by Sean Rodden
“He can do no harm in Allaura,” Evangael replied at length. “He will receive your people warmly, and will abide by the Laws of Gavrayel, laws which he himself shared in the making. Your sanctuary is assured.”
“Yet you seem troubled, my friend,” Cerriste observed coolly.
Evangael paused before replying. Then, “Ingallin is an Ath foresighted,” he revealed. “I believe he has seen something that he has not chosen to share.”
The three sat mounted in a protracted silence.
Then Alvarion shrugged.
“You have said, good Prince, that mindsight is a strange and fickle thing. Should I, as you have advised, not concern myself with the shadows of a yet unfolded future, then nor should you.”
The Sun Lord smiled slowly, beautifully.
“Verily, Lord of the Fiannar, verily. You possess the cunning of your grandfather, whom I knew and loved well.”
Alvarion sighed. “Would that I possess also his strength and courage.”
Cerriste’s own sigh was one of impatience.
“Enough self-flagellation, husband.” She sniffed the dampening night air. “A storm comes, and we have tarried overlong. Let us remove north of the Ruil to Ravenwood where those who carry our greatest hope await our farewells.”
Chastised accordingly, Alvarion sent Evangael a daring wink, and the Ath’s answering laugh was the sound of Light itself.
They then turned their splendid steeds about and rode with swiftness northward into Galledine’s besilvered night.
The night upon the Field of Cedorrin was at its deepest and most dark, and black rain-bloated cumuli had rolled swiftly in to blot out both moon and star. Far below the heavy storm-swollen skies, essentially invisible in the darkness, two broad and burly figures descended the long flowered slope of Cedorrin. They moved with a surety that belied the absence of light, and about them was the silence that oft accompanies great strength. Then, where Cedorrin met the gap between Warwatch to the north and Sentinel Ridge to the south, the pair halted.
“The storm gathers, brother,” grumbled Brulwar, Earthmaster of the Wandering Guard, his black inrinil greatcoat billowing in the risen eastwind. He rested his massive forearms upon the equally huge heads of his hammer. “When it falls upon us, we must weather it without breaking.”
Drogul the kirun-tar nodded silently, and folded his monstrously muscled arms across his chest. His ink-black eyes stared eastward into the wind, peering past the night-shackled Seven Hills into the deep dark distance. He did not speak.
“Doomfall must hold, brother,” Brulwar emphasized, eyeing the tempest brewing in the night skies, the smoothness of his voice the still of his own inner storm. “At all costs.”
The Mighty One only nodded once more. The wind whipped at his hair and beard, roughly ruffling his mantle of wolf’s fur.
“Young Rundul bears a grievous burden,” continued the Earthmaster, accustomed as he was to the Chieftain’s reticence. “Maiden Earth is strong within him. But the urthvennim is a potent and powerful poison. Rundul will need aid.” He paused, his deep black eyes scanning the grasses at his feet. “I will arm him in such a manner as to ensure the urthvennim’s negation.”
There followed a short silence, complete but for the rush of the wind through the grasses of Cedorrin.
Then, “Rundul will succeed,” Drogul stated plainly. “Not every Darad is bound to fail in his given quest.”
Brulwar frowned blackly.
“Your mission into the polar north was not an utter failure, brother. That the urthrath refused you does not speak to any unworthiness in you, but rather to my own deficiencies in both understanding and judgement. A weaker Darad refused by the urthrath would have been destroyed, but you have returned with the knowledge of how the Fury of the Earth is to be harnessed.” The Earthmaster placed a strangely gentle hand upon the Mighty One’s broad shoulder. “Come this war’s end, another will be sent, brother. One whom I am confident the urthrath will not deny.” He followed the Chieftain’s gaze eastward. “Then we shall see.”
Another nod.
“But now we will tend to the troubles at hand,” Brulwar vowed.
Nod.
“Make all haste to Raku Ulrun, brother, where Dulgar marshals the mara Waratur in your absence. Send Gulgrum to Druintir with fifty Wandering Guard. Then prepare for war.”
One last nod that malleably morphed into a slow shaking of the head.
“Who’s the Chieftain here, you or me?” grumbled the Lord of Doomfall.
