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

by Sean Rodden

  “It is from Te’arron, my Erelian friends, that your family inherits its name.”

  Time slowed.

  Axennus’ eyes widened. Wonder whitened his visage. Within him, heart and breath were stilled. Words failed him.

  And a question glistened in his eyes.

  “Yes, Axennus,” Cerriste smiled gently in response to the Ambassador’s mute query. “Your late father, Jophus Teagh, was the direct linear descendant, from eldest child to eldest child, of Te’arron, last King of Erellan and Heir to the House of Hiridion. Were that noble House to yet exist, worthy Bronnus would be its Master.”

  The Iron Captain blinked dumbly.

  The Ambassador’s jaw fell slack, then shut tightly. In time, his voice, however strained, returned to him.

  “Of this you are certain?”

  Both Lord and Lady nodded solemnly.

  Axennus’ resourceful and resilient mind adeptly adapted itself to the bewildering truth of his heritage. The wonder in him swiftly transformed into pure and profound joy, a joy that soon awakened the intractable imp that had been slumbering peaceably in his soul. The grin that spread across the young Ambassador’s face suggested a happiness approaching euphoria.

  But there was nothing of gaiety in Alvarion’s cold grey gaze.

  “Ambassador Teagh.”

  The Lord’s tone was grave, his features graven. The foregoing of formalities seemed itself foregone.

  Axennus’ glee deserted him instantly.

  Beside him, the Iron Captain frowned with a dark foreboding.

  The Lord of the Fiannar leaned forward, his shadow falling over the stone frieze of his forebears’ war.

  “Ever from the time of the South Kingdom’s long slow slide into Republicanism and accompanying capitalism, and the thinning of its people’s blood by the race of Man, have the Seers of Lindannan decreed that only with the reunion of the sons of the Houses of Defurien, Eccuron and Hiridion might the Shadow be lifted from Second Earth. The Fiannar have therefore taken great interest in the scions of Te’arron, awaiting the time that fate and circumstance might bring the three highest Houses of the Fiannar together once more.”

  “And months ago,” furthered Cerriste, “did Sarrane, who is Seer now, approach us with counsel that the sons of the House of Hiridion would soon be in Druintir.” Her eyes glittered. “And so you have come.”

  Axennus nodded woodenly.

  “So we have come.”

  “And war is come also, Axennus of Hiridith,” stated Alvarion flatly, directly. “The Houses of Defurien and Eccuron muster for battle with the Blood King at the Pass of Eryn Ruil.” His eyes narrowed into grey slits of dawn at the breaking of night. “We would ask that the sons of the House of Hiridion stand with us upon the Seven Hills.”

  Silence. Short, succinct, poignant.

  Then –

  “There is no place, Lord Alvarion of the Fiannar,” said the Ambassador with quiet solemnity, “that the sons of the House of Hiridion would rather stand.”

  But before either of the high ones of the Deathward could respond –

  “Hold, brother,” interceded the Iron Captain. “Though I do not forget our pledge to the Shield Maiden, I would have you arrest your haste here and not so readily heed these whispers of war. You would commit us to war without the certainty that this Blood King of the Wraithren even exists, or, should he exist, that we need fear him.”

  Bronnus turned to the Lord and Lady of the Fiannar, and the set of his face was stern.

  “I intend no disrespect, but I believe only that which I see with my own eyes, and you tell tales of monsters and of sorcerers, things of legend best served to frighten insolent children at the falling of night.”

  Alvarion and his Lady wife exchanged a grey and gleaming glance, a question and its answer passing silently between them.

  The Lord of the Deathward motioned to grey Eldurion.

  “Dear Uncle, would you be so kind?”

  The Marshal of the Grey Watch reached behind the stone chair of his Lord, and with some small effort he hefted forth the bulky leather bag that contained the thing Alvarion had received from Brulwar, Earthmaster of the Daradur, that it might serve as an instrument of persuasion, a tool to convince the skeptical. The bag’s bottom was stained black, its sides stiffened with crusted ooze, and as Eldurion moved it a rancid reek seeped from within, the stench of decay and rotting death. The grim Marshal let the bag fall upon the table with a heavy thud.

