Roars of War: The War for the North: Book Two
Page 31
The Fiannar and their allies had fought a measured and organized retreat back to their positions of the previous day, ensconcing themselves upon the ground and the memory of that exquisite victory. The House of Defurien and the Grey Watch stood at the centre and wavered little or not at all; winter-souled Janne and fiery-hearted Sennadan anchored the north, supported superbly at some stretches and horribly hampered at others by Ingvar Dragonsbane’s unruly Nothirings; Tulnarron and the Host of Arrenhoth secured the south, buttressed by the eager swords of some six thousand Rothmen; the Houses of Mirmaddon and of Dalorion had been consigned to the reserve, there to recoup and reenergize from their extreme efforts of the morning and the day before.
The army of the Blood King and its demonic commander had learned from their earlier losses. They had modified their methods. They had adapted, adjusted. The heavier contingents – wedges of Urkroks, elite Ummanish storm troops, squares of half-Urks – concentrated their assaults on those segments of the allied lines where Men were most concentrated. The gigantic Graniants, those that remained, were dispersed singly or in small groups throughout the body of the host, making the hunting and confronting of them by the Daradur a decidedly more difficult feat. Specialized squads of half-Urks utilized with some efficacy great hooks and crooks and hemp nets against the lines of defiant Deathward, dragging individual warriors from their positions and setting upon them like wild dogs on lame deer. Dead defenders, hideously mutilated and defiled, were thrown back among the ranks of Roths and Nothirings and Fiannar, the maimed and mangled corpses breeding terror and rage like rabid rats in the murkiest alleys of the soul.
The killing and the dying persisted deep into the day. Swords sliced, spears pierced, hammers fell. Men and monsters slew and were slain in a boundless battle of attrition, of determination and endurance, of fortitude and sheer blood-and-guts stamina. The Fiannar, for the greater part, fought in fast formation, the integrity of their lines crucial to their capability to impede and repel the howling hordes that the Leech hurled against them. The Host of Arrenhoth, however, had abandoned all pretense at organized warfare in favour of artless slaughter, as Tulnarron much preferred unconstrained chaos to tightly structured combat. Despite the bedlam on the southern flank, the Leech sent only sufficient strength against the mightful Master of the House of Eccuron to keep him occupied, engaged, conveniently out of the way. It would not do to have that one free to foil the demon’s plans.
And yes, indeed, little Waif had plans, grand plans.
“You there, with the beady eyes,” she snapped from the relative safety of Arn’badt’s hollowed abdomen. “Yes, you. Send the Wulfic pup to me.”
And then she giggled.
Oh yes, grand and glorious plans.
“Well, isn’t that just bloody grand!” Maddus stared down at the slew of scorched and blackened bodies stretching to the shore of the Ruil. Smoke rose from the heaps of cracked hissing flesh like diaphanous souls fleeing whips of fire within. “You just had to fry them all, didn’t you, Ruby?” He turned to the reservist beside him. “This is what happens when savages from Unga Boon don’t eat breakfast. You can take a bloke outta the jungle, but – ”
“Oh, I don’t know, Maddy,” Riffalo responded, wiping a shock of soaked blond hair from his eyes. Beads of water dripped from his fingertips. Beyond its burned blood-sopped banks, the river was close to being clogged with the corpses of Unmen and Urkroks. “They probably deserved it.”
“Besides,” grumbled Rooboong as the fire in his eyes faded to black, “I had a good breakfast – boiled babies from Scarshire glazed with lard and cane sugar.”
Maddus sneered at the gigantic man’s sarcasm, and childishly mimed the same words back to him.
The noise of fighting about Lindanshield had waned to the infrequent ring of metal, spates of desperate words begged in blathered Eastish, and solitary screams cut abruptly short. The Ithramen were mopping up the mess of war, and they brought neither ruth nor pity to the task, but only cold pragmatism, practicality and precision – which, however, were become mercies in and of themselves.
“I like their attitude,” Regorius commented blandly. He waved a gust of wind toward a critically wounded half-Urk, sending the unfortunate creature careening unceremoniously into the river. “Nice and clean.”
