by Sean Rodden
Advised of the horrors of war-ravaged Var, and aware that the Kyetnik refugees would find no welcome elsewhere in the world, Ri Donnal took pity on the barbarians, and left them unaccosted to their fates in the icy fjords of the north – but not without first, however, extracting from Noth the oath that no Kyetnik would ever make war upon the Rothic nation or its allies. And to this Noth the Red did readily swear.
The Kyetniks then settled the hard unforgiving northern coasts, calling the land Nothira in honour of their new king, and that hardy people thrived and prospered and multiplied where a lesser folk would have found only despair and icy death. Noth instituted a functional timocracy, where only those of proven honour, regardless of bloodline, were given land and title, though to the King these huskarlar and jarlar still owed their loyalty and paid tribute. And the people of Noth honoured the pledge of peace, going to war only in alliance with the Erelian Republic against the Southfleetian Empire, defending trade routes and sea roads so vital to the prosperity of the Free Nations, and providing mercenaries to stand with the Legion on dozens of battlefields across the war-torn Republic.
But the Wulfic raider yet lived in the Nothiric soul, never to perish until the Wolf of World’s Ending howled at the shattered moon and the Serpent of Eternity swallowed Second Earth.
The shadow of Defurien was indeed long.
The marmoreal ridge made a perfect half-disc of the setting sun, a semicircular crown of reddish gold fire on the pale pate of the ancient city of Druintir. Beneath the glow of sunfall, the Colossus cast lengthy black shade eastward, cloaking the company that had gathered there on the Ruil’s shore in premature night. And the rush of the clear cool waters was hushed and quiet, as though the very river sought the solace of slumber as dusk descended on the world.
Alvarion looked upon the Nothiring on bended knee before him, the man’s massive shoulders braced low, his long blond hair splayed upon the moon-white marble of the road like so much straw strewn on ice. The Lord of the Deathward then looked to his Lady, who responded with a vague smile and a nearly imperceptible nod. Alvarion turned once more to the kneeling Nothiring.
“Worship countenances servility only in all things or in nothing, Northman,” spoke the Lord of the Fiannar, cool warmth to his tone. “And we are neither here nor there. I therefore bid thee rise, Earl Ingvar, son of Eleric Bloodhand who rules in Nothira, and treat with us as a friend among friends.”
And Ingvar Dragonsbane, the Mad Earl of Invarnoth, rose.
The Northman was a giant. Of those who gathered beneath the Colossus of Defurien – the Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar, the Master and the Mistress of the House of Eccuron, Marshal Varonin and several wary warders of the Grey Watch, tall men and women, all – only towering Tulnarron surpassed the Nothiric jarl’s great height. And like Tulnarron, Ingvar was broad of chest and shoulder, his arms thick with sinewy strength, his legs as stout and as sturdy as oaks. Balled at his sides, his hands were huge and hard, their knuckles inflamed and knotted by oar and axe and many a brawl. His hair was long and wild, but clean, and retained its flaxen sheen even in the coupled shadows of the Colossus and the gloaming.
“Friendship is the greatest of gifts, Lord Thyrkin,” said the Dragonsbane, his thickly accented voice like the distant rumble of Thyr’s own thunder. “No greater compliment may there be than friendship offered, and no greater slight than friendship refused.”
Stone Defurien reflecting in the blue waters of his eyes, the Earl forwarded a closed fist in the Nothiric gesture of fraternity.
Thyrkin?
Alvarion glanced questioningly toward Cerriste, but she only smiled bemusedly.
Mistaking the Lord’s confusion for hesitation and uncertainty, the Earl lowered his fist, nodded in erroneous supposition.
“But it is also ever wise for the husband to gain the wife’s approval before allowing a new friend to cross the threshold.” His lips twisted into what might have been a wry smile. “Especially when that friend is a northern barbarian, heathen and uncouth.”
“Hardly heathen and less uncouth, noble Ingvar,” remonstrated the Lady Cerriste. “It is known in Druintir that the Nothirings select their princes, and that they select them well.”
The Dragonsbane lowered his head respectfully.
