by Sean Rodden
Eastward, yet invisible to all but the long-sighted Fiannar, a crimson blot stained the horizon, like a smear of blood on yellow linen.
“Hear me!” cried Caelle, her voice cold and clarion. “Hear me, Men of the South! I am Caelle of the House of Defurien, Shield Maiden to the Lady Cerriste of the Fiannar! And I bid you harken to my words! Will you listen and abide?”
The exigency of her tone could not be denied, could not be defied.
The Iron Captain answered for all: “We will listen, Shield Maiden.”
“And abide?”
“Upon our honour, Shield Maiden.”
Caelle of the Fiannar nodded sharply and moved her mirarran before the Erelian ranks, the creature’s silvery mane rippling like water.
“A foul wind rises and rushes upon us with silent speed! Spawned of soulless sorcery, it breeds terror of such dimension as to slay you where you stand! And those that do not die would wish for death if they could – for their minds will be left utterly broken, bereft of all thought but pain and fear!”
A hushed murmur arose among the guardsmen as they glanced from one to another in shared uncertainty. They then gasped as one, a sibilation of unified unease, as the crimson taint of the eastern horizon became visible to all. Beginning as but a narrow line of darkness where sky kissed land, the stain swelled with frightening swiftness, rising like a red wall from the bowels of the earth, or falling like a storm of blood from wounded heavens. The incarnadine ill hurtled westward across the plains with violent velocity. A burning breeze blew in its vanguard, a foul forebreath of despair.
Caelle’s midnight tresses flew about her like raven’s wings.
“Fear not, Men of the South!” she cried. “The Fiannar are with you and will not abandon you, whatever evil may befall! The mirarra will ward your mounts! Think only of me and nothing else! I will shield you if I am able!”
The red wind rushed toward the valley with impossible speed, accelerating in its course with each passing second, an irresistible juggernaut of crimson terror. The air howled in horror, and a sound akin to thunder shook the earth. Brave hearts trembled in trepidation.
Unsheathing her sword, its steel glinting dimly but defiantly in the failing light, the Shield Maiden of the House of Defurien turned her cold sapphire eyefire to the closing darkness. Her voice carried over her shoulder like the war horn of Cothra.
“Stand, Men of the South! Hold fast to your reins! Close your eyes and minds against this sorcery! Think only of me!”
The entire east was as an ocean of blood; earth and sky aflood with gore and grime. Time fled. The party crouched beneath the bloodstorm as though under the curl of a tidal wave of doom.
“Think only of me!”
And the red darkness fell upon the company as would the very hammer of Hell itself.
The earth hove.
A searing screech shook the hills. The Daradur amidst the Teeth of Truth felt pain and fear underfoot – pain and fear that was not their own, for they knew neither – as the ground quailed and quaked before the coming of something impossibly vast and terrible. Rundul and Dulgar exchanged black glances, and behind them assembled the mara Waratur of Raku Ulrun, rock amongst rock. They did not waver.
Leaping astride his mirarran, Tulnarron rejoined the men of his House, his grey eyes and the steed’s silver ones aflame with white fire. The Fiannar remained in formation beneath their banners, sixty strong and as still as stone. A scorching wind came and whipped at hair and mane. The Golden Strype and the Crimson Fist were buffeted with invisible bats. Tulnarron held up one hand, but made no other motion. The Master and the warriors of the House of Eccuron calmly awaited whatever was to follow in the wake of that withering van.
Their wait was not overlong.
First came the red wind. Ill-born beneath the Bloodshards, and blown from the bellows of abomination, it hastened westward with hurricanic force. Enduring the lashes of the crimson blast, the Fiannar and the mirarra sensed the terror that rode the wind’s phantasmal pinions, bearing death and madness across the Northern Plains. They barred it from their minds, pushed it away and aside, as each was the master of his own heart, and neither mount nor rider would be swayed.
And the Daradur were as the stones of Fongar ur Piruth, standing still and stalwart in the face of the wicked wind, as though they felt nothing but a slight breeze brushing coolly upon their blood-slicked skin.
And then the earth split asunder.
