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

by Sean Rodden

  Alvarion nodded. “And what has come of this council?”

  “Little or nothing,” shrugged Cerriste. “Preparations for war proceed, as do those for the departure of the women and children.”

  Alvarion nodded again, and his brows furrowed slightly.

  “Do not mistrust your wisdom in the matter, husband,” the Lady commanded quietly, knowing well Alvarion’s very thoughts. “The decision has been made. We will away to Allaura. Your logic in the matter is sound.”

  A small pause, a dismissal of doubt, and Alvarion nodded once more.

  “However, following the adjournment of council, two things of some little interest have come to light, husband.”

  Alvarion raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Firstly – Caelle has brought word that we shall have the Erelian’s one hundred.”

  “Ah,” acknowledged Alvarion, “of that determination I was already convinced. The blood of the Fiannar is yet hot and red in the Commander’s veins.”

  “And in the Captain’s.”

  “Verily. And the second thing?”

  “Marshal Varonin reports that the High King Ri Niall of Rothanar approaches with haste and several hundred caelroth from the north,” Cerriste disclosed levelly. “He entered the Miramarch at dawn from the foothills of Rothrange and will achieve Druintir within the hour.”

  Ri Niall!!!

  Alvarion leapt from the rumpled furs of the bed in surprise, bewilderment and kindled hope.

  He immediately received a flying towel to the face.

  “Wash, husband.” Cerriste made a pronounced performance of testing the air, and her fine fair face contorted in a mask of exaggerated disgust. “The bath is readied and waiting, and you are riper than a freshly fertilized field after a warm summer rain.”

  Alvarion laughed outright, almost gaily.

  “You will not attend and aid me in this unseemly endeavour?”

  Cerriste’s beautiful smile broke past her willful restraint, and her silvery grey eyes sparkled with love and humour – and with faith in him to whom she was eternally bound and devoted.

  “Nay, husband,” the Lady declined emphatically. “I have experienced your form quite sufficiently for one day, thank you.” And she turned, took up her staff. “I will await you in the Hearthhold.”

  And Alvarion’s hearty laughter chased the Lady from the chamber.

  The Rothmen sailed the gold-green seas of the Miramarch upon great brown hunters, thick-bodied steeds of shaggy coat and wild mane. They rode one abreast, a long line of worthy warriors, hundreds strong, swords and spears and armour aglitter, hunting cloaks awing in the wind of their passage, their voices uplifted in an ancient song, the melody punctuated by the percussion of their heavy horses’ hooves pounding the pliant turf. Amongst them ran huge rangy hounds, dark and dangersome, howling in strange harmony with the battle-hymn of their masters. And above the line flew the proud banner of Rothanar, a golden sunburst upon a field of gleaming green, flanked on one side by the Emerald Trefoil of the High King, and upon the other by the Black Hand of the much-blooded caelroth.

  On the northern shore of the River Ruil, beneath the sun-bright blade of the Colossus and the billowing banners of the Golden Strype and the Flaming Sword, the Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar sat in stillness astride their noble mirarra. The Marshal Varonin at the former’s shoulder, the Shield Maiden Caelle at the latter’s, they watched the approach of Ri Niall of the Thousand Battles and his guard of caelroth and great hounds.

  “A beautiful thing, is it not, my love?” Alvarion appraised quietly. His eyes glimmered like ice under moonlight.

  “It is, husband,” Cerriste replied with equal softness.

  “Three hundred caelroth, at the very least,” observed Alvarion.

  And Varonin intoned, “Three hundred and thirty-three, my Lord.” The Marshal’s voice was cool, hard. “And sixty-two Rothic wolfhounds. The High King himself rides at the centre.”

  And at that moment the middle figure in the rank of Rothmen, a man broad of back and shoulder, seemed to sight the four Fiannar upon the distant bank of the rushing Ruil, and he raised a clenched fist in salutation.

  The Lady Cerriste reached and took Alvarion’s hand briefly, tenderly.

  “We are not forgotten, husband.”

  And the song of the caelroth flew over the meadows of the Miramarch like the very voice of war.

