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

by Sean Rodden

  Evangael.

  Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin. Lord of the Sun Knights of the Athair.

  The mightiest of Sun Lords sat fair and fierce astride the regal Thunderlight, more terrifying than any of Mankind’s multitudinous deities of war. Bells chimed softly at the edge of his essence, so faint as to seem a mere anamnesis of music, at once everpresent and evanescent. His unbound hair flew about his beautiful face in waves of wild gold, and his eyes burned with the brilliance of young stars. He was cloaked and mantled in evening blue; his unearthly armour possessed the pale fire of unnumbered pearls; and above him soared a silken pennon struck with seven suns.

  The combatants on the Field of Cedorrin stared up at him in utter silence. Some had tears of joy in their eyes, others gawked in wide-eyed terror. Many were simply bemused, confused. A few grinned grudgingly beneath bristling beards. The triumphant howling of the Blood King’s horde had been shorn short and fast forgotten as their vaticinated victory was so ignobly torn from them. The song of the Rothmen was but a merry memory in the cold dark air. And the cheerful shouts of the Fiannar sounded only in their souls.

  Then, from the luminous marges of the Fend appeared the fabled Sun Knights of the Athair. Only a few at first, emerging singly or in small bands, but followed swiftly by dozens, scores, and finally hundreds. One thousand immortal warriors from another world, another time, whose martial prowess and proficiency were measured not in years, nor even in centuries, but in millennia. And all of them mounted upon gallant and glorious elliamir, all of them ashine with the righteous rage of the Light.

  Evangael raised his sword, holding the blade horizontally before him, behind which he unhurriedly elevated his shining shield. Emblazoned upon the broad buckler was a stylized sun, red and round, and as it rose above the lateral of the sword the solar symbol brightened into a gleaming gold, then burst a blazing white. Calmly, almost casually, the Prince’s gaze sought and found the Lord of the Deathward, and he conferred upon that worthy scion of Defurien a nearly imperceptible nod.

  Look for me when the sun rises in the west.

  He was rewarded with but the subtlest of smiles.

  Evangael then lowered his shield and lifted his sword, and the first morning light glided between the three grassy rises, swept up the slope of the Cedorrin and was snared in the steel of the Sun Lord’s blade. There it burned, a beacon not only of sunfire, but of hope, of faith and fidelity, of all that was right and good in the world. And one by one the Knights to either side of the Prince raised their swords and spears and yellow yew bows until the entire formation of Athain warriors hailed and honoured the sun of the morning.

  Abruptly, and without warning, a great clangour of bells pealed across the Seven Hills, a thunderous booming din, yet oddly rhythmic and melodic, tolling in harmony with the very heartbeat of the earth. And to the martial music of that bellsong the Sun Knights of the Undying brought their weapons to the ready, cried aloud as one, and charged down the Cedorrin. They flowed over the flowered field with the grace of ghosts, elegant and ethereal, like revenants from a realm of white wrath and war. Prince Evangael was ever at the fore, sunflame in his sword and shield and in his eyes, and a hotter fire in his heart and soul. The ground rocked and rolled to the dread drumming of a thousand sets of heavenly hooves, and the sky itself shook beneath an angry empyrean. And the exhausted defenders of Eryn Ruil scrambled aside and away, permitting the Knights of the Neverborn passage unharried, unhindered.

  But the thralls of the Blood King turned and fled, flying headlong and hellbent from the fickle whims of cruel fate, from the crashing cacophony of devils’ bells, and from the golden swords of shining gods.

  Evangael has come, my beloved Cerriste. Yes, Evangael has come, and a sweeter tale has never been told.

  Lord Alvarion watched with his fist upon his rillagh as the wave of heavenly warriors streamed down the Cedorrin, and he wept. He felt as though he might drown in the tears of his own elation. And indeed, his heart may have broken within him had not a woman’s words recalled him from his euphoria.

  “Do not rejoice oversoon, nephew. There is yet much to do. The foe will not fly far – and the day remains unwon.”

  Alvarion closed his eyes, sighed.

  “You are a bundle of cheer, uncle-wife.”