The Bloodshards became a chasm, deep and lightless, a dark throat leading down into the blackest of bowels. In an instant, one thousand thralls of the Blood King were swallowed into subterranean night, their death-howls nullified by the shriek of grinding rock.
Then the earth coughed, a powerful spasm of agony and terror, vomiting forth the plague of its torment. Crimson filth exploded upward, a geyser of gore, part laval lymph, part venom, part poisonous puissance. The rotting red ill roared forth in a fearsome fountain of plasmatic power. High and tall spewed the netherspawned surge, putrid, rancid, the waste of ages. Everfoul abomination burst from the heaving guts of the earth as though the entire world was at its ending.
Up from the earth came iron, came steel. Up came rock and stone. Up came bastion and battlement, breastwork and barbican. Arch upon arch, then arcade upon arcade; corbelled bartizans; crenellated parapets capped with great iron fangs; massive, monstrous machicolations. Walls warding walls, each successively higher, stronger, scaled stone and scappled steel. Titanic towers, drum and turret, like upright fists in the face of freedom.
And amidst it all, centermost within the diabolical enceinte, rose a donjon such as had never before been seen upon the face of Second Earth. Skyward soared the great tower, one hundred feet, a thousand, coal black and caliginous. At its pinnacle, six falcated merlons curled about and above a great stone concavity like gigantic iron claws about a colossal cauldron. And within it, a molten magma of malignance roiled and frothed, its crimson power oozing over the brim and sliding down the sheer face of the donjon like blood on skin.
And then the earth shuddered, settled, and was still.
Seven hills away and west, sixteen Daradur and sixty Fiannar bore dark and silent witness to this bitter undoing of the Guardian Peoples’ five-century-old victory at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum. Although the sun was high and hot and gave short shade, the behemothian fortress shed blackness like a fetid fog, and cast the landscape in cold, deathly shadow.
Near to Tulnarron’s shoulder, one of the Fiannar’s lips formed quiet words – “Have you ever…?”
To this, another responded, as though from a dark and dismal distance –
“Never”.
Growling, turning his broad back to the black stronghold, Dulgar squatted upon his thick haunches and braced his fingers upon the earth. He remained thus for a moment, as power went forth westward to Raku Ulrun. Droplets of hot blood fell from beneath his eyepatch to the back of his hand. In little time, a similar power returned.
Orders from Raku Ulrun.
Dulgar rose, his one-eyed gaze encompassing all Daradur present. Unspoken words passed between the warriors of the Wandering Guard, a silent sharing, then an understanding, and finally assent.
Without removing his eyes from the vast fastness of stone and steel, Tulnarron of the Fiannar raised his voice above the weakening whips of the red wind.
“The Blood King is indeed returned, and he has brought with him the powers of his past – for what can this structure be save Mekkoleth resurrected?”
But Dulgar of the Daradur dissented.
“Fuck that, Fian,” rumbled the Wild One. “This isn’t Mekkoleth risen from fuckin’ ruin. I waded through a lot of fuckin’ blood at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum. I was there when we threw down that shit-spattered sand castle. I was fuckin’ there. No, Mekkoleth was just a big fortress on a small mountain.” He paused, his solitary eye burning blackly. “This…this fuckin’ thing is a mountain unto its fuckin’ self.”
Added Rundul of Axar, “And
the power that brought forth this thing isn’t sourced in Suru-luk himself, but only wielded by him. I’ve seen this power, and name it not, but tell you only that it is a mighty evil.”
Tulnarron pondered the words of the two Daradur a while. His eyes never left the monstrosity before him. At the great donjon’s pinnacle, the vividly red vitriol boiled and bubbled, seeping over the rim of the chasmic chalice like overpour from an unholy grail. Below the claw-bound crown, Tulnarron sensed movement within the dark-some fortress, and he soon saw dark ferine forms appear along allure and battlement, behind lancet and loophole.
“Then we are sorely beset,” said the Master at last, the deep music in his voice like a martial march. “I take some solace in that, if this thing was fated to be, I am here to defy it. The Fiannar and the House of Eccuron will not abide its existence.”
His grey eyes flashed to Dulgar and Rundul and the wrathful Wandering Guard behind them.
“Will we have the aid of the Stone Lords in this matter?”
Blood oozed from under the Wild One’s eyepatch. “No fuckin’ doubt.”
