The Fall of Waterstone

Goldspear, Broken

Once was Taeron warned by Ulimo himself, the lord of the seas standing giant amid waves. Twice was he warned by a gaunt Secondborn, who found the door to his realm by chance. Thrice was he warned by the Doom of the Elder, in a voice not her own. Yet he stayed, and as he strove with the greatest of the nathlàs the burning tower fell upon them both, for though the High-helm had slain twohaugr their flame does not cease until it has eaten its fill.

—Saedrin the Winemaker, The Burning of Coraquaende

We were upon the Street of Ten Alleys, Naciel said between deep shuddering gasps as she sought some measure of calm. Clashing and cries resounded from the wall far above. Archers upon the battlements were attempting to fend off attackers both outside and in, and no few fleeing Elder were saved, however temporarily, by a shaft from the smoke-lensed sky.

The sagas say few of those upon the walls survived the battle; since that night, I have met none.

“There.” The princess had regained her breath, but she was pale, and her hair was disarranged. Her arm across my shoulders was no longer a weight as we staggered together; instead it was a support, for my legs were distinctly watery.

Arneior blinked, following the line of Naciel’s pointing; ash starred her ruddy hair. She did not speak, nor did she look at me, restlessly scanning our surroundings as if she feared more orukhar would appear.

They did not. Instead, small groups of Elder corpses lay scattered about, hacked and grievously misshapen. I could not tell if Maedroth’s companions were responsible for that work, and I did not want to think upon it.

A small house tucked against Waterstone’s massive outer wall had no garden, but above its dark, half-open door a carven bird looked askance at us, its lines so sharp and detailed I half expected it to shift, long tailfeathers rustling along one side-jamb, and burst into wild flight with a feathery cough.

Naciel drew me through the doorway; Arn pressed hard upon our heels. A bare stone cube greeted us, but the livid firelit gloom outside filtered in to show a tangle of other carvings upon every wall. The princess hurried for the back, deeper into the shadows, and as she did a slight sound, as of a flat rock dragged across a spinning millstone, threaded under the bell-cries and clamor.

A slice of the back wall opened, blue glow outlining the opening door. Arn’s spear dipped; she shouldered past me, but the glow was an Elder lantern, and its fine thin filigree chain hung from a familiar hand.

“Thank the Blessed,” Floringaeld said, deep feeling filling the Old Tongue’s lilt. He wore armor but no helm; his golden hair was just as messy as Naciel’s, and clouded with ash and dust besides. Two hilts rose over his shoulders—a short sword and a longer one—and a half-familiar armoring clasped his left hand, dull silvery metal with a single cloudy green gem on its back, above the knuckles. He had been wearing the gauntlet when we met him, too. “Come, and quickly.”

“Has everyone else—”The pressure of Naciel’s arm against my shoulders did not abate, urging me onward.

I twisted, looking to Arn, who cast a glance behind us and visibly decided not to quibble.

“You are the last.”The captain beckoned with his free hand; the lantern trembled. “All else who knew of this route have gone ahead; I swore to your father I would wait for you.”

“My father?”Hope brightened the princess’s tone. Past the doorway were wide, easy stairs, the prints of other feet in a drift of fine, floury dust. That in itself was shocking; we went down half a dozen steps and halted—or she did, I was willing enough to let her set our pace.

“Ah.” Floringaeld cleared his throat; as soon as Arn was safely past he made a gesture, and the stone slab moved along the floor, sealing itself. Soon the lantern’s glow was our only illumination, and as the aperture closed the sounds of wrack and bell-screams cut off cleanly, as if sliced by a sharp blade. “There are not many steps, yet we must hurry. I do not think the city is fully invested yet, but ’tis only a matter of time.”

He brushed past us, lantern swinging and shadows dancing over smooth white stone walls, but Naciel caught at his armored shoulder. “Floringaeld.”

I could only see his expression in profile, yet that was enough. Grief may age an Elder where mere time does not, and it was like seeing a building crumble once its beams collapse. Swiftly, thoroughly, the captain of Laeliquaende’s royal guard staggered without moving, and thick silence held us all spellbound for a moment.

“How?” Naciel breathed.

“Haugr, and worse,” he answered, shortly, and set off again. “Come. I promised my lord I would see you to safety, princess, and I will not be forsworn.”

