by Sean Rodden
“Not that burden,” said Eldurion. “The true burden you bear. The destruction of the Illincarnadine.”
The urthvennim.
Rundul did not immediately respond.
It is within you.
“Yours is the greater of the two burdens, Fian,” stated the Darad flatly.
“Your own may be the more difficult,” replied Eldurion.
About them, the sleets of Coldmire fell like arrows of dark iron. The cold deepened. The night was impenetrably black.
The Darad chuckled lowly.
“Insomuch as the nearly impossible differs from the almost impossible.”
Eldurion smiled grimly. “You can do this thing?”
Rundul did not respond. His black eyes roved the night atop Carricevan. Through the darksome sleet. The mist. The deeps of centuries. Seeing.
Seeing a thing.
Eldurion saw it also. Or sensed it. A change. The hushed whisper of intuition. A coming.
“We’re not alone,” murmured the Darad.
The Fian nodded. His eyes were thin silver slits of stellar light in a forgotten corner of the world that had not known stars for centuries, for millennia.
“We are not,” agreed Eldurion. “Nor have we been since we first crossed into Coldmire.” He paused. “The Ath knows this, but says nothing.”
Rundul grunted something incoherent.
Eldurion’s eyes sparkled in the dark. Sleet snaked along the length of his bare blade like shards of crushed crystal.
“They come,” said the Fian.
Rundul nodded. Readied his war-axe.
“Each to his burden,” he growled.
Yllufarr of the Undying moved unaccosted through the moil of the moors, the tumult of the tempest turning aside and away from the pale-eyed Prince of the Neverborn. He glided with impossible grace across the waterlogged wastes, treading peat and pool with like lightness and ease, slipping silently through the sleet in his search for a path through the fen.
Ever did he harken to the voices of the night, seeking the Song of the Shaddathair, that melancholic melody overlaying and underscoring the constant call of Coldmire. But the sad song of Sammayal was faint that night, feeble and far, and Yllufarr discerned little of that deathless dirge of dismay and despair.
The night aged. The storm raged.
And Yllufarr soon slid from himself into the halfworld between the Three Earths and the Light, that eternal and ethereal place of peace where all Athair in part abided, the paradise of waking dreams they named Eilla Evvanin.
There Yllufarr rested his mind and spirit, the perfect beauty and serenity of Eilla Evvanin soothing his soul as a salve might mend a physical hurt. And his sorrows passed from him into the Evvanin, and became lovely things – here a flower in beauteous bloom, there a silver stream, there the light of a lustrous star.
Yet Yllufarr also remained aware of all that was about him in Coldmire: The hammering of the sleets; the oozing wounds of the wastes, the ancient agony of eviscerated Eldagreen; the sad and sorrowful song of the Shadowfolk of Sammayal.
And he was aware of the eyes upon him in the night.
Yllufarr was of the Athair. He perceived all.
But he was many miles from Carricevan when he heard the sounds of battle break before the ancient stones of Doras Serrin.
17
NORTHERN LIGHTS
“Some hold the Lights to be natural luminous aspects of the ether. Others presume them to be spirits and gods at play in the heavens. Mariners insist they are but reflections of the distant ocean upon the black canvas of the night sky. I say, what matter? Such beauty need be neither investigated nor evaluated, nor even truly understood – but only appreciated.”
Cornileus Bruca, Grand Master of Astrology, Ithramis On the Aurora
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Axennus Teagh, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. His eyes shone in delight, damp with pride. “Absolutely beautiful!”
“Still needs work,” grumbled the Iron Captain.
The Commander and the Captain of the North March Mounted Reserve sat astride their mounts atop Lar Thurrad, the most northerly of the Seven Hills’ three grassy rises, their backs to the rush of the River Ruil and the dark hard walls of Rothrange. Before and below them, the men of the Reserve rehearsed one of the new and strange exercises that their Commander had brought to them from the Hall of the Ways of War.
“Beautiful,” insisted Axennus, almost petulantly.
“Still needs work,” repeated Bronnus. His own obstinacy lacked the childishness of his brother’s. “Much work.”
