by Sean Rodden
Eldurion did not move.
A quiet ensued, a silence that would have been utter and complete but for the whispers of wind and water.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, the Marshal of the Grey Watch raised his hands and pushed his hood back upon his broad shoulders. Long locks of silvered hair fell free, and a face that once had been fair, but had since been weathered by time and the elements, was revealed. His eyes were glittering chips of ice, his mouth a thin line that suggested little forbearance and less humour. Eldurion slowly lowered his hands to rest upon the flat of his sleeping sword, and his chill gaze fastened Axennus in the frozen grip of tundral winter.
“Fortune well favours you, Ambassador Axennus Teagh,” came the smooth hard voice, “if only because you are not a bolder man.”
Horrified with himself, the Ambassador dismounted and fell to one knee, his abashment manifest upon his mien.
“My apologies, Marshal Eldurion,” Axennus extended sincerely, his eyes lowered to the marble of the road. “I spoke rashly, and with neither thought nor wisdom.”
Grave Eldurion peered at the Ambassador. Probing, piercing, penetrating. But his eyes were no longer overly ungentle.
“There is goodness in you, Ambassador Teagh,” said he, “but you are yet unskilled in the conventions of the office that has been thrust upon you.” A small movement of his thin lips that might have been a smile momentarily softened the Marshal’s rough visage. “But if wisdom was gifted to the young, what need would be served by the old?”
Relief like a wave of sun-warmed water washed over the ranks of Erelians and the raven-haired Fiann who had come to be their friend.
“Arise, Axennus Teagh of Hiridith,” bade Eldurion, “and think no more on this. The hospitality of the Fiannar awaits you. Will you accept our welcome?”
The Ambassador rose to his feet. “We will.”
“Then you shall have it,” avowed Eldurion. “Varonin! Harlastian!”
Two tall figures, wrapped in grey and mounted upon mirarra, melted silently from the shadows behind the Marshal. Until then, the pair and their steeds had gone unseen and unsensed, had been little more than subtle shadings of night. They bore long gleaming swords in their hard hands, and within the cowls of their cloaks could be seen only darkness.
“Harlastian and Varonin of the Grey Watch will guide you and your party to the halls of your Embassy,” stated the Marshal. “There you will find food and drink, bathing basins and beds – all the comforts that might be desired at the end of a long road.”
“We are grateful, Marshal Eldurion,” said the Ambassador.
“Lord Alvarion and Lady Cerriste send their regrets that they cannot join you this night, nor even on the morrow, but are desirous of an audience with you two days hence.”
“We will be…we are honoured,” responded Axennus, bringing his fist to his bosom.
The Marshal of the Grey Watch nodded curtly, and to the Erelians he said no more. He instead turned to Caelle, and the tautness of his face loosened.
“I am glad for your safety, daughter.”
“As I am for your own, father.”
“Come, daughter. Our Lord and Lady await in counsel with the Masters and Mistresses of the Houses – all save Tulnarron, who in his usual recklessness and incaution still finds himself abroad. But Sarrane is come, possessing sight and insight little congruent with the irresponsible folly of her husband. Your golden friend, daughter, is the true grace of the House of Eccuron.”
Caelle smiled for the word of Sarrane’s safe return, though the conveyance of the message had been obscure and indirect. Overt sentiment was not in the grey Marshal’s nature.
The Shield Maiden then waited as Axennus remounted his grey mare.
The Ambassador appeared weary, worn perhaps by his ordeal with Eldurion. Many were the young and bold who had been stripped bare before the Marshal’s withering glare, and lashed by his razor tongue – and oft had a rambunctious young girl named Caelle been counted among them.
And that impetuous young girl was not wholly gone.
“I trust, Ambassador, you found the final leg of your journey to have been not overly…uninteresting.”
Her smile was a devious flash of white in the night, and there was laughter in the stars that were her eyes.
A flustered look took Axennus’ features.
“More than adequate, Shield Maiden.”
Caelle laughed, a clear pure sound like the chiming of bells or the singing of a summer stream.
