by Sean Rodden
Alvarion only stared at the Ath in silence.
“It would seem, Lord Alvarion, that you need not look so far as the Blood King to find a foe,” interjected Brulwar. His tone was quiet with gathering thunder. “Doomfall will hold.”
Ingallin slapped one long hand on the surface of the Stone.
“Folly! You mean to destroy us all!”
Warders Rundul and Mundar growled inwardly, their ire for the Chancellor burning in their hearts and in their eyes, but they were yet bound by their Earthmaster’s earlier gesture for silence.
Not so the Mighty One.
Drogul the kirun-tar, Chieftain of the Wandering Guard, Lord of Doomfall, rose slowly from his seat. There was neither heat nor cold in the great Chieftain’s black eyes, nor pride in his manner, but his presence was commanding, compelling, like the uncompromising ubiquity of a living colossus. All those who had been standing resumed their seats, Ingallin doing so somewhat swiftly.
At his most loquacious, mighty Drogul was curt and taciturn. He spoke seldom and little. But the Mighty One’s tongue had been loosened.
Dismissing Ingallin entirely, Drogul turned and addressed Alvarion. The Daradun Chieftain’s voice was that of a great boulder rolling in the netherearth, emotionless, petrous, perilous, recking little of life and less of death. He spoke no oath, gave no covenant, swore no promise. He stated only truth, plain and pure.
Quoth the Mighty One:
“Doomfall will hold.”
And then he sat down.
The silence that ensued was neither thick nor heavy, but only the stillness of a rumbling rock come to rest.
Lord Alvarion stood once more.
“The security of Eryn Drun was never in doubt, my old friends,” he assured the Daradur. “Should the Stone Lords say that Doomfall will hold, then Doomfall will hold. Forsooth, it is not the southern pass that is in question, but the northern one, and it is in my heart that even with the aid of the Earthmaster and half a hundred Wandering Guard Eryn Ruil cannot long be defended.”
Alvarion then turned to Ingallin, the Lord’s grey gaze holding the Ath’s argentine eyes as a steel chalice might hold iced water.
“What aid from the Athair?” queried the Lord of the Fiannar quietly.
Pushing a shock of white hair from his brow, the Athain Chancellor rose once more. He looked about the Stone of Scullain, surveying the faces there, a belated prudence causing him to pause before responding, to choose his words with caution, care, cunning.
“Neither the Princes nor I may speak for our King and Queen,” he replied warily, his voice smooth and silken. “We might merely bring word to Their Highnesses of the threat to the Fiannar, and advise them accordingly.”
“Did you not say, good Chancellor,” interjected Cerriste coyly, “that your voice is as Gavrayel’s own?”
Ingallin smiled beautifully.
“In counsel only, dear Lady. Surely you know that none but Their Majesties may commit the Athair to war.”
“What counsel, then, Chancellor,” asked Alvarion, “will you give to Gavrayel and Queen Aeline?”
Ingallin hesitated.
Then, softly, slyly, “It will be my counsel that the Sun Knights should ride to the aid of the Fiannar with all speed.”
The Daradur grumbled as one. Deception was an agent of corruption, and as the Daradur were a people impervious to corruption, they therefore could not be deceived.
But it was the Seer Sarrane who revealed the Athain Chancellor’s true intent.
“He speaks falsely, Lord,” said she with quiet candour, the violet of her strange eyes swirling slowly. “He means to counsel Gavrayel against war, urging caution rather than action.”
Ingallin looked at Sarrane surlily. His lips formed a thin, severe line.
Alvarion peered at Gavrayel’s Prime Consul silently, searchingly.
Ingallin met his gaze and grimaced.
Then, and at long last –
“He will not be given the opportunity.” The Sun Lord Evangael rose from his seat once more, as graceful as a swan, as bright as white fire. “The Chancellor abuses his office. He will no longer speak here, nor in Gith Glennin, on this matter. Indeed, our King will be most aghast and incensed to learn of the words that have been spoken here in his good name.”
Ingallin’s mouth flapped open in objection. For a moment he remained standing, contesting the Sun Lord’s authority in defiant silence. But the strong hand of Prince Thrannien soon compelled him to sit, even as Prince Yllufarr deftly relieved him of the King’s sceptre.
