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

by Sean Rodden

  The explosion had been utterly devastating, its destructive force several-fold more powerful than Gostullian had calculated. But the Watcher called Ghost had not survived centuries in the unforgiving wild by being incautious. Neither rashness nor recklessness were in his nature. He had considered and reconsidered that the explosive potential of the munitions train may be far beyond his expectations, well past his predictions, and had advised and ensured that appropriate measures and precautions be taken.

  Nevertheless, someone had to light that first fuse.

  The riders of the House of Eccuron sped after their shortening shadows. Westward, ever westward. Following the explosion there had been pursuit, there had been a pitched and running battle, one that ended unceremoniously and of a sudden when the Norian cavalry were led through a waiting gauntlet of silvery spears and were thoroughly scuppered, sliced to bloody ribbons in a threshing whirlwind of Fiannian steel. Teraras and the warokka had decided the rest. Teeth bared and gnashing, the war wolves of Galledine created such havoc in the night that all other pursuit from the northern camp had been abruptly abandoned. The Unmen of the Hebbingore had suffered the worst of it – a thousand warriors’ throats torn open as they slept, a thousand more ripped wide as they woke. Even now, the warokka lingered somewhere in the wake of the Host, loping fluidly over the grasses, a ferocious rearguard of fang and fury.

  West. Fast and hard.

  When the morning wind at their backs had warmed, and their swift shadows on the Soft Road were become significantly shorter, Tulnarron at long last slowed his well-lathered mirarran’s gait. His troop of Deathward shared a silent sigh of relief.

  “That was close thing,” said Gornannon at Tulnarron’s left side, the everpresent cheroot clenched between his teeth.

  “Very close,” agreed Sandarre upon the Master’s right.

  “Too close,” corrected Tulnarron, a touch sharply. “Far too close. For Haldarian and Lorradien, at least.”

  The pair of Fiannar, Haldarian and Lorradien, had been in the rearguard, fighting fiercely to protect the retreat. There was an earnest engagement, a contest made desperate by the unexpected intervention of wandering band of Urkroks. A dozen Deathward led by their mighty Master detached to do battle. The blow from an enormous Urkrok’s club crushed Haldarian’s skull, spattering his brain. A stray Norian arrow took Lorradien in the eye. Tulnarron saw them go down. Took his revenge, cold and deadly. Painted the Plains with enemy blood. The bundled bodies of both valiant fallen Fiannar now lay across the backs their mirarra, borne in honour beneath the banners of the Golden Strype and the Crimson Fist.

  “And for Gostullian,” Gornannon added gravely.

  “A brave and selfless deed, his,” said Sandarre, both a sadness and a particular pride to her tone.

  Tulnarron grunted doubtfully.

  “I would not mourn the good Ghost oversoon, cousin. Death has come for that man a hundred and a half times. And a hundred and a half times Death has departed in disappointed dejection. I will say my eulogy for Gostullian of the Grey Watch when I have seen his cold dead corpse with my own eyes.”

  Sandarre and Gornannon exchanged a strange look. The former cleared her throat a touch nervously.

  “Cousin, the explosion will have –”

  But the certainty in Tulnarron’s small smile silenced Sandarre’s assertion. The Master did not articulate aloud the two little words which that specific smile signified, but Sandarre heard them murmur in her mind:

  Even so.

  Before the band of riders, the road dipped and rose in a series of valleys, some shallow, some deep, the interceding hills between limiting the line of sight. Clouds clung to the earth, obscured the morning sky, scuttling the sun. The air was cloying and chill. Fog crept out of Coldmire, gathering in the low places, thick and grey.

  At the head of the Host, Tulnarron scowled as they descended a slope, following the Soft Road into an elongated hollow, a sunken stretch of misted miles walled on both sides by high rounded hills. With every step the fog cooled and congealed, thickening into a swirling soup, so dense about the legs of the mirarra that the riders could not see the ground. A feeling of floating gripped them, strangely soothing and sedative, stultifying the senses.

