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

by Sean Rodden

  Dead.

  Yllufarr rose from his wary crouch. Cold hard Canneas slipped into a sheath concealed in the Ath’s chasuble, the swart silk sighing with the satisfaction of receiving at long last a prize so long lost. He lowered the butt of his spear to the bones at his boots. Stared upon the ruination of Ulviathon.

  Dead.

  The Sun Lord waited. His pale eyes narrowed. He withdrew the stealthy tendrils of his consciousness, pulling them back behind his eldritch ward. With but a flick of his mind, he reinforced the grid of the guard. Sniffed, tasted the air.

  Dead.

  The Prince of the Neverborn lowered his gaze, closed his eyes. Calmed his surging spirit. Concentrated. For he sensed something. Something was amiss. Something was awry. Something. Something was –

  Dead…wrong.

  And in the shattered fraction of an instant the world went utterly white.

  With a flourish fast upon fury, the Lord of the Shaddathair threw wide his arms. Power swelled and crackled in the upturned palms of his hands. His tattered black hood fell away from his head as he arced his neck backward, and a mane of milk-white hair spilled forth, long and loose, pale whips snapping audibly in a wind of the Shaddath’s own making. And then, his eerily beautiful face raised to the ghastly grey heavens over Coldmire, his wide eyes weeping white rage, dark-souled Sammayal of the Shadowfolk began to sing.

  Rundul hefted his war-axe.

  But Eldurion lifted a restraining hand.

  “Hold, Stone Lord,” commanded the former Marshal of Grey Watch, his eyes keen and clear. “The Shaddath only endeavours to deliver on his promise.”

  Rundul hesitated, his weapon remaining half-raised.

  “Promise? I recall no promise. What promise, Fian?”

  Sammayal’s sweet-throated song soared into the overcast skies above Coldmire. The cloud cover churned and rolled, a gelid grey tumult burgeoning toward black, converging from all directions upon the luminous semi-sphere of Maol an Maalach – a silent storm of darkness descending upon a wayward sun. Smothering the light. Preserving the evergloom.

  “That all which occurs in Coldmire shall remain here, my tempestuous friend,” Eldurion replied quietly. “The Shaddath keeps our secret safe.”

  The mighty Darad lowered his axe.

  “Ah,” he grumbled. “That promise.”

  A sudden blast of brilliance exploded in Maol an Maalach, a silent screech of sheer energy, bleaching the bones, blenching the beast, blanching the very air. Only the Sun Lord’s subtle shield saved him – his sacred spirit responding with impossible speed, bending and binding the grid about himself into an impervious sphere of Light. He brandished his spear before him like a talisman of power, of protection, he pressed a forearm to his eyes, his countenance contorted in a soundless scream, every aspect of his being resisting, refusing, resolutely rejecting the exquisite refulgence that bombarded him.

  For Yllufarr knew that not all Darkness was dark, that not all light was Light.

  My dearest Prince…thou hast been sorely missed.

  The Sun Lord’s eyes cracked open.

  And before him burned the sun.

  A being of incredible beauty stood before the yawning maw of the broken beast. An entity of purest energy, of power, a presence more potent and more radiant than any the Ath had encountered upon that Earth, or upon the world that had gone before it. Twice as tall as Yllufarr, as bright a white as the heart of a winter star, the being was distinctly humanoid in form yet indistinct of features. Ageless and androgynous. And the face – rather the place where the face should have been – bore only the vaguest veneers of eyes, nose and mouth, like a portrait gone unpainted, a bust left unchiseled.

  A Hiath. As it had been prior to the Fall. Before the Dimming.

  Ulviathon in its most accurate articulation.

  Absolute. And abominable.

  There was a roar to the entity’s existence, soundless and serene, that pervaded throughout the dome, battering at the Prince’s shield relentlessly, a single endless assault, pressing, pressing, insisting to be heard, refusing to be refused.

  An attack against which the Sun Lord knew he could not stand long.

  And so, he determined, he would not stand at all.

  Thou may kneel before me, little Prince. Thou may pleadeth for my mercy, for thou hast liberated me, freed me from that horrid restrictive shell, and for this, yea, for this, at least, I am grateful.

  Yllufarr did not kneel.

