As his father’s intimation sank in the prince took on a look of horror, as if he was awakening from a pleasant slumber to discover all that he had believed to be true and upright had been no more than a dream.
‘Tarry no longer,’ said Uabhar, turning his attention to a thread on his own sleeve and picking assiduously at it. ‘It gives you a semblance of cowardice.’
‘But I cannot—’
Uabhar cut him off. ‘Show your brother the true meaning of filial obedience.’
Glancing to one side Kieran took in the stricken countenance of Ronin, who, lingering close at hand, had overheard all. No word passed between the two siblings, but their gazes were filled with anguish, misunderstood on both sides.
Abruptly, Kieran took—almost snatched—the sword and shield from the captain’s hands. He spoke no further word, but girded himself for battle, squared his shoulders, and strode to meet his adversary on the stone threshold.
As he did so the great door roared and rolled open. Uabhar’s warriors faced it, brandishing their weapons and readying themselves to fight, but it was King Thorgild alone who stood in the entrance, his copper-red hair shining in the radiance of the torch he held aloft. He called to Halvdan in tones of despair, ‘There are many amongst us who wish you had never made that challenge.’
His son replied, ‘I can win this war by spilling the blood of one man, and in this manner also I shall compensate for the black disloyalty of Gunnlaug, who this night has brought shame upon the name of Torkilsalven.’
Then Thorgild perceived that there was nothing he could do or say to alter Halvdan’s course, and a harrowing agony laid hold of his spirit.
Thus it came about that the two lifelong friends met in battle.
Through the haze and gloom Kieran sought the son of Thorgild, and when they found each other not a single word passed between them, for they understood one another so well that it was as if their thoughts were exchanged without the need for speech. Those who looked on, aghast that two such fine young men should engage in a fight to the death, felt that they could read what passed between them as easily as if it had been shouted to the starry peaks.
So it is you who takes arms against me, Halvdan’s eyes sorrowfully transmitted.
Kieran nodded, as if to say, Yes, it is I. His expression of torment added, I love you as I love my closest kin. That which I am about to do wounds me to the very quick of my being. I do it only because I am obliged to obey my father’s direction. Would that he had asked me to carry out any task but this.
Halvdan, in his turn, briefly dipped his head. I comprehend how it is for you. Of all men it is I, your truest friend, who best understands. You are the obedient son. Your very loyalty is one of the virtues I esteem most in you. I would have given my life to save yours, but now I must make myself the instrument of your death. Halvdan lifted his father’s sword.
Likewise, in reversed mirror image, Kieran raised Gorm Glas.
Fleetingly the two young men held each other’s gaze. Then a signal seemed to leap between them: If this pitiable farce must be played out to the end, let us go to it.
Then Kieran and Halvdan clashed against each other in battle, bounding to and fro, balancing on their feet although the ground was slippery with the blood of the fallen; changing positions as each attempted to get under the other’s guard, but from many of the observers who surrounded them there arose moans of sadness and regret, that this pair of brave warriors should be doomed to such a terrible undertaking. The clamour of their efforts and the jarring blows of sword smiting upon shield rebounded from cliff face and monolith, from tor and scarp, scattering down cleft and chasm.
At that same moment, unknown to anyone, a rider was approaching, ascending the high cliff paths. Conall Gearnach, chief of the Knights of the Burning Brand, had ridden long and hard from the South-Eastern Moors where Uabhar had sent him on a wild-goose chase. On returning to Cathair Rua he had petitioned Queen Saibh for news. She had informed him that Uabhar had tricked the weathermasters to their deaths and declared war, that her sons had gone with Slievmordu’s troops to capture King’s Winterbourne, and that unseelie throngs, reputedly goblins, were swooping down from the north, cutting swathes of destruction.
The knight did not stay to ask for details, but at once called for a fresh horse, and after leaping upon its back he galloped along the highway towards Narngalis. His physical endurance was extraordinary; on the way he neither rested nor paused, except to change horses. When he reached Ironstone Pass he encountered mounted sentries of Slievmordhu, to whom his person was well known. They told him about the siege of the keep and readily showed him the route to the door, leading him by lantern glow through the murk.