For the second time, Arneior and I hurried through a tunnel while an Elder city was destroyed. Great blocks of grey stone held up an earthen roof; we stayed in the circle of blue lamplight, drawn in Floringaeld’s wake like small boats lashed to a raft. He stopped at intervals, cocking his head, wearing a grave, expectant look which almost managed to erase the grieving.

Naciel smoothed her long tresses as we walked. I held up the hem of the shadowmantle, and though neither had remarked upon it I did not think them unaware of my wearing an Elder treasure—or of the iron casket borne awkwardly in the crook of my left arm. After some while, though, I noticed the mantle seemed to have shrunk, for it no longer brushed the ground. Perhaps some seidhr was at work within the strands; it was one I would have been much exercised to find the source of had the situation been otherwise.

Imagine, being able to shorten a mantle or dress so. I thought of the sewing Astrid had carefully packed in my mother’s second-largest trunk, so I would have something of home to work upon during my year-and-a-day as weregild.

Oh, gods.The lump in my throat was unwelcome. I swallowed several times. My vision blurred, and I had to blink rapidly. A hot finger traced down my cheek.

Just this morning I had brought my grey travel-dress from the trunk, rummaging for my needles as well, for I thought it likely the day would bring some damage to the gown. Where was it now, I wondered? Still in the tent where Arn and I bathed after the race?

“Sol?” Arn husked my name.

“I am well enough.” The thickness of my tone gave the lie away. “Your arm. When we halt next…” It was my duty to heal that wound; doubly so, for she had gained it in my defense.

“Hush,” Floringaeld interrupted, though not unkindly. The edge of the lantern’s glow touched a set of wooden stairs, gleaming with dark varnish. “I ask for silence, Secondborn. We must go swift and quiet if we are to escape the valley.”

“Yes,” Arn whispered for both of us, and when he doused the lamp a faint gleam lingered still upon the stairs’ lacquer, enough to aid us as we climbed.

A low stone arch sat in the middle of a tangled grove, dark-leaved evergreens pressing close and friendly. The bells still rang frantic, clamoring over each other like competing saga-singers, but they were behind us now and the noise of battle had also retreated somewhat.

We passed through the archway and into the night. Branches were silent as the Elder slipped through, Floringaeld before us and Naciel behind, a small clear space somehow around us at every moment. I moved carefully, aware of roots, but the ground was level as the tunnel floor had been.

We were not to be so fortunate for long, however. Floringaeld halted, indistinct except for the gleam of his hair and a glimmer from his gauntleted hand, raised in warning.

Arn and I froze. I tried to not even breathe loudly, for I heard it too.

We were almost at the edge of the grove. Beyond the trees’ shelter was rolling green which should have been silvered by starlight. Instead, it was greyish velvet full of twisted shadows, for the sky was choked with gloom and Waterstone’s vastness burning freely. The bellsong changed, becoming less complex—another tower had gone silent.

Closer, though, were voices. Harsh and unmusical, speaking in a tongue we had just heard from a half-dozen orukhar now dead at a shieldmaid’s hand. A heavy tramp of boots running in unison, thudding no less than my fevered, leaping heart.

They faded into the distance, but Taeron’s guard-captain did not move. And he was right not to, for there was stealthy motion nearby as well, a faint jingle and the creak of leather under shifting iron plates and rings.

Oh, gods.I wondered if it would pass us by, wondered if I should sing, what form the seidhr would take—or if I could reasonably be expected to add my paltry strength to an Elder warrior’s. The thought of seeing more bloodshed sickened me, the cries from the wracked, riven city scraped my skin, and the sudden rushing in my ears perhaps meant I was going to lose consciousness like a sparrow weirding-whispered from a thornbrake, finding itself trapped in a human hand.

The creaks slid nearer, along with a strange whuffling noise. It sounded like a hound with a malformed nose, and Arn’s spear dipped—slowly, so slowly, avoiding any contact with leaf or twig. I felt the tension in her, and perhaps Floringaeld did too, for his hand twitched, a peremptory motion no less intense for its silence.

The snuffles crested. The Elder’s gauntlet flashed as he sprang, the dark-green gem giving a dull gleam as of rain at night. There was a crunch, almost lost in the bellsong, and when he straightened there was black ichor upon the metal shielding his left hand.

“Come,” he whispered in the Old Tongue.

I could not see the shape at the trees’ feet clearly, save that it was on all fours though its legs were far too long and oddly splayed besides. Naciel crowded close behind me, herding like a shepherd’s hound with a recalcitrant member of its flock, and I fixed my gaze—adapted to the dark now, at least so much as mortal eyes could—upon the deeper shadow of Arneior before me.

