Dubhaine Family/Brigdha/Roleplays/2017/September
5th September
Letter from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister Garas,
Seeing you defy the might of the north I wonder at how tightly wyrd has wrapped you in its skein.
Brigdha Dubhaine
Countess of Aureus
Priestess of The Shadows
Letter from Garas Gabanus
Priestess Brigdha,
Perhaps customs in Shadowdale have changed you milady, but I do not have an idea of what you just asked of me. I do wonder why you left Sirion however and perhaps my mind plays tricks on me further, but were you not once a priest of the Flow of Balance?
Signed,
Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister of First Oligarch
Royal of First Oligarch
Request from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister Garas,
Forgive me, the question was rhetorical. You appear to my horologist's eye a singular instrument of fate - or perhaps Oligarch herself sets forth her desire to stand unbowed. Her history lends a certain weight to such a notion...
My service to Shadowdale may appear at first glance accidental, a consequence of Negev being apportioned to the realm when it was birthed. However accident is but a cloak beneath which the hand holding the Balance conceals Her purpose, much as The Shadows give form to The Flow. Had I not been a Lady of Shadowdale I probably should not have been able to bring your wife relief during her confinement, though I must confess that wasn't entirely without cost.
I would visit with you if you will and tend to the spiritual needs of those of your people who still hold to the old ways of the Balancewalkers.
Brigdha Dubhaine
Countess of Aureus
Priestess of The Shadows
Letter from Garas Gabanus
Lady Bridgha,
We shall indeed never simply bow and remain strong in our conviction of doing what is right. You may call it fate, we call it determination and honor.
I remain most grateful for what you have done for my wife and shall not forget it. You shall always be welcome in Oligarch City as long as it is under our control. I fear however that my wife has now been taken and I do not know by whom. My daughter is all that remains, she reminds me much of her mother, although she's more the scholarly type. She even dug into our family history through my mother's journals and it seems my grandmother was a Moira Dubhaine, although it was kept a secret as she and my grandfather were political enemies within a realm called Fontan or so. I must confess, my daugther knows more of these things than do I, but I could not help laugh at the irony.
Oligarch has always been open to all religions, however the Shadows were banned as her priests used the faith and religion to fight the political war that is brewing. Before I would allow any to preach again, I must have insurances that faith holds itself to faith and does not interfere with politics. I would not so simply even suggest this, had it not been for you and if such promise is made, it shall be done so on your word, which I trust and respect.
Signed,
Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister of First Oligarch
Royal of First Oligarch
Letter from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister Gabanus,
This is most intiguing news and I will be interested to discuss the matter with your daughter during my visit to Oligarch. My sister Moira was - indeed still is - a woman of many secrets, and she birthed a number of fine, strong daughters who've earned a name in their own right. If this is not some misunderstanding or confusion then your House is indeed lucky to share her blood.
It's unusual for a Dubhaine daughter to be given up to the father as our House practices matrilineal succession but it's not unprecedented in times as violent and confused as those of Fontan's Civil War - especially with a younger daughter.
Brigdha Dubhaine
Countess of Aureus
Priestess of The Shadows
Letter from Garas Gabanus
Lady Brigdha,
You are most welcome to come to the royal palace and discuss it with her. I hope you will excuse me if I do not join such a discussion, perhaps at another time, but I have a lot of things to arrange and not much time as we speak.
If you are interested I can also share with you the letters of Kronogos Brock, so you can see the deterioration of the mental abilities of your allies.
I'm afraid my mother never spoke much about my grandfather and never really mentioned my grandmother. I always thought my family originated from Dwilight and was rather surprised to learn that this is not entirely true. Perhaps if I do have time my daugther can tell me more also, but now I have the survival of a nation to attend to.
Signed,
Garas Gabanus
Prime Minister of First Oligarch
Royal of First Oligarch
6th September
Morning -- Oligarch
The guards at the ruins of the Great Gate of Oligarch were sheltering from the noonday sun, content that the few remaining pickets of the Northern Host could do nothing to threaten their day. Their battered wargear and bruised bodies told the tale of recent battle, the desperate defence of these once imposing walls as the war engines of Elves and Men wrenched ancient stoneworks from their moorings. The work of long-vanished Orcs, haughty Elven Lords and the mighty men of Fontan's glory crumbled to ruin.
