Fallowblade Read online

  The famous building in which the weathermasters held their councils was called Ellenhall under Wychwood Storth. The weathermasters’ leader was the Storm Lord, Avalloc Maelstronnar-Stormbringer, whose eldest son was Arran, and whose nephew was Ryence Darglistel-Blackfrost. Over the mantelpiece at Avalloc’s house hung the famous sword Fallowblade, long ago forged to defeat unseelie goblin hordes and once employed to cut off the hand of the sorcerer Jaravhor. High Darioneth was teeming with brownies and other eldritch wights, the source of many remarkable events, causing both joy and dismay. Jewel met an urisk and realised that it was the same one that used to belong to her mother’s household at the Marsh. The urisk had followed her, yet it was most uncouth and unresponsive when she tried to draw it into conversation, and it never appeared for long.

  Curious about her heritage, Jewel decided to journey to Orielthir and see if she could unlock the secrets of the sorcerer’s mysterious building. She and Arran, the son of the Storm Lord, discovered the sorcerer’s book recording the existence of certain wells, each of which held a few drops of the Water of Eternal Life. On their quest to find these wells they were tracked and thwarted by Fionnbar Aonarán, a boy grown to be a heartless rogue of a man. Through cunning and cruelty Aonarán obtained the first of the three draughts of immortality, which he swallowed. Arran was forced to drink the second, and the third was lost.

  Now there was no chance that Jewel could match Arran’s immortality. Visualising a future in which he lived on eternally, without Jewel at his side, Arran was gripped by rage. He swore vengeance on Fionnbar and Fionnbar’s half-sister Fionnuala. After embarking on a hunt, he trapped Fionnbar in a cave in the far north-eastern mountains of Slievmordhu, telling his prisoner that he must dwell there forever, immortal, suffering loneliness and exile. This was the punishment for forcing Arran to drink the draught of immortality while stealing eternal life from his bride, Jewel.

  Fionnuala Aonarán hated Arran, blaming him for the death of her lover, Cathal Weaponmonger. She knew she could no longer harm the weathermaster, so decided, in her bitterness, to do harm to the one he loved best. She infiltrated the Marsh and learned the manner of Jarred’s death. Now she understood the nature of Jewel’s bane, and having stalked Jewel, mortally wounded her with an arrow of mistletoe.

  At this, Arran was inconsolable. As for Fionnuala, in sudden repentance and shame she hanged herself from the boughs of the Iron Thorn, but at the last minute she was unexpectedly saved. She changed her ways and devoted the rest of her life to making a beautiful garden.

  It seemed certain that the story would end unhappily, but the ex-druid Almus Agnellus chanced upon a revelation:

  ‘Agnellus spoke. “After I left here I had cause to consult my notes and books of lore, and as I was searching amongst my papers I came across a scroll which I could swear I had never seen before. On it were words written in an archaic tongue, but fortunately I am learned in that speech and was able to decipher it. I learned this: that a woman who mothers an immortal child must inevitably be tinged by that immortality. If she is fatally wounded she shall not die, but shall instead fall into a deep and lasting sleep that resembles death.” He drew breath and appended, “Jewel lives.”

  And it was true.’

  They raised Jewel from her grave. She lived, but appeared to be in a deep slumber, and could not be wakened. The beauteous sleeper was placed on a silken couch on the glass cupola atop the Maelstronnar house. Wild roses entwined their stems about the cupola, framing the eight panes with leaves and their five-petalled rosettes.

  Declaring he would seek forever, until he could find a way to bring back his lost bride, Arran abandoned his child, his home and his inheritance, including the golden sword Fallowblade, leaving them all with his father, Avalloc. The grieving weathermage, with the faithful impet Fridayweed in his pocket, disappeared out of men’s knowledge. It was said he wandered far in the Unknown lands north of the northernmost mountains.

  By then, Jewel’s young daughter Astăriel had encountered the very same urisk that used to be attached to her grandmother’s cottage in the Marsh. Towards the end of The Well of Tears, the girl had grown used to the wight’s companionship, little guessing that the creature was hiding an extraordinary secret.

  Book 3: Weatherwitch told of a mysterious burrower digging its way beneath the mountains of the north. The story described, also, the bond of comradeship between Conall Gearnach—Commander-in-Chief of Slievmordhu’s Knights of the Brand—and Prince Halvdan of Grïmnørsland. Halvdan’s sister Solveig was betrothed to Prince Kieran of Slievmordhu, Halvdan’s lifelong friend.

