by Sean Rodden
“I am not displeased.”
“Then neither am I, Commander.”
“You were in the forest this night.” There was no question softening Axennus’ statement; only certainty, rigid and sure. “You and those four soldiers.”
The white of Teji Nashi’s robe glistened like starfire. At the little man’s shoulder, the eyes of a coiled dragon glittered
“I was, indeed. As were they.”
“And I presume,” Axennus continued, “the standard-bearer and that young outrider is also in your small circle.”
“They are not to be blamed, Commander Teagh.”
“Of course not.”
“I must admit that concealing the truth from you has been most difficult, Commander, both in the doing of the deed and in the deed being done. Difficult and problematic, yes? For not only was the deceiving of you a thoroughly complicated enterprise, you see, but one that generated unprecedented guilt and shame. Oh yes, very much guilt and shame. Such is my respectful regard for you, the ambit and amplitude of my esteem.”
Axennus rose to his feet, standing a full head and neck taller than healer.
“I am delighted to relieve you of your distress.”
Teji Nashi sighed. The release in the sound seemed a tangible thing.
“I am grateful, Commander. Yes, appreciative and obliged. As another has so recently discovered, your resistance to illusory obstruction is frightfully taxing. The blood of Hiridion is no mere memory in your veins, you see, but a legacy of power lessened by neither generations nor centuries.” He peered upward upon Axennus’ calm countenance, seeing the smooth chiseled cheeks, the square chin, those shining eyes. “Indeed, even the likeness is quite striking – though you are, of course, significantly shorter.”
An impish grin splayed itself across Axennus’ handsome face. Then swiftly and smoothly did it fall away.
“We have much to discuss, good Doctor.”
“We do, indeed.”
“And but little time.”
“More than you might imagine, Commander Teagh. Much more, yes? Time passes differently within these canvas walls, you see. Significantly so, I would say. As befits and benefits me.”
“I suppose that should astonish me, but it does not.”
“You do not astonish easily, Commander.”
The March Fox met the Diceman’s gentle gaze, held it, pondering, assessing. Options weighed, a decision made.
“I would have your true name, healer.”
The little Diceman cocked his head to one side, then the other. Considering, evaluating probabilities, the possible consequences – or perhaps simply striving to remember.
“There is power in names, Commander. Vast and perilous power, yes? A name is a most dangerous blade.”
The March Fox nodded.
“Indeed, it is. Nevertheless, the idle sword holds no power, Doctor. The power lies with the wielder. I will not make a weapon of your name.”
A gilded fire danced in the depths of the Diceman’s dark eyes. And he bowed graciously, gracefully. His voice when he spoke was as the wind of ages, sifting over the sands of the universe, everpresent, eternal.
“The name given me is Majan al Khan.”
Ubiquitous, perpetual.
“And of a time I was White Mage to the Dragon Emperor of Tur.”
Tulnarron of the House of Eccuron stood at the very crown of Lar Theas. Tall, he was, and seemingly taller for the inimitable aura of pride and power emanating from him. His arms were folded across his mighty chest, his jaw jutting at a slight upward angle, his argentine eyes at once icy and aflame. To one shoulder was the stern and slender form of Sandarre; at the other Gornannon chewed intently on the end of an unlit cheroot. Beside and behind them was assembled the entirety of the Host of Arrenhoth – save those few who had departed with their beloved Mistress for the sanctuary of Allaura, and those, fewer still, who had gone to the Fires of the Fallen.
His back to the first vulgar slashes of dawn, to the battlefield, to the wretched memory and inevitable return of war, Tulnarron peered westward, where the leaping light of the Pyre burned away the last obstinate vestiges of night above Sentinel Ridge, searing into the sky a great gash of gold. A faux dawn, that dreadful burning, a false herald of imminent morning sourced in the sacrifices of three hundred and forty-two gallant Deathward souls. And two score and six of those unfortunate fallen had been bloodborn of the House of Eccuron.