It was here amidst the rubble and detritus that Garas had mounted his desperate defence, calling all able-bodied burghers to the defence of their homes. A host at once glorious in its might as it was ludicrous in its juxtaposition: old soldiers in ill-fitting cuirasses; young boys in the hand-me-down hauberks of their grandsires; bureaucrats in their ostentatious but impractical dress armour; peasants armed with billhooks and reaping knives; hoydens and gentlewomen with their skirts trailing and a motley of umbrellas, cooking implements, pokers and brooms, for one brief moment united in their hatred.
Such a host could never be wielded in open battle, but here in the moraine of fallen masonry, littered with the scree of burnt houses and broken war machines, even the haughtiest warlord could meet an undignified end.
The nobility were want to dismiss such militias as final acts of desperation and perhaps they were right to do so, but Brigdha new the truth. She'd seen that fear in the eyes of battle-hardened veterans, the gorge choking their throats as they realised the true power arrayed against them. A Citizen Militia was not an unthinking mob. It was the raw expressed power of the termite mound when a small boy foolishly thrusts a burning branch into its midst. There for but a brief moment the desire to build so common to all social creatures becomes the incandescent will to kill.
And why should not the people of a great city such as Oligarch feel that rage when foreign princes destroy so much that they'd striven to build? When their brave soldiers had given their all what other outlet for their rage could there be?
Such thoughts were not comfortable for those who drew lines on maps and moved their armies like chess pieces, and Brigdha had known more than her fair share of those in her long career. The martial popinjays who thumbed their nose at Fontan's Assembly were a fine example of that breed, all glory and honour but little humanity or soul. She'd noted an old KDF banner as she passed a company of guardsmen in the colours of Nivemus on the long road from Commonyr, her dark robe wrapped around her frail frame as she leaned heavily on her staff for comfort. Few of their eyes registered the itinerant old woman and those that did had little in the way of kindness to them. A defeated Lion still craves its meat.
Had the watchers at the gate been less mauled, had their relief at surviving so dreadful a siege been less, had the long days of fighting not tired them beyond endurance, perhaps they would have seen Brigdha's approach. Perhaps.
Etain
"Grandmother," Etain whispered into the dark interior as she perched precariously against the window sill, left arm and leg wrapped in coils of the silk-wrapped hemp rope descending from the crenellations far above. This was the third window she'd checked since losing the toss to her brother Leopald, the former Ghost Watch captain slapping her on the shoulder with great mirth as he'd lowered her over the embrasure.
What did the mad old bat think she was doing, wandering into the heart of the enemy's camp even as the armies of the North sped away with their tails between their legs? So much for all those long lectures on duty and caution...
Etain kicked back from the wall and slipped down to the next storey, cursing the lunatic who planned the high eyries of Oligarch's rambling palace complex. The cunning stonework and near-ethereal flying buttresses demonstrated the annoyingly flawless craftsmanship she associated with the Elven Republic and she wondered if this part of the complex had been commissioned by the enigmatic Doc.
"Grandmother?" a glimmer of light broke through the thick brocade curtain as Lady Brigdha drew it aside, revealing a well-appointed sitting room.
"Etain!? What on earth are you doing dangling outside my window at this hour?"
"Isn't it obvious Grandmother! I'm here to rescue you!" her voice sounded considerably more confident than she felt.
"Oh, a rescue. You think I need rescuing? Who do you think I am? Some frail crone at the mercy of any damn fall with a blade?" the force of personality caused her to inadvertently jerk backwards.
"Are you okay down there sis?" Leopald leaned over the embrasure with his bow half-knocked.
"I might have known," Lady Brigdha crossed her arms, "Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber."
"Please Grandmother, keep your voice down," Etain shifted uncomfortably as she scanned the night for signs of danger.
"Keep my voice down? I'm not the one hanging from a rope shouting my head off for all and sundry to hear."
"That's hardly fair!"
"Oh, do come in. You're making the place look untidy. And you Leopald," Brigdha stretched her hand out of the window and snapped her fingers thrice in quick succession.
A few minutes later they were sat around a roaring hearth drinking tea as a maid served delicate pastries. It wasn't exactly the circumstances Etain and Leopald had expected to find their grandmother enduring and they were still somewhat on edge.