  “Taresse is not wrong, Lord,” confirmed Marshal Varonin. He pointed with his sword. “Even now the enemy regroups beyond the Three Lars. The nearest and the slowest and the weakest among them may have been destroyed before Evangael’s charge, but the core endures intact. Our Undying friends have but culled the herd.”

  Alvarion’s fist fell to his side. He willed his eyes dry.

  “Remind me, good Marshal, to invite neither of you to my next party.”

  The Sun Knights pursued the fleeing foe past the three grassy rises, singing as they slew, the scene of the slaughter set to the score of madly clanging bells. Disturbed from night-chilled meals of raw meat, vast swarms of bh’ritsi and convergences of vultures swirled skyward to circle the bedlam of battle like roiling thunderheads of doom. The blood-greased muck of the killing ground sucked at the enemy’s feet, but could not hamper the elliamir, as those marvellous creatures’ golden hooves did not deign to touch such soiled earth. Nevertheless, the Athain advance was slowed, and the press of steel and flesh became more desperate as the slaves of the Red Wraith heeded a heinously shrill shriek, turned and fought back. A few hundred yards beyond the Seven Hills, the Sun Knights of the Neverborn concluded their heroic charge, quickly and efficiently establishing a strong defensive position upon the sopping wet mess of uncounted dead.

  And there, in the midst of battle, near the centre of the line, Thunderlight and Arrowing touched noses and tossed their magnificent manes, and their riders embraced.

  “Well met and better timed, dear brother.”

  “The early bird might catch the worm, good Thrannien, but the lastcomers feast on the fallen.” There was a rare air of distraction, of disquietude to Prince Evangael’s demeanor. “That screech, that terrible screech – it was the cry of a sumanam. There is a Leech among the enemy.”

  “Among them and commanding them, yes. I have hunted the fiend from dawn to dusk and back again, and then once more, but to no avail.”

  “The harder the hunt, the more satisfying the kill. I do not doubt the earnestness of your efforts in the matter. Nevertheless, that you have not yet found the creature speaks ill of your luck and well of its own.”

  “The sword of fortune does indeed cut both ways, Evangael.”

  “Verily, my cherished brother, it does. But do not abandon hope, for the fiend must be fortunate forever, and you need be so but once only.”

  Prince Thrannien nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His countenance was beautiful yet terrifying.

  “The only thing I intend to abandon this day is mercy.”

  And then the battle came to them, and many were the minions of the Red Wraith that wished it had not.

  Oh, how I wish this war would end – or that it had never begun.

  The Lord of the Fiannar looked upon the mounted messenger before him, and his soul bled for her. The heaviness of the woman’s heart was a palpable thing, a misery measured in winces and waves of silent pain. Alvarion fisted his rillagh.

  “Report, Avondele.”

  The weary Fiann ran filthy fingers through her lank grey hair. Mud and blood made a macabre mask of her face. Her nose had obviously been broken in the battle and reset rather poorly, and her lower lip was badly split. But in her eyes resolve and resistance remained, and the glinting there did not want for courage.

  “Not a report, Lord Alvarion, but a simple request only. From Master Teillerian and Mistress Janne.”

  The Lord’s brows bunched beneath the brim of the Helm of Defurien. “What of the Masters of the House of Dalorian and of the House of Shon Rodain?”

  The Fiann glanced away.

  “Speak, Avondele.”

  “Those Houses no longer exi
st, Lord. The Steel Feather and the Silver Star answer to the White Swan now. The Fires of the Fallen will burn brightly this night.”

  Alvarion stared, then nodded. “Your request, Avondele.”

  “The Mistress Janne and the Master Teillerian ask to engage the enemy, Lord. Several scores of us, give or take, are still sufficiently fit to fight.”

  “Did the Mistress and the Master not receive my instructions to take some repose and form the reserve?”

  “They did indeed receive those orders, Lord. Just not very well.”

  Alvarion managed to muster the gravest of looks.

  “Go and remind them who is Lord here, Avondele, and that their swords will be needed should mine fail.” A pensive pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, gentler. “And then advise them that I envy them their valour, and that I am honoured to count them among my dearest friends.”

  Avondele punched her bosom, and a grisly grin broke through the muck that marred her mien. And with a lighter heart than she had come with, away she went.