“As ever,” granted Rundul of Axar.
Fourteen other deep guttural voices growled in agreement.
Tulnarron nodded his gratitude.
“I would know if this fortress’ defenses are beyond the siegecraft of the Daradur.”
Responded Rundul, critically, “This thing was built of arrogance and black art, made to inspire awe and dread, but it’s neither geometrically nor structurally sound, for its engineering leaves much wanting. However, its sheer enormity is defense in and of itself, and is beyond the skill of sixteen Daradur to overmaster – but not of six thousand, nor even six hundred.”
His eyes yet locked on the terrible thing before him, Tulnarron raised one dark brow.
“Have we six hundred?”
Rundul and Dulgar shared a sour look.
Then Rundul replied heavily, levelly, “We have but sixteen.”
Tulnarron absorbed the information with a sigh.
“I believe we must choose better ground, then,” mused the Fian, his mouth twisted between grimace and grin. “And that choice will be made by those of higher station than my own.”
“Any ground is good ground,” muttered the Wild One as though impatient for further spillage of blood. “Fuck.”
The line of Tulnarron’s lips straightened.
“Even so,” said he, finally removing his gaze from the fortress. His eyes were cold with chained rage. “Priority precedes pride. We will bear tidings of this thing to Druintir. Lord Alvarion and Lady Cerriste will want word beyond that which they have certainly already heard.”
“A decision both wise and prudent, Master Tulnarron,” commented Rundul. “When the hammer of war falls, the anvil will surely be Druintir.”
“Precisely,” nodded Tulnarron. He looked upon the Wandering Guard and their mighty Captain. “What will the Daradur do?”
“What the Daradur have always fuckin’ done,” grated the Wild One. “We will watch. We will wait. We’ll wage fuckin’ war.”
Expanded Rundul of Axar, “We will remove to Raku Ulrun. As war comes to Druintir at Eryn Ruil, so too will it come to Doomfall. The southern way must not be left undefended.”
Tulnarron’s handsome countenance shone nobly in spite of the looming shadow.
“The Fiannar are glad for the friendship of the Daradur,” said he. “When next we meet, may it be in the midst of battle, rather than its wake.”
“I’d have it no other fuckin’ way, Fian.”
“Nor I, Tulnarron of Arrenhoth.”
Tulnarron placed one hand over his heart.
“Fare you well, Stone Lords!”
“Stone and steel!” roared the Wandering Guard in response, raising their axes and hammers in fisted fealty and fraternity.
The Master of the House of Eccuron swung his mirarran about, his cloak flying open, the gold of his rillagh blazing with the same icy fire that burned in its bearer’s proud heart.
As loud and as clear as a blast from a battle horn, Tulnarron’s voice rose above wind and pall:
“Fiannari! Anh echi Minar Eccuron! To Druintir! Ride!”
And the mirarra surged westward as one, a rush of silvery grey, a northern tide flowing fleet and fierce. Rumour of war rumbled in their passing, yellowed grasses whispered warily of wrath and ruin.
Rumour, war, wrath, ruin.
And then they were gone.
“Think only of me!”
Ambassador Teagh heard the voice as though he was submerged in deep dark water. The Shield Maiden’s shouted words were muffled, stifled, only vaguely coherent. Still, he heard. He understood. But he did not care to listen. Terror tore at him with icy talons, ripping his mind, rending his soul. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that tears burst from their ducts. Within him, his heart thudded impossibly fast, crashing desperately against his ribs, pounding, pounding, wanting out. He threw his head back in violence and madness, his mouth stretched wide in a shrill but soundless scream. Frantically, feverishly, he wished for his own death.
And then she was there.
Hold! Stand fast! Think only of me!
Caelle! Feeble and from afar came her cry, no longer audible to the ear, but to the mind alone. Miraculously, the Shield Maiden had reached into Axennus’ inner being with her own, calling him to her, a shadow of light at the edge of his besieged consciousness. Axennus clung to Caelle’s presence like a frightened babe at a mother’s breast.
