Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  No weeds grew underfoot in the springy carpet of fallen needles. Pine fragrance sharpened the air. The dark green boughs were fruiting with pendant bunches of cones. Asrăthiel glimpsed, between their rough-rinded boles, a glimmer of water in a hollow, and directed her steps towards the pool. Overhead, cirrus wisps dry-brushed into watercolour blue. The sun’s lower rim was almost grazing the distant hills, burnishing the west to copper. Twilight was prolonged at this time of day, in this season, at this latitude. Indeed, to Asrăthiel, Summer evenings evoked a long moment of timelessness, when the world paused as the sun kissed the horizon and let forth a spill of radiance with the glow of honey mead.

  Narrowing her eyes the wanderer looked up through the fretwork of nodding branches. Long streaks of cloud were taking on the colours of sunset. She was aware they were forming along the upper edge of a front, at such a high altitude that they were wholly composed of ice crystals. Her mage-senses informed her of the onset of a depression; back at Hundred House her grandfather and the prentices were wielding the brí, to ensure that there would soon be a major change in the weather.

  A south-westerly breeze shivered through the forest.

  ‘Yes, we are the deathless ones,’ said a familiar voice, ‘but when it comes down to it, all other things have a beginning and an end.’

  Beside the pool the urisk was seated, amongst the gnarled roots of one of the most ancient trees. Something within Asrăthiel leaped for joy.

  The wight’s penetrating eyes were directed upon her with a curious look; whether joy or anger, tenderness, predacity or something else, the damsel could not discern. ‘And in millennia of millennia,’ he continued, without offering any form of greeting, ‘five billion years to be fairly precise, when the sun has exploded and this world is nothing, not even a ball of seared stone rolling through the firmament, what shall we be then? Shall we exist as conscious particles of dust lost in that chaos, knowing, being, watching the long, slow death of tortured stars, until frozen darkness is all that remains, and we hang there, changeless motes, in night eternal . . . ’

  Still water held the wight’s reflection, dark-veiled, and mirrored the venerable tree also. He turned his head to stare down at it. ‘You are the only human creature ever to be born immortal,’ he said, ‘which means you are one of a kind. You have no true kindred. Even your father, who gave you the gift of eternal life, was not born with it, but acquired it. You are unique. You are alone.’

  The damsel nodded. She was accustomed to the creature’s unpredictable ways. His melancholy mood could not dampen her delight at seeing her companion again. ‘That is so,’ she agreed. ‘It is hard to endure, but it is so.’

  ‘I too am alone. There is no one like me. We are not so different from each other, you and I.’ Again he fixed his gaze on her.

  ‘You have come to me,’ she said, acknowledging that he had kept his promise, ‘in my most bitter hour. After tonight I might see you nevermore. I am invulnerable but my kindred are not, and if I fail to protect them, there will be nobody left to guard me from eternal captivity. Glad am I that you came, for it is my chance to bid you a last farewell. If I never set eyes on you again, be assured that I will—’ suddenly she found herself stammering, ‘—I will miss you.’

  As she spoke, she found herself unable to look the wight in the eye. She was forcing herself to proclaim her inner sentiments because it seemed right to do so, but unaccountably she felt embarrassed and discomfited, especially by her last four words. She felt her face grow hot, and suddenly wished herself far away. The battlefield seemed like a simpler challenge than dealing with this wayward and subversive creature.

  Seeking a way to deflect the topic she cast about in her mind for some token of friendship she might give. Her fingers closed around the jewel at her neck, and she thought, Why not? Unclasping the chain she held out the dazzling stone on its necklace, offering it to the wight. Not lightly did she do this. Had the urisk not been a kind of family heirloom, like the jewel, she would not have acted thus. She told herself that it seemed fit that two things that had been passed down through the generations should reside together.

  The urisk sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘You certainly persevere with these acts of bestowal. Very well, if you insist.’

  Rising to stand upon his hoofs, the little wight approached her. She leaned down to pass the ornament to him. The jewel sparkled in the urisk’s hand.

  ‘Will you not wish me luck in battle?’ Asrăthiel asked, straightening up.

