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

by Sean Rodden

  “Do I have a bloody choice?”

  Teji Nashi’s smile exhibited an almost impish quality.

  “Well, choice is such an ephemeral thing, you see. Always changing with winds and whims. Commitment and obligation are much more dependable devices, yes? You are satisfied, my friend? Good, good.”

  Maddus frowned but said no more.

  “So,” said Regorius dubiously, “you’re telling us that we’re all conduits. Even Maddy. One for each element. Is that it? Seems too convenient.”

  “Oh, but it is convenient, good Decan, most decidedly so. Serendipity, you see. A cosmic convergence of sorts. A coming together. Everything for a reason, it is said. The Teller’s Tale to tell, yes?”

  “Yes. I do see. I get it now. You are going to possess us so you can secretly spin your spells through us…”

  The Doctor looked stricken, seemed to actually shudder.

  “Possess you? Terrors, no! Whatever would make you think such an abominable thing of me? We are friends, yes? Possession is the work of Leeches and the like, and unlike those foul fiends, I neither defile nor corrupt. I simply ask good things of good men, better things of better ones, and more of you. But be assured that you will neither be coerced nor forced – however, I must reassert that you share our little secrets with no one else, yes?”

  Slow, synchronized nods.

  “Good, good. We are all agreed, then.” Teji Nashi’s intemerate smile gleamed beneath glistering eyes. “We have a little time left to us this morning, my friends. I suggest you avail yourselves of the excellent ethacca elixir to be found in the vials on the table behind you – it will relieve you of all remnants of last night’s revelries. Revive and invigorate, yes? Always beneficial to begin these things with a clear mind, you see.”

  The quartet stared at the Doctor in something that could have been nothing other than sheer terror.

  Teji Nashi’s eyes flashed. Smoke issued from the stenciled dragon’s nostrils. The Diceman removed his small dark hands from the sleeves of his yukata, and strings of golden fire danced between his fingers.

  Ohhh…

  The dragon winked.

  …shhhiiit.

  The morning wind whipped across the Northern Plains, the chill bitter breath of hoary white winter near waking. The Halflord’s ribboned cloak stretched behind him like outspread raven’s wings, inimitably black against the rising sun at his back. His monstrous mar render coughed clouds of moiling mist from its nostrils as it breasted through a frosted forest of thick-bladed giantgrass as tall as its rider. The rimed sedge snapped and creaked in protracted protest, complaint as fervent as it was futile, then seemed to heave a rattling sigh of relief as the great render emerged from the most westerly edge of the field.

  Kor ben Dor halted the beast, rolled his shoulders, his white gaze fixed westward across grasses of more common length. To either side of him, hundreds of black-armoured Bloodspawn mounted on mar rendera exited the forest of giantgrass, apocalyptic outriders of the Blood King’s massive host. All halted, silent and still, their breath blooming and bleaching the cold morning air as they awaited their lord’s lead.

  The Halflord’s handsome head tilted on his thick neck, his gaze rising, ivory eyes peering into the morning skies. High above, invisible to most mortal sight, several infinitesimal specks circled slowly, gracefully.

  Kor ben Dor grunted softly. His render huffed.

  Ev lin Dar appeared at his right. Looked up.

  “What are they, Prince Kor?”

  “Throkka. The eyes of the Fiannar.”

  Ev lin Dar sighed. “We are watched.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose we could not have expected to march across the open prairie unobserved.”

  “No.”

  Ev lin Dar glanced sidelong at her Prince. He had returned to his usual reticence after she had revealed that they had been friends in the time before the pain. He had not asked her to elaborate. He had said nothing, actually, had simply and silently dismissed her. She now regretted telling him. She felt foolish, silly.

  Hurt.

  Ev lin Dar shifted uneasily aback her mar render. Cleared her throat.

  “The Fiannar will be ready for us, Prince Kor ben Dor.”

  “Not for us.”

  Upon the Black Shield’s beautiful face, tattooed tigress whiskers arched.

  “Prince Kor?”

  “We do not go the Seven Hills.”

  “Then where…?”

