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

by Sean Rodden

  A loud bout of mocking laughter drew Anconas’ attention to the bar, where Left Tenant Lacius had been attempting to regale the publican with an inebriated rendition of the determining battle for Rhille-haven in the faint hope of another flagon. But the publican, kind as he was, had only shaken his head as a group of unseemly patrons jeered the intoxicated hero of the legendary Ghost Brigade. Anconas watched as an ugly old whore deftly reached into Lacius’ pocket to relieve the hapless veteran of what few coins he may have had.

  The Undercaptain sighed once more, tilted his head back, throwing the last dregs of his flagon down his throat. He placed the empty jar on the table before him, closed his tired eyes, mentally preparing himself for the compulsory confrontation with the whore and, quite likely, her handler.

  But there was to be no confrontation that night. No, not that night. For that night Anconas’ life, Lacius’ life, and the lives of two thousand veterans of the North March Mounted Reserve were to change irrevocably. Irrevocably and forever.

  “Undercaptain.”

  The voice was flat, quiet, strange. There was an alien inflection to its tone that made it seem at once both distant and near. And though the voice was vaguely familiar to Anconas, he could not place it for the fog of ale. He sighed a third and final time, then opened his drink-blurred eyes.

  A man stood before him. Small, dark, muscular. The man’s features were as flat as slate, his hair long and black, his eyes the dark of wet earth. He wore a tunic of Republican blue, but his leggings and decorations were distinctly Rhelnian. The man raised a small leather pouch to his temple.

  Runningwolf?

  “Collect Left Tenant Lacius, Undercaptain,” spoke the Rhelman, not bothering to await the customary answering salute. “We must leave this place.”

  “Runningwolf?”

  The Rhelman’s patented patience had withered and had worn thin for the trials of his journey. And time was of the essence. He placed an object on the table.

  Anconas lowered his eyes and saw before him the silvered battle horn of Bronnus Teagh, the great and glorious Iron Captain. Wonder weaved its way through the Undercaptain’s rising awareness. He raised his gaze once more, only to see Runningwolf’s back as the Rhelman moved through the dirty smoke and dirtier people, past the King’s Head’s rickety doors, out into the night.

  Anconas remained as he was for a moment, perplexed, pondering the past minute. And then he reached for the Iron Captain’s war horn, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, a new light ashine in clear cold eyes.

  “Left Tenant Lacius!”

  The Undercaptain’s voice was as hard and as clarion with command as the blast of the horn held so tightly in his hand.

  Lacius turned, wobbled slightly, raised one brow. He had not heard that tone in the Undercaptain’s voice since Rhille-haven in the Delta.

  “Come, Lacius. The Commander calls for us.”

  Lacius willed himself steady, raised his other brow.

  “The Commander calls, Left Tenant,” repeated Anconas.

  The Undercaptain rose to his feet, suddenly solid, sturdy, steadfast once again. His eyes shone.

  “And we shall answer.”

  15

  WINDS AND WAYS OF WAR

  “And from the East came the wickedest of winds,

  unnumbered whispers thundering to a roar,

  Hell’s herald and harbinger, harsh autumnal

  voices promising winter, prophesying war.”

  Amarien, Lay of the Fiannar

  The messenger came in the night of autumn’s first day.

  He came to Ithramis, ancient city on the sea, by ways long secret and hidden, to the palatial Hall of Halmorian, to the chambers of the noble Prince Arbamas who ruled there. He came alone, cloaked and cowled, bearing tidings of looming war and ruin.

  The messenger spoke to Arbamas of the return of the Blood King, of a horrible host of teeming thousands, of unholy Ungloth risen anew. He told of the plight of the Fiannar, of the threat posed to Men of the High Land, of the need for the Prince’s blade to flash fiercely in the face of Darkness. He revealed that the Prince’s long wait was nearly done, that Arbamas must go to Druintir, that he must at long last stand in union with the valiant Fiannar.

  That his time was almost come.

  Prince Arbamas knelt before the emissary, bowed his head before the bright light of those glittering golden eyes, then rose and embraced him whom he had ever considered a brother.