"Oh alright, I apologise for calling you Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. I know your hearts are in the right place, and I apologise for worrying you. But I know what I'm doing," she handed them the letter from Prime Minister Garas and they sipped their tea in silence, mulling its contents.
"Is it true?" Etain elegantly placed her cup and saucer on the occasional table next to her chair.
"I don't know for sure," Brigdha sipped her tea, "but it's true that your great aunt has always kept her private life very private indeed. I still don't know who the fathers of any of her children are Rhidhana was three before Moira even told me about her. So yes, it's possible Garas may indeed be my grand nephew and your second cousin. I have to examine the journals he refers to and compare their dates with our family archives."
"So should we stay and help?" Leopald popped a particularly sweet pastry into his mouth, causing him to mumble his words slightly.
"There precious little to kill in an archive," Brigdha's brow creased in amusement.
Garas Gabanus
Glory had left the old lady in the tower to read the journals she left her and went to get a few more books from the library. "This one, oh this one for sure... Where is the book on Fontanese history?" she asked to one of the servants who had joined her "I have it here milady," he replied but Glory shook her head "No the one about the schism and the creation of the Sultanate," she said as she paced away, "I've got it!" she yelled and placed it on top of the pile of books the man was carrying when she returned. "Perfect, I'm sure we've got everything now, follow me" she continued as she walked back to Brigdha.
When Glory knocked and subsequently opened the door, she was only holding a single blade, and was followed by two servants who carried the books for her. When she opened the door however she saw Etain and Leopold in the room and did not recognize them. Leopold and Etain only saw the blade in her hands and jumped up from their seats, while Brigdha remained seated calmly. "Sit down you two," the old lady said, "This is Princess Glory Gabanus, we are her guests. My Princess, these are my grandchildren, they came to 'rescue' me."
Glory quickly settled her surprise and responded with a smile "Well it is a pleasure to meet you both." She excitedly turned back to Brigdha and placed the blade on the table. "This was a present given to me by my mother, she had received it from my father at their wedding, who in turn had received it from my mother who had only said it was an important family heirloom. While reading to her journals however, I found the blade mentioned as well. Apparently it was a gift from Moira Dubhaine to my grandfather, Aeneas Archirium. Here you can see the wolf head beautifully carved at the handle," she said as she gave the blade to Brigdha. "I believe the wolf refers to the Sultanate of Asena," she continued as she ordered the servant to hand her the book on the Fontanese civil war. "This book details the internal conflict within Fontan at that time period, showing how the military council had created a plan to form a new realm from Kazakh, even before it was captured, but did not inform the Fontan Assembly which was their governing body. When the news leaked from the military council, a civil war of sorts broke out. It seems Lady Moira was one of the major spokespersons of the Fontan Assembly while my grandfather spoke mostly for the Military Council."
Glory paused for a moment and then started smiling even more, the kind of smile only a young girl can get when she dreams of princess and fairytales. "It makes this all the sweeter," she said as she took her mother's journal "look here, my mother describes a story of how my grandfather and Lady Moira grew together in this time of conflict and a mutual respect grew into much more...ooooh it's so romantic!"
12th September
Evening -- Oligarch
Brigdha examined the journal, speed-reading the soft flowing hand with its elegant flourishes. It reminded her of another journal, long since set aside, and the tales of the Idyll of Cagil before the death of her beloved but unacknowledged father. Being a Dubhaine was a heavy burden, much of import left unsaid to satisfy honour and duty.
"I cannot vouch for the tale," she said, trying to reconcile the tenderness revealed with the sister she knew and loved, "but it's true that Moira seemed to mellow for a time. Her correspondence had generally been focused on the great debates in Fontan and the heroic battles against Sirion, but for a little while there was a lightness to their tone which frankly was most out of character. That was before the Civil War. Before the rape of Oporto. Before the betrayals."
"So do you think...?" Glory's face shone with excitement.
"Let me see that blade girl," Brigdha accepted it, raising the wolf's head to her forehead, following the thread which had led it to this place and time. Back through the generations of heirloom her mind's eye stared, to a pavilion, one amongst many, and a field of chivalry. Thence to a forge high above volcanic scree, and a headland gazing towards the glassy cliffs. The blade was hot in her hands as she watched its forging, charms of warding and grace woven into its tempered steel.
