by Ross Lawhead
“Faster, you lugheads! Put those papers out! Quickly and well! No, not like that, like this! They’ll smoulder into oblivion unless you do it properly. Don’t you know that destruction of vital knowledge of the enemy is treason? Your lives depend on this act, so let’s pretend we all actually care about your miserable existences and step keenly!”
So, the actions weren’t so noble, as Daniel first thought, as to extinguish a fire so close to a wooded area. Daniel drifted upward and spotted a cluster of elves wearing more than the usual amount of armour and ornamentation. These must be the captains and generals. He went toward them. One of them was Prince Kione Traast from the necrologist’s halls.
“Hurry them up,” he was saying, annoyed, to a cluster of clerical-looking elves. “The ground is starting to eat the blood and you know how they’ll only complain when they see that our wounded are being moved.”
“It does no good to rush them, my prince,” said one unflappablelooking elf. “Battlescrying is an ancient art and one that demands much anticipation.”
“Well, then it’s their own cursed fault if things move. I don’t want to hear any excuses or blame from them.”
A young messenger came running from the field behind the prince. “They are ready, my prince.”
Behind him, from the woods, strode four elderly elves in red robes and each one was wearing thin, bone-like stilts that allowed them to tower above all others on the battlefield. They also carried long, black poles that could reach down to the ground. They stood roughly two storeys above anyone else around.
“Clear the field!” shouted one of the prince’s captains. “All of you that can move, clear the field for the battlescryers!”
The soldiers did so, rushing to the edges of the open areas as the four stilted elves stalked into the fields. Their manner was easy and adept and rather eerie as complete silence and attention was given to their activities.
Their increased foot spans gave them surprising speed across the plains, and they used their black poles to move certain objects that they deemed to be in the way. Occasionally they would place their walking sticks in the ground behind them and sit on them in a tripod fashion as they made notes and created diagrams on square books that they carried in a satchel at their waists. They seemed particularly interested in how the bodies had fallen, and how they were clustered, and what relation the fallen apparently had with each other. Daniel could hear them murmuring across to one another.
“There are three brothers, here, there, and there—do you see? Each bears an emblem on his shield with a purple, eight-pointed star. Can another be found?”
“I have one here, a youth of perhaps eighty,” came a reply in a low, sullen voice.
“He would be the youngest, then. How is he oriented?”
“Feet to the sun, head to the wind, hands to his heels.”
This made all of them pause to record this information, and then they began circling the scene again. Another brother was found and they all halted and recorded this discovery with much muted excitement.
Their work apparently finished, they strode back across the plain and alighted with surprised dexterity from their stilts and stood a little apart from the prince and his entourage and conferred awhile, comparing notes.
“Most august and glorified ruler of elf,” said the foremost. “We have finished our divinations.”
“And?”
The battle diviner straightened himself and reported in an authoritative voice:
One body dead with no cut or break in the skin—a high fort will shoot thrice time ten.
Two carrion birds upon a hand—a captain wounded.
Four fallen from the east—fair weather at the next engagement.
Eight headless helmets—lost wealth on a rainy morning.
Nine white worms around a boot—horse sickness for three days.
Overlapping wrists: thirteen—the number of days to travel.
Fifteen flies on one breastplate—fortune for felons.
Thirty-nine broken shields—ships will stay at sea.
Eleven gauntlets lost, eleven buckles loosed, eleven heels covered—store half your provisions.
Eight by nine the field of Elven slain—shelter under the canopy. Forty-three within the centre—welcome the first blow.
Twenty-three giving northward supplication—a spy in the fifth ring.
Nine enemies on the fifth level—ride to the South.
These numbers: one, two, four, eight, nine, thirteen, fifteen, thirty-nine . . . acquisition, forceful reciprocity, remuneration, fortunate remembrance, a diverse mind, a quick eye.
These numbers: thirty-three, seventy-two, forty-three, twenty-three, forty-five . . . changeable fortunes, the stars hidden, a mask unused.
Five brothers—the end of conflict in three weeks.
Four of the brothers with three wounds—finality on the midday.
Three brothers to the west—the location of the next field.
Two brothers supplicant—victory at a great cost.
One brother outside of the square—a claimant abandoned.
The priest-like elf stopped his recitation.
“That’s all well and good,” the prince said, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and ring finger. “But where does that leave me?”
“An end of the campaign in twenty-two days, an unexpected boon in ten. A fortunate departure by the end of the day.”
The prince grunted and dismissed the warpriests. “Keep up pursuit with our runners. Report back to me when they’ve caught track of the leaders. Where’s the human? I would speak with him.”
The aide made a face. “He would be with the rest of the train—back along the road. The warriors do not like him. They believe such a thing brings bad luck. He is too interested in the prisoners, they feel.”
“He is a valuable oracle, and I would hear his counsel.”
“Yes, my prince.”