  Taresse peered at Alvarion.

  “All Fiannar deserve the opportunity to die in battle, nephew. You know this. In sparing them this fight, I fear you imperil their sense of honour.”

  “Fear what you will, uncle-wife. Those brave men and women have sacrificed overmuch already. I am confident they will conquer the guilt of surviving soon enough. Forsooth, honour belongs to the living, not the dead.”

  Taresse looked away, peering past the grassy hills to where the Sun Knights made indiscriminate slaughter seem such a splendid thing.

  “As you say, nephew.”

  Alvarion consciously chose to acknowledge the words rather than the tone. Brusquely, he turned to Varonin.

  “What word from the Master of the House of Cilcannan, Marshal?”

  “We have had no word from Master Colinnan, Lord. Nor from Watchcaptain Harlastian. Neither from Prince Arbamas nor the Southman. And the howling of the war wolves is nowhere to be heard.”

  “No tidings come to us on the wings of the throkka?”

  The Marshal of the Grey Watch fell deathly silent.

  “Speak, Varonin.”

  “The throkka have not been seen in the skies since the rains came. Nor have the golgarrai. There are carcasses on the killing fields and in the waters of the Ruil. Hundreds of carcasses. Bird and demon, both. It is feared they destroyed one another utterly.”

  The Lord of the Fiannar clenched his teeth. Inhaled deeply. The knuckles of his sword-hand whitened.

  “Have word sent to Master Tulnarron, Marshal. The Host of Arrenhoth and whatever Roths that would accompany them will hold Evangael’s southern flank. The House of Defurien and the Grey Watch will anchor the north. Quickly now, lest Prince Evangael deny us our own prospects of dying with glory.”

  As the Marshal rode away to relay the commands, Alvarion addressed his aunt again.

  “You were not wrong, Taresse.”

  “I seldom am, nephew.” The grim Fiann then scowled, tilted her head. “What, specifically, was I not wrong about?”

  Alvarion raised Findroth to the lightening sky, becking the warriors of his high House to him, and in the haze of that northern morn the blaze of the Blade danced a little higher, burned a little brighter.

  “The War for the North will indeed be won this hour.”

  The High King of Rothanar and the Warthane of the caelroth strode across the Cedorrin, their legs stained a dark reddish brown to the hems of their kilts as though they had been wading through pools of blood. And indeed, in a sense, they had been.

  And some of that blood, much of that blood, had been their own.

  The giant Warthane’s right cheek hung in pink tatters, revealing a row of shattered teeth, and the broken shafts of several arrows protruded from his torso and thighs, suggesting that he had used his substantial bulk to shield his High King from missile assaults. But he seemed no worse for the injuries, and his gaze was yet cogent and clear.

  Ri Niall of the Thousand Battles carried his claymore in one hand, the long broad blade resting rather heavily on his right shoulder. His left arm was entirely gone – not so much as a stump remained. The wound smelled of burnt flesh and bad whiskey, and was packed with a paste of Druidic herbs. The glint in his eyes and the grin splitting the green grease-paint of his face possessed a peculiar psychosis, one that belonged solely to the maddest of the mad Roths of the North.

  “I suppose you’ll have to be calling me Niall of the Thousand and One Battles now,” the High King called out as he approached the pair of Deathward warriors waiting for him beneath a ragged standard of the Crimson Fist. “It is likely closer to twenty-five battles, to be sure, and most of those were in the pubs, but who has the time for the counting?”

  The Master of the House of Eccuron stared at Ri Niall’s ruined shoulder, opened his mouth, found no adequate words, clapped it closed again. Beside him, Sandarre could only shake her head.

  The High King twisted awkwardly to peer at his terrible wound.

  “My arm, is it? Sure, but isn’t that the funniest thing? I must’ve dropped it somewhere along the way.” His grin widened. “My mother always said I’d lose my own arm if it wasn’t attached to me. Not that my arm wasn’t attached to me, because it was, but that’s not the point, is it now?”

  Still, neither Tulnarron nor Sandarre spoke.

  The High King turned toward the Singer, gazing up at her with that insane smile.

