by Sean Rodden
The roar in the streets below grew to seismic proportions.
“Who, then?” Axennus frowned perplexedly. “What army comes so soon to Lindannan’s succour?”
Caelle peered through the argentine gloom to the stone span about which her people were swiftly gathering. She saw a thousand balled fists rise in greeting, in salutation. Her eyes shone brightly, silvery blue, like polished steel.
“No army of warriors marches to the aid of the Fiannar this night, Master Ambassador,” she replied quietly. “I can think of one warrior, and one only, who would inspire such a reception. But I was told he is in the North.”
Her voice was cool, calm, but evidenced an underlying tone of restrained excitement, and the tautness of her stance suggested a desire in her to join her brethren at the bridge.
And before Axennus could voice his next and most natural question, the crowd of Fiannar at the foot of the bridge roared and parted, moving aside like wind about a megalith, and the starshine of night revealed a fantastic figure in their midst.
Beside the Ambassador, the Shield Maiden inhaled sharply. And Axennus found that his own breath had left him.
For there, approaching along the road below them, came a warrior of incredible might and power. Though he stood no higher than Caelle, the warrior was extremely expansive of chest and shoulder. He appeared to wear no armour, but only a mantle of wolf fur, and tunic and breeches of old leather, though his boots were clad in metal and about his wrists were great bands of black iron. His arms were long and massively muscled, his legs impossibly thick, his hands huge and gnarled. His sun-bronzed skin was as rough and tough as rawhide, and with every unhurried heavy stride the sinew and thew of his immense frame rippled like living rock. The hair and beard of his broad-browed head were long and wild, a leonine mane falling in unruly tangled waves the hue of red clay. His deeply set eyes were entirely black, pits of burning pitch in a face as hard and as unforgiving as stone. And across his massive back was slung a great war-axe, more than half the height of a man from cutting edge to cutting edge, with shaft and both blades of such a shining black as to have been forged and formed of Death itself.
“Who…” the Ambassador stammered, incredulously, “…what…is he?”
The Shield Maiden’s breath at his shoulder was quick with excitement.
“Do you not know, Master Ambassador? Can you not surmise?”
His gaze yet glued to the strange and powerful figure below him, Axennus only shook his head in incomprehension.
“The…strength…he must possess…”
Caelle’s eyes shone.
“Often have you spoken of his people since Sarrane and I did bid you welcome below Doomfall,” she revealed, her spirit aroused and eager. “And you woke to the thunder of their drums only two morns past.”
Axennus’ expressive face both brightened in understanding and slackened in awe.
“Teller of the Tale.” Wonder was in his whispered words. “A Darad.”
“Fortune well favours you again this night, Southman,” said the Shield Maiden in a tone tense with passion, “for of a mighty race, the one you see before you is deemed most mighty. He is Drogul of Dul-darad, the kirun-tar, the Mighty One, Chieftain of the Wandering Guard at Raku Ulrun, and Lord of Doomfall. It is held by those who know such things that no greater warrior ever walked the lands of Second Earth, and that no being born of this world may ever match him in battle.”
Axennus could feel his heart race within him.
“Ever have I wanted to believe…” His voice cracked with childlike excitement, and light danced in his eyes. Then, his composure returning, “Erelian mytho-histories describe the Daradur as being either giants or dwarfs. The truth, it would seem, lies somewhere there between.”
“The truth always does, Southman.”
Drogul of Dul-darad drew nearer to where Caelle and her Erelian companion watched from the terrace above. The great Daradun chieftain strode in resolute silence, and his bearded face was grim and dark. As the Darad approached, Axennus detected a subtle unease in his manner for the fervour of his reception, a certain discomfiture born of a deeply rooted humility, or of a shyness specific to the nature of one accustomed to solitude.
And as he passed below them, the Mighty One glanced up, catching Caelle’s eye, and something of a smile moved in the rusty mess of his beard. Then, amidst cheers and shouts and snippets of song, Drogul of Dul-darad moved past and away, deeper into night-domed Druintir, an aura of strength and power lingering in his wake.
“Did I not say, Shield Maiden,” spoke the Ambassador after a short shared silence, “that your friends would not abandon you?”
