by Sean Rodden
“He should have sought my counsel, then,” grated the Iron Captain. “I have amassed a wealth of clever names for you.”
Axennus grinned boyishly, and though many razor retorts leapt instantly to the tip of his tongue, he resisted the reflexive instinct to respond. The day was bright and clear, the White Eagle was awing, the Iron Captain’s temper had been temporarily tempered – the Ambassador could afford his brother the laurel of the last word. And so with the most serene of smiles on his lips and in his eyes, Axennus Teagh rode at his brother’s side in quiet contentment.
The scenery was magnificent. Axennus’ gaze happily absorbed the beauty and splendour that the surroundings yielded to his eyes: To the left towered the sheer rock of the Westwall, and beyond it the ominous orogeny of the Haunted Mountains, slate-grey stone and night-black shadows soaring skyward like a gathering of gigantic hands knotted into massive, gnarled, white-knuckled fists; eastward rolled the broad expanse of the sun-gilded Northern Plains, intermittently punctuated by green stands of oak and maple and birch; north twisted the stone-littered trail of the Old Road, hewn of the very rock many centuries before by hands of those long lost to most men’s minds in the murk of myth and legend. But as a student of history, Axennus Teagh knew that the ancient Fiannar had carved that road, a lengthy link in excess of five hundred leagues between that noble people’s southern and northern dominions of antiquity.
And southward Axennus did not look, for he knew whence he had come, and was not ungladdened that Hiridith was distant in days and miles.
“Master Teagh! Captain!” called Draconarius from atop a rocky rise before them, an undercurrent of awe accenting his tone. “Behold!”
As the Teagh brothers mounted the hummock, their steeds coming to rest beneath the unfolded wings of the White Eagle, the standard-bearer’s outstretched arm hastened their attention northward.
There, some miles distant yet, lay the abrupt terminus of the Westwall’s northerly march, the great cliff turning sharply to the west, and swiftly melding into the hulking masses of the Haunted Mountains until the two were indistinguishable. Though not discern-able from his present perspective, Axennus knew the angular conjuncture of the Westwall’s northern and western runs formed a sharp corner that was precipitous and precise, both faces cloven smooth and sheer as though by Cothra’s own blade. Vaguely visible in the distance, to the north of the Westwall’s sudden end, a great grey twin-peaked mountain rose like a monstrous horned skull hewn of stone, its cracked crown wreathed in cloud, its granite bones pocked by the elements and worn by time. Between the Westwall’s cessation and the broken feet of the great horned mountain was a breadth of mist and shadow, a dark divide smothered in a seething haze of rolling black and grey. At that distance, the break appeared to be a great dark hole in the earth, a place of nothingness and nihility, the end of the world and the portal to oblivion.
“Doomfall,” breathed the Ambassador in quiet satisfaction, his eyes gleaming keenly. The reality of the place surpassed even his own imaginative expectations.
Bronnus’ countenance was grave and graven.
“What manner of place is this Doomfall, Axennus?” the Iron Captain queried lowly, warily.
“I know little of Doomfall, but I will relate what I may. The Fiannar name it Eryn Drun, which I believe translates from the Old Tongue to ‘Pass of the Guard’. Doomfall is the smaller and more southerly of the two passes leading upward and westward into the higher lands behind the mountains. Behind that haze is a defile, a cleft in the stone which divides the Haunted Mountains from the Dragon’s Head, that visually disturbing mountain to the north. Few have ever attempted Doomfall, but it has been reported that the defile narrows as it ascends until it is but the width of a single horse-breadth when it achieves the High Land.”
Bronnus grunted. “What is that fog?”
Shielding his eyes from the sun with the flat of one hand, the Ambassador gazed northward for a moment, squinted in silent study, then nodded to himself.
“The dark fog you see is actually ash, smoke and steam forced upward by thermal pressures from deep beneath the earth’s surface and emitted through fissures in the stone. The release of these is discontinuous and periodic, and not all need be released together, the shade of the haze varying with the mixture.”
“You are well-read, brother.”
“The result of an active and enquiring mind.”
The Iron Captain peered northward, his frown as dark as Doomfall’s fogs.
