Fallowblade (46 page)

When not in conference or attending to his duties, Avalloc would compose long letters to Asr
ă
thiel. At nights he left the scrolls, tied up with thin red ribbon, next to his pillow. Come morning they would be gone, sometimes replaced by an epistle from his granddaughter locked away in the halls of the Mountain King. He conjectured that the household brownie delivered the letters by way of a trow courier, but he could never be sure; though he seldom slept, his eyes were not quick enough to spy the doings of wights.

He told Asr
ă
thiel how there had been general rejoicing at the announcement of her news that Virosus and Ó Maoldúin had perished at the hands of the goblins. The druids of Slievmordhu’s Sanctorum had disowned the actions of their old primoris, he who had aided Uabhar with the slaying of the weathermasters. Some obstinately continued tinkering at their ‘weatherworking’ apparatus, with limited success, while terrified others tried to dismantle the appliances in case they should somehow cause offence to the goblins. Much squabbling went on within the sanctorums.

The elderly mother of Uabhar died serenely in her sleep. Her ancient minstrel, Luchóg, composed a dirge for her that was widely complimented, to his own amazement. Great songs and ballads were also made to celebrate the name of Conall Gearnach, glorious champion of the Knights of the Brand, who had been slain while performing deeds of valour in battle.

After the downfall of Gearnach, the people of Slievmordhu turned to Prince Ronin, next in line for the throne now that his elder brother lay in his tomb. They begged him to receive the crown straightaway. There could be no internal dissension if the heir to this long-enduring dynasty assumed the throne—but almost as importantly, Ronin was a popular choice, since he had already proven his bravery and qualities of leadership. He was the one man who had the power to unite all parties in loyalty and obedience. Unhesitatingly, so as to restore order as swiftly as possible, the captains swore an oath of allegiance to him and King Ronin succeeded to the sovereignty of Slievmordhu.

‘Let dissent never be confused with disloyalty,’ he told his advisors and courtiers in his first address to them as their sovereign. ‘Do not fear to speak your mind to me. To see what is right, and not to do it, shows want of courage.’

His first act as king was to abolish the Day of Heroes.

Though Ronin accepted the crown and throne of Slievmordhu, contentment eluded him, for he mourned his brother and father, and sometimes in the dead of night he woke wondering whether he had inherited the Sanctorum’s punishment; whether the house of Ó Maoldúin was still cursed for all time in spite of Virosus’s hasty recantation. But it was said of him by the sages that he was a great leader, for a good leader inspires others with confidence in him, while a great leader inspires them with confidence in themselves.

The anguish of Queen Saibh at the loss of her son Kieran was as harrowing as only a parent’s grief can be. Fortunately for this meek woman, a dear and long-lost friend returned unexpectedly. It was her servant Fedlamid macDall, he who had been deemed slain while on an errand for his mistress. The reappearance of this loyal man in Cathair Rua brought great joy to the royal household and provided some solace to the grieving queen. He told of being trow-bound in a mountain fastness from which, unaccountably, he had been set free. When he learned that Lady Asr
ă
thiel had been taken to Sølvetårn he became convinced that she had bargained for his freedom.

It was at this juncture that in the desert kingdom of Ashqalêth a previously unsuspected groundswell became evident—widespread popular support for deceased King Chohrab Shechem’s eldest daughter, Princess Shahzadeh. Jhallavad’s royal advisors and retainers held her in the highest esteem. It had long been whispered in court and throughout the land that she had turned out to be the cleverest and strongest member of the royal family, and for years many had bemoaned the fact she had not been born male.

In an unprecedented move, Shahzadeh was officially made queen uncrowned, monarch-in-waiting. Never before had a woman ruled Ashqalêth, but Avalloc Storm Lord sent his unqualified blessing, and the Sanctorum followed his lead soon afterwards—convinced, possibly, by the large sums of money the princess shrewdly bestowed upon that institution in token of her considerable respect for the druids. With the sanction of such powerful authorities so evident, the approval of the populace, already considerable, grew even stronger.