But the Iron Captain’s admiration for the display of horsemanship before him was betrayed by the glint in his dark gaze. He glanced to his brother.
“This maneuver is quite unorthodox, Axo. Even for you.”
Axennus grinned.
“Necessarily so, brother,” he explained. “The foe we await can easily withstand a charge of light horse. The Unmen are thick of trunk and limb, swift and sturdy, and extremely powerful. And they employ great crude pike-like weapons that would gut our mounts with savage efficiency. Should we charge them in formation or attempt a frontal assault of any sort, we would most certainly be utterly destroyed.”
Bronnus frowned, but nodded.
“Better we stay to their flanks.”
“Indeed.”
It was the eighth morning since a decidedly dour Commander Axennus Teagh had emerged from the ancient Halls of Lore and had requested and received permission from the Lord of the Deathward to drill the Reserve on the Seven Hills.
“You have made them good fighters, Bronnus,” the Commander had said to his brother, “but I shall teach them to fight well.”
And so to the Seven Hills they had come. There the dedicated men of the North March Mounted Reserve had trained tirelessly and without complaint, from dawn till dusk, day after day. And as each day passed, they approached mastery of several markedly complex maneuvers that their Commander had discovered in the yellowed war-tomes of the Fiannar. Between exercises, the men of the Reserve investigated the terrain, calculated distances, tested the texture and hardness of the ground, measured slopes and grades, marked the placement of rocks and roots – and committed all to memory.
And Axennus’ mood had lightened appreciably as the men’s knowledge of the Hills and their grasp of the ancient-but-novel tactics grew – for his strange sternness had been born of a profound concern for the lives of those under his command, of those he and his brother had convinced to stand with the noble Fiannar at the Pass of Eryn Ruil. The Commander may not have ensured his men’s survival – none but the Teller might accomplish such a thing – but he may have delayed their deaths. And each and every beat of his men’s hearts was a thing precious to the younger son of Jophus Teagh.
Bronnus did not fail to mark his brother’s return to self.
“I liked you better when you were skulking about like a prophetic Recitor who had seen the sky fall in his dreams,” growled the Iron Captain.
“So you admit it at last.”
“I admit what?”
“That you do like me – albeit less some times than others.”
Bronnus grimaced.
“I admit no such thing. I have never liked you. And I am not about to start doing so now.”
“A small matter, dear brother,” laughed Axennus. “I like myself enough for the both of us.”
“Never was a truer word spoken.”
Axennus’ laughter subsided into a small and silent smile as the brothers watched the Reserve complete the complicated exercise with competence, confidence, precision. Right Tenant Hastiliarius peremptorily commended the performance, and the men of the Reserve cheered and congratulated one another boisterously.
The Commander raised an eyebrow to his Captain.
“Better?”
“Much. They were too near upon one another earlier.” Bronnus stroked his new growth of dark beard. “Unorthodox, still. But a useful addition to our repertoire. E
ffective, even. Does it have a name?”
A subtle change on the wind, a warming and a sweetening, the scent of summer – these things came then and stilled Axennus’ tongue even as he parted his lips to reply.
“It is called Hiridion’s Helix, Captain,” a third and familiar voice answered in the Commander’s stead, “and when executed properly, few moves on the gameboard of war are more effective.”
Caelle.
“Though I cannot recall it ever having been attempted with a mere one hundred riders.”
Ah. She returns. Yes.
Axennus felt his heart leap within his breast. He turned, smiled. There was a strange shyness, a rare uncertainty to his smile.
The Shield Maiden straddled her mirarran, the gold of her rillagh gone white in the light of the morning, the curves of her small feminine form yet apparent despite the shirt of chain mail she wore over her close-fitting hunting garb. Her raven hair was ashine in the sun and westering with the wind, stray tresses falling across her fine fair face in a manner that seemed sultry, seductive, that would set afire even the coldest of men’s hearts – a passive allure, for surely it was not her hand that held the wilding whips of the wind. Over certain things, even the most beautiful of women could claim no control. But there was an anonymous heat, a longing, perhaps, or a passion, warming the winter-silver stars of Caelle’s blue-flecked eyes. And the crook of her comely lips was a knowing one as she saw Axennus Teagh reflexively avert his gaze.
