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

by Sean Rodden

  “Look, Master Lord Sir.” The little girl curtseyed in a flourish of arms and gruesome things. When she straightened again she held a slim-bladed dirric in her hand. “Look and see. See what you have done. See the sweet salvation you have secured.”

  The Lord of the Fianner looked. Looked and saw. And that which he witnessed there blasted his mind, shattered his heart and shredded his very soul. And he then did what he had so recently and so hastily said he would never do again –

  He screamed.

  Air vibrated in Thrannien’s throat. His tongue lurched awkwardly inside his mouth. His lips parted. And the proleptical sonance of a single word flowed into the pale gloom of the killing fields. The bowstring bit deeper into his finger pads as he slowly drew the looped silk back against the forbidding stiffness of stopped Time. The muscles in his arms bunched and burned. The mighty ivory bow groaned. And the first note of the Sun Lord’s song moaned into the morning.

  Lord Alvarion crumpled to his knees. Findroth slipped from his grasp, its flames flickering, dying. His eyes were wide and wet, their bright grey giving way to black as his pupils dilated as would those of a dying man. Bone and sinew seemed little more than lifeless eels beneath his skin. His mouth moved, but no words came, and those sounds he did manage to utter were no greater than gasps and wheezes and little whimpers of denial.

  No. Not this.

  He could not look away from the scene suspended in the air before him. He could not close his eyes against the horror there. He could see nothing else, could think of nothing else, was aware of nothing else. The entirety of his being – body, mind and noble soul – was focused only and wholly on the terrifying events unfolding within the demon’s scrying screen. A great sob took him, shook him, and torrid tears trickled down his cheeks. Numbness swept over his form in one long lingering wave, and his breath abandoned him as though a large pit was wedged in his throat. Pain, such terrible pain, bloomed in his chest like a vast black rose.

  O Teller, what have I done?

  And then, in an act of profound mercy, his sight failed him.

  But the Lord could not shake the horrid images from his mind. And he could yet sense the dreadful presence of the Leech, so close, so very close. And he could still hear.

  “I told you that your bleeding heart would be your bane, you little shit,” came a hiss like a razor sliding across an arched throat. “I just didn’t know at the time that I meant it in more ways than one. Sword and sorrow – the dooms of the Athair. And this day you shall die by both. At least you will have your wife and child to keep you company.”

  Alvarion could only weep.

  Grinning, giggling, gripping the burned thing to her bosom, Waif raised the gleaming dirric –

  Thrannien watched the dagger rise, saw the slim steel hovering in the pale air, poised above the stricken Lord’s breast, waiting to plunge. And he reached deep within himself, to the lucent Light blazing at the core of him, and with all the substantial strength of his immortal will, the Sun Lord thrust his song into the preternatural petrification of the morning. And at long last, words spilled forth and formed a refrain of righteous rage, and Time moved forward for him once more. In a blur of motion too swift for mortal eyes to follow, he pulled his bowstring back to his ear, took aim for the narrow spine betwixt the sumanam’s shoulder blades, and with a song of silk and ivory and scintillating sunfire, the Prince of the Athair sent a single sleek arrow screaming across the field of the slain.

  – and drove the slender blade down into Alvarion’s chest. To the hilt. To the fleshy heel of her fist.

  But before the little girl could rip the dirric up and across and through the Lord’s heart, the Sun Lord’s golden missile blasted into her back. White fire erupted, entirely enveloping her, engulfing her. The burned thing flung from her grasp, twisting and tumbling in the assaulted air, landing amid a morass of dented metal and broken bodies. The incredible momentum of the impact propelled her tiny body twenty, fifty, a hundred yards away, turning her into a demonic meteor hurtling over the ghastly glebes of Hell. But unlike the burned thing, Waif did not strike land again, for the white fire of Light consumed her, body, blood and bone. And in an instant of intense effulgence, she flared like a dying star and exploded. And then there was naught left of the little girl save a fluttering of ash, the stink of brimstone, and an ebbing memory of evil in the sheen of the northern morn.

  Immediately, the natural flow of Time was restored.

  The Marshal of the Grey Watch whipped around and charged toward Alvarion and Taresse. He covered the short distance in a heartbeat, his gaze wild, his face contorted with dread and confusion.

