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

by Sean Rodden

  “Earthquake?” guessed the Rothic High King.

  “I think not,” Brulwar answered, his eyes black and shining. “This was no casual shrug of Mother Earth’s shoulders. She has been struck, and struck hard.”

  Wordlessly, Alvarion turned away and strode from the Circumforum. The others followed him, one by one. Out into the night. Halting in the centre of the courtyard, peering east. East, past the Silver Stair, past the city, the Colossus, beyond the Fend, the Seven Hills, across the Northern Plains to where the night sky pressed down upon the distant horizon. A horizon glowing red and orange, a level laceration of lurid light ripping across the night, as though the rim of the world was afire.

  The Lord of the Fiannar smiled.

  “It would seem, good Everfriends, that the enemy’s munitions are no longer a major concern.”

  Beside him, Brulwar chortled beneath his black beard.

  “Nor even a minor one.” The Earthmaster glanced at the Prince of the Neverborn, clapped heavily him on the back. “You are outdone, Sun Lord.”

  Thrannien’s golden eyes shone.

  “Decidedly more effective than a single arrow, I must admit.”

  “We have a little more time than we first thought,” suggested the Mad Earl of Invarnoth. “This will certainly slow the enemy.”

  But Alvarion shook his head. “Nay, friend Ingvar, the enemy will hasten westward now with all possible speed.”

  “How can you know this, Lord Thyrkin?”

  But the Lord of the Fiannar only smiled, somewhat blithely, and sent a searching gaze in Axennus’ direction.

  “Their supply train is obliterated, Dragonsbane,” the Southman responded. “They will have naught but very limited supplies – less than a week’s worth, I would wager – and the prairie offers little in the way of foraging, insufficient certainly to sustain any sizeable army. They will move fast now, day and night, hoping to strike hard and achieve a swift and decisive victory. They cannot do otherwise. A starving army will not – cannot – fight.”

  “Ah…of course. Should we not oppose them in this accelerated approach?”

  Axennus discerned a curious curl colouring Alvarion’s smile.

  “Perhaps we already do so,” mused the Erelian Commander.

  The giant Northman stared, then shrugged, seemingly satisfied with Axennus’ obscure answer.

  Yet transfixed upon the gory red gash of the burning horizon, Prince Arbamas of Ithramis murmured, “How was this thing accomplished, Lord Alvarion?” His silver eyes were ashine with wonder – wonder and something that could only have been pride.

  Alvarion’s smile broadened, brightened, and for a moment all woe and worry and weariness were forgotten.

  “I suggested to a bored man that he find something to do.”

  Toward evening of the following day, word came of the Rothic army’s long-awaited arrival at Druintir. Seven thousand warriors. Six hundred miles. Fourteen days. A long and arduous journey over hard unforgiving terrain. A truly superhuman feat.

  Have we Roths not accomplished greater deeds in times of lesser need?

  The High King and his Warthane had then excused themselves from the protracted council of war that they might welcome the warriors who had made – and instruct the provincial Kings and Princes who had led – the difficult, grueling, punishing march.

  Subsequently, the council of war was adjourned.

  But long after the others had departed the Circumforum, Axennus Teagh remained at the Council Circle, intent upon the many maps and charts cluttering the table, moving carved wooden markers here and there and back again, frowning, tapping his fingers, stroking his chin, moving the markers again, his mind churning with battle concepts and calculations. The solitude seemed to stimulate him, and he saw war rage across the table, the markers become companies of foot and cavalry, the time-yellowed parchments become autumn-greyed grasses of the battlefield. He frowned again, gazing intently, then lowered his chin, closed his eyes and sighed.

  It would be a close thing. A very close thing.

  “We will prevail, Southman,” came a voice from the tiered seating behind the Commander. The voice was deep but soft, like water washing over stone. “Of that, I am certain. You can be as well.”

  Axennus turned and bowed his head.

  “Prince Arbamas.”

  The Black Prince of Ithramis peered from the half-dark where he reclined, his eerily silver eyes glistering coolly, like chips of ice catching stray bits of moonlight in the night.

