Fallowblade (20 page)

Soon afterwards, while the confusion and fighting still rampaged in the heights, on the highway below the troops of Slievmordu and Ashqalêth broke through Ironstone Pass and flooded across the gap to the northern side. Grïmnørsland’s battalions had been awaiting them, and by nightfall another furious conflict was under way.

For three days the Battle of Ironstone Pass continued. The southern forces pushed the northerners further and further back until the front line was less than ten miles from King’s Winterbourne. It was then that the tide began to turn, but not as anyone had foreseen.

The countryside was swarming with refugees from northern Narngalis; from Mountain Ash and Silver End, from Silverdale and Silverburn, from Trow Green, Fairyhill and Cold Ash—all the old districts named for the mines, or for the faêrie creatures that haunted them, or for the Goblin Wars—and from numerous other locations besides. The soldiers of the southern kingdoms could not avoid seeing the frightened villagers, and hearing their tales of wholesale slaughter in the eldritch mists. The truth was driven home when their own scouts and patrols verified these reports.

At last they comprehended.

The weathermage at the stone door had spoken no falsehood; the widespread rumours were not fabrications, but truths. Unseelie hordes were on their way to mow down the human race, and the leaders of the southern kingdoms had destroyed mankind’s most powerful defenders, the weather-masters. Every man, woman and child of Tir was in the direst peril.

When the whole world was threatened, patriotism suddenly seemed petty and meaningless. Suddenly, the course of events began to change as quickly and violently as an avalanche. The wild proclamations of the breakaway Conall Gearnach, a knight so widely esteemed, carried immense authority, and his messages had been spreading rapidly. Combined with the rising swell of discontent already demoralising the invading forces, his revelations about Uabhar had shattered the last illusions of the populace and finally tipped the balance, turning opinion against the King of Slievmordhu and any who allied with him, especially the Marauders. It was the elite warriors of Slievmordhu, the Knights of the Brand—deprived of their beloved commander—who first rebelled against Uabhar and Chohrab. Almost simultaneously, the Desert Paladins, who had chafed under Uabhar’s yoke since their own king abandoned them, joined their ranks. Risteárd Mac Brádaigh, high commander of the Slievmordhuan armed forces, was slain in battle. Thereafter the other captains of Slievmordhu’s army, perceiving the self-destructive folly of Uabhar’s campaign, executed a military coup to deprive their sovereign of power. Uabhar was seized, and bound in iron chains. On witnessing the success of the coup the Ashqalêthan captains decided to overthrow their own monarch. Two squadrons were sent to the outlandish pavilion at the base of the pass, and the ailing Chohrab Shechem, too, was taken prisoner.

The precepts of hierarchy and the entitlements of hereditary authority run deep. Not one of the revolutionary officers was prepared to issue an order for outright regicide. After forcing both kings to publicly abdicate, they took them away and locked them, in chains, within the ancient dungeon near the granite Obelisk that stood alone in the wilderness at the corner of the four kingdoms. A handful of warders tended them, keeping them alive on bread and water.

To Prince Ronin, heir apparent, the lords of Slievmordhu offered fealty; he, however, stubbornly refused to succeed to the throne, declaring, ‘While my father lives, I shall not take the crown.’ His grief and regret ran deep. He put aside his armour and vowed he would never again take up arms. When not attending to his most essential duties, he spent his time consoling his mother, or lighting candles to Lady Destiny, and it was only after his advisors had pressed him hard that he agreed to accept, temporarily, the title of Prince Regent.

The conflict between kingdoms was over, but a new war was just beginning. Terrified of imminent invasion by hosts of unseelie slaughterers, hundreds of townsfolk and country folk hammered at the doors of sanctorums across the four kingdoms, begging the druids to ask the Fates to protect them. In response the druids declared that they were indeed intervening on behalf of the commonalty, but they emphasised that should the Fates decide not to rescue them from the goblins, it would be the people’s own fault. Of late, the public had been neglecting to donate sufficient goods and services to the hardworking servants of the Fates. If the populace displeased the Fates, then naturally those divine lords and ladies—Ádh, Lord Luck; Míchinniúint, Lord Doom; Mí-Ádh, Lady Ill-Fortune; and Cinniúint, Lady Destiny
—
would hardly be disposed to help them. Coin and treasure began pouring into the coffers of the sanctorums in every kingdom, donated by folk from all ranks and trades, in the hope of salvation from the wicked goblins.