Grïmnørsland was in mourning for Prince Halvdan, and now for his youngest brother also. Thorgild had forgiven Gunnlaug for his tergiversation at Ironstone Keep and received him back into the royal household, but soon afterwards the rowdy prince had died in a brawl outside a tavern. Drunk and unsteady he threw a punch, slipped, and fell on the cobbled roadway, hitting his head. The injury proved lethal. Upon his untimely demise the people of the western realm grieved, but not for long. His untrustworthiness had made him exceedingly unpopular; nobody liked a man who changed direction with the wind. In contrast Halvdan had been well loved, and his death was lamented bitterly.

Elsewhere in Narngalis, to the shock and amazement of all who knew the history of the Iron Tree and the wells of everlasting life, the immortal Fionnbar Aonarán was found wandering and jabbering, half-witless amongst the abandoned mines at Silverton. Having roundly declared that he regretted his immortality and would continue to seek a way to end his life he had thrown himself off a cliff. This proving unsuccessful, he had leaped into a bonfire, then tried to throttle himself by means of a noose depending from the rafters of a hayshed. His alarming attempts, which all failed, were in danger of becoming farcical, but before he could take them any further a band of constables conducted him to the Asylum for Lunatics at King’s Winterbourne.

This much Avalloc conveyed in his letters to Asr
ă
thiel, but there were many affairs of which circumstances kept her in ignorance. In his earliest correspondence to her, for example, the Storm Lord had written, ‘Ever since you rode away with the goblin knights, Prince William of Narngalis has hardly been seen to eat or sleep. He spends every waking moment planning your deliverance, and feverishly works towards that goal, aided in every way by Warwick and his household, myself, and throngs of willing supporters throughout the land.’ Though ink had flowed from the nib of the Storm Lord’s pen onto the paper, though he had sealed the letter with red wax, and though the wax had seemed unbroken when Asr
ă
thiel received the billet in her hand, somehow, between the sending and the delivering, those phrases—and other remarks on the same topic—had been lost. Even more strangely no gap, no damage, no mark existed to show that they had ever stained the page.

There were also subjects upon which Avalloc rarely touched.

No matter how many other matters claimed his attention, the Storm Lord never failed to keep his customary vigil at the side of his sleeping daughter-in-law, in the rosy cupola atop his house. There, upon chatoyant satins and soft bolsters of crimson velvet, Jewel lay like a marble sculpture of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. Her living skin glowed like peach blossom and powdered carnations; her lids, lightly closed, were blue opal fishes.

‘We will fetch her back, my dear Jewel, I promise,’ Avalloc would murmur. ‘They will never keep her.’ Sometimes, dropping his grizzled brow into his hands he whispered to himself, distraught, ‘I cannot lose them all!’

Then there were events and circumstances about which even the Storm Lord could know nothing.

In the Eastern Ranges two timid Marauders discovered they now had the run of the caves because most of their kin-swarmsmen had died in battle, so they rolled some great boulders and stopped up the tunnels leading to the lair of the Spawn Mother in case she pounced and devoured them while they were sleeping. There they lived out their lives in contentment.

In the north of the kingdom, atop the highest peak of Storth Cynros where clouds left pearly kisses on knives of rock, two misshapen bags sometimes flapped, sometimes hung motionless. Spikes had been driven into the rock face, and fetters clamped the flapping objects to the spikes. Clad in perished rags and desiccated hides, two sets of human bones swung and clashed in the wind.

Hundreds of feet below those blowing skeletons and unaware of them, within the icy mountain fastness of Sølvetårn, Asr
ă
thiel was being schooled in many matters, amongst them the true history of goblinkind.

She learned that in past millennia when Tir, which they called Calaldor, had been warmer, goblinkind—the Glashtinsluight—had dwelled in a remote land to the northeast. Ellan Vannin, the Land of Mists, was a lush and verdant realm, swathed generously in glimmering vapours, but with the advent of a new ice age the whole world had grown cold, and Ellan Vannin changed. Then differences of opinion arose amongst the Glashtinsluight. Those who proclaimed they wanted to move away immediately in search of more temperate climes were at variance with a group who wished to stay forever, as lords of the approaching ice. Others wanted to emigrate, but preferred to wait a little longer before leaving their ancient homeland. These differences gave rise to no conflict; it was their way to trust their leaders, and ultimately to accept their choices.

