Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  The spirits of the invading armies had ebbed to a new nadir. Not only were they plagued by visions from nightmare, but lately the Desert Paladins and the regular Ashqalêthan troops had grown impatient with their king’s feebleness and his constant deputising of leadership to Uabhar. They chafed at being—as they perceived with greater frequency—under the yoke of a foreign king whose greed and ambition threatened to engulf their realm. As for the Slievmordhuan forces, amongst themselves the Knights of the Brand unreservedly aired their discontent. They were increasingly suspicious that Uabhar had ordered the weathermasters to be slain, and that he had allowed Marauders to raid undefended villages and murder families in their homes so that he could wring higher protection taxes from his subjects. The knights’ doubts filtered through to Uabhar’s soldiers, who, already disturbed by the hauntings in the heights, began to lose heart for battle. They muttered—softly, so as not to be hanged for sedition—censorious comments about their king, and many longed to return to their homes to guard their families from the unseelie threat. The tide of public opinion was rapidly turning against the King of Slievmordhu, though he himself was too deeply immersed in his schemes, and so insulated by his own ruthlessness towards those who would reveal ugly truths, to notice.

  King Chohrab, too, was proving to be a thorn in Uabhar’s side once again. Even from his sickbed the desert king occasionally roused himself sufficiently to vex his ally over matters of strategy, maintaining that it was better to split off several battalions and send some of them across the Black Crags the long way around, through a distant pass many leagues to the east. ‘That way we could reach King’s Winterbourne without having to wait until we seize Ironstone Pass,’ he said. ‘Once we have taken and garrisoned Winterbourne we will rule Narngalis. We must capture the city without delay.’

  It was with difficulty that Uabhar prevented his veneer of good fellowship from cracking. ‘My brother, your reasoning is, as usual, excellent,’ he replied. ‘Of course we must capture Wyverstone’s seat as soon as possible, and that is why it is of greatest importance not to weaken our battalions by dividing them. You yourself have always impressed upon me, “unity is our strength”! Your words of wisdom are constantly uppermost in my thoughts. It is necessary to concentrate our forces in one place, for after we cross the Crags we shall no doubt meet Torkilsalven’s army. Let me pour you some wine.’ Chohrab opened his mouth to argue but Uabhar, seemingly unaware of his intention, continued, ‘Consider the joy of your people, when you have annexed Grïmnørsland. Consider the joy of the Grïmnørslanders themselves, who have struggled so long beneath Torkilsalven’s yoke. Your name will be shouted in songs of praise. You will be showered with rose petals as you ride through the streets of Trøndelheim.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said the desert king, smiling and picking up his goblet. ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘Allow me to send you my own personal physicians and apothecaries,’ Uabhar said solicitously. ‘I would fain see you welcome victory in robust health!’

  ‘Here’s to vanquishing those who would vanquish us!’ crowed King Chohrab, and he quaffed Uabhar’s wine.

  Having placated his ally, the King of Slievmordhu returned to his schemes. He wanted to finish off Warwick, then push through Ironstone Pass to intercept Thorgild before the army of Grïmnørsland had the chance to join the Narngalish. His forces, however, had not been able to conquer the slim defile. Each time they made an attempt they were thwarted. Showers of flaming arrows, rocks and hot oil descended on them from murder holes and embrasures in the battlements and walls of the fortress looming high above the road. Uabhar directed his patrols to locate the entrance to the siege tunnel, but snipers well practised in bowmanship picked off the scouts amongst the coal-black tors.

  The king pinned his hopes on a certain spy, a stealthy nimble fellow, the same who had secretly watched the weathermasters in the Red Lodge. ‘There will be a siege tunnel,’ Uabhar said to his lackey. ‘There is always a siege tunnel, and the existence of this one is common knowledge. And I will make you the lord of as much land as you can ride on a long Summer’s day, if only you can discover its location.’

  ‘Majesty, I will not disappoint you,’ the servant said, and he slipped away amongst the shadows.