  King Uabhar of Slievmordhu had made a secret pact with the Marauders—mutant brigands, huge of stature, who dwelled in outlying caves and preyed on the citizens of the Four Kingdoms of Tir. Uabhar allowed these ‘swarmsmen’ to raid some of his villages so that he could justify the levelling of higher taxes, with which to prepare—clandestinely—for his forthcoming invasion of Narngalis, the first stage of his attempt to seize sovereignty of the whole of Tir. Uabhar was in cahoots with King Chohrab of Ashqalêth, whom he controlled with eloquence, rhetoric and drugged wine.

  Asrăthiel (erstwhile Astăriel), daughter of Jewel and Arran, grandchild of Storm Lord Avalloc Maelstronnar, lived at the stronghold of the weathermasters, her kindred. She had an unlikely confidant—the cynical faêrie creature called an urisk, who appeared only to her, but who caused trouble in the Maelstronnar household.

  An ardent advocate of rights for animals, an expert weatherwielder and a skilled swordswoman, Asrăthiel left the stronghold of the weathermasters at Rowan Green and took up a position in the city of King’s Winterbourne, as weathermage to King Warwick of Narngalis. Warwick’s eldest son, William, was in love with Asrăthiel, but, although she was fond of him, she found herself unable to love him in return. She was pleased, however, when the urisk, who later revealed he was called ‘Crowthistle’, appeared at her new lodgings, and their casual meetings continued as before.

  Meanwhile, unknown to above-ground dwellers, the mysterious burrower broke through a stony wall into a cavern, only to discover something truly awe-inspiring and terrible.

  King Uabhar wanted the weathermasters out of the way so that they could not prevent his bid for power. He paid gossips to put about rumours to malign them, then lured most of them to his royal city, Cathair Rua, where, by means of trickery, he destroyed them in secret. Unbeknownst to him his appalling deed was witnessed by Cat Soup, an itinerant beggar, who hastened away in terror after what he had seen.

  Meanwhile, in King’s Winterbourne, Asrăthiel heard reports that in the northern hamlet of Silverton some unknown agency was expertly and ruthlessly slaying the villagers. She and King Warwick’s cavalry were despatched to investigate.

  Having destroyed most of the weathermasters by means of trickery, King Uabhar mobilised his troops—as well as those of his ally, King Chohrab—readying them to march north to invade Narngalis. The Four Kingdoms of Tir were on the brink of war.

  1

  WAR

  A wondrous sword was Fallowblade, the finest weapon ever seen;

  Forged in the far-flung Inglefire, wrought by the hand of Alfardēne

  Famed mastersmith and weathermage. Of gold and platinum ’twas made:

  Iridium for reinforcement, gold to coat the shining blade,

  Delved from the streams of Windlestone; bright gold for slaying wicked wights,

  Fell goblins, bane of mortalkind, that roamed and ruled the mountain heights

  Upon a dark time long ago.

  A VERSE FROM ‘THE SONG OF THE GOLDEN SWORD’

  Oceans of billowing clouds surged through the frozen peaks of the far north. White vapours seethed, misting the glittering sharpness of ice and precipice. Timeless and serene beyond man’s measure, the mountains themselves stood firm against this tide, their razor crags forever slashing the sky. Below their foundations a terror had lately been unleashed in a burst of silver light; something ancient and lethal, entombe
d long ago. Now free, it was on the move.

  On the other side of the Four Kingdoms of Tir, hundreds of leagues away, a more mundane force was also moving.

  Watching from a high turret window, unseen, Queen Saibh observed her four strapping sons, the noble concourse on the palace battlements, the swarming crowds of men and horses below. As she gazed upon the departing battalions she was grieving most bitterly. These days she wept often. Her ladies-in-waiting murmured amongst themselves that her sad and wistful loveliness reminded them of a faded flower drooping beneath a fine rain.

  Uabhar had been pleased to view his wife’s red-rimmed, swollen eyes, gleeful at her lamentation, contemptuous at her inability to master her emotions. He thought it was for him.