The young noblewoman could barely contain her excitement as she watched.
"I know this blade by its twin," Brigdha released the blade and it fell perfectly straight, biting cleanly into the wooden floorboards and humming sweetly, swaying like a sapling in the summer's breeze, "though I know not its name it is undoubtedly the brother to Lannceann MacTiré."
In the thickest of the fighting pressed Aednadh's dame,
Rhidhana of the gold-spun mane.
As the sun fled westerly she cast aside her Lion helm
Her blonde locks burning a vivid flame.
The wolf's head blade drank deep and fell,
Sharp Lannceann MacTiré of the slakeless thirst.
Oh woe to thee servants of Jor,
Your doom is sealed!
May thy flesh perish before that blade is once more drawn,
The day when Rhidhana's vengeance is due!
"That blade passed to my niece Aednadh and after her tragic death I returned it to my sister. One day Lannceann MacTiré will return to feast deep and long on those who have sated themselves on Fontan's carcass," for a moment the cloak of age fell away from the priestess, offering the merest glimpse of the young warrior she had once been. Few now were the band who'd stalked the woods of elfland, feathered death on ashen stalks. Fewer still those who knew the secret war which had raged beneath that conflict, to thwart the plans of the dragon.
13th September
Evening -- Oligarch
Garas Gabanus
Glory could not hide her smile, especially not when she was told that the blade had a twin "Lannceann MacTiré" she repeated, "But if it has a twin, and that belongs to your family, then surely it must mean..." she was interrupted by Brigdha "It could be, but I am not convinced yet." When the old lady spoke of Fontan however, Glory became more and more convinced that the old lady knew more than she was saying. "So you have never met my greatgrandfather, or seen him together with Moira? Two of such great names, surely something?"
She kept asking question after question to the old lady, who could barely hide her amusement of the enthousiasm of the young princess. Perhaps it reminded her of her own when she was little, or perhaps she thought it to be foolish, but in either cases Glory did not notice the expressions on Brigdha's face. She was so focused on learning more of her heritage, of solving the mystery of her greatgrandmother.
But then Bridgha spoke with fire and fury herself, almost as if the years had not halted her passion for a mere second "One day Lannceann MacTiré will return to feast deep and long on those who have sated themselves on Fontan's carcass," and Glory just stared at her for a while and let her speak. She was intrigued with Fontan's history ever since she found her grandmother's journals. "It was supposed to have been the greatest democracy in existence" she said, "Larger than Vix is now to our south west, and stronger than any single nation in the world. Its assembly said to contain over a hundred members. How glorious must that have been to behold."
She looked at Brigdha's face, now perhaps for the first time and saw a combination of fire and love in the old lady's eyes. "It was my dear, it most certainly was. Upon the gleaming towers of Krimml two hundred banners and more fluttered in the summer breeze, and when the horns blared for war a separate company marched beneath each banner. Thus was Fontan in the noontime of her might. And yet all fell in a single night..." her voice trailed off, the fire in her eyes turned to hoarfrost.
Glory was stunned, jaw uncharacteristically slack as her quick mind tried to reconcile this revelation from one who had lived through it with the well-known histories of Fontan's long, slow, painful self-evisceration. She could not help but ask: "I do not understand. How did a single night cause Fontan City to fall to the Caligans, Westmoor to Perdan, Krimml and Oligarch and Karbala to the Elves? Were there not long and bloody wars fought over each."
Glory had become so certain of the truth on the matter of heritage that in her mind this new mystery was worth investigating further, almost as if she had forgotten the original conversation so quickly did she fire these new questions at the old lady.
Brigdha Dubhaine
"Oh there were my dear, long and bloody wars in which I and my sister and our children all fought. Wars of men, and wars of faith. Wars not just for the cities you name but for Akesh Temple and Ashforth, for the towns of the Caligan plain, for Kazakh and Avamar. Wars which merged with those of Ibladesh and Itorunt and Tuchanon. But these were the symptoms, not the fatal cause, and that my dear is a tale I have never told for rightly it is not mine to tell. Only my sister Moira knows the full truth of it though my old friend Meristenzio gave me reason to believe it. A tale of betrayal and necromancy."