“That is well, friend Axennus.” Her face was alight with humour, and the black of her hair glistened in the glow. “I will bid you a good night, then. And you, Captain. You also, Left Tenant.”
Bronnus saluted.
The Rhelman touched his totem pouch to his temple.
The Shield Maiden of the Fiannar then raised her hand to the men of the Ambassadorial Guard.
“Southmen!”
And they hailed her in turn, a hundred voices crying as one.
“Shield Maiden!”
Caelle turned then, smiled brightly, nodded to Axennus.
“Until the morrow, Ambassador.”
And father and daughter galloped into the silver shadow of the nightbound city.
Beneath the imposing figure of stone Defurien, the brothers Teagh shared a soundless sigh.
“These people are beyond us, little brother,” muttered the Iron Captain sullenly.
To which Axennus replied simply, “They are the Fiannar.”
Before them, ancient Druintir, last city of the Fiannar, glimmered gently in the light of the woken stars.
Then, “Come,” commanded Varonin of the Grey Watch.
And they went.
6
THE ROAD TO FOLLY
“The difference between a fool and his horse
is that the latter shites while it walks
and the former shites when he talks.”
Anonymous, Rothic Proverb
Wisps of smoke rose from the wreckage of the hamlet, slithering into the night, sleek and serpentine. Wraiths of the wrongfully ruined. Rising, reaching. Seeking salvation in a star-spangled sky that simply did not care.
The twins stood atop the ridge overlooking the ruin of Maple Creek. They remained naked despite the deepening cold, their freshly scrubbed skin glowing pallidly beneath a waning white moon. Their little bellies were swollen, distended.
The girl cradled a cracked, charred object close to her breast. Something slick and black seeped slowly down her inner thighs.
The boy seemed almost giddy.
Settle, brother.
But sister, I can hear them. The army. They are coming, coming!
Your new senses confuse you. The army does not come. Not yet.
But I hear them, hear them.
A scouting party, only. A small one.
The boy emitted a thin whine.
The girl’s eyes were luminous lanterns.
Ah, that is interesting.
What, sister? What, what?
The Halflord leads them. He would see for himself what awaits the army. Do you sense his power, brother?
Yes. Yes, yes. He is magnificent.
Quite. He and his Bloodspawn will decide this war. Of that, I am certain.
Then we cannot lose, sister. We cannot lose, cannot lose.
The girl clung to the burned thing at her breast.
Indeed. Smile now. The Halflord approaches.
The marble road leading to Druintir gleamed with moonlight, silken and silvery, the sound of hooves hitting the stone’s smooth surface distinctly muted, somehow softened by the sheen. The Shield Maiden and the Marshal of the Grey Watch rode the road side by side. They shared a protracted silence, calm and comforting, the quietude of two long-sundered souls sufficiently contented by simple reunion, an affable aphony ending only when Caelle reached over to place her hand on Eldurion’s. The old Fian’s lips twitched toward a smile, then pressed themselves into a thin grim line once more.
; “Daughter –”
“I am well, father,” she assured softly.
“So you have said, Caelle,” returned the voice of oiled iron. “But a father has his fears. There was vast power in the red wind.”
“Barring that you and mother are withholding something of import from me, I remain a scion of Defurien. I am able to resist such things.”
The Marshal grunted.
“That you were able to resist the red wind does not surprise me. That you were able to shield one hundred men…”
“Impresses you, father?”
Eldurion looked to his only child, his frown concealed in the deep lines of his weathered face.
“Should you have accomplished the feat alone, daughter, I would be duly impressed.”
Caelle remained quiet for a moment, remembering a certain slash of white light, shadows flailing, fleeing. She bit her lip reflexively.
“Alas, I did not accomplish the feat alone. Sarrane –”
“Anchored you, only. I have had her report.”
The Shield Maiden grimaced inwardly. She did not know why she was so reluctant to reveal the sorcerer amidst the Erelians. Certainly, she was bound to report the man’s presence and his power. To her father. To the Lady. To Lord Alvarion himself.