As the riders climbed the dark and tortuous paths amongst the crags, clouds folded their soft draperies across the constellations overhead. The night darkened, but the closer Gearnach drew to the portal the more clearly he heard the sorrowful murmurs of the throng at the threshold and the chime and clatter of arms, and he said to himself, I know that sound. It is the sound made by the king’s shield, Ocean, which tolls like a great bell when struck. The king himself is in danger. His policies disgust me to the point where I am torn between loyalty and moral principles, but in the end I must abide by my oath. It is my clear duty to defend him.
Guided by the noise of combat, Conall Gearnach closed in on the scene, threw himself from his mount and ran forward.
In front of the door Halvdan had gained the upper hand. Perhaps Kieran was sick to the heart, and perhaps this sickness debilitated him, for he showed no evidence of any ardency for the duel. With one powerful flat-bladed thwack of his father’s sword, Halvdan knocked down his opponent. Kieran measured his length upon the platform, the heavy shield, Ocean, falling on top of him and the momentum of the onslaught causing his body to skid along the stones.
In the very instant that Kieran hit the ground Conall Gearnach appeared at the forefront of the watching crowd, his spear in his hand. In normal circumstances the champion could sense anomalies by intuition. This night, however, he was weary from his long ride and his senses were dulled.
Under the hidden stars the basalt doorsill was lit only by erratically flickering torchlight diffused by drifting veils of haze. As Gearnach set eyes upon the spectacle of the duel it seemed clear to him that it was Uabhar who lay in peril beneath his shield. The fallen man’s helmed adversary was commencing a savage charge and Gearnach’s military reflexes told him he must act immediately.
Without hesitation he hurled his spear at the unknown opponent, using all his strength and skill. The weapon struck the warrior between the shoulderblades and pierced deep into his back. A shout of disapproval and dismay arose from the throats of the onlookers when they witnessed this fatal blow. The young man collapsed to the ground, and fell upon his side in a fast-spreading pool of blood. Gearnach strode up to him and wrenched off the helmet. Halvdan’s face was clearly illumined in a patch of torchlight and Gearnach recognised him at once, but stared upon him in dumbfounded disbelief.
Halvdan looked up. Struggling for breath he cried, ‘Was it you, Conall?’ A spasm of agony took him and he writhed. When the convulsions waned he muttered, ‘Great wickedness you’ve wrought, my friend, for by this duel I meant to put an end to Ó Maoldúin’s bloodshed.’
The face of Gearnach took on a livid hue. It was then that he perceived also that the opponent beneath the shield, who was struggling to regain his feet, was not Uabhar but Kieran, bearing his father’s weapons. The knight looked down at Halvdan Torkilsalven, the prince who had saved his life and vowed eternal friendship, the brave young man dying from a blow given by his own hand. Uttermost rage filled him. It was as if every drop in his veins had been distilled to the essence of madness, and rushed upwards through his spine to explode in his brain. All rational thought deserted him.
‘This is some game of Uabhar’s!’ Gearnach screamed, ripping his sword from its scabbard. Made sightless by mist, sweat, rage and despair, he failed to p
erceive the King of Slievmordhu watching from the shadows. The old, berserk frenzy boiled up in Gearnach, that same irrational impulse that had once driven him to kill his own racehorse for upsetting the running of another steed. His sole desire was to take revenge on Uabhar, and that vengeance proved close at hand. ‘I’ll give him fair payment. For this night’s chicanery he shall lose his own son!’
And with a single, violent blow of his sword he struck Kieran’s head from his body.
Halvdan’s father and elder brother ran from the gateway, converging upon the fading prince of Grïmnørsland, but Gearnach was there before them, kneeling at his side, drenched in his young friend’s blood. With one last supreme effort Halvdan called out the name of his dead friend, cast his father’s sword in the direction of Ironstone Keep and perished before the stone door.
Deranged by unbearable sorrow and anger Gearnach jumped up. Abandoning his weapons he charged at tremendous speed from that place, and no man found it within himself to obstruct him. Fleeing far from the door he bellowed in a terrible voice, ‘Spread the word! Uabhar Ó Maoldúin has betrayed the weathermasters, and the Knights of the Brand, yea, he has even betrayed his own kindred. All of humankind is forfeit to his schemes!’
