by Sean Rodden
“Creeps me right freakin’ out, mate,” complained Maddus in the rear of the rearguard of the party. His atypically anxious gaze was concentrated to the left, unceasingly searching the murk and mist of Eryn Drun.
Conceded Riffalo, “The gates of Hell look less menacing.”
“Oh, you’ve been to Hell, have ya, Riff?”
“Every moment he spends with you, Maddy,” responded Rooboong.
“Listen, Ruby, you big black –”
Maddus abruptly bit back his words. At a place where the haze of Doomfall briefly thinned and fell away, the guardsman glimpsed a solitary figure, not tall but inhumanly broad, enormously muscled, unbrokenly black, the haft of a huge hammer resting on one massive shoulder. Widely set eyes shone like shards of polished obsidian. One thick finger rose to lips buried beneath a big black beard, and unnumbered fissures in the stone hissed ‘shhhhhhhhh...’
And then the shroud of Doomfall billowed, whirled, swirled, and the fantastic phantasm vanished.
Guardsman Maddus tore his gaze away.
“Care to finish that thought, Maddy?” challenged Rooboong, guiding his mount to the side of the smaller man. “Hmmm? I’m a big black…what, exactly?”
“Not so big, Ruby,” Maddus answered enigmatically, staring straight ahead. “Not so black.”
Upon the party’s left, the sun was swiftly sinking behind the rising rock of the Dragon’s Head. Rearing huge and hoary, dark and doomsome, the twin-peaked mountain cast the company in the prevenient shadow of a faux dusk. Clustered cumuli wreathed the horns of the Dragon like half-holy haloes that neither absorbed nor emitted light. A mile below the wind-sharpened summits of Southhorn and Northhorn, and an equal distance above the flats of the Middle Land, a great span of stone stretched between the rocky spires, a colossal causeway formed by the combined forces of time and the elements. Millennia of wind and rain had hollowed two cavernous tunnels midway up and through the stone base of the bridge, and in the fall of the evening sun, the eastern apertures glowed crimson like a pair of great flaming eyes.
“The Dragon watches,” commented Runningwolf, characteristically detached, his face a mask of dispassion. “There is anger in her eyes.”
“A trick of sun and stone only, Left Tenant,” muttered the Iron Captain, dubiously. Whether the skepticism in his voice was for the Rhelman’s words or for his own was unclear.
Runningwolf shrugged. “I speak only of what I see.”
The Ambassador gazed upon the Dragon’s stone face in appreciative wonder.
“Trick or no,” said he, his tone airy and his eyes bright with boyish delight, “it is a thing of beauty, however dark and dreadful.”
“A rare quality, Master Ambassador,” Caelle said softly at Axennus’ side. “Few are they that may see beauty in the grotesque.” A small smile pulled at the Fiann’s lovely lips. “I am well-pleased that you are numbered among us.”
The Ambassador grinned.
The Iron Captain groaned.
They camped that night beneath the dark imposing presence of the Dragon’s Head, the hollow sockets of the Dragon’s eyes black and empty, though not unseeing, not unwatchful. The company ate their meal of salted venison and Rhille cheese in intermittent bouts of communal silence and conversation. Less than a day’s ride from Druintir, the euphoria they felt at being so near their destination was dimmed by their memory of the red wind, and darkened further by their proximity to the twin-horned hulk of the Dragon’s Head. The unblinking gaze of the mountain cast a pall of gloom over the Erelian camp, and few seemed unaffected.
The Ambassador and the Captain moved among the men, the one bringing a smile, the other strength, differing but not incongruous incarnations of the same courage. In time, the camp took an air more typical of the veterans of the notorious North March Mounted Reserve. Many found succour in shared stories and weak wine. Someone produced a pair of gaming stones, and soon the wagering began in earnest, the pandemonium of the players rising with every toss of the numbered nuggets. Reclined before the healer’s tent, young Lionnus found comfort in a small fire and an old tome. Nearby, Draconarius painstakingly mended a pennon. And at the eastern edge of camp, stern Hastiliarius instructed a number of younger guardsmen in the arts of weaponless combat. One by one, and in his own way, each man’s tension was eased.
The brothers Teagh were contented.
