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

by Sean Rodden

  Caelle rose, graceful and fluid.

  “I will remember, my friend.” The sapphires in her eyes glistered. “And I thank you. For everything.”

  The Mighty One punched his breast, and was about to turn away – but then lingered a moment longer.

  “Tell your people what the Daradur do, Shield Maiden. Tell them we do it for them. And tell them why we do it.”

  “For retribution. Vengeance.”

  “No, Shield Maiden.” The Mighty One rested the haft of his war-axe upon his shoulder. “We do it for love.”

  Caelle wanted to weep once more, but for a reason far removed from grief. She nodded silently because she did not trust her voice, then brought her fist to the rillagh over her heart.

  And the greatest warrior to ever walk the wilds of Second Earth trudged away through the trees.

  Night on the Northern Plains was like an iron blade, cold and dark and sharp. No sheen of moon, no shine of star, no awe-inspiring aurora breached the blackness of the sky. The only light for leagues in every direction was that of a modest campfire at the nexus of nowhere and nevermore. Where all was as it appeared, and nothing was as it seemed. White witchery in the wilderness, black magic in the night.

  Teji Nashi held his hands out to the little blaze before him, patiently awaiting the figure that approached from the east. The fire flickered soft and low, a golden dragon dancing across a glowing floor, flitting in a wreath of flames that burned with benefit of neither source nor fuel.

  The Diceman gestured to a small boulder as his visitor loomed just within the limit of the light.

  “Welcome, my friend, and truly so. How long has it been? Three, four hundred years? Certainly not five. Too long, I am sure. I cannot say that I was expecting you. Not truthfully, anyway. Yet here you are, and with a tale to tell, yes?”

  Yllufarr of the Athair did not immediately respond, but only stood there, his smooth features gilded in gold, his pale eyes dancing with dragons. He then bowed briefly, and settled upon the seat of stone.

  Teji Nashi nodded toward the pair of plain long-bladed knives strapped at the Sun Lord’s hips.

  “Very clever. A student of Gavrayel in sooth – your King would be impressed, yes? We can never be too cautious, you see, we grand wanderers in the night with things to hide.”

  “I do not conceal things, sorcerer.” Yllufarr’s tone was as pallid as his eyes. “I merely preclude them from clashing with my chosen costume.”

  The little Diceman smiled. In the lambent light of the fire, his teeth looked as though they were fashioned of gleaming gold. But there was something missing from his smile, from the glint in his gaze, from the vibrant glow of his burnished skin. Verily, true joy is a coin that cannot be counterfeited.

  “You return to Lindannan at a time when your presence may not be as welcome as it once was, Prince Yllufarr. The Lady of the Fiannar was refused sanctuary at Allaura, you see, and her party of refugees was very nearly annihilated by a vast army of dwar-Durka. The Lady is dead, and only a handful of her charges survive. So you can appreciate why the Fiannar may be less than convivial, yes?”

  The Sun Lord’s eyes were like panes of ice.

  “Ingallin.”

  “You do not seem surprised.”

  Yllufarr said nothing.

  The Diceman waved one hand dismissively.

  “The war was won, but the Lord and the Lady were lost. As were so many others… and other things. Important things. The Heir lives, however, therefore some hope remains, yes?”

  The Sun Lord simply stared into the fire.

  “I would hear your tale now, good Prince. Three there were who went into the darkness, yet only one returns. There is sadness to be shared, yes? For the gold is gone from the Colossus, you see, and the songs of the heart are silent. Hope withers before a bitter breeze in this season of sorrow – nonetheless, I would rather hear your woes than not.”

  The Prince peered, pale death in his eyes.

  “The Blood King is destroyed. Rundul of Axar paved the way with his life. And Eldurion of the House of Defurien fell in desperate contest with a kuarok, and his body and sword were borne away.”

  The Diceman studied the dark Ath seated across from him, then glanced again at the modest pair of long knives. His thin eyes narrowed further.

  “And how did the Red Wraith meet his second death?”

  A moment of meditation, then –

  “You will tell them that Eldurion slew the Blood King. You will tell them this, sorcerer. The Fiannar will… they will need this.”

  Teji Nashi pursed his lips, nodded.