Kione Traast surveyed the landscape. “Unless they flee to the lake, which I doubt, then they will be doubling back. It would be better for us to rejoin the train. Give the orders to return. And next time bring the man with the entourage.”
“Very well, my lord. It will be done.”
Daniel rose up and now faced a decision. He was intrigued by this talk of a human, but it may be better if he meet up with the elves escaping from the battlefield and aid them in their flight.
But there was also talk of prisoners, and he wondered who they might be—it could be anyone, since he hadn’t determined how long the Night had kept him this time. It could be either of the generals, one of the wizards, or the prince himself. And then he might glimpse the human too . . .
Daniel decided to look into it. He could easily be there in a matter of minutes, and if he saw nothing, then he would quickly be on his way to Prince Filliu.
He started swiftly along the paved road and before too long the elfish war host’s encampment could be seen on the road ahead. Daniel slowed, not because he was cautious anymore, but because he needed to take it in.
It looked much like the Fayre he had visited on his first trip to Elfland, but populated by a very different looking type of elf. Where the Fayre had attracted colourful and pageant-like elves, this one was full of warriors in sparkling gear and weaponry, and their attendants who dressed and behaved more utilitarian. Inspecting the tents and the elves passing in and around them, he found butchers and bakers bustling around baking pits, herders tending to strange livestock that looked like massive, ornately horned oxen, drink-makers pulping and distilling fruits that had been harvested from the nearby wilderness. There were smiths working industriously at repairing sword blades, shields, and odd pieces of armour. Fletchers were creating arrows and unstringing and steaming bows, and there were any number of elves doing a dozen other tasks.
But where would he find this “human,” who was trusted by the prince, but not by anyone else?
From helping the Elves in Exile, he had a passing familiarity wit
h how they organised up their military camps. He quickly located the prince’s tent, which was a deep blue trimmed by dark purple banners and pennants. Because he couldn’t see into it, he had to materialise at the entrance and push his way through.
“Hello?” a voice called out in Elvish.
Daniel instantly dissolved into the air.
The tent was just a single, large space, not separated into different rooms by fine cloths and carpets as they usually were. Lush rugs were strewn across the ground and a black polished wood table the size of a merry-go-round dominated the centre of the area.
There were small booths around the edge of the tent that contained beds, wardrobes, maps, scrolls, and books. It was from one of these that a white-haired man—and he did seem to be a man, not as tall or angular as the elves—popped his head out and peered at the tent entrance.
It was Ealdstan.
“Hello?” he asked again. “Is anyone there?”
Daniel was so surprised that he did nothing and the wizard turned back to his booth where a large scroll of parchment had been unrolled. Daniel came nearer to Ealdstan as he saw he was copying it into a large notebook with a gel pen, both of which Daniel recognised as being from his own world and incongruous not just in this world but also in Ealdstan’s hand. The image that was being copied was a complex series of interlinking rings that Daniel recognised as being very similar to the map of the spheres that Reizger Lokkich had once consulted.
“So inaccurate . . .” Ealdstan lamented under his breath, and then he turned around again. “Truly now, who is there?” he asked. “Show yourself,” he commanded weakly, sounding thin of breath and disturbed.
Daniel waited. He couldn’t really sense him, could he?
The wizard spoke a few words that he didn’t understand in either English or Elvish and waved his hand.
Daniel felt a heaviness build inside of him, like he was made of lead weights, and suddenly he found himself standing before the elderly man, re-corporated against his will.
“Hello, Ealdstan. What are you doing here?”
“What am I . . . ? Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognise me? It’s Daniel—Daniel Tully. I killed Gád for you. Well . . . tried to.”
“You mean . . . you . . . ? What are you doing here?” The old wizard seemed really rattled.
“I asked you first. Why aren’t you in Niðergeard? Don’t you know it’s been overrun?” Daniel asked. He tried to dissipate but found himself unable to; it was like he was being bound together by thousands of rubber bands. It was uncomfortable, and he started to become nervous in case any of the elves outside should come in and see him. “Why are you here and not there?”
Ealdstan recoiled from the questions, moving a step backward and drawing into himself. He pulled at his beard. “I am concerned with matters greater than those of my own little fortress. But what news have you of Niðergeard? You have been there recently?”
“It’s been completely invaded—overrun. Knights and the people who live there have been killed or chased away. We don’t know where Godmund or Modwyn are—Kelm is its ruler now.”
Ealdstan just nodded.
“You don’t seem particularly surprised.”
“It is unfortunate. But as I said—greater matters.”
“What greater matters are those?” Daniel asked. “Can I help?”
“Perhaps, yes, I think you may. At the moment, I’m trying to find my way back to our world, but I’m having difficulty finding exactly where the gate is.”
“‘Gate’?”
“It’s a place of confluence, of origination; a gate between the worlds.”
“Could it be anything?” Daniel asked, starting to get a feeling. “Could it be just, like, in the middle of a field?”
“It could very well be that,” Ealdstan said. “Indeed, that would make much sense of what is here before me.” He gestured to the diagrams. “You must already have the place in mind?”