The room fell silent, the air still with the warmth of summer even as sounds of distant thunder spoke of a storm breaking against the city's fallen walls. On days such as this women of Glory's rank and station should know fear, for fear would keep them alive.
"To the unlearned, wars are born from the frailties of our kind. Never do they ask probing questions such as might be asked in a court of law. Questions such as why three firm friends should tear at each other with unbridled violence until two cease to be and the third falls to endless dreaming? Why Fontan and Sirion and Old Rancagua fought with such vehemence? Why indeed Sirion should forge common purpose with her oldest and most ancient enemy, a realm literally committed to the murder of every elf and elf-friend."
"Behind this surface skein, these facies which beguile us, there are hidden hands - personalities if you will in that great immaterial ocean of which scholars write - hands for whom Kings and Princes and Chancellors are amusements. Diversions. Stringed instruments to be plucked as the mood strikes them, one moment harmonious, the next shrill discord. And unremarked amongst these hidden hands is an ancient foe, implacable as he is patient. The Dragon he's named in ancient Elven lore, the dark counterpart to The Lilith."
"In Fontan we held The Lilith in high regard and we forgot The Dragon. That was our mistake. We were so proud of our reason, of our faith in Darton and the other saints, that we forgot the Balance holds opposites in check. The more we embraced The Lilith, the more we empowered The Dragon. Our hubris became our nemesis."
The priestess's words were delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone she might use to report the annual stock breeder's show, and as Glory considered them her eyes moved from Brigdha's face to those of Etain and Leopold, then back again. Living in Oligarch she knew of many strange tales, often linked to the dark rites of the Maunts, but there was no hint of their fervour in this Lady of the Shadows. Indeed religion itself seemed to be a veil thrown about Brigdha's reason as one might conceal a lantern beneath their cloak in foggy weather.
"Grandmother, is there really time for this?" Etain eyed the doorway with ear cocked as if expecting armed men to burst in at any moment.
"Aye," Leopald stood up and shrugged his shoulders, moving to the window and the rope beyond, "we're in a hostile city and it seems our countrymen and their allies are battering at what remains of its gates. We should be gone whilst the going's good."
A wry smile crossed Brigdha's lips and a breath of fresh air filled the room, "Is that your way of suggesting we leave Leo? That your addled old grandmother is about to get us all killed by outstaying her welcome?"
"Oh please, no, please don't think that!" Glory's face by turns showed shock, embarrassment, and conviction, "My father gave his word that you'd be unmolested."
"It's not your father my brother's worried about m'lady," Etain stood and moved to the door, brutally efficient stabbing sword in one hand, hooked knife in the other, "A palace is no place to be found when the city it commands has fallen."
"We won't be disturbed," Brigdha spoke with finality.
"I'd still rather have my sword to hand, just to be on the safe side," Etain shot back, "sorry grandmother, I didn't mean that to sound the way it did."
"As you prefer dear," Brigdha poured a fresh cup of tea and sat back in her chair, "Now where was I? Oh yes, your grandmother's journals begin some years after the events in question, when the March of Negev had ceased to be a safe place and my niece Rhidhana was fostering in Ashforth with Duke Elberan Carnes. It seems your grandmother's childhood in Asena was a more peaceful one."
"But where was Lady Moira? What happened to her?" Glory was perched on the edge of her chair.
"Civil wars are anything but civil my dear and Fontan's was no exception. Riven from within, assailed from without, paranoia poisons all counsels," she paused to take a sip of her tea, "and smoothes the way for evil. There was a certain young nobleman by the name of Jon Paul Ogren. Jon Paul burned so bright, bright as stars upon the moonspun roads. And his tongue was silver and honey and the promises of power. All adored him, from Chancellor Katalynfae to the lowliest knave, from Master Sullivan Koga to the humblest soldier. And the concerns of those who didn't adore him were simply ignored."
"Jon Paul was a priest of the Church of Ibladesh, a controversial authoritarian faith, the anti-thesis of everything Fontan stood for. Yet this priest was acclaimed General and defence of the Constitution fell to his hands, for those who trusted only their own somehow trusted him as well. When Master Sullivan realised his mistake he sought to rectify it, and that's when The Dragon bared his claws."
The sounds of battle were growing nearer, perhaps as close as the hurriedly erected barricades patching the once mighty walls, and tension was building.
