Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  Into the battlefield hush he said, ‘Know that you stand defeated, human brouteraght.’ His smile was a sneer. ‘You, who believe you are so special, so free-willed! You, in your ignorance that like all things your lives are governed by numbers, that the same mathematics that describe the fractal patterns of a fern leaf or a spiral seashell dictate the very code by which your bodies are fashioned. Learn that you are as slavish as a leaf that must fall from the tree. Learn that you have no importance. You are nothing. You shall become less than nothing.’

  His voice carried across the entirety of the Wuthering Moors, whether projected by some spell or by some talent of his species. All those assembled could hear every word.

  ‘Know me as Zauberin,’ the goblin officer continued, ‘aachionard, first lieutenant of the Argenkindë. Defeated you are, but not yet extinct. My liege commander will offer you terms.’

  A murmur of astonishment rippled through the ranks of the human listeners. Beyond all imagining a glimmer, perhaps, of hope? Something to postpone the end? More likely an eldritch trick . . .

  It was King Warwick who, guiding his horse to the forefront of his troops, responded. Again, perhaps by some bewitchment, there was not one amongst those many thousands of soldiers, weary or wounded, hale or dying, young or old, who failed to catch his declaration.

  ‘I, Warwick Wyverstone, King of Narngalis, take it upon myself to speak on behalf of the Four Kingdoms of Tir, for the nonce, whether it be my part or no. We await your terms.’

  The king’s voice was strong, yet Asrăthiel, with her acute vision, perceived that his hands were shaking. She too was shivering, but whether from shock, or anxiety, or sorrow, or something else entirely, she could not be sure.

  ‘The Argenkindë will withdraw and leave your sties unmolested,’ said the comely, malevolent knight Zauberin, ‘if you’ll comply.’

  ‘Do you mean to assert you will leave the Four Kingdoms of Tir in peace?’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  The crowds gasped at the enormity of this declaration, and another murmur ran through their ranks, on this occasion louder, and on a rising note.

  ‘It is some hateful prank,’ several listeners whispered. ‘They make sport of us. When they have victory in the palms of their hands, why should they offer us our heart’s desire?’

  ‘What would you have of us in return?’ Warwick asked guardedly. Asrăthiel surmised that he was playing for time. Whatever the goblins demanded would certainly be too high a price; she could tell Warwick believed it was pointless even to enquire, but every moment of delay was another breath of life for humankind and, as the saying went, where life is, hope is. The king was gambling on the infinitesimal chance of a miracle.

  ‘I demand,’ said Zauberin, ‘certain ransoms or hostages on behalf of Zaravaz, King and Knight-Commander of the Argenkindë.’

  ‘So it is indeed he!’ muttered Avalloc, leaning on a bronze-tipped oaken staff and shaking his head in wonderment. During the dialogue between mortal and immortal, two knights of the Cup had conducted the elderly weathermage to Asrăthiel’s side. ‘Against all odds, that cruel tyrant has returned!’

  It was the damsel’s wish to ask her grandfather what he knew of this goblin king, but she kept silent so that all might hear the words of the unseelie lieutenant.

  ‘If they are handed over without argument or haggling,’ said Zauberin, ‘we will depart without striking another blow, unless humankind strike first.’

  Asrăthiel guessed at once the names of those who would be claimed as prisoners, and she knew also, with a sinking feeling, that if the goblin knights made that demand it would never be granted.

  ‘They will claim our monarchs and commanders, and maybe the pick of our princes also,’ murmured the Narngalish officers nearby, echoing her thoughts. ‘The most generous-spirited of our dignitaries will agree to be sacrificed for the salvation of the people, but there is no doubt they would be taken away to be humiliated and excruciated. In which case it is Tir’s duty to refuse this offer of covenant. We simply cannot allow the best of us to suffer such a doom, no matter what the cost.’

  ‘Whom would you take prisoner?’ enquired Warwick calmly and boldly.

  To Asrăthiel, Avalloc said in an undertone, ‘Our sovereign knows that we have no choice but to comply with their demands, for now. If they named Uabhar, he would deserve whatever fate they had in store for him, but I’ll warrant Warwick has no intention of handing over anyone of good renown.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Asrăthiel agreed. ‘He is playing for time.’

  ‘Time!’ her grandfather muttered. ‘Every extra breath is sweet!’ They glanced up as the goblin king’s premier lieutenant spoke again.

