Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  A battle line came together in front of her. Soldiers milled about, confused when a sergeant shouted one order and a captain shouted another. Ranks formed, then broke, then reformed as soldiers ran back and forth pulled in a tide of changing orders and loyalty. Some were paralyzed—unable to move or decide. She was surprised when a few hundred came to stand with her. Sergeants and captains saluted her.

  “Brice, Captain of the Bonegrinders, at your service!” A redcap with a proud, flame colored, mohawk and teeth the size of pocket knives shouted.

  “Hueron, Captain of the Warriors for the lady Luthiel!” Luthiel felt her eyes tear as she recognized her foster uncle at the head of Flir Light’s fighting militia—a mix of archers, spear, and sword.

  “Vanye of the Blade Dancers!”

  “Jaedos, Captain of the Knights of the White Rose!”

  The shouts continued and Luthiel looked over those who came to help her. Most were Valemar and Redcap goblins. There were also a surprising number of Blade Dancers and Knights of Ithilden. Before the greater army, they were a feeble force terribly outnumbered. She wondered how anyone would support her. This is to be my journey’s end? I’ll never see Leowin or the others again? I’ve done my best. Even that isn’t always enough. In one hand she gripped the hilt of Weiryendel, in the other the bag that held her Wyrd Stone. If it was going to be a fight, she’d give these Fae something to remember.

  It was then the High Lord Tuorlin finally acted. He’d been holding back, watching the gathering with growing anger and unease. He knew he must use the power of his rank now, or risk losing it. His hold over the Faelands had been sliding away from him for the better part of three years now and he wasn’t going to let it go further without making a stand. As Luthiel prepared to struggle for her life, Tuorlin made his first move. Though his act was likely to bring a bad end, something about this messenger gave him hope. He saw her with the gift the Vale’s Mists gave him long ago. They’d rushed him in much the same way they’d rushed Luthiel. Lacking any defense of Wyrd or song, he succumbed to their touch. The Mists tore the skin of his forehead, boring a hole through his skull as he cried out in pain. When they receded, from his open wound grew a third eye. With that eye Tuorlin could see things hidden—past, present, and future.

  What he saw now was a great lady veiled by magic. He could see the marks of power and grace upon her. He had little doubt that this was the lady who’d delivered the Vyrl from madness. He knew, unless he did something, she’d be killed or taken. So he raised his great spear above his head and let out a loud cry.

  “Stop! In the name of Ëvanya and Ëvanyar stop! In the name of Elwin stop! In the name of all that is good cease! Halt! Arrest!” As he cried out, a great light arose from his spear. It was more brilliant than a sun—shining so bright that it left all who stood in the valley reeling and blinded.

  The light overwhelmed Luthiel and she fell. For a moment, she thought she was struck down by a great blow. Then her eyes cleared and she saw that everyone in the valley had fallen or stooped with hands over faces. Weapons lay dropped or discarded and most stood or sat in a daze.

  “Wretches! Rabble! Fools! Hate has brought you here and made you think you were united. Before the battle is even made hate has broken your ranks and turned you one against the other. It is not this messenger, who brought an offering of peace, who should bear the blame. It is yourselves! I have said that this war is folly from the start but was turned when all the Court begged me for vengeance. Where is your vengeance now? Who will you avenge when you have killed your own brother? Fools every one! And they call you the fair race! I see no more than squabbling children!

  “Ithilden! To me!” he cried. The great host of Ithildar broke rank and withdrew. Reforming around the High Lord. Tuorlin didn’t wait for them to finish.

  “By right of High Lord, I call a council. We will consider the words of this messenger. The Widdershae have taken as many lives in one night as these Vyrl have in centuries. Who now is the greater danger?”

  Luthiel had finally found her voice.

  “My Lord, if I may say one more thing?” she called out.

  Tuorlin raised his hands and made a sharp gesture to quiet the fae. This time, discipline held. “Speak, but be quick!”

