The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One) (7 page)

Venna fell back into her chair, her eyes fluttering, her throat tight and whistling. Colours and shades danced before her eyes in the darkened room. She listened muzzily to Ianna’s words.

“My Lords and Ladies, we live in a time of darkness and coming crisis. I am sure you have all heard the rumours that the Fallen One has awoken.”

A series of sharp mutters and muted gasps went around the Chamber.

“You have been called here today because these rumours are true.”

More mutters, gasps, and a few cries.

“The Fallen One is raising his armies in the Nightlands to the east. Our scouts and spies report that he has sent emissaries to the Three Kingdoms, bypassing Highmount entirely through some means. The word is that they are negotiating with the Fallen One. The price of fealty to him is their dead, and their prize is that their lands will not be sacked and burned.”

“Has such an emissary been received by the Crown?” The question came from the one youthful face among the councillors: Mikka Wyrlsorn. He was a short, scrawny man dressed in black and gold. A closely-trimmed and curled black beard framed a ferret’s face with protruding hazel eyes. His eyes were on Ianna, more challenging than those of any other at the table.

“None so far, Councillor Mikka, but we expect one any day now, which is why this gathering has been called.”

“To discuss the terms of our fealty to the Fallen One?”

The mutterings around the table took on an angry tone.

Councillor Della, his beard nearer to white than grey and his red robes shimmering with ornate silver filigree, rose to his feet and glowered at Mikka. “You would treat with the Fallen One, Mikka? You would break the oath that was sworn by the Founders of Highmount?
You soft dog of a boy! We must stand!
If Fallen-born and Fellfolk come, then we must hold the pass in which our city stands to the last woman or man! I was there when His Five Shadows led Drujja and Fellspawn into E'phah! I commanded men and women who fought and drove back demons into the Nightlands!”

“Peace, brothers and sisters. I speak only the truth of our situation.
If
the kingdoms see fit to lay down, rather than raise their swords, then the terms of such treaties with the Fallen One must be ... reasonable.”

More were on their feet now, shouting and pointing at Mikka. None moved to strike him. They only brayed and bantered until the room was an echo chamber of righteous ravings. Venna cringed as the sounds came to a crescendo.

“Peace!”

Ianna’s word had a shattering effect upon the councillors. All fell silent and returned to their seats.

“Brothers and sisters, Mikka is a councillor as are you all, and the purpose of these gatherings is for us to discuss and consider all opinions brought to the table. Is that not so?”

Murmurs of agreement answered her.

“Now, as Mikka and Della have illustrated, we have choices before us. The Founders swore their oath to hold the pass against the Fallen One and his kith, no matter what. But, chivalry aside, we must consider our position...”

Mutters, dark and sharp in tone, arose once again.

“We must consider our position as a city that is not all that it once was. The ascension of Queen Venna, following her dear father’s death, was not without its ... difficulties. Women and men who manned the walls have since deserted us and taken their families with them, leaving us a force of less than a thousand to stand against invaders. As you know, the Fallen One's forces are legendary and powerful. With less than a thousand, we will be swept away if we do not treat with his emissary.”

Sighs and moans followed, and a few sobs from the women at the table.

Marra, a former Watcher, asked, “So, we are to give our dead over to the Fallen One? That is it. Without question?”

Mikka answered her. “It is a small price to pay if it means the survival of the living.”

“But does it?” Marra went on. “We give him our dead and from them he fashions more Fellfolk, more dead-men for his rank and file. His armies will grow and grow, and we will be responsible for that. Before we know it, he will be able to sweep all of the kingdoms away in a matter of years, maybe even months.”

Mikka sighed and scratched at his prematurely balding pate. “What else would you suggest, Marra? We have no means of bargaining. We may try to lie and cheat but what if he sends one of His Five Shadows to our gates? You’ve heard the stories as well as I. Such a creature will see right through any deception and bring the full fury of the Fallen-born against us.”

“There is one thing we can do,” said Ianna.

Mikka’s head snapped around to face her, his brow crinkling, his eyes wide and surprised. “And what might that be, Lady Warden?”

“The Sword.”

“By the Mother,” Della muttered, tugging at his whiskers.

