by Sean Rodden
Yllufarr’s eyes were like white ice.
“Lord Alvarion, the weapon that is to be the bane of the Blood King rests before your very self upon the Stone of Scullain.”
The furrows of Alvarion’s frown became deeper, darker.
“The Blade of Defurien must remain with me at Eryn Ruil. I cannot go to New Ungloth. I must lead my people in battle with Grimroth in hand, lest Suru-luk come forth and wreak riot and ruin among the Men that stand with us.”
“It is true that you must remain at Eryn Ruil, Lord,” reasoned Evangael in his fellow Sun Lord’s stead. “Not so the Blade of Defurien. Grimroth must go east to New Ungloth, and go in the hand of a scion of the House of Defurien.”
“Grimroth cannot be at Eryn Ruil and New Ungloth, both, Prince Evangael,” interceded Tulnarron, his broad brow a veritable thundercloud of consternation.
Evangael smiled strangely.
“Perception and reality are not of necessity one and the same, Master Tulnarron,” he said, an ageless wisdom awash in his voice like springwater in the heart of a mountain. “Illusion is oft an invaluable instrument of war.”
“How might the illusion of Grimroth remaining at Eryn Ruil be effected, good Princes?” asked Cerriste. “The Blade of Defurien is a weapon of quite singular qualities, both in beauty and in power.”
“Grimroth’s power is certainly unique, Lady,” replied the Sun Lord Evangael. “Not so its beauty. You might recall that in gratitude for her aid in the penultimate battle of the long war for First Earth, Defurien gifted Aeline with a weapon of like appearance to Grimroth, though of lesser power.” He paused meaningfully. “The Queen of the Folk of Gavrayel would return this most gracious gift to the people of Defurien, that it be seen ablaze upon the Seven Hills of Eryn Ruil, that it might serve the Lord of the Fiannar in the wars of this Second World even as Grimroth served Defurien in those of the First.”
And the Sun Lord unsheathed a second sword and placed it on the Stone.
Alvarion stared at the weapon that glistered golden and glorious on the moon-white surface of the Stone of Scullain. The blade was long and broad, of gleaming gold, and light rippled and rolled beneath the plane of its luminous yellow metal like water aswirl, or like twisting tongues of fire. The pommel and quillions were plain, with neither gem nor jewel adorning the entwined red, white and yellow golds that composed the grip of the sword, which was sufficient in size to accommodate two large hands. The brand veritably glowed with beauty and power, eldritch and arcane, and even at a distance Alvarion could feel the familiar and welcome warmth of the weapon on the cool contours of his face.
Grimroth.
The Blade of Defurien.
But not.
The Lord of the Deathward raised his eyes and looked across the Stone into the bright golden gaze of the Sun Lord Evangael. Alvarion silently marked that the Prince’s glittering eyes and the gleaming blade on the Stone were of the very same hue and sheen.
“She is called Findroth the Gifted, friend Alvarion. A name of twofold meaning. For she is a sword gifted with extraordinary properties and was a gift given by Defurien to Queen Aeline. And now the Gifted is gifted once again.”
Alvarion’s gaze fell to Findroth once more, and a frown furrowed his forehead.
“This is not the Blade of Defurien.”
Evangael smiled beautifully.
“Not the Blade of Defurien, certainly, but a blade of Defurien. More, perhaps, a blade of Defurien than is Grimroth, for it was that great Lord’s own hands that forged and fashioned Findroth, whereas Grimroth is the work of mighty Cothra, Hiath of War. Forsooth, it was Findroth for which Defurien held the greater love, thus the noble gifting of her unto Queen Aeline was a thing nobler still.”
The troughs at Alvarion’s temple eased slightly.
“Like in beauty to Grimroth, as you have said, good Prince. But you have also said she is lesser in power.”
The Sun Lord nodded. The minute movement sent ripples through his hair like undulant sunfire.
“Findroth possesses all the powers of Grimroth, save two only.”
Alvarion waited in silence.
“Findroth retains the power to make her bearer immune to most sorcery, but does not reverse and return sorcerous attacks to the sorcerer.”
Alvarion nodded.
A small thing only, thought he, should the Blood King not take the field.
He waited once more.