None dared oppose him, and many hearkened.
During the ensuing day and night, driven by blind grief and ferocity of spirit, the knight behaved as if he had taken leave of his senses, recklessly reporting Uabhar’s treachery far and wide and broadcasting the news of the advance of the unseelie hordes everywhere he rode.
But at the threshold of Ironstone Keep Prince Ronin knelt by the body of his brother Kieran, while King Thorgild lifted his dead son Halvdan in his arms. Most who looked upon that prospect were deeply moved, and riddled with doubt, for it seemed to them, standing there amongst the profound abysms and steep escarpments of the wight-haunted highlands, that it was hard to comprehend whether they fought on behalf of justice or wickedness.
A cold breeze swirled the vapours and swept away the clouds. Behind the peaks of Black Crags stars glimmered intermittently. Their light heralded the appearance of a damsel at the mouth of the siege tunnel.
Dressed in garments of pure white linen, the weathermage Asrăthiel Maelstronnar poised like a pale flame before the portal. Her hair streamed loose along the rising wind, and her eyes glowed with the intensity of blue fire. She was like a diamond, brilliant-cut with mathematical precision, each facet gleaming in perfect symmetry. So radiant, so delicate and almost ethereal was she, that some of the onlookers felt their hearts clench in pain, and could not turn their eyes towards her.
As the bloody corpses of the two young princes were borne away Asrăthiel spoke to the captains of the warriors gathered there on the wide ledge, endeavouring to drive home to them the truth about the impending arrival of the goblins and the need for immediate action. Summoning all her powers of eloquence she exhorted them to understand that every human inhabitant of Tir was at risk, and that the armies of every kingdom must join in alliance to fight the unseelie foe. She called for peace amongst humankind, but they would not listen.
It mattered nothing to King Uabhar how Asrăthiel had survived her fall from the sky, how she came to be inside the keep or what she was actually saying; his one desire, in his sudden panic at her reappearance, was to shout her down. She was one of the enemy, she wished to ruin his plans and destroy him; therefore he must prevent his subjects from hearkening to any of her words. He thrust himself forward, shouting, ‘The hussy is false. Do not trust her. She panders to Wyverstone and his sons. ’Tis clear she will go to any lengths to secure herself a royal husband. Her ploy is to lull us into unwariness, so that Narngalis and Grïmnørsland may destroy us all.’
Next moment Prince Fergus sprang out in front of his father, his face crimson with ire. ‘By all the Powers,’ he bellowed, biting off every word, ‘it is you who has wrought this entire tragedy. It is you!’
Uabhar gaped blankly at his youngest son, as if uncomprehending. His hands fell to his sides and dangled limply.
‘Did you hear me?’ screamed Fergus. ‘This war was propagated by your foul and lying tongue. Slievmordhu bleeds for you. Your own son, you slew! The blame for every calamity in the Four Kingdoms lies at your door. You make me sick to the guts, you marble-hearted deceiver! Did you hear me?’
For an instant Uabhar seemed frozen, completely at a loss, as if this was so far beyond his experience that it belonged in another dimension. Then, impulsively, he turned away and flung a gesture in the direction of his foes, yelling, ‘Slay them!’
But Asrăthiel stepped forward in a whirlwind, blasting her foes with strong gusts, while from the high-vaulted tunnel at her back King Warwick and his sons, on horseback, charged to the attack at the head of their troops, and Thorgild galloped forth with Prince Hrosskel, the knights of Grïmnørsland following in their wake. The soldiers of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth, confounded by all they had witnessed, scattered in disarray, fleeing down the mountain tracks. In the melee, some fell off the vertiginous pathways to their deaths. The Narngalish and Grïmnørslanders who had been trapped in the keep pursued them down the northern slopes, aiming to join the bivouacked army of King Thorgild.
Soon afterwards, while the confusion and fighting still rampaged in the heights, on the highway below the troops of Slievmordu and Ashqalêth broke through Ironstone Pass and flooded across the gap to the northern side. Grïmnørsland’s battalions had been awaiting them, and by nightfall another furious conflict was under way.