  “I will tell them that you reported this to me, yes? Thus I will not be speaking falsely, you see, and can retain the little that is left to me of my honour.”

  The Prince inclined his head. “Each to his own truth.”

  “Of course.”

  “There is another thing, sorceror. Something you should know.”

  The Diceman waited.

  The Ath’s pale eyes lifted to meet Teji Nashi’s gleaming own. “The Blood King and the kuarok spoke of one they named the Un-God.”

  “Yes. Zan-zurak. The Death King of the Wraithren. The power that came from the south.”

  The pale eyes narrowed. “The kuarok referred to the Un-God as his master.”

  “I see.”

  The pale eyes darkened. “Which can only mean one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  The pale eyes closed. “But do not tell them this. Soon, perhaps. But not now. Not yet.”

  “Agreed.”

  The pale eyes opened, stared into the fire. “If only things were – ”

  “ – different, yes?” The Diceman sighed, brushed a moth from the breast of his yukata, then folded his hands within the voluminous sleeves. “That would not change a thing. Different is just more of the same, you see.” The flames popped and crackled. “Have you Suru-luk’s sceptre with you, Prince Yllufarr?”

  The Sun Lord looked up from the little blaze. “His sceptre?”

  “One with a substantial heart-shaped ruby at its head, yes? It is an item of great import, you see, and I would know where it might be found.”

  “The Blood King possessed no sceptre,” Yllufarr replied. “Though one of his Mages carried one such as you describe. This creature named itself to me: Dijin Amora.”

  Teji Nashi leaned forward ever so slightly. The fire flared.

  “Dijin Amora was the Master General of the Dragon Emperor’s military. The Master General sided with the rebel Mages in their war against the Emperor, you see, and was their most powerful and influential ally. Other than the black power that came from the south, that is.” A pause. “You killed the creature, yes?”

  Yllufarr stood. Shook his head. “Its power was… surprising.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “What are you not saying, sorcerer?”

  “Nothing. Many things. Each to his truth, yes?” Teji Nashi floated to his feet. He smiled, but there was sadness there, and something very much like fatigue. “Where do you go, Prince of the Neverborn?”

  The Sun Lord looked northward into the night.

  “To kill a King-whisperer.”

  “A worthy pursuit. But a problematic one, yes? For Ingallin has gone into the Evvanin, you see, and could be anywhen in time and anywhere in space.”

  Yllufarr’s gloved hands dropped to the hafts of his knives.

  “I am immortal, sorcerer. I was not born and I will not die. I have been a Sun Lord of the Athair. I have been a Prince of the Folk of Gavrayel in Gith Glennin. I was once the Light of the World. But I am now Ashen, Patron of Assassins. And I have time.”

  Teji Nashi watched as his visitor disappeared in the distance. He then turned and walked back toward Eryn Ruil, deep in thought, two little spheres of fire bobbing silently above his shoulder.

  The Fiannar who had fought and triumphed at the Angar ban Erynna Ruill lined the marble road beneath the towering Colossus of Defurien. Row upon row of dour and dire wa
rriors, some astride mirarra, others on foot, a few propped upon portable wooden cots or odd wheeled chairs – but all straight of back and square of shoulders, their hard chins held high. To a man, to a woman, they faced south, gazing into the greyed glory of Galledine through dark steely eyes, solemnly awaiting the heroes of Allaura.

  Heroes, yes. For heroes they truly were.

  A little left of centre in the back row of the Fiannian formation, the two Erelian officers sat stiffly aback their steeds. High above them, the First Lord thrust his granite-grey sword into an anemic sky. The shadow which the statue should have cast eastward was but a dimmer darkness in the dark dimness of the day.

  The Iron Captain pulled his cloak closer as a pair of Watchers appeared from the Gardens to speak with their Marshal.

  “It won’t be long now, Axo. Those warders were sent southward days ago to be part the escort home. I recognize them.”

  The Commander sighed as his thoughts returned from the cold drear place to which they had drifted. He felt a chill within him, a gloom, bleak and unfamiliar, lurking at his core. He was quiet for a moment as he willed the shadows into recession, deliberately adjusting his disposition to an air more typical of him.