“And Findroth does not sap the strength of the foe upon each successful strike as would Grimroth – nor does she bestow that stolen strength upon its wielder as would Grimroth.”
The Lord nodded again.
A yet smaller thing – I have ample strength of my own, and need not purloin that of others.
“And Findroth’s cutting edges, Prince Evangael?”
The Sun Lord’s grin was golden.
“As keen and as sharp as Grimroth’s own,” replied the Ath assuredly, “and sufficiently sure to cut anything wrought of this Earth, save inrinil only.” A pause pregnant with purpose. “All else rests in the hands that wield her.”
At this, Alvarion smiled grimly. “All else,” he echoed.
Evangael cocked a golden brow.
“Is it overmuch, Lord Alvarion?”
The Lord of the Fiannar met the Athain Prince’s glittering gaze, and the Fian’s grim smile became grimmer still. One callused hand reached toward the fiery Findroth, and the sword floated fantastically across the flawless surface of the Stone of Scullain, slowly swinging about, the Lord’s fingers finding and wrapping about the golden grip. And he felt fire. Fierce, familiar fire.
“It is enough.”
“A generous gesture, Prince Evangael,” said Cerriste softly.
Lord Alvarion’s countenance was as flat as the beautiful blade upon which he gazed, and a swirling golden flame reflected in his narrowed eyes.
“I can see both the wisdom and the necessity in this venture to New Ungloth. Slaying Suru-luk will sever his hold over his minions, routing his armies as sword and spear might never do. And though I am loath to part with the sword of my forefathers, I do find that I am compelled to agree to this scheme.”
At her husband’s side, Cerriste nodded. Her face shone.
“Grimroth will go to New Ungloth in the hand of a son of the House of Defurien,” resolved the Lord of the Fiannar. He placed the Gifted beside Grimroth upon the Stone of Scullain, and indeed there was nothing to visually distinguish one sword from the other. “It only remains that we determine whose will be that hand.”
“He will need both strength and wisdom, husband,” offered Cerriste, her eyes straying to the long grey figure of Marshal Eldurion. A small smile. “And he will need intimate knowledge of Coldmire.”
“My Lady!” exclaimed the aged Eldurion, literally leaping to his feet. “I am Marshal of the Grey Watch of the Fiannar.” Pocks and notches marked the greased iron of his voice. “My place and duty are ever by Lord Alvarion’s side. My charge is to ward Lord and city. Give the honour of this quest to one younger and abler than myself!”
But Lord Alvarion held up his hand.
“Protest not, Uncle. You are my father’s brother, and but for the chance of my birth, the Lordship of the Fiannar would have been your own upon Amarien’s death.”
“A death that might have been prevented, had I but been there.”
“We cannot know that, Uncle.”
“I will not leave you,” grated Eldurion between gritted teeth.
Alvarion then reached for Grimroth, taking up the sword that had been his father’s, that had been Defurien’s, that had smitten Unluvin the Deceiver into ruin. His eyes seemed glazed with golden ice.
“Nothing would more effectively protect my person, my people and my city from doom and disaster than the destruction of the Blood King. And no sword arm within the House of Defurien is more able than your own.”
Alvarion extended golden Grimroth toward the grey Marshal. Translucent flames licked along the mythic blade a
nd the hand that held it.
“I…cannot.”
“Nay, Uncle Eldurion. Yours is a battle-might that belongs to the Fiannar of olde. You will achieve this thing, or no one will.”
Eldurion’s countenance darkened as a storm gathered behind his iron eyes, his grizzled chin outthrust in defiance. But whether in reverence for his Lord or in reluctant accordance with the rightness of Alvarion’s decision, Eldurion did not long dissent.
Slowly, hesitantly, the Marshal reached for the golden haft of Grimroth. His gnarled fist curled about the grip beneath Alvarion’s hard hand, tentatively at first, gingerly, then tightened as the wild warmth of the metal surged through him. And for a long silent moment they remained thus, both Lord and Marshal sharing the haft of Grimroth in a communal grip of determined steel.
Then, in a voice of greased iron that forbade both doubt and disbelief, Eldurion vowed –
“I will do this thing.”
And Lord Alvarion released his grasp of Grimroth.
