Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  “They’re not now?” Melkion hissed. “Spiders, dragons, wolfriders, the lord of Rimwold lurking like a vulture. What’s not dangerous?”

  “What’s not dangerous is that Zalos hasn’t reached the point of desperation,” the sorcerer said. “I told her she’d best stay hidden. She revealed herself too soon. Now we’ll have trouble.”

  “She’s not good at hiding,” Othalas growled. “You wronged her by trying to make her.”

  The sorcerer nodded sadly. “I had to choose between two wrongs. Last night we almost lost her to the spiders and this morning—Zalos.”

  Melkion laughed out a cloud of smoke. “You said it yourself. She’s dangerous.”

  “I did?”

  “When you were talking about what some Fae fear,” the dragon said as he lowered his head. “When you were talking about her.”

  “Well, I meant how they would see her,” the sorcerer replied.

  “They’re right, you know. But she’s dangerous for the right reasons. They just don’t see that part.”

  Othalas was growling now, for they’d reached the line of wolfriders. Mithorden raised his sword and spoke out in a loud voice that all around could hear.

  “Let us through! In the name of the Queen of the Faelands, let us through!”

  There was a growling among the wolves and a whisper as the riders loosened swords in sheaths. Zalos stood up and a thin aisle parted in the wolfriders so he could see them. Luthiel was on the ground beside him. Bound and gagged. But her eyes spoke volumes and there were tears streaming freely down her cheeks. There was a stunned silence as Zalos looked them over.

  “Queen of the Faelands? Has Tuorlin named Elayethel then?”

  Luthiel had sat there in stunned silence for what seemed like only a few minutes. There were flashes through her mind of terror. But the thing that overwhelmed the fear, the thing that kept playing over and over in her mind were Zalos’ words.

  Father Betrayer. Father Betrayer. Father Betrayer.

  The Vyrl were nearby and they picked up the strand of her thought. There were no words, only a sense of sympathy and deep loss. Of any creature, the Vyrl knew betrayal. The first betrayal was Gorthar and then, age over age, an endless string of insults. When the surge of grief and anger subsided a few words drifted through.

  Help is coming.

  Beside her, Zalos stood looking on. His eyes were stern, calculating. The Gruagach had encircled her and Mingolë lurked nearby. The terror in them was so strong it made the air smell of cold and ash. She could sense a decision coming. They were going to do something with her.

  “Quickly now—” Zalos said. But before he could continue, a runner approached.

  “Lord! Elayethel and the sorcerer are here. Othalas and the Blade Dancers too.”

  Luthiel’s eyes lifted and she felt a flash of hope as she saw her friends moving toward them. But it was a dirty hope, tainted by the morning’s revelation. In her mind she kept seeing glimpses of her father, of the terrible hands that crushed the life from him. All brought on by a trusted friend. Luthiel felt hollow, as if someone had set a stone in place of her heart. But despite the emptiness she knew resolve. Her life had purpose now. It was to kill Zalos.

  Zalos looked down on her and there was a strange look in his eye. There was calculating. There was calm. But there was also regret. Sadness. The dream returned to her in a flash.

  You! she thought. You were the figure in black! The one in my dreaming!

  Zalos nodded as if he could hear her. But it was only coincidence. Perhaps he had seen the recognition in her eyes and mistook it for something else.

  “Aye, Luthiel. We would not have come to this. But your mother is too clever by far. Why could you have not stayed quietly in that happy no-where—Flir Light—for just another few months? Then it would be done.”

  She watched him with a mixture of hatred and amazement. His eyes had glazed as if he saw something very far off. But there was also a terrible sense of immediacy.

  “Then it would be done,” he repeated at almost a whisper and he laid a finger on her gagged lips. “Silent. So it should be. You have no place in this world, Luthiel. And there is no other.” Zalos reached out and lifted a few strands of her hair. “Bright songs and the magic of hope are but a dangerous illusion. The fake comfort of witches charms.”

  If she could, she would have stood and struck him.

  “A shame. A lovely face and form. Made well for treachery.”