  ‘I never asked for your gifts, nor did I comprehend they came with an obligation to compensate you with good wishes in return.’ The urisk slipped the jewel into a pocket of his shabby clothing.

  ‘Well, there is no obligation.’ Asrăthiel frowned. She felt foolish, and somewhat vexed, until it came to her that this prickle of annoyance was a sting she would feel the loss of, if she never saw the urisk again. ‘It is true you do not ask for gifts,’ she said penitently. ‘You have never asked me for anything at all.’

  ‘And would you prefer it if I had?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As it happens,’ the wight said casually, folding his arms and leaning against a tree bole, ‘it was my intention this evening to make a request of you.’

  At this revelation, Asrăthiel could not help but feel intrigued and surprised. It seemed out of character.

  ‘Anything,’ she said. ‘Anything you ask of me, if it is within my power, I shall grant it.’

  ‘Oh, it is within your power all right,’ said the urisk, and there was something about the way he uttered those words that gave Asrăthiel the feeling that she ought not to have responded so unthinkingly. A foreboding squeezed her heart. Why did I just now promise him anything he desired? I have made an unspecified vow to a wight! What a fool I am. Such oaths cannot be broken without dire consequences, if at all!

  In trepidation she enquired, ‘What would you have of me?’

  ‘Do me one last favour.’

  She nodded.

  He said, ‘Draw your sword and strike off my head.’

  Twenty-one crows flew across the sky, silhouetted against a backdrop of tawny vapour trails. Their cries jarred against the sough of the breeze through the evergreens.

  ‘I will not!’ Asrăthiel exclaimed, shocked and horrified.

  ‘You gave me your word.’

  ‘But why?’ the damsel burst out in anguish, backing away from the wight as though he were a plague carrier.

  ‘I asked you to perform a simple deed, not to pepper me with questions!’ the urisk said coldly. ‘Is it so hard to oblige me?’

  ‘It is! Why do you want to be forever changed into a fly, or an ant, or—’ she searched for words, ‘or a nameless speck scuttling in compost?’

  ‘Do you think I enjoy sentient existence? Do you know how long I have lived? Can you comprehend the tedium of enduring the sluggish pace of millennia?’

  ‘You must not ask this thing of me.’

  ‘I have asked it.’

  They argued, beneath the whispering trees, while the gloaming deepened and the sun slipped further down, ready to vanish behind the world’s shoulder. At length, after much debate, the urisk persuaded Asrăthiel that she must accept this duty she had brought upon herself. She was bound by her word, and must resign herself to it.

  ‘If you are so determined on this course,’ she said sadly, ‘I wish you had asked someone else to give you the stroke. Cruel wight, your death will cast an eternal shadow on my spirit.’

  The urisk offered no response.

  ‘I will do it tomorrow,’ she said, vainly grasping at excuses and making as if to depart.

  ‘You will do it now.’

  Asrăthiel clapped her hands to her head, slapped her palm against a tree trunk, then paced back and forth in extreme perturbation. ‘This is the most onerous demand that has ever been asked of me!’ she cried. ‘This is indeed my most bitter hour, for you have made it so!’

  ‘Do it, and it will be over.’

&n
bsp; ‘If I could weep, urisk, I would be drowning in tears.’

  ‘Draw your sword.’

  Asrăthiel grasped the hilt of Fallowblade, but hesitated.

  Meeting his eyes unwaveringly she pleaded in a low voice, ‘If I must slay you, I ask only that you do not look me in the eye.’

  For one last instant he held her gaze, then turned aside.

  She pulled Fallowblade from its scabbard. Spangles effervesced along its length, chiming a silent music of bells. The wight half closed his eyes, as if the golden brightness caused him pain, but stood unflinching before the weathermage. His curly hair was short enough that it did not cover his neck, nor did he wear any collar. The stroke would not be obstructed. It raced through Asrăthiel’s mind that prisoners who faced beheading by axe were made to rest their heads on a chopping block, to provide resistance to the blow. It would be too appalling, however, to be forced to search for some fallen tree trunk—she and the urisk, seeking a wooden platform for butchery. If she were to endure this unspeakable trial, it was best to do get it over and done with as swiftly as possible. Besides, the golden blade had the sharpest edge of anything she had ever encountered. She could believe it was acute enough to sever one instant of time from the next. It would pass through the small neck as if the urisk had never existed. As these pragmatic thoughts churned in her head she could hardly believe they were her own, so profoundly did they shock and disgust her.