  Arbamas then took up sword and shield and gleaming helm, and strode into the sea-scented night, his countenance set and stern. He rode his great black eastward, across the wondrous Floating Road, over the fertile fields of Sendenna to the fork in the waters where the River Chillor ended and the Rivers Ramis and Ruil began. Having issued specific instructions to his generals, the Prince set sail in the small dark hours before dawn upon the Ithramian flagship Prodigal, her great white canvasses harnessing the wind, her smooth prow slicing eastward to the last domain of the Deathward.

  Four days and four nights of faring on fast water before a preternaturally generous wind, and come the white-golden zenith of the fifth day’s sun, The Prodigal eased into port above the roar and fall of the Silver Stair. Escorted by silent sentries of the Grey Watch, the Prince walked to the edge of the precipice overlooking the ancient city of the Fiannar. He gazed there upon the towering Colossus of Defurien, felt a strange stirring in his soul, a certain quickening of his heart. He allowed himself a small smile.

  Diar Ruill en Thir, anen em.

  Druintir, I am come.

  The fall’s first sun soared, sank and set, and in Druintir preparations for war continued in earnest – though in sooth the Fiannar were a folk ever readied for battle. Cold and hard were the eyes of the Deathward as they moved through the stone streets of the city. Swords and spears glinted under sun and star, beneath banners brave, and every heart thudded to the bold beat of war’s driving drums. And the very mists of the Silver Stair seemed to swirl with ghosts of the slain, long sundered souls of fallen Fiannar fighting to return to the field of battle one final time.

  The small hour before dawn found the Lord Alvarion seated at a table in an antechamber of the Hearthhold, an assortment of maps and charts and scrolls and texts before him. A solitary tallow burned low and yellow at his elbow. The Lord’s face seemed haggard in the wavering halflight, drawn, uncharacteristically gaunt and grey. He ground his fists into his eyes and mumbled something incoherent to the swaying shadows of the room.

  “You must rest, husband,” chastised a concerned Cerriste as she came up behind Alvarion. Both her voice and her step were soft. “Your body must be strong and your mind clear.”

  The Lord of the Fiannar sighed and leaned back in his chair. The feeble light made a wasteland of his scarred cheek.

  “Another council of the Houses convenes come midday, my love,” he explained, fatigue thickening his voice as effectively as would drink. “Rest is a thing I can ill afford.”

  “Hush, husband,” admonished Cerriste, standing behind him, her slim yet strong hands gliding over his shoulders, pressing, caressing, massaging away tension and tightness. “You can ill afford not to rest. There is nothing that can be said this day that cannot be said come the morrow.”

  Alvarion sighed once more, though not for fatigue, but for the pleasure of his wife’s touch. He sensed her lean in and down. He felt the warmth of her sweet breath upon his ear.

  “We have time, husband.”

  Cerriste reached down, taking her husband’s hand in her own, gently compelling him to his feet. The Lady gazed into Alvarion’s cool eyes and saw there the anguish, the silent agony of the soul, the struggle between doubt and hope. But resilience was yet there – resilience, refusal and resolve. Pleased with her husband’s quiet strength, Cerriste held his gaze, her beautiful eyes capturing and captivating his own, grey on grey, water on ice, silver on steel.

  And she then saw in his eyes the flicker of a particular fire that had begun to
kindle there.

  “Come, husband,” Cerriste said softly, almost sultrily, her voice the hushed song of a silken-throated siren. She raised her left hand to his face, her soft cool palm cupping the chiseled, grizzled jaw, the pad of her thumb tenderly tracing the raised ridges of the garish scar. “We have time for many things.”

  A third sigh passed Alvarion’s lips – the sound of anticipation as a certain warmth washed through him. He smiled.

  And the Lady of the Fiannar led her Lord and husband away.