  But Kor ben Dor did not answer her. Rather, he closed his eyes, spread his arms, his broad black hair-wings buffeting in the cold morning wind.

  And he whispered, “Come to me tonight, Shield…”

  Ev lin Dar was too slow and too surprised to check the reflexive whistled gasp that escaped her lovely lips.

  “…and bring the Graniant shaman, Umbar’hal, with you.”

  Instantly, Ev lin Dar’s throat tightened. She pressed her lips together and looked away.

  “Yes, Prince Kor.”

  “The shaman of shamans might help me recall something of the time before the pain.”

  Ev lin Dar could tell by the sound and direction of his voice that the Halflord had turned toward her. She kept her own face averted and away, hiding her hurt.

  The Halflord’s voice was soft, so soft.

  “I would know more of the time before…of the time when we were friends.”

  The Black Shield turned back to her Prince. The grey skin of her comely face flushed, her lustrous white eyes were damp and wide, threatened tears.

  “I will bring the shaman, Prince Kor.”

  The Halflord frowned, and sincere concern curled the talons of his tattoo.

  “Does the wind sting your eyes, Shield?”

  Despite herself, Ev lin Dar smiled, nearly laughed.

  “Something like that, Prince Kor.”

  Axennus and Bronnus Teagh turned along the officers’ wing of the White Manor, their cloaks yet heavy and damp with the night’s rain, their strides slowed by sleeplessness, their booted heels falling loud and hollow against the pale veined marble of the floor.

  “When do you suggest we tell the men, Axo?”

  “In the morning, brother.”

  “It is morning.”

  Axennus smiled wearily.

  “That it is, Bron. Tomorrow morning, then. It will give us time to think on things, to absorb what we have learned.”

  “Time for you to nap, you mean.”

  Axennus’ smile broadened to a grin.

  “That, too.”

  As they passed the door to the healer’s chambers, a group of barefooted and barely dressed guardsmen partly poured, partly stumbled from within.

  The brothers Teagh turned, exchanged curious glances.

  Noticing them, the guardsmen scrambled to fist the breasts of their nightshirts – those, at least, who were wearing nightshirts.

  “Good…uh…good morning, Captain. Good morning, Commander. Combassador…uh…Ambassador. Sir.”

  “Decan Regorius,” the Iron Captain said gruffly, his brow darkening. “Guardsmen.” His heavy fist thumped his chest.

  Axennus smiled amiably, laughter dancing in his hazel eyes.

  “Good of you to dress for the occasion, gentlemen. Lose a bet, did you?”

  Regorius lowered his fist, managed a crooked smile.

  The others seemed inexplicably stricken, troubled, even traumatized.

  “Are you injured, Decan?” frowned the Captain.

  Regorius’ pallid smile was more of a grimace.

  “Not injured, Captain, no.”

  “Unwell? Ill? Is there something wrong with you?”

  “Neither unwell nor ill, Captain,” replied Regorius, his voice a fatigued rasp. “But I thank you for your kind concern.” He brought his fist to his chest once more. “A very good morning to you, sirs.”

  Despite his unsatisfied curiosity, the Iron Captain found himself fisting his own breast, inadvertently dismissing the guardsmen.

&n
bsp; Regorius and his ragged retinue turned and began to walk woodenly down the hall, back toward their own wing.

  Bronnus glowered stormily at their backs.

  The amusement in Axennus’ smile slipped from his eyes.

  Then, absurdly, Decan Regorius laughed aloud, a bleak and barren sound closer to a cackle, carrying over his shoulder, ringing with a resignation not far removed from despondence.

  “Oh, but there is definitely something wrong with us!”

  The brothers watched the guardsmen’s half-dressed forms diminish down the corridor, the modest torchlight flickering across their shrinking backs like laughter.

  Bronnus’ scowl was scurrilous thing.

  “Do I even want to know, Axo?”

  Axennus’ smile slid into a pensive pursing of the lips, the light in his eyes turning inward.

  “I doubt it.”

  As the guardsmen disappeared in the distant dark, the Iron Captain nodded curtly to his brother, turned away.

  “As I suspected. Have a nice nap.”

