Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Now that their monarch had been deposed and the country was under military rule the captains of Slievmordhu unanimously turned to Conall Gearnach, seasoned warrior and leader of men, for direction. The fever of madness had left him. He became as cool and hard as tempered steel, proving himself a brilliant tactician and, after they made him supreme commander, a proficient warlord.

  By contrast the captains of Ashqalêth had no desire to form a military dictatorship. Chohrab Shechem had no male heirs and no woman had ever ruled that realm, so with all due speed Shechem’s brother-in-law, Duke Rahim, was sworn in as regent until such time as the governance of the country could be debated at greater length.

  The armies of the four kingdoms being now united, their leaders hastily met in conference so that they might formulate a stratagem for the forthcoming encounter with the unseelie hordes. Gearnach’s first meeting with Thorgild was fraught with tension; these two statesmen, however, being true leaders of men, refused, for the time being, to allow personal antagonism to interfere with cooperation. In his heart Thorgild fervently wished Gearnach dead, and privately vowed to seek him out and slay him, eventually, no matter whether the war was lost or won.

  The princes Cormac and Fergus accompanied Gearnach, though both stood apart from him, loathing him for his deeds before the door of Ironstone Keep. Like Ronin, they were also devastated and humiliated by their father’s loss of face. They struggled to believe the truth while simultaneously attempting to justify Uabhar’s actions, for his seeming-persona was the very foundation of their self-perception, and if that had crumbled away like rotted masonry, then all that had sprung therefrom must be shored up, or fall apart.

  It was the first time Asrăthiel had seen Avalloc since his collapse at the news of the weathermasters’ fate—which had left him, for a time, bedridden. He arrived by balloon, and after he climbed woodenly down the short stepladder the crew had propped against the outside of the basket he turned to greet his waiting granddaughter. To her he seemed shrunken. He leaned on a staff and his skin and hair looked paler, as if the colour had been scoured away by the harsh blasts of a desert sandstorm. The tragedy had taken its toll. Gently the damsel embraced him, kissing the papery cheek just above the soft fall of his beard.

  ‘Grandfather,’ she whispered, and he answered with a smile like sunrise that warmed her heart.

  ‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘I am glad to see you!’

  She took his arm and accompanied him from the landing-apron.

  Later, in front of that assembly King Warwick asked, ‘Lord Avalloc, in your opinion, what chance have we of victory?’

  ‘Small chance,’ Avalloc replied sombrely. ‘Gold is our chief weapon, but I doubt whether we have enough of it. It is written that goblins can be destroyed by gold, but only by prolonged contact with large quantities thereof. This is comparable with the way mortal creatures react to, say, arsenic poisoning, or any number of other potentially fatal influences which, in small doses, cause harm but do not kill.’

  ‘They can be destroyed?’ cried Duke Rahim. ‘But wights are immortal!’

  ‘Immortal, yes,’ said Asrăthiel. ‘Age cannot conquer them, nor sickness. Weapons, however, can inflict upon them a harsh fate; one might call it a version of death. They cannot truly die, but they can be changed. Their original form can be broken and their power nullified. In some insignificant shape they continue to live forever, powerless and perhaps also mindless.’

  Her grandfather said, ‘It would take more gold than exists in the four kingdoms to annihilate such vast hordes.’

  ‘Then, without the aid of the other weathermasters,’ Thorgild stated bluntly, ‘it will be impossible for our armies to vanquish them.’

  Avalloc nodded.

  Duke Rahim said dispiritedly, ‘We have two choices—to fight and be wiped out, or to flee and be wiped out.’

  ‘We must fight!’ Conall Gearnach declared in a voice of frozen steel. ‘If we fight, we shall diminish their numbers, even if only by a modicum, for there is always the possibility of striking down a few if we hurl enough gold. But if we simply turn and flee, the foe’s numbers will remain the same. Furthermore if we fight we temporarily hold back their advance, seizing a little extra time for the people to escape southwards and find places to hide. Should our armies withdraw, we will soon find the enemy hard on our heels, mowing us down from the rear and cutting deadly swathes through the territory we have abandoned.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Thorgild. ‘We fight. We stand our ground. If we are to die—barring some miraculous intervention from the Fates—we shall die not like cowards but with honour!’

