by Sean Rodden
“Yes, Left Tenant.” Axennus’ voice was thoughtful, pensive. He adjusted the fit of his tunic. “The fourth such in succession. Whatever can it mean?”
Runningwolf’s loamy eyes seemed to be looking more inward than otherwhere.
“It means that it is very cloudy, Commander.”
Axennus opened his mouth, found no words. Beside him, a thin grin cracked the granite of his brother’s face.
His mien and demeanor as flat as an unetched tablet of clay, the Rhelman raised his totem to his temple, turned, and was gone.
The Commander clapped his mouth closed, shook his head. Something rumbled in the Captain’s chest.
“I love that man.”
“Shut up, Bron.”
The Iron Captain did so, though not because Axennus had demanded it, but because neither Teagh could long sustain any likeness of levity. Not any more. All moments of aught resembling joy and pleasure were but flickers in the long drear days that followed the Battle of Eryn Ruil. All cheer was fleeting and ephemeral. Incongruous, out of place. Improbable. Impossible. Like rainbows in the dark.
The Fiannar had suffered severe losses. Half their number that had fought at the Seven Hills had been slain in battle. Another several hundred were woefully wounded, and of these many would never fully recover. For even though the Diceman and other capable healers tended to the physical injuries, some damage ran deeper than flesh and bone. As hard and as formidable as the Deathward were, they were not cold unfeeling automatons. They were intrepid, not indifferent. Impavid, not immune. Thus when word of the horrors of Allaura had come, their sorrow, their anguish…their…
There were and are no words to describe their grief.
And the Fiannar of the Angar ban Erynna Ruill were not alone in their sorrows. The Rothmen had also suffered terrible losses. Three dozen mighty Daradur had returned to the Mother’s embrace. The Nothirings of Invarnoth had been annihilated. And fewer than one in ten Deathward women and children who had sought sanctuary in Allaura now trekked homeward in hushed and horrible silence along the Spine of Galledine.
Only the Ithramen and the Erelians had emerged essentially unscathed.
The Commander looked down at his hands, studying them, first the backs, then the palms, then the long agile fingers. As though he was marveling at their complexity and intricacy. Or their strength, their brute beauty. Or their ineffectuality. Or emptiness.
No. Amend the aforesaid. None had emerged unscathed.
Axennus lowered his hands. A sigh shivered his bosom.
“What if she does not come back to me, Bronnus?”
The Captain rubbed the blemish on his breastplate.
“The Shield Maiden leads her folk back to Druintir even now, Axo. This we know. I am sure she will look for you when she arrives.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Bronnus glanced at his brother, a frown twisting the brows above his dark eyes.
“She may not be as amorous as you would have her be, Axo. She has endured much. She will likely need time, patience. Understanding.”
Axennus’ smile was slow, and somehow very sad. “Again, not what I meant.”
The Iron Captain did not try again. He had never been very adept with words of consolation. Or words of any sort, for that matter. Words were Axennus’ province, not his own.
“I am concerned that when Caelle arrives, when she does come to me, she will not be the same Fiann. I worry that the tragedies of Allaura and the Seven Hills will have changed her. I fear that the woman I came to love so quickly and so easily is no more.”
The Captain’s frown deepened, darkened. “That sounds extremely selfish, little brother. Even for you.”
The Commander sighed again, his shoulders visibly shuddering.
“My fears are not for myself, Bron, but for the Shield Maiden. Such beauty and grace should not be torn from the world. She was so… she is so… exquisite. I would gladly never see her face, never hear her voice, never inhale her scent, never feel her touch again, on this side of death or the other, if she were to remain as she was, as she was always meant to be.”
Words. Axennus’ province, indeed.
“Do not lie to me, Axo. You forget that I remember Crissia.”
Another slow smile brushed the Erelian Commander’s lips, though not nearly as sorrowful as the one that had preceded it.
“Very well, dear brother. I would not do these things happily. But I would do them, nevertheless.”
“Yes, I believe you would. But as I said – time, patience, understanding. And much of each. The Shield Maiden will come back to you. For she is strong, little brother.”