  From the corner of his eye Varonin had seen the demon-child break from cover and leap like a bizarre white monkey upon Taresse’s back; he had seen the Lord Alvarion react instantaneously, sword bursting aflame. And then, inexplicably, in the sliver of a fraction of an instant, the grim Fiann was prone, crudely blood-eagled and probably dead – and the Lord of the Fiannar was upon his knees, tears streaming down his face, both his hands clutching the haft of a Deathwardian dirric that was sunken hilts-deep in his chest. Somewhere in the distance, dying sparks and dead ash floated on scorched air as though some sort of munition had been detonated, and Varonin could feel the after-shudder of a considerable concussion on his cheeks and in the roots of his teeth.

  The Marshal caught Alvarion in his strong arms as the Lord toppled toward the ground and the golden sword that lay there, discarded, doused, dormant.

  “What has happened?” cried Varonin, his voice stretched thin with anguish. “What vile sorcery is this?”

  He looked into his beloved Lord’s glossy eyes and saw magnitudes of horror and terror that even the blackest realms of nightmare could not contain. And he perceived pain, such dreadful, excruciating pain. More pain than any mortal soul could possibly suffer and survive. And yet Alvarion lived. His breath came in wretched wet gasps, wracked with agonies of both flesh and soul, and blood bubbled from his mouth and nose and oozed from the dagger wound, but he lived. He lived.

  “Singers!” called the Marshal, wrapping one hand about those of his Lord. “Singers of the Fiannar! Elyse! Trimmanon! Your Lord needs you! Now!”

  Several warders of the Grey Watch came running. Some instinctively formed a defensive perimeter, others fanned out among the dead, all bore their much-blooded blades in hand.

  A young Watcher’s voice veered through the fog of Varonin’s desperation.

  “Black Elyse is with the wounded on Cedorrin, Marshal. And Trimmanon is slain. We have sent for Sandarre of the House of – ”

  “I know the woman’s House, Silmarien.” Varonin’s face blanched as a formidable tremor shook the body in his arms. “Save your histories and histrionics. Our Lord is dying. He needs help. Where is the Diceman who rides with the Erelians?”

  “He is – ”

  “Move aside, please, good Varonin,” interjected a smooth resonant voice, the sound of seawater swelling over stony shores. And though the tone was mild and the words themselves were soft and gentle, there was no appeal in either, but only austerity and absolute authority. “Permit me to attend your Lord.”

  The Marshal of the Grey Watch released Alvarion, laying him upon the ground with a deep and delicate tenderness. He then rose, stepped back and away, scowling outwardly at his Watchers for allowing such an approach to go unaccosted, frowning inwardly upon himself for relinquishing the care of his Lord so readily and so willingly to this black-clad stranger from the coast. He did not remember the man being so tall, so broad, perhaps even surpassing the size and girth of the Master of the House of Eccuron. But moments of grave tribulation can alter one’s perceptions, the Marshal knew, and as the man knelt to tend to Alvarion, his proportions seemed more sensible, more familiar.

  Prince Arbamas of Ithramis cradled the Lord’s head in one hand, and with the other gently yet firmly pulled his stiff fingers from the handle of the dirric. He then grasped the dagger himself and, without hesitati
on, smoothly drew the blade from Alvarion’s chest. Placing his palm upon the wound, he pressed down with significant force, stanching the gush of warm red blood. And all the while, the Black Prince gazed into Lord Alvarion’s veiled and vacuous eyes – never breaking contact, never severing that beautiful bond – and he saw therein devastating fear and impossible pain. And though he did not know the origin of those afflictions, he did know how to allay and dismiss them.

  He knew how to let the Lord of the Fiannar die in peace.

  The Prince leaned close, his face suspended directly over Alvarion’s own, his aspect fair yet fearsome, his eyes cold, his mouth grim, his expression stern and set of purpose. But kindness was also there, and affection, benevolence, grace. Empathy. The Lord sputtered and coughed blood, but Arbamas made a hushing sound, and all discomfort was instantly dispelled. The Prince of Ithramis waited a few moments until he was sure Alvarion was aware he was there, could see him, could hear him. He then spoke to the Lord, his voice so soft and quiet as to make the mildest whisper seem a scream, and even the sharp ears of the nearest Watchers could not catch the words.