  The soldiers of the North March Mounted Reserve assembled in the Circumforum of the White Manor at middle-morning. The men of rank assumed their places in the chairs of ash about the Council Circle: Commander Axennus Teagh; the Iron Captain, Bronnus Teagh; Undercaptain Teji Nashi, the healer; Right Tenant Hastiliarius. Conspicuous by his absence was Left Tenant Runningwolf, the laconic Rhelman. And ninety-six men gathered in small groups here and there throughout the tiered seating of the theatre. Although their posture and manner seemed casual, their collective attention was rapt as they gave ear to their Commander’s tale of coming war, of monsters and demons and hordes of mythical Unmen.

  They listened and spoke no word.

  The Commander spoke of the threat to the Free Nations of the North, of the plight of their good friends and hosts, the Fiannar. He spoke of sorcery, of Unmen and ogres and giants, of the strange dark power of the Illincarnadine, of red winds and terrible towers risen anew, of death, of doom, of destruction.

  The men listened and spoke no word.

  And then he told of the Fiannar themselves, of their coming to Second Earth two millennia before, of their joining with the primitive tribes of Men against the terror and tyranny of the Wraithren, of their grand gifts of knowledge, of wisdom, of civilization. He told of the founding of Lindannan and of Erellan, of the endless struggle by the Fiannar against the forces of Shadow so that Men might live in peace and grow into power of their own. He told of the secret sacrifice of the Deathward, of their fealty, of their faithful fending of the marches of the High Land, and of their selfless defense of the precarious sovereignty of each Free Nation that prospered, blissfully oblivious, behind the invisible wall of Fiannian swords and spears.

  The men yet listened and spoke no word.

  And lastly he spoke of pride, of gratitude, of debt and service. He spoke of the need for Men to rise with the Fiannar against the approaching Shadow, of the need to unite under common banner in the face of the Blood King’s invading army, of the vital must that every Erelian there stand in solidarity with the noble Deathward in the desperate struggle for the Pass of Eryn Ruil.

  They listened and still they spoke no word.

  And the Commander said, “For twenty hundred years have the Fiannar fought a long and costly war that is not, in sooth, their war to fight. They fight for us. They fight for the Republic, for Nothira, for Rheln and for the High Kingdom, so that we might thrive and prosper in peace. I now call upon each man here to answer this debt. I call upon you to stand in faithful fraternity with the Fiannar, that fair and fierce folk that have ever held the field against the hosts of Darkness in our name. I beseech you, my friends – do not allow them to stand alone.”

  Silence.

  “But no man here is bound to this,” stated Commander Axennus Teagh succinctly, his voice ringing out and up from the Council Circle. “Despite your debt to the Shield Maiden, I will commit none of you to this war.” His eyes sparkled in the oil-light. “To this war each man here must himself commit, and of his own volition offer his sword – and likely his death – or he must decline and leave this place and live, without shame, though he might ever wonder what part he may have played in the greatest battle of our time, had his courage and honour held.”

  Stone silence.

  At the Commander’s shoulder, the Iron Captain’s hard visage struggled between wry grin and grimace.

  “They are soldiers all, brother,” Bronnus had told Axennus earlier that morning. “Command them, and they will fight.” But the Commander had shaken his head and his white teeth had glinted behind a perfect smile. “Nay, Bron – a warrior unencumbered by the chains and shackles of bounden duty is swifter of sword and lighter afoot than one who fights of obligation alone. They will not perceive this to be their war. They must choose to fight it of their own free will – or at least believe that they do so – or of our ninety-eight remaining, none will ever see Hiridion’s Walls again.” Bronnus had frowned. “Very well, little brother, speak your piece,” he had said gruffly, “and then I shall speak mine.”

  In the Circumforum there was only cold stone silence.

  The Iron Captain stood then, his chin outthrust and bristling. His eyes were a deep dark challenge, meeting and holding the gaze of every man there, one by one by one by one. The air of the chamber thickened, became chill.

  Then, and with the throated thunder of a battle-cry – which, in sooth, it was – the Iron Captain’s bellow burst forth:

  “Men of the South, what say you? Aye or nay?”

  The stone of the great chamber shook at his shouted plea to the warrior heart.

  “What say you?”

  And in answer, nearly one hundred throats and hearts erupted as one.

  Somewhere in the tiered seating, high up and near the back:

  “And there you have it, Dec.”

  “Yup.”

