The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood

by A. J. Smith

  Alahan paused and straightened up as much as he could, unwilling to enter the chapel with his hands clamped to the sides of his head. He almost fell backwards as the thick stone door, partially concealed down a set of steps, flung suddenly open. It was not the wind, and all he could think, as the voice ushered him inside, was that it resembled the voice of his uncle, Magnus Forkbeard.

  Once out of the cold wind, Alahan leant against the stone passageway and then walked slowly down the steps and into the darkness beyond. There was a globe of light at the foot of the staircase.

  ‘Alahan Teardrop Algesson, high thain of Fjorlan and exemplar of Rowanoco,’ boomed the voice from below, ‘enter the Stone.’

  Even if he had wanted to resist, the young man of Fredericksand was compelled to obey the voice. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the chapel, Alahan was struck dumb. Before him, standing proud and tall over a flaming steel brazier, was a shadowy figure. The form was indistinct, but the outline and misty features were those of his uncle Magnus. The massive war-hammer that hung by his side was Skeld, his uncle’s beloved weapon. Yet the shade did not to have a solid physical form and Alahan could see the rock of the chapel through the apparition.

  ‘Welcome, exemplar,’ said the shade. There was little or no emotion in the voice and it had none of Magnus’s idiosyncrasies. It looked like the former priest of the Order of the Hammer but sounded only vaguely like him.

  ‘What are you?’ Alahan spluttered.

  ‘The one I was is caught between worlds, with no body to inhabit and no way to the ice halls beyond the world. I am a memory, nothing more.’ Alahan felt the words as much as he heard them, and he winced in pain as the shade spoke.

  ‘You are Magnus?’ he asked, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘I am the shade of Magnus, though I do not remember him. The blood is almost spent and I am needed.’ The apparition moved round the burning brazier and stood tall in front of Alahan. ‘You are the exemplar of Rowanoco. You are the Ice Giant’s servant in the Long War. I am here to advise you.’

  The man of Fredericksand leant heavily against the stone wall and peered at the shade before him. He had never heard of such things, of men appearing in this way after death. Yet whatever was happening in the chapel of Rowanoco, he knew that the Ice Giant was reaching out to him, stretching a hand from his hall beyond the world to protect the people of Ranen.

  ‘We have high walls, but few men,’ said the young man, feeling the need to speak of what was troubling him. ‘The forces arrayed against us will become too numerous for this city to hold. The Betrayer did his work well.’

  The shade reared up suddenly and its eyes flared with ice-cold anger, making frost appear on the walls and a whistling wind spiral through the chapel.

  ‘It was a witch of Shub-Nillurath,’ boomed the shade, making the stone shake and causing Alahan to stumble back against the wall. ‘The Forest Giant has awoken and the Long War rages fiercely.’

  ‘I am just a man,’ said Alahan, as the icy wind of the shade pelted him with snow and frost. ‘I will gladly give my life for Rowanoco, but I need ten thousand men willing to do the same...’

  The shade stepped back and the temperature quickly returned to normal. The young man’s beard was frozen and his hands shook violently, though he stood defiantly upright.

  ‘You are not your father,’ said the shade, its words echoing around the stone chamber. ‘You think only of men.’ These words hurt more than anything else the shadowy presence had uttered, and the young man bowed his head and gritted his teeth.

  ‘My father is dead... your brother is dead, whether you remember him or not.’ Alahan was not a child any more and he tried to hold his ground against the immense presence of the shade. ‘I could never be him, but my name is Teardrop.’

  The shade of Magnus stepped back until it was again on the other side of the fire. Its eyes calmed until the shade was once more an apparition of his uncle.

  ‘You will do,’ it said simply. ‘But you need counsel.’

  ‘I will gladly hear how I am supposed to be victorious.’

  ‘The Ice Giant has many servants, not only men. You should look to the other beasts of the ice.’ Alahan now stared deeply into the shade’s jewel-like eyes. A wave of sadness flowed through him as he remembered his uncle. Magnus Forkbeard Ragnarson was one of the best men he had ever known, a priest of the Order of the Hammer who had never compromised, never backed down, never abandoned what he knew to be right. Yet the shade was not that man. It spoke with a voice far deeper and more ancient.

