Whispers of War: The War for the North: Book One

by Sean Rodden

  “Aye, he was, Ambassador,” assured Caelle, “and, aye, they are.” Then, “Across from Vallian is found Branne, his Lady-wife, born of the love of Eccuron for Yasminne. Together Lord Vallian and Lady Branne established Lindannan, the Northern Realm of the Fiannar. Upon their decree was carven the city of Diar Ruill en Thir, ‘Where the Ruil Falls’, that which we now call Druintir.”

  Several steps behind Axennus and the raven-tressed Fiann, Captain Bronnus Teagh of the Ambassadorial Guard strode in resolute silence, his eyes dark and hard beneath knotted brows. And although he heard the Shield Maiden’s ongoing narrative, he was no longer truly listening.

  Rather, he had returned in thought to a certain discourse with his brother at the day’s dawning –

  “She is beyond you, Axennus,” the Iron Captain announced as he entered the Ambassador’s chambers.

  Axennus glanced up from the task of arranging his cerulean vestment upon his square shoulders.

  “And a marvelous morning to you as well, dear brother,” grinned the younger Teagh. He picked a fleck of fluff from his sleeve. “This shade of blue certainly compliments me, think you not?”

  Bronnus ignored him.

  “She is like unto a princess, Axennus. You are but a merchant’s son and a soldier. There can be nothing between you.”

  “Is that so?” Axennus smirked. “Am I permitted no romance?”

  “Your great romance is with yourself alone, Axo. Your desire for her will prove but a tangent in the tale of your sundry interludes and sordid adventures.”

  Axennus placed the silver chain of his office about his neck, taking great care that it rested in perfect symmetry.

  “Tell me, Bron, what greater adventure can there be than the epic enterprise of love?”

  Love? Bronnus’ brows knotted into thunderclouds of consternation.

  “I worry for your mind, little brother. Reason oft abandons a man in the presence of beauty such as her own. And should war, as you say, truly be approaching, you will need what little reason you do possess.”

  Axennus waved one hand dismissively. Laughed.

  “Love and war defy reason, both, dear Bronnus. Tell me, what place has reason in a world ruled by primal emotion?”

  Bronnus only grumbled something unintelligible in response.

  “Ah, my good Bronnus,” Axennus sighed, “your concern is as appreciated as it is unnecessary. You will make some hapless child a fine father one day.”

  The Iron Captain’s countenance contorted into a masque of explicit exasperation.

  The sound of approaching footfalls came then, followed by a quick rap and a guardsman’s voice announcing the arrival of the Shield Maiden, the brothers’ escort to the Hearthhold of Alvarion and Cerriste of the House of Defurien.

  “Come, Captain,” Axennus said with a sly smile, patting Bronnus on his bristling back and brushing past him in a whirl of Erelian blue. “The Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar await us.”

  The sight of several grey figures, grey ghosts in the rocklight, recalled the Captain from his reverie. A woman of the Fiannar approached eastward along the Hall of the Hallowed, warded upon each side and fore and aft by a smokelike sentinel of the Grey Watch. And as the Fiannian woman neared them, Bronnus and Axennus marked that she resembled strikingly their own escort, both in beauty and in bearing, though she was taller than Caelle, and lines of silver accented her long dark hair.

  The woman cradled a small bundle of soft cloth in her finely toned arms, holding it closely, caringly to her bosom. And as she and her guard came up to them, the brothers noted that within the folds of cloth could be seen a tiny head of full dark curls, and wide eyes of the brightest and most startling grey.

  “She is Taresse,” the Shield Maiden informed the brothers Teagh, “governess to the infant Aranion, son of Alvarion and Cerriste.” Caelle smiled as her gaze fell upon the clear eyes of the little Lordling. “Taresse is also wife to Eldurion, and – of some lesser distinction – mother to my own self.”

  “Beauty is in the blood,” the Ambassador murmured beneath his breath.

  “The sun of the morning to you, mother,” greeted Caelle cheerily.

  “To you also, dearest,” replied Taresse. Her voice was like wind on water. “And to our Erelian friends.”

  The governess did not slow as she passed, and both brothers noticed that the warders of the Grey Watch, long swords naked in their strong hands, eyes coldly alert and aware, had moved minutely, almost imperceptibly nearer to Taresse and her charge. Any threat of harm to the infant Lordling, the Southmen knew, would be met with swift and certain death.