  Gripping the sword in both hands she lined up her mark. After drawing a deep breath and focusing her concentration to give her courage, she drew back the weapon, then swung it in a wide and whistling arc.

  Wild and strange the melody, the blood-song played by winds against the leading edge.

  The urisk’s horned head toppled from his body.

  At the same instant, the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Sick with horror, Asrăthiel ran from the scene without a backward glance.

  As she took part in last-minute preparations for the night ahead, thoughts of the urisk churned and pounded in Asrăthiel’s head. She despised herself for making the promise, hated him for asking it, for forcing her to become the agent of his suicide; was seared by guilt, devastated by bereavement, hot and cold in waves, replaying the event in her mind, asking herself, What if I had refused outright? What if? What if? Although weighed down with grief and trouble, she did not speak to anyone at Hundred House about her travail. Her companions already had enough strife to contend with. Besides, there was no one she could really confide in about this matter; none of her friends had been acquainted with the wight. Hardly anyone had ever seen him, for that matter. Those who had glimpsed him, such as Albiona, had never viewed him in the light of friendship. Furthermore, the entire household at the chastel was preoccupied with making ready for the dark hours, and dread of what they might bring. No matter that they conversed in tones of optimism, no one harboured any illusions. It was a certainty that the night would usher in the return of the unseelie hordes and their death-dealing. In some remote corner of consciousness the damsel wondered what obscure and mindless form the urisk had dwindled to, whether a beetle or a gadfly, or even a live particle of some disease, such as the murrain or the pox.

  The first stars were appearing as the depleted armies of humankind readied themselves to face, for the second time, the unseelie onslaught. Though disheartened and terrified, they refused to yield to despair. Some even joked and sang, feigning confidence, in an attempt to bolster the spirits of their comrades. To the north, the Wuthering Moors stretched into darkness, empty and foreboding. The allies waited, effecting last-minute adjustments to the security of their positions.

  During the greater part of the day Avalloc Maelstronnar had been directing his energies towards shepherding high- and low-pressure systems. A storm maturing south of the moors had changed direction and begun to roll northwards, gathering vehemence and momentum as it travelled.

  The two weathermages and the handful of prentices who had accompanied Avalloc from Rowan Green planned to send the storm barrelling across the moors to meet the unseelie hordes before they could reach the defenders. It was hoped that their powers, combined, would be great enough to escalate the gale to the status of a hurricane. The force of such a blast could hurl chunks of hail the size of trebuchet ammunition, and drive winds strong enough to uproot trees and smash buildings. With luck it would pulverise the goblin knights, or at least scatter them.

  Yet the Storm Lord was attempting a feat that demanded the skill and attention of many senior weathermages, rather than one alone, aided by a few students. He was weary, besides. Asrăthiel, engrossed with perfecting her sword technique and striving to overcome her abhorrence at what she had done to the urisk, could spare little time to participate in the summoning.

  The clear skies dimmed and stars winked out as the weather change swept in from the south. Out on the Wuthering Moors raindrops began to fall sporadically. Asrăthiel waited atop a small bulwark of mouldering stone, flanked by King Warwick and Prince William. The king had banished Prince Walter from the fray, for he refused to jeopardise the lives of his two heirs simultaneously, though they both begged for a place on the battlefield. Mounted on their warhorses the Companions of the Cup bided in watchful silence, encircling the three upon the low rampart. The knight-commander had stationed himself closest to his sovereign, easily within earshot.

  The weathermage wore no armour of chain or plate, but was clad in a loose-fitting tunic shirt of snowy cambric, and trousers of bleached linen tucked into knee-boots. Her hair was bound in tight braids about her head. Nor did she carry a shield. A small, gold-handled dirk nestled in a scabbard at her right side; she intended to keep it at hand in case the sword was wrested from her grasp. Clasping the hilt of Fallowblade she drew it forth with care approaching reverence, aware that many heads turned to watch. The golden blade flashed with its splendid inner light. Around it the falling rain sparkled like chains of diamonds.

