by A. J. Smith
Next to Brom, the air began to twist into a gentle vortex of cold, white mist. A moment later, a huge Fjorlander appeared. Even seated, he towered over Brom and Fynius. His hair was a golden mane of braids and matted curls, and his beard was woven into a fork. His robe was white, showing him to be a shade in the service of Rowanoco, and tufts of thick body hair poked out at the neck and wrists.
‘Magnus Forkbeard, priest of the Order of the Hammer,’ stated Brom. ‘We were friends in life.’
‘And our masters have been friends for aeons,’ replied Magnus. ‘An old raven and an old man of ice.’
The two shades smiled, sharing a quiet moment of reunion, both as men and as avatars of Brytag and Rowanoco. They might be the only true allies in the halls beyond the world, but Brytag had only so much power and showing favouritism to the Ice Giant would anger the other Giants, not to mention weaken their efforts against the Dead God.
‘And you are?’ asked Magnus.
‘Fynius,’ he replied. ‘Brytag’s exemplar. I invited you here.’
‘I have not the power to help my exemplar,’ said the huge priest sadly. ‘He sits in Tiergarten with little guidance.’
‘We can change that,’ said Brom. ‘If we have strength, we will not leave one exemplar to fight alone.’
‘Strong words, old raven,’ said Magnus.
Brom smiled, looking more like a man than he had yet. ‘Thank you, old ice-beard. It will cost me mortal memories, but it’s worth it.’
Fynius didn’t know where the shades finished and the gods started, but in his meeting hall beyond the world, the lines were blurred. If he’d been a simpler man, he’d have been over-awed. As it was, he was merely curious.
The next chair shimmered, a rainbow of colours playing across the air. White, purple, red, blue, black, brown, until the light settled into a grey haze and a man appeared in the chair. He was dark-haired and clean-shaven, with huge shoulders, clad in a simple grey robe. He was a shade in service to the One God and the people of Ro.
‘I am Brother Torian of Arnon,’ said the cleric. ‘I speak for Tor Funweir and the Stone Giant.’
Magnus gave him a hard stare and drummed his thick fingers on the table. The animosity was clear, especially as Brytag had seated them opposite each other. The One God and Rowanoco had a complicated history; they were past allies and mortal enemies in equal measure. Long ago they had fought together to defeat Shub-Nillurath but, more recently, the men of Ro had enslaved the Freelands. Rowanoco could forgive many things, but not the denial of his people’s freedom. As for the One, he hated anything that threatened his carefully ordered laws of hierarchy. At least he used to.
‘A Purple cleric,’ stated Magnus. ‘An appropriate choice.’
‘A bearded barbarian,’ replied Torian. ‘How surprising.’
Brom was still smiling, letting the World Raven’s good nature infuse him. He couldn’t take sides, even if he had wanted to. He looked at Fynius and raised his eyebrows, nodding for his exemplar to speak. Fynius considered remaining silent and letting the shades air all of their grievances, but he didn’t want old arguments to cripple their current efforts.
‘May I speak?’ he asked tentatively. Magnus and Torian didn’t acknowledge him but kept their angry eyes on each other, pulling forth a hundred slights the other must answer for and putting them into their stares. ‘I assume you have much to talk about, but the lands of men can’t wait for you to make friends. Nor will Shub-Nillurath halt his attack so you can argue about who has inflicted the greatest wrong on the other. Your exemplars need help.’
‘Brytag has never done us wrong,’ said Torian, still looking at Magnus. ‘But we do not trust this ignorant peasant. He is an apparition of a chaotic Giant, too unpredictable to trust.’
‘And you are as cold and dull as the Stone Giant who speaks through you,’ snapped Magnus.
A nimbus of icy air covered Rowanoco’s shade, flaring outwards as if his form was not large enough to contain the anger he was feeling. Opposite him, Brother Torian snarled, his muscular arms pulsing and taking on the look of immovable stone. Fynius didn’t know what would happen if they clashed. Would earthquakes rage across the earth? Would mountains fall and oceans rise? Luckily, he didn’t have to find out; the remaining two chairs began to swirl with light and Magnus and Torian turned their hate-filled eyes from each other. Their divine anger dimmed.