  ‘The witches have almost succeeded. Their plans progress faster than ours,’ stated the shade. For the first time, there was a note of anger in its voice. ‘But we are not helpless. Throughout the lands of men, the faithful still fight. The One has his loyal followers, and so does Jaa... the three are not yet defeated and the shades rise.’

  The hairs on Alahan’s arms began to tingle and a shiver of conviction travelled down his spine, a feeling of deep devotion to the Ice Giant and the lands of Ranen.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, stepping forward.

  The shade drew his shadowy hammer and held it ceremoniously in front of his indistinct face. The gesture was more than a show of strength. Alahan’s head began to pound once more as he felt a sense of enormity and unknowable time flow from his uncle.

  ‘You will hold Fjorlan... you will fight back against the forces of the Forest Giant... you will serve Rowanoco until your last breath, exemplar.’

  * * *

  He did not return to sleep and remained seated on a stone bench on the top level of Tiergarten, weathering the cold wind and gazing down at the Fjorlan Sea. The hall of Summer Wolf was behind him and the chapel of Rowanoco to his left. Alahan could see clear of the city and down to the fields of grain and cattle that marked the southern plains of the realm. In the distant morning haze, he could just about make out the western edge of the Wolf Wood.

  The Fjorlan Sea rolled silently away from the coast and he wondered where, in the grey expanse, his father had died. Kalall’s Deep was far to the south and the Kraken Sea nestled next to the islands of Samnia, but from the top of Tiergarten the waters all looked the same. Somewhere out there could be the means to avenge Algenon Teardrop. Maybe one day Alahan would feel worthy of his name.

  ‘Are you up early or up late?’ asked Father Brindon Crowe from behind him.

  The grey morning cast shadows and mist across the stone skyline of Tiergarten. Alahan was surprised that he wasn’t the least bit tired. He turned and leant on the back of the stone bench the better to see the approaching priest. ‘Something of a spiritual awakening, I suppose,’ he replied.

  Father Crowe came to a stop in front of the young thain and showed a grim, thin-lipped frown. He was clearly sober and as a result his mood was dark. ‘Well, as a priest, I believe I am the perfect person with whom to discuss such things.’

  ‘I need to know something, Brindon,’ said Alahan, too distracted to use the proper form of address. ‘Something you seem to know.’

  ‘I’ll forgive the informality, lad,’ replied Crowe, sitting down next to his former student. ‘Has this spiritual awakening left you with questions?’

  ‘Just one for now... I think the others will come later,’ replied the young warrior. ‘What is it that Timon snorts? Why do the trolls not attack him?’

  Crowe chuckled in amusement and cast his inscrutable eyes over the city of Tiergarten. He showed no further emotion or sign of interest, and he didn’t respond right away.

  Eventually old Father Crowe said, ‘The berserkers of the Low Kast have... a certain way of making war. They enter a rage beyond anything you would have seen.’

  ‘I’ve seen one of your order enter the battle rage of Rowanoco... my uncle actually.’ The young thain glanced involuntarily towards the chapel of the Ice Giant and remembered the shade of Magnus.

  ‘Those of Varorg make young Forkbeard look like a sniffling little Ro,’
responded Crowe. ‘They use a crystal found in the deep ice of the Low Kast. When sniffed up the nose it... does things to your body.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question, Father,’ prompted Alahan. ‘What is it and what does it do to trolls?’

  Father Crowe narrowed his eyes and glared down at the young man. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked. ‘Timon doesn’t want to tell you, so why should I?’

  ‘Because I am the closest thing you have to my father. He’s dead and I am alive. Just deal with it...’ Alahan paused and let his eyes fall to the stone beneath his feet. ‘I have...’ he said, with no remaining fear of his former teacher.

  ‘Very well, my thain, I will answer your question,’ replied Crowe, with the barest hint of a smile. ‘The Ice Men of Rowanoco produce a crystalline substance. Everything they eat – rocks, trees, men – it all comes out of the trolls as these fine, white crystals.’

  Alahan raised an eyebrow. ‘Troll piss? They snort troll piss?’