  Asrăthiel tentatively flourished the sword, sensing the point of balance, feeling the weight. As she did so the eerie wind-song played along its edges, and it seemed to her that the falling raindrops slowed, as if the atmosphere through which they dropped had become as thick as honey. The appearance of the suspended droplets as they drifted gently down was quite astonishing. Contrary to her expectations they were not rounded at the base and pointed at the top, in the teardrop shape that artists traditionally attributed to them. Instead, the smaller ones appeared to be completely spherical, while those that were middle-sized exhibited a tiny indentation on their underside. The largest drops resembled the ear-muffs travellers wore on cold Winter’s days—two blobs attached by a slender arch. Asrăthiel knew that she was witnessing the true shape of falling raindrops. As the sword moved, it was actually altering the rate of time’s flow around her. When she held the weapon steady the rain seemed to speed up, and pattered down as before.

  Keeping Fallowblade motionless, she gazed across the shadowy acres of heath land, into the north. There was no evidence of the goblin knights or their minions, except perhaps for the merest hint of a low-level haze. She sheathed the sword.

  The storm never reached its full potential. It petered out before midnight. Avalloc had reached the point of exhaustion and the prentices were too inexperienced to keep the vast, unstable systems within their control. Asrăthiel recognised that even if she had contributed all her energies to weatherworking, a storm as great as that which was required could never have been brewed and mastered without the cooperation of all the Councillors of Ellenhall. As the atmospheric disturbances abated the skies cleared; starglow coolly illuminated the countryside, and the moon gleamed, a pale opal.

  It was not until moonrise that it occurred to Asrăthiel she had left her mother’s white jewel with the decapitated corpse of the urisk beneath the pines—or with the bloated spider, or crawling ant, whatever he had become. Somehow the forfeiture of the treasure meant nothing compared to the loss of her eldritch companion, he who had identified himself wit
h the odd name of Crowthistle.

  At midnight they came.

  First a mist arose, winding in and out of the stumps of the forgotten city on the moors, making phantoms of the vestigial towers and walls. Then came a low, distant rumble, which grew louder. The rumble expanded to a roar; the thunder of one hundred thousand powerful hooves shaking the ground. Men peered through the haze until their eyes ached. Dimly they descried shapes hurtling in the murk. The shapes solidified, becoming silhouettes, vespertine blue against the pale grey of the vapours; terrible outlines, horned and antlered, brandishing a forest of spears; row upon serried row of apocalyptic horsemen from nightmare.

  Towards the united front of the mortal armies the goblin horsemen galloped, their fantastic garments trailing like scalloped kelp strands, their lawless hair flying, their kobold slaves bounding maniacally alongside. Tatters of shredded mist streamed from their limbs. Daemon horse and fell rider, both were accoutred with jingling silver and pale jewels. Exquisite were those sinister steeds, the trollhästen, with their smooth, resilient stride and their high-set necks. Their ghostly tails and manes streamed out along the wind of their swiftness, green as burning copper-salts. To those mortals who dared to stare, or who, like prey fascinated by the hunter, could not look away, it appeared that the bizarre battle harness of the unseelie knights included trimmings of sable fur, sprays of sooty feathers and claws, and trappings of ivory, horn or bleached bone.

  The human troops braced themselves for a frontal assault. Archers drew their bowstrings to their ears and poised, ready for the command; foot soldiers lowered their pikes; cavalrymen pulled sword from sheath. Asrăthiel’s hand rested on Fallowblade’s hilt, ready to draw the swift blade.

  Only a few hundred yards separated the horde from the battalions of Tir. Just as it seemed certain they would hurtle headlong into the front lines, their pace abated. They slowed to a canter, then to a walk, causing their overwrought adversaries great confusion and perplexity. No one knew what to expect. Argent and crystalline dazzles flashed from the unseelie knights’ ebony harness, and from the sombre fabric of their garments.