First Earth from which the Blood King might have drawn the plan for the rebirth of Ungloth. And the power of the Illincarnadine has enabled him to perform this blackest of resurrections.”

  Brulwar of Dangmarth shifted in his seat. “A fair supposition, Lord Alvarion.”

  “The question, friends,” grumbled Tulnarron, “is not of whence the Illincarnadine and this New Ungloth came, neither of how nor of why, but of how these things and the Blood King and his army of thousands might be confronted. War is coming, my lords, and the horn calls for swords and slaughter, not for words and wistful thought.”

  Mundar of Dul-darad chuckled. “You should endeavour to be more direct, Master Tulnarron.”

  “Needless circumlocution irks me, friend Mundar.”

  “As haste and rashness do me, young Tulnarron,” came Eldurion’s iron voice. “One should understand one’s enemy as one understands one’s self.”

  “I know my enemy, Marshal Eldurion,” retorted Tulnarron. “And I know myself. I only wish to acquaint the twain as speedily as possible.”

  Lord Alvarion raised a hand.

  “In time, Master Tulnarron. In time. But you have ably identified the perils already debated by the Masters of the Houses in your absence yesterday. These perils must now be addressed and answered.”

  “You have my ear, Lord,” acquiesced the Master of the House of Eccuron.

  “For the moment, at least, of New Ungloth we can do nothing,” Alvarion admitted reluctantly. “We have not the strength – neither to besiege the black fortress of New Ungloth, nor even to meet its dark master’s hosts upon the open Plains. We will therefore await the Blood King here, and meet him in battle upon the Seven Hills of Eryn Ruil.”

  There followed murmurs of agreement from those seated about the Stone of Scullain.

  “This is the home and native land of the Fiannar,” persisted Alvarion, “our beloved Lindannan, where rock and root are as near and as known to us as our own hearts. Thus the terrain well favours us. The Seven Hills are good ground, my lords, very good ground.”

  More murmurs of agreement.

  “Even so, the centuries have dwindled the Fiannar, and we are only six thousands all told. The army of the Blood King now numbers some sixty thousands, and grows daily. Indeed, our intelligence estimates that an equal number of enemy forces are en route to the encampment behind the Bloodshards.” Alvarion paused briefly, his words hanging in the silverlight of Hollin Tharric like the resonant chimesong of doom. “Should the Fiannar stand alone, we have only a fool’s hope for victory.”

  “The Fiannar will not stand alone,” vowed Brulwar, uldwan Dor of the mara Waratur. “Of that, Lord Alvarion, you may be certain.”

  The Lord of the Fiannar bowed his head to the representatives of the Daradur in acknowledgement and gratitude.

  “What aid from the Stone Lords, Earthmaster?”

  But Brulwar grimaced.

  “Little enough, Lord Alvarion,” he grumbled, his smooth marble voice uncharacteristically pocked with rue. “The three Great Cities of the Daradur are sorely besieged from beneath. Umun-dron, Demon King of the Wraithren, assaults Ora Undar with heretofore untold strength. He, like the Blood King, is now empowered by the urthvennim. And he has at his command an army of dwar-Durka, warriors of intense and immaculate evil, and possessed of such wrath and might as to rival the Daradur’s own.”

  “Ah, the dwar-Durka,” intruded regal Ingallin from behind folded hands. “Dwarks. I have had word of these beasts. So very like the Daradur both in name and nature.”

  An audible growl arose from the Warders of Wandering Guard, but Brulwar quieted his younger kindred with a quick and subtle gesture. The growl fell away into an angry silence. Rundul glowered. Mundar glared. Only the mighty Drogul seemed unconcerned – Ingallin was quite beneath his quiet dignity.

  But Brulwar was not so passively disposed.

  The Earthmaster peered at the Athain Chancellor, the Darad’s night-black eyes and the Ath’s silver ones locked in a short and silent struggle for dominance, until Ingallin turned imploringly, almost pleadingly, to the Sun Lords. But not one of the three noble Princes deigned to meet his beseeching gaze.

  Turning back to Alvarion, Brulwar continued, “Of the Five Armies of the Daradur, the First and Fourth hold Dul-darad, the Second and Third ward Dangmarth, whilst the Fifth fends Axar. All are powerfully and perilously pressed. None might be spared for the succour of the Fiannar. Indeed, of the forces of the Daradur, only part of that which gathers now at Raku Ulrun may be given in defence of Eryn Ruil.”

  The argentine air of Hollin Tharric instantly thickened, becoming viscous, oleaginous. The silence that followed Brulwar’s revelation was oppressive, ominous, like the soundlessness of stone slowly eroding in a vault of the dead.

  Then, quietly, “This bodes ill for us,” said the Lady Cerriste. “The Wraithren are not wont to act in such concert. Indeed, they have ever seemed to despise one anot
her as violently and as viciously as they do us. We have lost a goodly advantage should such disharmony among our enemies now be discarded.” Cerriste’s cool grey gaze met the shimmering silver eyes of Chancellor Ingallin. “Especially should such discord now belong to us.”

  The Prime Consul’s perfect lips curled slightly, but did not part to retort.

  Lord Alvarion stared at the sword on the Stone before him. His wife’s voice seemed distant, distorted, as he absorbed Brulwar’s words. The Lord’s strong square shoulders seemed to slump slightly, then straightened as he banished the darknesses of doubt and dejection.

  Raising his gaze, Alvarion repeated, “What aid from the Daradur, precisely, Earthmaster?”

  The Lord’s voice was low and flat, and his eyes had become as frozen pools in whose grey depths dwelt only an unyielding icy resolve.

  “You will have my hammer,” decreed the Earthmaster of the Daradur, “and the axes and hammers of fifty Wandering Guard. A further one hundred under the command of Drogul the kirun-tar will defend Doomfall, for doubtless the Blood King will attempt the southern pass so as to assail the High Land upon two fronts.” Brulwar paused, his hand reaching to touch the haft of his hammer. “He will be denied.”

  “Pah!” exclaimed Ingallin, leaping to his feet. “Fifty? This creature insults you, Lord Alvarion! Why abide him so? This is their world, not ours. Take your people and repair with us to Gith Glennin. Leave this war to the Daradur.”

  The Sun Lords traded long looks, and there was anger in their eyes.

  Alvarion peered at Ingallin coolly.

  “That is not a consideration, Chancellor.”

  “What then?” replied Ingallin, his voice nearing shrillness. “Trust in one hundred Wandering Guard to hold Doomfall against unnumbered thousands?” There was something wild in his argent gaze. “Doomfall will be taken, and Eryn Ruil will be assailed from before and behind, both east and west.” His voice fell to a serpentine hiss. “Druintir will fall and the Fiannar will be slaughtered.”