  “You have said, Captain Teagh,” said Alvarion quietly, his eyes agleam with a hard humour, “that you believe only that which you see with your own eyes.” He reached forward and knotted one hand in the blackened leather of the bag. “I do not bid you believe, Southman. But I do bid you see. Behold!”

  And at a powerful jerk of his hand, Lord Alvarion snapped the sack back with such a violence that its content spilled forth – a single dark mass, very large and vaguely round, that wobbled weakly, then came to grotesque and gruesome rest in the center of the stone table.

  The huge and hideous severed head of a Graniant stared at Bronnus Teagh with dead white eyes.

  The Erelian Captain leapt to his feet, his hard face twisted into a mask of shock and horror, his chair crashing resoundingly to the stone floor behind him. The decapitated head’s pale death-glazed gaze seemed to follow the startled Southman, investing him with an acute awareness of pure and pervasive evil. Even in the shriveling rot of death, the Graniant’s malignant mien possessed malevolence in magnitude.

  Beside the Captain, the Ambassador stared in wonder.

  “What –” stammered Bronnus, his face as pallid as the drained flesh of the horrid thing before him, “– what is this...this abomination…this demon?”

  Alvarion smiled grimly.

  “Not a demon, Captain Teagh. But a Graniant. A stone giant from the shattered wastes beneath Earthfall in the eastern reaches of Second Earth. Long ago were they bred by the Wraithren through ill means, selected specifically for their cleverness and cruelty. The tallest of them can stand as high as the combined heights of four men, but most are closer to half that. They are uncompromisingly evil – slaves of Shadow to whom all life but their own means nothing. And many hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, now march upon Eryn Ruil.”

  The Iron Captain frowned.

  “Should we join you, how do you propose we do battle with these giants?”

  Alvarion’s grey eyes glittered.

  “You make every effort to avoid them,” he replied. “You leave their dooms to the Deathward and to the Daradur who stand with us. Suffice to say, the Stone Lords are the foe that the Graniants most fear. Indeed, it was a Darad that brought this gruesome trophy from Fongar ur Piruth to Druintir, having taken it without expressed consent from the Graniant that was once so dearly attached to it.”

  There came a wry smile to the lips of the Ambassador.

  “I would try my own strength against one of these Graniants.”

  But Lord Alvarion shook his head.

  “To the Free Nations that choose to stand with us will likely fall the burden of holding the hordes of Unmen in check.”

  The Iron Captain’s brows furrowed further.

  “And these Unmen of whom you speak, what manner of creature are they?”

  “They are the descendants of the Nundulla,” replied the Lord of the Fiannar, “a race of hardy manlike beings that evolved alongside Man’s own primitive ancestors. The Nundulla were of lesser intelligence than Man, though physically stronger and in some ways more cunning. But they were fewer and less prolific. Following the Angar ban Maelmorradh, the Wraithren took the Nundulla, twisted them, warped them, made them into the Unmen. The Unmen remain of inferior intellect, and their cunning has been torn from them and replaced with a mindless cruelty, but they have increased in physical strength, a might made insidious by hate and evil. Thrice in the past two millennia have the Unmen been brought to the verge of extinction – twice in wars with the Guardian Peoples, once in war with th
e Rothmen – and thrice have they rebounded in population and power. Marshal Eldurion informs me the most recent reports indicate that now ninety thousand Unmen march under the crimson banner of the Blood King upon Eryn Ruil and Eryn Drun.”

  An inaudible whistle passed Axennus’ pursed lips.

  Ninety thousand.

  The Iron Captain scowled in storm-shackled silence.

  Then spoke the Lady of the Fiannar:

  “Captain. Ambassador. For two thousand years have the Deathward fought a long and costly war that some might reason is not our war to fight.” Her eyes narrowed, gleamed. “The Fiannar fight for you. We fight for the Republic, for Nothira, for Rheln and for the High Kingdom, that these sovereign nations might thrive and prosper in peace. We now call upon the Free Nations to begin to assume responsibility for their own defence, to march to Eryn Ruil in force, that they might stand in faithful fraternity with the Fiannar, we whom have ever held the field against the hosts of Darkness in their name. We beseech you –

  “Stand with us.”

  Axennus actually shivered.

  Not so Bronnus.