  ‘I don’t even know if they have a name for it,’ said Crowe, ‘but it stinks more than dead Gorlan and has a strange effect on the other denizens of the ice. I’ve heard stories of trolls joining companies of battle-brothers for months on end, thinking the Low Kast Ranen are a family of Ice Men.’

  Alahan found the notion amusing. ‘Aren’t they embarrassed by this?’

  ‘I don’t think they care, lad. I think they use it to drive themselves insane and make their heads crack. Everything else is the will of Varorg.’ He coughed and spat phlegm on the ground between his feet. ‘You can use this information, but Timon won’t thank you for it.’

  ‘If you can think of a better way to defend Tiergarten, I’m listening...’ Alahan was determined and if the other beasts of the ice could be used to regain Fjorlan, he was sure that Rowanoco would countenance it.

  Crowe turned and slapped Alahan hard in the face, making his lip bleed and his cheek sting in sudden pain. ‘You’re not your father, boy. You’re a brave fool... at best. At worst you’re a liability, and I’m not going to pander to you.’

  Alahan saw red. Without thinking he reached up and grabbed the old priest by the throat. ‘A man slaps me and he gets hurt... I don’t care if you’re a priest, a king or a wise woman. I am a Teardrop and I apologize if my first name is not Algenon.’

  Crowe barely reacted to being pinned against the stone bench. The old priest didn’t turn his gaze from Alahan, but the thought it betrayed was more of interest than of annoyance. He raised his hand and patted Alahan’s wrist to calm the angry young thain.

  ‘Our walls will not be breached easily,’ he said, as Alahan released his grip. ‘But with so few defenders, we cannot hold out indefinitely.’

  ‘As I said, if you can think of a better way...’ Alahan didn’t like the idea of using Timon to lead a family of trolls to Tiergarten, but with the words of the shade ringing in his ears, he felt that no other option remained.

  ‘If the lordling of Jarvik has a few thousand men and battering rams...’ Crowe left the sentence unfinished, but his eyes showed his doubt that they could stand against Kalag.

  Alahan returned to his seat. He tried to calm his mind and not to take the old priest’s words too seriously. Crowe had a well-practised manner, cultivated over many years and designed to make men wither under his caustic demeanour. The young thain had decided that he was no longer going to be cowed by him.

  ‘You’re a priest of the Order of the Hammer, Father. You of all people should have faith,’ said Alahan with conviction. ‘Or at least trust that I do.’

  CHAPTER 4

  RANDALL OF DARKWALD IN THE FELL

  ‘We will endure,’ said Vithar Xaris for the seventy-fifth time since the sun had disappeared over the horizon. ‘Your desire to rush our passage south will not change the inevitable.’ The Dokkalfar gave Utha the Ghost an exaggerated tilt of the head, and Randall saw his master resist the urge to do something violent.

  ‘You do understand that we’re being chased, yes?’ asked the cleric, biting his lip in frustration. ‘It is a concept that you can accept?’

  The Vithar turned his head slowly, but did not make any other movement. His eyes were still and his mouth expressionless. ‘I understand more than you can ever know, Utha the Shadow,’ replied the forest-dweller.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave it before you manage actually to say something useful,’ Randall interjected, pulling Utha away from the conversation and directing a barbed grimace at the obtuse shaman.

  The addition of twenty Dokkalfar to their travelling party had not made the journey any easier and Xaris’s insistence that they take their time in reaching the Fell had not improved the Black cleric’s temper.

  They had sighted the edges of the forest several days ago, but the Fell was still distant. They would likely reach some outlying woods in the morning and find themselves safe inside the Dokkalfar settlement within the next few days.

  Since leaving Cozz, they had been pursued by a group of Karesian hounds and Pevain’s bastards, and it was only the need to stay ahead of their pursuers that had made the Dokkalfar hurry at all.

  ‘They’re less than a day behind,’ said Utha, as the two of them moved away from the fire to join Tyr Vasir.

  ‘So we’ll have to turn and fight at some point tomorrow,’ replied Randall. ‘I think there’s some of Vasir’s stew left.’ The squire gestured to a small cook-fire and a simmering cauldron.