Daniel told him about the field he kept waking up in. “It’s the spot I first came to this land, about a month ago in our world’s time. And then I got pulled back there this time, without my body. It’s where I keep waking up in again. That sounds like the thing you’re looking for, I think.”
“It very much does,” said Ealdstan. “It sounds like the exact thing. That might be the way for both of us to return back to our world—it keeps trying to draw you back, even though you are trapped here. Your soul is like a twig in a stream—trying to continue through, but caught up on something that is keeping you here. If we make it there, then I am certain I can help you. Can you take me there?”
“Yes. It’s pretty far away though.”
“You will find me a tireless traveller.”
“So do you think you could undo whatever it is you did? I’d like to be able to go invisible again.”
“Of course.” He murmured the unknown words again, and Daniel felt the bands around him loosen and then fall away completely.
“Thank you,” Daniel said.
“I shall be ready in just a moment . . .” Ealdstan started to hastily roll up the scroll and close his notebook.
“Shall I meet you somewhere? I don’t think I should be seen here.”
“No. No, you shouldn’t. Um . . . I think there is a copse south of here, next to a river . . .”
“Just start walking south,” Daniel said. “I’ll meet you somewhere along the way.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Daniel dissolved into the air and left the tent. He found his bearings and started heading south.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Warchief’s Lament
_____________________ I _____________________
“I have decided. I shall lead you to where the Carnyx is.”
Freya shook her head, wondering if she’d heard her right. Modwyn was sitting up on the edge of the bed. She looked at Vivienne, standing in the corner.
“Where is it? Is it far?”
“No, it is very close. We were cunning in our action. We knew that the enemy would go to the ends of the earth to find it and so we kept it here.”
“Okay . . .” Freya said. “Really? So where is it?”
“It is in the Beacon,” Modwyn said. “The great building that once illumined all the land. It fell when the yfelgópes besieged our walls, but there is a hidden passage.”
“But this place was so secure—you killed anyone who came into it—why not just keep it here?”
“We feared that the enemy would make a grand assault here, and so it would be safest where it was thought less secure—like keeping your coin underneath a chest instead of locked inside it.” Freya frowned. That only half made sense. “But in eight years, have Gád or Kelm made any serious attempts to get into the Langtorr?”
“They have not.”
“And don’t you find that suspicious?”
“They wish only destruction and ruin—they have that. Chaos is both method and aim. To have one is to have both.”
“So they just sat around here, happy not to finish the job?”
“I do not pretend to understand the wishes of a dark-hearted people.”
“Freya, although I hesitate to say ‘it couldn’t hurt,’ I believe it prudent to follow up on this,” Vivienne said.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Freya. Was Vivienne deferring to her, or is that just how she wanted to make it seem? “Let’s go after Godmund and the Carnyx.”
They filed out of the room and began down the stairway. Frithfroth, as usual, walked before them, escorting the three women.
“Why hasn’t Godmund used the Carnyx?” Vivienne asked.
“It is not the hour of direst need. Only when this island’s enemies surround us shall the horn be blown. Then shall we rise and chase them all into the sea.”
“But the inscription on the horn reads ‘the next army,’” Vivienne persisted. “Doesn’t that mean something different from the army already asleep?”
Modwyn
paused. “Why do you ask?”
“I am just trying to understand exactly. The reason we sent Ecgbryt and Alex all over the country to raise these knights is that we were uncertain exactly what the horn would do, if it could even be found. What would happen if we blow it and the knights are already awake?”
“I do not know. The horn is more than just enchanted. It uses a powerful magic—it will summon what help it can, and the help will come quickly, when it comes.”
“Vivienne,” Freya said. “What do you think the horn does?”
“I have theories, but I don’t think anyone really has the slightest idea of what will happen when the Carnyx is blown. It never has been before, and I doubt that it came with instructions. There are no legends for the Carnyx itself, but when legends do speak of such things, they talk of awakening ancient heroes, but also of summoning heroes from other worlds—or of angels.”
“Angels? Seriously?”
“Let me put a question to the two of you,” Modwyn said. “What do you wish to happen when you blow the horn?”
Freya sighed. “Honestly, Modwyn—I don’t understand any of this. I just want it to end. And once it has ended, I want to start my life over again. Move somewhere different, meet new people, work in a completely boring job, and come back home and do nothing. And I want to do that same boring routine over and over again, until all of this . . .” She shook her head. “Fades like a bad dream.
“My life has been a literal hell for the past eight years and I believe that I’m fortunate enough to be in a position to rid the entire world of this godforsaken, wretched, dark, dank, underground world, and if that is at all possible, then I want to do it. I want to wipe it all out, Modwyn, and I’m telling you this because I think, deep down, that’s what you want too. It’s what you all were put here to do—to fight this fight. Well, good for you. I’m going to give you what you want. I’m going to do what the Carnyx was apparently designed to do. I’m going to bring you war.”