The Decan then heard a strange gurgling sound at his feet, and looked down to see the rotund head of an Urkrok bitch protruding from the stony ground. The flabby face was a putrid purple colour, the bulging eyes close to bursting from their sockets, brownish fluid seeping profusely from the ears and nostrils. Maybe still alive, maybe not.
Regorius arched one stark white eyebrow. “One of yours, Maddy?”
“Aw, bugger me! Didn’t quite get all of that one.”
And at a gesture of the soldier’s hand the earth swallowed the rest of Mak Lorro with a satisfied and somewhat sickening crunch.
Dusk descended upon the killing fields like the last breath of a dying god. Wet and cold, a twilight of twisted shadows and rotting air. All light seemed to be sucked from the world, all beauty corrupted and despoiled. There was no joy, there was no delight dancing in wonder-widened eyes, no rush of kindled passion, neither sympathy nor empathy. No gaiety, no tenderness, no love. All these things were gone.
And in their stead, only war.
Five veteran warriors sat astride their mounts upon the flat top of the otherwise deserted stone of Lindanshield. They gazed westward to Eryn Ruil, the distant din of battle besetting their ears in erratic bursts of sonic fury. The longer-sighted among the five caught the odd flash of light here and there, the glint of steel, perhaps, or a flaring of fire. All had the stench of death in their nostrils, in their lungs, their very souls.
“They will fight through the night now,” stated Harlastian of the Grey Watch, his silvery eyes aglitter in the gloom. “We have left them no choice. Tulnarron destroyed their wagon train. Prince Arbamas put their camp to the torch.”
“To be fair, Watchcaptain, it was my First General, Midnight Sun, who fired the enemy encampment,” the Black Prince replied. “But your assessment is otherwise correct. They have no provisions. They must fight and win, or starve and die.”
“They will start feeding on the dead soon,” the Master of the House of Cilcannan considered quietly. Collinan’s broad face was soft and smooth of features, the cheeks rather ruddy and the mouth prone to smiling, and the cast of his eye was kind. But there was a sureness to him, a certain strength, subtle yet prodigious, that reminded all who encountered him to beware the gentle man roused to wrath. “If they have not done so already.”
“I have no issue with that,” shrugged Commander Axennus Teagh, “so long as they stick to their own.”
The Iron Captain dissuaded himself from rolling his eyes.
Harlastian sniffed the darkening air, catching a scent other than death in the dusk. “Rain,” said he as he pulled his hood over his gleaming locks. “And soon.”
“We should march,” advised Prince Arbamas. His little finger rapped restlessly at the hilt of his sword. “Return to Eryn Ruil with all speed. Lord Alvarion is sorely pressed and dearly distressed. Our strength is needed.”
“Our strength may be wasted if we do not rest,” suggested Collinan sensibly. His smile was small and without guile. “The men and women of my House are ready to ride, but not all those assembled below us here, your own Ithramen included, share your enviable constitution, Prince Arbamas.”
The Black Prince gnawed on silence, looked to the Southman at his side.
“We did have a long night of it,” conceded Axennus past pursed lips, “and the day was no shorter. What say you, dear brother?”
Bronnus grunted through his own fatigue. “I am with the Ithraman. Should rain indeed be upon us, our soldiers will not sleep through it, and the ground will slicken for it. We would do much better to march tired over dry ground than rested over wet.”
Axennus arched an eyebrow toward Harlastian. “Watchcaptain?”
A low rumble of thunder, odious and ominous, shook the darkness at their backs.
“That settles it, then,” Axennus announced, flaunting a gregarious grin. He nudged his lean grey mare forward. “Clutch your cloaks a little closer, my good friends. We race the rain. Neither sleep nor dream for us this night.”
And in their stead, only war.
11
THE HARD HILLS
“Should you wish to not see a thing,
you need only look away;
Should you be unable to look away
you need only close your eyes;
If you cannot close your eyes
you need but gouge them out;
And in doing so
you set yourself forever free –
because no one blames the blind man
for the things he does not see.”