  “The Senate would say this war does not concern the Republic,” stated the Iron Captain. “They would say that neither Erelian land nor people are at risk. Republican soldiers will not come.”

  “Republican soldiers are already here, Bron,” responded Axennus from behind folded hands. “And as is ever their wont, the Senate would be sorely and severely mistaken. This war does concern the Republic. Very much so. You see, the beautiful embassy with which we have been gifted is by default of law Erelian property, and the land upon which it rests is likewise Erelian land, and abiding there are one hundred Erelian citizens. And as a sworn representative of my people, I am honour-bound to stand in their defense, and in defense of their property, let alone for what is indisputably right. Would you, a warrior of great strength and courage, counsel that we flee this land in shame and disgrace, and leave the Fiannar to fight for our newfound home? I think not. You would say ‘Stand!’ I only say to you now, dear brother, that which you yourself would say to me.”

  The elder Teagh glowered, grunted, then shrugged, righted his chair and resumed his seat. He crossed his arms upon his chest, and his martial calm returned to him.

  The Iron Captain met Alvarion’s gaze with cool dispassion.

  “I have one hundred warriors in my command. And you say this Blood King’s army is ninety thousands.”

  The Lord of the Deathward nodded stiffly.

  “Ninety thousand Unmen. But others march with them. Urkroks, Graniants, Wulfings of Var, Norian cavalry. One hundred and twenty thousand, all told. But the host is ill-marshaled, composed of several camps stretched over a great distance. The nearest sizeable cohesive mass numbers some sixty thousands. But they are early into their march, and we cannot yet be sure which forces will strike Eryn Ruil.”

  The Iron Captain stared for a moment at the sinister severed head of the Graniant, and for another upon the Hearth’s stone relief of Hiridion in contest with the demonic kuarok. He then cast a surly glance toward the Shield Maiden, saw the light in her eyes, smiled despite himself.

  You will ever have our swords.

  “We will approach the men and advise that they stand with you in this thing.”

  Lord Alvarion nodded gravely.

  The Lady Cerriste smiled graciously.

  “We will send a rider to Hiridith,” said the Ambassador, his innate enthusiasm texturing his tone. “There is little hope of convincing the Senate to march to war, and even less of any assistance from the Legion reaching Eryn Ruil swiftly enough to be of any service, but I will make the effort nevertheless.”

  But Alvarion shook his head.

  “That will not be necessary, Ambassador. We have sent emissaries to each of the five Free Nations.”

  Axennus smiled strangely, and something sparkled in his eyes.

  “Nevertheless.”

  Alvarion and Cerriste peered at the Ambassador, themselves now seeking secret meaning to the Erelian’s words. They found none.

  “Nevertheless,” echoed Alvarion pensively.

  Then the Lord and Lady of the Fiannar stood and put their fists to the rillagha at their breasts.

  “You do honour to the name Teagh of Hiridith,” Alvarion praised, “and to the lost House of Hiridion.”

  At the Lady’s shoulder, the beautiful eyes of the Shield Maiden Caelle met Axennus’ own, and hers sparkled with something akin to pride. Her father’s eyes glinted at the Lord’s side like slits of steel shining in the night. Sarrane floated behind them, the grey of her eyes enswirled by gleaming amaranthine.

  The Ambassador smiled, rose, lifted his morningwine in silent salutation.

  Bronnus stood as well, soldier-straight, solid, strong.

  Then, and with some flourish, Axennus Teagh removed the chain from about his neck, peered at it with curious disdain, and extended it toward the Lord and Lady of the Deathward.

  The chain’s silver glittered in the strange lustrous light of the Hearthhold.

  “Would you be so kind as to hold this in safekeeping for me?”

  “Of course,” said Cerriste as she accepted the heavy necklace. “But is this not the Erelian ambassadorial chain of office?”

  “It is indeed,” replied Axennus.

  “Then why…?”

  Axennus’ smile was that of one returning home after too long an absence.

  “Because, dear Lady, such a trinket does not flatter the Commander of the North March Mounted Reserve.”

  12

  FAREWELLS AND FORESIGHT

  “‘Goodbye’ is but a contraction of the phrase

  ‘The God be with you’.

  Let it signify nothing else.”