Stealthily we crept from one shelter to the next, avoiding bands of roving orukhar and more of those strange, snuffling beasts. I caught a glimpse of one in the light of a burning vineyard and had to bite the inside of my cheek savagely enough to taste blood, keeping a cry bottled in my throat.

They were like their ash-skinned brothers, only they lolloped on all fours and their ruined faces bore a cavern where the nose should be, a wet void that was the source of the sniffing sound. To this day I cannot guess by what seidhr Floringaeld and Naciel kept them from scenting mortal or Elder flesh.

If it was indeed their doing, and not… something else.

We hid in a stand of silverbark birches, their leaves shaking with distress—the entire valley seemed to be shivering with fear and mourning. Burning homes glowed like torches, other structures shattered and aflame as well; once the frozen shadow of a lich passed in the distance, firelight peeking through its tattered, wing-spreading mantle though most of its ilk were, like the haugr and other fell things, more occupied within the city itself.

I did not know it then, but more than one of the Seven stalked Laeliquaende that night.

The ground became more uneven. Some Elder preferred the wilder margins, and had clearly done battle for their homes. The orukhar seemed to delight in punishing those, and in displaying the corpses. Arn turned away from one scene lit by leaping flames, her eyes wide and mouth contorted as if she wished to weep.

I did not blame her. I could not even look at… the bodies, what they had done, I…

Much later, we passed a tall broad outcropping of stone, left forlorn of the vast long-vanished water which had hollowed the valley from the mountains. “Hist,” someone said close by. Floringaeld turned, right hand twitching for a hilt, and Naciel let out a soft, surprised sound.

“This way,” the voice continued, urgently, in the Old Tongue. “I can hear them approaching, be quick!”

We had found other refugees.

The cave was dry and sand-floored; the entrance, like the Ice Door, was a single crack only wide enough to permit one person at a time. An Elder child—a girl with long black hair, wrapped in a deep-green mantle and cradled by a man who shared her wide dark eyes—wept soundlessly, staring into the night. Her tears glittered in dim light from some indeterminate source.

Most of the Elder bore well-wrapped bandages, for orukhar blades are often poisoned and require poultice. At least one had escaped a lich, for pale and silent she reclined upon the inadequate cushion of a folded cloak, clutching at her right thigh where a dark weal smoked, the edges of the wound crisped and burning with furious cold. Her sky-blue skirts, pulled high, were torn and bore pinprick spark-burns.

“It will be dawn soon.”The one who had hailed us was another guard, responsible for this group. His armor was sadly bedraggled but his gaze was clear and fell, burning blue as Aeredh’s, and he did not seem wounded despite the rents in his plate-and-ring. “We cannot move swiftly enough, and they are patrolling between us and the exits. ’Tis as if they know our evacuation routes.”

“They very well may.”Softly, Naciel spoke of Maedroth’s appearance with orukhar, though not upon the precise manner of his death. The Elder looked at my shieldmaid with no little wonder, but she did not preen under their approval.

None protested in the Watchful’s defense, then or after, though he had been deep in the trust and counsel of his uncle. Even his friends—and there were many, for he was often prodigal with his help of Laeliquaende’s inhabitants—could not overlook his appearance and implied leaguer with the Enemy’s servants.

It is one thing no Elder will forgive, for they hate the lord of the Black Land almost as much as he despises them.

Luckily, Arn’s wound was not poisoned. I drew the pain out, flesh knitting itself seamlessly, seidhr grinding up my own forearm in response. There was no place to flick away the injury, letting the earth bear what her children had suffered, so I simply ground my teeth and sweated under my dress and the shadow-cloak.

Then I pressed the iron casket into my shieldmaid’s hands. “Rest,” I told her, and she nodded. I did not like the haunted quality of her stare, but there were other wounded to attend.

“I saw the king battling two haugr,” Floringaeld said. “Large ones, and fell; they bore both whip and blade.”

They paid little attention to a pair of Secondborn. I knelt next to the Elder woman on the cloak, and indicated her leg.

“Let me help,” I whispered in the Old Tongue. She did not demur, shifting slightly to allow me access to her injury. Great clear drops of sweat stood out on her brow.