At that precise moment, Varonin of the Grey Watch slipped ghostlike into the argentine light of Hollin Tharric. He came before the high ones of the Fiannar and stood at taut attention, martial, unmoving, his sheathless blade in one hand, the other upon the rillagh at his breast. All those around the Stone of Scullain rose in anxious and expectant silence. The faces of the Fiannar were grim and grave.
“Marshal Eldurion. Lord Alvarion. Lady Cerriste.”
Varonin’s voice was perfectly flat, bereft of any inflection, devoid of all emotion.
“Report, Watchcaptain Varonin,” Alvarion said quietly.
“Our scouts send word on the wings of the throkka that the Blood King begins his march westward. His host now numbers eighty thousands. More will come. Should they proceed unhindered by rain or raid, they will reach Eryn Ruil in twenty days.”
Eighty thousands. Twenty days.
The Twelfth Lord of the Folk of Defurien felt blood flee the ragged scar upon his cheek. He drew an even, steady, measured breath. His visage was sere and stark, his mouth set and firm, his eyes as grey and as cold as wintry doom. The eyes of a warrior awaiting battle, expecting death.
Eighty thousands.
Twenty days.
“So begins the tale of my gravest trial.”
11
THE HOUSE OF DEFURIEN
“The Fiannar will not flee the Shadow,
nor will we remove to the mountains of the North.
We will remain, and hold the Pale, even should it mean our doom.
But I yet keep faith that the Teller would not abide an evil
that the will of good peoples might not resist.”
Defurien, First Lord of the Fiannar
Grand and glorious was the great Hall of the Hallowed. A vast vault hewn of the hard rootrock below and beyond Hollin Tharric, the Hall stretched westward through the metamorphic bed-stone beneath the River Ruil, its carven cathedral ceiling soaring to half the height of the Silver Stair, its significant breadth sufficient to accommodate two-score men walking abreast. The palatial Hall was bisected along its length by a colossal colonnade of regularly spaced stone pillars, the marble of these veined and variegated with the most pure of gold. Skilled hands had worked the gold of the columns into a collage of cryptic runes and glyphs, and though the unlearned mind might miss the meaning of these markings, the beauty found in them would surely sear the soul of the beholder forever.
Into the walls between the pillars were hollowed great arched alcoves that housed towering stone statues of the noble Lords and Ladies of the line of Defurien, golden rillagha glittering across their dawn-grey breasts. And all stone within the Hall of the Hallowed shimmered softly, as though with an inborn light of its very own – the cool luminescence of the living earth herself.
“Ah, the splendour,” Ambassador Axennus Teagh marveled softly, his eyes ashine with delight and wonder. “The artisans among your people surpass themselves, Shield Maiden. Their skill leaves me bereft of words.”
Behind him, the Iron Captain muttered, “Exceptional skill, indeed.”
The lovely lips of Caelle of the Fiannar curved into a small smile.
“The Hall of the Hallowed is a sacred place, my friends, hollowed long ago upon decree of Vallian to hold and to honour the lineage of Defurien.” Her smile broadened slightly. “A rare exception to the inherent modesty of my people.”
“People more prone to pride would not have valid claim to such a shrine, Shield Maiden.”
“The Fiannar are not without pride, Master Ambassador,” replied Caelle. “Only, we are humbled by the glories of our forebears.”
Axennus nodded in understanding, his bright eyes absorbing the transcendent grandeur of the Hall of the Hallowed. The luminous sheen of the stone and the glitter of gold shone upon his face in cool swaths of everlight. He then looked upon Caelle, and in his eyes gleamed an undying light of another source, of another sort.
“A mausoleum, I presume,” grumbled Bronnus, “however magnificent. Houses of the dead disturb me.”
“Then be not disturbed, Captain,” comforted Caelle. “The Hall of the Hallowed is no mausoleum. You will find no crypt here. The Fiannar do not entomb their dead.”
Axennus raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“My people do not age in the manner of Men,” the Shield Maiden responded to the Ambassador’s unspoken question. “We are longer lived, and remain hale and vigorous until our ending days. When one of the Fiannar senses his time is near, he departs of a dark night alone into the Wilderness, there to lie him down into the final sleep, the earth to claim his body, the Light to receive his soul.”