  The furrows of Tulnarron’s frown deepened, darkened. There was no reason to assume anything that wished ill or intended harm awaited them between there and Eryn Ruil. No thrall of the Blood King could outpace the mirarra. Nothing on the Northern Plains was fleeter. Naught but fog ever came out of Coldmire. And the warokka warded their backs.

  Nevertheless, the Master was uneasy in his mind. The night flight had been too wild, too reckless by far.

  And then the ears of his mount twitched.

  Tulnarron called sharply for Castadon and his contingent of outriders.

  But another voice answered him.

  “No further, Fian.”

  Too wild, too reckless. And too late.

  The Master held up his hand. The Host halted, instantly effecting a defensive formation, shields raised, spears seething outward in all directions, like a great plated prehistoric beast bristling with long lethal spikes. Weapons ready, Sandarre and Gornannon edged closer to Tulnarron, their steel-grey eyes constantly sweeping the fog before them. Nothing but mist beneath them, cloud above them, fog before them, each seemingly seeking a state of translucent equilibrium with the other.

  The Master of the House of Eccuron gritted his teeth, grinded his jaws, but otherwise did not move. His eyes glittered, cold and angry. The error had been his. And grievous. But self-flagellation, however much deserved, would of harsh necessity have to wait.

  “Come.”

  The voice was soft, but swollen with power, with command. Should the fog before them have been alive, an entity both animate and aware, that voice would have suited its spectral throat more than adequately. And it sounded close. So very close.

  Tulnarron deftly slid his greatsword from its harness.

  “I need to see, cousin,” he hissed beneath his breath.

  Sandarre nodded silently, raised her bow above her head, left arm outstretched and upright, strong right arm bent and drawing the string back to her bosom, the nocked arrow pointed to the heavy overcast heavens. The bow thwacked. The missile launched skyward, vanishing instantly into the grey. And Sandarre sang. Her voice light and lilting, soft and smooth like a warm summer rain. A few words only, in the Old Tongue, words of power that remained unforgotten to some among the Fiannar.

  To some, like Sandarre of the House of Eccuron.

  High above, a lone flash of lightning lashed the heavens, and a single roar of raw-throated thunder shook the earth. Sparks showered down from the sky, a crackling cascade of fiery rain. The cloud cover parted, scattered, pulled back and away, as though a great grey shroud had been ripped from the cadaver of the world. The mists withdrew, crawling back to Coldmire. The fog faded, fell away.

  Tulnarron bit back his breath.

  Hundreds of great grey giants astride huge horses from Hell lined the rises upon both Fiannian flanks and to the fore. To the east, behind the Deathward, more mounted giants swiftly and efficiently pinched off the lane of retreat, effectively surrounding the Host of Arrenhoth. Though their horrific horses huffed and heaved and clawed at the earth, the giants only stared down upon their snared prey in cool, contemplative aphony. Black-armoured, white-eyed, winter-cold of countenance. Angular visages tattooed with totem animals. The universally black hair of the males worked into a variety of odd shapes and figures; that of the females worn long and loose, veritably shining with darkness. Armed with an expansive assortment of armaments, some recognizable, some not, all forged of the same strange blue steel, all held loosely, almost casually, somewhere between at the ready and at ease. To a man, to a woman, the gargantuan grey warriors radiated a chill calm confidence. Above them fluttered unfamiliar colours – a copper and a silver stripe crossing one another upon a field of pure midnight.

  And on the Soft Road, only thirty st
rides away, their leader.

  “Come.”

  Tulnarron peered up at the apparition, his grey gaze glittering with silvery fire. None of the alien giants surrounding the Host bore any type of bow, and few wielded weapons that were even remotely designed for throwing. All seemed armed and armoured for extreme, intimate, close fighting. But not one weapon was held in a threatening manner. Even the leader’s huge-headed mace remained strapped at his back. The ambush had not been orchestrated to effect the immediate mass slaughter of the Fiannar. But if not that, then what?

  “Stay. Come. You are indecisive, giant. And I am not your dog.”