  ‘Weep for your husband,’ he had bidden her, greatly encouraging. ‘Weep for me as I charge joyously into battle. You see, madam, if a king laughs at his foes and seems unafraid to confront them, his own subjects will believe the Fates are on his side. That will give the troops greater courage to risk their lives for his cause. I must laugh but you must cry, for soon I will depart to face great danger—perhaps I will not return. Then you will be widowed, and all that I have given you will be taken away: your status as queen, your jewels, your fine palace apartments. You will become nothing. Weep for me, madam, as a wife ought.’ As a parting shot he added, ‘My sons will ride beside me, to glory or death.’

  And the fading-flower queen had wept more bitterly than ever, but shed no tear for him; it was for her four brave sons, and also for her servant Fedlamid macDall, who had never returned.

  Below Saibh’s window the King of Slievmordhu, Uabhar Ó Maoldúin, looked out from his battlements across the Fairfield of Cathair Rua, whose well-trodden acres teemed with armed men, horses, chariots and ordnance. Chohrab Shechem, King of Ashqalêth, watched from this vantage point too, lying on a cloth-of-gold-draped litter. Uabhar’s favoured ministers were stationed a few paces back, shoulder to shoulder with numerous household officials and courtiers, though no snowy-robed druids gleamed like pale candles amongst this jewelled and embroidered assembly. The courtiers’ raiment blazed with rich dyes; the blood-flame-wine-soaked reds of Slievmordhu mingling with the sun-sand-fired-clay shades of Ashqalêth. All eyes were fixed on the field, where the last of a vast and clamorous display of battle-ready troops was forming into marching order and moving off. Noises resounded; the ground trembled with the stamp of hoofs, the trample of boots, the mutter of heavy iron wheels crushing gravel. The dusty air racketed with the yelling of orders, shrill whistle blasts, whip cracks, drum rattles, trumpet blasts, and shouts of approval from the civilian onlookers amassed around the periphery of the field.

  Tidings of imminent invasion from the south had not yet escaped from Slievmordhu’s royal city, Cathair Rua, to reach the northern kingdom of Narngalis. Uabhar had placed a ban on the news. Nor had he openly declared war according to ancient, honourable custom. Instead he left it to his foes to discover belatedly, so that he could take them by surprise. As the ultimate controller of his kingdom’s communications network, he had made every effort to suppress the information for as long as possible. He silenced the semaphores of Slievmordhu. He prohibited the flying of carrier pigeons. For the first time in history, pigeon pie was encouraged as a patriotic dish; if any such birds were observed in the skies, wild or tame, they were targeted with sling stones or arrows. Throughout the realm of Slievmordhu, northbound travellers were intercepted on the road and interrogated, and their bags searched for letters, and if they were suspected as spies, or at the whim of their captors, they were taken prisoner. Despite Uabhar’s exertions, rumours of unrest had begun to trickle from his net; nonetheless, no clear-cut evidence of his plans had yet reached the lands he intended to seize.

  This censorship lasted long enough for the military commanders of the two southern kingdoms to mobilise their armies in secret.

  The infantry battalions of the Slievmordhuan and Ashqalêthan vanguards, comprising longbowmen, shortbowmen and crossbowmen, had long since departed from Cathair Rua, led by High Commander Risteárd Mac Brádaigh riding beside his Ashqalêthan counterpart. Sixty companies of archers had gone striding forth, bearded and burly, carrying their round shields on their backs, their yew bows thrusting up from behind their shoulders. At each man’s belt hung sword or axe, according to his disposition, and over the right hip there jutted out the leathern quiver, with its tufts of goose, pigeon and peacock feathers. Behind each company of bowmen marched two drummers beating their nakirs, and two trumpeters in particoloured clothes. The beat was brisk; no laggards would be suffered.

  After their departure a tremendous press had thronged into formation on the field. The main-battle of each army consisted of two battalions of foot soldiers—spearmen and archers—and four of heavy armoured cavalry equipped with swords and lances, geared up to charge enemy formations. Of the cavalry, the principals were Ashqalêth’s foremost knights, the Desert Paladins, under their own leader, and several companies of Slievmordhu’s elite chevaliers, the Knights of the Brand.