Tulnarron and his dour Host were not honouring death. No, not that, never that. Rather the Master and his warriors were watching the sky, recalling words heard spoken in the black eaves of Ravenwood not so very long before. Enigmatic words that might have carried despair with them had hope not been a thing to which the Folk of Defurien in general and the scions of Eccuron in particular were more naturally disposed.
Look for me, Master Tulnarron, when the sun rises in the west.
Tulnarron moved his gaze northward, where night yet ruled, yet held rigid and unyielding sway. No shining white light did he see there, no brilliant beacon of sweet salvation, no gleaming stream of Athain Sun Knights racing to the succour of the desperately pressed Deathward. No, he saw naught save a stubborn and sinister darkness whose stillness, whose absolute silence was the very sound of scorn.
Evangael would not come.
“Even so,” the Master stated stiffly.
He then turned away from the burning dead of the Pyre, from the silvery smoke of so many sundered souls, and strode determinedly down the frost-slicked slope of Lar Theas, to the bloodied killing fields before the Seven Hills, to the insistent beck of war and the terrible fate awaiting him.
To defy and deny Death one final time.
10
BLOOD AND FLAME
“You agree that we must take the war to Ungloth,
yet you offer us nothing but a shield.
What reason for this? We are the Fiannar,
not a tortoise hiding in its shell.”
“Having fought a thousand battles, you will know that
one warrior’s shield is another’s spear –
But we are the Fiannar, and there is no reason
that our own steel cannot be both.”
Eccuron and Hiridion, The Scullain Dialogues
Dawn seeped over Eryn Ruil like a seething grey sludge, dull and drear, monotonous, monochromatic, slick and damp and cold. And with it came another thing. A covenant of power and devastation, of utter destruction. Unseen and unheard. But sensed. A nebulous nightmare torn from the tortured minds of children thrashing in terror-stricken sleep. Abstract, intangible, yet so very real.
They felt it in the flesh of their faces. Creeping, crawling, skittering under their skin. Like so many swarming legions of spectral fire ants, massing and marching, chewing the cheeks, the chins, the brows of Men and Fiannar alike. And despite the armour-frosting chill of nascent morn, the bites burned.
To a man, to a woman, rank upon rank of Deathward warriors steadfastly suffered the searing affliction sent from the Plains. No complaint did they utter, they raised no protest, neither whinge nor wince did they evince. They endured in staid and stalwart silence the horrid heat that scorched their skin, remaining indifferent and unflinching as though they but stood too near upon a bonfire blazing too hot.
The Roths and the Nothirings fared worse, spitting colourful curses through clenched teeth as the former imagined their painted faces melting like overwarm wax and the latter envisioned their braided hair and beards bursting aflame – nevertheless, the warriors of the Free Nations persevered in formation, or that which served as such, not turning from nor fleeing the unseen fires which so callously scourged their flesh.
The Daradur, of course, felt nothing.
The Lord of the Fiannar lowered his hand from the tattered scar at his cheek, dismissing the strange sweltering of that long dead flesh. He regarded the advancing mass of the Blood King’s host with a composure surpassing cool, exceeding calm. Beneath him, his majestic mirarran was as a s
tatue cast of silver and steel. The breaths of both man and mount came slow and even, entwining like sinuous serpents in the sharp northern air, and the thudding of their kindred hearts was steady and sure.
“Soon, Lord.”
Varonin’s voice was as cold as the dawn, and even drearier. Above him, the bare emblemless banner of the Grey Watch rippled like water, nigh unto invisible in the stark and sunless halflight.
“No, Marshal Varonin,” responded Taresse. “I think not.” She adjusted the small dented shield adorning one forearm. “They do not attack. Not yet, at least. This… this is something else.”
The legendary Helm of Defurien, a glory of gold and starshine and gleaming white wings, dipped slightly as the Lord nodded his concurrence.
“The foremost ranks wear no armour, bear no weapons. They march as men cowed or as dogs beaten past the last whimper of resistance. They are broken beings, creatures carved hollow, waiting to die.”
“Indeed, Lord. A strange and perplexing turn, this. Do they mean to throw themselves upon our swords and spears? Our positions cannot be overrun in this manner. I see no purpose such sacrifice would serve.”