Brulwar’s black beard parted in a white grin. His hand dropped from Drogul’s shoulder to grasp the Mighty One’s forearm in firm and fond farewell.
“Stone and steel, my Chieftain.”
Drogul gripped the Earthmaster’s forearm in return.
“Stone and steel, brother.”
And then the kirun-tar moved toward the break between Warwatch and Sentinel Ridge, slipping his great black war-axe from its strappings as he went. And as he left Cedorrin and entered the Seven Hills, the Mighty One broke into a run, a juggernaut of the night racing to war.
Somewhere above, thunder rolled ominously in the storm-swollen skies.
The ghostly warders of the Grey Watch that saw the great Daradun warrior enter the Seven Hills – lands forbidden to all but the Fiannar – made no move to stay him, but only marked his passing with a degree of dour dismay.
The mightiest warrior of all Second Earth would not be standing with the Deathward at Eryn Ruil.
Brulwar lingered momentarily, listening to the long rumbling peal of the nightbound heavens. He then stooped to retrieve a small stone from the grasses at his feet. Slipping the nugget into the folds of his greatcoat, he hefted his huge war-hammer to his shoulder, summoned the power of Maiden Earth within him, and sank swiftly from sight into the fertile soil of Cedorrin.
And then the storm burst.
The rain fell from night’s enraged firmament at a hard angle, raking into the squinted eyes of the three riders like little slivers of iron. The trio carefully picked their way along the narrow stone path between the rising rock of Warwatch and the crashing rush of the River Ruil. The stone was slick with rain, and the going was slow and perilous, the shod hooves of the roan stallion and those of the grey mare slipping and sliding intermittently. The heavy oilskin cloaks in which two of the men were closely wrapped shielded them from the greater bite of the driving rain, but their faces, bent low within the refuge of their cowls, were already raw with wet and wind and cold. The third horse, an amber stallion, was surer of hoof, and its rider rode upright and capeless, his muscular chest and arms naked to the rain.
The threesome made their way past the towering rock of the Warwatch to the foot of the forested hill directly eastward, and there they halted beneath the shelter of a mighty stand of maple.
The man on the roan glanced upward dubiously, rivulets of rain running from the rim of his cowl.
“Should we not beware of lightning here?” the Iron Captain asked, an uncharacteristic trace of trepidation to his tone.
“Hardly, brother,” replied Axennus as he wiped rain from his eyes. “There are places higher than here that would draw the wrath of the storm. We are more likely to be stricken with exposure than we are with lightning.” He looked to the third man. “You will excuse my brother’s perturbation, Left Tenant. The Captain yet harbours a neurotic fear of thunderstorms – a trait he shares with the family cat.”
Bronnus scowled.
Runningwolf paid the brotherly banter no heed.
“The white fire of the storm will not fall here,” he stated with the self-assured stoicism of his people.
An incoherent grumble issued from Bronnus’ throat, the sound of a stubborn and lingering doubt, but the Captain trusted the word and wisdom of the Rhelman – if not that of his own brother – and he did not pursue the point.
“It is most unfortunate that you must depart in such foul weather, Left Tenant,” Axennus apologized, “but an hour is as a day, and a d
ay is as a year, and word of war must be brought to Hiridith as quickly as possible.”
The Rhelman shrugged.
“The rain causes me no concern, Commander,” he said flatly, his alien voice seeming even stranger amidst the surrounding sounds of the storm. “I mislike only leaving your side in time of battle.”
“You are our swiftest rider, Left Tenant,” Axennus stated simply.
“And our most dependable,” added the Iron Captain. “Should any man among us be capable of reaching the Silver City and returning in time to engage the enemy at Eryn Ruil, that man is you.”
Runningwolf shrugged once more.
“As you wish.”
The Commander reached within the folds of his oilskin, and brought forth a small square package, extending it toward the loamy-eyed Rhelman.
“A token from Guardsman Draconarius,” he explained. “He wanted you to have it. He said you would understand.”
The Rhelman accepted the leather-bound packet wordlessly, slipping it into the roll bound behind him.