  She saw pity in his eyes and for it she hated him all the more.

  “Now Merrin will never know love for me,” he said and looked away as if reconsidering an impossible puzzle.

  This was too much, she growled and struggled against the hands and bonds that held her.

  “That won’t do any good,” Zalos said with a laugh. “But your friends are coming. We’ll see if they can help. Who knows, they may even hurt.” He said the last in a mocking tone and there as a twinkling in his eye.

  Then her friends were there before her and she felt hope as she heard Mithorden speak.

  A new queen? Elayethel?

  In the few moments Luthiel had known her, she’d felt reassured by her grace and wisdom. She would be free. She would have her chance against Zalos. She would have her chance to free Merrin.

  “No, Zalos,” Mithorden was saying.

  No?

  “No?” Zalos echoed and a shadow seemed to fall over his face.

  The world seemed to slow down. She had that same feeling of disjointedness she’d felt when Vanye had come to name the Chosen. When she thought it was her and found out that it was Leowin.

  Who else could it be? Belethial of Minonowe? Yes. It must be Belethial.

  But even as her mind groped, Mithorden spoke.

  “You see, Zalos,” Mithorden said. “You’ve attacked our new High Queen and, through violence, taken her against her will. Release Queen Luthiel immediately.”

  There was no question in Mithorden’s voice. Only resolve and a threat.

  Queen Luthiel??

  She had a dizzy feeling and were it not for the hands that held her, she would have fallen.

  It cannot be!

  The Vale of Mists was enough. The Vyrl were enough. But not Queen!

  I’m only fifteen! She wanted to shout at the sorcerer. To scream at him. To call him a liar. Her childhood was somewhere back there at Flir Light. She fully intended on having it and sharing it with a real mother and the best sister in the whole world.

  Then the hands were lifting her up, taking her gag off, cutting her bonds. The Gruagach looked at her uneasily. But in Zalos’ eyes she saw only satisfaction.

  The trap! The trap! It’s still there!

  “Very well,” Zalos said to Mithorden. He was actually smiling. “You may have your queen.” His voice dropped so that only he and those nearby could hear. “A witch to rule the Faelands? What was Tuorlin thinking? The poison must have addled his mind.” Then louder. “And she was coming to kill him herself!”

  “Cut out his lying tongue,” Melkion hissed.

  There was a whisk and spears and sword points seemed to form a hedge around them. The Gruagach had brought their weapons to bear and the Blade Dancers had answered.

  “There is no need,” Mithorden said calmly despite the tension around him. “For, by the decree of Tuorlin, Zalos is also no longer Lord of Ashiroth. He is bereft of title and all who serve him are now rebels.”

  At this, Zalos’ face fell becoming both sad and angry.

  “Bereft?” he said. “I doubt such a wrong would come from our High Lord.” Then he turned to Luthiel. “This queen will be lucky to rule through summer. The fae will see to her justice.”

  At his words, a hundred spears drove toward Luthiel. Zalos lifted his hand to stop them.

  “No!” Zalos cried. “Would we prove them right? If we were rebels, couldn’t we kill her now?” He held his sword up, towering over Luthiel. “Do any doubt we could?” There was a pause in which all seemed ready to
explode into violence. Weapons were naked. Cat-o-Fae twitched in agitation. It would have taken only one lunge. A single mistaken move. Luthiel gathered herself to spring away. But slowly, deliberately, Zalos sheathed his sword. “We will not kill her. Though it be just to. Let her rule. We shall see the truth for ourselves when the black moon rises. For she is the blood witch.”

  “Treason!” it was one of the Blade Dancers who yelled it. Had not Zalos acted so swiftly blood would have spilled.

  “So rebel it is!” he shouted. And with that he turned and walked away. The wolfriders followed leaving Luthiel to her friends. “Under tyranny it is right to be a rebel!” he shouted back to them.

  As they made their way down the hill one among them broke out into song. It was Elag. Luthiel would have recognized his scarecrow voice anywhere. At first he sang alone. But then the others picked up the song and it echoed hollowly as they made their way down the hill and into the mounds. The sound was like a dirge and the hollow mounds seemed to echo the music drawing it out, making it seem all the more harsh. Wicked. The sound filled the air and all around fell to silence.

