by Sean Rodden
Alvarion gestured toward the Seer and the Marshal.
“You have made acquaintances with both Sarrane and Eldurion, I am told.”
The Seer inclined her head toward the Erelians, and grey Eldurion nodded curtly, the light of the Hearth glinting in his eyes like sunlight on steel.
Axennus shivered inwardly as he recalled his recent abashment before the grim Marshal of the Grey Watch.
“I have, indeed. Call me Axennus, if you will.”
“Bronnus,” said the Iron Captain.
The Lord of the Fiannar nodded, and something of a sigh passed his lips. He seemed a man with many cares, both lesser and greater. But his eyes were clear and cool, and his demeanor marked by a most steadfast calm. His voice was stolid, steady.
“My cousin tells me you are something of a historian, Axennus.”
Cousin?
The Ambassador could feel Caelle’s mischievous grin at his back.
Cousin?
Axennus’ agile mind processed the information swiftly, efficiently, almost instantly, and then there came laughter to his heart, and light to his eyes.
“Evidently, the Shield Maiden is substantially more liberal in recounting the distinctions of others than she is in relating her own.”
The Lady laughed.
“The Fiannar are not a boastful folk, Axennus.” She gestured toward the loose ring of empty chairs. “Please, my friends, sit in comfort. Husband, some morningwine, if you would be so kind.”
But the Shield Maiden waved Alvarion into his seat.
“Rest yourself, cousin,” said she with a smile, and moved toward an aperture between two trunks of sylvan stone.
Lowering himself into a chair, the Ambassador sensed Caelle’s presence depart the chamber, like the sough of a softly scented summer wind come and gone.
“A remarkable woman,” Alvarion commented quietly, his grey gaze falling upon Axennus like that of a physician seeking a wound. A lone finger tapped the tattered scar tissue decorating one cheek.
The Ambassador lowered his eyes. “That she is,” he agreed, his voice little more than a whisper.
Beside him, Axennus sensed Bronnus shift slightly in his chair. But Axennus knew his brother’s discomfiture was one of mind rather than of body.
Alvarion’s eyes seemed as grey and as distant as a clouded sky.
“There is more of our grandfather in my cousin Caelle than there is in my own self,” the Lord mused. “A truth that serves us well in these darkened days. Did you know that the Shield Maiden counts among the Fiannar’s strongest swords? Likely not. Remarkable as she is, my cousin remains a modest woman.”
“Revelations abound, it seems.”
“Indeed, Axennus. Indeed they do.”
They sat in silence for an extended moment.
Grim Eldurion remained standing at his Lord’s side, his gaze as cold and as gleaming as the bare blade in his belt. Sarrane drifted away, her presence but a brush of silk behind the eyes.
Alvarion peered at the Ambassador from above steepled hands.
Axennus felt as though his very soul was being probed, measured, weighed. He sensed intuitively that there was more to this interview than the cordial reception by one nation’s rulers of another’s appointed delegate. There was something deeper, and perhaps darker, to his host’s intent.
“What know you of the history of our two peoples, Axennus Teagh of Hiridith?” asked the Lord Alvarion.
“Little enough,” replied the Ambassador, wondering what possible purport the question might carry. “I know only that which is found in the old tomes, and that which the Shield Maiden has shared with me. Like their years, the memories of Men are far shorter than those of the Fiannar.”
Lord Alvarion nodded once, twice – the first in acknowledgement of Axennus’ response, the second indicating the dais of sculpted stone.
The dais was old, probably ancient, its intricately chiseled surface a chaotic collage of war, of battle between forms fierce and fair and shapes darksome and demonic, of pain and blood and death, but also of valour and of glory.
“A rendering of the Fiannar’s final battle against Unluvin the Deceiver in the long and ruinous war for First Earth,” explained Lord Alvarion, “before the coming of brave Vallian to the shores of this world.”
“A beautiful piece,” complimented Axennus, contemplating the carven rock with appreciation. The invisible fire of the cairnstones reflected upon his pupils, and a question rose in his mind.