  And for a time the Lord peered up at him, and there came renewed clarity and a specific serenity to those cool grey eyes, a tranquility founded not on hope and faith, but on abiding trust, on absolute certainty. And the tears Alvarion shed shone like streams of silver on his skin, and upon his lips was shaped a smile that could have only been sourced in the most profound and persisting love.

  And then an unseeing opacity glazed over the Lord’s gaze once more, and an ominous rattle shook his chest. Precious blood seeped between Arbamas’ fingers, then ceased to flow altogether. The Black Prince gently rested Alvarion’s head upon the earth, removed his hand from the Lord’s heart, rose, stepped away.

  And then –

  “You?” the Lord of the Deathward gasped quietly, so terribly quietly, to someone that no one but he could see. “You should not be here. Not here… not you. Not… yet.”

  The only reply was the roaring silence of loss.

  So passed Alvarion the Second, son of Amarien, of the Line of Vallian, Master of the House of Defurien, Twelfth Lord of the Fiannar.

  19

  LAMENT FOR THE FIANNAR

  “Trust no one. Believe in nothing.

  And you will never be disappointed.”

  Alliane, Fourth Lorde of the Fiannar

  The first dark breaths of dawn were cold and bitter, a sour wind keening through the crevasses of the Hard Hills, shrilling and shrieking at whiles, like the restive soul of a dead god seeking a secret tomb. But when the god’s ghost found the great gorge before the bastion of Allaura, its wailing faltered, faded, fell to a whine, then whimpered away into a chill and acerbic still. For arrayed across the stone floor of the basin were shining lines of Fiannar, their armour polished and sparkling, spears bristling and brave banners rippling above a locked shield wall, golden rillagha agleam in the gloom. Beneath the brims of bright helms, hard grey gazes glittered, all the harder and all the more fiercely ashine for the borders of black paint the women had applied to their lashes and lids – aidira drun, they called the look, the Eyes of Doom, and even the ghosts of dead gods withered under their stare.

  The gorge rumbled. The floor trembled. The sheer walls shook as though the very earth was quaking in rage. And in a sense it was. It was a sympathetic fury, however, one that was not its own, but that of a vast bloodhungry horde racing to mayhem and slaughter. Only the Glass Gate of Allaura remained inert. Immune and impervious. As silent and as still as the turned back of a lost lover.

  The Lady of the Fiannar stood at the centre of the front line, tall and statuesque, her whitewood staff in one hand, the spear of the Seer in the other. Cerriste’s countenance was calm, almost cold, and there was a quietness about her, a certitude founded in fortitude, from which all those near her gleaned fragments of courage to buttress their own. No one sang. No drums rolled, no horns rang. No one clanged their swords upon their shields. There came no brazen challenges, no stirring speeches. Not even the quickened thud-thud-thud of excited hearts. The women of the Fiannar simply stood there, surer and more still than the stone underfoot, watching with the Eyes of Doom.

  Waiting for the enemy.

  And the enemy came.

  The first of the Dwarkash skirmishers appeared in the gully that led to the gorge. They stepped from a shroud of smoke or mist, a hundred huge hulking beasts, heavily armoured, wielding wicked weapons that hissed with innate heat. Treading into the canyon, confident of their prowess, of their power, the Dwarks openly laughed at the paltry formation of Deathward women who opposed them. The crimson eyes of the creatures blazed above grotesque grins, but they dared not, deigned not, did not meet the steely stares of the Fiannar. Instead, they made a grandiose display of looking anywhere and everywhere save into the shining orbs of the aidira drun.

  A short distance into the basin, the skirmishers stopped, shouldered their weapons, chuckled themselves into a snuffling mockery of silence. One among their number made a brisk beckoning gesture with a gauntleted hand.

  Lady Cerriste took two strides forward, but a strong hand on her shoulder checked her before she could follow with more.

  “Forgive me, Lady, but we do not parley with these fiends. They are but automatons, and whatever words they would speak have no value, hold no worth.”

  “You are forgiven, Ema. I excuse both your boldness and your rush to judgement. Nevertheless, I suggest you be more discriminating with whom you choose to presume and assume. Now step away, Watchcaptain, for I was merely making room.”

  Emanthe lowered her hand and her head, and moved back into line.

