Roars of War: The War for the North: Book Two

by Sean Rodden

  “Will you speak of it, Heir Arumarron?”

  The titanic teen-aged Fian pressed his lips together tightly, tossed his tawny mane in a single shake of his head. Tielle absorbed this silent oath of confidentiality and fidelity, its meaning and its magnitude. Nodded to herself.

  “Does it frighten you, Heir Arumarron?”

  The son of the Master of the House of Eccuron started slightly, almost imperceptibly. But Tielle saw that her question had struck him, and struck hard.

  “Call me Aru,” he responded at some little length, the velvet in his voice become scored and torn. Evasion, deflection – verbal vicissitudes for which the scions of Eccuron were not known. “Yes, Heiress, call me Aru. I leave you now.”

  Two great strides took the Heir away from Tielle, into the milling, restive ranks of the column.

  And somewhere at the edge of her awareness, a small voice whispered –

  Aye, Tee-tee, it does…it scares the hell out of him.

  The Shield Maiden peered across the pacific waters of the Dragon’s Tear. She stood atop a limestone promontory jutting from the shore at the very terminus of the Reach, the eastmost of the five vast wedge-shaped peninsulas that formed the pentacle-shaped coast of the lake. Fully armed and armoured, her pose was poised, statuesque: Right foot raised and braced on a jagged stone formation, knee bent sharply, forearm resting on her chain-enclosed thigh, gauntleted hand hanging slack; left hand at her hip, light helm held in the crook of her arm, the small shield upon her forearm shining like a silver star; her raven tresses and short riding cloak tossed and teased by the wind whisking off the water, the rillagh across her breastplate a streamer of sunfire on virgin snow; her sapphire-speckled eyes glittering jewels in a face that even the fairest of Athain queens would envy.

  There was a rustle of cloth and the muted clink of metal links at her back.

  The Shield Maiden did not turn, loath as she was to remove her long-seeing gaze from the thing she saw across the water.

  “Well?” was all Caelle imparted to the presence behind her.

  There came the clearing of a young feminine throat and then a half-breathless voice replied, “The Lady Cerriste comes, Shield Maiden. She will be here…ah…soon. I did emphasize to the Lady that she should hasten.”

  Oh, that likely went over well. Caelle suppressed a sigh. The girl takes ‘posthaste’ all too literally.

  “Good enough, Watcher Chelyse.”

  One hand flicked out, tersely dismissing the eager young warder of the Green Watch.

  The soft swoosh of a cloak indicated that the Watcher was gone, followed by a short silence, soon broken by a deep chesty chuckle to Caelle’s left.

  “Not enough sleep, Shield Maiden?”

  Caelle shrugged. “Sleep is valued overmuch, good Mundar. You should know. I understand the Daradur do not sleep at all.”

  The burly Darad’s chuckle slipped smoothly and easily into an amused rumble.

  “You understand wrong, my young friend. We Daradur seldom slumber, yes, but when we do, we can sleep for centuries. Urthrust, a returning to the bosom of the Mother. Fire to fire, rock to rock, we say.” A smile moved in the wind-tossed mess of his blond beard. “If you are going to do something, Shield Maiden, you might as well be good at it.”

  Caelle did not remove her eyes from the disconcerting anomaly upon the distant opposite shore of the bay. The hand at her hip found the pommel of her second sword, a shorter version of the long-bladed weapon sheathed at her right side, her strong fingers worrying the well-worn elk leather strapping the grip.

  “Everything I do, Warder Mundar, I do well.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Very good. I do not respond well to being doubted.”

  Mundar of the Wandering Guard eyed the small raven-haired Fiann for a moment. Evidently, the warrior woman’s unease persisted despite the amiable Darad’s best efforts to alleviate any undue apprehensions. He transferred his coal-black regard to the rocky coast across the lake. That which he perceived there did not alarm him – he was a Darad, and the Daradur were a folk not easily alarmed. Nevertheless, a frown briefly bunched the Warder’s thick blond brows. Beneath his heavy moustaches, his mouth was taut and tight. As though of their own accord, Mundar’s twin war-axes spun in his huge hands.

  Of course, not all apprehensions were without cause, due or otherwise.