“You are to be enlightened directly, Marshal,” said Taresse, raising her arm, pointing. “The enemy wishes to talk. They call for parley.”
The monstrous behemoth that was the Blood King’s army had halted little more than half a mile from the Fiannian front lines. A gloom glummer than the gloam of the sun-shorn morn emanated from the forward ranks of the foe, a pall of mass despondency as steeped and stooped in sorrow as a parade of wailing widows beneath a driving rain. And from this miasma of abject misery there emerged a single figure of the deathliest darkness, a baneful being that had long recked little of mortal despair, save that it was ever so delectable, so very delicious.
“Blood Mage,” observed Varonin, the words as cold as ice on steel.
“And an ancient one,” Alvarion furthered, his voice low and perilously quiet. In his sturdy hand Findroth the Gifted whispered fierce promises of fire and fury. “That creature died long before Lord Vallian set foot on the shores of this world. I can feel its power in this heat that assails my face.”
“As do we all, Lord.” Within the shadows of Varonin’s cowl, a single bead of sweat snaked amid the stubble at his cheek. “And that thing is but one of many.”
“Indeed, Marshal. Rundul of the Wandering Guard reported that there were scores of such creatures in the netherearth beneath the Bloodshards.”
“And now they are here,” Varonin stated laconically. “Somewhere. Out there. Conjuring. Summoning… something.”
Taresse said nothing, but only edged infinitesimally closer to Lord Alvarion’s side.
The solitary Blood Mage moved forward, its motion strangely fluid, simultaneously striding and floating over the trampled grasses, a long silken cape streaming at its back like a river of bright red blood in the dull dawn air. The figure was tall and lean, and had evidently fed well and recently, for its flesh was flush with the blush of fresh blood. An elegant ruff and hair the hue of midnight framed a face of appalling beauty, the features neither masculine nor effeminate, but immaculately epicene. The cheekbones were high and noble, the nose long and aquiline, the chin soft yet solid, square. The thing’s lips were slightly bulbous and overly red, disarmingly desirable, the invitation to a kiss ever etched into the small and secret smile curled there. Only the eyes, cruel unblinking orbs the colour of parched pus, betrayed the true ugliness of the creature.
“Handsome fellow,” muttered Alvarion.
“Fellow, Lord? I would have suggested… otherwise.”
“What difference to the dead, Marshal? Blood is not only this thing’s sustenance but its sole source of gratification. Blood and pain.”
Varonin’s cold eyes glittered. “Then it has come to the right place.”
The Blood Mage flowed to a stop at the middleplace on the killing field between the two opposing forces. One lean arm leisurely rose, a pale and tattered flag of parley gripped in a bony-knuckled fist. A lingering moment, and then the hand opened, long fingers splaying widely, and the insipid linen fluttered to the pummeled earth like a leaf on a lethargic wind. The creature lowered its arm and grinned generously, revealing two upper teeth that extended far past the others as would the fangs of a carnivore. Its cancroid eyes glowed.
The Lord of the Fiannar slid his blade back into its sheath.
“I will meet with this creature. I will hear – ”
A hand gripped Alvarion’s arm, strong, compelling.
“You most certainly will not, nephew,” Taresse declared indignantly. “This is neither your duty nor your place. When one sends a captain, the other does not offer up a king. The Blood Mage is beneath you. You must not meet it on equal terms.”
“This is hardly the time for protocols of power and pride, uncle-wife. Palavers of this dimension are not defined by rank and privilege.”
But before the woman could protest –
“I will go in your stead, Lord Alvarion,” declared Varonin of the Grey Watch. “Such is my duty as Marshal, the obligation of my position.”
Alvarion’s visage was grim and grave, his cheeks bunching repeatedly as he chewed on silence.
“The Marshal tells it true, nephew.” Taresse’s grasp of Alvarion’s arm did not loosen – rather, it tightened. “The onus here is his own.”
The Lord of the Deathward peered across the blood-smeared grasses to the grotesquely graceful figure waiting there, met the gruesome gaze above that garish grin, held it evenly, did not vacillate, did not waver. He could sense the creature probing the psychic fortifications of his mind, seeking flaws, weaknesses, imperfections in the fortress of his soul. A mere shrug of his consciousness, and the Lord thrust the fiend away.