Axennus and Bronnus came to stand at the western edge of camp, just within the thrown glowings of the fires. The brothers were similar, yet dissimilar, in stance and bearing. The Ambassador was tall and lean; the Captain shorter, broad and thickly muscled. Their facial features betrayed their brotherhood, square and chiseled, cheeks and chin like facets of hewn stone, but where Axennus was smooth and soft, Bronnus was bristling and hard.
“The world changed this day, Axo.” The shadowlight of the fires flickered orange and amber on the planes of Bronnus’ face. “The ill wind altered all.”
“Nay, dear brother, the world did not change – only our perceptions. We have been forced to modify our view of things.”
Bronnus was quiet for a moment, pensive, pondering.
Then, “The men seem well enough, despite this day’s wizardry.”
“The healer is happy with our recovery. He seemed rather dismissive of the blood magic behind the red wind.”
“Better that such sorcery remain within the vivid imaginations of the tale-tellers,” grumbled the Iron Captain.
Axennus smiled softly.
“Even the most fantastic of tales told has its foundation, however deeply rooted, in truth. It is the responsibility of the listener to seek that truth, and to discern the real from the imagined.”
Bronnus gazed, blinked.
Axennus sighed.
“Yes, Bron,” he said, forsaking philosophy. “The men have endured well. They are buttressed by your strength.”
“And by your own.”
“And by the Rhelman’s,” Axennus furthered, nodding to a knot of shadows some distance west of them, where Runningwolf stood, statue-still, staring at the horned black mass of the Dragon’s Head.
In spite of the chill of the northern night, the Rhelman had foregone his tunic of Erelian blue, and was standing with his arms folded about his bare chest, thongs of leather and feather dangling from his well-formed biceps. His deep earthy eyes were focused and fastened upon the towering formation of night-blackened stone, as though of all wonders of the world, the Dragon’s Head was the most compelling.
Wordlessly, the brothers Teagh moved to the Rhelman’s side.
Their presence was acknowledged with a nod. The threesome shared a simple soothing silence under star and moon, each man intent upon his own thoughts, each finding a certain calm in the moment.
Then Runningwolf spoke.
“There is movement on the mountain.”
Bronnus looked at Axennus dubiously, then to Runningwolf.
“You see this despite such distance and darkness, Left Tenant?”
“Not with my eyes, Captain.”
Axennus grinned. “You have said you speak only of what you see.”
Runningwolf blinked slowly. “A man may possess sight other than that provided by his eyes, Master Teagh.”
“So we are learning,” muttered the Iron Captain.
Intrigued, Axennus asked, “What do you see, Left Tenant?”
“Spirits,” replied the Rhelman. “Spirits of stone and fire.”
The Iron Captain frowned his doubt.
The Ambassador smiled and starshine played in his eyes.
“Long have the shamans of my people spoken of such beings,” Runningwolf continued in his removed alien tone, “masters of rock and flame that reside in the ancient mountains, waging eternal war against the deep-dwelling demons of darkness that would destroy the beauty of the world. The old teachers tell that but for these akanga, these spirits of rock and fire, all light and hope in the world would be lost.”
His chiseled chin in his hand, Axennus said, “The m
ost ancient of Erelian histories also speak of these beings, Left Tenant, though they were called Daradur by our forefathers.”
The Iron Captain grunted.
“Only this past morning I would have said that one man’s history is another man’s legend, and legends are but lies graced with time.” He paused, then sighed, almost sadly. “But one red wind can alter things.”
“An open mind is a wonderful thing, brother,” smiled the Ambassador. “Unbelief is most often a misnomer for nescience, even ignorance. A thing not experienced is a thing not understood, and a thing not understood is oft not believed and relegated to the realm of fancy. Is it not wiser to believe in reasonable possibilities? Do not mistake me, I do not mean to encourage blind faith. Hardly that. Faith is but another face of the same folly. Surely, there can be no excuse for any form of willful ignorance.”
“Sagely spoken, Master Ambassador,” came a fourth voice.
The trio turned to find the Fiann Caelle with them.
Come the setting of camp, the Shield Maiden of the Fiannar had ridden alone into the twilight upon concerns of her own. Having tended to these, she had returned in search of the Teagh brothers, soon spotting them in the company of the Rhelman half a thrown stone beyond the reach of the firelight.