  ‘When the hounds corner the fox,’ Gearnach added quietly, ‘the fox always puts up a fight, despite knowing that death is certain.’

  Rahim, who had been pondering deeply, roused himself and said, ‘Lord Avalloc, the weathermasters captured the goblins by trickery once before. Why not again?’ He looked around animatedly, his face alight with new hope. ‘Could the goblins be lured back into the golden caves, as previously, then sealed in with rockfalls started by lightning blasts?’

  ‘There is small probability,’ said Avalloc, ‘of tricking them into entrapment a second time, because now they know of the caves’ existence. Yet methinks you are on the right path, good sir. Our only real chance lies in devising some plan to thwart them with cunning, since we lack adequate force.’

  ‘Let our best strategists be put to the task at once,’ said Warwick.

  ‘Even the greatest thinkers will need time to invent such a plan,’ said Asrăthiel, ‘and time is what we lack.’

  ‘Then,’ said Warwick, ‘our forces must hold the goblins at bay for as long as possible. We fight. Are we agreed?’ A chorus of affirmations greeted his proposal, and thus it was that the council of war decided that the four kingdoms would take a stand against the hordes, no matter how bleak the outlook, no matter how futile the attempt might seem, no matter how inevitable the defeat.

  While the united armies of Tir marched northwards to confront the unseelie threat, in south-eastern Narngalis an odd-looking, uncoordinated cow limped across the landscape. Evidently it had swallowed two men who remained alive, because two arguing voices could be heard, issuing from inside its stomach.

  ‘Oi tell ya, this is unnecessary. Them goblins will not slay us!’

  ‘’Ow can you be sure?’

  ‘Because they won’t think we look ’uman. It’s only ’umankind they prey on.’

  ‘We moight look ’uman enough for ’em to stick a sword in us.’

  ‘Have ya looked in a glass recently? You’re uglier than a goblin.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘But ’ow d’ya know they don’t slay cows?’

  ‘Of course they don’t slay cows. Nobody’s ever ’eard of ’em slayin’ cows.’

  ‘Just because nobody’s ever ’eard of it doesn’t mean they don’t do it. Everybody else oi know of slays cows. What if the goblins get ’ungry and feel loike a nice ’aunch of beef?’

  ‘Then they won’t bother with us, ya idiot. You’re too stringy to give anyone a decent meal.’

  ‘Oi am not!’

  ‘You are so!’

  Still arguing with itself, the misshapen cow loped off across a field.

  Inexorably the goblin forces gained ground by night, passing without haste across the fair hills and meadows of Narngalis, drawing their eldritch mists like veils as they came. They met no opposition from the allied armies of humankind, who were mustering their troops for one last courageous stand along the southern borders of the Wuthering Moors.

  Within the castle at King’s Winterbourne, Asrăthiel met in conference with Warwick and his sons.

  ‘The goblins are coming,’ the king said in a voice filled with pain. ‘Upon the advice of the Storm Lord all kingdoms are gathering their gold, from pantry, jewel casket, mine, mint and treasury; gold to bombard goblinkind.’

  ‘The Storm Lord told us,’ said William, ‘that in olden tim
es, kobolds of the mountains hurled many hundredweight of gold into the legendary Inglefire, so that it should no longer plague their masters. Sorely do we now need that metal. ’Tis a great pity the werefire is now untraceable and we have lost those resources.’

  Asrăthiel said, ‘It is time for me to send for the instrument of our final hope.’

  ‘What might that be?’ asked Prince William, although he knew already and dreaded the answer.

  ‘That which they once called “Sioctíne”,’ she replied. ‘That which is sometimes named “Frostfire”, because it burns like both ice and flame, and its colour is of the sun. The golden sword,’ she said, adding, as if suddenly breathless, ‘Fallowblade.’

  4

  FALLOWBLADE

  Ye knights awake, for valour’s sake. Hark now, the war-horns sound!

  We’ve foes to kill, their blood to spill upon the battleground.

  From gold-bright halls with lofty walls we’ll ride, their heads to hew,

  Though they be countless thousands and our numbers be but few!