The wound fought me, stubbornly refusing to close as the captain told of his king amid flames and falling masonry, the giant twisted things with swords and chain-whips wounded by Taeron’s flickering spear. The High-helm had slain both, but another enemy had joined the fray—a shadow burning with icy malice, left unnamed in the hurried recitation lest speaking further attract notice.

Floringaeld was not the only witness of the battle, and though ’tis embroidered some little in the sagas, what we heard that night was chilling—and impressive—enough.

“His spear is broken,” he finished, heavily, as I finally drew the last of the lich’s freezing hatred from ageless flesh. “My lord’s helm is cast down.”

Lichburn is one of the few wounds an Elder does not heal swiftly from, especially those who are not warriors. I had read a few treatises upon their methods and manners of healing in the library, between map-studies and other interesting things; now I was glad of it.

Naciel turned to the wall of our refuge, her shoulders bowed and trembling. Arn watched, a line between her coppery eyebrows, but stayed looming at my side. The Elder woman, eyes half-closed, draped her dress decorously over her legs and sighed, a relieved sound. Her long dark hair, half-braided as was the festival fashion in Laeliquaende, was tarnished with smoke.

“My thanks, Riversinger,” she murmured.

It took me two tries to stand. My arms ached, and the rest of me was none too happy. So much seidhr takes a toll upon the body—as does fleeing, and hiding, and terror itself. Arn thrust the casket back into my hands as soon as I was upright, and returned her attention to the cave entrance, gripping her spear.

“Come dawn they will find us.”Gaeran, the guard who had shepherded this group, spoke low but clear. He watched the entrance to our precarious shelter as well, and gripped a jeweled swordhilt at his belt. The gems did not shine, as if they too sensed the danger. “In darkness we may slip past, perhaps, but we will be in the open when the sun rises. They hate the day’s eye, but they will do their foul work under it if they must.”

Floringaeld was silent for a few moments, and his mien was terrible. His gauntlet made a low soft sound in the darkness as the hand within it clenched. “The princess and her friends must reach Dorael.”

Every Elder in the cave stilled, and regarded me. I clutched the casket and tried to think. “This cloak,” I said, trying to speak as softly as possible while enunciating the Old Tongue clearly. “Naciel, you must take it, and the iron box. My lords Floringaeld and Gaeran should accompany you, and you may move with some swiftness; my maiden-of-steel and I will care for the wounded here. We may escape notice if I block the cave-mouth with some trickery.”

I was not, after all, brave enough to mention seidhr to the folk whose name for it we mortals had borrowed.

The silence was so thick an echo of bell-ring could be heard in the distance—but only one deep tolling, over and over. It halted during that hush, leaving only the faintest intimation of cries in the darkness.

“Laeliquaende is fallen.”The woman on the folded cloak rose, stiff and slow but still graceful. Her torn sleeve flapped and her hands moved as if dreaming, attempting to set her garb to rights. “And a Secondborn is teaching us how to bear the loss.”

Arn stood very close, the healthy heat of her most welcome for I was cold as I had not been since we reached this valley. There was nothing to fight, so perhaps she was taking comfort in nearness—I certainly was—yet her attention still did not leave the cave’s narrow mouth. “I will give this thing to Naciel,” I told her softly, in southron. “And the cloak. We will stay here—”

“And die when they find us. I can hear them, Sol.” She was pale again, my small one, and though she did not quail, she also did not look fey with battle-joy either.

“Or we outwait them, and go home.” My voice quivered upon the last word; I hoped I merely sounded weary, not as afraid as I felt. There was no hope of returning to Dun Rithell, but I had to fan any embers of courage in those nearby.

It is a volva’s duty.

“Very well.” She lifted her spear slightly, thought better of tapping it to underscore her agreement. “At least my weapon has a name now.”

“Princess?”Floringaeld approached Naciel, who put up one hand, blindly, and leaned against the cave wall. The score of Elder crowded into this space had moved aside so much as possible, attempting to give her grief some lee. Their own must have been just as sharp, yet they were polite, and even the child merely clung silently to her carrier, her arms tight about his throat.

It must have been uncomfortable, but the Elder man did not demur. His hand moved slightly upon the girl’s small back, an unconscious comforting movement very like my mother’s when one of her younglings was ill or frightened. I wondered what the girl had seen so far this night, and if I truly had the strength or skill to keep the cave-entrance masked all day.

I began to fumble with the cloak-laces one-handed, the casket occupying my left arm. The sense of something live and listening inside its shell did not abate; no wonder Arn did not wish to carry it.