Sun Lords were not ones to be openly defied.
“The Chancellor has offered nothing here but dissention,” Evangael attested apologetically, “and he now compounds this with deception. His scorn for the Daradur is both ill-conceived and ill-concealed. The Chancellor will not be permitted to subvert the will of my folk to his own malicious devices.”
Once again, Ingallin opened his mouth to protest, but clapped it closed at a cold colourless glare from Yllufarr.
“I cannot commit the Athair to war, Lord Alvarion,” continued Evangael. “That is a decision for Gavrayel and Aeline alone. Though the Athair are an undying folk, we are not immune to sword and sorrow. And we are few. I do not envy my King and Queen their burden in this matter. But I will remind them of the Athair’s common blood and cause with the Fiannar. I will advise that the Sun Knights of the Folk of Gavrayel ride in might and speed to Druintir, that they may stand in solidarity with the people of Defurien. Of that counsel you can be certain.”
Alvarion nodded grimly. “We are grateful for your friendship, Prince Evangael.”
The Sun Lord inclined his head.
“We are also a people for whom time passes differently than it does for mortals. That which might be decided by the Fiannar between the rising and setting of a sun, the Athair might decide in the full cycle of the moon. I can neither foresee nor promise a swift decision on the question of the Sun Knights riding to war. But should we ride, the only thing swifter will be Light itself.” He paused, the flame in his eyes burning softly. “I pray only that we do not come overlate.”
“As do we all, Prince Evangael.” Alvarion’s voice, like his eyes, was dark, cold, hard.
“I do have some little aid, however, that I might now offer you, Lord Alvarion.” Evangael’s words soughed like the soft song of wind on water. “It is my understanding that the children and womenfolk of the Fiannar are not to partake in this war. You mean to ensure that, even should Eryn Ruil be forced and Druintir fall, the Fiannar will not be altogether destroyed. I can help you in this.”
Alvarion waited silently.
“I offer the women and children of the Fiannar asylum in my sanctuary of Allaura in the Hard Hills at the northern knee of Ora Undar. Should the Lord and Lady of the Fiannar find this to be agreeable, Chancellor Ingallin will repair to Allaura in all haste, as will the score of Sun Knights who accompanied us here, in order to prepare for the arrival and care of my honoured guests.”
Ingallin sulked in silence.
“Might Allaura accommodate three thousand women and children?” inquired the Lady of the Fiannar.
“Of course, good Lady,” smiled Evangael goldenly. “The need for such shelter for your good folk has not gone unforeseen.”
Alvarion and Cerriste glanced at one another, communing as only the most attuned and intimate of couples might do, and something subtle and sublime passed between them. The Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar then rose in unison, hands upon their hearts, heads inclined toward the Athain Prince.
“In the name of the Folk of Defurien, we accept your most gracious and generous offer, friend Evangael,” announced Cerriste. “The swords of the Fiannar will be sharper and swifter for the knowledge that the future of their Houses is assured and secure.”
White gold was the Sun Lord’s smile.
“The Hard Hills are a labyrinthine maze of scarp and talus,” commented Brulwar of the Daradur. “Allaura is not easily found, and the w
ay there is fraught with difficulties. Your people will need a guide. I suggest Mundar of Dul-darad serve to escort them.”
Mundar frowned but did not protest. The Earthmaster’s motive in the matter was clear – the Athain Chancellor was not to be trusted.
Cerriste and Alvarion exchanged a quick glance.
“Agreed, Earthmaster,” said the Lord of the Fiannar.
“It is decided, then,” said Evangael, his smile like sunshine. “I only wish I could do more, and do so more immediately.”
“I can do more,” stated the Prince Thrannien, standing with feline fluidity. “The Athair must be active in this war from the advent. The Sun Knights may not ride without Their Majesties’ consent. But the Sun Lords are not so bound.”
Thrannien turned his comely countenance upon the Lord and Lady of the Fiannar.
“I will stand at your side, friends, should you desire it.” The Sun Lord’s eyes glittered golden. “I humbly offer you my bow.”
Another quick glance shared between Lord and Lady.
“We are most greatly honoured, gracious Prince,” accepted Alvarion solemnly.