“A gentle and noble death, Shield Maiden,” mused the Ambassador.
The Iron Captain murmured, “Would that we were all so fortunate.”
“But we are not, Captain,” said the Shield Maiden. “Not all Fiannar perish in such peace. A disproportionate number of my people meet their deaths in battle. And those that do are immolated in the Pyre, the Fires of the Fallen, and their ashes are cast seaward on the westly wind under the ruby glow of a dusking sun.”
“Neither end is in want of grace, of dignity,” assured the Ambassador.
Caelle sighed softly.
“One ending or the other awaits my own father in the coming days,” said she, a shade of sorrow tinting her tone. “Eldurion is the Eldest of the Fiannar, and has seen nearly three hundred years of this world. Such extreme longevity is rare among my people now. The Wilderness would beckon him should war not be come to the Fiannar. And as a warrior of the Deathward, Eldurion harkens to a horn of another time. Soon he will hear the final note. I have seen it in his eyes.”
Axennus bowed his head. “He will be mourned, Shield Maiden.”
Bronnus said nothing, but a silent sympathy shadowed his dark eyes.
After a motionless moment, Caelle shrugged. “The Deathward do not mourn, Ambassador Teagh.”
Axennus raised his eyes. “Nevertheless.”
“Perhaps, Southman.” The Shield Maiden shrugged once more. “Nevertheless.”
She touched Axennus’ elbow lightly, a brief display of tenderness, of affection, then led the brothers Teagh into the Hall of the Hallowed.
“The worked gold of each central column details the history of the Lord and the Lady whose stone likenesses stand in the alcoves immediately beyond it,” explained the Shield Maiden. “Those statues upon the left are of the direct descendents of Lord Defurien, and those upon the right are of their respective spouses. With but one historical exception, the rule of the Fiannar has passed to the firstborn child of the line of Defurien, regardless of gender. But ever and increasingly have more sons been born to the Fiannar than daughters, thus only thrice in our history has the rule of my people passed to a daughter of Defurien’s blood.”
“Such a discrepancy between numbers of male and female children endangers a people’s survival as surely as would war or famine, Shield Maiden,” observed Axennus quietly.
“Indeed, Ambas
sador,” replied Caelle. Profound melancholy was manifest upon her mien. “The Fiannar are truly a dwindling people. Few are our women who bear more than one child, and of those born most are male. Thus, in the past, many sons of the Fiannar took brides of the race of Man, as did Carrinthien, son of Hiridion and first declared King of Erellan. In the Men of the South the blood of the Fiannar has thinned over the generations, until it has veritably vanished altogether.
“Here in the Northern Realm, centuries of battle and war have further culled the Fiannar, so that now, of the forty-four thousands that first came to Second Earth, only some six thousand full-blooded descendants, all told, remain. Two generations, perhaps three, and the Fiannar may be no more.” She paused, and the sapphire of her grey eyes darkened. “The coming war will only hasten that end.”
“We must not consider such things, Shield Maiden,” the Ambassador remonstrated, the stoneshine playing damply in his eyes. He then smiled, and the odd light of the Hall glinted on his perfect teeth. “Are the women of the Fiannar also known to take their spouses from the race of Man?”
Something brightened beneath the sorrow shadowing the Shield Maiden’s lovely eyes.
“We must not consider such things, Ambassador.”
Axennus grinned.
Bronnus stewed in silence.
Caelle then motioned to the stone semblance of a Fiannian Lord upon the southern wall of the Hall of the Hallowed.
“Foremost upon the left we find Lord Vallian, who missed being the firstborn of all Fiannar by mere moments, that honour going to poor Palladian, Vallian’s sickly twin. Vallian fought in the final great battle for First Earth, and was the bringer of the Fiannar to Second Earth.”
Axennus Teagh gazed appreciatively upon the regal rendering of Lord Vallian. The chiseled face of the long-dead Lord was fair yet fearsome, the eyes cold, the mouth grim, the expression stern and set of purpose.
“Very much the father’s son, Shield Maiden,” he remarked, “should this effigy and the Colossus of Defurien be accurate portrayals.”