  When Glimflirs golden lift and fly

  Like rivers run against the sky

  Upon the howl of rising air

  The Blood Witch comes--

  Beware, beware

  On quiet feet she creeps in dreams

  Of summer spun the wild Wyrd moons

  Kissed by Merrin’s cobalt beams

  To Vyrl she’s a bloody boon

  Enchantress soft and seeming fair

  A singer pure of eldritch spell

  Beware! Beware! her soft spun snare

  Pretender’s tale is hers to tell

  Beware the Blood Witch

  That comes with summer

  To unleash the wargs

  Chained in the sky

  Gorthar’s pack

  The black moon’s get

  Will eat the light

  ’Till all things die

  Spiders black of Drakken Spur

  Come with promise of a feast

  On elfin flesh the hosts of war

  That rose to punish Vale’s worst beasts

  Her mount a werewolf old and drear

  Her allies are the ancient terror

  For her sword a shattered Shear

  Stolen from an honored barrow

  Beware the Blood Witch

  That keeps the council

  Of the serpent

  Great beguiler

  She’ll take the life fruit

  Grant great knowledge

  A hollow knowing

  That calls the fire

  So listen well unto her singing

  If you wish all good to end

  She’ll tempt with freedom—a choice death bringing

  As her form is sight of sin

  As was once and now it shall be

  Woman takes and woman mars

  The weaker sex in strength corrupted

  Will draw on us the wrath of stars

  Beware the Blood Witch

  Werewolf rider

  Who’ll open wide

  The gates of dread

  So death may come

  To reign o’er Oesha

  When horns grow from

  The eighth moon’s head

  Others among the fae picked up the song and from each fae nation there were some that left with Zalos. All the rest of Rimwold marched off with him as well. Luthiel felt her breath catch when she realized that almost half the fae left to follow him.

  When it was finished, Luthiel raised her hands to the sky in anguish. “Tuorlin! What have you done? Would you make me queen of death itself?” They moved in to comfort her. But she felt no consolation. The song was a doom and she knew well it was one she must face. She looked around and saw terror in many faces.

  They’ll believe in it. Make it real even if it wasn’t before.

  Othalas put his muzzle to her chest and Melkion landed on her shoulder, laying a comforting tail around her neck.

  “You’re safe now,” he hissed.

  But Luthiel knew he was a liar.

  Third Sacrifice

  Vanye passed Weiryendel to her and when it touched her hand the song returned. This time it was soft, distant. For the Stone had gone out. Yet a thin rime of light remained, glittering at the edges. When she saw this, she felt her muscles tense and then a terrible sense of knowing came over her.

  “I would like to see Tuorlin,” she said when she was finally able to compose herself. But there was dread in her voice even as a certainty filled her.

  They led her up the hill to the place where Tuorlin lay. As she passed, the fae watched her. In the eyes of some there was wonderment. In others dread. She did her best to keep her face forward and not blanch. She held her chin high and tried to look the part of a queen—though she felt it very little. Yet inside she knew, whether she liked it or not, she was in a terrible game and must play it as best she could.

  I’m not made for this.

  “You act like one born to command.” Othalas growled.

  His unwitting contradiction made her smile and she put a hand on his neck. The feel of his muscles rippling beneath the fur reassured her. Here was power, and by the way the fae watched them they knew it too.

  But to be feared is one thing. Will they ever love me?

  Yet that was what she must do. She must, somehow, make them love her. The thought made her sick and she almost fell. She had to lean against the wolf in order to make her way over the broken ground. When was the last time she’d truly had rest? She raised her hand to her lips and wiped away some of the blood.

  Queen? More like a whipping girl by the look of it.

  Tuorlin’s body was placed on a bed of shields and his hands were crossed nobly on his chest. His spear was laid beside him and an effort had been made to clean the blood away. A helm had been placed on his head. It hid the ruin, the terrible wounds. The banner of Ithilden—a Tree of Life set on a field of blue, its leaves gleaming like stars, its root cupping a fire like the sun—draped over his legs and torso.