For three days the Battle of Ironstone Pass continued. The southern forces pushed the northerners further and further back until the front line was less than ten miles from King’s Winterbourne. It was then that the tide began to turn, but not as anyone had foreseen.
The countryside was swarming with refugees from northern Narngalis; from Mountain Ash and Silver End, from Silverdale and Silverburn, from Trow Green, Fairyhill and Cold Ash—all the old districts named for the mines, or for the faêrie creatures that haunted them, or for the Goblin Wars—and from numerous other locations besides. The soldiers of the southern kingdoms could not avoid seeing the frightened villagers, and hearing their tales of wholesale slaughter in the eldritch mists. The truth was driven home when their own scouts and patrols verified these reports.
At last they comprehended.
The weathermage at the stone door had spoken no falsehood; the widespread rumours were not fabrications, but truths. Unseelie hordes were on their way to mow down the human race, and the leaders of the southern kingdoms had destroyed mankind’s most powerful defenders, the weather-masters. Every man, woman and child of Tir was in the direst peril.
When the whole world was threatened, patriotism suddenly seemed petty and meaningless. Suddenly, the course of events began to change as quickly and violently as an avalanche. The wild proclamations of the breakaway Conall Gearnach, a knight so widely esteemed, carried immense authority, and his messages had been spreading rapidly. Combined with the rising swell of discontent already demoralising the invading forces, his revelations about Uabhar had shattered the last illusions of the populace and finally tipped the balance, turning opinion against the King of Slievmordhu and any who allied with him, especially the Marauders. It was the elite warriors of Slievmordhu, the Knights of the Brand—deprived of their beloved commander—who first rebelled against Uabhar and Chohrab. Almost simultaneously, the Desert Paladins, who had chafed under Uabhar’s yoke since their own king abandoned them, joined their ranks. Risteárd Mac Brádaigh, high commander of the Slievmordhuan armed forces, was slain in battle. Thereafter the other captains of Slievmordhu’s army, perceiving the self-destructive folly of Uabhar’s campaign, executed a military coup to deprive their sovereign of power. Uabhar was seized, and bound in iron chains. On witnessing the success of the coup the Ashqalêthan captains decided to overthrow their own monarch. Two squadrons were sent to the outlandish pavilion at the base of the pass, and the ailing Chohrab Shechem, too, was taken prisoner.
The precepts of hierarchy and the entitlements of hereditary authority run deep. Not one of the revolutionary officers was prepared to issue an order for outright regicide. After forcing both kings to publicly abdicate, they took them away and locked them, in chains, within the ancient dungeon near the granite Obelisk that stood alone in the wilderness at the corner of the four kingdoms. A handful of warders tended them, keeping them alive on bread and water.
To Prince Ronin, heir apparent, the lords of Slievmordhu offered fealty; he, however, stubbornly refused to succeed to the throne, declaring, ‘While my father lives, I shall not take the crown.’ His grief and regret ran deep. He put aside his armour and vowed he would never again take up arms. When not attending to his most essential duties, he spent his time consoling his mother, or lighting candles to Lady Destiny, and it was only after his advisors had pressed him hard that he agreed to accept, temporarily, the title of Prince Regent.
The conflict between kingdoms was over, but a new war was just beginning. Terrified of imminent invasion by hosts of unseelie slaughterers, hundreds of townsfolk and country folk hammered at the doors of sanctorums across the four kingdoms, begging the druids to ask the Fates to protect them. In response the druids declared that they were indeed intervening on behalf of the commonalty, but they emphasised that should the Fates decide not to rescue them from the goblins, it would be the people’s own fault. Of late, the public had been neglecting to donate sufficient goods and services to the hardworking servants of the Fates. If the populace displeased the Fates, then naturally those divine lords and ladies—Ádh, Lord Luck; Míchinniúint, Lord Doom; Mí-Ádh, Lady Ill-Fortune; and Cinniúint, Lady Destiny—would hardly be disposed to help them. Coin and treasure began pouring into the coffers of the sanctorums in every kingdom, donated by folk from all ranks and trades, in the hope of salvation from the wicked goblins.
Fallowblade Page 13