  14

  THE RIDE OF THE RHELMAN

  “When the Rhelnian Nation

  asked the Allfather for Wisdom,

  He made sage our minds.

  When we asked him for Strength,

  He made powerful our limbs.

  When we asked him for Courage,

  He made bold our hearts.

  But when we asked him for Grace,

  He made for us the Horse.”

  Rhelnian Creation Myth

  The night’s brief storm had signaled the end of summer’s long slow slide into autumn, and the first dawn of the nascent season was clear and crisp and cool. The sun broke round and red over the horizon, its crimson light seeping westward across the Northern Plains on a brisk breeze, casting the rain-rimed grasses in sanguine shadow.

  Runningwolf’s loamy brown eyes narrowed as he gazed eastward into the ascending sun. A red dawn. The set of his face was as inscrutable as stone. Such a sunrise bodes danger to the traveler. The Rhelman adjusted the bow and quiver at his back, loosened the strappings of the hand-axe at his waist, nudged Featherfoot to a fleeter pace, and rode on.

  South and swiftly they raced, brown Rhelman and amber Rhelnian, pounding the prairie between the Old and the North Roads, where the ground was firm but pliant, and the grasses were long and soft. The huge hard spike of Northhorn gradually passed them on the right, and come the fullness of morning they had drawn parallel to the stone span betwixt the hollow eyes of the Dragon’s Head.

  Runningwolf slowed Featherfoot to a more leisurely pace, and the Rhelman met the eyes of the Dragon with his own, peering upon the visage of the stony beast with both wonder and wariness. The anger he had sensed there during the journey to Druintir had grown, swelled, become a palpable rage.

  And even as he gazed, Runningwolf felt Featherfoot’s flanks tremble for a rumbling in the earth, a deep booming roll in the rootrock.

  The akanga were wrathful and readying for war.

  Runningwolf patted the Rhelnian’s muscular neck reassuringly.

  Be easy, dear one. Within him, the words were soft, soothing – the ancient tongue of his people playing like poetry in his mind. Though they do not ride, the akanga are friend to both my kind and your own. We have nothing to fear from them.

  Featherfoot snorted as though unconvinced.

  Very well, dearest, thought the Rhelman. We will leave this place.

  And he nudged the great amber stallion from a trot to a canter, and from a canter to a gallop, and in moments they were racing southward beneath the unsleeping glare of the Dragon, hurtling past the great dark beast with a speed approaching abandon. Under the soaring sun and abreast the warming wind, man and mount sailed the gold-green seas of the Northern Plains like a ship on a southerly surge. The Rhelman’s long black hair flew at his back, a wind-whipped mane of midnight, as Featherfoot hied forth upon hooves both swift and sure.

  As the sun approached its zenith, Runningwolf, though blessed with the rugged constitution of his hardy folk, felt the first hints of fatigue. Nevertheless, he was also inwardly exhilarated, spiritually invigorated – for were freedom a fire, then galloping over open ground under skies calm and clear was the fuel that fed those fine and fervid flames.

  His visage set with stony determination, his eyes agleam with quiet glee for the thrill of the ride, Runningwolf of Rheln raced on.

  The boy has been in the forest for a day and a night and the greater part of another day. He is huddled in a hollow formed by the roots of an ancient redwood. The hollow gives him some shield from the winds of winter that whip amidst the titanic trees. He has curled his arms about his drawn knees beneath a heavy hide of bison fur. He has packed dry straw under his thick leathers to ward him from the bitter cold. He shivers nevertheless. He briefly considers making a fire, but fire – like food, drink and sleep – is forbidden. The Rite is sacrosanct. And he would rather die than desecrate the treasured traditions of his people.

  He watches. He waits. He believes his spirit guide and protector will make itself known to him. It may appear as a deer. It may come as a raccoon. A panther perhaps. Or as one of the great mountain bears that infrequently defy winter to forage for food in the forest. He must only meet the animal’s gaze in a sharing of souls, in spiritual communion, and then he may return to the village – to the relieved sigh of his mother and the proud smile of his father. He believes his spirit guide and protector will come. It must come.

