Thunderwyrm VI

The Hedet reinforcements cared not for the right of good rest. They emerged from the Small Shell hills of north. Their horses: the finest steeds, their steel: forged many months in preparation, their advance: insurmountable.

Fiara counted hordes of well into ten-thousand on twilight’s horizon. Even their vassals, the House Purch of Gwinath, pledged to Hedet for promise of the Cardinal Lordship of Gwyshire, prisoners for ransom, were slaughtered and burnt. The Hedets had made purchase of foreign mercenaries that understood nothing of Loullands chivalry. She was the prize, and any nobles timid or wise enough to lay down arms, were granted the safety of chains.

‘We’ve now Gwyshire and the girl,’ a lower knight told the loose-skin of Honourable Lord Theraide Hedet. ‘Good. My son expects them in Hillfoot by sundown next, so–’

‘Sundown next?’ One voice shouted, ‘that’s preposterous. We’ll need a week’s ride at least to even make it to Woodview, let alone Meridian.’

‘We’ve whatever he says. As much as I agree that his understanding of geography seems limited, this is not a moment to beckon mutiny,’ Theraide said. His voice was kind, and worn, and tired. His son had him as hostage of exhaustion; a father tied to the chains of his boy, in only case that he did not care otherwise. ‘I’m too old for mutiny.’

The road to Meridian was uneventful. The banners of Scarshire, and their allies – such as the Therlins of Nefae in Cesternshire – were caught in feuds and skirmishes nationwide. Gwyshire had fallen to chaos. Cesternshire was split in itself, and Brishire was too far-removed to bother. Even the crown garrison in Hille was anxious to make any move.

Sure enough, it took three day’s hard ride and twenty dead horses before they made it to Meridian-at-Hillfoot. Such a feat was nigh-impossible, particularly over the callous lands of Chilternshire, and yet Threid’s men were prepared to execute the ringleaders for tardiness. The first eve at the castle of clocks even told of old Theraide meeting some end.

And Meridian truly was a palace of time. From the monastery there did the monks chronicle the world in conjunction with the far-off Fort Senwaco in the deep south of the continent of Alwaen. Hillfoot itself was an expansive platform, elevated, and with twelve snaking gatehouses. Every gatehouse told of the oppression of time, ticking clocks, and arrogant faces of armoured guardsmen upon the ramparts and between the slits in the towers. Its stone was not the carved slate of Cliffhaven, but a dry, beige stone, creamy and softer to the touch, like a parched marble.

Meridian itself was reaching, stretching with towers extended by towers upon towers, with conical ceilings and grey tiling. It was as wide as it was tall, and connected by a horizontal bridge of cylindrical disposition, stretching over the high walls and gatehouses to the monastery. The monastery was a giant’s crown of towers, encircling one singular head spire that reached to the lowest echelons of the clouds, decorated by enormous clock faces. Each monastic tower had traded circularity for the strength of the concave hexagon, ridged and ribbed with the juts of effortless strength.

Hillfoot was an emulation of Brighthelm in many ways. The depths of its natural topographic platform were filled with the artificial tunnels of dungeon and sewer, just as the Eggshell hills encased a labyrinth of forgotten tunnels and caves and sewers built by the Kius dynasty before they fell to the Sileni, in the vision of their progenitor, Karavas. Yet these Hedet tunnels were mapped, and these did not host the freedom that those depths might. Hedet men trained and gave their soldiers lives to those halls.

I will rot here, Fiara was certain. I will rot amongst the desecrated corpse of the people I failed. Her mind drifted. The darkness that swallows had her engulfed; phagocytosis of the shattered spirit by that great plague. And thus, the scraping stone of the cell floor inflicting slight but many grazes upon her soft legs, boded her mind of a place away from that place.

To where she was beckoned the darkness was implicit. A place of enthralling winds, telling of the grand soup of the sky, thick in cloud and eidolic peace. A vast sea of adamant infinities, host to the nebulae of phantasmal tranquillity, and enemy pure and stark to the responsibilities of a world resolute on accountability of a bearer of the burden of leadership and scapegoat. There, in that place of silent serenity, was the world without stones.

Her daydream was cut to dire reality. ‘Lord – Archduke – Cardinal Lord, m’lord, Hedet,’ a frantic voice said from outside her cage. ‘Yes, the Lady Fiara is here.’

No sooner, the key turned. The orange light of wall sconces cast a deathly spectre of the fine features of Threid Hedet in the doorway.

‘Threid.’

‘Fiara.’

She coughed. ‘What is it that you–’

‘Do you like Meridian?’ Threid asked. He did not move, though it felt as if he was stroking her cheek with the honey of his words. ‘I like Meridian.’

