by Sean Rodden
“You seek the survival of our folk, Lord,” said Taresse, “and your wisdom in sending the greater of the number gathered here to sanctuary is sound. For our women whose wombs are yet viable and the children among our people must be spared the horrors of this war. They must survive.”
Alvarion’s frown darkened.
Taresse continued unperturbed.
“But those women among us who are barren of womb need not be sent to waste and worry away at Allaura. Verily, our arms are yet strong and our swords still sharp. Our absence from the field of battle would avail the fate of our folk nothing – indeed, it would but serve to imperil the fortunes of the Fiannar unnecessarily.”
“I will not have your deaths upon my –”
But the Lady Cerriste clapped her husband’s mouth closed with a swift gesture and a reproving glare.
“There is no argument, my Lord,” Taresse stated implacably. “The Lady shall have Caelle at her side should your wife need aid in Aranion’s care – my daughter is as able as I in this, and such duty would well prepare her for children of her own. Motherhood is a thing she contemplates even now.”
Caelle felt her cheeks redden in rare discomfiture. Evidently, her blossoming love for the charismatic Erelian was no great secret.
“The logic in these things cannot be challenged, Lord,” avowed Taresse.
A smile stretched across Cerriste’s features to threaten the stony set of Alvarion’s own.
“And this also cannot be challenged, Lord Alvarion,” Taresse concluded, “that upon his departure my gallant Eldurion did bid me look to my own death. I have heard him. And I intend my death be a glorious one.”
The Lord of the Fiannar looked from Taresse to Cerriste – found neither ally nor any inkling of support in the gleaming grin he saw there – then back again.
At some length, “Very well,” Alvarion conceded quietly. “Taresse and her one thousand shall remain – though there is a dark misgiving in my heart and a cold certainty in my soul that no death at Eryn Ruil will be a glorious one.”
Taresse lowered her head, easing her mirarran back and away.
Cerriste laughed lightly, and the sound teased a grim curl of the lips from Alvarion.
“It would seem, beloved husband, you now have good uncle Eldurion’s twenty thousands.”
And flanked upon one side by the Shield Maiden Caelle and upon the other by the Seer Sarrane, the Lady of the Fiannar turned from her love and her Lord once again and led a mere two thousand Deathward into the waiting green of Galledine.
Long and longingly did Alvarion gaze after her.
He would not see her again in that world.
“Why has Lord Alvarion chosen the White Manor?” asked Bronnus of his brother as they strode the long sunlit corridor toward the sunken theatre that held the Council Circle. “Why have we been selected to host this council of war?”
Axennus shrugged. “Why do you ask, brother?”
“Perhaps because we are of the House of Hiridion,” ventured the Iron Captain in answer to his own question, whilst ignoring the Commander’s. “These Fiannar are a discriminating folk.”
“Perhaps,” pondered Axennus, “though likely not.”
“Why does he not host the thing himself?”
“He does not want to impose himself upon his allies. He seeks to avoid making them feel that they are something…less…than he is.”
Bronnus nodded. “Then why us?”
“I would suggest that Lord Alvarion seeks to unite the nations of Men that have come to stand with him at Eryn Ruil. Rothanar, Ithramis and Nothira have each provided sizeable armies, but Lord Alvarion knows that a fist is far more powerful than four fingers and a thumb.”
“I do not understand,” grumbled Bronnus.
“The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, dear brother,” explained the Commander with an exaggerated sigh.
The Captain frowned.
“That seems clear enough – but why choose the Erelian Republic to host this council? The Rothmen, the Ithramen and the Nothirings count their gathered swords by the thousands, and they are captained by kings and princes – we have only our one hundred, led by… well…you.”
Axennus laughed aloud. “I see the source of your confusion, brother.”
Bronnus lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes, dear Bron, you are thinking – and thought is not your greatest strength. Should you cease to think, then you will no longer be confused.”
Bronnus scowled, opened his mouth to retort, then clapped it closed once more. Silence seemed a safer thing.