“You can’t be serious, Lady Warden,” Mikka said. “The Sword of Sighs? It was lost more than five hundred years ago.”

“Not lost,” Della said. “I know the legends well, better than you, I should think.”

Mikka’s lips curled at the old man’s jibe.

“The Sword Without a Blade sleeps with its sighs and whispers, robed in prophecy and damnation atop the heights of the Fellhorn.”

“I know all of that, Della, but just because old tales are told, it does not make them true. Besides, the Fellhorn lies in the Western Wastes. Who in the world would go there by choice?”

“If I were not so old, I would go,” said Della. “I would make my life forfeit for Highmount and the Three Kingdoms.”

Mikka frowned and turned again to Ianna. “My Lady Warden, if you please, I think the Council should know what exactly is being suggested beyond the chasing of old ghosts and myths.”

“The counsel I have received comes from a man known to you all: Ossen of the Wayfarers.”

The mention of his name roused Venna from her quiet lethargy. She remembered Ossen coming to the court when she was little, telling stories of the other lands and distant kingdoms to a rapt audience of herself and Jedda; conjuring fireworks, faerie dancers and shadow puppets in their private rooms.

Mikka gave a contemptuous snort. “Old One-Eye is in Highmount, is he? I thought he was too good, great, and mighty for the likes of us.”

“Still your tongue, Councillor. Ossen is a Wayfarer and thus accorded due respect.”

Her words hanging in the air, Ianna moved from the table to the doors of the Chamber and opened them.

Ossen strode in, seeming to pause to reflect for a second longer on Mikka than the others, he then drew himself up to his full height, revealing his stoop to be an act of frailty. A darkness appeared to enter the chamber as he addressed them in a voice that seemed to resonate rather than be spoken.

“You have my greetings, Queen Venna. Lady Warden. Councillors of Highmount. As has already been discussed, there is a way to save the city from the armies of the Fallen. But it is no light or easy task to undertake. The Fellhorn lies over the Grassland Plains, across the Mountains of Mourning in the Western Wastes. I offer my services to lead the party that will travel on this journey; as a Wayfarer, it is my duty to do so in such times of need. How long we would be gone, I do not know. Whether we would succeed in what we set out to do, I cannot be sure. Whether we would come back, it is beyond—”

“To be sure,” Mikka interrupted, “you wish us to trust in a wild hog’s hunt. To wait in vain for that which may never come while we are crushed under the trampling feet of Fallen-born and Fellfolk, yes?”

A silence, sick and uneasy, reigned in the room as Mikka’s hazel eyes met and matched Ossen’s penetrating stare. The other Councillors plucked at their beards and twirled their tresses. No-one had spoken to a Wayfarer in such a way before.

Mikka turned to Venna rather than Ianna. “My Queen, I am your humble and honoured servant, and I have to say that this scheme of your Lady Warden beggars belief and, indeed, sanity.”

Everyone at the table seemed to hold their breath. It had been many years since a member of the Council had directly challenged the throne in such a way. Venna shuffled in her chair, trying to sit straighter and show more dignity. In the dimness of the chamber, she hoped no-one could see her blush. She hoped her father’s shade was not there somewhere, watching.

“Speak your mind, Councillor Mikka. We would know all you have to say.”

“My Queen, you wish to entrust the future of this city and the Three Kingdoms to a Wayfarer—a wandering old druid who knows no more of ruling and governing than he does of herding chickens in a farmyard.”

“What would you have us do, Councillor?”

“I move that this idiotic and foolish scheme be dismissed by the Council, and that we instead send word that we wish to treat with the Fallen One. Legends are no basis upon which to make informed decisions.”

“You think me uninformed, Councillor?” Ianna asked.

The Warden’s hand fell on Venna’s shoulder, gripping hard until the child bit her lips and became quiet. Ossen noticed this, with a flicker of his one eye.

“Lady Warden, I believe you to be as informed as the rest of us on the situation.” Mikka replied. “However, I believe this suggestion from the Wayfarer to be misguided and one that would put the people of the city at risk were we to follow through with his quest. Such things are fine as tales to be recited around campfires and over flagons in a street tavern, but not when we are talking of the hair’s breadth difference between war and peace.”

“The Wayfarer has a name, Councillor.”