  “Would you still be wanting for arrows, lass? I would happily fill your quiver for you, and as often as you’d like, but” – he nodded toward his massive sword – “as you can see, my hand is full. Sure, isn’t Gorn always saying – ”

  Abruptly and completely, his manner changed.

  “My friends, where is Gornannon?”

  Tulnarron stared at Ri Niall in silence. Sandarre looked away. The Crimson Fist snapped in a gust of wind.

  The High King nodded slowly. And the Warthane lowered his head.

  “War isn’t always as merry as we would have it be, my friends.” Ri Niall said, a subtile sombreness to his tone. “Gorn will be missed.”

  No reply, save eyes that were entirely too dry to be believed, and the crackling of the Crimson Fist.

  The High King gazed eastward, the war-song of the Sun Knights calling to him like an anthem of fire coursing through his bloodstream.

  “The good Lord Alfie is after asking that we hold the southern flank, and isn’t that precisely what the caelroth had in mind? I have given the provincial princes the day – it’s been a rough few weeks, to be sure, considering the hike here and this wee scrap.” He looked again upon the Master. “Will the Host be having our backs?”

  “Even as the Roths have had ours,” Tulnarron rumbled. “The Host of Arrenhoth will join you shortly, my friend.”

  The High King of Rothanar flashed his deranged grin once more, winked at Sandarre, and with the Warthane at his side led but three significantly smaller squares of courageous caelroth and a horde of howling hounds down the Cedorrin.

  Momentarily –

  “Niall!” Tulnarron called out. “You do know the claymore is a two-handed sword, right?”

  The High King of Rothanar did not hesitate, shouting back over his armless shoulder:

  “Aye, mo cara, but wasn’t I just saying, who has the time for the counting?”

  The Firstmade of the First Made felt the humming in the earth enter the head of his hammer, move upward through the haft into his hand, and from there into his heart and soul. The humming became a vociferation, and the vociferation a specific voice. Drogul’s voice. The Mighty One’s timbre was low and rumbling, reverberant, like the ominous shaking of the earth before a volcanic eruption. But he spoke just a few words, simple and direct.

  They have taken Doomfall. We let them.

  Brulwar frowned. Surely Doomfall had not been surrendered. Not that, never that. He could sense a certain hurriedness to the Chieftain’s tone, immeasurable but definitely ther
e, and beneath it an atypical underscore of desperation. Images flashed behind Brulwar’s black eyes, flickers of grey light and greyer shadow, shattered instants in space and time. Fragments of Drogul’s memories, distorted, disconnected.

  The Earthmaster closed his eyes and looked deeper.

  And then he saw the tale that the Mighty One would tell.

  The tale of the great grey giant Kor ben Dor and his troop of indomitable Bloodspawn; the truth of who the Halflord was, of what his warriors were. The summoning and the coming of the kuarok. The battle of champions, the abrupt ruin of the Leech. And the unexpected warning:

  This and all of that are naught but distractions. Sand in the eyes. Sleight of hand and of fist and of hungry iron. And you have all been so woefully blind.

  Brulwar’s clasp tightened about the haft of Whulm.

  The secret stronghold of the Athain Prince is not so secret, Darad. Nor is it so very strong. Nor even held. Not any more.

  Black smoke slithered between the Earthmaster’s clenched fingers and from beneath his closely scrunched eyelids, terrible tendrils from a cauldron of wrath that had barely begun to boil.

  Nevertheless, should you act swiftly, you may yet have time to undo this thing.

  Brulwar opened his eyes. The fury in those obsidian orbs burned hotter than the fires that roared about the core of the earth. He peered eastward down the Cedorrin. There, beneath the Golden Strype and the Flaming Sword, the Lord of the Fiannar was leading the House of Defurien and the Grey Watch back through the vale between Lar Thurrad and Lar Fannan. Further to the south, the High King of Rothanar, the unflagging caelroth and several packs of war-thirsty wolfhounds were rounding the hill of Lar Theas. Behind them, the Host of Arrenhoth mustered around the Crimson Fist, readying for one last wild fight. Beyond the Seven Hills, the Sun Lords and their Sul Athaifain were making the massacre of the enemy an exercise in grace and grandeur.