Said Cerriste, “It is told that the bow of Thrannien of the Neverborn was as a thousand swords at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum, that the song of its string was that of victory itself. May that same song be heard over the Seven Hills of Eryn Ruil.”
Thrannien inclined his head.
“Even so,” said Alvarion, “three thousand Fiannar, fifty Wandering Guard and a solitary Sun Lord will not long hold Eryn Ruil against the hordes of the Blood King.” He sighed. “We must therefore place our hope in the hands of Men.”
“It is fortuitous that Sarrane suggested we invite the Free Nations to establish embassies above Druintir,” said Cerriste. “Our relationships with the states of Men have been greatly strengthened thereby.”
“I estimate that we will be in need of some seventeen thousand troops, both foot and horse, from the Free Nations,” suggested grey Eldurion, “in order for the defence of Eryn Ruil to be successful. Three thousand Fiannar. Seventeen thousand Men. Twenty thousand all told. No fewer.”
“We may safely rely upon aid from the Rothmen,” stated Tulnarron with confidence. “Though they are isolationist in nature, and participated in neither of the recent Trade Wars, the Rothmen harbour a great love for the Fiannar and an equal hatred for the Unmen. The Roths are fierce and fearless in battle, if wild and unorthodox, and they are ever eager for a good war. Indeed, the Rothic clans fight often amongst themselves, but only for lack of worthy opponents.”
“What of the Ithramen?” inquired Alvarion. “Like Rothanar, Ithramis displayed little interest in the wars of the South.”
“Prince Arbamas did commit the Ithramian navy to the protection of Nothira’s ports,” commented Eldurion, “thus permitting the Nothirings to sail to the succour of the Erelians. I doubt he would fail to fathom the peril posed by a war so near his borders.”
“Prince Arbamas is bound to us by honour if not by treaty,” added Cerriste, “for did we not gift him with our abandoned city of Ithramis? He will not so soon forget our generosity.”
“I suggest,” said Evangael, “that you might safely depend upon the fealty of Prince Arbamas.”
The Lady Cerriste raised an eyebrow.
“Your confidence in Arbamas is quite singular for one so removed from the world of Men, Prince Evangael.”
The Sun Lord smiled.
“Prince Arbamas’ love for the Fiannar is well known even in far Gith Glennin, my Lady. He will not allow a threat to your people go unchallenged.”
“Let us hope that he does not,” said Alvarion. “And of Nothira?”
“The Nothirings are a wild and lawless people,” replied Eldurion. “They are politically unstable and are only some few generations removed from their years of raiding and pillaging. They have no love for any race or nation other than their own – and even amongst themselves they feud and murder – and indeed their concern in the Second Trade War was purely economic. I do not think we can expect any assistance from the wild Nothirings of the North.”
“They are a mercenary folk,” said Tulnarron. “Perhaps we might entice their aid with gold.”
Alvarion frowned.
“I will not purchase friends for the Fiannar, Master Tulnarron.”
Tulnarron shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Then, of the five Free Nations, we depend upon Rothanar and Ithramis alone, for the Erelian Republic and Rheln are too distant to send aid in time, even should they care to do so. We will not have Eldurion’s twenty thousands.”
“We must trust in our own strength, then, Master Tulnarron,” decreed the Lord of the Fiannar, “and in the strength of those who choose to stand with us. And then pray that the Athair come, and come in time.”
“There is the matter of the Southfleetian munitions,” Eldurion reminded from beneath a grey scowl. “Explosives change the game.”
“As does sorcery,” added Tulnarron.
“These matters will be addressed,” assured Alvarion quietly, his cool eyes flicking from the Marshal to the Master. “Indeed, both are blades that cut with two edges, and such things have satisfyingly strange ways of working themselves out.”
Eldurion allowed himself a small smile. Ah. Of course they do.
Tulnarron cocked his head, pondered, but did not immediately press for clarification.
“And should the Blood King himself come to the field?” asked black Brulwar. “The Daradur are immune, and the Fiannar may resist, but Men are susceptible to his power and cannot suffer it. They will break like autumn leaves in a windstorm.”
Alvarion smiled grimly.