The once-wounded woman stepped past me; she did not limp overmuch. “I think I can draw them away,” she said, quietly. “Then the rest of you may flee.”

“Elaedie.”The guard shook his head. “’Tis a foolish suggestion, and you are not a fool.”

“My children are gone.”Her chin set stubbornly; though she was dark-haired, she looked very much like Astrid. “So is my wife, and my parents. I have nothing to weigh me down, and you well know my swiftness.”

“Ancila would never forgive me if I agreed.”Gaeran cast an anxious look at the cave-mouth, and spoke more softly. “You are my sister as much as she; do not be so hasty. If someone must draw them away, I will do so.”

Others pressed close, whispering fiercely; I lost track of their argument, for my head rang awfully as if one of the city’s bells had taken up residence. I had dangerously overtaxed my seidhr; it replenishes naturally, but one may injure the subtle selves with overwork as much as the physical.

The conversation grew heated, for all it was in half-mouthed whispers, and I began to worry we would be overheard when Naciel turned sharply from the wall. She made a brusque, commanding gesture; the Elder fell silent.

“Enough,” she said, soft but clear, in southron. “My father’s spear is broken and his helm cast down, but there is no time to mourn. His task falls to me and I will perform it.”

“Princess—” Floringaeld began once more, but a single glance from her sufficed to drive him back a half-step.

I had seen Naciel’s beauty, and her merriment. In that moment I saw her strength, and it was very much like Taeron’s. The same sense of clarity, of distillation, poured through her. A twinge of seidhr limned her in soft blue like the steel of their blades when battle is nigh, the glow seen not with physical eyes but the inner ones.

“You and Gaeran will shepherd our people, and you will all protect the alkuine and her shieldmaid.” Naciel took great care with the last word, pronouncing it just the way I had taught her. “They must reach Dorael, and if the Blessed are kind some remnant of Laeliquaende will as well. That is my father’s command, and mine as well.”

“But—” Floringaeld fell silent again, but not under her stare.

Instead, the princess bent, and unlaced her slippers. “You are swift indeed, Elaedie.” Her tone was surprisingly gentle, and as she shifted to the Old Tongue the words became even softer. “But my mother was Laelaeithel the Unshod, and tonight I call upon Uellar Orolim, who rode under starlight before we knew of the West.” She stepped out of her shoes. Her feet glimmered, pale and perfect; as she straightened she reached into a skirt-pocket and drew out a small velvet bag.

From it she freed a glimmering thing. It was a necklace, a colorless gem hanging from scrollwork of dark metal, and Floringaeld drew in a sharp breath.

“The Watchful made that for you,” he said.

“He did.” Naciel fastened the clasp at her nape; her hair fell in unbound waves as the gem settled just below the notch between her collarbones. “Tonight I will use it to undo whatever I may of his treachery. I charge you with their protection, my lord Heavy-hand; do not disappoint me.”

“Princess…” Gaeran’s southron was heavily accented. “I can hear them; the filth are close. Please, do nothing rash.”

Naciel looked to me then, and I sucked in a sharp breath. The edge of her loveliness was like a knife that night, an Elder blade keen enough to cleave a whisper, sharp enough its touch would not even hurt at first. She smiled, and if Tjorin had witnessed her in that moment he might well have expired of the sight.

I thought she would speak, but instead she whirled, the hem of her dress fluttering. Floringaeld’s gauntlet twitched as if he thought to restrain her, but she was past him in a trice, and her shadow in the cave-mouth was but a flicker.

As she burst free of confinement the necklace gave a vivid flash, not of lightning but as Fryja’s veils, yet coruscating white and blue instead of green, red, and other nameless hues. She cried aloud in the Old Tongue, calling upon the Blessed, and the sound was a silver clarion, sweet as fallen Laeliquaende’s bells.

“Uellar!” she called, and it echoed far upon the night wind, overpowering the sounds of wrack and death from the burning city. “Ai, ai, Orolim the Hunter! One calls upon thee, mighty rider! Ai, ai, ai!”

“Fishguts,” Arn breathed, wonderingly. “She is mad.”

Floringaeld hurried to the cave-mouth; for a moment I thought he meant to plunge after her. But he halted, and his gauntleted fingers sank deep into the stone on one side as he fought the urge.

We heard her cry out once more, her voice trailing into the distance.

Thus began Naciel’s Run.