“And I give you this, Left Tenant,” said the Iron Captain, removing his silver battle horn from his shoulder, “to hold until such time as we meet again.” A rare smile softened his hard countenance. “I look forward to the day when next I hear its silver song.”
Runningwolf hesitated only a moment before taking the Captain’s battle horn and sliding its strap over his bare shoulder. He then bowed his head, and raised his leather totem pouch to his temple.
Axennus and Bronnus put their fists to their hearts.
And with no further word, the Rhelman nudged Featherfoot about, and rode into the wind and the rain and the dark of the cold northern night.
Night was approaching the small black hours before dawn when the worst fury of the storm passed, its electrical rage flashing farther to the west, followed some moments later by the muffled rumble of thunder over the High Land. Beneath the imposing rise of Rothrange, where the Ruil angled south and away from the mountains, sprawled the dark tangled wedge of Ravenwood. The last surviving remnant of Eldagreen, the ancient forest that had once spanned the northern Middle Land from Eryn Ruil to the Peacekeepers, Ravenwood was a place of stillness and shadow, where epigeal mist crept, writhed, swirled through the twisted labyrinth of hoary root and mossy trunk, like the sorrowful soul of devastated Eldagreen seeking her lost and forgotten eminence.
And assembled there, in a small clearing in the befogged eaves of Ravenwood, were gathered the great ones of the Deathward – the noble Lord and Lady of the Fiannar, the Master and Mistress of the House of Eccuron, the Shield Maiden Caelle and grim Eldurion.
“You may inform Varonin,” spoke the latter to the Lord and Lady of his people, “that he is Marshal of the Grey Watch now. He will serve you well.”
“It will be done,” Alvarion responded quietly.
Eldurion nodded curtly. The Eldest of the Fiannar was very much his father’s son, his brother’s brother, and his nephew’s uncle – tall and strong, determined, though dourer of nature and of a keener pride. He was cloaked and cowled in grey, the gold of his rillagh concealed within the dull cladding of his traveler’s trappings. He held his long sword in one hand, the cold steel of its naked blade greased black against gleam and glitter. A far greater weapon was wrapped in inconspicuous leather and strapped at his back – Grimroth, the Blade of Defurien. He bore no other burden. His was to lead the company through Coldmire and to slay the Blood King. Each was burden enough, and both would demand all the agility his body might command.
Then spoke Tulnarron:
“Beware the Moor Walkers, Eldurion. They have been seen near the southern marges of Coldmire by both your warders and my warriors, but they do not leave the fen. Though they have raised no hand against us, they may be spies of the Wraithren, and possess some considerable skill or sorcery, or they would not have been able to elude us for so long.”
Eldurion nodded once more.
“Marshal.”
The voice was that of Sarrane, wife to Tulnarron and Seer of the Fiannar.
The Eldest of the Deathward looked upon the Seer, and he saw the strange swirl of her eddied eyes, knew that she had seen something that he had not seen, that he could never possibly see.
“Marshal no longer, good Seer,” he corrected, his voice cool and cautious.
Sarrane disregarded the correction completely.
“The road you take is fraught with foes, Marshal,” said she. “But even in the most hostile of places, and among the most bitter of enemies, one might find a friend.”
Eldurion nodded again, storing the Seer’s words for a future time, when their wisdom might become more apparent.
Then spoke the Lady Cerriste, saying only, “My love to you, dear Uncle.”
“And mine to you, my Lady,” he replied.
Of the gathering of Deathward in the darkness of Ravenwood, only Caelle, daughter of Eldurion, said nothing.
Nearby, at the trunk of a towering redwood were assembled the Athain Princes Evangael, Thrannien and Yllufarr, noble Sun Lords all.
“I remind you to not exceed your duties, my brother,” spoke golden Evangael. “The Illincarnadine is the Darad’s. The Blood King is Eldurion’s. Yours is but to enable our friends to perform these worthy feats, and to keep removed the Blood King’s eyes from the North.”
“There are those in Coldmire who will not appreciate your presence there,” advised Thrannien. “Though you will surely hear them, do not heed the voices in the fen. Leave the winsome ghosts of the Unforgiven to their wanderings.”
Yllufarr’s oddly achromic eyes swam with pale light.