  The leader of the giants regarded Tulnarron with impassive ice-white eyes, then languidly rolled his broad shoulders. The morning wind rippled the impressive black wings of hair stretching from the sides of his head. He closed his eyes briefly, seemed to sigh in the sunlight. And then his nightmarish steed coughed, stepped slowly forward, terrible talons sinking into the spongy earth, bloody froth drooling from its savagely toothed jaws.

  Fifteen paces farther, the rider stopped his steed.

  Said nothing. Waited.

  Tulnarron cursed under his breath, biting back a bitter “Bastard” between bunched teeth, then moved his mirarran forward five, ten, fifteen paces. Unsummoned, Sandarre and Gornannon followed, remaining a length behind and to each side. In response, two mounted giants, a male and a female, detached from the ranks behind their leader and descended to take up similar and opposite positions.

  For a time, nothing was said. Simply silent observation, wordless regard. Curiosity struck dumb by an overwhelming perception of peril.

  Tulnarron marked the well-defined lines of the leader’s faceted face, the chiseled cheekbones, the squareness of the jaw. He frowned inwardly at the seeming familiarity of that grim, purposeful, yet handsome countenance. The authoritative austerity exuded there thrummed the strings of recognition, but made no melody, stirred no memory.

  “Do I know you, giant?”

  “Unlikely, Fian. We have never met.”

  Tulnarron nodded. “I would remember you.”

  “Likely, Fian. Name.”

  “This is my country, giant,” scowled Tulnarron. “You first.”

  The giant shrugged indifferently.

  “I am Kor ben Dor. Prince of the Bloodspawn. I am called the Halflord.”

  The Master failed to suppress a smile. “Only ‘Half’?”

  Kor ben Dor sighed, but otherwise ignored the jibe.

  “Name.”

  “I am Tulnarron, Master of the House of Eccuron, commanding the noble Host of Arrenhoth.”

  “You should know, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth, that your home remains as you left it, unbroken and unplundered. Such deplorable action I could never allow.”

  “Why, giant?”

  “Why not, Fian?”

  “The Blood King is not known for such restraint.”

  “I am not the Blood King.”

  “Yet you follow him.”

  The Halflord said nothing.

  “And you command his army,” the Master deduced. “How else could you forbid the sack of Arrenhoth?”

  “No. I command only the Bloodspawn.”

  “Then why should the Blood King’s army listen to you?”

  “I am…respected.”

  “Feared, you mean.”

  “The line between the two is often blurred, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.”

  “Indeed. And who commands you?”

  The Halflord paused for a moment, white eyes aglow.

  “Leeches command the army of the Blood King, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.”

  Leeches.

  The revelation struck the Master of the House of Eccuron like a physical blow. A sharp intake of breath, hissing inward between clenched teeth.

  Leeches!

  “Leech, really,” amended the Prince, watching the Master’s face intently. “The little girl dominant. The little boy, submissive. Or so it seems.”

  Little girl? Little boy?

  “The Leeches have stolen the bodies of human children, Fian. A girl and a boy. Young, and of an age. Ten summers, perhaps. Twins, by the look of them, but I cannot be sure.”

  Tulnarron’s eyes flared. Shades of grey rage. White fire, black ice.

  No! The little twins from Maple Creek! And I do them the dishonour of forgetting their names. Teller, do not tell this tale!

  The Halflord regarded the Master ruefully.

  “I do not condone what the Leeches have done, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth. Indeed, I am appalled, and would undo it if it was within my power to do so.”

  Tulnarron gritted his teeth, his eyes iridescent with ire.

  “There are powers greater than you in this world, Bloodspawn.”

  “So the Leeches keep reminding me.”

  Tulnarron glowered. But the sincerity of the chagrin etched upon the Halflord’s features and evinced in his words cooled the wrath rising within. And with coolness came clarity.

  The revelation that the Blood King’s army was commanded by Leeches had astonished Tulnarron. That those demons had taken the little twins had shocked him. But even in his shock and astonishment, Tulnarron had not failed to mark that the leader of the Bloodspawn had answered a question he had not asked, whilst adeptly avoiding the one he had. The Master consciously shoved all surprise and anger aside, recovering swiftly.