Then the talons of terror altered, changed, became wickedly barbed whips that flayed him furiously, mind and soul. In pain, in abject agony, Axennus struggled to heed the Shield Maiden’s call, to hold on to her image. But fear forbade him. Terror and torment stripped him of all that he was, of all that he had been. Mind-breaking fright peeled away his power to resist, soul-crushing horror laid waste his will.
And so he fell away from her, away and down, down into darkness.
Stand! This fear is illusion! Heed it not!
But there were none left to hear her. Axennus. Bronnus. The Rhelman. Young Lionnus. All were lost. They had been too many, and the red wind of terror had been too strong – or mayhap she had been overly weak. In her rashness, in her pride, Caelle had believed that she could shield them all. In the end, she had shielded none. All would be taken now in madness or death. One hundred men. All lost. All gone.
I am here.
Sarrane’s soft voice fluttered at the marge of Caelle’s awareness like a white bird awing on the gentle current of a summer wind. And then Caelle could see her, a ball of cold sunfire, a final beacon of hope in the mistbound seas of despair.
Hail, sister! Caelle welcomed in reborn cheer, her soul bathed in and buoyed by the sure sanguine light of the Seer. Your strength is needed.
I am with you, replied Sarrane calmly. Within Caelle’s mind, the Seer’s voice was crisp and icily clear. I have not your strength, and cannot hope to reach them. But I would anchor you. Go now. Go to them, lest they be forever lost.
And so Caelle went to them, to the Men of the South, into the cruel chaos that had claimed them.
Black things, demonic shadows strove to stay her, phantasmal teeth gnashing, talons rending. She struggled. The shadows swarmed. And they were strong, so very strong. But, unlooked for, beyond the scope of the Shield Maiden’s most ascendant hope, a great slash of searing white light scattered her assailants, sent them screeching, scurrying away. She knew not the source. She was too elated to wonder. The way cleared for her, she would not be thwarted, could not be checked in her course. Scarlet shadows shrieked in frustration, hunger, loss. But neither terror-spawned soulshade nor windborn devil would deter her, deny her, defy her.
No longer.
For she was Caelle, Shield Maiden of the Fiannar, and the ancestral blood of the Athair was in her, and that blood was Light.
The first to be reached was Runningwolf. The stoic Rhelman possessed the rigid resilience of his people; of all Men, the Horse Mas
ters were among the closest to the eldritch powers that both warded and afflicted the earth. Caelle brought the Rhelman to her and bound him behind her silver shield.
Next came Axennus; then Bronnus, who even in that hellish place had managed to make his way to his brother’s side. Regorius, too, was found nearby. One by one, the unfearing Fiann gathered the Erelians to her. Draconarius, Lionnus, dour Hastiliarius. Maddus, Riffalo, gigantic Rooboong. None were forgotten. None were left behind.
And then it was done.
The darkness fled. The wind died. And the sun, white and warm, shone upon all.
Axennus came back to himself still seated astride his sleek grey. The mare was yet atremble, and her flanks were damp. As with all the Erelian horses, Axennus’ mount had bucked before the horror of the red wind, but had not thrown her rider, and had not bolted. The majestic mirarra had guarded her well, deflecting the main force of the fearstorm from her as a steel chamfron would turn away a volley of wooden bolts.
The Ambassador released the reins, his hands yet cramped for the violence of their grip on the leather, and gently patted the wet neck of his faithful steed. He felt Bronnus’ strong hand upon his shoulder and reached up to clasp it in his own. A sweeping glance assured Axennus of the welfare of his fellows – all were unscathed but for the lingering memory of fear paling their faces and reddening their eyes.
Westward, the last gasps of the crimson blast were breaking against the stone shield of the Westwall, then evapourating harmlessly and passing into entropy.
And high above, the cumuli-crowned darkness of the Haunted Mountains soared in immortal invulnerability.
Then Axennus’ eyes fell upon the small form of Caelle.
The Shield Maiden was upright upon her mirarran, shoulders square and solid, her comely countenance only slightly flushed by fatigue. Her presence exuded courage like a tangible thing, though her blue-flecked eyes were bright with concern. A brave smile took her lovely lips as she sheathed the steel of her sword.
“You are well, Ambassador Teagh?”
In response, Axennus dismounted and knelt upon the stone of the road, his eyes averted, his chin at his chest.