“I mislike the look of this Pass of the Guard. I have one hundred men and an official Republican delegate in my charge. Their safety in this strange and foreign land lies with me.” His sharp eyes swept over to his brother. “What dangers await us, little brother?”
Above the brothers, the White Eagle ensign dangled limply in the sun-warmed air.
The Ambassador stroked the mane of his mount.
“I know of no specific dangers, Bronnus – only that Doomfall is shunned, and its way has been untried and untrod for generations. All who seek passage to the High Land do so either by sea or by way of Druintir at the pass of Eryn Ruil.”
Bronnus’ frown blackened. “Why is Doomfall shunned?”
Axennus shrugged. “Man is a naturally superstitious creature, possessed of the primal fears of the dark and of the unknown – and Doomfall is both dark and unknown.”
“There is wisdom in caution, little brother,” the Captain commented softly. “Is the land before us peopled?”
“It is rumoured that the same spirits that ward the Haunted Mountains also infest the Dragon’s Head and lurk in the mists at Doomfall.”
“The Daradur.”
Axennus raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe the old tales, Bron?”
“My beliefs are irrelevant,” growled the Iron Captain. “Suffice to say we have long ridden beneath the shadow of the Haunted Mountains, said to be the domain of the Daradur, and we have had no sign of them.” Bronnus returned his gaze to the shifting shadows of Doomfall. “And I see no sign of them now.” He paused in thought before continuing. “Nevertheless, I cannot shirk a foresense of peril that has hounded me since waking this morning.”
“You are not alone in this foreboding,” said Axennus, the grey-green of his eyes taking a contemplative light. “Left Tenant Runningwolf also spoke to me this past dawn of impending danger.”
“Indeed? The Rhelman knows his omens. It is settled, then. We must heed the warnings in our hearts.” The Iron Captain straightened in his saddle, his shoulders square, his head high. “Come! We will give this Pass of the Guard a wide berth.”
Axennus seized his brother’s reins before he could move away.
“Rider!” he exclaimed, one long finger pointing.
In the distance, riding hard southward, galloped a guardsman. Bent low over the steed’s neck, his cloak of pale Erelian blue flying behind him, the rider raced toward the company on the hummock with all the speed his mount could muster.
“He is Lionnus,” stated Bronnus flatly. “An outrider. He rode ahead in reconnaissance with Left Tenant Runningwolf.”
“He returns alone.”
“That in itself is of little concern,” responded the Captain. “Runningwolf is more than capable.” His dark eyes narrowed and the set of his mouth was grim. “It is the fervour of the outrider’s return that alarms me.”
Axennus nodded and released the reins of his brother’s horse.
“Then let us ride to him.”
With no further words exchanged and no formal command given, the company surged forward and down, descending the rocky hill at speed. Swiftly, and with both precision and economy of motion, the Ambassadorial Guard assumed one of many oft-practiced formations – a score of riders swept forward, a dozen more thundering on either side of the Teaghs, another group closing ranks behind them, the remaining riders falling back in reserve. Considering the disrepair and poor condition of the Old Road, and the roughness of the land flanking it, the speed of the company may have bee
n reckless – but all were master horsemen, and well knew the abilities and limitations of their mounts. Their swiftness posed them little hazard.
As they approached the onrushing outrider, Bronnus raised his fist, and the hoofed thunder of the ride quieted to a soft rumble. The forward score of riders parted smoothly along its centre, and the Captain rode this corridor to the fore, the Ambassador ambling at his side.
“Hail, Lionnus!” called Bronnus, his voice as sharp and hard as an iron blade. He reined his great roan to a halt. “What urgent word warrants such haste?”
Reined to a sharp and sudden stop, the guardsman’s horse skittered on the stone surface of the Old Road. The tall young rider swiftly swept off his bronzed steel helm, his long blond locks falling free, and brought one fist to his breastplate. Sky-blue eyes flicked from Bronnus to Axennus and back again, as though Lionnus was unsure to whom he should disclose his tidings.