Brom kept smiling, but a sadness appeared at the edges of his eyes. When neither of the swirling mists coalesced into a recognizable form, all three shades looked at Fynius.
‘Strange,’ he said. ‘I feel Jaa from that one, but he’s lost... adrift, as if he can’t find his exemplar.’ He turned to the other chair, upon which a robust swirl of mist was slowly churning. ‘I don’t know who that is. But it’s old.’
Magnus banged his fist on the table. ‘I know who that is.’ He roared with laughter. ‘I’d forgotten about him. What an absent-minded old Giant I have become.’
The thick mist rose higher and larger than all the others combined, until a wide, tusked face formed within the mist. It was a particularly large troll, densely furred with streaks of grey and black. It had a flabby muscularity and hooked claws. Even to Fynius, it was terrifying.
‘We are the Breaking Storm,’ intoned the troll, in a voice that sounded like rocks banging together. ‘And we speak for Varorg.’
Torian stood and looked up at the huge beast seated next to him. The Purple cleric was not afraid, but it could well have been the first time either he or the One had seen a troll. ‘Varorg and Rowanoco are one and the same,’ said Torian. ‘A different name for the same god. How is this possible?’
The Breaking Storm directed his deep-set, jewelled gaze to the Purple cleric. ‘We have endured in the ice for long years, man of the stone. Until this one summoned us.’ He pointed a claw at Fynius. ‘We thought we were the last of the Shade Folk. It is pleasant to discover we were wrong. We speak for the form Rowanoco took when he appeared to the Ice Men.’
‘So the Ice Giant has two voices round this table?’ said Torian. ‘Perhaps it was foolish of us to come.’
‘You had no choice,’ replied Fynius. ‘If you hadn’t come, your power would slowly fade to nothing until the people of Ro were whistling in the wind as slaves of the Twisted Tree.’
Torian hung his head. He returned to his seat and gritted his teeth. ‘If the World Raven wishes to share his power, we will gratefully accept.’ He turned to the one obscured chair, where a tentative fingernail of Jaa’s power was trying to make itself known. ‘I certainly am more worthy of your help than the treacherous Fire Giant.’
‘In that we agree,’ said Magnus. ‘Shub-Nillurath’s survival is his responsibility.’
Fynius rubbed his eyes and shared an exasperated look with Brom. ‘I think Jaa is weaker than any of you,’ he said. ‘The Shade of Dalian Thief Taker cannot even appear to speak for his god. He has no exemplar to anchor him to the world.’
‘I knew him in life,’ said Brom. ‘His son was my friend. If we don’t help him, he will drift forever.’
‘Let him drift,’ said Torian. ‘We would not lament his passing.’
‘Al Hasim would want to help,’ offered Fynius. ‘And we should not give up on Jaa so easily.’
‘So your power is to be stretched thinly between each of us?’ asked Torian. ‘Will that be enough?’
Fynius considered the question, screwing up his face in thought. ‘I honestly don’t know. But I’ve seen the Tyranny of the Twisted Tree. It was as real in my mind as if I’d lived there all my life. Shub-Nillurath will choose Tyrants to control his land. He’s already chosen some of them. I saw a cat-like creature of chaos in the Fell. I saw a unique Dark Young in Arnon. I saw a dismembered head in Kessia. I saw a brutal Bear Tamer in Fjorlan. I saw an immense spider in Far Karesia – and I saw a Mistress of Pain in Weir. Our power may not be enough, but it’s all we have to give.’
The shades were silent, each form emitting a divine halo of va
ried colours, as if the gods were feeling sadness for the first time in aeons. It was called the Long War, but the battlefields had been empty and quiet for so long that the reality of Shub-Nillurath’s move to power was hard to accept.
‘We will accept your help,’ said the Breaking Storm. ‘Any help you can give.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fynius. ‘I like you, Shade of Varorg.’
The others stayed quiet, processing the possibility of defeat and the need to reorder the world. The Dead God had too many tendrils, like a virus deeply embedded in the earth, too virulent to eradicate entirely. The world would never be the same.
‘Yes,’ said Torian. ‘We also will accept any help. And we will accept truce. There is a real enemy here.’
‘Agreed,’ said Magnus. ‘Each of our exemplars needs strength. I propose we take the old raven’s gift and focus that strength where we can. You, man of the stone, what is your exemplar’s name?’