Surprisingly, the Fiann frowned.
“A handful of Athair and a Darad or three will not save the Fiannar, Southman.”
But Axennus laughed, ever impish, ever irrepressible.
“Perhaps not, my friend, but a certain charming Southman might.”
The outward reflection of Caelle’s inner smile took the form of her hand sliding into Axennus’ own.
Rundul of the Wandering Guard blinked once, his obsidian orbs focusing and flashing in the dark of the underearth, revealing to him the great black presence of his summoner, powerful, and of another, less so but mighty still – two great shadows in the nethernight, darknesses on the stone. A rumble not unlike the tectonic shifting of the earth’s own rocky armour threaded through the gush of blood thudding in Rundul’s ears. The low laughter of one of his kind – a rare and welcome sound.
“You have the look and smell of dung, my friend,” the amused one chuckled.
A grim smile like a visible grumble parted Rundul’s blood-tangled beard.
“I, at least, have cause, Mundy.”
Despite his relative youth and comedic nature, Mundar of Dul-darad was a fierce fighter and a fiercer friend, and was mightily beloved of his fellow Wandering Guard. Distinctive among the Daradur for his blond hair and beard, Mundar was also distinguished by un-Daradlike gentleness and kindness, traits not usually overly treasured by that fiery-hearted folk. Still, his sharp tongue could slice apart his friends as swiftly and as skilfully as his axe-blades could cut down his enemies.
But Mundar’s reply to his fellow Warder’s verbal parry was precluded by a third voice, a voice as hard and as smooth and as sheer as windshorn stone.
The voice of Rundul’s summoner.
“I see that you are well, young Rundul,” interjected Brulwar of Dangmarth, eldest of the uldwar, First Made of the Firstmade, and Earthmaster of the Wandering Guard. “Earth the Mother holds you dear, indeed.”
Brulwar stepped forward, his long straight hair and beard as thick and as black as the netherdark, his midnight eyes glinting with an inner shadowlight of their own. Power throbbed from him like invisible fire.
“There are some among the uldwar who do not endure the way of the urthrudd so easily, even at their most whole and hale, and you are wounded and weary. Maiden Earth is strong in you, Warder Rundul. She has found you worthy.”
Rundul inclined his head slightly. But you find me unworthy.
“You do me great honour, uldwan Dor.”
Brulwar waved the words aside with one hand and summoned Rundul forward with the other. Rundul felt the Earthmaster’s power swell as he approached him. He knew that Brulwar was seeing in the soul behind his eyes that which Dulgar had seen in him on Fongar ur Piruth. He knew the Earthmaster saw him run, saw the kuarok smite his exposed back. Saw all.
Unworthy.
But Brulwar said only, “You have brought that which I requested, Warder?”
Rundul nodded once, wordlessly raising a large bulky sack in one knotted fist. A sharp stench seeped from the sack, and about its bottom was a dark wet stain. A vile viscous substance oozed from the leather, globs of which intermittently dripped upon the cavern floor in big black spatters.
“Very good,” commented Brulwar with satisfaction. “You may leave the bag here, young Rundul. Should my guess not mislead me, its conte
nts will not be needed until the morrow.”
Rundul shrugged, then let the sack fall to the stone with a heavy thud.
“Have you your wits with you this night, Warders?”
Rundul and Mundar shared a curious glance.
Then Mundar grinned.
“Our malodorous friend has no wit of which to speak, uldwan Dor,” he replied. “Luckily, I have wit enough for the both of us.”
“Then have wit enough to hold your tongue,” muttered Rundul with a growl.
The Earthmaster held up one hand for silence.
“War is upon us, Warders,” he announced gravely, “and wisdom rather than witticism is required.” Brulwar hefted his great war-hammer to his shoulder. “Our Chieftain is returned from the north, and now awaits us in Druintir.” He paused. “As do several old friends.”
The two Warders of the Wandering Guard exchanged another look.
“Come, young Warders,” beckoned the Earthmaster, his heavy black greatcoat billowing slightly as he turned and moved upward into the dark of the underearth. “This night you shall sit with the lords of the Guardian Peoples about the Stone of Scullain.”
The Stone of Scullain was not of Second Earth.