  Prince Ronin, fully armed and accoutred as befitted a warlike knight, was ever amongst the vanguard of each fresh push to secure control of the pass. He seemed fearless, as if unconcerned with preserving his own life; his conduct was daring to the point of recklessness, and if he escaped serious injury it seemed more by fortune than forethought. Indeed, the young prince astounded everyone. The men under his command quickly came to admire and love him. He inspired them to heroic deeds. ‘Prince Ronin is the bravest of us all,’ they declared.

  Uabhar heard them. ‘Clothe yourself in armour,’ he said to Crown Prince Kieran. ‘Ride at my side, that the troops may see you bearing arms. Let them call out your name and celebrate your courage.’

  ‘I can do more than put on a show. I will fight, if you wish it,’ said Kieran. ‘I would fain be lauded for my deeds, rather than for the gear I carry. I can battle as valiantly as Ronin.’

  ‘Conserve yourself. You are next in line for my throne,’ his father said curtly.

  When Ronin came from the field he would visit his brother. Together in the privacy of Kieran’s sparsely furnished pavilion the two princes, who enjoyed each other’s confidence, spoke as candidly as they were able of their distress at the struggle against their erstwhile friends in Narngalis, the unconscionable way their father had dealt with the weathermasters, and the prospect of war with Grïmnørsland. Though they generally felt at ease with each other, their discourse was somewhat awkward; it went hard with them to criticise their father, even in private.

  Seated on a leather-upholstered stool Kieran propped his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin in his hands and staring glumly at a small casket that rested on a stand. ‘My heart is not in this conflict,’ he confessed hesitantly.

  ‘I am of the same mind.’ Ronin shuddered. ‘Especially now that the fate of the weathermasters has been revealed and the blame lies at the door of Slievmordhu.’

  ‘My conscience is in turmoil, I admit,’ Kieran said with a sigh. ‘I am finding it difficult to reconcile myself to the fitness or necessity of destroying the good mages of Rowan Green.’

  ‘Such an act cannot be reconciled,’ Ronin said simply. At this obvious censure of their father Kieran spontaneously flashed a look of hurt and anger at his brother, which faded as quickly as it had appeared. He sighed again. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said sadly. ‘I know not, any more. He means well, but sometimes . . . ’

  They both struggled for words.

  ‘Yes,’ Ronin said into the pause.

  The topic was too raw, too hurtful to be probed, and they let it drop.

  ‘How do we find ourselves at war with our neighbours?’ Ronin mused, as if thinking aloud. ‘Can it really be true that they intended to attack Ashqalêth and Slievmordhu?’

  ‘It must be true,’ Kieran said without much conviction. ‘Our spies are utterly reliable. Father chooses them himself. Yet I cannot help but grieve,’ he went on, ‘that I must take up arms against the homeland of my betrothed and my best friend. What must they think of me, Solveig and Halvdan? I had envisioned we would grow old together in friendship, all of us. Now our bond is sundered, probably forever. I am become their enemy.’

  Ronin replied, ‘They will understand you are not at the root of this conflict. They will know it is the result of forces beyond your control.’ Wearily he rubbed his hands across his face.

  ‘But will they forgive me for the part I must play?’

  ‘I have no doubt of it. They must play their parts also. Halvdan will fight for king and country.’

  ‘But Solveig, Solveig,’ Kieran murmured, rocking restlessly back and forth. He reached for the casket, took out a golden locket and snapped open the case. It parted like the wings of a yellow moth. He brought it to his
mouth and kissed the miniature portrait inside, then gazed fondly at the image, the pretty face, her amber-gold braids wound around her head like a crown, a gentle smile curving her lips. The prince glanced up and noted Ronin watching him with a look he could not interpret. ‘Here!’ Kieran held out the locket, its golden chain dripping through his fingers like strings of liquid fire. Ronin accepted it reverentially, glanced at it, then handed it back. Carefully Kieran closed the keepsake and replaced it on the stand.

  ‘She is sure of your feelings,’ said Ronin.

  From just outside the tent a tiny bell tinkled.

  ‘Enter!’ said Kieran.

  A footman came in. He bowed to Kieran, saying, ‘Your Royal Highness, His Majesty requests your presence.’

  ‘I must go,’ said the crown prince, and he left immediately.