“Shield Maiden,” the Commander welcomed softly.
“Commander,” nodded Caelle. “Captain.”
The Iron Captain inclined his head wordlessly in return.
“I trust I find you both well, my friends,” said Caelle.
“You do, Shield Maiden,” replied Axennus. He had neither seen nor spoken to the daughter of Eldurion since she had escorted him from the Halls of Lore to the Hearthhold of the House of Defurien. Tentatively, he ventured, “We have missed you these past several days.”
Caelle lips curved beautifully.
“You have been…distracted…by other concerns, Commander.”
“Yes.”
The Shield Maiden tilted her head to one side, disarmingly demure, and a twinkle took her eyes.
“Do you remain distracted, Commander?”
Axennus felt the warmth of the flush that swept across his face.
But it was the Iron Captain that responded to the Shield Maiden’s question.
“We endeavour to prepare the men for the tasks and tests that await them, Shield Maiden. In five days these hills will become a battleground, the like of which they have never before imagined, let alone experienced.”
“Thus this excellent display of Hiridion’s Helix.” A strangeness lent itself to Caelle’s smile. “The mighty Hiridion was not only a formidable warrior, but also a brilliant military strategist. The Lords Defurien and Vallian relied on him heavily in their wars against Shadow.” She looked appraisingly upon Axennus. “It becomes increasingly evident that Master Hiridion’s blood does indeed flow in your veins, Commander.”
Axennus waved one hand dismissively.
“Should that be so, Shield Maiden, then I have inherited more from the tactician than from the warrior,” said he with genuine humility. He glanced at the sturdy and stalwart Bronnus. “And my brother has inherited more of the warrior than…well…than anything.”
The Iron Captain scowled in the silence specific to one who suspects he has been insulted, but is not entirely certain.
Laughter leapt in Caelle’s wondrous eyes, but only quivered quietly upon her lips. Prudently, she steered the conversation in another direction.
“I am pleased that your time in the Halls of Lore was of some benefit, Commander. When first you emerged from the libraries you seemed…other than yourself.”
Axennus’ throat tightened. “My apologies, Shield Maiden, if I seemed –”
But Caelle held up her hand. “You did nothing wrong.”
The Commander bowed his head.
The Iron Captain looked to his brother, then upon the Shield Maiden, then to the heavens. He sighed forth fatigue, frustration.
War comes upon us swiftly and savagely, and these two are as adolescents only a little past the change…
“But I have come here for reasons other than simple pleasantries, Southmen – however pleasant said pleasantries might be.”
Axennus looked up.
Bronnus looked down.
“Marshal Varonin has informed me that the Ithramian flotilla – nay, armada – approaches Druintir on the white waves of the River Ruil.” The Shield Maiden’s voice was oddly detached, devoid of emotion, of inflection. “The Marshal promises, in his ever-understated way, that this armada is a true wonder to behold. The Ithramians will begin to arrive above the Silver Stair come middle-day. I come to bring you thither.”
Axennus blinked.
Ahhh…I understand. Marshal Varonin. Odd as it might seem on the eve of war – and doubtless there is purpose and wisdom in this – the father has gone into the Wilderness, and will not return. And the daughter remains. This is why she has been so long in coming. This is the reason she delayed so. She was not leaving me to my distractions – but attending her own.
The Fiannar do not mourn.
Like hell.
Several miles upstream from the embassies of the Free Nations, the long ivory-white Arms of Branne stretched westward into the rush of the Ruil. Twin peninsulas of marmoreal stone worn smooth and white by wind and water, the Arms created a pair of deep calm coves, natural harbours with surfaces as smooth and as clear as glass save for where they were broken by the prod of prow and oar.