  Silence, then, but for the constant warble of water on stone, the grind and crunch of agitated leather, and the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of whirling steel.

  A short distance away, the Lady and the Seer had drawn their mounts to a halt. Both women watched the Shield Maiden and the Darad intently, curiously, and with more than casual concern. Caelle, restlessly wringing the grip of her second sword; Mundar making veritable windmills of his twin axes; outward expressions of a mutual inner anxiety in two individuals for whom such fretfulness was a distinctly alien thing.

  Cerriste glanced toward Sarrane, found neither answer nor comfort in the wine-coloured whirlpools of the Seer’s strange eyes, but only a vague and disquieting vertigo. The Lady willed the whorl from her mind, then looked west across the wide wedge of water to the isthmus opposite the Reach.

  More than a mile from that far shore, and for miles beyond, a vast herd of eilgirra stirred storms of dust from the Erdinnian Steppe. The majestic cervines had been emboldened by the absence of the warokka, rumbling down from their usual grazing lands nearer to the rivers Ruil to the north and Chillor to the west. For days the herd had feasted on the plentiful flora of the southern Steppe, gorging on lavish meadows of sumptuous grass and stretching swaths of siamrach and sugar daisy, and drinking of the cold clear waters of the Dragon’s Tear. But now, huge snow-maned bulls, regal racks glinting bright and white under the high northern sun, mercilessly marshalled the masses of great grey elk, keeping their charges safely distant from the lake despite the discomfort and distress of escalating thirst.

  The Lady of the Fiannar frowned, and her hand clenched the shaft of her staff a touch more tightly. Whatever it was that now kept the magnificent eilgirra from the thirst-quenching waters of the Dragon’s Tear was more fearsome and formidable than the possible return of one thousand voracious war wolves of Galledine.

  I do not respond well to being doubted.

  Caelle consciously chased any and all traces of chagrin from her comely countenance. But chagrin she certainly felt. Deeply. Poignantly.

  What the hell? So rude of me…might as well have kicked the big bastard in the balls. Wait…do Daradur even have balls?

  Something quivered at the Shield Maiden’s brows, cheeks, lips, shaking her concerted control of her expressive visage, but it may have been a scowl as easily as a smile. More easily, actually.

  I do not respond well…the words had left her lips before she could check them, lubricated as they were by a deeply simmering lugubriousness. Realizing that it was too late to retract her words, Caelle braced herself for the garrulous Darad’s inevitable response to them. Her face flushed faintly, her chin rose discernibly, the line of her lips firm and taut – the very picture of indignant defiance, however better suited to the countenance of an advantaged adolescent than to that of a Shield Maiden of the noble Fiannar.

  But no sarcastic reply, no cutting riposte came. Only…whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  Caelle peered across the Dragon’s Tear through a veil of vexed silence. Her sapphire-specked stare fixed upon the unfamiliar figure stooped upon the far shore. Wrenching the wrap of her second sword, she subconsciously considered the conceivable causes of her disconsolate mood. She needed not mull them overlong.

  Eldurion.

  Father.

  Gone now. Lost to her. And whether the treacherous trek across the wastes of Coldmire and the perilous quest into the netherearth beneath New Ungloth were to conclude in success or sheer and utter failure, Eldurion would not return to her. She would never again see within her father’s shadowed hood that particular glinting of his eyes which served as a smile. S
he would never again hear that voice of oiled iron chastising her for an alleged offense, the hard words made softer beneath a patina of paternal pride – a pride provoked by the very transgression and subsequent intransigence that demanded censure. She would never again be enfolded in his strong arms, never again feel his warm, reassuring, loving embrace. And he would never again feel her own. For the only embrace awaiting Eldurion, Eldest of the Fiannar, was the cold clammy clasp of skeletal arms clinching him against the bony bosom of death.

  And Taresse.

  Mother.

  Taresse’s death was assured. She would die in battle – she would fall at Eryn Ruil. There was no denying, no refuting this. Caelle had seen it in her mother’s eyes. Had heard it beneath the gentle timbre of the woman’s voice. Felt it in the unnatural coolness of those soft lips upon her cheek. The daughter had watched the mother ride away with one thousand warriors of the Fiannar to make war at the Seven Hills, and in the stiffness of that straight back had been a grave determination to die with sword in hand, fire in eyes, fury in heart. Yes, Taresse would die – and she would die well. But she would die alone.