  “A handsome child,” Axennus said in admiration when Taresse, her charge and their grey guard had passed. “And ably warded, I see.”

  “Aranion is the future of the Fiannar,” Caelle said simply.

  The Shield Maiden then proceeded with her narrative of the Hall and of those whose histories it held holy.

  “And there we have Lord Amarien, eleventh Lord of the Fiannar, son of Alvarion the First, and father to Alvarion the Second who rules now in Druintir. Amarien’s time was shorn short by an ill-fated venture excessively south and east into hostile lands. Two hundred Deathward vanished into the arid wastes of the Dunelands, with neither trace nor rumour of their end.” The Shield Maiden sighed in sorrow. “The Lost Legion of Amarien. May they forever bask in the Light.”

  The Ambassador frowned as he gazed upon the stone rendering of Amarien. “With neither word nor trace, how may you be so certain that this Lost Legion is truly fallen?”

  Caelle remained silent for a moment, pondering the wisdom of disclosing such information to the Erelian. Concluding there could be no harm, she responded –

  “Amarien bore with him into the dusts of the Dunelands the Blade of Defurien. When the bearer of the Blade is slain, and the Blade not taken up by another of the House of Defurien, the gold of the Colossus’ sash and sword turns to stone. This the Fiannar did see come to pass one hundred years ago, when Amarien had gone into the East.

  “Then, in much haste and with heated heart did Eldurion, my father, ride southeast, and with the aid of Amarien’s Seer he discovered Grimroth, the Blade of Defurien, buried beneath the shifting sands of the Great Desert. But of the Lord Amarien and his brave company no further sign was ever seen. The sands had taken all.”

  Axennus stared into the stone eyes of the noble Lord before him. There was a subtle strength there, an elemental endurance – Amarien’s majesty immortalized in chiseled rock.

  The Shield Maiden sighed once more, her sorrow deepening.

  “When Lord Amarien departed on his ill-fated journey, Eldurion remained at Druintir to be with my mother at my birth. To this day, Eldurion feels he failed in his charge as Marshal of the Grey Watch, and he blames Amarien’s death on his own absence – a dereliction of duty, of sorts. He has not forgiven himself.” A third and saddest sigh. “I fear he may never do so.”

  Teller of the Tale! Axennus exclaimed inwardly, as the realization struck him: She is one hundred years old!

  But the Ambassador’s agile face suppressed any visible surprise, and his mouth managed, “Eldurion is an honest and honourable man, Shield Maiden. Such a man will oft blame himself more readily than he would others, and where he might find in him forgiveness for another, he might find none for himself.”

  The Ambassador paused, perceiving the dismay etched upon the Fiann’s fine features, a ghostly crepuscule of sorrow in the stoneshine.

  He then added, “But the same man will ever have the wisdom to make peace with himself before he comes to the end of his tale. Of that, my dear friend, you may be assured.”

  Caelle’s lips eased into a smile, and light returned to her eyes.

  “You are an insufferable optimist, Southman.”

  “I will give you the ‘insufferable’ of that statement, Shield Maiden,” the Iron Captain grumbled gruffly.

  “And I would have you return it to him, Shield Maiden.”

  The F
iann grimaced. “I could never accept from either of you that which you both obviously find so endearing.”

  Axennus grinned like an imp.

  “I believe we both lost that battle, brother.”

  “The gold of this last pillar remains ungraven,” the Ambassador observed as they came to the end of the Hall of the Hallowed, “and the alcoves stand empty.”

  Caelle nodded.

  “The tale of Alvarion and Cerriste is but partly told. The work of Aranion’s own hands will honour them when their tale is ended.”

  Axennus noted that there remained no allowance of space for a column and statuary to commemorate Aranion’s future rule, but of this he said nothing – for an intuitive fear warned him that such an observation might recall Caelle to dismay.

  The threesome then came to the Door of Lords, the great arched egress from the Hall of the Hallowed. Upon each side stood what at first glance appeared to be stone statues of warders of the Grey Watch, still and cold and sword in hand – but these were living men, though they were as near to rock as flesh and bone might ever seem.

  Axennus leaned toward Caelle.

