The Long War 03 - The Red Prince (9 page)

‘I can quote from
The Edda
as well,’ he replied. ‘It also says that the trees of the Fell were planted by Giants, but we don’t let that inform our thinking.’

Loth stood before Nanon, his dark green robe catching in the soft breeze.

‘We will never be at peace. This battle of the Long War will turn into another and another and another, until the Giants have left nothing but a smouldering wreck for us to inhabit. Our trees will burn, our people will flee or be turned into Dark Young. It is the slow pain and it is painful indeed.’

‘The loss of hope can be a dangerous disease,’ replied Nanon.

‘We are not talking about hope, Shape Taker. This is about the legacy of our people.’

The wind picked up, catching their clothing and adding a low whistling accompaniment to the Vithar’s words.

‘But you don’t speak for our people,’ challenged Nanon. ‘Not all of them.’

‘I speak for the Fell Walkers,’ replied Loth, with deep sincerity.

Tyr Hythel interjected. ‘We are with the Tree Father. His word is our word.’

Nanon let his annoyance take over. ‘Tell me what you intend to do. Don’t quote from old books or hide behind rhetoric, just tell me... please. If you must treat me as an outsider, at least respect me as a soldier of the Long War.’

Loth closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, slowly turning his face upwards. ‘We will burn. Our ashes will return to the world we could not save. Every Dokkalfar of the Fell, every one will stand in the divine flame of the Shadow Giants.’

Silence. Nanon had no words to call upon. He stood there, looking at the old Vithar, trying to find something to say in response. Loth planned to light the Shadow Flame and lead his people to their deaths. It was the ultimate act of martyrdom, but one that Nanon thought was apocalyptically foolish.
The Edda
spoke of a time when the world no longer had room for a godless race of forest-dwellers, but it never specified the time and was read by most as a parable. Certainly not as a call to mass suicide.

‘Have you contacted the Heart about this?’

‘We have not.’ Loth’s reply was maddeningly simple.

‘Maybe you should. Vithar Joror will meditate with you.’

‘His woods are not under siege,’ stated the Tree Father. ‘It is not his decision to make. Joror will slowly realize that the Shadow Flame is the only path for our people. I expect him to follow us into the dust of the world.’

Tyr Hythel, who had resumed his seat, clenched his fists and craned his neck forward with an expression of anger. ‘It will be our final victory against the Dead God. We will deny him his Young. You should join us, Shape Taker.’

Nanon tilted his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Tyr Dyus and your forces at the line will be called back to the Fell Walk,’ said Loth, also resuming his seat.

‘To die?’ asked Nanon with incredulity. ‘That’s not a message I’ll deliver.’

‘Our intentions will reach their minds anyway, you know this. Whether your human sensibilities allow it or not, the Shadow Flame will be lit.’

The collective memory and consciousness of the Dokkalfar would gradually inform all the Fell Walkers that their elders planned to die. Nanon could do little to stop the thoughts from influencing them.

‘It has not even occurred to you that we can win, has it?’ he asked.

‘Who are we fighting? What can we win?’ Hythel asked.

‘Well, I thought we were fighting for the survival of our people, and the survival of the gods of men. Was that ever in your mind?’

‘We are old, our time to die should be a time of our choosing. Our people deserve more grace than to be turned into monsters. The wars of men will bring ruin to us.’

Nanon took a step back and bowed his head, thinking quickly. He was not foolish and he doubted rational argument would be of much use with the stubborn forest-dwellers before him. But he could not concede.

‘It will take time to light the Shadow Flame, it has been cold for centuries.’

‘I have a dozen Vithar working on the fires, coaxing them to life with their blood,’ said Loth.

‘So I ask for time.’ Nanon let his human smile appear. ‘The Dark Blood still lives, the Red Prince enters the war, the gods of men have allies, we should be among them. ‘

Loth leant back and his eyes darted from side to side as if his thoughts were troubled. Once again he tried to enter Nanon’s mind and once again the Shape Taker refused to let him in. The Tree Father had never lit the Shadow Flame and had probably only ever glimpsed the Twilight Grove from afar. He was uncertain how long it would take to light the fires. As he looked at the smiling Tyr before him, Loth had to concede that Nanon knew more than he did.

‘The last time the Flame was lit,’ began the Shape Taker, ‘was six hundred years ago. Vithar Duil and ten of his shamans walked into the fires after they lost a settlement in Narland. They killed themselves in shame. That’s illustrious company to join.’