Most of the
liannyn
, the alluring she-goblins of the Glashtinsluight, favoured the notion of remaining for a while in Ellan Vannin. Of their masculine counterparts, the
graihyn
, most split into three factions, or clans, and ventured forth—some travelling east, some west, some due south. When they had found a pleasing territory, they declared, they would return to fetch those of the Glashtinsluight who wished to follow them there. Asr
ă
thiel wondered why the
liannyn
had wished to stay behind—she could only conjecture that perhaps they preferred a settled existence, or wanted a temporary separation from their consorts to spice up the tedium of eternal existence with the anticipation of rendezvous and the excitement of reunion. The workings of eldritch minds were baffling; maybe they could never be comprehended by human beings.

Notwithstanding their original intentions, as decades went by the three departed clans delayed their return and extended their travels, their attention continually caught by some new adventure. They forgot, temporarily, those they had left behind (what cared they for time, the immortals? There would be time enough for everything), drawn on by the excitement of exploration and discovery.

As Ellan Vannin cooled, it became Ellan Istillkutl, the Land of Ice. Once, humid mists had blocked out the sun’s light. Those vapours dried out and vanished but the land remained dim, now overcast by persistent cloud. The
graihyn
and
liannyn
who tarried said, ‘We shall stay in our native land and become the Istillkindë, the Ice Goblins, taking this name to ourselves as a token of the choice we have made.’ Glaciers came creeping down from the north pole, and the trees dwindled. Increasing cold transformed the margins of the land into tundra, with permanently frozen subsoil, supporting only low-growing vegetation such as lichens, mosses and stunted shrubs. Ellan Istillkutl’s heart froze over, but the Ice Goblins reigned in ice castles.

It was an inherent trait of the Glashtinsluight that they attracted clouds, mists, fog and all manner of steams and fumes. They did not relish daylight, although they could endure it if necessary. Overcast or misty days suited them best—and, of course, the night—therefore the clans who ventured forth sought territories where the sun’s rays were weak. Those who became the Fire Goblins, the Ailekindë, went south-east, to dwell in volcanic lands darkened by smokes and ash-clouds and dusky gases. The Dorragskindë, the Midnight Goblins, travelled due south. At length they came upon an ancient forest of mighty pines, deep and vast, whose dense canopy harboured profound shadows, screening out the sun, and it was there they established themselves.

At whiles during this long-drawn era of their history, messengers passed between the clans. The Silver Goblins received some tidings, for a while, but eventually reports petered out and finally ceased. Last they heard, most of the she-goblins had departed from Ellan Vannin, setting an eastward course. Asr
ă
thiel supposed this had been some impulsive move on their part; she had learned enough about goblinkind to know they could be mercurial, unpredictable, spurred to action by a sudden whim and heedless of the consequences
.

Those that had journeyed west, the Silver Goblins, happened upon sprawling acres of barren hills they named
Cheer ny Yindyssyn
, Land of Wonders. Humankind would have marvelled at this jewelled landscape, for though vegetation was sparse, beauty could be found everywhere. The knights of the Argenkindë lingered long amongst valleys carpeted with zircon sands and garnet gravels and walled with slabs of lapis lazuli—heavenly blue flecked with pyrite ‘gold’. They delighted in the bijouterie hollows of this countryside, taking their daytime rest in caverns richly encrusted with precious stones. But ever and anon they would look south towards the great, notched peaks of the mountains, the
Smuinaghtyn
, or Northern Ramparts as they were called in the four kingdoms, and eventually they left
Cheer ny Yindyssyn
and travelled to this destination.

The Argenkindë discovered silver in abundance beneath the Northern Ramparts. Sølvetårn they built there, of starlight and jewels, its towers mist-enfolded and frost-silvered. While the primeval mining-wights continued their digging, the kobold slaves manufactured curious artefacts, and goblins wrought splendid ones. Content were they to remain there, for many years, because the mountains and the mines were good to them in all but one respect, and that single flaw—the were-fire that continually raged in the depths—could easily be avoided.