She had approached, listening to their discourse, a wry smile taking her comely mouth – for the Daradur had been the purpose of her venture into the night, as she had sought to garner information and secure safe passage from the mighty Stone Lords.
After some gratuitous grumbling, both had been granted.
She had then, almost in afterthought, questioned the Daradur as to the source of the slashing white light that had secured the Southmen’s salvation from the ravages of the red wind.
But the Daradur, in their own irascible way, had only assured her that the credit was not theirs.
Don’t go blaming us for that, Fiann.
She almost smiled at the memory.
Caelle of the Fiannar stood before the two Erelians and the Rhelman, and for the first time since their initial meeting she was unhorsed. She came only to Axennus’ shoulder, and a little above that of Bronnus, but she was straight of back and high of head, of powerful presence, and her stature seemed to surpass their own. Her physical beauty was exquisite and explicit, the curves of her form silhouetted against the warm radiance of the campfires behind her. One fine hand upon her hip, the other about the haft of her sword, she watched the faces of the men before her with a small smile on her lips and a knowing gleam in her eyes.
“Shield Maiden,” the Ambassador said simply.
He and his brother inclined their heads, and Runningwolf raised his totem to his temple. All averted their eyes.
“I expected to find you discussing war and women,” Caelle quipped, “rather than musing upon the mysteries of a mountain.”
The brothers straightened, relaxed. Axennus Teagh laughed. Even Bronnus risked a smile.
Only the Rhelman remained remote.
“It surprises me as well, Shield Maiden,” admitted Axennus.
“My own surprise is the greater, Shield Maiden,” gritted the Captain. “I am discovering that the beliefs I carried with me from Hiridith dwindle in their worth with each northward mile.”
Caelle smiled beautifully.
“Beliefs unfounded on fact can be cumbersome, Captain,” said she airily. “As the Ambassador has said, it is knowledge that truly enlightens.”
“Oh, is that what he said?”
Axennus glibly waved one hand. “Your wisdom is wasted on this one, Shield Maiden.”
Bronnus growled and glowered. Obscenities burned the tip of his tongue.
“Captain,” Runningwolf interjected calmly, “I will take my leave. I must inspect the paddock, tend to the watch.”
The Rhelman raised his totem to his temple once more. His jaw clamped tightly, the Iron Captain nodded, fisted his breast. And with no further word the Rhelman turned and blended into the night.
“An interesting man,” said Caelle, her eyes following Runningwolf ’s shade in the darkness. “Quite remarkable, actually. Aside from the Fiannar, few are they that might commune with the mirarra.”
The Ambassador smiled. “The Left Tenant is a special man.”
“Tell me, Ambassador, have you many special men in your party?”
“Shield Maiden?”
“A sorcerer of your own, perhaps? A wizard, a mage? Maybe a dabbler in the arcane arts?”
Bronnus barely checked a guffaw before it escaped.
Axennus was understandably perplexed. And concerned.
“Did the red wind wound you, Shield Maiden? If so, we have a healer. Quite a competent one at that. But we count no sorcerers in our number.”
Caelle looked away, concealing the heightened, brightened sheen of interest in her eyes.
“Competent. Yes, he would be. The North March Mounted Reserve, I recall, suffered so very few losses in the recent war.”
“You remember rightly, Shield Maiden. None who entered the healing house of Teji Nashi alive left it…otherwise. My brother and myself included. We are fortunate to have him with us.”
Caelle looked again upon the Erelian brothers, her smile a bright slash of white in the dark.
“Fortunate indeed, Ambassador.”
Axennus gazed upon the Shield Maiden in curious silence.
Unlocking his jaw at last, Bronnus grumbled, “Fortune, both good and ill, has befallen us all this day.”
Caelle’s smile did not falter. “You have questions, of course.”
The Iron Captain said simply, “I do.”
The Shield Maiden looked from the Captain to the Ambassador, and there was grace even in that slight movement of her head. She marked the warmth in the younger Erelian’s smile and the shine in his eyes, comprehended these things, knew them for what they were and for what they might become. She briefly wondered whether he saw the same upon her own countenance.
But she knew the risen shadows forbade he see these things.