  Ulviathon observed as the Athain Prince knotted a hand in his dark vestment, tearing it from his shoulders and flinging it far aside. And witness! The Sun Lord shone. Clad in streaming silks of gold and gleaming black; armoured in white steel forged of the fire of fallen stars; upon his breastplate an ornate crest of seven flaming suns; long hair spilling forth like a cloak of midnight from beneath an elaborately antlered helm; splendid spear held high in a fist of furious defiance; pastel eyes ablaze like burning ice. Prince and Sun Lord, Yllufarr of the Neverborn appeared before his nemesis even as he had done in the tragic blood-sopped darkness of Gan Gebbernin so very long ago.

  Magnificent. Valliant. Glorious.

  The Hiath laughed.

  Thou wouldst do well to kneel, pretty Prince. To…beg. Plead, thou groveling worm, and pray thou stirreth some ruth in me.

  The shining figure before Ulviathon lowered his lance.

  “There is no ruth in you, demon. Neither mercy nor pity. And a Sun Lord does not kneel.”

  Nay? Haply not. But yea, though I did not yet know thee, I was correct to call thee slinker, to name thee crawler and creeper, was I not?

  “Your command of High Athaic is deplorable, demon.”

  Mock me at thy peril, Ashen.

  The Prince’s silence was the sound of surprise.

  O verily, I knoweth what thou hast become, my dram Prince. I am acknown of how very far thou hast fallen. A shadow of an hundred names, thou art. Yllufarr, thy kin call thee. Fyllur Lumin, the horse fornicators name thee. The painted people know thee as Asme M’rrigh. Lokki, to the horned men. And thy devotees in the demesnes of the blackskins send their prayers to Ashen the Soulless, and glean from thee their own name, the inglorious Ashennim. Thou art beco-meth a rogue, groveler, little more than murder in black, death dealt in darkness. Thou knoweth no honour. Thou dost not deserve my mercy.

  The gleaming form standing before Ulviathon seemed to shrink.

  “I will hear you, demon.”

  Thou hast no choice but to hear me, life thief. Anon thy buckler shrivels. Verily, thy sorcerous shield sags and withers like the skin of an hoary hag. And soon thou shalt burn, yea, burn, naught but a twig in the inferno of mine honey light.

  The golden figure of the Athain Prince stepped back, squinting, one hand raised to his assailed eyes.

  The Hiath laughed callously.

  Dost the light of me accost thine eyes, thou salamander awiggle in the hearth? Thou must findeth within thee the will to forgive me. I was pent overlong within yon drakish shell, and my spirit screams to shine. But I will show thee that I knoweth ruth – for thou art truly pitiful – and I will dim my light for thee.

  The golden antlers of the Ath’s shining helm dipped slightly – a gesture of gratitude, perhaps, or of simple affirmation. The Sun Lord’s form fluttered aside, moving across the bank of bones as would a moth with ripped wings. Shadows ventured forth once more, timid and tentative, yet gradually, steadily reclaiming the deathly dome of Maol an Maalach.

  Prithee, seeketh thyself a route of retreat at thy leisure, thou slitherer in slime. Seek in vain! Even as thou dost begin to burn! Smoke arises from thee. The first flames doth flicker. Thine end draws nigh. And thou hast the gall to style thyself a god! Pah! Patron of murderers, sponsor of assassins – thou dost sicken me so! And in thine ignorance and arrogance, thou dareth deem me evil, when thine own sordid self is the fouler thing. What is my sin most sinister, cowerer? I but serveth my Master, the Un-God. And I serveth Him loyally, lovingly, in His pursuit of dominio
n over those He can control – and the destruction of those He cannot. Soothfast, this is the heart of sentient nature!

  The figure of Yllufarr dropped to one knee as the athamantic shield was singed, scorched, then seared away, swiftly reduced to a mere ball of crosshatched tinder cracking and crackling and cackling as it was consumed.

  Ulviathon shimmered like an angry star.

  Burn, slayer, burn! Thou prideful fool! Thou came to avenge seven hundred deaths, only to achieve thine own. O the sweetness of that song shall succour me even unto the whimpering demise of Time itself.

  The Athain Prince’s form buckled. Collapsed. The spear slid from enfeebled fingers, clattering upon the cluttered relics of the inglorious dead.