Formed of white fire at the heart of First Earth long before the coming of the Athair, the Stone was a flawless disc of the most pristine crystal, perfectly circular, some twenty feet in diameter, and waist-high to a man. The Kings of the Athair brought the Stone forth upon their colonization of First Earth, setting it at the mist-crowned summit of majestic Scullain, the tallest of all mountains of that mystical world and the place where the Four Realms of the Athain peoples converged. About it they set thirteen similar smaller stones to serve as seats for the lords of their peoples. There the Athain lords would gather in debate and council in times of both peace and war, and there the fate of the First Earth was oft held in balance.
Vallian, son of Defurien and Second Lord of the Fiannar, brought the shining Stone of Scullain aboard the Fiannian flagship Dal Starrys upon his people’s departure for Second Earth. Come the founding of the Northern Realm and the sculpting of Druintir from the rock about the Silver Stair, the Stone of Scullain was placed in Hollin Tharric, the great time-carven cavern behind the crashing curtain of the highest of the three tiers of falling waters. And there, as before, the protectors of the Earth met in times dire and dangerous to decide the doom of the world.
Such a time was the night that Rundul of Axar, Warder of the Wandering Guard, came by way of the urthrudd to Druintir in Lindannan.
The nocturne sheens of moon and star slid past the cascading veil of the Silver Stair as though through glass, spilling into Hollin Tharric like a tide of argentine twilight. But the pure crystalline lustre of the Stone of Scullain outshone the soft light of night’s lofty lanterns, the Stone’s inner and innate radiance whitening the walls of the cavern the shade of a cool winter morn.
And it was that very same light that shone in the steely eyes of Alvarion II, Twelfth Lord of the Fiannar, and in the dawn-grey ones of the queenly Lady Cerriste.
“We shall commence with the Gifting of Names,” announced Lord Alvarion to the dozen diverse figures seated about the Stone of Scullain.
The Lord of the Deathward spoke the shared Westspeech of the Free Nations, for the Daradur were known to brutally butcher the elegant Old Tongue of the Athair and the Fiannar, and none but the Stone Lords could comprehend their own incomprehensibly guttural language.
Alvarion wore his dark hair long and loose in the old way, tumbling tresses streaked very faintly here and there with the greys of time and care. His long green hunting cloak was thrown back behind his square shoulders, revealing simple scale armour over a padded green gambeson, across which the gold of his chain mesh rillagh shimmered in the silverlight. His eyes were shards of steel in his handsomely hewn face, deeply shadowed by the austerity of the occasion. And beneath that same shadow, below his right eye, the pale hatches of a ragged scar marked yet did not mar the intrinsic beauty of his countenance.
“I am Alvarion, son of Amarien, whose father was also Alvarion, he who fought at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum, a Lord of some renown and after whom I am so unworthily named.”
The Lord’s voice, strangely gentle, floated upon the muted roar of the Silver Stair like a longship upon stormy seas. His grey gaze swept over the disparate faces staring back at him from around the Stone. Despite its gentleness, his voice was strong and sure and carried throughout the cavern easily – the voice of one accustomed to authority, to command.
“I am the Lord of the Fiannar, Master of the House of Defurien, and loving husband to the Lady Cerriste.”
He paused, ceremoniously drawing his legendary sword from its scabbard, then balancing the wondrous weapon’s great golden blade upon the flats of both palms, and laying it reverently upon the surface of the Stone before him. There it burned like fire on ice.
“And I am the bearer of Grimroth, the Bane of the Other, the glorious Blade of Defurien.”
Lady Cerriste flowed to her feet like the queen of a dream, elegant and elemental. Hers was a classical beauty, fine and feminine, ageless and august – her features angular, her cheekbones high and her eyes large and round, her brow broad and bold. The sun of northern summer had gilt her chestnut tresses with gold, and had bronzed her smooth silken skin. She wore a simple gown of supple grey upon which her sash of gold gleamed like a band of sunlight.
“I am Cerriste,” said she, her voice soft but strong. There was a depth to her tone that bespoke wisdom, intellect. “I am the Lady of the Fiannar, Mistress of the House of Defurien, loving wife to the Lord Alvarion – and new mother to Aranion, our living pride and future.”