But betraying the little Diceman feels so very much like…well… betrayal.
“There is a sorcerer among the Southmen,” she sighed.
Grey Eldurion said nothing for a few lengths, his bright gaze focused on the pale scape of the city.
Then, “The Diceman. Yes.”
Caelle looked to her father, surprise reshaping her eyes, her lips.
“You know. Of course. Of course you know.”
“I am Marshal of the Grey Watch.”
Caelle smiled. “That you are.”
“You sensed him, daughter? Should that be so, then you would make a fine Marshal one day.”
“No, father. I deduced. And then there is the small matter of his name.”
“Oh?”
“He calls himself Teji Nashi.”
“Ah. Teji Nashi. Tejinashi. The Dicese word for sorcerer. Hiding in plain sight. It has ever been his way.”
“You know him, father?”
“We are acquainted.”
“Will you inform the Lord and Lady?”
“Assuming they do not already know.”
“He wishes that his power remain concealed. I was strangely hesitant to reveal him. I felt compelled to protect his secret.”
“Unlike our friends the Daradur, we Fiannar are not insusceptible to sorcery. We are resistant, but not immune. Thus his…suggestion… to remain silent had some effect upon you.”
“He suggested nothing of the sort.”
“Not to you, daughter. But to someone, assuredly. You would only need to have been in the vicinity.”
“He is as powerful as I suspected, then. Strange, then, that the Daradur let him pass Doomfall unhindered.”
“For the same reason they did you, daughter. He is a friend.”
Caelle peered at the grim grey figure of her father.
“Why is the Diceman here, father?”
“I do not know. The sorcerer has ever kept his own counsel. Long has he been a friend to the Fiannar, but only few among us know of him. The Lord and Lady, certainly, myself, a few others – and now you. We have an understanding. We leave him to his ways, and do not include him in our councils. He likely would not come, even should the invitation be extended. He communicates with us sporadically, usually when something specific is asked of him, but he has not visited Druintir in many years. I can only guess why he has come now. Perhaps he will have some hand in Aranion’s education, as he did Alvarion’s. And my own.”
Caelle’s eyes widened.
“Revelations abound, father.”
“Your Teji Nashi will reveal himself in due course, daughter. When the time is come.”
“From whom does he hide?”
“He hides?”
“In plain sight, apparently.”
“Ah. A manner of speech, only, daughter.”
“I would remind you that I am Shield Maiden, Marshal Eldurion.”
Eldurion grimaced. Ah, I have taught the girl too well.
“And I would remind you that I am Marshal of the Grey Watch.”
“So you have said. Twice now.”
“You are being impertinent, Caelle.”
“A matter of perspective.”
Eldurion gritted his teeth. So much like her mother. Teller forfend.
“There are those who would see the Diceman dead, daughter. He does not share that specific desire. Nor do we.”
“Ah. A mystery.”
“And I will have it remain so.”
“For now, at least.”
“Yes. At least.”
The Shield Maiden’s glanced at the grave warrior at her side, at the graver set of the lines of care on his face. Her bright eyes glittered. Despite the dark, she well knew the expression making a stormy mask of the Marshal’s weathered mien.
And what it meant.
Coyly, she quipped, “Fear not, dear father. I am as much your daughter as I am mother’s.”
Dour Eldurion almost succeeded in concealing his smile.
Varonin and Harlastian of the Grey Watch led the ambassadorial company from the Colossus of Defurien toward Druintir. But rather than enter the city, they escorted their charges south along the foot of the great bluff to a narrow cleft that climbed upward through the rock. The company followed their dark laconic guides up along the defile, the slivered moon shimmering down upon them through the slit in the stone. The way was steep and treacherous in places, loose chunks of stone scattered on the path, the pocked floor made slippery by a skin of moss. Frequently, where the way became overly perilous, the Erelians found it necessary to dismount and lead their steeds cautiously by the reins, while above them, the two grey guides astride their surefooted mirarra waited with something like but not quite patience.