  “Radannan and Milutin, yes. The banner-bearers of the House of Defurien. They were with the Shield Maiden on the Old Road when she saved us from the red wind. But they bear no banners now.”

  “Nor do any here, brother. The Fiannar fly their flags no more, and will not for a long time. They have their reasons.”

  Axennus shifted in his saddle. Beneath him, the grey mare clamped her tail, dropped her head, pinned back her ears. But neither man nor mount made a sound beyond the soft creaking of leather and the softer soughing of breath.

  “I have been pondering something, Axo. I’ve been chewing on it for days now, and still can’t wrap my head around it.”

  “It must be something exceedingly simple, then.”

  Bronnus frowned, but plodded on. “How did you know the Rhelman would return from the Silver City so soon?”

  The Commander adjusted the set of his helm.

  “I know most things, dear brother. And the little that I don’t know, I pretend to know. In fact, I pretend so effectively that I even convince myself that I know, and am thereby illuminated accordingly. Knowledge is a paradox, Bron, both enlightening and burdensome.” He glanced to his right, and there was a faint yet familiar gleam in his hazel eyes. “Of course, you will just have to trust me on this.”

  The Iron Captain disregarded the words like a bull might ignore the flies about his backside.

  “How did you know?”

  Axennus sighed.

  “I did not actually know, Bron. How could I have? Despite my active and vastly superior intellect, there is no way I could have foreseen the Left Tenant would encounter an immortal steed that would then lead the entire Reserve through an ethereal halfworld to the Seven Hills, a journey of months made in a matter of days.”

  The Captain grunted. “I thought perhaps the Diceman…”

  “I have shared with you all I have gleaned from Teji Nashi. Admittedly, there is more to discover from the man, so much more, but I have yet to learn it.”

  “When you insisted upon sending Runningwolf to Hiridith, I thought you had dreamed up some secret master plan, and not informed me – you do have a habit of doing that. And I admit that I imagined the Rhelman returning with the Reserve just when our need was most desperate. But as it was, their appearance had no real effect on the Battle of the Seven Hills.” A brief yet bloated pause. “Indeed, they would have been more effective… elsewhere.”

  Axennus’ hands worked his saddle horn.

  “What did you expect, Bron? Horns at dawn, a heroic charge, men singing of death? That tale has been told, I’m sure, and likely by a better man than I.”

  “Then why send the Rhelman south?”

  “Because I wanted the Reserve here.”

  “That much is obvious. What is not so obvious is why.”

  The Commander released the horn. His hands settled quietly upon his thighs. Something glinted, glittered in his gaze.

  “You saw the enemy we faced here. You witnessed its power. Legends, myths, our darkest fears come true. A vast and terrible army that marched right out of the realm of nightmare. But this was just the enemy’s opening move – the pushing of a pawn. The Wraithren seek either the domination of the world or its destruction – it doesn’t matter which, really, for life without liberty is no life at all – and from what I have read in the Halls of Lore, much of Second Earth is already under the sway of Shadow. I expected to win the Battle of Eryn Ruil, but I realized that it would be costly for our friends the Fiannar. I suspected that when the battle was won, the Fiannar would no longer be able to stand in the gap for the Free Nations. Not alone, at least. They would need help. I believed then and I know now that there can be no victory over this enemy without the Erelian Republic.”

  The Iron Captain glowered, nodded. “I understand. But still, why send for the North March Mounted Reserve?”

  “Because, dear Bronnus, when we are done here, the North March Mounted Reserve is going to take the Erelian Republic.”

  The van of the column from Allaura emerged from the oddly uncoloured eaves of Galledine. A guard of Grey Watch came first, shadows riding shadows, living ghosts of the dying day. Immediately behind them came the Shield Maiden, her mirarran stepping with unpretentious pride, the little Lordling sitting awake and alert in his harness. Half a length behind and to the left rode Noldarion, the Heir to the House of Cilcannan. Upon the right was red-tressed Chelyse, modestly draped in the drab garb of the Grey Watch. Following them were the wretched few – the heroes of Allaura.