  Thou stealer of life! Canst thou not hear the tolling bells of thy doom?

  The antlered helm tumbled to the bones.

  Death calls for thee now, thou killer in the dark. Sweet oblivion screams thine accursed names! Yllufarr! Asme M’rrigh! Ashen!

  Angry flames took the silken raiment. Beautiful black braids burned hot and white like strips of ignited magnesium.

  The Hiath roared in triumphant rage.

  Hark! And thou shalt hear. Thine end is hither, thou stabber in the –

  And the tapered tip of a blade blended of black steel and brightest gold burst through the breast of the enfuried Hiath.

  – baaack.

  The Dam of the Damned blazed within a whirling grey wind.

  The three witnesses on the water watched, their countenances cast white in the shining shadow of what they saw, marmoreal visages etched with varying degrees of horror and hope, trepidation and terror – and satisfaction.

  For Sammayal of the Shaddathair smiled. And the song of his soul sailed into the tumultuous skies. And in that song was the shouted name of manifest triumph, of honour and valour and glory incarnate, of a dream of noble conquest and redemption come true.

  And that name was Yllufarr.

  And that dream was the deed being done.

  The lethal steel of Coldwhisper tore downward through the demon’s torso like a scream.

  In its own mute manner, unholy Ulviathon shrieked.

  Blackness spewed forth from the terrible wound in the whiteness of the beast. Tendrils of diaphanous darkness flailed haplessly. Vile viscera slapped at the water, slopped over the heaped bones.

  The Sun Lord ripped the long lethal blade of Canneas from the demon’s back. He clambered upward to perch briefly upon the fiend’s shining shoulders, then vaulted above the violent lashing and thrashing of its gossamer guts. Landing nimbly upon the bank of bones, he crouched beside the last obstinate cinders of his incinerated shield. The golden figure that had been – or, in sooth, had not been – behind that eldritch ward had vanished, was gone. Nothing but gleaming Sibryddir remained, the lustrous designs of the spear’s shaft smouldering with arcane puissance.

  Yllufarr clasped one hand about Nightsong. Straightened, stood. Coldwhisper sighed as it slid back into its secret sheath. Clad in drab and dowdy black once more – still, rather – the dark Prince of the Neverborn gazed through the coldest and most uncaring of eyes upon the stricken form of Ulviathon.

  The beast railed.

  Thou slitherer! Thou creeper, crawler! Slinker! Craven worm! A blade in the back is all thou art! All that thou shalt be anon!

  Ulviathon crashed ingloriously to its knees, splashing black water, scattering osseous waste.

  Yllufarr hefted Sibryddir to his shoulder. Drew back his arm.

  Assassin! Murdering worm! Thou whore of Gavrayel! Despicable weaver of lies, purveyor of illusions! Curse thee! Curse thee for thy cowardice! And damn me for mine own folly! For I failed to apprehend that in thy perverted pusillanimity thou wouldst refuse to stand and faceth me in the fullness of my power!

  The Sun Lord’s lips smiled. His eyes did not.

  “I stand and face you now, demon.”

  Thou unsouled snake! Thou sucker of a thousand cocks!

  Unhurriedly, almost leisurely, the Prince leveled the smoking shaft of Sibryddir.

  “And in the hallowed names of my slain seven hundred, I would do for you now that which you so recently and so urgently offered to do for me.”

  Ulviathon kneeled before the Prince of the Athair, arms opened in specious obsecration. Its luminosity rapidly waned, subsiding to a sallow and pallid glow. Ethereal entrails withered and withdrew into the abyss of its rent abdomen, like so many wicked serpents fleeing into the belly of the earth from a forest aflame. The vague featureless face conveyed despair more intensely, more profoundly than any mortal countenance might ever manage.

  But the beast remained defiant despite such dreadful destitution.

  Pah! I would ever offer thee naught and less, thou eater of unwiped asses!

  “Wrong, demon,” the Sun Lord replied evenly. “You offered me a song.”

  Thou fucker of –

  And Nightsong sang.

  5

  CARAMEL DARK

  “Mommy, can I go play in the sand pit?”

  “Aye, wee lad, but stay out of the woods.”

  “Momma, can I go fishing on the creek?”

  “Aye, me fella, just stay out of the woods.”