“Indeed she is, Bron. Stronger than I, certainly.”
The Iron Captain moved closer. His armour creaked as he wrapped a strong arm about Axennus’ shoulders.
“We cannot know what will happen, Axo, but no matter which way it goes, I shall be here for you. As I have always been.”
“As always? Did we grow up in different worlds?”
“Your memory has always been slightly selective. And forever in your favour. When you were ten years old and started hanging out with that weird little curly-haired kid, who was there to warn you against doing so? When that ruffian Roicollius stole your toy helm, who was there to chase him down and retrieve it for you? When, after a long night of revelry, you stood stark naked in the morning light, glibly peeing off mother’s balcony for all Hiridith to see, who was there to drag you inside and give you a good thrashing?”
“You are the epitome of fraternal love, Bron.”
“As though there was ever any doubt.” The Iron Captain tightened his grasp and gave Axennus a vigourous shake. “I shall always be here for you, little brother. And I do mean always.”
“Teller’s Tongue, you are cruel.”
And both brothers smiled, if only for a while.
Commander and Captain, two men more alike that they were different. Brothers beyond mere blood. Standing in silence, together, peering eastward into the dull grey dawn, waiting for a morning sun that just would not come.
The hooves of the Shield Maiden’s steed clopped hollowly upon the Spine of Galledine, a monotonous never-changing tempo, rhythm with neither melody nor meaning, like the beat-beat-beating of a long dead heart. Caelle rode alone at the head of the meagre column of survivors. Alone save for the phantasmal foreguard of warders of the Grey Watch who had come in the night. And for the burly Daradur tramping alongside her mirarran. And for little Aranion, sound asleep in his harness between her thighs. And for the ghosts of her lost loved ones who would not relent in their harrowing, their haunting. And, of course, for the shimmering shade of the man waiting for her in a bright white palace above Druintir.
So many spectres, so many shadows.
So little peace.
The Gardens’ warning gone unheeded, the trees had shed their cautionary red. The leaves had shriveled and curled, falling like the ashes of a thousand fires scattered on listless winds. Even the evergreens had faded toward brown, and the floor of the forest was littered with discarded needles. The mosses at the edges of the Spine were ragged and grey and peeling away; the sporadic clumps of siamrach were wilted and withered; and the soft glow of lantern-weed no longer illumined the nights. The Gardens were grieving, someone had suggested to Caelle – as though Galledine herself had also been reft of nearly all she had ever loved.
The Grey Watch had brought word of the Angar ban Erynna Ruill. They had named the valiant Fiannar who had been slain there, each and every gallant soul, many of those fallen had been the finest among that fine folk. Tulnarron, Master of the House of Eccuron, Warden of the East. Durhammon, Master of the House of Dalorion. Berradan and Sennadan, successive Masters of the House of Shon Rodain. Cheroot-chewing Gornannon of the Host of Arrenhoth. The lovers Accamon and Diamine of the House of Mirmaddon. Of the Grey Watch: Ferraron and young Rovanion; fair Albannon and gaunt Ethline; Dragodurn, the gentle giant. The Singer Trimmanon. And of the House of Defuri
en, Caelle’s own mother, the dour and defiant Taresse – and the noble Lord Alvarion himself.
Of her father Eldurion, there was no word. But the gold was gone from the Colossus of Defurien. That in itself was word enough.
And so, as far as she could ascertain, of her close kin only Aranion remained.
Untrue, she thought. There is the one of whom Drogul spoke. The one who waits for me at the Seven Hills. The Grey Watch say he will not enter Druintir without my explicit permission, expressed in person. Tactful, that. Admirable, even. They say he is different, this one. They say he is quite singular, exceptional – this strange cousin of mine called Kor ben Dor.
The Shield Maiden detected a huge presence upon her right, half a length behind her.
“When you arrive at Druintir, will you be claiming the Lordship, Shield Maiden? The child is far too young, and Noldarion tells me the giant is not fully Fiannian.”
Speaking of tact.