  Ronin stayed longer. He barely moved, except to make as if departing, only to change his mind. Once or twice he glanced across the silk-lined apartment to the casket containing the locket, then tore away his gaze. Clearly his sole desire was to spring across the floor, seize it and feast his eyes on the contents, but he never touched it; indeed he barely breathed, until with a long exhalation he turned his back on the image of Kieran’s troth-plighted princess and departed from his brother’s quarters.

  Near sunset on the fifteenth of Juyn, unheralded by fanfare, the first of the reinforcements from Grïmnørsland at last approached the northern slopes of the Black Crags. Without access to semaphore signals from the north of the mountain barrier, without sky-balloons to observe and report activity behind enemy lines, Uabhar remained ignorant of Thorgild’s arrival.

  Asrăthiel, accompanied in the gondola by Prince Halvdan and one of the Grïmnørslander flagmen, guided Lightfast in advance of the new arrivals. Keeping the balloon low to avoid being spotted by enemy sentinels, the weathermage stared at the long line of dark hills vanishing at each end into the misty distance, north-east and south-west, their western flanks glowing golden in the evening light. Her brí-senses were subject to the air pressures that flowed around the range in invisible tides, the clamminess of the clouds that slowly seethed through the peaks; yet she apprehended them with detachment. Her eyes gazed, but her mind saw only the faces of Ryence and Galiene, Baldulf and Engres, and the rest of her friends and kindred who had perished at the hands of the King of Slievmordhu. Even the thrill of flight was gone. All joy was gone; there was nothing left except anger and terrible sorrow, since she had learned the truth.

  A cavalcade headed by King Thorgild proceeded along the road below the balloon. Spurred by urgency, Thorgild’s Shield Champions and cavalry battalions had raced ahead of the plodding infantry troops who, still on the march, were catching up as swiftly as possible.

  Looking ahead, Asrăthiel spied Warwick’s watchmen high in the rocky steeples, distinctive in the murrey-hued uniform of Narngalis. They spotted her too and, in greeting, waved flags, sending a series of signals in code. ‘Warwick safe in Keep. Enemy at bay,’ the flagman translated. Halvdan instructed the signaller how to respond, whereafter the flagmen on the ground sent, ‘Guides ride now to meet Thorgild and escort him to Warwick.’

  Equipped with this information, the balloon flew back to rendezvous with the King of Grïmnørsland. Asrăthiel did not land, for Thorgild refused to halt, even for a moment. Due to his desire for haste, he had taken to holding conference on the move. A short distance ahead of the procession she hovered just above the rutted road, while Prince Halvdan jumped over the side of the gondola and ran back to the advancing horsemen. His well-trained steed allowed him to vault into the saddle without breaking stride. While Lightfast ascended, Asrăthiel was aware of Halvdan animatedly passing the tidings to his father and brothers as he rode alongside them, but it all seemed remote, like a play being enacted before her, rather than an event in the world. Her heart was breaking.

  Thorgild left his heavy cavalry bivouacked amongst the low spurs on the north side of the pass, while he and his three sons, with the Shield Champions, followed King Warwick’s guides along a devious, hidden path that led high amongst the Crags. Along precipitous cliff paths and through a jumble of tors, pikes and scars their steeds climbed, alternately lapped by chill shadows and diagonal rays of amber sunlight, until the riders found themselves before the great circular door of stone that guarded the mouth of the siege tunnel. All were so glad Thorgild had finally reached his destination that they slackened their vigilance by a fraction. It was only a modicum, but enough that the watchmen failed to observe Uabhar’s favourite spy, that sly, evasive fellow who had peered at the weathermasters in the Red Lodge. Having tracked the newcomers on quiet feet, even managing to dodge the sharp eyes of Asrăthiel in her balloon, he discovered the hidden portal and watched the kings and princes enter on horseback, ducking beneath the arch. Armed with this intelligence he slunk away, as the door of Ironstone Keep rolled shut behind the newcomers.

  When Uabhar heard the spy’s report his fury reached new heights. ‘We have lost our opportunity to waylay the fish-stinking barbarians before they reached Wyverstone!’ he shouted at his officers. To Prince Ronin he said, ‘Lead your troops to this tunnel’s door. Post a guard around it. Let no man enter or leave. Watch it strenuously, so that no provisions may be smuggled within, and none of our foes may escape. At the very least, I shall starve them out.’ The prince bent to kiss his father’s hand and acknowledge his orders, while Uabhar added, ‘Wait for me there.’