Omereo, Videre est Credere
The Ten Axes of the Fifth Army tore through the nethernight, gods of wrath and war racing as swiftly as their powerful legs could bear them. Tirelessly, purposefully consuming mile after rock-riven mile. Their massive fists pumped rhythmically, beating at the blackness both without and within, and the ferocity in their eyes was accentuated by a thing as near to fear as warriors of the Daradur might ever experience: Urgency. Now and then they interrupted their furious pursuit so that the urthron among their number might kneel briefly upon the stone, fervently sending, calling, beseeching, only to have all his efforts lost in labyrinthine fissures in the rock, crimson cracks and crevices that twisted and turned and doubled back upon themselves, leading all places and nowhere.
At the edge of the Brass River they paused once more.
“Anything, priest?”
Dandar rose from the floor, his beard shaking angrily from side to side. He peered at his palm, his callused fingers, the pattern on the pads, turned his hand over to examine its veiny back. Not even the merest tingle of the Maiden’s touch, nor the afterwarmth of the Mother’s presence. The urthron scowled, made a fist, bones crunching irritably.
“The dwar-Durka stopped here, kulg-Kor,” he replied. “Stopped and lingered long.” With a jerk of his beard, he indicated the substantial amount of waste and refuse littering the stone of the Brass River. “That much, at least, is obvious. Their reason for doing so, not so obvious. But there is a reason. The Drone is not reckless. His actions – and inactions – have purpose.” His fist tightened. “We’ll find out soon enough. We’re only a matter of hours behind them now.”
Jadun growled tetchily, tugged at his beard. “And the other thing?”
The urthron’s brows knotted, the black of his eyes burned. The other thing. A thing so disturbing, so disconcerting that they had not named it, had not addressed it directly, had only spoken in circles around it since the scene of the massacre at Muggor Rutzar. But they had not wanted whatsoever for balled fists and bared teeth. The other thing. Some things even the Daradur dreaded.
“Still nothing, kulg-Kor,” Dandar grated, lowering his bunched hand and staring upward along the broad tunnel of the Brass River. The granitic rock glinted and sparkled with generous deposits of copper and zinc, the metallic twain twirling together here and there to form brazen whorls on the walls. “I can’t send to either Duldarad or Dangmarth. I can’t send to Azugar and the kanga Kulgum. I can’t even send to the Earthmaster.”
“Try again, priest.” There was uncharacteristic earnestness to the Captain’s command. “Make it happen.”
Dandar crouched to the stone floor once more. He glared at the rock, his black eyes burning with lightless fire. He slapped both palms upon the floor this time, striking with such force that slight cracks spider-webbed across the surface. He pushed down, increasing pressure exponentially, assailing the stone with surge upon surge of appalling power. But the rock did not give, did not relent to his will, did not receive him – or, more accurately, could not receive him, much like a drowning man desperately pandiculating for an offered hand that remained just beyond reach. Infuriated, the urthron swung a futile fist at the nethernight, settled back on his haunches, hugged his chest. His glaring gaze glowed a distinct and disconcerting red.
“Priest.” Jadun pointed one thick finger. “Your eyes.”
“The Hag,” Dandar hissed past clenched teeth, speaking of the thing at last. He scrunched his eyes, clamping them closed, cleansing them, squeezing away the scarlet shadow therein. “So much urthvennim. So potent. And so masterfully wielded. I can’t breach it. I can’t even come close.” He looked up at his Captain, his gaze a bright and shining black once more. “We have been taken for fools.”
“The Drone is the fool here, priest.”
“As I’ve said before, kulg-Kor, the Drone is no fool.” Dandar’s teeth grinded and gnashed against an ill taste assaulting his tongue. “He didn’t simply mask his going with the urthvennim. No, that was just a convenient consequence to his actual purpose. His true intention was that the Hag would impede and obstruct our communications. He doesn’t care that he is followed, not really, only that those who follow him can’t send word of his objective.”
“The Hard Hills.”
“Yes. The Hard Hills is his objective. Always has been, right from the time he left Ander-dun under Axar.” The urthron spat the foul after-flavour of earthblight from his mouth. “We should hurry there now, kulg-Kor – as fast as we can, without stopping again. Stopping would just be a waste of valuable time.” He looked away from the stark rage in his Captain’s visage to that which burned within his own hot heart. “I won’t be able to breach this blockade of urthvennim. Not now. Not in an hour. Not ever.”