She placed a staff of ornately carven whitewood before her upon the sparkling Stone of Scullain.
Tulnarron towered to his feet, holding the haft of his huge grey greatsword in one strong hand. His manner and bearing betrayed no fatigue for his long and wild ride from Fongar ur Piruth, though the sheen of his midnight hair was yet dulled with the dust of travel. His eyes glittered with ice and ire.
“I am Tulnarron,” he said, his deep mellifluous voice a veritable thunder in the hollow of Hollin Tharric, “Master of the House of Eccuron. Lord of Arrenhoth. Warden of the East.”
He lowered his greatsword to rest upon the Stone.
Then stood Sarrane, straight and slim, the strange violet light of her eyes aswirl, her fair hair cast platinum in the silvered light of the cavern.
“I am Sarrane,” said she, her tone distant, dreamy, “Mistress of the House of Eccuron, and Seer to the Lord Alvarion.”
She set her spear upon the Stone.
And last of the Fiannar to gift his name was Eldurion, as dour and grey as the steel of the longsword in his hand.
“Eldurion,” came the voice of greased iron, “of the House of Defurien. Marshal of the Grey Watch.” And as though in afterthought, “Eldest of the Fiannar.”
He placed his sword upon the Stone of Scullain.
Then, in their turn, one by one, rose the representatives of the mighty Daradur, the stalwart Stone Lords of Second Earth.
“I am Brulwar of Dangmarth,” rumbled the midnight-maned Darad, “First Made of the Firstmade. I have held many titles in my time, but am now Earthmaster to the Wandering Guard of Raku Ulrun, for I go where I am needed and I do what must be done.”
His black eyes flashed as they briefly met the Lord Alvarion’s.
“I bring to the Fiannar and offer to their worthy Lord the ancient hammer Whulm.” He lowered his enormous weapon to the crystal surface of the Stone. “And the hand and heart and mind that wield it.”
Rundul then stood, his great war-axe in hand. Both weapon and wielder were yet bloodied and battered by the battles beneath the Bloodshards and amidst the Teeth of Truth. And the wound upon his back was hot and sore with the memory of his harrowing flight from the Bloodshards. Rundul was certain he could feel a hardness in the eyes of the great ones gathered in Hollin Tharric.
Judgement? Contempt?
“I am Rundul of Axar,” he said quietly, “a Warder of the Wandering Guard of Raku Ulrun.”
And I am unworthy.
His teeth gritted against his own shame, Rundul placed his steel upon the Stone.
Then Mundar rose, a smaller replica of his fellow Warder’s war-axe in each hand. His eyes twinkled with kindled light, and beneath his whiskers his lips curled into a coy, cathectic grin.
“I am Mundar of Dul-darad,” said he volubly, “a Warder of the Wandering Guard of Raku Ulrun.”
Impulsively, he spun his twin axes in his hands, then crossed them before him on the Stone.
Last of the Daradur to rise was the wilderness-weathered, wolf-mantled Drogul. Drogul the kirun-tar. The Mighty One. Chieftain of the Wandering Guard of Raku Ulrun. Lord of Doomfall.
But as the massive and mighty Daradun warrior set his death-black war-axe upon the Stone of Scullain, he said plainly, simply:
“Drogul.”
And indeed, no further words were required.
And then the delegates of the high and holy Athair rose to hon-our those gathered about the Stone of Scullain with a Gifting of Names most ancient and revered. They were a people apart, the Athair, and Light exulted from them as though their bodies could not contain the brilliance of their souls. And an unheard music, solemn and sidereal, serenaded the Neverborn with the sorrow of a song too sad to sing. And ever about them was the delicate scent of summer rain.
First among the Undying to rise was a warrior.
He was tall and solid of frame, cloaked and mantled in evening blue, his precisely fitted armour formed of an otherworldly white metal that shone hauntingly in the silvered light of Hollin Tharric. His presence was quiet but pervasive, his power primal and pure. And he was beautiful. His shining tresses were long and free, flowing over his strong shoulders like wreaths of golden flame. And his eyes were sunfire in his everfair face.
“I am called Evangael.” His voice was ethereal, divine. “I am Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin, and a Lord of the Sun Knights of the Athair.”