  “But the Leeches do not command you, do they, Prince of the Bloodspawn?”

  The Halflord stared. Rolled his massive shoulders once more. Cocked his head slightly to one side, broad black wings buffeting the wind.

  “I am commanded by my conscience.” Kor ben Dor glanced to his left, to his right. “And by the consciences of my friends.”

  The Master had not expected that answer. And by the looks on the faces of the two flanking Bloodspawn, neither had they. Indeed, the entirety of the parley was not proceeding along predictable paths.

  Tulnarron’s grey gaze met the Halflord’s ivory eyes evenly.

  “What are we doing here, Kor ben Dor?”

  “Conversing.”

  “Conversing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What else would you have us do, Master of the House of Eccuron?”

  Tulnarron frowned.

  “You have skillfully surprised and surrounded a war party of Fiannar. More, the Host of Arrenhoth. A feat not easily achieved. Yet you keep your weapons lowered, make neither menace nor threat, and speak of abstractions like conscience, a concept completely alien to thralls of the Wraithren. Indeed, until recently I had heard neither whisper nor rumour of you and your Bloodspawn. You are something different. Something…other.”

  Kor ben Dor raised his eyes to the fluttering Golden Strype, then swiveled about, looked upon the Black Jack billowing on the hill behind him. Turned back, looked left upon Gren del Mor, right upon Ev lin Dar. Then at Gornannon and Sandarre. And lastly returning to the Master of the House of Eccuron.

  Something like a smile touched the Halflord’s lips.

  “We are not so different, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.”

  The Master’s frown blackened. Had there been something profound in the Bloodspawn’s assertion? Something enlightening, insightful? Tulnarron brushed a stray tress of hair from his eyes. Philosophy was not his strength.

  Neither was patience.

  “Are we to do battle here, Prince of the Bloodspawn? Should that be so, we had best desist with idle chatter and be done with it.”

  “You would not fare well, Fian.”

  “You would fare far worse, giant.”

  “You are fewer than three hundred. We are six hundred three-score and six. And you discount the fury of our mounts, the mar rendera.”

  “As you do the might of the mirarra. An oversight that has frequently proved fatal to foes of the Fiannar. And moreover, we Deathward are not the ones outnumbered, Kor ben Dor. We have you two to one.”

  “You count strangely, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.�
��

  “Be honoured that I count you at all, Bloodspawn.”

  In a moment of purest poignancy, Sandarre met Ev lin Dar’s ever-watchful eye, and the two female warriors shared a certain knowing, weary smile common to women wherever and whenever men insist upon participating in prolonged pissing contests.

  And then the long and lingering howl of a lone lupine throat shivered the cold northern morning air.

  Tulnarron grinned triumphantly.

  Kor ben Dor tilted his head back, closed his eyes, sighed.

  “Ah, the warokka. The war wolves of the Fiannar. I had forgotten them. A terrible error.” He looked down upon the Master once more, his eyes wide and white with warning. “Nevertheless, do not lose your head, Fian.”

  Ev lin Dar’s smile died instantly.

  Instinctively, Sandarre nocked an arrow to the string swifter than the eye could follow.

  Gazes locked, Master’s and Prince’s, grey on white. Assessments and costs. Choices and consequences. Cause and effect. And unbeknownst to either warrior, the very fate of the world hanging haphazardly in the balance.

  Until wisdom prevailed.

  “I will keep my head if you will keep yours, Kor ben Dor.”

  The Halflord nodded. “I intend you no harm, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.”

  “Not, at least, until we meet again at Eryn Ruil.”

  But the Prince of the Bloodspawn shook his head.

  “I do not go to the Seven Hills.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Leeches do not want me there. I suspect they have their reasons.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I am to go to the southern pass, there to meet and destroy its lord in battle.”

  Tulnarron blinked incredulously. “You are going to Doomfall to fight Drogul of Dul-darad?”

  “Should he be there, and willing, yes.”

  “Drogul the kirun-tar. The Mighty One.”

  “Yes.”