Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Taking her silence as indecision, he continued.

  “Out of all weapons ever crafted, Cutter’s Shear was the most elegant, the most graceful, and also the most brutal. It was a masterwork. Among the greatest achievements of an age. And yet it was also a terror.”

  He handed the sword back to her. Its music changed again, becoming at once graceful and strong. It was a flowing thing—like water made music.

  “You are doing an impossible thing. You are improving on your father’s work.”

  “How?”

  “Follow me.”

  They wound their way through the army, uncertain where the sorcerer was taking them. He led them away from the main force and then over a small rise. On the other side, the wood grew dense and shaded. Finally, when Luthiel was about to say something sharp he came to a stop. A pair of elves with bows drawn and arrows notched slipped from the underbrush to challenge them. But as they approached and noticed Mithorden they fell in beside them instead. Moving forward again, he pushed through a dense line of trees. Holding a last branch aside, he motioned ahead. A low place where the wood cleared a little opened up before them. Strung throughout the small clearing was a long line of giant walking sticks. They were like others scattered throughout the army bearing wounded. But these were also different. Instead of wounded, they bore great covered bundles. Among them moved elves. Each walked with a soft step and dressed in hooded woodland garb. They exchanged odd looks and strained expressions. Few spoke and when they did it was only in whispers.

  Mithorden looked around, appraising them. “The others don’t know about this yet. I had Khoraz find them. Blade Dancers carried them back.” He guided Luthiel to one and uncovered it. As the cloth fell away it revealed the carcass of a Widdershae.

  Luthiel pulled away in disgust. “But it’s dead. Why—?”

  “Look closer. Don’t you recognize it?”

  Luthiel turned back to the Widdershae. It was all curled up—legs drawn in tight. As she looked, Mithorden motioned to the elves and had them uncover the other bundles. Each one was a Widdershae. Some seemed to be crumbling away like brittle shell. Others seemed to still be alive—for they were faintly breathing. Then she saw it—tell-tale silver lines cutting across them. Every spider bore the marks.

  “They’re ones I fought.”

  “Not one is dead,” Mithorden replied. “Come here. I want to show you something even more extraordinary.” He moved to one of the crumbling bodies. Reaching over, he broke a piece off its abdomen. The area beneath was hollow and light streamed in. There, curled in a ball, was a beautiful female elf. She had hair the color of hematite, skin as fair as white granite.

  “It’s an elf!” Luthiel said in shock.

  “You did it—with Weiryendel. Somehow, the Widdershae has been cut away. Now only a Delvendrim remains.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “The race the Widdershae extinguished is now returning.”

  Luthiel took a step back. After a moment, she held up Weiryendel—looking at the blade.

  “Your father’s sword is no longer just a weapon, Luthiel. It is also a healing thing.”

  She looked at the sleeping elf. “I did this?”

  The sorcerer smiled and nodded. “It’s important you know.” He looked up, eyes catching some of the muddy daylight. “Now your question. So you want to find out what’s happening?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “Yes. Though I dread it.”

  The sorcerer’s face seemed to fall, taking on a grim look, and he nodded. “You won’t like it. Let’s ride back. I’ll tell you along the way.”

  As they turned to ride away, the elves recovered the Widdershae bodies.

  “Before the fall of Gorthar Lord of Death,” the sorcerer said after they’d ridden a little ways, “elves had never known winter. Some say Oerin’s Eye heralded it. For the second sun opened just before the darkness came. Before that time, Oesha had only one sun. Not the two we know today.

  “It started out as a black cloud among the stars rising just behind Gorothoth. With each passing year, it grew larger. In the times after the dark moon rose, suns began to grow dim and killing frosts fell over Oesha. The new season of cold and darkness brought with it hunger, death and terrors from the World of Dreams. Many kinds of plant and animal died off. Trees of Life became havens through the bitter winters. The cold did not hurt them. For they were sustained by great fires cupped in their roots. So despite the cold and dark each Tree of Life flowered and bore fruit year ’round. Yewstaff fruit was the most famous. For it could heal. But the leaf-oats of Ithildar and a kind of meaty fruit from Woldspur made fine staples to fill winter stores. Some fae even took to caring for creatures of the wild in winter—scattering bundles of food throughout the lands. But with each passing year the darkness grew. The world watched on with growing dread—fearing that winter and darkness would soon cover all the world for all time.