“And in this lies the Drone’s most critical blunder,” growled Jadun irascibly as he gazed up the gleaming length of the Brass River. “And his army of thousands of dwar-Durka will not save him.”
“Blunder?” Dandar rose, simultaneously incensed and perplexed. His hand fell to the reassuring steel of his hammer. “What blunder, kulg-Kor?”
“The Drone has left Ten pissed off Axes of the Fifth Army with no choice but to find him and fight him.”
The urthron frowned, nodded. “So…?”
The Captain of the kulgord unslung his war-axe. The white gash of gritted teeth peeled back the darkness of his beard.
“So that, priest, is something only a fool would do.”
Upheaven through the pale limestone of the escarpment, the Grey Ladies was a jagged line of metamorphic granite elevated high above the southmost sound of the Dragon’s Tear. The ridge was capped by six distinct peaks, each its own graduation of grey, their natural phaneritic texture and visible grains washed smooth by centuries, millennia, eras of wind and rain. And carven of each of these rearing rocks was the fair yet fierce visage of a noble woman of Deathward fame: Fircuine, the first Mistress of the House of Defurien and Lady of the Fiannar; Catarinne, Sixth Lorde of the Fiannar; dour Yasminne, the first Mistress of the House of Eccuron and Seer to Lord Defurien; fiery Alliane, Fourth Lorde of the Fiannar; Branne, second Mistress of the House of Defurien and Lady of the Fiannar; and Long Megane, the Ninth Lorde of the Fiannar.
The Grey Ladies peered down upon the winding column of Deathward souls in impassive silence. Six sets of cold unblinking eyes, six pairs of taut lips, six hard faces hewn of hard stone by harder hands. Strong women, all, and all long dead, long gone.
Lady Cerriste watched with a similar expression carved of her countenance as the women and children of the Fiannar passed beneath the stark stares of the Grey Ladies. The resonant clap-clap-clap of hoof on stone effectively smothered several hundred gasps of hushed awe, the ongoing onslaught of curious questions and short succinct answers. Necks ached for arching overlong, forefingers pointed with differing degrees of animation, pale faces peered upward from cowls like tilted circles of white wonder. For although the Fiannar were a folk well-travelled, the trek below the stone shade of the Grey Ladies was ground seldom tread.
“Would that I possessed their strength,” Cerriste murmured, “their… certitude.”
“Do not mistrust your resolution, sister,” Sarrane said at her Lady’s side. “War is behind us. Sanctuary is before us. The Wall of Allaura cannot be penetrated by any power known to the Blood King. Our asylum there is assured.”
“Galledine opines otherwise.”
“Galledine’s warning remains obscure, Lady. Such ambiguity avails us nothing. We know only what we know – naught but needless doubt comes of worrying over that which we do not.”
“Strange words from a Seer, sister,” remarked the Shield Maiden at the Lady’s other shoulder.
Sarrane shrugged, clasped her spear close upon her bosom.
“We can afford no misgiving now.” The Seer’s swirling gaze followed Mundar and several foreriders of the Green Watch as they vanished into a narrow fissure sliced of the soaring stone beyond Long Megane’s unsmiling visage. The crack in that distant rock was called the First Cut, and was the entry hall to the Hard Hills. “We are committed to our task, and from it we must not turn away. We have set additional riders before and behind us. The caveat of Galledine is heeded. We can do no more.” She turned to Caelle, and the calm of her countenance was as that of an icefield without wind. “You will inform me when my son returns?”
The Shield Maiden nodded. “Of course, sister.”
The Seer of the Fiannar returned the nod, placed a brief hand on the Lady’s forearm, then descended to join the column.
“Sarrane has seen things, Lady,” Caelle said quietly when the Seer had gone, “but does not know what she has seen. And the lack of knowing gnaws at her. She yearns for Allaura, as much for reprieve from the horror of her visions as for our own salvation.” A compassionate pause. “I do not envy our sister her burden.”