  The Lady walked toward the Dwarks. Five, six paces, then halted. She stood there, austere and regal, her glare as cold and as unblinking as a tundral sun. She extended her staff and slain Sarrane’s spear out to her sides. The weapons purred against her palms. Steam rose from her skin. The dead god moaned.

  A short distance away, the dwar-Durk chortled, spat, and motioned again.

  “The Drone wants a word or two, bitch.”

  Lady Cerriste stared. The grey in her eyes brightened, whitened. And when she spoke, Light blazed in the hollow of her mouth.

  “If he insists.”

  And the Lady of the Fiannar took one final step forward, whirled her weapons above her head, sang a single word of raw and incredible power, then struck the shafts of her weapons together with all her considerable strength.

  The dawn detonated. The air ruptured. Eldritch puissance exploded outward.

  Waves of translucent energy blew the Dwarkash foreguard apart, their bodies verily disintegrating into infinitesimal bits of blood and bone. The concussion careened into the befogged crevasse from which they had come. In which hundreds of dwar-Durka undoubtedly lurked. Where the Drone himself may well have been skulking.

  And throwing her arms and weapons wide, the Lady sang a second word of power, and the entire fissure erupted in a conflagration of the purest white fire. All within the cleft was instantly incinerated. Obliterated. Nothing survived the inferno. Neither iron nor steel, nor flesh nor bone. Nor even solid stone. The cliffs collapsed like castles of dry sand, rocking and shocking the world, and within mere moments the entry to the gorge was entirely gone. Where the crevasse had been there towered a tremendous tumulus of shattered limestone, slowly settling down upon itself, an impassable barricade of groaning boulders soaring nearly a quarter of a mile high.

  “Always be careful of your demands,” Cerriste said to the barrier and its cerements of drifting dust. Her voice was disconcertingly quiet, the sound of a razor opening a vein. “Oft are they met in manners unforeseen.”

  The Lady of the Deathward lowered her weapons, and the Light left her eyes. Wisps of silvery smoke slipped from her lips.

  “A sterling display of strength, my Lady.”

  “Was it, Emanthe?”

  Cerriste turned briskly, brusquely, resumed her place in the formation. Her thoughts ve
ered momentarily toward her infant son. Aranion was likely sleeping through the peril, warbling obliviously, safe and secure under the personal protection of one of the Deathward’s very finest warriors. Rather, as safe and secure as was possible, given the circumstances.

  “Or was it strength that would have been better exerted somewhere and sometime other than here and now? Perhaps in the actual prosecution of battle rather than in the attempted prevention of it. Perhaps in direct confrontation against the Drone himself.” The Lady of the Fiannar paused as a picture of her son’s sweet smile slid across the shadows in her mind. “Perhaps… elsewhere.”

  Watchcaptain Emanthe glanced at Cerriste. She saw naught writ upon the Lady’s stately mien save solid and stolid resolve. And so the Watcher responded not to the matter, but to the manner, and said nothing.

  One heartbeat, another, a few more, and then the blockade of crumbled limestone began to glow a ghastly and gory red, the colour of blood and fire, of raw meat and rawer rage. A blistering heat beset the faces of the Fiannar, flushing their skin, searing their eyes. The stench of rot violated their nostrils. The taste of taint trespassed their tongues. An intense sense of wrongness, of atrocity and horror, invaded, infested, infected their hearts and souls. And even as they watched, the barrier dissolved and liquefied like little more than a mountain of melting wax. Viscid flows of lava, incandescent and incarnadine, seeped into the canyon, oozing toward the formation of Deathward warriors, merging into a single serous slithering doom.

  “Singers!” the Lady cried, her eyes and mouth afire once more. “Lend me your voices! A song of shields and shelter! Sing with me! Cyrra em! Sing with me now!”

  A dozen Fiannar stepped forward, all of them young, all of them novices in their craft. But despite their wide eyes and the pattering of their hearts, these brave women responded without a hint of hesitancy, with neither reluctance nor trepidation. Clarion voices rose in crisp and choral accord as bows thrummed in unison. A storm of arrows shrieked across the gorge, striking the crawling tide of molten rock. Cedar shafts blared a radiant red, the blush of smelted iron. Feathered fletching burst aflame. And soon and swiftly were the arrows consumed.