“No, Arumarron. I will not. There is a living Heir. When there is a living Heir to the Lordship but he or she is not of age – twenty-one summers for the Mastery of the House of Defurien, thirty-three for the Lordship of the Fiannar – provisional rule falls to the Marshal of the Grey Watch. Thus, until Aranion comes of age, I shall answer to the Marshal Varonin.” A meaningful pause. “As shall we all.”
“Indeed.”
“Furthermore, some doubt has been cast upon the fate of Amarien. There is a possibility he yet lives. I would be surprised to learn that plans are not already in motion to determine the veracity of this.”
“We have only the Halflord’s word regarding Lord Amarien, Shield Maiden. Do you believe the giant can be trusted?”
Caelle pressed her lips together, tight and white, preventing her first reflexive response from passing them. Then –
“You trusted a stranger in black, Arumarron – I cannot?”
She could almost feel the young Heir stiffen.
“I did not know that Zalkan would bring – ”
“The Harbinger brought his spears, his swords, his skills. That is all. And without them – and indeed your own – Aranion and I would surely have fallen. He departed before I could thank him for his efforts, but I express my appreciation to you both now, and should you see him before I do, please extend my gratitude.”
Arumarron said only, “Of course.”
“The Harbinger is cursed not to cause catastrophes, but to fail in his efforts to prevent them. That I and the Lordling survive, however, might cast some doubt on the durability of his doom. And to hear that he accompanies the children of Teillerian is somehow quite comforting. No, Arumarron, your trust in the man was not misfounded.”
“So you are confident the giant can be trusted.”
“Drogul believed so. Kor ben Dor and his Bloodspawn held and won Doomfall in the Mighty One’s stead, allowing the Wandering Guard to come to Allaura. And we both know only too well what would have happened had the Daradur not come.”
She did not turn to look, but she sensed the shadow of a scowl obscuring the Heir’s aspect.
“Moreover, your father trusted him. And Master Tulnarron gave his trust to few.”
Another short silence, followed by –
“Indeed.”
And then a second presence, smaller but potent and perilous, manifested aback a young mirarran at Caelle’s right. An unambiguous air of enthusiasm, of eagerness and endless energy, emanated there.
“Middle-day has come, Shield Maiden. We have kept a swift pace for four full days and half of another now. And though they will not complain, the smaller children are in need of rest.” Fresh blood reddened the bandage about the young Fiann’s left thigh. “As are some of the more grievously injured.”
Caelle slowed her steed, stopped. She cast her eyes to the northern skies, seeing naught but a boundless slab of uninterrupted grey. Were the sun somewhere overhead, it was wrapped in a plague pall, waiting to die.
Midday, you say, Chelyse? A long shivering sigh. However can you tell?
“Very well, Watcher. But no longer than is absolutely necessary.” The words seemed harsh, even cruel, but such was not her intent. Her impulsion was something far simpler than callousness. I just want to go home. She briefly brushed Aranion’s cheek with her fingertips, then swung deftly down from her mirarran. “Have the Watch attend the child. I will not be long.”
The Shield Maiden walked through the groves and glades of Galledine until she came upon a little brook gurgling in the wan and weary light of the day. Shriveled grey leaves floated upon the surface of the stream like a defeated armada limping back to port. No silvery flashes of minnows sparkled in the shallows, neither birdsong nor whir of dragonfly adorned the air, and the logs where turtles would usually bask were bare. She crouched upon a spur of limestone overhanging the water, her forearms resting on her thighs, her hair and hands hanging limply before her. No longer was she acutely aware of the great grey grief inhering the Gardens. Her own anguish was onerous enough.
A single terrible sob shuddered through the Fiann’s body.
“I envy you, Shield Maiden.” The speaker must have risen from the very rock, for Caelle became alert to his presence only the instant before he spoke. “For I, too, would weep if I could.”
The Fiann raised her head slightly and stared into the waxen waters, her sapphire-speckled gaze dull and dry.
“I do not weep, Lord of Doomfall. These eyes are like insuperable deserts that know no rain. I merely – ”
“Mourn.”