The southern inlet the Fiannar called the Bosom, and there they harboured their fleet of tall proud warships, marine miracles of wood and iron, some several centuries old, all as noble and as able as the folk that fashioned them. Mariners of the Fiannar moved about and upon the vessels, hard hands readying rope and rigging, oiling oarlocks and mending sails. They were grim of face, these dour Deathward, for they understood their tall ships would see no combat in the coming war, but might only bear survivors from slaughter should the Fiannar come to ruin at the Pass of Eryn Ruil.
But at whiles these same Deathward would glance to the relic resting high and regal upon the rounded rock of Branne’s southern Arm, and light would shine from their eyes, and they would banish all darkness within them. For there, at once both darksome and gleaming under the cool northern sun, were the petrified remains of mythical Dal Starrys, the flagship of the armada that had taken the Deathward from the devastation of the First Earth to the promise of the Second. Dal Starrys slept now, her bright sails long stripped, her polished wood become blackened stone, her mighty masts soaring like a troika of scorched obelisks. But the majesty, the glory of Dal Starrys remained, the gold of her wales glittering like sunfire upon dead waters, the fair face of Fircuine flashing at the bow, starry eyes gazing ever westward to a beckoning sea.
And then the Fiannar who worked the ships would return their attentions to tasks they were confident would prove unnecessary.
Upon the northern Arm reared a great beacon tower, an upright shaft of shining stone thrust from the peninsular rock like a tremendous white femur protruding from a primordial giant’s barrow mound. The Fiannar named the magnificent structure Idallinimir, proud monument to hope and liberty, and cradle of the brilliant beacon-sphere that was the Sea Star of Defurien.
Idallinimir. The Light of Idallion.
Most simply called it the Bone.
Axennus and Bronnus followed Caelle’s svelte form as she ascended the spiraling stair within the hollow of the Bone. Black hair flying at her back, the Shield Maiden sprang up the stone steps like a sprite, her feet light and sure. The brothers bounded behind, striving to keep pace with the fleet-footed Fiann. Initially, the Commander intentionally distracted himself from Caelle’s compelling curves by counting the steps of the winding stone staircase, though he soon abandoned this ende
avour, not only for fatigue of mind and muscle, but also for his keen appreciation of feminine beauty. The Commander passed the greater part of the climb in guiltless pleasure, happily enrapt by the lithe motions of the woman above him.
“Spectacular!” exclaimed Axennus as he emerged from the hollow of the Bone into the cool white glare of the sun and gazed upon the vista about him. His legs yet burned with the rigours of the climb, and his heart still hammered in his chest, but it was the panoramic view rather than the effects of exertion that stole his breath from him. “Such a wondrous sight!”
“I am sure it was, Commander,” said the Shield Maiden slyly, the specks of her eyes twinkling in the northern sunshine. She cleared her throat, her comely countenance assuming an exaggerated expression of sobriety. “Is, rather. It certainly is.”
Axennus winced as he felt the fire that burned in his legs rush unimpeded to his face. He moved away from the lovely Fiann, looking in every direction but at her, then rested his elbows on a stone rail of the platform and hung his head sheepishly. As surely as he could feel the flush of his face, so surely could he feel the flutter of Caelle’s silent laughter at his back.
Does nothing escape this woman?
The Commander and Caelle stood atop the Light of Idallion, the wind wilding in their hair, the sun bright and white in their eyes.
They were not alone.
Silent sentinels of the Grey Watch stood by the crenellated balustrade, one to each point of the compass, hard hands folded before them on the hilts of long silvery swords, grey gazes fixed north and south and east and west. Their forms differed from statues of stone only in the whipping of their hair and cloaks.
Behind them upon a tall pillar of marble rested the fabled Sea Star of Defurien, a flawless sphere of opaque crystal easily five feet in diameter, its convex surface patiently catching and collecting the light of the sun. Like the Stone of Scullain, the Star had been carried by the Fiannar to Second Earth from the First, where it had been discovered long before by the Lord Defurien in the depths of the darkling ocean. The Sea Star retained much of the power and the properties it had possessed in the First World, for come each fall of dusk and every rise of darkness the Sea Star released its gathered light, illuminating the night as would a small shining moon, safely guiding river-farers to the waiting Arms of Branne.