  One of the latter companies, led by Conall ‘Two-Swords’ Gearnach, was notably missing. King Uabhar had sent the Commander-in-Chief of the Red Lodge on an expedition to the South-Eastern Moors, and he had not yet returned. Though he was a popular officer, his absence at this time was not entirely unwelcome to those who were close to him. Since the feast that had been hosted for King Thorgild at Orielthir, Gearnach’s own knights often hesitated to traffic with their hitherto approachable leader. In private they asserted that he had turned into a live volcano, ready to erupt into fiery wrath at the slightest provocation, and without notice. His unstable temper was attributable: Uabhar Ó Maoldúin had used their leader badly. The king had compromised the knight’s honour, trapping him between two vows, so that he could not help but be forsworn either way. Subsequently, while the Knights of the Brand were absent from the Red City at the feast in Orielthir, Uabhar had burned down the Red Lodge in order to betray and capture the weathermasters on the fabricated pretext of treason. Those of Gearnach’s men who rode out from Cathair Rua alongside the Desert Paladins wondered how their leader would respond when he received the tidings of Uabhar’s decision to attack Narngalis, aided by his ally, King Chohrab of Ashqalêth. It could only make matters worse for the Red Lodge’s commander. If the west-kingdom, Grïmnørsland, should come to the aid of Narngalis—which was a certainty—Gearnach would be forced to do battle against the military forces of King Thorgild Torkilsalven, father of Prince Halvdan. The prince and the knight had always held each other in high esteem, and, after Gearnach saved Halvdan’s life during a hunting trip, an unbreakable bond of friendship had formed between the two.

  Gearnach’s warriors did not doubt, nonetheless, that in spite of his liege’s transgressions, their commander-in-chief remained steadfast in his loyalty to the Crown of Slievmordhu. He viewed the trials that Uabhar brought on him as a true test of his merit as a knight, a patriot and a man who kept his word; and he desired above all things to redeem his self-worth by proving the constancy of his fidelity. For this his knights esteemed him, and despite his volcanic temperament, or because of it, there were many at Cathair Rua who wished he rode with them on that day.

  Hour by hour the main-battles of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth had surged in ostentatious procession through the streets of Cathair Rua so that Uabhar’s subjects could admire and applaud the formidable military forces promoting the country’s cause. Out through the city gates the columns proceeded, bristling with standards, oriflammes, banners and flags, to the accompaniment of stirring tunes on pipe and drum. Six battalions of light horse from both realms comprised the rearguard. After them trudged columns of sumpter horses carrying cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking kettles, horseshoes, bags of nails and rivets, and a myriad other items. Supply wagons rolled in their wake, piled with food, fodder, ammunition, tools and parts for repairs, galenicals and other apothecaries’ supplies, tent poles and canvas, assorted construction mater
ials and sundries such as spiked stakes and siege ladders. Last of all trailed the heavy artillery—various types of catapults and trebuchets, hauled by teams of oxen. This part of the convoy would move slowest on the road, so it travelled behind the columns to avoid impeding their progress. Milling crowds of citizens cheered wildly as the troops quit the city and marched off to war.

  Eight regiments of Slievmordhu’s regular army, the household division, were to remain in Cathair Rua. The king himself was their colonel-in-chief, and they were charged with the special duty of guarding the city when their sovereign fared forth to lead his army. On the Fairfield the Royal Horse Guards and the Royal Dragoons now lined up for review, resplendent in dress uniform for the occasion; scarlet tunics, white helmet plumes and white leather breeches, a steel cuirass of breast and back plates. Their cloaks, vermilion with sapphire-blue linings, flowed from their shoulders to cover the haunches of their horses. An amalgamation of the aforementioned battalions, the Blues and Royals, strutted in azure tunics and crimson helmet plumes. The Foot Guards: the Bellaghmoon Guards, the Royal Regiment of Guards, Eastmarch Guards, Valley Guards and Orielthir Guards flaunted their equal magnificence, no less well drilled.

  It was an exhilarating day for King Uabhar Ó Maoldúin.

  Uabhar’s royal neighbour and ally, however, seemed less than enthusiastic. King Chohrab’s appearance indicated he was suffering from ill health. Jaundiced and sagging was his countenance, his eyes drowning in drains of shadow. The desert ruler sprawled upon a canopied litter, waited upon by eight brawny attendants, as if it were too exhausting to balance on his slippered feet. He had, nonetheless, rallied after his former palpitations and attempted to rise to the challenge of war. His apothecaries busied themselves mixing invigorating potions for him, while his wife’s brother, Duke Rahim, at his side, lent him confidence.