‘I…’

‘It’s about two past noon. Tell me, princess, what would you usually be doing right now?’

Fiara was determined not to collapse under the odd weight of Threid Hedet’s charm. There was a sway to it. It felt like those high winds above the Prism Strait whistling through her hair and that was nothing short of yearning.

‘I, personally, feel inclined to walk the grounds of my new castle. It’s mine now, you know, Meridian-at-Hillfoot. I have some ideas about how things should change.’

‘I noticed you changed your heraldry,’ Fiara replied. It was clear: she could not let him hold course of the conversation. ‘Bold to crown the boulder fist when you’re not a king.’

Threid winced one eyebrow, and leaned closer into the cell, so that the orange flickering of candlelight fell upon one eye. That eye was brown, like the thick mud sodden in early summer rains and it was powerfully rich; yet there was something off-setting about the slit floating in that chocolate soup. A burnt amber, so that it made the brown seem black, and the pattern was as they might call a tigersnake’s skin. ‘I think the grounds are nicer than the cell. Do you?’ He asked.

It was all fine fabricating false fearlessnesses, but there comes a time when a person must play for the short gains. ‘I think you might be right,’ Fiara said. ‘I would like that, Threid.’

The Cardinal Lord of Chilternshire smiled with mania. ‘You’re beginning to see things my way, darling wife.’ The concept of marriage to that man seemed never to bring the goodness it ought to. Only variations on fear.

Fiara was directed, by both Threid and the turnkey, to rest her arm in the loop of his. ‘This is nice. We’ve not been together for so many years. I like us being together.’

The pair trailed through dank halls, wherein the new purge of torchlight had melted away the once-thick darkness that plagued like onyx mucus. At near-every corner or door they stepped through, at Threid’s discomforting pace yet proud gait, did more retainers join their walk. It was no small scaling to reach the court hall of Meridian again, but Fiara had never felt so overjoyed to breathe proper air; for a moment as she stepped there, something ladylike reverberated through her mind.

The hall was tall as all were, but not arched; rather, it seemed angular, cubic, and fiercely adamant. There were chandeliers hanging in serene crowns around a number of polished brass bells and their presence was extraordinary. Threid noticed. ‘You’ve never come here have you? For all that time I spent in Cliffhaven, never once did we return the favour.’

Fiara said nothing, but not out of spite. There was something enchanting about the ancient masonry of castles, especially as each bore history from different places. Admittedly, the clocks and bells and harsh stone was not to her taste nor did it radiate the splendour that came off Cliffhaven Keep’s reaching arches and draconic stone men and exalted glasswork. Yet, the coppers and golds and silver-greys and burnt orange constructs were alien and awful and their creamy brickwork was something of exotic majesty. Enormous statues of dead Archdukes and warrior-lords sat in thrones of stone, holding spears and holding bows and holding chisels and in armour, faced into the central runner of the hall, watching their descendants with approval or disdain.

‘Come now,’ Threid said, ‘I did not bring us to the grounds to linger watching dead men stare through stone bodies. We live in the now, do we not? The now is special.’

Fiara felt old contempt emanate like ringing from the chandelier-bells above.

The doorway, even, was cubic and square, but the emerald maze of hedgerows and bejewelled fountains were ensorcelling if not relieving. The lands of the Scar were a great many things, but the natural green flats as upon Hillfoot were something they could never be. A prancing stag, more illustrious than the glow of moons through clouds, danced between flower patches as though the bounty of a good spring was left in residue at its hooves.

‘What did you think of the proposal?’ Threid asked to break the awe as they strolled. ‘Our fathers thought of it. An odd turn of events for them, I suppose.’

Fiara’s stomach throbbed.

‘We can still marry, you know, but I’d prefer to be king rather than consort. Would you like that? I think we still make a good match.’ Threid breathed outward, theatrically absorbing the air of ticking clocks. ‘You really are as beautiful as they said you had grown,’ he continued, meeting eyes slowly, as they paced around Fiara’s face. ‘Every day at the Stone Court in Brighthelm was a disappointing one for the men of the realm, as every day the fabled daughter of our then-king had not made visit!’

She almost laughed.

‘I must tell you of your affinity, of course. A “Duke of Nefae” has left your service, for his duty called at home; they say a civil war really does split family,’ Threid quipped.

‘Uncle Willaem left?’

‘Uncle Willaem left, indeed. Unfortunately, some upstarts had to be executed. So, sorry about that. They were all a little fanatic, you know. It’s odd really, the head of faith can be so wondrously calm and eager to preserve his life, yet his own followers can be so ready to give theirs thinking gods care. I suppose that’s the case with one’s own retinue – indenture only states the nobility give money. It’s like buying a life! They did want me to tell you how they loved your cause and your father and your house, and so on and so forth. Many broke that indenture though, and they had to be executed too – you just can’t have disloyal men. Not the queen consort. Certainly not. No, no, no. I won’t have it.’