  ‘First,’ he said, ‘bring us the two kings of men that languish in the prison of the Obelisk.’

  The tremendous sigh of relief that swept through the masses was like a loud-whispering breeze. Their abatement of anxiety was short-lived, nonetheless, for as soon as people recalled that Chohrab Shechem II lay in his sepulchre beneath his sculpted effigy, they uneasily began to wonder who the wights would call for to replace him. Further, they were in dread as to who else would be named as human tributes, and what their number would be.

  ‘Given that the enemy seems to know so much about the affairs of men,’ Avalloc said in Asrăthiel’s ear, ‘I am surprised they were not aware of Ashqalêth’s passing.’

  ‘Perhaps they did know,’ his granddaughter replied, ‘and this is part of some abstruse game of theirs—for they toy with us like cats with mice.’

  ‘King Chohrab is dead,’ replied Warwick, ‘and Uabhar is imprisoned within Essington Tower.’

  ‘Oh! That pile still stands after all these years?’ said the disdainful Zauberin. He tilted his head towards his liege lord to receive instructions inaudible to the human listeners, then proclaimed, ‘Bring the living man here.’

  ‘Do you pledge your word you will not harm him?’

  The goblin first lieutenant laughed loudly, offering no other reply.

  Then a clamorous chorus broke out on all sides, and a clashing of weapons beating against shields. The armies of Tir were calling for the blood of Uabhar, to pay for their lives. Prince Ronin’s vehement protests were drowned out.

  ‘It will take at least three days to fetch him,’ Warwick said coolly. ‘I ask that you give us time.’

  Zauberin turned aside and again consulted with his sovereign, employing the harshly musical language of the goblins. Presently he readdressed the mortal king with as much discourtesy as before. ‘Slane vie,’ he said, apparently careless whether or not his words were understood. ‘Send away your clockwork battalions and vow that Calaldor, that you call Tir, will prosecute war against us no more. Unless,’ he added snidely, ‘you would like to provide us with a little sport to while away the decades. No? Then Zaravaz of the Argenkindë will give you time, and you will deem him magnanimous. Meet us again at this place, not in three days but three weeks. You must bring with you the living king from Essington Tower and every human spawn of consequence in Calaldor: the druids, the weathermasters, every member of every royal family, every carlin. Bring no gold!’

  ‘What? Would you take all of us away?’ cried Warwick disbelievingly. ‘All the notables in the four kingdoms?’

  ‘No. Merely, we will make a selection.’

  ‘How many—’

  Zauberin cut him short. ‘If you value your short and inconsequential lives you will obey. Do not disappoint us. Should you fail to act precisely as we describe, your breed’s extinction will be unavoidable, for we do not love your race. And we will know if anyone is missing from the gathering—oh yes, we will know.’

  The goblin king softly spoke into the knight’s ear.

  ‘Yet in the end there is one we shall except,’ said Zauberin. ‘The wife of the Storm Lord’s son slumbers wakelessly in the Mountain Ring and can be of no use to us. Other than Jewel Maelstronnar, none are granted exemption. Scheme not to hide anyone from us, cloie yn ommidan.’ />
  ‘It shall be done,’ Warwick said diplomatically, though fury blazed in his visage, and the other listeners muttered of their amazement that the wights knew such a great deal about the affairs of Tir.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ continued the goblin lieutenant, ‘no human being may cross north of the Wuthering Moors. This territory is the property of Zaravaz, King and Overlord of Calaldor, Cooilleeneyder, as Ard-veoir Armyn. Furthermore, you must render to us the Corlaig Keylley, which you call the Sylvan Comb, for it is a thing of goblin make and should be returned to its owners. Go now, and do as your indulgent overlord bids.’ With a supercilious smile, Zauberin added a parting caveat: ‘Travel by day, for the night is ours.’

  In that moment Asrăthiel’s every conceit and conviction crashed to an end, and for an ageless instant it was as if the mechanism of her pulse had jammed.

  For the goblin king had smiled also.

  It was a knowing smile, a sudden flash of white heat, after which he and his first lieutenant exchanged glances. They rode away, those two exceptional knights, followed by their stunted bluish-skinned familiars; and the horde of eldritch chivalry parted to let them through, then closed in at their backs and melted into the gloom.