“The thumb,” Axennus proffered past puckered lips, “knows that the index, middle and third fingers respect the little finger, and have no cause to fear it, for though it is useful, it is comparatively weak beside the other three.”
The Iron Captain stared at Axennus in utter bewilderment.
“Thumb…finger…what the hell?”
The Commander grinned, chuckled softly, then enlightened, “Should the Lord Alvarion have chosen the Black Prince, say, to host this council, surely the High King and the Mad Earl would have seen it as a slight. And there is little love lost between the Rothmen and the Nothirings, and each is a haughty folk and swift to anger, so neither Ri Niall nor Ingvar Dragonsbane would have made a suitable host. Thus the logical choice left to Lord Alvarion – indeed, the only remaining choice – is us, the Commander and the Captain of the Republican Legion’s fabled, if somewhat reduced, North March Mounted Reserve.”
“Ah…I understand…we are the little finger.”
“Surpassing yourself is becoming a habit, dear Bronnus,” Axennus smirked as they approached the arched entrance to the Circumforum.
Voices, some heated, others harsh, each revealing its own explicit irritability, came from within. Evidently, foes to a common enemy needed not be fast friends.
The Iron Captain’s brows furrowed once more, sending his face into shadow.
“The fools bicker.”
“Come, brother,” replied the Commander, resolve to his tone, determination in his manner. “Let us make a fist of these fingers.”
“All have come, Lord. All are here.”
The Lord of the Fiannar winced inwardly. When last Marshal Varonin had spoken those words, Alvarion had bidden his beloved wife and son farewell. The memory was yet fresh and vivid, as was the pain. But the Lord’s face revealed no hurt, neither loss nor sorrow. Only the iron resolve that comes of grim hope marked his countenance. And in the gleaming grey of his eyes shone the strength of well-tempered steel.
Secreted in the same shadows of the upper tiers of the Circumforum that had concealed Caelle several days earlier, the Lord of the Deathward, the Marshal of the Grey Watch and two other figures gazed down upon the Council Circle, upon the seven lords and captains of Men who had become their allies, had sworn to stand and die with the Deathward at Eryn Ruil.
Save Prince Arbamas of Ithramis, who sat in deep black silence at the far side of the round table, and his equally taciturn First General, they were a quarrelsome lot. Despite Nothira’s adherence to Ban of Ri Donnal, the Sons of Noth and the great Roths of the North had ever been wary of one another, and though they had never been foes on the field, tension between the two was an everpresent thing when Rothman and Nothiring did meet.
Alvarion watched, listening to the rather rotund Rothic Battle Druid passively yet aggressively goad his Nothiric counterpart, an aged priest of the martial Cult of Thyr, for words were as weapons to the Rothmen, as sharp as swords, as heavy as hammers. The Thyric priest blustered and blasphemed, and the Mad Earl of Invarnoth met the silent glower of Warthane Connar with an icy glare, whilst the High King of Rothanar chuckled to himself for some private joke that the others had neither heard nor likely could have comprehended.
The Lord of the Fiannar shook his head slowly, sadly.
Lords of Men, indeed.
Then the Erelians entered the Circumforum.
Though the elder Teagh was stern an
d stalwart and strong, a man of distinction and decisive action, the younger brother’s stature was the greater. Axennus Teagh’s very presence almost immediately pacified those gathered about the Council Circle, and all tension fled the chamber as would woodland creatures from a forest aflame. The Southman strode with a jaunt to his step and an irresistible smile upon his face as he greeted each there by name and made some small remark that drew from each a grin, if not laughter. All eyes, all attentions were fixed upon the Erelian Commander, and all former hostilities were abandoned and forgotten.
The Lord of the Fiannar nodded his head slowly, gladly.
A lord of Men, indeed.
“Alvarion, son of Amarien, Master of the House of Defurien. Lord of the Fiannar.”
Varonin of the Grey Watch moved aside as his Lord and leader entered the Circumforum.
All there stood and fisted their breasts, then sat as Alvarion fisted his own. A hush like the hollow between heartbeats fell upon the theatre. The Lord’s steely gaze met the eyes of each man there in turn, lingering a moment longer upon those of the Erelian Commander – a subtle gesture of appreciation and gratitude.