  “Do they blink?”

  “Hush, Southman,” she reprimanded. “These are men you would not wish to rouse.”

  Into the shimmering stone of the arch of the Door of Lords had been hewn strange hieroglyphs, to which the Shield Maiden spoke secret words of power in the Old Tongue, then passed beneath, moving between the warders of the Grey Watch unaccosted.

  The Erelians followed in silence, twin tingles of trepidation tracing icy trails along their spines. They, too, passed without waylay, but had taken only a few strides down the connecting corridor when they heard the sound of brisk and heavy footfalls approaching them. And following those footfalls was the form of a formidable Fiannian warrior.

  The Fian was huge, both tall and broad, his long black hair spilling over his wide square shoulders, and in his hard and grizzled face bright eyes burned with a cold fire. Above one shoulder could be seen the haft of the gigantic greatsword bound across his mighty back, following the diagonal of his rillagh, the corresponding sheathless tip of the weapon threatening to score the ground at his booted feet. And about him whirled an air of heated wrath and haughty pride.

  “Master Tulnarron,” Caelle greeted with a small smile.

  But the great Fiannian warrior passed in a storm of silence with no more than a curt and cursory nod.

  “The Master of the House of Eccuron is in ill humour this morning,” Caelle commented quietly when Tulnarron had gone.

  “The power and peril in him,” Axennus whispered, “is easily perceived.”

  “Verily, Southman,” replied the Shield Maiden. “Tulnarron is the Fiannar’s strongest sword.” A small pause, then, “Come, my Erelian friends – the hospitality of the House of Defurien awaits you.”

  Moments earlier, in the Hearthhold beyond the Door of Lords:

  “Nay, Master Tulnarron,” the Lord Alvarion said quietly, emphatically. “That concession I cannot make. My authority on this matter may not be questioned.”

  The Lady Cerriste, Marshal Eldurion and the Seer Sarrane stood in silence, bearing solemn witness to the struggle of wills between the Masters of the Fiannar’s two highest Houses.

  Tulnarron glowered, an icy heat flaring in his eyes.

  “I question not your authority, Lord Alvarion,” he replied, the deep bass of his voice held calm in the rigid grip of respectful self-control, “but rather your wisdom.”

  “My wisdom, Master Tulnarron?” echoed the Lord of the Fiannar softly. “Please, do elaborate.”

  Reflexively, Tulnarron drew himself to his full and formidable height.

  “You have decreed our women are not to fight at Eryn Ruil, thus denying us twenty hundred able swords. Although I am in disagreement with this decision, I comprehend the reasoning at its core.”

  Alvarion nodded slowly.

  “But denying the Fiannar one of our mightiest blades in this battle at Eryn Ruil defies all reason, all wisdom.”

  Another slow nod.

  “Arumarron’s battle-skill may be matched by fewer Fiannar than I have fingers on my hands,” persisted the Master of the House of Eccuron, “and you would deny us his sword, and forbid him the fame of his forefathers.”

  “I forbid Arumarron only the fate that is to find overmany sons of the Fiannar in this fight at Eryn Ruil,” responded Lord Alvarion evenly. “Your paternal pride in Arumarron blinds you, Master Tulnarron. Would you see your own and only son slain shy of his sixteenth summer?”

  “Arumarron will survive us both, Lord,” stated Tulnarron. “Of that you may be certain. Has not Sarrane, your Seer – and my wife and Mistress of my House – seen this?”

  Alvarion sighed inwardly.

  “She has seen this, Master Tulnarron. But have you not considered that this may be because I hold to our Law that not one of the Fiannar may march to war should he or she have seen fewer than twenty-one summers on this Second Earth? Think you not that my decree assures Arumarron’s survival, so that in time he might do proper honour to the name of his father and to his father’s House?”

  But the Master of the House of Eccuron was unmollified.

  “Lord Alvarion, you will have need of my son’s sword in this coming battle.”

  Alvarion nodded a third time.

  “I will have need of many things when war comes to Eryn Ruil, Tulnarron,” he conceded. “But young Arumarron’s doom upon my conscience does not number among them.”

  The voice and visage of the Lord of the Fiannar were firm, final.