“It is also known, friend Ingvar,” continued Cerriste, “that you were reared in Ciaran’s court and then educated at Ithramis before selling your sword to the Erelian Republic for gold and glory. It is known that you went to war an anonymous son of the North, and that you returned a prince.”
And indeed, Earl Ingvar had the manner and bearing of a prince. He was cloaked in the white fur of the great winter bear, the heavy pelt fastened at the left breast by a brooch of gold in the shape of Thyr’s Maul. Beneath the bruin’s brush glinted a well-wrought birnie of ring mail over a colourful woolen tabbard, and these pulled tight at the waist by a broad leather belt. His boots and trousers were also of leather, both bearing the look of long wear and much travel. The golden torc at his throat was of Rothic design and make, a relic from the years he had been fostered with King Ciaran of the northern province of Uladh in Rothanar. He was weaponless, for he had surrendered his enormous sword and battle-axe to the care of the Grey Watch prior to his reception by the Lord and the Lady of the Fiannar. But his sheer size and strength were weapons enough in their own right, and spoke to the battle-crazed berserker he had once been, and also to the honoured prince of the Northmen he had become.
“I would say much is known in Druintir, Lady Thyrkin,” said the Dragonsbane, the twist to his mouth softening to a true smile, warm and surprisingly wise.
For the Earl’s face was that of a young man, unspoiled by weather and wear, his skin smooth and without scar as though neither war nor woe had ever touched him. His eyes were large and bright, the cool clear blue of a cloudless winter day’s sky. And although Nothiric men were given to heavy beards in which they took great pride and tended with great care, Ingvar wore no whiskers. Only in this was the youth of the Earl betrayed, for his manner was that of a much older man; only in this were the Lord and Lady reminded that the Dragonsbane had seen but twenty-five winters of that world.
“That is true, Earl Ingvar,” answered the Lady. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “But some things remain unknown, even in Druintir.”
“Lady Thyrkin?”
“What brings you hither, Prince of Invarnoth?” asked Cerriste, her tone as direct as her question.
A keen light shone in the giant jarl’s clear blue eyes.
“Much is also known in the lands about Invarnoth, Lady Thyrkin,” he replied, “and the more so since the god appeared before me of a recent night.”
Alvarion and Cerriste exchanged a grey look.
“It is known that the Fynnir are descendants of the very gods,” expanded the Dragonsbane, “that you lie now in grave peril beneath the shadow of war and ruin, that you cannot hope for victory without the swords and axes of the Sons of Noth – and that you would surely fail and fall should I not come to Druintir.”
“Some among these things are more certain than are others, Northman,” the Lord of the Fiannar stated coolly. “Nevertheless, I would know how you learned of them.”
“The men of my warband would tell you Thyr himself, the great god of thunder and war, came of a night of wild lightning and white rain to our encampment on the Chillor, where we gathered in preparation for our departure to Southfleet – for the Empire is yet beyond the Ban of Ri Donnal, and we thought to winter there in the manner of the old ways.” There was dark humour under the rolling breakers of Ingvar’s voice. “My men would tell you that Thyr spoke to me of the rise of an abominable evil in the East, and that he did bid me hasten to the land of the Fynnir whom he called his kin.”
Ahhh…hence ‘Thyrkin’, deduced Alvarion.
Sarrane’s eyes swirled strangely. “Are we to understand that your god Thyr came to you in a dream, Northman?”
The Earl shook his huge yellow head, an insight
ful expression upon his face as he looked upon the Seer.
“You are to understand no such thing, Witch,” he replied respectfully. Witches were held in high honour among the Nothirings of the North. “I do not dream, nor have I ever done, though mayhap it is only that I cannot recollect that which I have seen of the Other Side in the night.”
“So you contend that Thyr the Thunderer descended from Valdarra, strode into your camp of a rainy night, and sent you to us on a mission of salvation,” said Tulnarron, a touch haughtily. “Small wonder that they name you the Mad Earl.”
The Nothiring peered at Tulnarron with the eyes of a wolf sizing up a rival. A small taut silence passed, the still between the footfalls of giants.