  Avalloc and Asrăthiel found themselves at the centre of a flurry of activity. Three weeks seemed all too brief. It would have taken months for all the luminaries of Tir to travel by road from every capital city, so the weathermages and their prentices had to work speedily, ferrying notables by sky-balloon to King’s Winterbourne. Obstacles both foreseeable and unexpected cropped up; the poor health of some elderly dignitaries, the inexperience of the prentices at piloting aerostats, problems with sending and receiving messages, and various other setbacks. Some, terrified out of their wits, refused to cooperate. If persuasion and cajolery failed, they had to be brought to the city by force. ‘The Wicked Ones will know if any are missing!’ they were warned. ‘Their retribution would be swift and terrible!’

  Loud and long were the debates held in hall and house and castle, as to the merits of cooperating with goblinkind. Many spoke against it. In particular Prince Ronin was vociferous in his protestations. Supported by his brother Cormac he declared that while he lived he would never allow his father to be turned over to the unseelie hordes.

  ‘I will stand in line with everyone else and take my chance as to whether the Wicked Ones will choose me as a tribute, but I will fight until my last breath to prevent this other wrongdoing!’ he proclaimed. ‘Why have they singled out my father above all others? Besides Shechem he is the only one they have named. I’ll warrant they have some cruel plans for dealing with him! I cannot countenance that my own sire, the head of my house, should be surrendered to a horrendous fate without my so much as lifting a finger to save him!’

  His peers endeavoured to convince him otherwise, bidding him bear in mind the falseness of Uabhar, the murderous compacts he had made with the Marauders, the trickery by which he had slain the weathermasters, the wiles with which he had ensnared submissive King Chohrab, the tyranny of his rule, the greed, now exposed, by which he had determined to subordinate all the lands of Tir, and the extensive loss of life that had resulted. When Ronin appealed to his mother for abetment in his unpopular cause she refused to enter the argument, taking neither one side nor the other, but young Prince Fergus opposed his brothers’ stance and pronounced that justice would truly be served, were their father to be sacrificed in the cause of preserving humanity.

  ‘Were it you, Ronin, who was nominated for forfeiture,’ Fergus rejoined, ‘and our father who stood in your place, do you truly credit he would hesitate to throw you to the merciless wights? Recall how effortlessly he sacrificed Kieran! Recall how qualmlessly he made you prove your loyalty by sending you into battle time and time again. He would have no compunction, were he in your position. You are a fool if you believe otherwise.’

  ‘I am aware of our father’s shortcomings,’ Ronin said sadly, ‘and I would that he were as good a man as idealism would prescribe. He has wrought unpardonable evil upon the four kingdoms. Yet it were faithless of me to condemn him to a fate of unspeakable wretchedness, such as would surely await him at the hands of the goblin knights. If he is to be judged let it be by human arbitration, if he is to be punished let it be by human laws, not by the spiteful sadism of an alien race.’

  ‘He deserves all that they can inflict upon him,’ Fergus said rancorously, ‘and more. There is no honour in saving such a sire from the consequences of his own wrongdoing. He slew Kieran as surely as if he had struck the fatal blow, as he would have slain you or me if it had suited him. With his persuasions he blindfolded us, but in hindsight and free from his influence, I can see clearly. He deceived us all.’

  ‘Yet he is our father,’ said Ronin.

  He made an impassioned plea to the sanctorums, to the weathermasters, to Conall Gearnach and the Knights of the Brand, begging that they take his part. They refused. A few Slievmordhuan aristocrats hearkened, calling for bargaining and compromise, but in the end it was Avalloc who settled the matter once and for all.

  Angry with the dissidents he said to them, ‘Do you truly understand whom you are dealing with? By some unaccountable quirk of circumstance it is none other than Zaravaz, King of the Silver Goblins, whose coadjutant parleyed with us on the battlefield. It was my understanding that Zaravaz was rendered powerless forever at the conclusion of the Goblin Wars, but it is now clear I have overlooked some twist, some proviso or loophole in the intricacies of the matter, for he has risen again. The lore-books have much to tell about his wickedness. He hates humanity with a vengeance. He would stop at nothing to destroy human life. A slayer of countless thousands is he; a ravager, an assassin, a hunter and killer of men. The atrocities he has wrought surpass belief. What more can I say? How better can I argue?