  Upon the Lady’s right, in the light of the aging day’s sun, the Shield Maiden of the Fiannar smiled.

  Do not allow them to stand alone.

  Rothanar had come.

  The Rothic nation predated the founding of Lindannan by more than a millennium, and had remained essentially unchanged for three thousand years. Comprised of five ancient provinces, each with its own king and united under the supreme rule of a High King, Rothic society had ever been a complex amalgam of mysticism and theology, of militancy and music, of intellectualism and philosophy, of law and chaos. Unlike the primitive southern tribes of Men, the Rothic people had neither required nor desired the tutelage of the Fiannar upon that lordly folk’s coming to Second Earth. The Roths had been sufficiently advanced and structured as a society, and indeed had only looked to the Fiannar for trade, some little knowledge of metallurgy, and lasting friendship.

  In the ancient wars with the Wraithren, of all the western tribes of Men, only the Roths had been able to unilaterally resist the forces of Shadow. And a thousand years after the arrival of the Fiannar, an army of Rothmen under the command of the legendary High King Ri Collunn had slaughtered a massive force of invading Unmen in the eastern foothills of the Peacekeepers, essentially eliminating any substantial threat from those thralls of the Wraithren to the High Land for centuries to come.

  To many observers and students of human nature, the great Roths of the North were a strange, contradictive, even mad folk who found bliss in battle and sorrow in song. But to others, those more apprised of the true nature of the Rothic heart, the Roths were a noble, cultured, contemplative people, dauntlessly brave, a folk determined to remain forever free, in mind and in body and in spirit, to whom war was but a means of ensuring liberty and perpetuating peace.

  As the closing curtain of dusk dimmed the luminous mists of the Silver Stair, Fiannar and Rothmen assembled beneath the great arched and etched dome of the Hearthhold.

  Gathered there for the Deathward were the regal Lord and Lady of the Fiannar, and the tall and powerful Tulnarron, Master of the mighty House of Eccuron – for this last had ever held a great fondness for the warlike Roths of the North, and Cerriste had deemed the Master’s stoked temper might be cooled by inclusion.

  And there for the Rothmen were the High King Ri Niall, small but broad, aged though not bent, of heavy hand and piercing emerald eyes; and Connar, gigantic red-maned Warthane of the caelroth, that fierce and fearless warrior sect of Rothic society sworn in service to High King and country.

  Having eschewed their light armour and hunting cloaks, each Roth wore the traditional garb of their race – a colourfully checked scarf indicative of clan pinned across one shoulder, a dull woolen wrap about the body that left both legs bare below the knees, a broad leather belt about the waist, and tall boots of sturdy deerhide. They bore thick torques of artfully worked gold around their necks, bands of silver about their wrists and arms, and their long hair was curled, braided and jeweled after the Rothic fashion. Their faces were much scarred by blade and blow, and their weathered skin was marked by many a burned brand and carven tattoo.

  And the warm radiance of Alvarion’s Tomb reflected in the eyes of all gathered there in the Hearthhold, lending an amber sheen to both green orb and grey.

  “Fortune favours us, Niall, old friend,” declared the Lord Alvarion, “in that your autumn hunt brought you so far south this year – for the need of the Deathward is dire, and our time short.”

  “Fortunate, indeed,” emphasized the Lady Cerriste.

  An odd light played in the emerald eyes of Ri Niall of t
he Thousand Battles. Then, in the curiously Rothic manner of making statements in the form of questions –

  “Sure, are not the giant deer of Rothanar creatures bound fast and forever to the fate of the High Kingdom? And did those same beautiful beasts not draw my hunt to the very borders of the Miramarch, where your emissaries soon found me and informed me of the your wee…predicament?”

  “A touch of Rothic luck,” mused Lady Cerriste.

  The High King grinned strangely – the humour of Rothmen was ever a queer and peculiar thing.

  “We Roths are a fatalistic folk, my friends, and we hold that nothing in this world goes unguided by fortune. I was on the borders of the Miramarch this autumn because I was meant to be so.”

  Alvarion’s nod was grave.

  “I would request aid from you, my old friend,” he stated simply.

  The heavy golden torque about Ri Niall’s throat shook for the High King’s chesty chortle.