Now that their monarch had been deposed and the country was under military rule the captains of Slievmordhu unanimously turned to Conall Gearnach, seasoned warrior and leader of men, for direction. The fever of madness had left him. He became as cool and hard as tempered steel, proving himself a brilliant tactician and, after they made him supreme commander, a proficient warlord.

By contrast the captains of Ashqalêth had no desire to form a military dictatorship. Chohrab Shechem had no male heirs and no woman had ever ruled that realm, so with all due speed Shechem’s brother-in-law, Duke Rahim, was sworn in as regent until such time as the governance of the country could be debated at greater length.

The armies of the four kingdoms being now united, their leaders hastily met in conference so that they might formulate a stratagem for the forthcoming encounter with the unseelie hordes. Gearnach’s first meeting with Thorgild was fraught with tension; these two statesmen, however, being true leaders of men, refused, for the time being, to allow personal antagonism to interfere with cooperation. In his heart Thorgild fervently wished Gearnach dead, and privately vowed to seek him out and slay him, eventually, no matter whether the war was lost or won.

The princes Cormac and Fergus accompanied Gearnach, though both stood apart from him, loathing him for his deeds before the door of Ironstone Keep. Like Ronin, they were also devastated and humiliated by their father’s loss of face. They struggled to believe the truth while simultaneously attempting to justify Uabhar’s actions, for his seeming-persona was the very foundation of their self-perception, and if that had crumbled away like rotted masonry, then all that had sprung therefrom must be shored up, or fall apart.

It was the first time Asr
ă
thiel had seen Avalloc since his collapse at the news of the weathermasters’ fate—which had left him, for a time, bedridden. He arrived by balloon, and after he climbed woodenly down the short stepladder the crew had propped against the outside of the basket he turned to greet his waiting granddaughter. To her he seemed shrunken. He leaned on a staff and his skin and hair looked paler, as if the colour had been scoured away by the harsh blasts of a desert sandstorm. The tragedy had taken its toll. Gently the damsel embraced him, kissing the papery cheek just above the soft fall of his beard.

‘Grandfather,’ she whispered, and he answered with a smile like sunrise that warmed her heart.

‘My dear child,’ he said, ‘I am glad to see you!’

She took his arm and accompanied him from the landing-apron.

Later, in front of that assembly King Warwick asked, ‘Lord Avalloc, in your opinion, what chance have we of victory?’

‘Small chance,’ Avalloc replied sombrely. ‘Gold is our chief weapon, but I doubt whether we have enough of it. It is written that goblins can be destroyed by gold, but only by prolonged contact with large quantities thereof. This is comparable with the way mortal creatures react to, say, arsenic poisoning, or any number of other potentially fatal influences which, in small doses, cause harm but do not kill.’

‘They can be destroyed?’ cried Duke Rahim. ‘But wights are immortal!’

‘Immortal, yes,’ said Asr
ă
thiel. ‘Age cannot conquer them, nor sickness. Weapons, however, can inflict upon them a harsh fate; one might call it a version of death. They cannot truly die, but they can be changed. Their original form can be broken and their power nullified. In some insignificant shape they continue to live forever, powerless and perhaps also mindless.’

Her grandfather said, ‘It would take more gold than exists in the four kingdoms to annihilate such vast hordes.’

‘Then, without the aid of the other weathermasters,’ Thorgild stated bluntly, ‘it will be impossible for our armies to vanquish them.’

Avalloc nodded.

Duke Rahim said dispiritedly, ‘We have two choices—to fight and be wiped out, or to flee and be wiped out.’

‘We must fight!’ Conall Gearnach declared in a voice of frozen steel. ‘If we fight, we shall diminish their numbers, even if only by a modicum, for there is always the possibility of striking down a few if we hurl enough gold. But if we simply turn and flee, the foe’s numbers will remain the same. Furthermore if we fight we temporarily hold back their advance, seizing a little extra time for the people to escape southwards and find places to hide. Should our armies withdraw, we will soon find the enemy hard on our heels, mowing us down from the rear and cutting deadly swathes through the territory we have abandoned.’