“Be easy, good Lionnus – the Captain is the commanding officer here,” Axennus answered the unspoken question. “Mine will be the authority in the embassy at Druintir. Here I am but your ward and your charge.”
Bronnus fisted his breast once, something of impatience in the gesture.
“Captain, sir, I bring word to you on the orders of Left Tenant Runningwolf,” spoke the outrider, his tone tight with forced calm, his youthful face flushed with excitement and the exertion of his ride.
The Iron Captain nodded. “What word, guardsman?” His voice was denuded of emotion, but his withered patience was manifest upon his mien.
“They are come, sir!” was Lionnus’ immediate and impassioned reply, his careful control cracking. The outrider’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm and wonder.
Bronnus’ features clouded darkly.
“Who are come, Lionnus?”
At the Captain’s side, Axennus Teagh’s handsome face was alight with anticipation, excitation.
“The Fiannar, sir!” announced Lionnus exultantly, his voice breaking at last with unfettered fervency.
And again, almost shouting:
“The Fiannar are come!”
3
THE FIANNAR
“We are a warrior people, and we will make war
in this Second World even as we did in the First.
For in any world besieged by Evil, by Darkness,
it is only through the sheer strength of our arms
that the Shadow might be lifted from us forever.”
Vallian, Second Lord of the Fiannar
“The Fiannar are come.”
Rundul’s voice was low and laborious, thickened with fatigue. The Darad leaned wearily against a blood-spattered standing stone of Fongar ur Piruth, his bearded face begrimed with the filth of battle. His back burned. He was bruised and bloodied, his inrinil rent and torn, but the black fire of his eyes blazed brightly still, and his strength of sinew was yet unspent. In one balled fist, his great war-axe dripped with death.
Dulgar grunted in response. Standing upon the slick slaughter-ground of the Teeth of Truth amidst unnumbered enemy dead, the one-eyed Wild One appeared as a war-god come to Earth. His massively muscled chest and arms were bared and sopped in blood, some of it his own, most not, and his hair and beard were pasted wetly to his skin. Chunks of raw flesh yet clung to the crimson blades of his killing axe.
About them, here and there, warriors of the Daradur stood among their butchered foes, bloodied axes and hammers at the ready, steel death in iron hands. They were mara Waratur, Wandering Guard of the Daradur, and they had come singly and in pairs to the aid of their embattled brethren throughout the previous night, dawn and morn. Together, the Daradur, sixteen all told, had engaged hundreds of the enemy in a ferocious battle for the high ground of Fongar ur Piruth.
Come noon and the zenith of the sun’s sailing, the enemy had withdrawn and the Daradur had emerged bloodily triumphant.
Kicking the hewn body of a dead Urkrok aside, Dulgar’s savage solitary eye followed the direction of Rundul’s gaze.
Cresting a hill to the northwest, below the southern marges of desolate Coldmire, a band of riders appeared. Some sixty strong, they were as grey and as silent as smoke, more mist than mounted men. The silver-maned steeds they rode were as fluid as cool waters, sleek magnificence defining strength and grace. Blades and spearheads glinted, gleamed, and above the party the golden-striped standard of the Fiannar rippled in the sunlight.
Rundul pushed himself away from the rock and moved to stand at Dulgar’s shoulder. Together, in silence, they awaited the riders from the north.
At length, Dulgar nodded, more to himself than to Rundul, as though confirming an unspoken supposition. For a second standard had become visible close upon the Golden Strype – the Crimson Fist of the House of Eccuron.
“Tulnarron,” rumbled the Wild One. “He’s always the first to act. While others debate and delay, he rides to war with fuckin’ admirable abandon.”
“Tulnarron is young yet,” Rundul grunted, wiping blood from his eyes. “He’ll learn.”
The band of Fiannar halted near to the foot of Fongar ur Piruth. The foremost among them whispered his steed forward. The rider was black of hair and broad of shoulder, his eyes as grey and hard and flat as stone. His countenance was square and stern, yet noble, and the thrust of his jaw was given to a haughty pride approaching arrogance.
A Darad’s Fian if ever there was one.
The rider surveyed the slaughter atop and about the mound of the Teeth of Truth. Something of a smile touched his eyes.