“The firestones that burn upon the Hearth,” said Alvarion, although the Ambassador had not spoken the question aloud, “like the stoneshine of the Hall of the Hallowed, are a gift from the Daradur of Ora Undar. I know not how these stones burn with benefit of neither fuel nor source – the Stone Lords have an intimacy with the natural powers of the earth to which even the Fiannar are not privy. These firestones were gifted by the Daradur to my grandfather, he whose name I so undeservedly share, following the last great war against the Wraithren.” He smiled grimly. “My grandfather was blessed or burdened with a black humour, thus due to its resemblance to the piled stones that oft mark a man’s grave, he called this cairn ‘Alvarion’s Tomb’.”
The Ambassador stared in attentive silence, seeking the elusive import of the Lord’s words. He had read of the Wraithren, the legendary foe of the Fiannar. He had plunged into the old mythologies as a child, enthusiastic and eager for tales of adventure, giving little consideration to the historical accuracy of those stories of heroes and demons and the great wars of olde. The Wraithren. Were they the enemy that threatened the Fiannar of this day? Had they emerged from the murkish mists of mythos to march upon Druintir, last bastion of the Deathward?
Caelle returned with a flask and goblets.
Axennus accepted the light clear morningwine graciously, sniffing, sipping, then smiling in satisfaction.
“Candiorra White, thirty years old,” deduced the Ambassador, “from the vineyards of the western Delta, from my father’s own winery, or I am much mistaken.”
The Shield Maiden smiled her confirmation, and offered the morningwine to the Lord and the Lady, who accepted, and to the Iron Captain, who did not. She did not extend a goblet to Eldurion, for she knew he would refuse it, nor to Sarrane, who remained aloof.
Caelle then took her place at her Lady’s shoulder, standing straight and strong, one fine hand on the hilt of her sword, her fair face become a marmoreal masque of solemnity.
The Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar shared a brief glance that few might mark, a swift look which carried far more in a miniscule moment than words might ever accomplish.
Lady Cerriste smiled approvingly.
Then, and so very slightly, Alvarion nodded.
“Slan vitha sinn dri clannar.” The Lord of the Fiannar raised his goblet. “To our two peoples. May we ever be as brothers.”
“And sisters,” said Cerriste.
“Ever and always,” Axennus answered.
They drank.
Something of a shadow swam in the grey seas of Alvarion’s eyes.
“My friends,” said the Lord quietly, a cool edge to his voice, “we are bound by more than ancestral blood and olden histories. Oft that which seeks to divide only succeeds in uniting, for few are the ties that bind peoples more surely than the threat of a common foe.”
“Few in times of peace.” Axennus sipped. “None in times of war.”
Alvarion fixed his grey gaze upon first one and then the other Teagh.
“Good Men of the South, I would tell you of the Wraithren.”
The Ambassador gave Bronnus a quick glance of his own, to which the Iron Captain seemed entirely oblivious.
Ah, the Wraithren. We come to it at last.
And so, in a voice as wistful as a wisp of white winter wind, Alvarion spoke of the Wraithren and of the Fiannar’s age-old fight against them, putting into prose the poetry of his father, the Lay of the Fiannar that the lost Lord Amarien had penned in his youth.
“Led b
y Lord Vallian, son of Defurien, the Deathward departed the war-wrought ruin of First Earth, sailing a thousand tall ships across the seas of time and space, so bringing the few surviving Houses of the Fiannar and forty-four thousand war-weary souls to the shores of the Second World. But Vallian and his folk found only a land besieged and beset by evil not unlike that which had caused the devastation of First Earth, a world thrashed and threshed by the talons of terror and tyranny, where all but a few emerging civilizations of Men had been crushed under the maleficent might that afflicted them. The tribes of ancient Man, yet in their spiritual and intellectual infancy, were scattered and broken, suffering in sorrow beneath the Shadow of the Wraithren who held dominion over the world.
“The Wraithren: Kings of War and of Demons and of Blood and of Death, ancient evil entities, sorcerous spirits of unknown origin, each with mastery over formidable and forbidden forces, each with his own massive armies to control and command.