Then, “I was named jarl for my feats on the fields of the Republic and for the slaying of the serpent whose bones strap my ship. I was named mad for the manner in which I accomplished these things, for the bloodlust that takes me when I do battle.” A hint of that madness clouded the sky-blue of the Earl’s eyes. “But no, Master Tulnarron of the Thyrkin, I do not contend that the Thunderer strode into my camp on the Chillor. Rather, I would tell you that the god rode.”
Tulnarron’s rising wry retort did not pass his lips for the august glare of admonishment given him by the Lady of the Fiannar.
“Did the god name himself?” asked Alvarion from beneath narrowed eyes.
“He did not,” replied the Northman flatly.
Still holding the Master of the House of Eccuron in the steely vise of her gaze, Cerriste said, “I have not seen the god, friend Ingvar. I wonder, does he resemble those whom he counts as kin? I would know his look, that I might recognize him should he come to me even as he came to you, that I not fail to mark his divinity.”
The Nothiring’s eyes seemed to shine with something akin to religious ardour – or it may have simply been humour.
“You would not mistake him, Lady Thyrkin,” he answered, “for he is tall and mighty and fair to look upon. His locks are of sunfire and his eyes are shining stars. His skin is as smooth and as white as mammoth ivory. The cloak he wears close about him is surely a cutting of the very evening sky, only softer and more blue. His armour is of a divine white metal that glistens of its own accord, like silver but not, and his sword is made of golden flame. Light and power and majesty emanate from him as though these are his flesh and blood and bone. And his voice is the song of a thousand thunders.”
Alvarion and Cerriste shared a swift look. And in that moment a thing passed between them. A memory of wistful words spoken in the light of the Stone of Scullain.
I only wish I could do more, and do so more immediately.
Freed from the shackles of the Lady’s gaze, “But does your god of thunder and war not wield a maul, noble Earl?” Tulnarron contested. “Or did this escape your scrutiny for all the sunfire and starshine?”
Alvarion started in vexation, but his wife’s calm expression stilled the cool remonstration reflexively rising to his tongue. Tulnarron had never weathered waiting well, and now the prolonged tedium that frequently preceded war had withered him, made him irritable. And Alvarion could not truly blame him. The Lord made a mental note to find something for the Master to do.
Lord Alvarion looked upon the Nothiring, expecting to see anger colouring the Northman’s countenance.
But the Dragonsbane only smiled.
“Nay, Master Tulnarron,” he replied, a wisdom that belied his youth swimming beneath the waves of his words. “But then, I toiled many a long night of my later boyhood in the libraries at Ithramis, seeking there tales and histories that my own folk do not know. Thus I have some knowledge of the Athair who dwell so near to Nothira in secrecy and silence behind holy Vallagard.”
“Why do you speak of the Neverborn, Earl Ingvar?” asked Alvarion sternly.
“Because I saw upon the banks of the Chillor what my huskarlar and hird did not, Lord Thyrkin. My captains and warriors saw a god come to earth upon the eve of our departure for Southfleet, a god bringing word of great glory awaiting us upon grasses much nearer to home than are the beaches of Bhaskar, asserting also that Ustashnir march in the ranks of the enemy.” He cast Tulnarron a sardonic smile. “That my captains did not mark the absence of the Thunderer’s maul was likely more for mead and thoughts of blood and death than for sunfire and starshine.”
“And what is it that you saw, friend Ingvar?” plied Cerriste.
The Dragonsbane’s smile broadened into a disconcertingly childish gap-toothed grin, and the last light of the sun glittered upon the broad blue of his eyes.
“It is in my heart that I saw a Sun Lord of the Neverborn, come from Gith Glennin to call the Sons of Noth to war – though I cannot profess to know his name.”
Another look shared by the Lord and the Lady of the Deathward in the descending dusk. Another thing passed between them. A thing in the tales and histories that Ingvar’s own folk did not know.
A name.
Evangael.
“It is quite fortuitous,” observed Axennus Teagh with exaggerated gravity, “that the Nothirings take their name from their country rather from their first king…”
Caelle’s gay and glorious laughter rose into the night, and the very stars seemed to twinkle with mirth.