‘You mock us,’ stated Hythel.

‘It seemed the appropriate response to your idiocy,’ Nanon snapped. ‘But I’m serious about the time it’ll take. If you have any strength left, you’ll wait until I return. If the enchantress falls, then your suicide is unnecessary.’

The wind picked up again, a steady breeze swirling across the empty space. The auditorium felt hollow and cavernous. Loth was in command of everything in the Fell, he ruled in a way unknown to many other Dokkalfar settlements, but he was unsure when challenged by an older forest-dweller. In the Heart, the Vithar were advisers, wise and respected, but they made no claim to leadership. Nanon preferred it that way. The Fell Walkers, however, looked to their Vithar for more than just counsel. The Tree Father was the eldest and he held authority over the settlement in consequence.

‘Talk to Joror, kill the human woman, it makes no difference. When the Shadow Flame is lit, we will enter the void,’ the Tree Father pronounced stubbornly.

‘We are agreed,’ Nanon replied, knowing that the fires would take much longer to light than Loth realized.

* * *

Nanon took his time walking back to the line. The Vithar had escorted him to the edge of the Fell Walk and remained morose the entire way, though, on this occasion, the Shape Taker was deep in his own thoughts and less talkative.

He’d begun to project his words to the north and was slowly contacting Vithar Joror in the Heart. The transfer took time and was only possible because Nanon and Joror had known each other for many centuries. Both were old enough to have forgotten their earliest days of life.

‘How long will the Shadow Flame take to light?’ he asked into the air, hoping that Joror would hear.

Now he was alone, walking across the dense undergrowth towards the line. He could hear no sounds of combat and hoped that the Karesian Hounds had not attacked in the time he’d been away.

‘Is that how humans say hello?’ came a soft reply.

‘Sorry. Time is short, my friend,’ said Nanon. ‘Loth seems to be taking
The Edda
literally.’

Silence. He could sense deep thought from his friend.

‘Is the Fell lost?’ asked the Vithar.

‘No, we are holding them. The Daylight Sky stands with me.’

‘Then why the Shadow Flame?’

It was a hard question to answer. Nanon wanted to say that Loth was a fool, but thought better of it. ‘Apparently the Fell Walkers think that our end is inevitable. Worse, in fact, they think we’ll all be turned into Dark Young.’

‘Loth is a fool,’ said Joror, making the Shape Taker feel better for a moment. ‘Has he begun lighting the fires?’

‘He said so, yes,’ replied the old Tyr.

‘Then you have thirty days. The Shadow Flame does not spring into life with a simple touch of fire. It takes blood and exertion to bring it back.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what it is, Nanon?’

‘Not really... but neither does the Tree Father. He’s more interested in his suicide.’

As their connection strengthened, Nanon felt himself in two worlds. He was standing, alone and still, in the forests of the Fell, and he was sitting in the auditorium of the Heart, next to Vithar Joror.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

The Vithar tilted his head in greeting.

‘The Shadow Flame is a doorway of sorts, to a hall beyond the world. It is a shadow and an echo of the ones we loved. To light it, a Dokkalfar must give enough of himself to reach beyond, to rekindle the last ember of memory that yet remains of the Shadow Giants.’

Nanon took in the air as he listened, unsurprised by what he heard. ‘The memory is not strong, though, and it fades.’ He looked down at leaves and grass. ‘Maybe there’s a tiny piece of me that agrees with Loth.’

‘When the Shadow Flame can no longer be coaxed to life, our race will truly be godless,’ said Joror, sensing the melancholy that had enveloped his friend. ‘But we still live. We have lived without a god for millennia. You would be the first to tell me this, Nanon.’

‘And I’d be right, but it’s still a depressing idea,’ replied the Tyr.

‘Depression is a human trait, one of many you are exhibiting these days. Is that a longsword I see at your side?’

‘I prefer the weight,’ he replied. ‘So, thirty days, yes?’

‘Indeed. I assume you have a counter-strategy,’ prompted Joror.

‘I do. I’m going to help the Dark Blood kill the enchantress... then see what the Ro can do about a host of Karesian Hounds.’

‘I’d say good luck, but it would be rather human to do so,’ said the Vithar, showing more humour that most Dokkalfar were capable of.