And the risen Shadow forbade she show them.
She looked away.
The brothers followed the Shield Maiden’s gaze eastward past the camp and into the night, saw nothing, then looked upon her once more. And it seemed to them that the fair Fiann’s visage had darkened. But the mingled silvers of star and moon fell upon her hair with splendour, soft and smooth and shining. And when she returned her gaze to the Teaghs, that same splendour was in her eyes.
“There will be time enough for answers at Druintir.” Caelle’s voice held an irrefutable tone of finality, irrevocability. “We shall dine there tomorrow, though I fear I will find the place greatly changed. Rest now, for we are to ride early. Be easy in the knowledge that this place is well warded.”
And shield on arm and hand on hilt, she strode westward into the night.
When she had gone, Axennus murmured, “The Shield Maiden is troubled.”
Bronnus nodded darkly. “Only a matter of some gravity would trouble one such as she.” His brows furrowed. “I would know the nature of this peril into which we ride.”
Axennus eyes gleamed as they focused on the portion of night’s darkness into which the Fiann’s form had faded.
“I trust we will know soon enough, dear brother.”
Lionnus looked up from the tattered, dog-eared tome in his hands. Years of reading by insufficient firelight had caused fine lines to prematurely web about his eyes, lending the lad a precipitately scholarly look. But the eyes themselves, blue and piercingly bright, remained young. And above those eyes, fair brows now arched.
“Sirs?”
“Lio, is it?” asked Regorius.
“Yes, sir.”
The Decan nodded mutely, his hand fidgeting at the few fine white hairs that had managed to sprout from his chin. His pink eyes peered past Lionnus to the sprawling, strangely shaped tent at the young outrider’s back. Beside and behind Regorius, three exceedingly disparate guardsmen shuffled uncomfortably in their b
oots. None of them seemed inclined to speak.
“Is there something you want, sirs?”
Regorius jerked his head toward the tent. “Is he in there?”
Lionnus peered up at the Decan, blinked slowly, then gently closed his book.
“Sir?”
“The little Diceman. The healer. You know, with the slanty eyes.”
“Teji Nashi.”
“Yes, of course. Teji. Is he in there?”
The young outrider set his tome aside, almost tenderly, then uncrossed his long legs and leisurely rose to his feet. Though slimmer, Lionnus was of a height with Rooboong, standing a head and a half higher than the albino Decan.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“What? Injured? No, no, I’m not injured.” The Decan seemed flustered. “I – we – we need to speak with the…we need to talk to Teji.”
“But sir, if you aren’t hurt –”
“Is he in there or not, soldier?” Regorius’ pink eyes reddened irritably.
“I’m not actually in the army any more, sir,” Lionnus replied placidly, maddeningly.
“Oh bloody hell!” spurted Maddus at the Decan’s shoulder. “Ruby, punch the little poof right in the gob!”
But Lionnus inclined his handsome head to one side, as though hearing something the others could not, remained thus momentarily, then smiled wanly, stood to one side of the odd tent’s entrance and pulled the flap aside.
“Sirs. The Doctor will see you now.”
Grumbling, the four guardsmen filed into the strangely shaped tent, throwing the young outrider murderous looks as they went.
Across the fitfully sputtering fire from Lionnus, Draconarius grinned up from his sewing.
“Lambs to the slaughter, Lio. Lambs to the slaughter.”
The interior of the canvas enclosure was quite spacious, twice as long as it was wide, the fore and rear walls rounded, those on the flanks curved and narrowing toward the middle, effectively creating a shape evocative of an hourglass on its side.
The first chamber was unlit, unoccupied and evidently little used. The air was cool and still. To the right was a neatly prepared bed of blankets and furs; upon the left an elaborate armour stand displaying a gilded helm, padded gambeson and bronzed plate, and a more modest rack upon which dried a freshly cleaned cloak and clothing of Erelian blue. A grand, intricately carved wooden chest rested at the foot of the bed. Atop this, within an ornately enameled sheath, lay a katana, the proprietary weapon of the warrior class of the distant Dice Islands – a three-foot sword, the single-edged blade slender, curved and razor-sharp, the guard square, the leather-bound grip of sufficient length to accommodate two hands.