  “Then your father made the last two Wyrd Stones and sent them as gifts to his parents—the Lady Elwin and the terrible Lord of the Dark Forest. At the moment Elwin touched her Stone, she became aware of Gorthar and the awful spell he wove. For the darkness was his most terrible dreaming. An ancient weapon. One he had crafted in the depths of time to destroy worlds. Slowly, over the course of an age, he was bringing it back. With her Wyrd Stone, Elwin found a way to fight Gorthar in the dream world and to keep the darkness from growing. But at a terrible price. For she fell into a sleep of ages—and you know how the Dark Forest’s Lord blamed your father for it.

  “Unaware of your father’s pain, Elwin did battle with Gorthar in dreams. For the span of this age, she held him in check. Life on Oesha began to adapt to a new, if harsher, rhythm. For nearly three months out of each year total darkness reigned. For two on either side of winter, the shadow impeded light but growing things could still manage. And for five months the darkness had no effect or was completely absent.

  “Now in what should be the brightest part of the year, a dim veil descends over the luminaries. It seems Elwin is losing.”

  Othalas gave a low growl. Luthiel started, suddenly realizing they were back in the Vanguard. She looked up at him but there were no words she could make for a good reply.

  “What will happen?”

  “At best?”

  “Start there.”

  “This age will end. With that ending will come a great time of trouble. The worst in twenty thousand years. Some races may never be seen on Oesha again.”

  “And at worst?” Her voice broke a little as she spoke. She clutched Othalas tight, for she was trembling.

  “No life will remain on Oesha. This age will be the last.”

  She did her best to keep from shaking. Even Othalas seemed afraid.

  “Zalos spoke of signs. What are they?” she finally mustered.

  “Changes in the sky. First the moons and stars grew dimmer. It was gradual so most didn’t notice. But Zalos keeps track—as do I. There are other signs too.”

  “Horns grow from the eighth moon’s head?”

  Mithorden looked Luthiel in the eye. “Yes,” he said seriously. “Actually, horns will grow from every moon. But from the eighth moon first.”

  “How can a moon grow horns?”

  “You may well see soon enough,” Mithorden said grimly.

  “Did you hear the song they sang?” she asked, irritated Mithorden hadn’t answered her question. “The one about the Blood Witch. The one about me?”

  Mithorden nodded.

  “They mean to blame it on me. How long has that prophecy been around?”

  “A thousand years at least.”

  Luthiel felt a sinking feeling in her gut. “A thousand years? You think Zalos could see so far?”

  Mithorden grew quiet and very still. He drew a deep breath and then looked away. “This prophecy did not come from Zalos, though it has certainly informed him. It is a dream of Death. It came from Gorthar.”

  “Is it true?” there was a pleading sound in her voice she didn’t like. But her
fear had gotten the better of her.

  “It is meant to become the truth as people see it. A weapon to make people fear you. To wish you harm. For if there is to be hope of survival for this world it is you and your family who will bear it.”

  “My family?” there was both hurt and hope mixed together in her voice.

  “Yes! Your family! Your grandmother who is at this moment losing a centuries-long battle in the World of Dreams. Your mother, the very spirit of the blue moon, who is even now bound by Zalos in Arganoth. Your grandfather who is lord and master of the greatest Tree of Life and of the terrible yet vital forest that sprang up from its roots. Your father, who defeated the Vyrl and who yet lives in a horribly twisted shape. Your aunts—the Valkyrie who ride with us even now. You and your love for them all—even those you’ve never known.

  “For only in mending old hurts can you overcome this terror. I know in your heart you wish to see them. To bring them together. It is your nature. This family’s breaking has been the work of fear and death and of its master Gorthar for two ages. In that breaking lies the death of this world. And in its mending, hope of survival and the dawn of a new age.

  “It falls to you to bring them back together.”