  ‘Never in history has Zaravaz offered to negotiate with humankind. It is a miracle that we have been presented with any opportunity for reprieve whatsoever—despite endless hours of consultation and deliberation our best strategists have failed to come up with any feasible plan to save us. The goblins will honour their contract, for eldritch wights are bound to keep their word. Have you forgotten that since my kindred the Councillors of Ellenhall were destroyed, it is within the power of the hordes to erase humankind from the world? And that is precisely what you risk, if you presume to argue against their terms. I cannot fathom why they would give us any chance at all, when they despise us so. The fate of all people hangs upon a thread. Test that thread and it will snap, I guarantee.’

  Prince Ronin said, ‘We could fly from them.’

  ‘Their steeds are swift!’

  ‘We could hide out, in the deserts, in the Tangle—’

  ‘Even if we survived the perils and privations of those wastelands they would find us out eventually. They have powers we know little about, and they are deathless, Ronin. They would have all the time in the world to track us down.’

  ‘But during that time—’

  ‘During that time, if they gave us any, the pitiful remnants of our race would exist as terrified, scurrying mice, living from hand to mouth, our civilisation degenerating as we slipped into a pit of backwardness and ignorance.’

  ‘The surviving prentices would come into their full power!’

  ‘Do you imagine the goblins would wait that long? Are you suggesting we condemn entire kingdoms to death on that possibility?’

  ‘They have not specified the number of prisoners they will take, Lord Avalloc. What if they demand dozens, or hundreds, or even thousands? What if they claim each and every one of Tir’s greatest warriors and philosophers and mages and statesmen?’

  ‘That is pure speculation.’

  ‘But it might happen.’

  ‘What would you have, Ronin?’ Avalloc cried, his eyes flashing as if fireworks had kindled behind the panes of jade. ‘Two paths only are open to us. We may choose the security of humankind, paid for by many lives or few, or we may choose the total annihilatio
n of our race. Both choices are evil but, as I see it, they are our only options.’

  Then at last Prince Ronin bowed his head.

  ‘If that is so, then I must reconcile myself and let it be,’ he said, his voice rasping with strangled grief. ‘But I will ask the Fates to be merciful to my father.’

  The Storm Lord’s reasoning silenced the dissenters, whereupon the feverish undertakings continued with fresh zeal.

  Throughout those weeks of hectic activity Asrăthiel was the object of effusive love and deference from all quarters. She had always been esteemed as a weathermage of surpassing skill, grandchild of the Storm Lord, heiress to the House of Maelstronnar and weathermage to the King of Narngalis. Since she had displayed her mettle in the field, however, the people adored her as their rescuer, praising her with such names as Queen of Swords, Tir’s Champion, Heroine of the Four Kingdoms and Lady Conqueror. Some took to simply titling her Fallowblade, as if she and the sword were indivisible. Indeed, she carried it everywhere with her, buckling it on every morning and wearing it constantly at her side.

  Such adulation, however, did not sit well with her. ‘Give me no credit,’ she begged, sincerely. ‘It is not my doing, but a happy accident that I was born a brí-child and gifted with qualities that make me unafraid of the battlefield. Were anyone else possessed of these talents, they would have done the same.’

  Despite her protests the encomiums continued unabated.

  Another matter further contributed to the damsel’s discomfort, though to a lesser extent: across the realms, tidings of the goblin encounters on the Wuthering Moors had spread like smoke along the wind, and everyone was talking about the shock of seeing the unseelie horde, surpassingly fair to look upon, when stories had described such surpassing ugliness! But the chief topic of conversation in certain circles was the goblin king, Zaravaz.

  Apart from the vast numbers who were consumed by grief for husbands, brothers, lovers, sons and grandsons slain in battle against the goblins, women of all stations had taken to talking about him. It was not so much the fact that they discussed this epitome of wickedness, it was the frequency with which they discussed him that vexed Asrăthiel. The princesses Lecelina and Winona, for instance, could often be found in the castle solar with their ladies-in-waiting, interminably conjecturing about Zaravaz’s clothing, his hair, the colour of his eyes. They discoursed upon his every action as reported from the battlefield—his horsemanship, his fighting prowess—with a kind of fascinated horror, like passers-by at the scene of an accident who cannot look away although their flesh crawls at the gruesome sight. Every scrap of information about Zaravaz was gleaned and examined minutely, every conceivable possibility was raised; the tales told of him, his history, the legends, the manner by which he and his unseelie hordes had been let loose upon Tir again, where they had been hidden since the Goblin Wars, where they disappeared to between battles.