“Kal-suruk, the Skull King, a skeletal shade armoured in steel, feasting on violence and the horror of war, ruled the northeast of Second Earth with an irresistible iron fist. Umun-dron, the Demon King, a baneful and bestial being that had marshaled the demonic refugees of the ruination of First Earth, terrorized the southwest of the Second with fang and claw and wicked wing. Suru-luk, the Blood King, a vile vampiric creature that fed on the bloods of Men and monsters alike, rampantly ravaged the northwest of the world. And Zan-zurak, the Death King of the Wraithren, a phantom that ruled in silence and in shadow in the southeast, a great black wraith of near limitless power, of whom little was guessed and less was known, save only that he was the most formidable of the four.
“The vast armies of the Wraithren raged over range and river, savaging forest and field and fen, making mountain and meadow desolate. They were yet opposed by the defiant valour of the Rhelmen of the South and of the Rothmen of the North, fierce and fearsome folk who would have surely seen their own slaughter before they would have submitted to slavery and Shadow.
“And that slaughter, it seemed, was but a matter of time.
“So the Lord Vallian drew forth the flaming brand of Grimroth, the Blade of Defurien, and led the Deathward into war once more.”
And then Lord Alvarion rested, and the Lady Cerriste took up the tale, her voice like the caress of night, or as the sound of a tear sliding down a cheek.
“The Fiannar joined with the Rhelmen and the Roths and the rallied tribes of Men against the terrible tyranny of the Wraithren, and together they fought a great war for freedom, winning a glorious victory in the vale of Caen-al-Morra. The Wraithren fled into the distant East. A long peace ensued, halcyon days of healing and renewal. Vallian established the realm of Lindannan, where would sit the Lords and Ladies of the Fiannar, and Master Hiridion founded of the realm of Erellan, to be governed by the Heirs of his House. Lord Vallian in his wisdom knew the respite would be overshort. The minions of the Wraithren were massing in the East, and the skies over those dark and distant lands were turned black with ash. So Vallian sent his son, Idallion, into the far places of the world in search of the fair folk of Gavrayel and Aeline, seeking the shining spears and singing bows of the Sun Lords and their bright white Knights. And the Deathward and the mustered might of Men marched to war once more, seeking to strike before Shadow became too strong, though Idallion had yet to return and had sent no word.
“So was fought the Angar ban Maelmorradh, the apocalyptic Battle of the Barrens, where the Fiannar and their allies suffered disastrous defeat, where fully half the Deathward’s Houses were lost, and one hundred thousand bold Men were slain. Idallion and the Sun Lords of the Athair came to Maelmorra overlate, finding only the dead and the despair that watches over them. Turning away with tears in their eyes, they searched for the survivors of that slaughter. Vallian had fought a long retreat to Gan Innivir, the Valley of the Dreams in ancient Eldagreen, where it was decided amongst the Masters of the Deathward and the chieftains and kings of Men that they would fly no more, but would die there in that wondrous place, defiant to the end. The entire valley encircled by the enemy, the doomed allies sung sorrowfully as they summoned the strength for one last stand.
“And then was hope reborn, for Idallion and the Sun Knights of Gavrayel came to Gan Innivir, and a great battle was fought there between Light and Darkness, and Gan Innivir, Valley of Dreams, became Gan Gebbernin, the Valley of the Dead. But the Death King had withheld a great portion of his force until the coming of the Undying to the Angar ban Gan Gebbernindh, and he then unleashed all Hell’s hordes upon the gathered armies of Light. There Lord Vallian fell, and Master Hiridion, and the Rothic High King Ri Connar was struck down, and the Sun Knights of the Athain Prince Yllufarr were mercilessly massacred.
“And then the very earth broke, and grief-maddened Idallion heralded the end of all things, declaring the doom of the World, for from the rent earth rose yet another army, one of such might and power that neither Man nor Fian nor Ath might ever resist. This fearsome force fell into the fray like a storm of stone and steel.
“But then a strange and miraculous thing happened, for that army so horrible and hideous to look upon hurtled into the hordes of the Wraithren, hewing and hammering with a fury and ferocity never before seen upon this or any other World.”
“So it was,” rejoined Lord Alvarion, “that the mighty Daradur first rose from the dark bosom of Mother Earth to defend her from the depredations of those that would destroy her. And neither the Wraithren nor their servants could withstand this new foe, for sorcery could neither slay nor stay the Stone Lords, and to arrow, bolt and dart they seemed impervious. And in close combat the Daradur had – and have – no equal. Even so, the battle at Gan Gebbernin was not soon won, for the very vastness of the Wraithren’s armies denied Idallion and his allies a swift victory.