“The Blood King is not without fears of his own, Earthmaster. This he did demonstrate at Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum. He will not go where Grimroth burns in the hand of a son of the House of Defurien. He will remain in New Ungloth, and leave the war to his captains and lieutenants.”
And then stood Yllufarr, the darkest Prince of the Neverborn. His odd, pale eyes gleamed with a cool light, like moonsheen on still dark waters.
“Then to New Ungloth we must go,” the Sun Lord decreed.
All harkened.
“Far too long have the Wraithren bended their will upon this world.” Yllufarr’s voice was as an astral echo of the endless struggle between powers Light and Dark. “Time and again, the Guardian Peoples have met and defeated their armies, but we have yet to put a permanent end to their evil. I hold that should the beast be beheaded, then the beast will die.”
All listened.
“We must therefore bring death and destruction to the Blood King himself, even as he has brought death and destruction to unnumbered others so very much less deserving. To this end we must commit.” His eerily hueless eyes flashed. “We must away to New Ungloth and seek out and slay this most foul of lions in the darkness of his own den.”
All heard.
A hush fell over Hollin Tharric and the crystalline Stone of Scullain. The still was inner rather than outer – an internal quieting of mind and heart and soul, as each of those gathered about the Stone pondered the possibility of the Blood King’s doom.
All understood.
And then the Earthmaster’s chesty chuckle slowly slipped into the silence.
“A bold and noble enterprise, good Prince,” said Brulwar of Dangmarth, “one to which we might give some little thought.”
Yllufarr inclined his head.
“Pretend not that the idea has failed to play in your own mind, Earthmaster,” replied the pale-eyed Sun Lord. “Indeed, I would be remiss to presume that you came to this table without the very thought.”
“Ah, quite perceptive of you, Prince Yllufarr. And yet there are some who cling to the belief that the Athair will never understand the Daradun heart. But yes, I suggest the Blood King must be slain. And his urthvennim neutralized.”
“The question, dear friends,” said Alvarion, “is how these worthy feats might be accomplished.”
“And to this I shall give answer,” replied Yllufarr, a dark light dancing in his colourless eyes. “A small company might pass through the moors of Coldmire unseen and undetected by Suru-luk’s spies, enabling us to approach New Ungloth in stealth and secrecy. We might then breach the black fortress, find its dark master and bring him to his final ruin. I, at least, will make the effort.”
“One does not simply pass through Coldmire, Prince Yllufarr,” advised Eldurion, “nor does one breach New Ungloth, in stealth or otherwise.”
“One has never tried,” the Sun Lord retorted.
“Coldmire?” scowled Tulnarron, perplexed. “Surely the Soft Road would be the quicker way.”
Yllufarr nodded. “And also the more closely watched.”
“The more so the further east you go, especially as you near New Ungloth,” agreed Eldurion. “There is no approach that is not well watched and warded.”
“That we know of, Marshal Eldurion. But we cannot profess to know everything.”
“You will need a guide, good Prince,” counselled Brulwar, as though the scheme had been thoroughly considered and decided. “None would be more able than Warder Rundul of Axar, for he has been in the deep dark heart of the Blood King’s netherearthen lair. And Maiden Earth is mightily strong in Rundul. With my tutelage I believe he can arrest the power of the urthvennim and render it impotent.”
Rundul blinked slowly, the sole outward sign of his inner surprise. He looked toward the Earthmaster, but he did not speak the questions in his heart.
“Of course, the negation of the urthvennim will not mean the Blood King’s doom in and of itself,” continued Brulwar, “for the urthvennim is not the sole source of his power. But its extirpation from the guts of New Ungloth will surely greatly weaken the Blood King, making his own doom a thing more easily achieved.”
Alvarion frowned.
“Is it not true that the Blood King is not a living being, but a dark spirit only, and that he may be slain only with a weapon of mighty power? Such weapons are rare and few. Drogul’s axe will be at Doomfall. Evangael’s blade goes to Gith Glennin. And Thrannien’s bow will be with Whulm and Grimroth at Eryn Ruil. Unless Rundul’s axe or Yllufarr’s knives have power of which I am unaware, I know of no weapon upon this Stone that might achieve the Blood King’s demise.”