‘We’ll talk soon.’

Nanon closed his eyes and felt grass beneath his feet. When he opened them, he was alone in the Fell with only a slight smell of jasmine to remind him of where he had been. Any sense of relaxation or calm that he may have felt was gone now. In the near distance he could hear troubling noises: the sound of bowstrings and metal armour. The Hounds were once again pushing the line. He broke into a run and within a few minutes he could see the dead Dark Young marking the boundary.

A cacophony of grunts and moans arose from the massed ranks of Hounds as arrow after arrow smashed into the Karesian column. They had been advancing for a few minutes. The Dokkalfar war-bows had, once again, stopped them cold.

Above him was Tyr Dyus the Daylight Sky, his hands blurring with motion, firing arrows into the enemy. Either side, forest-dwellers sat in the branches of trees or behind dense brush, hurling leaf-blades with deadly accuracy. Each Tyr was the worth of a dozen Hounds. At least, that was the case so long as they remained in the Fell.

‘Tyr Nanon,’ greeted Dyus, ‘Your bow is most welcome.’

The Shape Taker smiled up at his friend and drew his bow. With a few long strides he bounded over fallen logs and stood, bathed in lancing shards of sunlight, in full view of the Hounds. There were more than before, as if the Karesians were making an effort to overwhelm the defenders, but their dead were quickly mounting up from the relentless barrage of arrows and blades. Commands were being shouted and the whip-masters were trying to stop their troops from breaking. Nanon suspected that retreating from the Fell would mean execution and he felt slightly sorry for them. The feeling lasted barely an instant as the Hounds formed up for a concentrated assault.

‘Here they come. The faceless masses know not when they are beaten,’ announced Dyus.

‘Prepare for the melee,’ added Nanon, expecting that a few Hounds would get past the sheet of arrows.

Over a hundred Karesians plunged through the trees, pushed forward by callous commanders all too willing to throw away troops in order to secure the line. Nanon set an arrow to his bowstring and loosed it in one motion, hitting a charging man in the forehead. Another fell, then another, then more as the Dokkalfar rose from their places of concealment and blunted the Karesian advance.

The whip-masters funnelled them into a narrow column. A few dozen would make it to the defensive line.

‘Blades!’ shouted Nanon, dropping his bow and drawing his Ro longsword.

Dyus kept firing, as did a handful of defenders, while the majority drew leaf-blades and moved to flank the Shape Taker. All that remained between the armies now was the dead tree, standing in a bizarre contortion amidst dead Hounds and broken arrows.

‘Let none pass the line,’ said Nanon, crouching to meet the attackers.

The Hounds that reached them were sweating and terrified, their scimitars held in shaking hands and their advance more of a chaotic rabble than a charge.

‘Strike,’ commanded Nanon, causing the Dokkalfar to whirl into motion and cut at the Karesians. With a line of graceful movement, two dozen Hounds were maimed or decapitated.

Beyond them, a small force was holding its position past the line. Nanon suspected that they were a group of better-trained warriors, perhaps waiting for the expendable front rank to fall. A moment later, as the forest-dwellers pulled back behind the old Tyr, a cry sounded from above.

‘Dark Young,’ roared Dyus. ‘Two of them.’

Nanon puffed out his cheeks and glanced either side of him. ‘If I hear one of you so much as mutter the priest and the altar, I’ll kill you myself.’

‘We are not afraid.’ The words came from Dyus and were spoken in a rumble of conviction.

‘Black wart,’ commanded Nanon, as two undulating shapes appeared between distant tree trunks.

The Dokkalfar steeled themselves and retreated to their cover, crouching behind fallen logs and drawing black wart arrows from hidden caches. A few were quivering, their eyes fixed in fear. Nanon could not hear any muttering and hoped his strength would transfer to them.

Without moving from his position on a tree trunk, in plain view of the enemy, Nanon slowly sheathed his longsword and picked up his short bow. He peered into the darkness and identified the two creatures advancing towards them. The Hounds had moved out of the way and were every bit as disquieted by the Young as the forest-dwellers. There was now a mound of dead Karesians forming a clearing, and the surviving men were flanking the open ground, giving the beasts space to advance. Their bodies rippled forward, tentacles grasping at trees and earth as they pulled their blackened shapes towards the line. Two maws, each wide and pulsating with sickly venom and bile, reached forward and emitted shrill, repeating cries.