“They’re called horses, not bloody mountain goats,” complained Maddus, after skinning the heel of a hand while bracing a fall.
“You’re such an unhappy soul,” said Rooboong. “Funny how one punch can make two shiners.”
Maddus’ frown made him look like an angry raccoon.
“You’ll get yours, Ruby.”
“Whatcha gonna do, Maddy? Climb up a ladder and hit me with those doll-sized fists of yours? Flail away, little man, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Enough, idiots,” interjected the Decan. “This climb is arduous enough without you little girls bickering like…little girls.”
“Oh, I dunno, Dec,” mused Riffalo, thoughtfully, “I find their banter rather entertaining.”
“Then you’re an idiot, too, Riff. Big surprise there.”
Guardsman Riffalo frowned, a shock of yellow hair falling over a wounded gaze.
“What’s eating you, Dec?”
“Been thinking, is all,” glowered Regorius.
“About?”
“The Doctor. He’s a sorcerer. And we are ensorcelled.”
“I don’t feel ensorcelled, mate,” argued Maddus.
“Me neither,” echoed Rooboong.
The Decan ignored them.
“It all makes sense now. All those battles the Reserve fought, always outnumbered, always appearing where we were least expected, coming out of nowhere like ghosts, surprising the enemy regardless of the lack of any real cover, never losing despite what frequently should have been impossible odds. And our casualties, or lack thereof – thirteen major battles, countless skirmishes, and we lose fewer than one hundred men? The March Fox is a genius, given, and the Iron Captain is a crazy good soldier, but what the Ghost Brigade did, what we did, was nothing short of magical.”
The other three guardsmen exchanged glances.
“Well, when you put it like that…” said Rooboong.
“I would’ve sworn I’d lost my right hand during the fiasco at Bal
l’s Falls,” remembered Riffalo, “but when I awoke in the healing tent, there was barely a scar on my forearm.”
Nods and murmurs as the others recalled similar situations of their own.
“So the Doctor is a sorcerer. Makes sense, Dec. But what makes you think he’s bewitched us ?”
“Before this ascent, I approached Left Tenant Runningwolf to tell him what we all saw, tell him what happened in that damned tent. Because if anyone would understand, I figured the Rhelman would. He’s like that. But I couldn’t tell him. No, no, you don’t understand – I could not tell him. I mean, I was unable to. I opened my mouth to speak, and nothing came out. Like a stutterer stuck on a word starting with a vowel. My tongue just wouldn’t move. I couldn’t get a sound out. I couldn’t talk at all.”
Maddus snickered. “Bet that looked funny as hell.” His countenance then clouded. “What’s a ‘vowel’?”
Regorius closed his eyes briefly. Breathed.
“Well, the Doctor did suggest we say nothing, Dec,” offered Riffalo.
Regorius looked up, pink eyes shining.
“Suggest? No, that was no suggestion. That was a forbidding. A verbal ward of forbidding. And a powerful one.”
“I’ve seen the same or something like it in the slave nations of ’Fleetian Empire,” nodded Rooboong, his heavy brows dropping in a pensive scowl. “Such magic is not unknown in my homeland of Unga Boon.”
“Neither is dancing naked around fires and eating boiled babies,” sneered Maddus.
The grinding of teeth in Rooboong’s jaw was an audible thing.
Regorius sighed. Closing his eyes and breathing would not likely work again.
“One day Ruby really is going to kill you, Maddy. And I will not only permit it, I will insist upon it. And I’ll pin a medal on his breast when it’s done. Happily. Now shut your ugly mouth!”
Maddus’ mouth closed with an audible clap.
As though nothing untoward had happened, “Why would the Doctor do it then?” wondered Riffalo.
“Do what, Riff?”
“Why would he reveal himself to us, but forbid us to share the information with anyone else? Why not just wipe the memories from our minds?”
“Only one reason that I can see,” said Rooboong. “He wants us to know. And he wants us to know because he has a use for us. A purpose. A need of some kind.”