“We are late in coming, I see,” said he, his voice deep, mellifluous. “I am ill-pleased that Fiannian steel must remain unstained by enemy blood this day.”
“Late or timely,” growled Dulgar, stepping forward, “your presence is always fuckin’ welcome, Tulnarron of the Fiannar, Master of the House of Eccuron.”
“And the day is only half-old,” added Rundul with a grumble. “Your steel may yet taste blood before night falls on this place.”
Tulnarron dismounted in a single smooth fluid motion, the billowing of his grey woolen cloak revealing a flash of light beneath – the shine of his rillagh, the finely knitted sash of purest gold that all Fiannar wore in symbolic remembrance and reverence. Across his back was strapped a great sword with blade both wide and long – indeed, the weapon was nearly as long as Tulnarron was tall, and he was counted as tall even among his own people.
Behind him, rows of Fiannian spears bristled bright and terrible.
Stepping over the gargantuan carcass of a felled Graniant, Tulnarron took the hill with long, sure strides. He came to stand before the Captain of the Wandering Guard and the Warder at his side, looming above them well more than a foot, nearly two. But that which the Daradur lacked in height, they compensated with breadth, width and muscular mass. Despite Tulnarron’s powerful build, Rundul and Dulgar each easily outweighed the tall Fian.
But all had hearts of like size, all burned with the same fire.
They clasped forearms in fealty and fidelity.
“This place has the smell and feel of an abattoir,” observed Tulnarron. “A battle of these proportions demands its stipend of blood. Have you any casualties, friends?”
Dulgar spat pinkish sputum.
“A few of us fucked up, let the mudfuckers get a few shots in. Fuck.”
The bruise upon Rundul’s back pulsed with a sensation as close to pain as a Darad could experience. His companions had seen the rent leather and battered inrinil, but had said nothing. Shame is a poison most potent when its fangs sink in silence.
I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t speak to me either.
“Some are more damaged than others.” Rundul’s teeth were clenched. “None are wounded so gravely that they might soon return to the embrace of Earth the Mother.”
Dulgar made a rumbling, guttural sound. “Give it fuckin’ time.”
“So there are more of the enemy, then?” Tulnarron’s words were more statement than question. “I see only the dead.” A s
parkling darkness swam beneath the grey storm-seas of his eyes.
“There are more of the enemy yet living than there are dead,” confirmed Rundul. “They huddle even now in the shadows of the Bloodshards. One thousand, at the least.”
The tall Fian whistled lowly, placed his hands on his hips, and gazed eastward to the red ruins of Mekkoleth and Sark-u-surum. Nothing moved in that dead land – nevertheless, the Master of the House of Eccuron sensed, felt, knew the enemy to be there, watching, waiting.
“Why do they tarry so? What call do they await?”
Rundul grinded his teeth, but made no reply, only gripped his war-axe more tightly.
The Wild One’s red brows knotted. “What’ve you been told, Fian?”
“Only that there was battle west of the Bloodshards,” replied Tulnarron tersely. “I was at Arrenhoth when the messenger came, and there I did not linger. I would be ill-contented to learn through thrice-relayed messages that which I might see with my own eyes. I gathered the nearest folk of my household and forth we rode as swiftly as the mirarra would bear us.”
Began Rundul, “Had you waited a little longer –”
But Dulgar interrupted gruffly, “Don’t be such a fuckbeard, Rundy. The Daradur aren’t the people to preach the fuckin’ prudence of patience. Fuck.”
Some of the nearest Daradur chuckled roughly.
Laughter, at least. Better than silence.
Rundul’s beard parted in a grim, blood-grimed smile. “Nevertheless, Tulnarron, you might have saved yourself the bother.”
“Riding to war is never a bother, Stone Lord,” stated Tulnarron flatly. “I would learn what you have to tell.”
Rundul and Dulgar exchanged a glance, and something passed between them as waters flow through fissures in stone. Then the Wild One nodded.
Rundul faced the Fian, and said simply, “The Blood King is returned.”
The Master of the House of Eccuron showed no outward reaction other than the slight dilation of his pupils.