  “Yes lord,” Luthiel said with a bow. “It’s about the spiders. We tried to pass them on our way to meet you. We saw some of the elves they’d taken. Most were being eaten. But some—” It was hard for her to continue. The images played over and over in her mind, making it difficult to keep her head together. “They used black magic. They turned elves—elves into spiders!”

  The trees picked up her words and whispered them out to the Fae. They all fell silent and there was horror in their faces. A few of the Gruagach turned and shook their heads, but the rest stood in shock. She’d finally gotten the elves’ notice. All eyes were on her and where she saw hatred before, now there was fear and confusion. She didn’t know if she liked it any more than before.

  A Welcome Surprise

  “Make a way for them!” the High Lord shouted. “The council will be here and now for all to see. The Vyrl’s messenger will speak for the Vale.” Before her, the Fae parted, leaving a long aisle up to the Faelords.

  Mithorden helped her down.

  “You may take your veil off now,” he whispered. “The magic has taken hold. They will see you, but only as they expect.”

  Luthiel nodded and, somewhat relieved, somewhat terrified, lifted the veil from her face as she walked down the lane through the army. As she passed all eyes were drawn to her. She could hear them whispering or speaking to one another in low voices.

  “Look at the eyes,” one said. “Those aren’t the eyes of a killer.”

  She noticed she was moving through ranks of Valemar. Unlike the Gruagach, they were a mixed force with an equal number of men and women.

  “He’s beautiful,” she heard one of the women whisper to another, followed by, “...and so young.”

  Vanye turned to Mithorden. “Marred by the Vale’s magic? A fairer face I’ve never seen, Mithorden. Perhaps you should have spoken of the dangers of your messenger’s charms.”

  Then Luthiel heard a voice that made her heart swell up in her chest.

  “Messenger! Messenger!”

  Could it be? With equal parts dread and anticipation she turned around. At first all she saw were hundreds of elfin faces staring back at her. Her eyes caught movement. There was a rustling as elves made way for a lady, hardly old enough to be called such, moving toward her. In her hands she held a great bow and at her hip was a long, thin, Faewand—the light and deadly swords of expert Valemar archers. Hueron’s training had done her well, for she carried both sword and bow with an ease and grace that even Luthiel envied.

  “Messenger!” she cried again, then gasped as Luthiel met her eyes.

  “Leowin,” Luthiel whispered. Behind her, she could feel as much as hear Vanye tense. The look in Leowin’s eyes was one of both fear and wonder. But along with the wonder was a flash of open admiration. Leowin shook her head as if to clear it, put on that determined look she got when she wouldn’t be denied, and set one foot in front of the other on her way toward Luthiel.

  Luthiel couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She’d seen Leowin approach boys in this way, but never thought she’d be the object of one of those considering looks.

  “Messenger,” she said again with a smile as though she liked the word better now. “Is it true? Is Luthiel really coming back to us?”

  Luthiel felt a number of emotions she couldn’t name flood over her. She wanted to reach out to her and give her a big hug and then say, “It’s me, silly!” She wanted to scold her for joining the army and putting herself at such risk. She wanted to laugh like they did when they were six or ten and forget all about wars and Widdershae and other nonsense and get down to the important business of some good fun. Last of all she wanted to run far away from that look Leowin was fixing her with. “She’ll come when she can,�
� she said in a low voice.

  Leowin fell in beside her, looking both relieved and intrigued. “She’s not hurt? She’s not changed?”

  “Neither,” Luthiel replied.

  “Are you sure?” Leowin asked.

  “She’s as whole as when she came,” Luthiel said, and couldn’t help but let a cunning smile touch her lips.

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re not the only one who knows secrets,” Luthiel said as her smile broadened.

  “Some would say she’s far more,” rumbled Othalas from behind them.

  Leowin started and turned a wary eye to the werewolf.

  “Othalas?” she said, suppressing a tremor of fear. “I thought you would show up at any moment.” Her hand fell to the hilt of her sword and her eyes grew fierce despite her fear. “I was ready for you.”