  “What do you mean bring them together? How?” In her own voice she heard the same hope and desperation she had heard in Melkion’s plea for his father Faehorne. For the first time, she felt something in common with the little dragon. We are both children of broken families trying to heal wounds that span generations.

  The sorcerer spread his hands. “You know well in your heart what can and must be done.”

  “Could I?” she looked at her hands. “I miss them and I don’t even know them. It’s mad to feel this way.”

  “A very normal sort of madness,” the sorcerer said sadly.

  “But why won’t you tell me more? What should I do?”

  Mithorden looked at her and shook his head. “I am bound by old laws from the making of this world—and the aftermath of an ancient war to break it. I can only shine a light on your path. But I cannot make or change it. You must decide.”

  “So you won’t help me?!” she growled—wishing, for a moment, she had a voice like Othalas.

  “I am doing my best to help. I understand how you must feel.”

  “What would you know about how it feels? My father’s body broken and made into a weapon! My mother a captive! My grandfather wields his own son as a sword! A grandmother losing a war of dreams against the very lord of death! You tell me none on Oesha will live unless I bring them all together. But you will not tell me how?”

  Mithorden shook his head. “I could no more tell you than I could reforge Weiryendel or save Vyrl. If I could do these things they would be done. I did not even know them possible. It is for you and you alone.” He looked up at the sky once more. “One week. A day more. A day less, maybe. You’ll see the signs well enough. Trust in yourself. You’ll know what must be done when the hour comes.”

  “Come on, Othalas, I’ve heard about enough.” Othalas turned and bore Luthiel away. They made for a small stand of trees and then disappeared from sight. A flight of Khoraz went to follow her. Vanye rode up to the sorcerer.

  “You’ve upset her.”

  “I told her the truth. As is often the case, it became a riddle.”

  “What sort of riddle?”

  “The kind where you have to choose what’s right for you and hope it’s the best thing for everyone.”

  Vanye nodded in understanding. “I’d be angry too. Should I send my brothers and sisters to watch after her?”

  Mithorden nodded. “Yes. But only those with discretion. I think she at least needs some small sense of privacy.”

  Vanye nodded and his Cat-o-Fae tilted toward Soelee—bending blades to send flashes of light to the group of Blade Dancers that rode behind them. Two broke off from the column and made quietly toward Luthiel and Othalas.

  “A shame about Melkion,” Vanye said.

  “A shame? No. Not at all,” the sorcerer replied.

  “More riddles?”

  The sorcerer stayed silent, his eyes searching the trees where Luthiel and Othalas rode alone.

  The Road to Yewstaff

  As they departed the Mounds of Losing, the lands grew less wild. Trees were more recognizable—untouched by the mad mists which would cause such oddities as pine and leaf, cone and flower, on the same branch. Here and there, villages began to spring up. Curious eyes watched them pass from the high branches of a Fae Holme on a distant hill. Belethial sent her runners and soon food, drink, and even fresh archers came from the nearby towns. Many wanted to see Luthiel, and she could read awe, fear, and even hate in their faces.

  In just three days, they began to see the uppermost branches of Yewstaff, though they were still eight days from reaching it. He was a great tree—high arms sweeping green and gold against the sky. His shape—like a great cone—reminded her of an immense Fae Holme. For Yewstaff was tall as a minor mountain, his great trunk three hundred feet broad. But of all the remaining Trees of Life he was the smallest.

  At night, she could see faerie lights, flir bug bulbs, and other bright enchantments sprinkled all across the great tree, making him look like a gleaming green cloud. From there, queen Belethial ruled. From there, Luthiel would call her first Faerie Court. She hoped they would make her a queen.

  She turned her eyes northeast toward Ashiroth and wondered what her mother must be thinking even now. Had she heard news of her daughter’s adventures? Did she know of Zalos’ new betrayal? Of her coming coronation?

  If they make me a queen, I know my first command.

  She gripped Weiryendel’s handle all the tighter and even its bright music seemed angry.

  Though Mithorden would not speak to her freely of the trouble gathering above the world, there was still plenty to learn. Many things about the World of Dreams that she didn’t yet understand, and even some more magic.