  “We’re in it now, lads.”

  “That we are, Maddy.”

  “Deep.”

  “Very deep, Ruby.”

  “Oh, I don’t know – maybe not so deep.”

  “You boys ready?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not at all, Whitey.”

  “Oh, I don’t know – it should be fun.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, boys.”

  “Me too.”

  “Same here.”

  “And I.”

  “But now I’m hungry.”

  “Me too.”

  “Same here.”

  “And I.”

  “We’ll go have a bite, then we’ll practice some more.”

  “Sounds good, Dec.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Bloody right.”

  Secreted in the shadows of the upper tiers of the Circumforum, Caelle smiled as the lingering echoes of the deafening and unanimous cry of “Aye!!” melted into the marble of the theatre’s walls. She waited for the Erelians to disperse, her sapphire-speckled eyes following the long form of Axennus Teagh as the Commander made his departure. She then saw Axennus pause at the great door, turn, and glance upward toward her place of concealment. The Commander’s mouth formed a small white grin. He inclined his handsome head in a nearly imperceptible nod, and even at that distance Caelle saw a twinkling in his clear keen eyes. And then he was gone.

  Caelle’s own smile softened into something else. The Southman had been aware of her presence all along.

  Such a remarkable man. Truly remarkable.

  The Shield Maiden’s visage then darkened, and her smile faded and fell altogether. And a coldness crept into her heart.

  One hundred gallant swords, thought she as she rose from her seat, cloaking herself in shadow and silence. One hundred valiant souls – but despite your fair intention and their own blind courage, friend Axennus, none are they that will survive this thing. None. And no measure of remarkability will spare them.

  And swiftly she went to bring word of one hundred Southern swords to her Lady.

  Alvarion woke to the sound of a soft sweet song, a lilting lullaby luring him from the deeps of slumber rather than to them:

  “Alli, alli, emla mori fithra,

  Da’enn mayine mure cullah,

  O cullah se mi, den ensyl ain distra

  Art sul mayine mori sullagh,

  Alli, alli, emla fithra…”

  And the song slipped into silence as Alvarion’s eyes slid open.

  “You have slept long, husband,” came Cerriste’s voice, the echoes of song lingering at its edges
like the shades of a dream, or a memory. “The day ages.”

  Alvarion sniffed, smelling the air.

  “Verily, the middle of the day is behind us.” His brows knotted, though there dwelt no true reproach in the expression. “Woman, you have allowed me to sleep overlong.”

  Seated before a grand mirror of brightly polished steel, the Lady of the Fiannar ran a comb through her long dark hair, rich waves of ermine ocean parting before the sleek prows of a hundred little ivory ships. Her luminescent locks seemed to gain in gleam and lustre with each supple stroke.

  Cerriste’s gaze shifted slightly from her own reflection to that of her husband lying upon the furs of their feather bed. The chamber was yet sweet with the scent of their morning love. A smile touched her lips and her eyes.

  “Did I not say that we have time, husband?”

  Alvarion moved to a sitting position, his tousled hair falling over his taut shoulders, the hard muscles of his chest and arms rippling with every minute motion. He rested his forearms upon his drawn knees. His brow smoothened, and his handsome mouth formed a smile of its own.

  “I would do well to heed you sooner and more often, woman.”

  Cerriste sighed in pretended disdain. The comb slid through her glistening tresses one last time.

  “Seventy-nine years of marriage and you are only discovering this now?”

  Alvarion chuckled softly.

  The Lady put her comb aside, rose from her chair, and turned. Her tall straight form was gowned in grey and shawled in green, and the gold of her rillagh glittered gloriously across her bodiced bosom. Her eyes were like silvered steel, her face graven of grace and elegance.

  Alvarion’s smile faltered before his wife’s deep and deadly beauty.

  “I convened the council of the Houses in your absence, husband,” revealed the Lady of Fiannar. “The Masters surmised that you were in conference with our allies, the Daradur and the Athair.” Her grey gaze absorbed the fine form of her husband amidst the rumpled furs, and she fought a smile back and down. “I did not deem it necessary to persuade them otherwise.”