  Kneeling before his body, she undid the pouch at her belt. The sound like breaking sifted out. There was a humming and her Stone awakened. Silver shot with red and gold. The flower of light burst out, making a small blaze on the hilltop. There was a gasp among the fae and many fell to their knees.

  Her song erupted from her mouth and the shards lifted as if picked up on a swirling wind. They clashed against Weiryendel, rising up the blade and then fused to form another eight inches of length. The wind gusted over the hill. Another banner, this one of Minonowe—Tiolas in a circle of green stars—ripped from its pole and blew away on the gale. Then came the voice. But this time it was no comfort.

  “My craft to your protection. A weapon for your hand. The only safety I have left. The cutting edge of oblivion.”

  A final shard rose from the pouch. It danced over her palm cutting as gracefully as a stylus. The mark that remained was a golden rune, even as the other scars blazed red and silver. Then the song was finished and the air grew still. The fae watched on in a mixture of anger and fear. Even Vanye seemed disturbed. When all was still he asked her in a low voice.

  “Why did it happen?”

  “The sacrifice,” she said, trying and failing to hold back the tears. “The magic in the sword comes when someone dies for me.”

  The Blade Dancer’s face grew impassive as he stood and walked away.

  “Your magic feeds on death,” he said over his shoulder and then he was gone among the fae. Luthiel watched him leave.

  “I did not choose it,” she said to his back.

  A Necessary Parting

  It was a beginning. Not the best by far, but a beginning nonetheless. Knowing she must make some kind of statement, Luthiel swung herself up onto Othalas’ back.

  A werewolf rider? Then let it be.

  Above her, Oerin’s Eye and Soelee blazed brightly. Even for High Summer, Oerin was larger than usual and th
e blue glow was pierced by a white fire nearly as bright as Soelee. The day was hot—hotter than she ever remembered even in high summer, and sweat streamed freely from her body. Briefly, she was reminded of the flames of the Red Moon and of the dragon. She glanced at Mithorden.

  What had he said about reading the sky?

  She shook her head to clear it. Being able to sense so much was overwhelming. It took longer for her mind to understand it all. A large group of fae were watching her and she turned her attention to them. They were mostly Ithildar and their noble faces turned toward her. There was confusion. There was awe. There was fear. In too many faces she saw anger, doubt.

  They know that somehow I gained strength from Tuorlin’s death. But how do I make them understand?

  “The High Lord did not die needlessly,” she said with resolve. “He has uncovered a great danger—Lord Zalos and Thrar Taurmori working with Widdershae. Zalos deceived us into entering a trap laid by his spider friends! If they succeeded our bodies would now fill their larders or be twisted by black Wyrd and by mists into spiders as well. To serve as food or slaves. And if we were defeated, do you think they would have stopped here at the mounds? No home would be shelter. No child would be safe.”

  Her own words made her tremble and she paused to gather herself.

  “This threat has been with us ever since my father’s downfall. I swear, by him and by mother I will set it right. We should not need to live in fear of Zalos or the monsters he runs with!”

  The last words she spoke with a startling force. Though she hadn’t realized it, she’d raised her clenched fist into the air. Many stared at her in amazement. Some of her friends looked at her as if she was a stranger. She didn’t care. The anger had consumed her. She was faequeen and if she could use it to save mother, she would. If she could use it to bring Zalos to justice, she would. As sure as moons followed suns, as sure as wolf’s scent—she would.

  Silence fell on the host. Some watched her disbelieving, or glanced over their shoulders at the Vyrl’s army. Rank after rank, the wights stood trembling. Fingers touching ugly weapons. Tongues questing for eyes. A vast force of dreamless slaves. Held only by Vyrl’s will. Forever marked by Vyrl’s tyranny. These were the soldiers of madness. Some among the elves still recalled the abuses. They knew friends or lovers who were devoured; who may now stand before them as a Wight. They would never forgive the Vyrl’s age of terror or the blood tithe of Chosen.