  “Leowin, I presume. A very lucky girl. It wasn’t too long ago that I promised I’d see Vyrl drink your blood.”

  The color that had risen into Leowin’s cheeks suddenly drained away and she looked more like the scared ghost Luthiel remembered on that terrible First Summer’s Eve night.

  “Where is Luthiel?” Leowin said sharply. “Why isn’t she here?”

  Othalas bristled and gave a gruff chuckle. He lowered his massive head to look Leowin directly in the eyes. “I give you my word. Luthiel is alive.”

  “Your word?” Leowin snapped, taking a half step back. “The word of a servant of murderers?”

  Othalas showed his great fangs. “No more,” he growled, “I serve Luthiel now.”

  Leowin blinked her eyes, a little taken aback. “You could be lying. What proof do you have?”

  Othalas’ growl deepened and he fixed his great yellow eyes on Leowin. One snap of the werewolf’s enormous jaws would easily have made an end of her. Luthiel grabbed Leowin’s wrist and pulled her away from the wolf.

  “Easy,” she said to Othalas and the great wolf looked away. “Leowin,” she said, looking her sister in the eye, “we have proof. The Stone saved Luthiel from the Mists. The one you gave her on her birthday. The magic. The song. More graceful than willows...”

  Leowin fell to her knees and clutched herself. In that moment, Luthiel wanted more than anything to embrace her. To give her some comfort. But she stood still and did her best to keep from showing any of the emotion that was tearing through her.

  “She’s alive,” Leowin whispered.

  “Alive and coming home,” Othalas rumbled.

  “Home?” Leowin stood sizing the great wolf up. She turned back to the elfin host and shouted while thrusting her arm into the air, “See! Even Othalas says it’s true! Hueron! Lorethain! Luthiel’s coming back! Three cheers for Luthiel!”

  The Valemar in this area all seemed to be from Flir Light. Luthiel recognized faces even where she couldn’t remember names. Leowin thrust her arm into the air with each shout.

  “Luthiel! Luthiel! Luthiel!”

  The cheers were infectious and soon a good part of the Valemar host were cheering as well. Luthiel wanted to cry and laugh. Instead she shouted along with them. Melkion took up the cry and flew a merry jig above them, drawing her name in flaming letters till the host of Valemar were hoarse from shouting. Even Mithorden and Othalas joined in. The other Fae watched on, and the display seemed to have an effect on even some Gruagach.

  They moved on past the Valemar. The faces around them grew somber again and the cheering died down. Melkion returned with a big grin on his face but performed no more tricks. Luthiel looked sideways at Leowin. She half expected her sister to return to the Valemar. She didn’t want her to go.

  “Why are you still here?” Luthiel asked.

  “Well, I thought you might need me.” She looked around at the fae army. “Besides, it’s dangerous here.”

  “I think it would be best if you went back,” It hurt Luthiel to say this, but it was probably true.

  “Besides,” Melkion said proudly, “we’re here to protect the messenger.”

  “One more won’t hurt,” Leowin said with a determined look and marching off with them toward the Faelords. “Another council! It’s all so splendid!”

  Mithorden looked down at Leowin with his eyebrows raised and exchanged a look with Luthiel as if to say, is she always like this?

  Luthiel only shook her head. She wanted to laugh, but they were getting close to the Faelords now, and the weight of the whole event was again beginning to fall upon her. As she approached, she could see their eyes following her. For the first time, Luthiel wished she still had the veil.

  Battle Plans

  As she approached them, she found herself in the shadow of Thrar Taurmori. His eyes fell upon her and where his gaze touched her, she felt uncomfortably warm. He stood stiff and seemed to tremble, as though holding back violence.

  Far worse was the speculative and oddly magnetic gaze of Zalos. His face was angular, crisp, young, and when he smiled at her she found it difficult not to smile back. Everything about him radiated confidence and power. He looked every bit a hero of legend. In his face, she found resigned conviction. It was as though he’d come to some momentous decision long ago and now was at peace with himself about it. She had to keep reminding herself that here was the lord who’d used black magic to enslave Vaelros, imprisoned her mother, and likely ordered her death as a child. Looking at him, though, she could understand why elves loved him and followed him blindly.