  “We must be careful what we imagine, fear, or hope for,” the sorcerer said one day as they rode. “The echoes of our thoughts live on in eternity. If you convince enough people that something is going to happen on Oesha it eventually will. It can be an awful thing. It can also be a wonder. The Vyrl dominated the dreams of nations for an age. Through dreams they conquered Oesha. But your father learned to walk in dreams, to speak to people as they slept. It’s how he overthrew the Vyrl.”

  Luthiel nodded. It was a difficult thing to grasp. All dreaming creatures helped shape the future. Her father had used this to overthrow the Vyrl.

  “So how do you know when something is going to happen?”

  “Signs start appearing in the real world. Things start changing.”

  Luthiel decided to hazard a question. “Like what’s happening in the sky?”

  Mithorden frowned and was silent for a while. Luthiel rode on beside him quietly thinking the lesson had ended. Finally, the sorcerer spoke up. “In part, I think what’s happening in the sky would happen regardless of dreams. It was a weapon Gorthar made at the beginning. Something that’s part of the way things work. But it would terrify many and so affect Oesha in dreams as well. I believe the appearance of Dimlock and Widdershae was made possible by this thing in the sky. People feared it and dreamed of terrible things. Eventually some of it happened. Elwin has managed to hold the darkness off all these years. Yet she is also fighting a deeper darkness. The arrival of more awful things than Dimlock and Widdershae.”

  At other times, Mithorden taught Luthiel Wyrd. This was frustrating, as she seemed inept at certain kinds of sorcery while excelling at others. FireWyrd, as Mithorden called it, was completely beyond her grasp and even the patient sorcerer threw his hands up in frustration after three days of botched lessons. She was equally useless at what Mithorden called battle magic. But magic involving life, defense, wind, water, transformations, and enchantment came with surprising ease. By the time they reached Yewstaff eight days later, she’d learned no less than seven words and son
gs of power. For shaping green and growing things—Verde. Enhancing physical strength—Nos. For protection from hurt—Eshald. Calling to wind and spirits—Thymos. She could use her name rune—Liel—to draw upon the luck and flexibility of water. Healing she already knew. But to aid her, Mithorden taught her a word—Bellen—which meant ‘well-being.’ Last of all came Wolda to summon creatures of the wild to aid her.

  As she learned, she realized she’d unintentionally used some of this Wyrd before. It felt familiar. The names seemed like something she recalled from a dream. But putting the words and songs together allowed her to do more. When she sang the song for Wolda Khoraz a great flock of the crows blackened the horizon and came to her in no less than five minutes. Wolda Firewing took longer, as the birds had to cross the distance from their roosts in the Vale. But in less than an hour, the sky was ablaze with flame. She felt bad summoning them for no reason. But the birds did a wingover in salute before flying home again.

  They also talked a little about her Wyrd Stone. Mithorden urged for more caution. To use the Stone only when absolutely necessary. Luthiel retorted by saying she’d be dead if she hadn’t used it when she did. This seemed to quiet the sorcerer and they moved on to other lessons. Bellen song allowed her to heal faster and when she tapped her Wyrd Stone she didn’t need to use her body to provide the energy for healing. If she could stay in dreams all day, she might heal a hundred or more. Someone smashed a flutterfler and without even thinking she touched her Stone and used Wyrd to piece its broken body back together. She filled its empty vessels with dreams and it became the stuff it used for blood. It brushed her cheek with its wings, then flew off—dancing in the hot air.

  Of all things, Bellen and Wolda came with the most ease. Everything else required practice and she made mistakes. One day, practicing Verda she accidentally entangled an entire company of red cap when she was trying to part the trees before them. Instead, they wrapped around the little goblins—leaving them dangling by the feet or pinned beneath roots. It delayed them a full half hour as Mithorden worked to convince the trees to let the goblins go. Luthiel was busy trying to keep the goblins from taking matters into their own hands and biting their way out. Elves smirked and pixies laughed. Others, glancing at the changing sky gave scowls and the word ‘bewitched’ passed between them. It made Luthiel feel very young and foolish. Not at all like the queen she was supposed to become.