“No. Never. I am of the Fiannar. And the Fiannar do not mourn.”
Drogul the kirun-tar settled his bulk at the Shield Maiden’s side. His presence was a prevailing force, ubiquitous, at once fatherly and priestly. And there was a sense of something more potent than simple power there, something like... peace.
“I can’t be deceived, Shield Maiden. Neither can you. Stop trying.”
Caelle lowered her chin once more. “It is easier this way, Lord of Doomfall. Less difficult, anyway. And I know not what else to do.”
“Live.”
“Live?”
“Yes. Live. Love. Persevere, Shield Maiden. Succeed.”
Caelle looked toward the mighty Stone Lord. Blinked. Her eyes glistened.
“It is not that simple, Stone Lord.”
“It is, Shield Maiden. It is that simple. You must do more than merely endure. You must rise. Prosper, thrive, flourish. You must learn to laugh again, to enjoy life thoroughly, to love and be loved without trepidation, without reservation. Answer sadness with success, tragedy with triumph. Separate your sorrows from the things that bring you happiness. Shine like the star that you are. You feel that you are dead inside, but you are merely sleeping soundly in a universe of darkness – and the time has come to rise and shine.”
The Fiann looked away, wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“You make it hard to be, well, hard, Lord of Doomfall.”
“You are hard enough, Shield Maiden. Allow yourself some softness.”
Caelle nodded. “I will try.” She watched as a single turtle clawed its way onto a log to bask in the halflight of the hidden sun. Then, “Is this why you came? To counsel and console me? You, too, are softer than you seem, Stone Lord.”
The rusty mess of Drogul’s beard moved. “Our little secret, my friend.”
The Shield Maiden nearly smiled. “I won’t say a word.”
“I came for other reasons as well, Shield Maiden. One reason, at least. I have something to ask of you.”
“Ask, Lord of Doomfall. And if it is within my power, you shall have it.”
“Send me the child.”
Caelle’s mouth flopped open. “The child?”
“Yes. After his sixth summer, send Aranion to me. And I will send him back to you following his sixteenth.”
“But why?”
“Because it is necessary.”
The Fiann frowned. “I will think on it, Stone Lord.” She stared at the turtle,
watching its shell gradually dry. “But why after his sixth summer? Why not sooner? Surely the earlier you begin his training the better.”
“I will be occupied, Shield Maiden. For I have spoken with Brulwar, and with Captain Jadun of the Fifth Army, and we have declared a kandar ur Pira – a Lustrum of Wrath.”
Caelle stared. Her soul grew suddenly cold.
The Mighty One rose, hefting his broad black war-axe.
“For the next five years, all Daradur who were there and bore witness to the atrocities at Allaura will make ruthless war on the enemies of the Earth, whoever they may be, whenever and wherever we might find them. We will hunt them in the hills, we will pursue them across the plains, we will follow them into forest, fen and fog-mantled mountains. We will be brutal. We will show no mercy, we will take no prisoners. We will destroy all thralls of Darkness in our path. We will not rest, we will not ease, we will not cease. And while even one of us still stands, the World will know the fury of the Daradur, and the Mother will drink deeply of the blood of her foes. Second Earth, Shield Maiden, will never be the same again.”
Caelle shivered. Waves of wintry awe pebbled her skin.
“And there is one among your company who would take up with us upon the Wrath, Shield Maiden. And we would have him.”
The Fiann knew to whom Drogul was referring. ‘When you arrive at Druintir’, he said to me on the Spine – you, not we. Of course. However, she was unsure whether the Darad was requesting formal permission or simply sharing information – either way, she nodded assent, consent.
“When you are ready, Shield Maiden, when you come to believe that what you have and what awaits you is enough, speak with Kor ben Dor. He is wise. He possesses vast knowledge of the enemy, some of which will be hard to hear, yet must be heard. Speak with him. When you are ready.”
“I will.”
The Lord of Doomfall nodded.
“I will leave you now, Shield Maiden. The Wrath begins. Remember what I said here.” A slight wriggling of his whiskers. “I’m not usually comfortable with words, but you make it easy.”