  “And would this request not be overlate in coming? Sure, such an impetration at this late hour would be past redundant and likely avail you nothing.”

  The Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar shared a swift sharp look.

  Ri Niall of the Thousand Battles chuckled again, and furthered, “For have I not already sent in swiftness and urgency word of battle and war to my council at Cara and to the five provincial Kings who rule under me?”

  Lord and Lady returned their grey gazes to the battle-scarred and clime-worn countenance of the High King.

  The great Roth was grinning widely, almost wildly, and his eyes glittered with something like madness – but not.

  And Cerriste surmised, “You would stand with us, friend Niall.”

  Delight seemed to dance in Ri Niall’s every feature.

  “Am I not assuring the Lord Alvarion and the Lady Cerriste that the Roths of the North would gladly wade through the hottest of hells to stand at the side of the fair and noble Fiannar? For do I not commit the caelroth, who number twenty hundreds, and a further thousand from each of the five provincial armies of Rothanar, to this wee fray at Eryn Ruil? And will the Roths not anticipate this most good and glorious of wars with exultant hearts and voices raised in the merriest of songs?”

  Alvarion and Cerriste shared another swift glance.

  But it was the Master of the House of Eccuron who gave voice to their thoughts.

  “It is a thirty day march from the great hill of Cara, friend Ri Niall,” said Tulnarron, “and we have fewer than twenty before war breaks upon us. Indeed, Marshal Varonin estimates seventeen.”

  “Then we will achieve Druintir in sixteen, Master Tulnarron,” shrugged the High King as though the matter was unworthy of discussion.

  “Fifteen,” came the deep bass voice of Connar, giant Warthane of the caelroth. “Fourteen, should the weather hold.”

  “Aye, good Connar, and have we Roths not accomplished greater deeds in times of lesser need?”

  Alvarion, Lord of the Fiannar, inclined his head to the ruler of the Rothic nation. “Your seven thousands will be welcomed with high honour, old friend.”

  The High King clapped his heavy hands together gleefully, and his lilting laughter soared into the warm light of the Hearthhold like a song.

  “Welcome us with whiskey instead, Alfie me lad, and won’t we be marching on this fooking New Ungloth itself!”

  The blush of the following morning had blossomed into the bleached blue of forenoon over the yellowed fields of the Northern Plains. A cool wind had risen in the east, greasing the grasslands with an invisible chill. Despite the hour, the grey of autumnal frost yet clung to the faded gold of the grasses like leeches sucking on the spent soul of summer.

  Commander Axennus Teagh’s long dark hair rippled in the wind where he sat astride his grey atop a small rise. He seemed strangely stern and silent as he watched the soldiers of the North March Mounted Reserve drill below him. Upon the Commander’s right, the Iron Captain observed the flawless manoeuvres of the men with a masked pleasure and a quiet pride. Upon the left, the sapphire-specked shine of the Shield Maiden’s eyes followed the impressive exercises of the Erelians – followed, but did not favour with true intentness, for her concern and her care were elsewhere.

  The Commander, Caelle knew, was troubled.

  “They are as sharp as a well-whetted blade, Axo,” praised the elder Teagh, obviously oblivious to his brother’s unvoiced discomfiture. “They have unquestionably mastered the Fox’s Feint of Rhille-haven’s fame, and seldom have I seen the Scissors and Stones performed so perfectly.” The facets of his chiseled face formed a small hard smile. “These one hundred would shred a thousand Southfleetian Light Foot within minutes.”

  The Commander said nothing, but only stared out and down upon the superbly executed simulations before him.

  Marking Axennus’ reserve at last, the Iron Captain turned to his brother, the question in Bronnus’ dark eyes yet to reach his tongue. He glanced across the neck of the Commander’s lean mare, noticed Caelle cock her comely head toward them, saw her pull a wayward tress of midnight hair from her bright and beautiful eyes. He returned his attention to his brother.

  The Commander had turned his face away, peering in eerily uncharacteristic aphony, eyes east into the wind. Bronnus’ own eyes followed his brother’s, but he saw nothing of interest, only an endless expanse of grassland fading into a far and fogged horizon.