‘Fallon the Grey,’ replied Torian. ‘We plan to start a new order of knights. He will be the first. The time of the Purple and Red is coming to an end. I will reorder my followers and usher in an age of honour. And your exemplar, man of the ice?’
‘Alahan Teardrop,’ said Magnus. ‘He is young, but strong. The last of his line. The oldest line in the lands of men. But I have nothing to give him.’
‘Unrahgahr,’ stated the Breaking Storm. ‘Our exemplars fight on the same field, old ice-beard.’
They all looked at Fynius. ‘And then there is you,’ said Torian. ‘And perhaps you deserve our thanks.’
‘Not necessary,’ he replied. ‘I like the world; I don’t want it to change any more than it has already. But don’t forget Jaa. I think I can help him. A son is a powerful bond, perhaps enough to anchor the Fire Giant’s shade. But that’s for me to do. I think Al Hasim likes me.’ He felt progress was being made for the first time. ‘You, Brother Torian, we’ll give you power enough to strengthen Fallon’s sword arm and the arms of the other Grey Knights. We can’t help his resolve or his honour, that will be left to him, but we can give him a sword arm that can change the world. Magnus, we will leave Alahan’s strength to take care of itself, but we will give him the power to unlock the heart of Fjorlan. We will give him the power to remind the land of Rowanoco.’ He grinned at the Breaking Storm. ‘And Unrahgahr gets a change of diet.’
The troll returned the grin, smacking his pulpy lips together. ‘Thank you.’
‘This future you have seen,’ enquired Torian. ‘This Tyranny of the Twisted Tree... could we have stopped it? Was it our hubris that allowed the virus to spread?’ His face, wreathed in divine power, twisted into a frown, as if a god was changing his mind or realizing he’d made a mistake that would rule the fates of many.
‘Yes, you could have stopped it,’ said Fynius. ‘If you’d concerned yourself less with the Purple and noticed the suffering of the common folk, you would have more worship. As it is, many people of Ro were faithful because the clerics told them to be.’
Magnus roared with laughter, grinning at the One God’s shade.
‘You’re no better, old ice-beard,’ said Fynius. ‘You told your people to be strong, honourable and free, but you never said how – or which was most important. You allowed a man of strength to convince others that freedom and honour were unimportant.’
The two shades shrank a little, both appearing to realize that Fynius was right. There was no anger or aggression, just sadness, perhaps even regret.
‘Jaa may have let Shub-Nillurath live,’ he continued. ‘But it was you two who allowed him to come back.’
The wisp of wind where Dalian Thief Taker had tried to emerge was now churning like a tornado, as if the Fire Giant were roaring at the top of his lungs to be heard. He had no voice at the table, though Fynius imagined he could hear every word.
‘Anger is not useful,’ said Brom. ‘Neither is self-pity. We are not defeated yet, though how much of our world remains will be decided when we leave this parlay table. I for one do not plan to surrender. If Shub-Nillurath has taught us anything, it is that killing a god is no small thing, easily done. If only a fraction of your followers remain, so do you.’
Magnus banged his fists on the table again. ‘To remain is not enough. I will not be a lesser god, nor will I become a casualty of the Long War. I must be mighty or I will be nothing.’
‘There is more,’ offered Brom. ‘There are soldiers of the Long War still fighting, with no allegiance to any of us. We can’t help them all, but have assisted the oldest and the youngest. There is wisdom and luck in both. The Shape Taker and the little wolf are our gifts to you.’
‘Who do they worship, if not us?’ asked Torian.
‘One is too young to have embraced a god, the other worships a dead Shadow Giant,’ replied Brom.
‘Dokkalfar?’ queried Magnus. ‘I thought they would have passed by now. Their time is surely over.’
‘They cling on,’ said Brom, showing Brytag’s fondness for the forest-dwellers. ‘Though not for much longer. We feel their might leaving the lands of men. Many have already left; the rest will follow. They have no more stomach to fight, they are too old.’
‘But the Shape Taker endures,’ said Fynius. ‘He’s been fighting for too long to know anything else, and we have seen his heart. This land needs Tyr Nanon, and thankfully, he has a dark-blood as a companion. They will cast a shadow for many years to come.’