  And then there was the Southman. Axennus.

  My love.

  Caelle blinked. Gasped aloud.

  Wait…what?

  The Shield Maiden felt a gentle hand fall upon her shoulder. She resisted the instinctive urge to shrug it away, then sagged ever so slightly beneath the faint yet forceful weight of that familiar palm. The hand lingered for a moment, then withdrew.

  “You are distracted, cousin,” intoned the Lady of the Fiannar.

  Distracted? Hell, try deluded, C’ris. Deluded, demented.

  “As you say, Lady.”

  Releasing her grasp on the grip of her second sword at last, Caelle raised her hand and pointed. Across sun-washed waters, across unobstructed miles of crisp clear northern air, across the ambiguous boundary between what was expected and what was not. The Shield Maiden’s arm remained outstretched, steady, unwavering, until she heard the Lady utter a soft, solitary and perhaps involuntary ‘Ahh’ at her shoulder. Caelle’s hand then returned directly to the still-warm haft of her smaller sword.

  The Lady of the Fiannar peered across the triangular bay to the promontory opposite, where the figure of a man clad completely in black knelt upon the stone-littered shore. A midnight steed watered at the man’s side, its long wild mane spilling like a cataract of liquid mercury about its bowed head. Cerriste’s long-seeing eyes narrowed, darkening for the distance – and for something else entirely.

  The man in black did not move. The fingers of one gloveless hand were submerged in the sun-warmed shallows, as though the man was testing the temperature there, or cleansing a small wound. A veritable arsenal of weapons bristled from his person – the long hilt of a sword protruded above each shoulder, several braces of knives were strapped across his chest, more blades were sheathed at his hips and waist, and other weapons appeared to be fastened to his thighs and calves. At least three bows and as many quivers full of arrows were attached to the horse’s saddle, along with a number of spears and javelins held in harnesses behind the skirt. The distance of the figure and the darkness of his garb made his form seem indefinite, abstruse, almost ethereal, all shade and shadow save where a slit in his black head-wrapping exposed a pair of strikingly bright eyes shining back at Cerriste like two crescents of concentrated moonfire.

  The Lady moved between the Shield Maiden and the Warder of the Wandering Guard, the former to her right, the latter at her left. Her proximity to Mundar of Dul-darad caused the hulking Daradun warrior to still the whirl of his axes, and into the silence left by the vanished whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the blades came a cold precise calm, like snow settling softly on stone.

  “How long has he been so?” the Lady enquired quietly.

  Caelle removed her foot from the rock, straightened. How long…? An odd question, and not the first one I would ask concerning the presence of an uninvited stranger on the banks of the Tear. She stiffened her lips, managed to fight down a frown. Unless, of course, the man is no stranger. The wrenching of her sword grip resumed in silent earnest.

  “Since the sun was at its highest, Lady.”

  Cerriste nodded, folded her hands loosely about the hard white wood of her staff, her gaze leaving the man in black to scan the serene surface of the lake, then flicking back, bright with darkness.

  “You will note his steed is a mor-marran, Lady,” the Shield Maiden imparted, quietly yet ardently. “A black mirarran.”

  “Noted,” responded the Lady.

  Caelle’s fine brows tightened, but no scowl marred her mien, and the sapphire specks in her eyes sparkled and shone.

  “I wonder,” said she, “what manner of man might this stranger be, that he can claim the unflinching allegiance of a mor-marran?”

  The Lady of the Fiannar pursed her lips, but did not reply. The light in her own eyes had become veiled, vague, revealing nothing.

  “I will lead a party of the Green Watch to arrest and apprehend this trespasser,” announced the Shield Maiden succinctly. “We will depart at once.”

  “That will not be necessary, cousin.”

  Caelle looked with some surprise upon the austere woman at her side.

  “Lady – ”

  But Cerriste called crisply over her shoulder to Sarrane:

  “Tell me, sister and Seer, do you detect any evil in the man on yonder shore?”