  Knowing they were on the verge of desperate combat, the soldiers of Narngalis were singing battle songs to fire their blood. Midsummer’s Day had passed without celebration. It was the beginning of Jule, middle month of Summer, twelve days since the Battle of Ironstone Pass, and throughout the Four Kingdoms of Tir tension had risen to an intolerable level. The goblins’ lethal advance proved inexplicably slow.

  Without doubt, either the malicious creatures had discovered some formidable power beneath the mountains, or else the old stories of their ineptness were spurious. They seemed unconquerable. Clearly, if the whim had moved them, they might have swept down through Narngalis with excruciating speed, killing every human being they found. Yet they dallied. It was as if the wights, in their wickedness, were toying with their prey in the same way that fell-cats cruelly toyed with birds, allowing them to believe there was some chance of escape only to continue the torment, repeatedly dashing hope.

  Displaced inhabitants of the northern villages were flooding through the streets of King’s Winterbourne. Moved to pity at their plight, Asrăthiel offered shelter at The Laurels to large groups of refugees, gave them food and sympathised with them about the hardship they had to endure, leaving their homes. Terror hollowed their eyes; the weary men and women, the children clinging to their mothers and fathers, crying, or—worse—in blank silence. The children’s faces crumpled with bewilderment as their young minds struggled to comprehend the enormity of what was happening. Innocent and helpless were they, their unfledged frames too weak for them to defend themselves. The vulnerability of the little ones touched Asrăthiel’s compassion and wounded her to the quick. The damsel forced her own pain aside so that she might bring consolation to others. It angered her to see how the contentment of good people had been ruined, their lives thrown into chaos by war.

  The beggar’s tale of the slaying of Asrăthiel’s kindred became well known, and bit by bit—with the help of Queen Saibh—the truth about Uabhar’s plot against them was pieced together. Bitterly the people of Cathair Rua repented the accusations they had levelled at the weathermasters. They sent apologies and gifts of atonement to the Mountain Ring, and aldermen composed contrite retractions to be read aloud in every city square.

  Avalloc Maelstronnar, still frail and not fully recuperated from his recent illness, arrived at Wyverstone Castle in the sky-balloon Windweapon. Two prentices from Rowan Green crewed for him, and five others arrived in Greygoose and Icemoon, the two latest additions to the Rowan Green fleet. Great was Asrăthiel’s joy at greeting her grandfather. The Storm Lord brought Fallowblade with him, in the care of the sword-master of High Darioneth, Desmond Brooks.

  ‘You must not use the golden sword immediately,’ the Storm Lord warned his granddaughter. Gravely he watched her from his deep-hooded eyes of jade. His mane of silvery hair appeared sparser, and he looked gaunt, yet his cheeks were ruddy.

  ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘It is imperative that we defend ourselves against the goblins with every means at our disposal!’

  ‘You have not yet wielded Fallowblade in training, let alone in real combat.’

  ‘Only because I have never been presented with the opportunity. Besides, I promised you I would not do so until Swordmaster Brooks judged me to be of sufficient merit. He is here with us now, and I daresay he is pleased with me.’ She exchanged glances with Brooks, whose expression remained diplomatically noncommittal.

  ‘Dear child,’ said Avalloc, ‘it has been long ere you rehearsed even your everyday sword drills. I would have you practise well with the golden blade before you go into combat. Fallowblade is perilous to wield.’

  ‘History tells us that Aglaval Stormbringer offered Fallowblade to the brothers A’Connacht. I do not recall hearing that they had ever been trained to wield it, or even that the brí flowed in their blood!’

  ‘Oh, but they had been trained. In their earlier years Aglaval was great friends with their father, and he taught them the ways of the golden sword. Besides, their grandmother was a brí-child in her youth, though she never became a mage.’

  ‘But how can Fallowblade scathe me? I have never understood your stance on this matter. I am invulnerable!’

  ‘The blade is extraordinary,’ said the Storm Lord. ‘It is like no other in Tir. Do not for one instant consider it a mundane thing. This is no mere tempered and honed edge of metal. Gramarye and weathermastery are bound up in it, in the very essence of its making. Fallowblade possesses properties of which even I know very little. I suspect—’ he broke off.