  Tulnarron glared, and in his eyes were fire and ice, both the still and the storm. His heart burned. But the martinet within the Master forbade him any true display of disrespect, any greater degree of dissention. He had pressed Alvarion as tenaciously as the propriety of his position permitted. He had been refused.

  Tulnarron lowered his eyes respectfully. Fisting his rillagh, he spun on his booted heel, and with no further word the Master of the House of Eccuron departed the Hearthhold of his Lord.

  Alvarion turned to the tall bright form his Seer.

  Sarrane returned his small smile with a nod.

  The Hearthhold was a cavernous chamber wrought of the rock of the earth, its walls arcing majestically to a high and lofty dome. Upon the curvature was carven a forest of stone oaks, branches interweaving overhead like a thousand entwined arms uplifted toward the central circle of a stone sun. The intricately chiseled bark of the trees shimmered softly as though with silvery moss, and amidst the canopy glistened stalactitic mistletoe. Betwixt the mighty trunks of the stone grove were several doors, visible only because they were ajar, indicating a complex of chambers and corridors beyond. At the center of the smoothly polished floor was a great dais of sculpted marble, atop which was raised a cairn of stones. These stones burned with a strangely flameless fire, shedding light and warmth throughout the Hearthhold. And about the dais were several chairs and small tables, suggesting welcome and comfort, despite the unforgiving rock of which these had been formed.

  “Lady Cerriste, Lord Alvarion,” proclaimed the Shield Maiden Caelle as she entered the Hearthhold of those who ruled in Druintir, “Master Axennus Teagh, Ambassador of the Erelian Republic to Lindannan. And his brother, Captain Bronnus Teagh of the Ambassadorial Guard.”

  The Lady Cerriste rose from her seat, elegant, splendid, a smile upon her lips and a welcoming light brightening the grey of her eyes.

  Lord Alvarion turned from Eldurion and Sarrane with whom he had been speaking. He smiled pleasantly, but the smile seemed not to reach his steely eyes.

  Axennus Teagh bowed low before Lord and Lady, the silver chain of his office dangling loosely below his breast, catching and reflecting the ruddy flamelight of the Hearth.

  At the Ambassador’s side, the Iron Captain lowered himself on bended knee.

  “On behalf of the people of the Erelian Republic,” said the Ambassador, his eyes upon the floor of polished
stone, “I extend to your Lordship and to your Ladyship the most sincere of gratitudes for the invitation to establish a Republican Embassy in glorious Lindannan, for the wonderful hospitality we have received, and for the magnificent White Manor with which you have so generously gifted us. Your kindnesses honour us greatly.”

  Lord Alvarion waved the words aside.

  “Small things all, Ambassador.” His voice was cool, infused with a hard softness.

  “Be welcome, Masters Axennus and Bronnus Teagh of Hiridith,” said Cerriste. Her own voice was gentle and feminine, but was no less possessed of strength, of salience, than was her husband’s.

  “Rise, friends,” commanded Alvarion. “There are no thrones in Druintir.”

  Axennus straightened. He smiled faintly.

  “Nor in Hiridith, Lord Alvarion, not for a long time – though I have oft opined that the Silver City could use one once more.”

  Bronnus rose, as did the hair at the base of his skull.

  A singular gleam crept into the altostrati of Alvarion’s eyes.

  “Such an opinion is more appropriate than you can possibly know, Axennus Teagh of Hiridith.”

  Axennus did not comprehend the comment, but he knew hidden import lay in the Fiannian Lord’s words. Elucidation, however, did not appear to be immediately forthcoming.

  And so, “Not possibly, my Lord,” he agreed quietly.

  The Erelians gazed upon the two high ones of the Fiannar.

  Each was tall and regal, emanating a subtle but sure majesty – austere, commanding, strong. Both were garbed in green and grey. Neither was overly adorned: The Lord with only a single wedding band about one wrist and the rillagh of the House of Defurien across his breast; the Lady with these and a slim golden necklace about her throat. Axennus was impressed by their modesty, their simplicity. And oddly, he felt more at ease in their presence than he had upon his awe-marked initial encounter with Caelle and her companions below Doomfall.

  “I think, perhaps, we may forego formalities, Ambassador,” suggested the Lord of the Fiannar. “You may call me Alvarion.”

  “And, please,” spoke the Lady, smiling pleasantly, “I am Cerriste.”