  “Lord Alvarion has said you are a son of the House of Hiridion. I see that this is surely so. Your understanding of battle is masterful. The signaling system you developed is remarkable; your notion of turning the sunrise against the foe is nothing short of brilliant. I do not doubt that Master Hiridion himself would have been impressed.”

  Axennus bowed his head once more, then met the Black Prince’s argent gaze.

  “You speak of Hiridion as one who knew him, Prince of Ithramis.”

  Arbamas did not reply, but only stared silverly at the Erelian, his face inscrutable for the blackness of his beard and the dimness of the lighting. The Ithraman then stood, a great dark presence, and slowly descended to the Council Circle. There he came and stood before the Erelian, and their eyes locked in mutual scrutiny, silent and sublime.

  “You have guessed,” stated the Black Prince.

  The Commander nodded.

  “Yet you have said nothing,” said Arbamas.

  Axennus shrugged indifferently.

  “I see no need for secrecy, Prince, but I am only a mortal man, and such things are likely beyond me. I do not doubt the wisdom of the Athain King and your father in the matter.”

  The Black Prince nodded. “Secrecy was…is…necessary.”

  “Surely the Athair know.”

  “A select few only, and those who do are beyond reproach. Most among the Neverborn would look upon me and see only another of their own kind with little or nothing to distinguish him.”

  “A glamour?”

  The Prince nodded. “A courtesy of Gavrayel. Among the Four Kings of the Athair of First Earth, Gavrayel was ever the foremost practitioner of arts eldritch and arcane, illusion being his personal specialty.”

  “I have heard the Daradur cannot be deceived.”

  “Indeed. But they for their own reasons say nothing, and neither Shadow nor any power in this world or any other have devices that might extract information from them should they not desire to share it. But Men and Fiannar are fallible beings, and no secret may be considered completely safe with them. And so my…existence…has been kept from them.”

  “Another glamour.”

  The Black Prince nodded.

  Axennus regarded the Ithraman with keen, shining eyes.

  “You have considered killing me, haven’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Arbamas’ beard moved slightly, betraying the small smile that lay beneath.

  “Not overly so.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

  “I believe my secret is safe with you, Southman.”

  “And why is that? Why am I to be trusted where the noble Fiannar and the greater number of Athair are not?”

  “Because the enchantment does not deceive you.”

  “But why?” asked Axennus. “Why am I not likewise charmed?”

  “Perhaps you were not meant to be so.”

  “Not meant to be so?”

  “While sequestered in the Halls of Lore, did you perchance happen across a certain disturbingly apocalyptic book concerning the Folk of Defurien?”

  Axennus’ eyes narrowed. “I did. A work of both history and prophecy. The Lament for the Fiannar.”

  “And the Great King will be father to the Last Son,” recited the Black Prince, “and he alone will know the First Son, and these three will conspire to defend the Earth, and the Sons combine to bring Shadow to its final Doom.”

/>   Axennus’ features furrowed into a frown, and he shook his head slowly.

  “I have no son. I am no king.”

  But Prince Arbamas of Ithramis only turned and strode toward the door, the scent of sea salt lingering in his wake. He then turned once more, captured the Erelian in a strange and silver stare.

  “My time has not yet come, Southman. Nor has your own.”

  And then he was gone.

  The next day saw much activity and preparation.

  The ever-ready Deathward assembled in and about Druintir, stern and silent, almost cold in their courage, sure of their strength and that of their Lord.

  The Nothirings ate and drank and brawled upon the grounds about their Embassy, and though their behaviour seemed reckless and wild to the foreign eye, Earl Ingvar seemed satisfied with their display of restraint.

  The army of Ithramis massed upon the stony fields north of their Embassy, formed themselves into perfect squares and wedges, bright and shining, their precision and efficiency meeting the discriminating approval of first their captains, then of their generals, and lastly that of the Black Prince himself.

  Only the weary Roths rested.

  Dusk sighed over the dense woods north of the White Manor. A grey pall fluttered atop the canopy, filtering down through the intertwined leaves and branches, settling slowly and silently on the forest floor. Into a realm of shadows, an eventide deeper and darker than mere dusk. Where magic ruled.