  “Ma, can I go shoot some birds?”

  “Aye, young man, only be sure ye stay out of the woods.”

  “Mother, I’m going off to war.”

  “Aye, all growed up and the perfect soldier,

  so shiny and pretty in that uniform –

  aren’t ye glad I kept ye out of the woods?”

  Amhran Aifile, Ballad of a Rothic Mother

  They came in the night.

  The eastern slope of Carn a Mil Darach shimmered like water under moonlight. The horde of demogorgai ascended the limestone rise at speed, scuttling low to the surface, each close upon the next, scampering, scurrying, a demonic deluge of horror driving upward to the oak-crowned heights. Razor-ridged digits scraped over pale rock, probing tentacles slithered and hissed in the cold northern night, cephalopodan beaks cricked, clicked, clacked, the clatter punctuated periodically by strange hacking barks. The clamour of the climbing creatures was an assault upon the air, within the ear, a cacophony of creeping despair – unnumbered nails dragged across the cracked black slate of the soul.

  “They come.”

  Several hundred paces south of the treeline atop Caramel Dark, the small detachment of the North March Mounted Reserve waited in flawless formation. Three rectangles, the centre unit four riders wide and nine or ten deep, each flank of like depth but three wide. Lance-points and spearheads had been dipped in a clinging black wash to dull their metallic sheens; granite-grey throws concealed the polished bronze of helms and greaves and breastplates; even the horses of fairer coat had been dusted dull with powders. Sure of their secrecy, the soldiers and their mounts shared a strange serenity specific to experienced veterans, both human and equine, in the long plodding moments before battle.

  “In the night,” muttered the Iron Captain. He glanced across to the indistinct figure upon his left. “As you said they would, Axo.”

  Commander Axennus Teagh’s smile was a gleaming white crescent in the darkness.

  “I am a genius, as you know.”

  Bronnus Teagh sighed, looked away, back to the eerily flickering slope before and below them.

  “I am quite aware, little brother. You need not tell me again.”

  “Actually, Bron, I find constant repetition and reiteration to be quite effective, and often necessary, in getting through to you.”

  The Captain prickled. His jaw worked as though he was chewing, chomping on words. But he did not leap to the bait.

  Axennus persisted, “I said, I find constant repetition and reiteration to be – ”

  “Teller’s Tongue, Axo! Will you be quiet? We are about to do battle with… with demons… and you insist upon playing the precocious child! This is neither the time nor the place for such foolishness. You will desist!”

  Axennus
pulled his blanket closer about him, lowered his head, and mumbled something that sounded remarkably like funslayer.

  The Iron Captain growled.

  That gleaming white crescent again.

  And then the March Fox straightened, raised one arm, a single silent finger indicating something of sudden interest on the shimmering slope.

  The throng of demogorgai swarmed up the incline beneath the oak-crowned crest of Caramel Dark, fervent, almost fevered, halting their eager ascent some sixty yards from the edge of the nightbound trees. Amid the army of fiends, their apparent leader squatted upon a significant outcrop of limestone jutting from the face of the cuesta. The creature surveyed the dark line of trees with glistening oval eyes; its quartet of tentacles undulated inquisitively, licking, smelling, tasting the night; the cranial crest atop its narrow head curled to capture either sound or movement, perhaps both, perhaps neither, perhaps another thing altogether. The demon remained thus for some time, observing, evidently content to watch, to wait, to delay indefinitely in favour of absolute certainty.

  Then, at a twitch of the leader’s tentacles, dozens of squids broke ranks and rushed the black oaks.

  “Precisely as you predicted, little brother.”

  With exaggerated flourish, Axennus Teagh moved his extended finger to his forehead, tapped his temple once, twice, a third time.

  “Genius.”

  The Iron Captain’s shoulders sagged.

  The demon called U’alach’a’aa scrambled over the dolostone, tore through the outer thickets, and plunged into the benighted oaks. Falling to all fours, the creature pressed its abdomen close to the moss-softened rock and slithered forward. It paused between two massive black boles, the rigid chitin of its exoskeleton morphing to a deep dark green. The hard lenses within its ovoid eyes shifted and swiveled, its tentacles waving warily, membranous crest curving to catch and examine the tenebrific air.