“The Teller’s Tale be told,” he replied softly. There was a darkness to his voice deeper than the black of night.
“His Tale be told,” echoed Thrannien.
And the three Athain Princes joined hands in a triangle of Light and Love, and ancient eldritch power pulsed through them, puissance that in the World to come would be reserved for angels in Heaven alone.
And some distance away were Brulwar and Mundar and Rundul of the Wandering Guard, mighty of the Daradur.
“There’s nothing right in this world,” complained Mundar of Dul-darad, his black eyes glowering beneath their thick blond brows. He folded his huge arms defiantly across his massive chest. “Not only does this mudfucker rise in rank due to luck and happenstance, and maybe some marginal skill with the axe, but he’s then sent upon a mission crucial to the fate of the world, while I’m appointed guide and minder to a flock of whining women and snot-nosed children.” He growled something as incoherent as it was foul. “Tell me, uldwan Dor, where’s the justice?”
“The Daradur create their own justice, young Warder,” returned black Brulwar of Dangmarth patiently. He well knew Mundar’s gentle love for the Fiannar, specifically of their women and children, a love only made greater for the Daradur’s lack of women and children of their own. “Where we will it, we will find it.”
Mundar grumbled something that might have been “Captain Rundul, my fuckin’ ass…”
Rundul’s dark beard parted in a wide white grin. Despite Mundar’s bombast and brashness, Rundul knew his voluble friend was immeasurably gladdened for him, and that the Warder’s protest was pretended.
“Take care, Warder Mundar,” chided Rundul, “lest envy stain your beard a permanent green.”
“Bah!” dismissed Mundar, struggling against a smile. “I envy you only the obvious but inexplicable favour of our Chieftain.”
And Rundul smiled in reverie.
For earlier that day he had been summoned to walk with Drogul in Druintir –
They strode in silence through the marble streets of the sun-washed city, admiring the stonecraft of the Fiannar, their black eyes gleaming in approval for the skillfully chiseled statuary, the finely formed fountains, the single continuous carving that was Druintir of the Deathward.
The men and women of the Fiannar left the pair of Daradur unmolested, the earlier euphoria of the Deathward
for the coming of the Mighty One replaced by a more reticent reverence, their grey eyes agleam with a forlorn hope. Some of the smaller Fiannian children had approached, fair faces bright with wonder, and were received with quiet kindness by the legendary Lord of Doomfall. They held his huge hand, touched his great black war-axe, then sped off to boast of the encounter to their families and friends. Such was the extent of their esteem for Drogul the kirun-tar.
Rundul’s own esteem for his Chieftain was not far removed.
The two Daradur tarried in their tour at the base of Muldarron’s Monument, a realistic rendering in rock of the allegiance between the three Guardian Peoples and of their avowal to stand united in defense of life and land and liberty. The skilled hands of Muldarron had deftly depicted an Ath, a Darad and a Fian positioned in a triangular formation, back to back to back: The first lowered to one knee, an arrow nocked upon the bent string of his long bow; the next bristling with battle-fury, a war-axe in one hand, a huge hammer in the other; the last wielding a broad-bladed greatsword, a war horn raised to his lips.
“The Ath is the Sun Knight Andriel,” the Daradun Chieftain said, his rough voice infused with a quiet respect. “He was slain upon the field before the black gates of Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum. The Fian is Ferraron of the House of Eccuron, father to Muldarron. Ferraron fell also at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum.” Drogul turned his dark gaze from the Monument to the Warder beside him. “And the Darad is Rokkundar, whom I knew well, and who returned to Earth the Mother on the final day of battle at Mekkoleth. Rokkundar was a great warrior who never ran from nor turned his back to enemy blades.”
Rundul lowered his head to keep secret the shame stinging his eyes. The bruise on his back burned then, searing past flesh and bone into his soul – the eternal brand of his betrayal. Despite the honour that had been paid him by the high ones of the Fiannar, no amount of remorse or regret could ever return to him his dignity. Such disgrace could never be justified, never be forgiven.
“But then,” Drogul considered, a white gold glinting where the midday sun met his midnight eyes, “Rokkundar was not in the belly of the Bloodshards four days ago. He did not see what you saw.”