  “Nice one, Ruby!”

  The big black man stood in a wide clearing, some distance from a significant mound of ash and crackling cinder. His eyes blazed with scarlet fire, the flames substantially more than metaphorical, and his balled fists smouldered and hissed at his thighs. The air smelled of sulphur and smoke.

  “Thanks, Riff.” Rooboong’s white teeth gleamed in the glowing gloom. “It came naturally this time. It just flowed. So easy.”

  “Never thought you had it in you, Ruby,” said Decan Regorius from off to one side, his pink eyes shining in approbation as he peered at the place where a towering thick-trunked tree had once been. “You’re getting rather good at this.”

  “His folks must’ve been bloody witchdoctors back in the jungles of Unga Boon,” Maddus theorized from the other side. “Maybe Ruby picked something up from all those years of dancing around communal fires and iron cauldrons full of boiling captives. That’s why it’s so bloomin’ easy for him.”

  Rooboong’s burning gaze scorched the air between him and Maddus.

  “Actually, I just pretended the tree was you, Maddy.”

  “Oh, very bloody clever.”

  “Maybe next time I don’t pretend.”

  Maddus made a face. “I don’t burn as easy as bleedin’ sticks and twigs, Ruby.”

  “Everything burns.”

  “Starting with your eyeballs, mate. Shut those bloody things off, will you? It’s really creepin’ me right freakin’ out.”

  Rooboong grinned macabrely. The fire in his eyes flared from red to white, then swiftly faded to tiny twin embers glowing softly behind his pupils. At his sides, the last wisps of smoke fizzled from his fists.

  “Better?”

  “Much. What did that bloody tree ever do to you, anyway?”

  “Like I said, it reminded me of you, Maddy.”

  There came the disembodied sound of slow, deliberate applause – rather of one man applauding slowly and deliberately – and Teji Nashi stepped from nowhere into the soldiers’ midst.

  “Well done, my friends,” commended the Diceman, his smile white and wide. “Very well done, indeed. Good, good. Novices nevertheless, but as new adepts you are quite, well, adept, yes?”

  Teji Nashi was dressed in Erelian blue and bronze, his ornate helm held beneath his arm, the matching curved katana and wakizashi at his hips, a hand loosely wrapped about the grip the former. His eyes glittered, as though flecked with gold or bright with pride, or both.

  “You exceed all expectations, my friends. Your dedication and commitment have been more than admirable, and now you reap the rewards, yes? The rivers of your power have been dammed overlong by ignorance or, more accurately, by obliviousness, but now they flow freely, you see. I am simply a humble guide, for the most part, and when paths are walked often enough, the guide eventually becomes obsolete. Still, you yet have much to learn, so very much.” His glanced disconcertedly at the mound of ash and ember. “The tree was dead, yes?”

  Regorius nodded. “Dead and leaning. Ruby rested against it and it creaked.”

  “I see. Should my age ever catch up to me, Master Rooboong, remind me never to creak around you, yes?”

  The big man grinned.

  “I got a question, Doc,” interjected Maddus.

  “Please.”

  “Well, I’m not a religious man, not by no means, and the only school I ever seen was a bloody carpenter’s workshop, but I remember a Recitor once tellin’ me when I was a lad that sorcery was wickedness. So I was wondering, if I do have a soul, is it in any danger of being damned by all this bleedin’ witchery…errr…warlockery?”

  Teji Nashi smiled pleasantly.

  “An interesting concern, my good Maddus. Interesting but invalid. I will make but two comments. First, you are a soul – you have a body. And secondly, any Recitor worth half his weight in wisdom would do better to look to his own soul, for surely the peril presented it is by far the greater, yes?”

  Maddus frowned.

  “That means, ‘Don’t worry about it’, Maddy,” sighed Riffalo as he brushed a shock of blond hair from his eyes.

  Maddus smiled awkwardly. Muttered, “I knew that.”

  “I have a concern, too, Doc,” revealed Regorius, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t like all this sneaking and hiding from the Commander and the Captain. Doc, you say the Lord of the Fiannar knows we’re here and what we are and what we’re doing, and he happily leaves us to it, and I understand why he has to know and why he leaves us alone. But it just feels so wrong not telling the Commander and the Captain. Our loyalties lie with them first, right?”