  As Ronin set off with his men, following the spy to the hidden door, the weathermage on the opposite side of the pass summoned a swift breeze. She flew back with her signalman to deliver the latest tidings to the oncoming infantry. It was her last errand for Thorgild. Her work as message bearer and escort to the Grïmnørsland army was now finished. She was free to return to The Laurels at King’s Winterbourne if she so desired, but the idea never occurred to her. Her lodgings seemed empty and unwelcoming without the urisk; moreover, above all things she wished for Uabhar’s defeat, so that he might be brought to justice for his crimes. Chohrab was not exempt from blame either, for in his greed he had chosen to ally himself with iniquity.

  It was impossible for Asrăthiel to endure the raging emptiness where her heart used to be. That void had to be filled, and what better to fill it than a renewed zeal to overthrow the invaders, who were ravaging Tir with their hunger for power and weakening humankind’s ability to defend itself against genocidal wights. A powerful weathermage would be a useful weapon to the northern allies. On the spur of the moment she decided to join them in Ironstone Keep. Briefly she hovered low to let the flagman alight at the bivouac amongst the foothills of the Crags, and then ascended at great speed, gliding in amidst the upstanding wedges of the dusky tors. The Grïmnørsland knights and cavalrymen, who had been sharpening their swords and oiling their armour, paused in their tasks. They looked up at the ethereal bubble, lustrous against the gloomy escarpments, sunlight-gilded. Their eyes followed it until it vanished. ‘Good Fortune go with thee, Lady in the Moon,’ they murmured.

  Good fortune did not favour Asrăthiel, however. In the dying afternoon she flew Lightfast down the gasping throats of soaring chasms and across clefts brimming with darkness, towards the place she had seen the guides taking Thorgild. At length, arousing herself from brooding upon Uabhar’s atrocities, she realised with sudden shock that the enemy might spy the balloon and follow her to the hidden entrance. She was about to retreat when it occurred to her that perhaps she could twist this handicap to advantage. By feigning a landing at some spot far from the tunnel’s door she could mislead anyone who might be watching. When night fell she could rise again under cover of darkness and alight closer to her destination, before ditching the aircraft down a crevasse where it would be hard to find and proceeding the rest of the way on foot.

  To avoid the place, first she had to know its position. As she searched for the entrance to Ironstone Keep, arrows began whizzing towards her from some rocky rampart and she knew enemy marksmen had alr
eady spied her. The barrage did not worry her at first, for she skilfully kept out of range, but as the sun finally slipped beyond view and she caught, at last, a glimpse of the location she sought, flaming bolts began to sizzle out of the dusk, close at hand. The weathermage tried to dodge them, but a fiery bolt lodged in the balloon’s rigging and flames took hold of the fabric. As it sailed over a sharp ridge the balloon shuddered and collapsed inwards, releasing a storm of sparks.

  There was to be no saving the aerostat. It would crash down to the rocks below. The enemy would be able to locate the brightly glowing wreckage easily, and the pilot did not wish to be discovered there too. Lightfast gently tumbled out of the night sky, blazing, and Asrăthiel fell with it. Or rather, she jumped.

  Just before she let go the rope and threw herself into thin air, a primeval voice within her skull screamed in terror, and every particle of her mortal ancestry revolted against taking such a suicidal plunge. Deep-rooted instinct flashed vivid memories of joy through her mind; times spent with her cherished parents, Avalloc, William, Dristan, Albiona, Corisande and Cavalon and others; she remembered laughing until her sides ached; whirling on a crowded dance floor; drowsing by the fireside at night, listening to raindrops pattering on the roof . . . and she hesitated. A sheet of flame blasted from the shrivelling envelope across her field of vision, and at that moment she saw instead the faces of her betrayed kindred, and felt the anguish of voiceless beasts doomed to enslavement, torment and death through the agency of humankind, and then eternity unrolled like a path before her feet, leading nowhere. At that instant nothing seemed to matter any more and she released her grip.