  Colleareus, Master of Linguistics, School of Languages, Ithramis

  The soft sylvan shadowlight of day in Galledine was like an emerald dusk, deep and green and gentle. The song of bird and the whir of insect lent a lyrical lullaby to the murmuring melody of brook and stream, a soothing serenade summoning weary souls to slumber. To sleep and dream.

  The Seer Sarrane reclined upon a bed of leaves at the stoop of an ancient oak, her head resting on a root made soft by moss, her arms cradling her spear closely, almost lovingly, to her bosom. The Seer’s breathing was slow and steady, and behind their lids her eyes moved restlessly, rapidly, as though she was searching in her slumber, seeking something in her dreams.

  And she moved there, through the heavy haze of phantasmagoria, very much as one would wade against water. Each step was slow and arduous as she slogged through the fog that fettered her in her sleep. The mists soon swelled and became a hard black rain, and her feet found themselves mired in muck, in a great dark ooze that strove to suck her down and swallow her.

  Then her foot struck something and she stumbled, fell. Brackish mud splattered her hair, her face, her eyes. Her ears rang. A sour stench rose from the slime beneath her. And then she saw the obstacle that had caused her fall – the rotting, maggot-ridden corpse of a Fiannian warrior, his body ripped and ravaged, his rillagh rended in shreds. She stood as swiftly as the ooze allowed, retching in revulsion, the ringing in her ears rising to a roar.

  And then the rain eased, and she saw the desecration of the Seven Hills, their splendour spoiled, savaged – a slaughterground of the dead and the doomed. The roar in her ears was the distant din of battle, of steel on steel, of men screaming, dying. The Hills and vales were become a mire of mud and blood, a fetid fen brimming with the broken bodies of Fiannar and mirarra and Men and horses, their limbs and torsos hacked and hewn, layer upon layer of corpses hammered and trampled into the reeking muck.

  Sarrane shuddered, spitting the bitter taste of bile from her mouth. She fixed her gaze toward the war-wracked west, toward Cedorrin, her Seer’s eyes straining to see in the murk. But she had been blinded by mud and blood, and all she saw was Shadow.

  And then the deep booming roll of a thunderous voice carried clear and cold abov
e the cacophony of war.

  “Fly! Fly! Fly to the Fend!”

  Tulnarron! gasped Sarrane into the damp dark everdusk. Husband!

  She could feel herself sinking into the bog of blood at her feet, her body being sucked down, down, down into the rot and decay.

  And then another sound came to her, a chaotic chorus of grief and dismay:

  “The Fend is burning! Burning! The Fend is burning!”

  Down, down, down into despair and ruin.

  And then Tulnarron’s throat pealed once more, a tempest of pride and power, defiant unto the end of ends.

  “Stand! All ye Deathward souls! Good Men of the North! Stand! Stand and die well! And know at your doom that the Teller’s Tale does not end here!”

  Down, down, down.

  Into darkness and death.

  Sarrane woke to the wet touches of a cold nose and a warm tongue upon her cheek. Her eyes flicked open, fighting to focus in the foliage-filtered light of Galledine, their violet-ringed grey haunted by both horror and fear. Above her loomed the huge head and feral eyes of a great dark beast, its massive maw agape revealing rows of wicked white fangs. But neither the Seer’s horror nor her fear was for the creature before her, but rather for the lingering images of her vision and for the perilous plight of her people.

  Sarrane knotted one hand in the tangle of black fur at the beast’s neck, and pulled herself to a sitting position.

  Ah, Teraras, she sighed in her mind, my fine and faithful friend. Would that I were not fey, that I was not compelled to see such things.

  Teraras, Alpha of the warokka, those ferocious and veracious war wolves of the Fiannar, sat back on his haunches, cocking his great head to one side, his strangely intelligent eyes reflecting both care and concern. He was enormous, easily the size of a lion, his humped shoulder higher than Sarrane’s hip. His pelt was iron-grey but for the great black leonine mane about his neck and throat, and beneath his close coat mighty muscles rippled like floes of stone.

  The Seer ran her long fingers along the side of Teraras’ large lupine snout. The warok growled gently in response. Sarrane’s lips formed a small smile, and she stared into the gleaming silver lights that were the war wolf’s eyes, past iris and pupil, into his soul.