“Welcome, friends of the Fiannar,” intoned Alvarion. “Welcome and well met. We will forego all formalities, as each man here is a king of men, in stoutness of heart if not in title. And we need not make gifts of our names, as I am quite aware that all here have become…familiar with one another.”
Nods, murmurs of assent, a flushed face or two.
Axennus flashed a knowing grin.
“Very well,” said Alvarion. “I will not make a brief thing long. The Fiannar are grateful for your friendship in this time of woe and war. You have brought hope to the Deathward where there was little, and you have dashed doubt where there was overmuch. These things will be forgotten only when the Teller’s Tale itself goes unremembered.”
Nods, murmurs.
Alvarion inclined his head toward Axennus Teagh.
“The table is yours, Commander.”
Axennus stood. The Erelian’s smile was bright beneath shining eyes.
“Kings of men, indeed, Lord Alvarion,” spoke the Southman, “for though the Republic counts more men than all the other Free Nations combined, it cannot boast the quality of those that have gathered here. I am truly humbled.”
Bronnus frowned, but did not speak the thing stinging the tip of his tongue.
Others muttered appreciation.
The Black Prince only peered at Axennus, his silvery eyes sufficiently sharp that they might pierce the Southman’s very soul.
Axennus held up his right hand, fingers splayed widely.
“This is what we are.”
He then curled his fingers, clenching them into an upright fist.
“This is what we must become. We must think as one. We must act as one. We must fight as one.”
He lowered his arm and paused meaningfully.
“My lords, we must unite.”
The ensuing silence was profound.
“We must unite,” repeated the Commander, “and we must do so under the leadership of one.”
Frowns and murmurs.
The Erelian Commander unsheathed his sword. Light from the fires in the surrounding sconces gilded the edges of the blade with golden flame. He placed the weapon on the table before him.
“I submit my sword to the command of Alvarion, Lord of the Fiannar.”
Silence once more.
And then –
Arbamas, the Black Prince of Ithramis, stood. His presence was powerful, his demeanor dark and dour, his countenance a thunderhead of peril. But his eyes were bright with argent light, and that light shone also in his voice.
“My own sword is thine also, my Lord Alvarion.”
And Niall, High King of Rothanar, rose from his seat, smiled through his scarred visage, and said in the odd Rothic manner of making statements in the form of questions, “Sure, do I not know that there are worse fellows to follow? And as she ever has, will Rothanar not go where Lindannan leads?”
The High King placed his bejeweled blade upon the table.
And then Ingvar, the Mad Earl of Invarnoth, towered to his feet, his youthful features honed but yet unhardened by weather and war, and his blue eyes sparkled with a keen killing light.
“You command my axe, Lord Thyrkin.”
And Alvarion, Master of the House of Defurien, Lord of the Fiannar, palmed the golden rillagh which lay like a slash of sunfire across his heart. He stood tall, straight, rigid. His eyes shone. Regal, royal, a king of kings, a lord of lords.
“Your trust is not misplaced, my lords, and your faith not mis-founded,” said he in a tone accustomed to command. He inclined his head to each in turn. Then, “Because of you, we thirteen are become Everfriends. May these bonds born of war also bind us when peace arises anew.”
The men about the table cast uneasy glances at one another, all thinking the same thought, but none deigning to speak it aloud – save one only.
“Lord Alvarion,” said Axennus quietly, delicately, “there are thirteen seats about this table, but we are only eleven here.”
The smile that softened the Lord’s hard lips was singular and strange.
“Nay, Commander,” he countered. “Long ago, in another age, another world, would the high ones among the Undying and the Deathward gather about the shining Stone of Scullain in times of trouble and tribulation, and those lords that gathered there would ever be thirteen in number. That the round table of this Circumforum has thirteen seats is not a thing of chance, but of design. For months ago did my Seer inform me that when war next fell upon the Fiannar, a son of the House of Hiridion would unite the kings of Men as Everfriends, and that he would do so here, in this Circumforum. And she foresaw that, even as the lords about the Stone of Scullain before them, those Everfriends would number thirteen. We are those Everfriends. And we are thirteen.”