  He believes. It must.

  The day wanes. Night comes. The cold deepens. The boy has neither slept nor eaten nor taken water for two days and a night. He is cold. He is hungry. And he is alone.

  But he is not afraid.

  With a resolve well beyond his few years, the boy adjusts his furs, rubs cold-numbed hands into his eyes against the rearing threat of sleep, and maintains his vigil.

  Sometime past midday Rhelman and Rhelnian found themselves at the bank of a slender stream, and there they halted their wild run. Wide-winged dragonflies flitted above delicate water lilies; a gaggle of geese dove for silvery flashes of small fish; a red-winged blackbird sang a scratchy oak-a-lee amidst wind-rustled reeds. And upon the far shore, a lone female deer blinked at man and horse warily – then, sensing no imminent threat, she stooped to drink.

  Featherfoot watered, then ambled away, wandering the grassy shore to graze, enjoying the sweet clusters of clover-like siamrach that grew there in abundance.

  Runningwolf squatted and drank of the creek’s cool clear waters, then wetted his sun-warmed face. Little rivulets of water trickled down his muscled chest, tickling his tight brown skin like the furtive fingers of a lover.

  The Rhelman’s flat earthen gaze strayed along the shoreline. Where possible, he, like Featherfoot, would forage sustenance from the land, lest his own supplies become less than meagre. Spotting a small cluster of ripe ruabarri nearby, the Rhelman uprooted three succulent reddish-purple necks from the giving earth. He removed the broad green leaves from the ruabarri with his knife, then returned to his haunches, chewing the sweetly sour stalks in satisfied silence.

  Westward, some miles distant, below Southhorn and above the northern terminus of the Westwall, lay dark and dim Doomfall. Concealed behind its cloak of earthborn cloud, the Pass of the Guard was nevertheless imposing, oppressive, almost menacing. A certain ferment emanated from the fog-fettered gash in the earth, a wringing wrath at once hot and cold that assaulted both mind and spirit, lashing the soul as though with a flail forged of fire and ice.

  Rage.

  Rage was the second of the Sorrows of the Brave, the fourfold griefs that had plagued every warrior among the Rhelmen since that noble people’s emergence from the lost and forgotten East.

  Peril. Rage. War. Death.

  The folklore of the Horse Masters equated these Sorrows with the Four Winds. Peril ever flew upon the North Wind. Rage rode the West. Always had War whipped in upon the Wind of the East. And Death ever soared on the dark wings of
the South.

  As the wind weakened to a whisper, then fell away entirely, Runningwolf nibbled distractedly at his ruabarri. Three of the four Sorrows were manifest – for in the north were the Fiannar imperiled by war marching upon them from the east; and to the west, at the Dragon’s Head and Doomfall, the mighty akanga had risen in wrath. The Rhelman’s eyes narrowed. What death lay in wait in the south? What unseen doom lurked there with a patience both poignant and perverse?

  Runningwolf rose from his haunches. The movement startled the doe and she dashed away, disappearing into the tall grasses of the far shore. The Rhelman peered southward, marking the ominous stillness of the winds, the superficial heat of the noon sun, the very feel of the air. Rain in the night, frost in the morning. Autumn, season of wither, had arrived. Shortening days, fading colours, warmth bleeding away. But fall itself would fall swiftly and soon. For winter, in all its white wrath, was to come early – and with its coming, many things would die.

  The Rhelman swallowed the last of his ruabarri, slid his bone-hafted knife into his belt, and signalled for the rejuvenated Featherfoot. Leaping aback the great amber stallion, he shrugged his indifference.

  Runningwolf of Rheln, citizen of the Erelian Republic, Left Tenant of the North March Mounted Reserve, would not number among those things that were to die.

  The winter has been particularly severe, almost preternaturally so – as though the season itself is a malignant beast, a thing ruled by rage and ruling with wrath, intent upon destruction, decided on death. Blizzards have blasted from the north, whirling winds have whipped from the west, a deep cruel cold has settled upon the land like a shroud of white doom – and many are the old and the young and the weak among the People that will come to their ends in winter’s bitter and baneful grasp.