  The Diceman regarded the Decan with cool, flat eyes. His closed-lipped smile was small, but warm and genuine.

  “Your fidelity is admirable, good Decan. But do not equate discretion with disloyalty. All things have their proper place and time, yes? The Commander and the Captain see that which they either wish to see or are capable of comprehending. To allow them to see more before they are properly prepared to do so would be of grave disservice to them and to us all, you see. The first shadows of suspicion stir in the Commander already. We should let those shadows solidify naturally and at their own pace, for I am aware that the Commander harbours some secrets of his own. Secrets are weighty things, and even a man of the Commander’s strength might buckle under too heavy a burden, yes?”

  The Decan nodded. “I get it. Discretion is not disloyalty.” He eyed the smouldering mound. “Besides, I suppose they’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Quite so.” Teji Nashi placed his helm on his head, then clasped his hands together. “Enough practice, yes? A quick nip at the Folly, and then to bed with us. An early night and a good long sleep, for tomorrow we muster and march.”

  The four soldiers exchanged guarded glances.

  “So soon?” murmured Riffalo.

  The Diceman smiled broadly, his round bronze face glowing, soft and serene. Atop his left shoulder the air shimmered, and for the briefest of moments two slits of golden light blinked in the halfdark.

  “War waits for no one, yes? And I, for one, grow weary of waiting for war.”

  In the courtyard of the White Manor, the men of the North March Mounted Reserve sat straight and silent upon their steeds beneath a brisk Blue Banner and the White Eagle of the Republic. The blue of their cloaks and the bronze of their armour shone pure and pristine in the lustrous light of the morning sun. Their Commander and the Iron Captain watched as the men submitted themselves and their horses to the careful inspection of Right Tenant Hasti
liarius. Each man there knew that his death might well be written into his tale upon the morrow, but none had it writ upon his face.

  The Right Tenant turned his mount toward Axennus and Bronnus, fist over his heart.

  “We are ready, little brother,” declared the Iron Captain. His eyes flashed darkly. “Tomorrow comes war, comes death, comes doom. But we are ready.”

  The Commander nodded silently, then raised his fist to beat the bronze of his breastplate, once, twice.

  “Tomorrow is a thing ever uncertain, Bron,” he replied calmly. “War even more so. We can never truly be ready.”

  But before Bronnus could speak the question that tightened his tongue, the clear clarion call of a battle horn rose from somewhere within the nearby delvings of Druintir, bold and bright, like a shining shaft of light striking out to spear the very sun.

  The War Horn of Defurien.

  “Come, brother,” bade the Commander coolly as he nudged his mount around. “War calls. We ride to meet it.”

  And they rode.

  They marched.

  Led by silent shades of the Grey Watch, they marched. From the grounds of their Embassies, across bridges spanning the rush of the River Ruil, down narrow crevasses cloven into the cliff alongside the Silver Stair, they marched. Erelians and Ithramen, Nothirings and Roths. They marched. The Erelians, few but fabled warriors of the North March Mounted Reserve, singing the accolades of their famous Commander and the Iron Captain. The Ithramen marching and riding in perfect precision behind their Prince upon his great black charger. The Nothirings at the back of the Mad Earl of Invarnoth, bawling out brazen challenges and vowing brutal death to foes yet unmet. Weary but willing Rothmen braying ballads of battle behind their caelroth and Kings. Along the stone streets of deserted Druintir, last city of the Fiannar, they marched. Through the Andalorian Arch, upon the marble road above the green Gardens of Galledine, they marched.

  Onward they marched.

  Together they marched.

  Then, beneath the towering Colossus of Defurien, they were met and hailed by the noble Lord Alvarion at the head of his dour host of Deathward. The Lord of the Fiannar sat like a gold-sashed god of war astride his splendid mirarran, his flaming sword raised high, his hair flowing from beneath the lofty winged Helm of Defurien, his stature seemingly as enormous and as majestic as the Colossus itself.