Axennus’ clear hazel eyes swept about him.
Lord Alvarion and the Marshal of the Grey Watch. High King Ri Niall, his Warthane and his Battle Druid. The Black Prince and his First General. The Mad Earl and his Thyric priest. And himself and Bronnus.
Eleven.
The Erelian Commander shook his head in palpable perplexity.
“Lord, we are eleven.”
Alvarion’s smile flickered once more, then fell into a thin severe line.
“Nay, Commander,” he repeated, his voice as faint as a whisper but as forceful as a roar. “We…are…thirteen.”
And before the next breath or beat of heart, one fantastic form flowed from the stone floor at Alvarion’s right, black and mercurial, and another shimmered into the air to his left, white and luminous, as though materializing from nothing. Both solidified and became beings that surely had emerged from the lyrical lays of legend, or from the very mists of mythos.
The first figure was massive, a moving mountain of might and muscle, broad and black and bearded, and upon one thick shoulder he bore a huge hammer that seemed to have been forged and formed of midnight. His eyes were as burning coal, entirely black, and wetted with invisible flame. And about him the air verily pulsated with power.
The other was a being of bright and boundless beauty, his face and form so fair as to have been fashioned of the lights of both sun and star, and his very eyes seemed wrought of gleaming gold. His figure was lean and long, but exuded a supernatural strength, and about him was the incandescent mist of music, soft and sweet and achingly sad. He leaned lightly upon an ivory bow as long as he was tall, and peered upon the assembly as a god might gaze upon beasts – without pride, but certain of his supremacy.
All those gathered in the Circumforum shared a collective and audible gasp, and all instinctively stepped back. All save dark Arbamas of Ithramis, who remained as still and as silent as a standing stone.
“Everfriends of the Fiannar, I give you Brulwar of Dangmarth, First Made of the Firstmade, Earthmaster to the Wandering Guard of Raku Ulrun.”
Alvarion’s words w
ere met only with a stunned silence.
“And I present to you Thrannien, Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin, and a Lord of the Sun Knights of the Athair.”
Nothing but silence.
And then the Darad and the Ath lowered their weapons upon the table.
The Lord of the Fiannar unsheathed Findroth, raised the glorious sword high, and flames flickered along the length of the blade.
“My lords! Everfriends all! Be comforted in spirit and joyous of heart, for though the trials that lie before us will be truly terrible and heavy with horrors that no mortal should ever meet, know that we do not face the Shadow alone. The mighty Daradur of Ora Undar and the Athair of Gith Glennin have come to Druintir. The Stone Lords and the Neverborn stand with us!
“My lords, we cannot fail.”
Silence.
And then Axennus Teagh stepped forward. The smile upon his handsome lips was irrepressible, the light in his eyes like sunlight on steel.
“Ah, yes. Thirteen.”
Alvarion nodded austerely.
Axennus’ smile broadened.
“Be seated, my lords and Everfriends,” gestured the Southman with a flair and flourish unique to him alone. “I do believe we have a war to plan.”
They worked through the day, into the night. Planning, calculating, strategizing. Options were considered, reconsidered, accepted. Alternatives deliberated, deconstructed, discarded. Maps were unrolled. Methods of communication were developed. Logistics were discussed, specific responsibilities determined. Positions of strength and weakness debated. Possibilities, probabilities, potentialities were postulated. Histories were shared, vast knowledge and experience was pooled, tales of triumph and tragedy told. Tactics, methods, manoeuvres. Some tried, tested and true; others new and exciting. Strategic defenses against monsters, magic, munitions. Glowing victories, terrible failures, costly draws. War in all its glory and horror.
Then, in the small darkest hours before the dawn, as the constant concentration demanded by their deliberations was causing some among their number to tire, the stone floor beneath their boots trembled. An unmistakable shaking of the earth. A quivering, a quaking. Figurines on the war map wobbled, a few toppled. Eyes shadowed by scowls and bright with alarm met above the table.