  Sarrane came to stand upon the other side of the Shield Maiden, the violet rings about her irises emulating the slow swirl of twilit waters around isles of bare stone. She briefly looked upon her Lady, then moved her unnatural gaze to the distant figure of the man in black. And the slow swirl swelled to a vortex of visionary scrutiny.

  “There is no evil in the man,” said the Seer.

  “The absence of evil does not necessarily equate to the lack of peril, sisters.” Caelle’s hand worked the wrap of her sword even as she forced another frown from her face. “I am no Seer, and have not the wisdom of my Lady, but I can sense power, dangerous power, in this man. And it certainly seems the eilgirra would concur.”

  The Lady of the Fiannar turned to the Darad at her left shoulder, her manner uncharacteristically brusque.

  “The Stone Lords are a folk that cannot be deceived, is that not so, Warder Mundar?” She did not wait for an answer. “Tell me, does this man pose my people a threat?”

  The Darad slid his twin war-axes back into their harness, their hafts crisscrossed upon his back. He shuffled from one foot to the next and back again…twice. He made a sound like thunder in his throat.

  “It is true that the Daradur cannot be deceived, good Lady. Likewise, we make horrible deceivers.”

  The Lady glowered. “Threat or no, Warder Mundar?”

  The Stone Lord grumbled something incoherent, punctuated by that odd throat thunder once again. Then –

  “The Daradur have little experience with women and their wonderful ways, Lady Cerriste. And there are three of you here. I must admit, I’m a little overwhelmed.” His black eyes shone, and what could have only been a gigantic grin moved beneath the blond mess of his beard. “I implore you, dearest Lady, leave me out of this.”

  The Lady of the Fiannar stared at the Darad, seemed about to say something, inhaled deeply, changed her mind. She turned instead to Caelle, her darkened eyes cold and hard with command. As was her voice:

  “The man is not a threat, Shield Maiden. He is not to be molested.”

  Caelle’s sapphire-speckled eyes met the cool gaze of her Lady, held there momentarily, then lowered.

  Quietly, “As you say, Lady.”

  A pithy pause, one swollen with things unspoken, and then Cerriste placed her hand over Caelle’s, arresting the younger woman’s relentless ricking and ringing of her weapon’s wrap. The Shield Maiden raised her gaze and more unsaid words passed between the two women. The Lady then released her hold of Caelle’s hand, stepped back and away.

  “We will c
amp beneath the Grey Ladies this night, cousin. Ready the host to ride.”

  The Shield Maiden nodded, brought her fist to her breastplate, pounded her heart emphatically.

  Putting the lake at her back, the Lady of the Fiannar graced each of her three companions with a separate and select smile, then strode away, the steel heel of her staff silently tap-tap-tapping the stone as she went.

  When the Lady had gone, Caelle looked upon Sarrane, the question etched upon her countenance needing no vocalization.

  “I trust we will know soon enough, sister,” sighed the Seer, pulling a shock of silver-blonde hair from her face.

  “And I trust you already know, Sarra.”

  Sarrane peered at her friend, and for the briefest of instants the eddies in the Seer’s eyes fell still.

  “As long as you trust, Caelle.”

  The Shield Maiden started slightly, struck by Sarrane’s admission. But she quickly gathered herself, nodded again, then settled her hand upon the heart of the Seer’s cuirass. Smiling faintly, Sarrane covered Caelle’s hand with her own. Their fair faces glowed with love, pure and true.

  Trust.

  No more needed to be said. Or not said.

  And taking their leave of a visibly bemused Mundar, the two warrior women turned away and followed in the wake of their Lady.

  Alone, then, upon the rocky terminus of the Reach, Mundar of the Wandering Guard released his axes from their harnesses once more, took them into his massive gnarled hands, gripped their solid steel handles tightly.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  The great Daradun warrior stared across the Dragon’s Tear with the brightest and blackest of eyes.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

  Slowly, and with exaggerated weariness, the mighty Darad shook his heavy head. But beneath his bristling beard a gargantuan grin threatened to split his face in two, and the thunder in his throat rolled with ease into a deep chesty chortle.