  ‘You suspect?’ the damsel prompted.

  ‘Well, I may have been bedridden of late but I have not been idle. I have been propped on pillows, poring over tomes from the libraries of Rowan Green. According to the lorebooks, one of the reasons goblinkind is lethal is their uncanny ability to literally move as fast as lightning. I have long wondered whether the golden sword perhaps allows whoever wields it to shift rapidly through time itself, in order to match the supernatural fighting speed of the wights.’

  ‘An intriguing premise!’ Asrăthiel said. ‘Yet, how could such a property harm me?’

  ‘I cannot say, my dear, for the manner whereby it works is a mystery, but it would be wise to take no chances. If ’tis true that the sword affects time, there is no way of knowing whether the wielder might, for example, risk becoming ensnared in some never-ending loop, or maybe trapped in the past, or the future.’

  ‘This is all conjecture, Grandfather. Alfardēne Stormbringer handled the sword, of course, for he fashioned it; and Avolundar Stormbringer used it to defeat the goblins long ago. Both mages lived to a ripe age, if accounts are accurate.’

  ‘Avolundar used it, but he had learned all about the sword from the teachings of Alfardēne. If any intimately understood the sword’s properties, it was Alfardēne and Avolundar. They wrote down what they knew, but over the years some of the records have gone astray. Much of their knowledge is lost to us. ’Twould be sleeveless for you to attempt to use the sword in haste, only to have it destroy you. You must not ply Fallowblade until Master Brooks is satisfied that you have attained perfect control over the weapon.’

  Disappointed, the damsel bowed. ‘I submit to your wisdom, Grandfather,’ she said, adding with a flash of her blue eyes, ‘despite that it thwarts my wishes.’

  The corners of Avalloc’s own eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘I am glad to be in your company again, dear child,’ he said.

  ‘Without Fallowblade,’ Asrăthiel subjoined, smiling, ‘I am better placed at wielding weather than sword-fighting. In any case, William has begged me not to take up weapons other than wind and fire and water. In his view it is unseemly and dangerous for women to engage in battle.’

  ‘And what is your view?’

  ‘For my part, if I am to destroy living creatures, I must drive myself to it. I cannot imagine getting any joy of such an exercise. My natural inclination is to heal and nurture; causing injury or death is
the antithesis of that. If I am to fight, I must first be convinced that my actions will protect those whom I love. Only then could I go to it with a vengeance—but what a vengeance!’

  ‘I have always understood that you abhor the unmaking of life, dear child, but our fight now is against unseelie wights. Eldritch creatures are not mortal. Their lives cannot be unmade.’

  ‘Truly. Nonetheless, the nature of eldritch immortality is that they may be forced to transmute to some lesser shape, which is their equivalent of death.’

  Avalloc said thoughtfully, ‘That semblance of life’s end is the reason why, once in every few centuries, a new immortal entity is born. Were there to be no endings, there could be no beginnings.’

  ‘I do not know whether it is comforting or terrifying.’

  ‘Of what do you speak?’

  ‘The knowledge that, in some measure, even immortal life can be terminated,’ said Asrăthiel.

  One night Asrăthiel dreamed that she found herself amongst the armies of Tir as they fought against goblinkind. In her dream she heard Prince William cry, ‘Beware!’ but she heeded him not, and drawing her sword of Narngalish steel she ran headlong into the fray. Surrounded by a churning mass of dwarfish monsters she hacked at them with all her might. They howled and screeched, raking her with their claws, slashing at her with their knives, and swinging axes to chop her limbs, but nothing could touch her, and her sword sang, and pitchy ichor spurted from eldritch flesh.

  The fight lasted for a heartbeat or a millennium, but ultimately the imps rushed her and leaped upon her, without regard to her energetic blows. They fastened their teeth and talons upon her limbs, weighing her down until she could no longer lift the weapon, and she toppled beneath the weight of her assailants, falling upon her sword, which broke asunder and turned out to be a blade of birch-lath after all.

  The wights tried to crush her with their bodies, and smother her, and gnaw her; but they laboured in vain for she would not be scathed. She was rendered powerless, however, and could do them no more harm. She was outnumbered, pinned down.