Across the killing plain, scarlet silks rippled as the thing recoiled.
“Very well. Varonin will go.” A momentary pause as Taresse grudgingly released his arm. “And Milutin and Radannan shall go with him.”
The two Deathward standard-bearers nudged their mirarra forward. The Golden Strype and the Flaming Sword soared above them, great slashes of gold and fire rebelling against the pervasive gloom of the morning.
“Resist the invitation in the creature’s eyes,” instructed Alvarion. “There is an unnatural allure to the thing against which you must shield yourselves. Do not permit it to tempt you.”
“So it will be done, Lord,” avowed Varonin. “What is your word?”
“I will accept nothing less than unconditional surrender. The submission of arms and armour. And all will be allowed to return unmolested and unaccosted whence they came.” His eyes narrowed to slits of shining silver. “But the Leech must remain and yield to me.”
Varonin almost smiled. “Understood, Lord Alavion.”
And the Marshal and the two bannermen rode forth.
The Blood Mage grinned once more, a strangely passive, even pleasant expression that but for the creature’s elongated canines and unseemly eyes might have been comely – as it was, an aspect more insidious, more sinister, could not possibly have been imagined. And malevolent power crackled forth from the fiend, stimulating the arcane ants under the skin, exciting them, compelling them to bite in newfound urgency, desperation. Yet no hint of hesitation did the trio of Fiannian riders exhibit as they drew near. The long-dead thing spread its arms in seeming supplication, in apparent warm and cordial welcome. Something like the sound of laughter seeped into the damp chill of the northern morning, sinking like slivers of ice into the ear.
“This should go well,” Taresse murmured as the riders reined in before the Blood Mage. Despite the perfect flatness of her tone, the mordacity manifest in her voice was as the keenest of knives. She was, indeed, her daughter’s mother.
“Ah, to be a meadow mouse in that grass.”
“There is no need, my Lord. Their words should be adequately perceptible to us where we are.”
“Truly? The movement of the thing’s mouth is made
over-vague by distance, uncle-wife, and even should that not be so, we would only be privy to part of the parley, as the Marshal’s back is to our position.”
“These difficulties pose no barrier to the mirarra, my Lord. We need only have them listen for us.”
Lord Alvarion compelled his lips to form something of a smile. He did not number among the dwindling ranks of Deathward who retained the ability to commune with the mirarra. He was uncertain that Taresse knew of this particular shortcoming, however, and for some strange reason he was hesitant to inform her.
The woman’s hand returned to his arm – on this particular occasion as a gesture of reassurance rather than one of restriction.
“Do not worry yourself, nephew. I will be your ears.”
The Lord of the Deathward inhaled deeply, recalling his father having once said to him in confidence, Long will I be remembered for my courage, my boy, but the memory will be a bold and brazen lie told by those who know not better, for the women of this family frighten me so. Alvarion exhaled, long and slow. Some fears were well founded.
On the field of parley, the Blood Mage lowered its arms. Its dead yellow gaze glowed. When it spoke, its lascivious smile remained rigid and unchanged, like the rictus of a fleshless skull, never altering, never faltering.
The ears of the elegant equine beneath Taresse twitched, swiveled forward, intent and alert.
“The thing offers pleasantries,” relayed the aged Fiann, the flats of her hands pressed the sides of her mirarran’s long neck. “Varonin remains silent.”
“He would. Eldurion taught him well.”
“The creature congratulates us on our victories upon these grasses and atop the rock of Caramel Dark.” Taresse’s speckled eyes glittered. “It claims the Blood King’s host suffered in excess of eleven thousand casualties, not including the massacre of the recently summoned demogorgai, whom it holds in unadulterated contempt – it harbours neither trust nor love for the mercenary legions of the Demon King.”
“The creature’s hatred for the minions of Umun-dron is real enough,” Alvarion asserted, “but in the other matter it speaks falsely. We did not slay eleven thousand foes yesterday, not on this field nor any other.”