It seemed Fiara’s stomach was increasingly eager to split.

‘I think we should give you a bath. I’d like you to have a bath before you abdicate your claim, so let’s do that. You’ve really been dirtied like a warrior, showing all the fight you’ve got – good way to win love, you know, and well done on crushing that Purch family. The House of Hedet now controls Gwyshire and Chilternshire! Is that not so impressive? You’ve certainly earnt my love.’

Fiara pulled her arm from his. The reaction seemed to trickle light anger in Threid, though Fiara turned the impulse into a feint – kneeling to a nearby flower patch to absorb its scent.

‘I think when we give you a bath, we’ll cleanse this odd sense of fight. It’s just best if I do all the fighting, don’t you think?’ Hedet told Fiara.

‘Where’s the Duke Whitewall?’ Fiara asked.

‘Duke of the Roost? Somewhere in the cells, along with the Duke Maben, the Duke Lithundyre and all the rest, I imagine. I let my men organise the imprisonment, mostly because I was busy, praying. Do you pray?’

‘I did frequently once. A friend helped me,’ Fiara said, lamenting something as she watched clouds drift in cerulean skies.

Threid hissed a grunt. ‘A friend helped you. How does a friend help one pray?’

‘I don’t think you’d understand, Threid,’ Fiara said.

‘Oh, but I’m sure I do. Explain. Actually, don’t bother. I pray to all I can. Sometimes they answer, you know. Khynigosh answered; a very surreal experience meeting the Transcendent beings, you know, truly puts everything in perspective,’ Hedet thoughtfully added.

Fiara’s stomach thumped like a drum, and her heart too. That’s it then. The revelation fell upon her like a kick against her back.

Her eyes were uncontrollably wide but she spoke with as much composure as she could. ‘Khynigosh? I was under the impression that we weren’t supposed to worship the Beings of Demonic Temptation.’

‘Come now, Fiara, you’ve a ripe mind. When have rules ever stopped anyone from doing anything?’ Threid asked the air, kneeling beside her ear. ‘Those are hollow rules made by hollow men.’ His arm ushered to the monastery in the distance. ‘As soon as I tried, I realised why.’

‘And why’s that?’ Fiara asked. Her voice was charged. ‘Why should we break any sense of what’s right and worship Beings of Demonic Temptation? I used to think this was all a game by gods like that, but now I know it is.’

‘Yet you never use that knowledge to your advantage,’ Threid said slyly.

‘And what advantage could that possibly be? Beg Tseism to bring down an earthquake? Plead for the bloodshed of Maløwrythe?’ She wanted to hear his confirmation. She needed to know.

‘How about,’ Threid said, dull to the ramifications, ‘control over the beast inside you?’

Fiara gawked at him, shooting up to a stand. He was taller, but their eyes were level at least. A minor smirk came across her in shock as much as panic at the arrogance and truth.

‘I am a Cynanthrope. A Chakalinthrope, to be exact.’

Fiara slapped him. It was a light slap, but one enough that Threid would feel it. Truthfully, her hand felt as though it was thrust against stone. ‘Why would you tell a prospective wife that you turn into a man-jackal? What if I told anyone? And… How does any of that even–’

He gave nothing more than a howling guffaw. ‘Who will you tell? No one in Meridian would believe it from you. Not now. And when you’re my queen, you will live here, and see me only to bring me heirs, so don’t worry about such things. Now, bath,’ Threid demanded, as though he had won. His underestimation was severe. As forceful his charm came, it left him anosmic to the abilities of his others. Nevertheless, it would mean nothing, for then the vassals of Squall had made their arrival.

They descended from one celestial plane in parting divine clouds as sinuous beams of the light of Quanomil, pouring unto the world to cleanse it of its verdigris taint. A shriek like the gale roared through those bleak clouds, and beneath them, the call of chaos on the ramparts of Meridian; it was the thunder of hooves that struck fear unto Threid. But fear was replaced by terror, when Junothor and her draconic children showered themselves from the sky like twisting winged arrows. Atop her was Twyner, and he had brought every lord and lady of Scarshire, and every lord and lady had brought every able body with them. Meridian was a strong against the siege, but from the sky, few palaces had adequate defence.

Fiara smiled. The winds had finally come.

As she turned back to Threid, she saw rage and she saw fury, but she felt the strike of lacerating wrath when he swung upon her neck, when everything faded black.