‘Aye,’ said Thorgild. ‘We fight. We stand our ground. If we are to die—barring some miraculous intervention from the Fates—we shall die not like cowards but with honour!’

‘When the hounds corner the fox,’ Gearnach added quietly, ‘the fox always puts up a fight, despite knowing that death is certain.’

Rahim, who had been pondering deeply, roused himself and said, ‘Lord Avalloc, the weathermasters captured the goblins by trickery once before. Why not again?’ He looked around animatedly, his face alight with new hope. ‘Could the goblins be lured back into the golden caves, as previously, then sealed in with rockfalls started by lightning blasts?’

‘There is small probability,’ said Avalloc, ‘of tricking them into entrapment a second time, because now they know of the caves’ existence. Yet methinks you are on the right path, good sir. Our only real chance lies in devising some plan to thwart them with cunning, since we lack adequate force.’

‘Let our best strategists be put to the task at once,’ said Warwick.

‘Even the greatest thinkers will need time to invent such a plan,’ said Asr
ă
thiel, ‘and time is what we lack.’

‘Then,’ said Warwick, ‘our forces must hold the goblins at bay for as long as possible. We fight. Are we agreed?’ A chorus of affirmations greeted his proposal, and thus it was that the council of war decided that the four kingdoms would take a stand against the hordes, no matter how bleak the outlook, no matter how futile the attempt might seem, no matter how inevitable the defeat.

While the united armies of Tir marched northwards to confront the unseelie threat, in south-eastern Narngalis an odd-looking, uncoordinated cow limped across the landscape. Evidently it had swallowed two men who remained alive, because two arguing voices could be heard, issuing from inside its stomach.

‘Oi tell ya, this is unnecessary. Them goblins will not slay us!’

‘’Ow can you be sure?’

‘Because they won’t think we look ’uman. It’s only ’umankind they prey on.’

‘We moight look ’uman enough for ’em to stick a sword in us.’

‘Have ya looked in a glass recently? You’re uglier than a goblin.’

‘Better safe than sorry.’

‘But ’ow d’ya
know
they don’t slay cows?’

‘Of c
ourse
they don’t slay cows. Nobody’s ever ’eard of ’em slayin’ cows.’

‘Just because nobody’s ever ’eard of it doesn’t mean they don’t
do
it. Everybody else oi know of slays cows. What if the goblins get ’ungry and feel loike a nice ’aunch of beef?’

‘Then they won’t bother with us, ya idiot. You’re too stringy to give anyone a decent meal.’

‘Oi am not!’

‘You are so!’

Still arguing with itself, the misshapen cow loped off across a field.

Inexorably the goblin forces gained ground by night, passing without haste across the fair hills and meadows of Narngalis, drawing their eldritch mists like veils as they came. They met no opposition from the allied armies of humankind, who were mustering their troops for one last courageous stand along the southern borders of the Wuthering Moors.

Within the castle at King’s Winterbourne, Asr
ă
thiel met in conference with Warwick and his sons.

‘The goblins are coming,’ the king said in a voice filled with pain. ‘Upon the advice of the Storm Lord all kingdoms are gathering their gold, from pantry, jewel casket, mine, mint and treasury; gold to bombard goblinkind.’

‘The Storm Lord told us,’ said William, ‘that in olden times, kobolds of the mountains hurled many hundredweight of gold into the legendary Inglefire, so that it should no longer plague their masters. Sorely do we now need that metal. ’Tis a great pity the werefire is now untraceable and we have lost those resources.’

Asr
ă
thiel said, ‘It is time for me to send for the instrument of our final hope.’

‘What might that be?’ asked Prince William, although he knew already and dreaded the answer.

‘That which they once called “Sioctíne”,’ she replied. ‘That which is sometimes named “Frostfire”, because it burns like both ice and flame, and its colour is of the sun. The golden sword,’ she said, adding, as if suddenly breathless, ‘Fallowblade.’