“But in time, and with much sacrifice and slaughter, the Fiannar and their friends prevailed. The Wraithren fled the field, the remnants of their forces scattered, and the Angar ban Gan Gebbernindh was at long last won.
“And upon that field in the days that followed was sworn a pact between the Fiannar, the Athair and the Daradur that they would ever stand together in defense of Second Earth, though it would be nearly fifteen hundred years before they would rise again as one to meet the Wraithren in full-scale battle – but Mekkoleth on Sark-u-surum is another tale for another time.
“Fortunately, the Wraithren have long seemed unwilling or unable to act again in such concert as they did at the times of Maelmorra and Gan Gebbernin.” Lord Alvarion’s eyes shone strangely. “But times change, and things do also.”
“In Erellan,” Cerriste continued in her husband’s stead, “Carrinthien, son of slain Hiridion, declared himself King, and tribal Man flocked to his crown and banner. And the Fiannar of the House of Hiridion took wives of the race of Man, for their own women were few and of close relation. So it was that over the next millennium the blood of the Fiannar in the South became so mingled with Man, that come the death of Te’arron, last King of Erellan, and the establishment of the Republic nearly one thousand years ago, the Erelian Fiannar were no more.
“The Erelian Republic and Mankind flourished while Lindannan faded, though the Fiannar of the North yet held, and still hold, the eastern marches against the Wraithren. Because of the vigilance of the Fiannar, and the indomitability of the Daradur in their eternal war with the demons of the netherearth, the peoples of the race of Man have been permitted to prosper in relative peace, warring mostly amongst themselves and for causes far less noble than the loves of Light and liberty.”
Cerriste paused, looking first upon Axennus, then upon Bronnus, then back upon Axennus. Each felt that his worth was being closely considered.
“But it is as my husband has said,” she concluded with a sigh. “Times change. Things must change also.”
And then the Lady folded her fine hands upon her lap and nodded slightly. Lord Alvarion sipped at his morningwine. The tale was told. And both high ones of the Fi
annar watched the Erelians with careful scrutiny, as though awaiting from the Southmen a specific reply, a particular response.
Silence.
Axennus searched for words. Found a feeble few.
“A fine tale, masterfully told. We are grateful.”
Alvarion nodded. Cerriste smiled. At their sides, the Marshal and the Shield Maiden stood as still and as silent as the stone oaks etched into the walls. Somewhere on the periphery, Sarrane’s violet-rimmed eyes swirled soundlessly. The Fiannar waited.
Silence.
Axennus could feel his heart pounding in his breast, like a fist striking against his ribs from within. His mouth and lips were dry. His tongue moved to moisten them.
He sought words once again.
Found a few more. These, not so feeble.
“Lord Alvarion. Lady Cerriste. I suspect that war comes to Lindannan and the Fiannar. And I surmise with some certitude that it is the Wraithren who bring it.”
Silence.
But for the gasp that passed the Iron Captain’s lips.
The Lord of the Fiannar closed his eyes, then opened them, his gaze straying to the carven dais of the stone Hearth.
“See you there, my Erelian friends, the warrior with the horned helm in mortal contest with the great and horrible demon?”
“I do,” replied the Ambassador.
Bronnus nodded but said nothing.
“The warrior is Hiridion. He was mighty among the mighty of the Fiannar of olde, and he slew in single combat one of the kuarokur, greatest of all Unluvin’s servants of Shadow. As we have said, Hiridion sailed with Vallian, son of Defurien, from the ruin of First Earth and was the founder of Erellan, the ancient Southern Realm of the Fiannar of antiquity upon Second Earth. It is from him that the Silver City of Hiridith draws its name.”
“This we know,” said the Ambassador.
“The son of Hiridion’s grandson’s grandson was Te’arron, last King of Erellan before the forming of the Erelian Republic by Carrinthien the Second one thousand years ago.”
“This also we know.”
The Lord of the Fiannar leaned forward ever so slightly.