  “Welcome messenger,” Zalos said. “Do you have a name? Or should we call you by your title only?”

  Luthiel tensed but didn’t hesitate.

  “I am called Valas,” she replied without thinking.

  Beside her Leowin gave her a look of surprise. Luthiel silently cursed. Valas was the name she used whenever Leowin and she pretended they were knights. Leowin had always chided her for the name, which she thought was pretentious.

  The exchange wasn’t lost on Zalos, who grinned at both the surprised look on Leowin’s face and the uncomfortable look Luthiel gave her in return. “Well met then, Valas. A brave speaker. Still, words and swords are quite different things. I hope you survive the day.”

  He said it as politely as if he’d asked her to a cup of tea.

  “To just survive?” Mithorden asked. “We should hope for far better things.”

  Zalos leaned forward and looked Mithorden directly in the eye. There was a flash of something like anger between them and Luthiel wondered if Mithorden’s words weren’t part of an older argument. For a moment, she thought of her talk with Mithorden. She wondered if the sorcerer had told her everything. For the warm and friendly smile Zalos gave now was enough to make her doubt.

  Remember, Luthiel thought to herself to keep from smiling in return. Remember what he did to my mother. Luthiel was so caught up in her thoughts she didn’t realize Zalos was speaking again.

  “What good is life if it has ended? There’s no opportunity for joy in death. The day is coming, Mithorden, when survival will be the only concern and joy a half-remembered fancy. It’s not far away.”

  “More prophecy, Zalos?” the sorcerer replied.

  “Call it what you like. Have you heard the Blood Witch prophecy, then? Maybe you should. The warning is there in the sky.”

  Mithorden didn’t reply this time, he only looked at Zalos with a puzzled expression. He seemed taken off guard. There seemed to be something he didn’t expect in Zalos’ argument. Finally, he replied by saying simply, “The best lies hold in them a seed of truth.”

  “So you’ve heard of the Blood Witch? Have you seen her too?”

  “I know of no Witch. In fact, I dislike the word altogether, the way you use it. But I am aware of signs in the sky, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  To this Zalos nodded. “We’ve always been more alike than you realize, Lord Mithorden.” When Zalos said it, a look fell over Mithorden’s face that seemed alien. In his eyes she could see a bit of the bright being she’d seen in the light of the Wyrd Stone. But it was only momenta
ry and this time it seemed far stranger.

  “You would see it that way,” Mithorden replied. He looked at Thrar Taurmori and seemed to shake his head sadly, then returned his gaze to Zalos. “We become what we do, Zalos.”

  At this, Zalos’ face became glazed and momentarily very intense. “I do what I must to survive. I help others to do the same. Some of what you advise would kill us.”

  “I would rather live than die. But I would rather die than survive as a monster,” Mithorden said, his sharp eyes locked on Zalos.

  The other Faelords had watched this exchange with interest. “Practical is what we must be now,” Lord Tuorlin said, with an eye to Zalos. “Any misstep might cost more lives than we’ve lost in an age. I am of a mind to take the Vyrl’s offer. The Widdershae have become the greater danger. We should use our strength to drive them from the Faelands.”

  Belethial and Elayethel nodded their assent. Zalos frowned and Thrar Taurmori just loomed.

  “So you would risk trusting Vyrl?” Zalos asked. “What if it’s a trick?”

  “We’ll send out scouts,” Belethial said. “We’ll know well in advance if the Vyrl and Widdershae are mixing forces. We’ve seen none of it so far. Two days ago there was a report of the Vyrl’s Firewing attacking Widdershae. We thought it an odd incident. But what the messenger says rings true to our sightings.”

  “You are all in agreement?” Zalos asked the other Faelords. His eyes cut from one to the next, summing them up.

  Tuorlin, Belethial and Elayethel nodded.