  Heroism is a quiet thing, a silent giant that seeks neither fame nor glory, nor even recognition, but only a warm and welcome place in the hearts of those who know. Heroism demands no reward, no adulation, neither a band of gold upon the brow nor the roar of the adoring crowd. It does not seek to surpass, but to serve. It subsists in sacrifice, in the abandonment of self, in steadfast and stalwart dedication to the truth. To all that is right and good. Not to what is deemed right and good, but to that which is right and good. And this is done in perfect purity, in perpetuity. Heroism abides not in victory, not in the defeat and degradation of the foe, but in the uplifting of the individual and of others, and in the sanctity of the spirit. For the true measure of a hero is not in the woe and war that he wreaks, but in the peace he brings – not in the agony he inflicts, but in that which he endures.

  Or she.

  Caelle arched her neck, peering upward, high into the cold stone eyes of the Colossus. Bereft of its golden sword and rillagh, the statue was become just another monument, symbolic yet meaningless, lifeless, and somehow evocatory of a deep and lasting sadness. Farewell, father. The Shield Maiden lowered her eyes, nudged her mount toward the marble road, where waited Marshal Varonin and the Masters and Mistress of the Fiannar’s surviving Houses.

  The Marshal of the Grey Watch fisted his rillagh.

  “Shield Maiden. Stewarde of the House of Defurien. I hereby resign my position as Marshal of the Grey Watch. I have failed in my duties. Lord Alvarion lies on the Pyre awaiting fire because I was unworthy. I was – ”

  “Oh, fuck off, Varonin.” Caelle thumped her bosom. “Save that nonsense for more foolish ears than mine.”

  The Marshal’s mouth clamped shut. The Masters Colinnan and Teillerian stared straight ahead, firm of form and rigid of mien. But the much-bandaged Mistress Janne and the Stewarde Sandarre smiled, and if there was no joy in those smiles, there was at least a certain real and unembellished appreciation.

  “You are your father’s daughter, Caelle,” Varonin intoned, lowering his hand and his head.

  “And her mother’s,” added Janne. “The bloods of Defurien and Fircuine flow fierce and hot in those veins.” Then to the Shield Maiden, “Welcome home, sister.”

  Caelle surveyed the ranks of Deathward warriors
lining the marble road. Men and women mounted and standing in profound stillness and silence, bunched fists over their hearts. Worn and weary, ragged and haggard, yet unfailingly resilient, resolved. Noble, in the truest meaning of the word. Two thousand souls, perhaps – maybe a few more, perhaps a little less.

  Either way, not enough.

  And then Caelle caught sight of the Southman. Axennus Teagh was mounted beside his brother at the rear of the Fiannian formation. He must have just said something tremendously shocking to the much-abused Bronnus, for the elder Teagh’s eyes were as wide as saucers and his lower jaw had dropped almost to his lap.

  The Shield Maiden looked upon the Erelian Commander. He was whole and hale, appeared entirely untouched by the ravages and savages and wages of war, and his grey-green eyes gleamed. Her own eyes may have shone a bit more then, she could not be sure, but she undoubtedly felt the muscles in her face slacken slightly, and the corners of her mouth most definitely twitched. So much was shared in that moment, in that meeting of gazes and souls. So much was given. A communing, and a coming home.

  More than enough.

  Caelle looked quietly away.

  High above, the clouds of early evening parted, pulled gently apart by silent winds, and a grand band of gold emblazoned the darkening sky.

  Between her thighs, the little Lordling burbled.

  “Marshal Varonin,” said the daughter of Eldurion and Taresse.

  “Shield Maiden.”

  “Make arrangements for the child, please.” She adjusted the battered silver buckler on her arm. “Then take me to Kor ben Dor.”

  EPILOGUE

  “I ask you for hope, friend,

  And you show me an empty hand instead.”

  “I offer you my hand –

  The emptiness you see is in your eyes.”

  Omereo, The Despair Dialogues

  They came after the rains. Down from the north. Returning from the Wild.

  The young goatherd squatted on the southern shore of the River March, watching them. The crisp air of the spring morning was cool upon his cheeks, like his Grandma’s hands rubbing his skin rosy. The goats were safely hidden in the hallam, watched over by his eldest brother who was on leave from the Legion for a fortnight. The Decan would be angry that the boy had slipped away without a word, for the trip had grown – nearly forty now, mostly white, several tans, three greys, a pair of blacks.