  Then, and without removing his face from the east, the Commander’s voice came as cold and as smooth as oiled steel.

  “Shield Maiden.”

  Caelle started inwardly. He sounds like father.

  “Commander Teagh.”

  “Have you a library in Druintir that I might visit?”

  Bronnus’ jaw flapped open in astonishment, open disbelief.

  “Of course, Commander,” Caelle replied quietly. “Druintir houses such a place, however modest.”

  The Iron Captain frowned furiously.

  “A library? Teller of the Tale, little brother! War comes soon and swift, and you would trade the blade for books?”

  Without turning from the east, Axennus nodded slowly, saying simply but emphatically, “Aye, Bronnus, I would.”

  The Iron Captain glowered in undisguised hauteur.

  The Commander felt his brother’s fiery glare upon him, but paid that particular and familiar flaming at the hind of his head no heed. He then turned away from the east, looked down once more upon the men of the North March Mounted Reserve drilling on the Plains below him. The skill, grace and horsemanship displayed there excited little confidence within him. Rather, he was moved to dismay.

  Bronnus yet broiled beside him, the flushed ire in the Captain’s face demanding an answer, an explanation.

  Axennus said only, “The foe we are to meet on these fields does not hail from Southfleet.”

  The Iron Captain burned, and his brow furrowed further in frustration and in his failure to fathom.

  At Axennus’ shoulder, the Shield Maiden’s fine full lips curved into a slow small smile. And her glorious eyes glittered in understanding.

  Remarkable. Truly remarkable. A son of the House of Hiridion indeed.

  Bronnus grumbled something incoherent but nonetheless obscene.

  Axennus reined his mount about, the mare’s mane fluttering in the wind. He raised a beckoning brow to the Shield Maiden.

  And Caelle laughed aloud.

  “The Fiannar’s humble Halls of Lore await you, Commander.”

  The Halls of Lore in Druintir were anything but humble. A vast and intricate continuous carving of gleaming marble, the library of the Deathward was a magnificent monument to that noble people’s collective love of wisdom and knowledge. Hewn of the stone of the Silver Stair’s higher level, the place comprised a grand central lecture hall and podium and ten surrounding chambers, each of these last a rich reservoir dedicated to one of the denary disciplines of Fiannian lore – Philosophy, Mathematics, Medicine, Physical Science, Astronomy, Languages, Music, History, the
Arcane Arts and the Ways of War – the accumulated knowledge of the ages, millennia of inquisitive intellect captured upon scrolls and scripts and held in ornate armaria, each carefully numbered and titled, generations of genius recorded within bound books and orderly sequenced on shelves of graven stone. Each Hall was a place of silence and solitude, where one might seclude oneself and delve without distraction into the combined insight of masterly minds from eras past and present.

  And it was in the Hall of the Ways of War that the young Commander of the North March Mounted Reserve had chosen to seclude himself.

  “How long has he been so?” whispered the Seer Sarrane, the strange violet eddies of her eyes slowly swirling about seas of grey. A cool concern marked her hushed tone.

  Below, amidst a scattered myriad of manuscripts and time-tattered tomes, Axennus Teagh sat cross-legged in the middle of the etched marble floor, his hair hanging long and lank over the yellowed pages of an ancient text. Silently, he leafed through several pages, then stopped, read intently, then leafed once more. Even his muttering made no sound.

  The Shield Maiden peered down from the gallery of the Hall of the Ways of War. The care evident in Sarrane’s voice was mirrored in the quiet calm of Caelle’s comely countenance.

  “Two days, two nights – and this morning.”

  “Has he taken food? Water?”

  “Some,” replied the Shield Maiden. “Sufficient to sustain him.”

  The Seer’s face was a strange and striking portrait of mystery and lucidity.

  “I comprehend his purpose, sister,” said she.

  Caelle nodded. Something akin to both pleasure and pride danced in her eyes. “The Commander seeks to save the lives of his men.”

  But Sarrane shook her head slowly, the yellow light of the hall agleam in her golden hair.

  “Nay, sister.” The Seer’s whisper was a wisp of wind. “The Southman seeks to save us all.”