“I give my respectful apologies to him, if he considers me to have spoken out of turn. My concern is merely for Highmount and its people.”

Ossen nodded, giving no sign of emotion otherwise; his aged face remained an implacable mask.

Ianna smiled her coldest smile and addressed the Council. “Lords and Ladies of Highmount, I ask you now to vote on the matters at hand. Those who wish to hold the pass and honour the oath of our Founders, say aye.”

A low chorus of ayes rippled around the room.

“Those who wish to treat with the Fallen One, say aye.”

Mikka’s sole aye was a lonesome sound.

“Finally, those who agree that we should take heed of the Wayfarer’s words and trust him to retrieve the Sword of Sighs from the Fellhorn, say aye.”

There were more ayes than there were nays, but only just enough to carry the decision. Lord Della’s aye decided the vote.

“Thank you all. I call this meeting of the Council to close,” said Ianna.

With a scraping of chairs and inconsequential chattering, the Council dispersed.

~ ~ ~

Councillor Mikka returned to his chambers. Once inside, checking his windows and doors were secure, he retired to a small room between his bedchamber and personal library. The room was in darkness and unlit. In the centre stood something tall and wide concealed by a covering of black velvet. He carefully unfastened the velvet cover, folded it, and placed it in a corner. Then he stood and stared deep into the highly polished surface of the mirror. Its burnished solid silver frame was a tangle of obscenities: the naked, mutilated corpses of men and women strung together and tormented by rotting creatures that were themselves flayed, limbless, and deformed in many foul ways. With his hands, Mikka made a series of passes over the opaque surface until there was a sign of movement within the glass. The opacity seemed to writhe and surge in on itself, as if it were a body of water and he had just dropped a stone into it. With a final gesture, Mikka made the glass flare cold and bright, and then he was looking in upon a great underground cavern. It had the proportions of a cathedral, although the rank appearance of a funeral vault. At the centre of the cavern was a carved edifice and upon it was a sculpture of a colossal hunched and hooded figure. Though it was only stone, the sight of it made Mikka’s flesh crawl and his skin to become pebbled with a numbing sweat. He flexed his fingers and, blinking hard, Mikka drew in a deep breath and walked towards the mirror.

Closer. Closer.
Closer.

He strode through it into the Great Hall of the Fallen One beneath the Shadowhorn Mountain. It was like passing through a layer of ice, and Mikka could not stop the cry that came from him as he set his feet down on rough, lichen-crusted rock. Frost and ice glistened upon black stalactites and stalagmites that sprouted throughout the Great Hall, rubbing his arms and torso against the encroaching cold, Mikka took tentative steps forwards.

“Welcome, Mikka. What news from the world of the living?”

Robed and hooded like the stone colossus, the speaker stepped out of the shadows. The little light cast by phosphorescent lichen in the cavern briefly illuminated his face, even as it was hidden beneath the hood’s darkness. Mikka felt his stomach turn over as he glimpsed the white bone of a skull.

“I am E’blis of the Fallen, Mikka Wyrlsorn. Come. Stand before me.
Speak!
” He thudded a polished black staff, which was surmounted by a horned ram’s skull embossed with blood-red script, upon the floor.

Mikka shuffled nervously on his feet, licking lips that were as dry as old leather. “Th-the Wayfarer, Ossen, has come to Highmount, as was known. And he has put the journey to the Fellhorn to the Council. It was agreed to, as was expected.”

“You bring excellent tidings, Councillor. What news of the party that is to make the journey?”

“I-I do not know yet. The Wayfarer said that the Sword of Sighs—”

The syllables of the legend’s name reverberated around the cavern, making Mikka feel as if he were caught in the interior of a great, tolling bell. There was a terrible grinding sound from the unmoving stone figure of the Fallen One. The sonorous sound of the name gradually lessened, and so then did the shaking of His statue.

“Take a care which names you speak aloud in His presence, Mikka Wyrlsorn. It sleeps atop the Fellhorn. Our Black Lord feels it and hates it. The sword must not be taken by her, and the Living Flame must be extinguished. We will see to it now that the Path is set. We have a willing agent, well schooled in our plans. And, in exchange for your good service, the city of Highmount and its Three Kingdoms will be yours, as Warden, once Venna falls.”