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

by Sean Rodden

  The ghostly army that had gone into the Wild had grown too. More had come south than had gone north – because of the goats in his care, the boy was good at knowing numbers in a glance – about one hundred more. And they were not alone. Grey and black and gleaming white had joined the phantom soldiers’ blue and the bronze. New and different flags fluttered on the flanks. Three rampant lions and a silver-and-copper crux rippled alongside the Blue Banner in the damp morning air. On the right wing, white-caped knights in full field plate glittered like silver swords in the sun; to the west, great grey giants with painted faces and oddly arranged hair sat astride appalling nightmarish steeds.

  The goatherd was not surprised. He had heard rumours of a terrible war in the Wild, of a savage series of battles between angels and demons. Modern myths, his father had insisted, little more than imaginative lies, not to be believed, not even worth repeating. But the boy knew better. He had seen the Ghost Brigade go north, going to help the angels. And now those soldiers had returned. But they could not cross the Fords without breaching Republican Law. Not this well-armed and armoured, anyway. As per Erelian custom and consuetude, no war-ready contingent of the Legion could cross the March in force and enter the Inner Provinces of the Republic without the expressed consent of the Senate – and the Senate would never give its consent.

  But then, the Ghost Brigade was no longer a part of the Legion, were they?

  The army approached Findy’s Ford steadily, stopping upon the northern bank. A group of officers gathered there to talk. A tall man on a grey mare; a big man on a roan stallion; a foreigner on a pony; and the dark-skinned heathen on the horse from heaven. They were joined by two of the white knights, a man and a woman, and by a giant with his face painted and his hair arranged to resemble a wolf. The young goatherd watched as they spoke for a while, then saw the heathen look his way, raise one arm and point.

  The tall man said something to the others, then he and the big man urged their steeds into the shallow flow of the Ford.

  The goatherd gulped. Stood up. He felt the urge to run, but did not. The two men reined in a few yards from him. The boy recognized the pair from the collector cards that his rich uncle in Hiridith had sent him of the heroes of the Second Trade War.

  The March Fox. And the Iron Captain.

  “A beautiful morning, is it not, young sir?” greeted the celebrated Commander of the North March Mounted Reserve.

  The goatherd could only nod because his heart had filled his throat.

  The March Fox smiled broadly, beautifully.

  “Is there any reason to worry that you will tell anyone of our presence here if we asked you not to? We wish to surprise some old friends, and we don’t want the surprise to be spoiled unnecessarily.”

  The boy blinked, shook his head.

  The March Fox glanced at the Iron Captain. “Do you believe him, Bron?”

  The big man glowered, grunted, made a so-so sign with his hand.

  “Good enough.” The Commander looked back upon the young goatherd. “What’s your name?”

  After several aborted efforts, the boy told him.

  The March Fox nodded. “I will remember that name.”

  And the two living legends turned away.

  The young goatherd did not move as the army waded into the waters of the March, crossing the Ford in fast formation, their steeds prancing in precise and perfect symmetry. Gold and bold and bronze and strong. White and black and gravest grey. As the war party approached him, someone shouted “Eyes right!”, and each and every warrior simultaneously saluted the silent little boy.

  And then they were gone. Down into the South.

  Bringing the Wild with them.

  …and so ends the War for the North.

  AFTERWORD

  I have seen things. Dark and dreadful things. Things that would surely tear the sight from the eyes of Mortals. Things that break the heart, crush the spirit, and damn the soul. Things which shatter hope and lay waste to faith. Things I wish I had never seen, but was compelled to witness, was forced to watch.

  For I am a Watcher. A servant of The One. I am His Eyes.

  Of a time, I saw the heavenly city of Halevorn cast from a burning sky. Of another, I saw the glorious realm of the last Dragon Emperor ripped from the World. I bore witness to the terrible triumph and tragedy that transpired at the Anbar ban Gan Gebberninh. I have seen Darkness rise and the Light fall. I have seen Death reign and Life enchained. I have seen worlds burn. I have seen suns die. I saw the Beginning and the End, and I have witnessed every form of torment, every conceivable manner of pain. Verily, I saw these things and so much more – and still I did not know despair.

  Then came that day of death and doom in the gorge before a place called Allaura, where the Lamps of Welcome were not lit and the Glass Gate did not open. I was there. And I became intimate with despair.

  And now as I gaze out upon this last world, this Third Earth, I see through eyes dim with despondence, darkened by desolation. For despite the heroics and the selfless sacrifices of the Guardian Peoples, Man persists in fawning in the influence of Shadow. He insists upon division, derision, dissention. He exists to exterminate himself, to extinguish the Light within. Deep in the darkness of his being, Man does not want to be.

  And deeper within him, Unluvin lives.

  Unluvin. The Un-God. The Ancient Enemy. The King of the Third Earth.

  You will find him in Man’s every theft, in every lie told, in every deed done in greed. You will find him in cruelty, in malice, in all variants of selfish motivation. You will find him in the bruises of every beaten child, in the tears of every wronged wife, in the crazed and rabid gaze of the ravager. You will find him in the treasures of the rich man, and in the poverty of the poor one. You will find him in the hollow silence of lost passion, in the agony of unrequited love, in the empty stare of those who simply do not care. You will find him in the hypocrisy of priests and politicians, in the honeyed voice of the false friend, in the thin-lipped smile of the executioner.

  You will find him, but you need not come to know him.

  You will hear him in the hammering thud of the angry heart. You will hear him in the anguished wail of the starving babe. You will hear him in the sharp slap of the open hand and the heavy thump of the landed punch. You will hear him in the keening of the bereaved, in the glee of the reavers. You will hear him in the clinking of counted coins. You will hear him in the dusty breath of the undeserving dead. You will hear him crowing in the morning and screaming in the night. You will hear him whispering at the core of your very soul.

  You will hear him, but you do not have to heed him.

  For the Wretched Few have deemed it thus.

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