For a moment the shades appeared peaceful. Perhaps acceptance bred peace, for everyone present now knew how far they had fallen and how fractured their power had become.
***
Then Fynius was back on the sodden grass of Hail as if he’d never left. His eyes flicked left and right as he tried to decide whether or not he’d imagined the entire experience. It was not impossible that he’d just been standing in the rain, talking to a tree for the last hour... No. Brytag wouldn’t trick him like that.
Warm Heart panted at his feet, eliciting a smile. Fynius was not so arrogant as to congratulate himself, but he nonetheless knew that he and the World Raven had done their best. The war-hound knew it too, and he briefly heaved himself up on his hind legs in a show of friendship, so his heavy front paws enveloped Fynius.
‘There are many people out there, my furry friend. People with families and friends, with personalities and opinions. So many are going to die. I could have joined an army and led men into combat, but I chose this instead. I hope I was right to do so. This way we save more people, more personalities and opinions. I’ll never meet them all, but I can wish them all luck.’
Warm Heart whined, as if reminding Fynius that he still had work to do.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ He looked south, through rain and darkness. ‘How quickly can we get to Canarn, do you think?’
EPILOGUE
THE BOAT WAS fast and that was the nicest thing Brother Lanry could think to say about it. He was part of the third convoy, ferrying Malaki Frith’s Red Knights from Canarn to Ro Tiris. A few thousand men were already there, and many thousands more were aboard ship or waiting outside Canarn. It would be months before every man and scrap of equipment was safely back in Tor Funweir. The country of his birth seemed smaller, as if the edges were being squeezed by an unwelcome guest.
‘What happened to the sea wall?’ he asked Captain Brook, the man of Canarn in command of the ship.
‘The new king blew it up,’ replied the captain.
Lanry had seen the wondrous structure of stone and wood many times, and had been amazed at it each time. Now, a huge section in the middle was destroyed, and a hundred small boats were attempting to clear the shipping lanes of the debris. The sea wall would take years to repair and the low city beyond looked very exposed.
‘And the harbour?’ asked the Brown cleric.
‘The new king sailed his fleet into it,’ replied Captain Brook.
Lanry grunted in disapproval. Surely there was a better way to retake the city. Did Alexander Tiris truly have to attack Ro Tiris?
The boat lost speed as the sailors did a number of terribly complicated things with ropes and sails. He remained at the side of the sailing contraption, huddled in his thick brown robe and looking forward to the opportunity to return to dry land.
‘Nearly there, Brother,’ said the captain. ‘The Red Knights will go straight to the barracks. I assume you’ll be headed back to Canarn in a day or two. I’ll be here when you’re ready.’
The boat glided slowly to a stop against a small intact section of the huge wooden docks. Lanry kept himself upright by holding on tightly to the railings of the boat. Once it had settled against the thick planks of wood, he felt far better. The subtle but unnerving roll had now stopped, allowing him to breathe out properly for the first time since he had left Canarn.
‘Is there a ramp or gangplank of some kind?’
The captain smiled at him. ‘Are we eager, Brother?’ he asked, directing his sailors to lower the boarding ramp.
‘No, just too polite to vomit on your delightful boat.’
‘It’s a ship,’ replied Brook, still smiling.
Lanry took several offers of assistance and stumbled his way down the solid ramp, his simple leather boots making a satisfying clomp on the wooden dock of Ro Tiris.
Once on land, he instantly felt more like himself. He turned back to the boat and looked up at the captain. ‘Good day to you, captain. I trust you’ll enjoy the hospitality of the capital once General Frith’s men are ashore.’
Brook frowned, looking at the city as a man would look at a closed tavern. He had much work to do helping the hundreds of knights disembark. Lanry smiled at him anyway and made his way slowly to the nearby gate, taking his time and getting a good look at the immense city walls. He stayed away from the main gate, preferring to enter the huge city via the less opulent Stone Town Gate. There were fewer workers and guardsmen, and the small doorway was tucked between stone buttresses, allowing unobtrusive entrance to the narrow streets and dilapidated buildings of Stone Town.
‘Ah, the smell of pickled fish and effluence,’ he muttered, ‘how I have not missed thee.’