“Truly spoken, Commander,” the Shield Maiden replied, her laughter lingering at the corners of her lips. “The thralls of the Blood King would hardly quail at the rumour of a march of ‘Nothings’.”
The young Commander grinned whitely, happy in his heart and soul, then inhaled the cool black air above Druintir. The scent of hope was there, soft and sweet, floating lightly upon the fresh dark wind of night.
Axennus lay upon his back atop a grassy hillock above the Bund, hands folded behind and pillowing his head, his legs crossed at the ankles, his eyes to the distant diamonds of the skies. The Shield Maiden sat near to him upon the blanket of his cloak, slim arms hugging her shins, her fine chin resting on drawn knees. Bronnus had returned to the White Manor, and the Ithramians and the Nothirings had departed for the lands about their embassies, leaving Axennus and Caelle essentially alone in the night above the Bund – though silent spectres of the Grey Watch were never very far from them.
Axennus moved his gaze to rest upon his comely companion, and she smiled upon him, and her smile outshone the Sea Star on Idallinimir above her. The Erelian was for a time content to bathe silently in that perfect light.
Then, at some small length, “Have you thought more on the Ithramian Prince?” asked Axennus.
“On Arbamas?” Caelle’s lovely brows formed a small frown. “What is there to think upon concerning the Black Prince? He is our loyal friend and ally.”
A shadow darkened the Erelian’s features, and the Shield Maiden did not fail to mark the knots of confusion and concern in his brows.
“When we were atop the Bone…before the Nothirings came…we were discussing Arbamas.”
But Caelle only shook her head.
“I do not recall doing so.” She smiled softly. “Perhaps you have… charmed me.”
Charmed, certainly, the Commander thought, but by no magics of mine.
Caelle’s smile quivered at his silence.
Axennus sighed, raised one hand, ran his fingers through Caelle’s silken tresses.
Caelle turned her face from him, but did not pull away. His touch was tender, intimately so, yet innocent. A warmth stirred within her. Her heart fluttered.
And then his hand was gone.
An intake of breath, a small pause, a composition of self. And then, knowing not what else to do, the Shield Maiden sang.
And here words fail. For the Westspeech has neither the elegance nor the eloquence to adequately depict a thing of such pure and profound beauty as the song of Eldurion’s daughter in that night above the Bund. It was the sound of silver moonlight on still waters. It was the cry of the golden eagle under the white fire of the sun. It was the glitter and twinkle of stars in the firmament. It was the very beat of the earth�
�s own heart. It was all these things and so much more.
And at first she sang alone, a single voice rising to the heavens, and there was a beautiful sorrow in its tone, like the sadness of a last farewell, or like the loneliness of love gone unrequited. But then, from the breast of one nearby but unseen, another voice joined in the song. And then another, and another. A few became several, and several many, from the island of Hora Erdine to the Seven Hills of Eryn Ruil, in the Arms of Branne and aside the Silver Stair, on the Miramarch and in the Gardens of Galledine, throughout the streets of Druintir and in the Hearthhold of the House of Defurien, until every Fiannian throat in Lindannan shared the soaring song of the Shield Maiden in a chorus of risen thousands.
And upon the height of Idallinimir, the Sea Star of Defurien blazed bright and white, and its brilliance scattered the night. And the sky became a canvas of colour, broad strokes of violet and emerald, soft highlights of sapphire and gold, slowly swaying and mingling, moving to the melody of the Shield Maiden’s song. And for a time, beneath the light of the aurora, within the sweetness of the song, there seemed there was no evil, no ill, no wrong in the world.
And then the song was done.
Long and sorrowful was the silence that ensued.
In time, “Other than that which is your own, Shield Maiden, I had not thought such beauty remained on this earth.” Axennus’ words were breathless, like the voice of a lover in the after-moments.
“It is called the Laleth Mennillad,” Caelle said softly, “the ‘Lament of the Departed’, sung by fair Aeline long ago upon her departure from the First Earth.”
“A song for your father, then,” Axennus surmised sympathetically.