  The Dokkalfar were curt and unemotional. Randall found them difficult companions and his attempts at bonding had been consistently rebuffed. Vasir had not changed, however, and the forest-dweller still preferred the company of the two men in the group rather than his own kind.

  ‘He’s a Vithar,’ said Vasir as Utha and Randall sat by the cooking pot. ‘He isn’t used to talking to men... most Tyr find them tiresome as well.’ He continued to stir the pot and a pleasant smell drifted from the fireplace.

  ‘If I hear we will endure once more, I’ll go back to my old career as a crusader,’ said Utha, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  ‘Please don’t say such things,’ snapped the Tyr, involuntarily tilting his head in a distinctive Dokkalfar gesture. ‘Vithar Xaris is two hundred years old. I’m sure you can forgive him a little vagueness when dealing with the short-lived.’

  Utha and his squire exchanged a questioning look.

  Randall said, ‘You’d think he’d have learned to cook in two hundred years, rather than expect you to do it every night.’

  Vasir clearly didn’t understand why this was a problem. ‘He is a Vithar,’ he said, as if that explained everything.

  Randall had slowly begun to understand the strange divisions of the Dokkalfar. A Tyr was something akin to a warrior, but the forest-dweller’s definition of the word was complicated. A Vithar was the closest thing they had to clerics or priests, but their authority was minimal and, according to Vasir, they functioned mostly as advisers. Randall had heard of other divisions among the forest-dwellers, but they were not comfortable discussing them.

  They sat in silence for a moment, with Vasir stirring the rabbit and Gorlan stew, Utha shaking his head and trying to calm down, and Randall wondering how long he had to live. Whatever else happened and wherever they ended up, the young squire had made a number of decisions over the last few months. He knew that he was bound to Utha, likely until his death, and he knew that facing the world with kindness and good intentions might be foolish, but it was all he had left.

  He was no longer a young man, experiencing the world through a veneer of naive optimism, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to be as cynical and jaded as his master. He smiled, realizing that his function was mostly to provide an optimistic counterpoint to Brother Utha the Ghost.

  ‘They’ll hit us before we reach the trees,’ said Utha, after Vasir had given him a bowl of stew. ‘And I expect we’ll be dead shortly afterwards.’

  ‘How likely are your people to emerge from the Fell and rescue us?’ asked Randall, smiling at Va
sir.

  The Dokkalfar did not understand the humour. ‘I consider that unlikely, Randall of Darkwald, but a black hawk has been following us for two days.’

  Utha wasn’t paying much attention and he reclined on his bedroll, gazing off across the southern plains, towards the relative safety of the Fell.

  ‘Well, unless the hawk has a lot of tough friends, I’d say speed is still our best weapon,’ said Randall, hoping they could rouse the other Dokkalfar after only a few hours’ rest.

  They had been travelling on two hours’ sleep for almost a week and, each time Vithar Xaris was asked to rouse from his slumber, he’d replied that he wasn’t asleep, but needed further rest. Whatever the forest-dwellers did instead of sleep was a mystery to Randall, but he sensed that something akin to meditation took place when they stopped at the end of the day.

  ‘The hawk watches us... we are not alone.’ Vasir looked skywards and tried his best to mimic a human smile.

  ‘I’m glad,’ was the dry response from Randall.

  Utha lay down flat and rested his head on his arms. The sun was now completely gone and they were well hidden as dark shapes amongst dark shapes, adding an additional texture to the landscape, but not standing out should anyone be watching.

  Randall had ceased to feel tired and was functioning on a strangely alert kind of exhaustion that had developed since they’d left Cozz. He’d not complained or pushed for more sleep, but had simply become the rational centre of their bizarre travelling company. He’d helped the Dokkalfar grow accustomed to the scimitars they had acquired, and repeatedly reassured them that they were free now and relatively safe. He didn’t know if they appreciated it, or even if they understood. If it were not for the bizarre reverence in which they held Utha the Ghost, the Dokkalfar would probably have proved even more reluctant to travel south. Randall didn’t really know what an old blood of the Shadow Giants was, but apparently it was quite important to the forest-dwellers. He’d heard them talk about the one we loved in wistful terms, and had seen them look at Utha as if he were more than a man.