"Jon Paul was no crude hedge wizard dabbling in scrolls and potions and talismans. He was a sorcerer of the first rank," Brigdha paused for a moment, considering her words carefully, "perhaps the most powerful sorcerer of this age. In a single night he compassed what no army could and broke the Lions, slaying Master Sulliven and more than a dozen of his knights in their sleep. Their loss was a mortal wound - one the victim would suffer for long, agonising years. And all this he achieved without revealing his hand."
The barricades had fallen, the brave men and women of the Citizens' Militia proving little impediment to Elven veterans and their human allies, warriors tempered in the crucible of perpetual war.
Glory shuddered, remembering the tense hours at her father's bedside as black sorceries wracked his flesh, "How can anyone do such things?"
"You're young my dear and your eyes have yet to suffer what seemingly decent men - gentlemen - will do to achieve their ends. I pray that innocence lasts past today," Brigdha reached across the table and gently squeezed Glory's hand, "but if it's much comfort, sorcery on such a scale comes at a terrible cost and is never perfect. Great though Jon Paul's power was, a handful of his intended victims were untouched, and drained he resorted to more traditional, mundane methods. The hidden assassin. The poisoned blade. The silent kill. Patience and murder."
"But as the Balance swings it widens its gyre, and what is cast forth upon the Ocean in anticipation will at times return multiplied. In the slow gathering of agents to do his deeds, Jon Paul step out of his carefully controlled world and entered that of my sister, the webs of spy and counterspy Moira controlled from the Bureau of Irregular Warfare. I don't know the details, Moira never shared them with me, but Jon Paul was unmasked and his own trap turned against him."
"We all thought that the end of the matter, but some months later someone bearing a striking resemblance to Jon Paul was sited at his former estate in An Najaf and a party of knights led by Armstrong Ironsides went to investigate. Days later they returned with a terrifying tale of necromancy and a fearsome battle, the spirit of Jon Paul transforming into a dragon. They claimed to have defeated the spirit with the manor consumed in the ensuing firestorm. Armstrong would later lose his mind, seizing this very city for himself and dying a sad and lonely death."
"Not long after the events in An Najaf my sister took her leave, sending Rhidhana to Ashforth and swearing me to secrecy. Where she now is I cannot reveal, but there too is Lannceann MacTiré, in the common tongue The Wolfshead Blade or more poetically They Spear'd The Wolf. The gift of Aeneas as this blade of yours was the gift of Moira."
The din of battle could now be heard from the courtyards below and Leopald reached for his bow, "I see Ecthelion's banners, they've breached the palace gates and it doesn't look like he's taking prisoners."
Glory rushed from her chair to the window, a look of dawning horror on her face.
Brock Ketchum
Oligarch city. How many fallen realms he has witnessed around this great city. Westmoor, Fane to name a few. It seems to be a curse whoever hold the city will fall eventually.
Taking a deep breath, Kronogos Brock meditates inside a room with only his Captain guarding the inside room while the rest of his men tend to their injuries and some healthy ones are patrolling around the city.
- Sometime later after his meditation
Walking alongside his Captain Valeria atop Oligarch city wall which appear much broken after the siege.
Looking at the south east direction where Krimml city is, Kronogos Brock feels a sense of nostalgia overcome him. It was there where his career first took off, from his humble beginning roots as adventurer. It is where he learnt the realm financial managements as well. How time has passed in a blink of an eye.
He continues his walk. And not long, he sees a familiar face: Lady Brigdha.
Brigdha Dubhaine
Three storeys below in the crowded palace the distinctive forms of Ecthelion's bodyguard were cutting their way through what remained of the city garrison, proud hawkish faces contorted with rage as their blades fell again and again and again like forks cold of lightning within the primal maelstrom of the Great Ocean.
As Brigdha joined Glory at the window and cast a soldier's eye across the bloody slaughter below she was reminded of Durion Eyolf Serpentis, dressed in the flayed flesh of her countrymen as he and his soldiers...? warriors...? demons...? literally ran up the walls of Krimml and fell upon the defenders with that same savage blood-hunger which even today poisoned the firmament around the former Imperial Capital.
Those who knew the Elven people by their fine crafts, their cool reason, their magnificent pomp and circumstance, knew only half the measure of their kind. The dark rites of the servants of Ora were a child's immitation, half-wrought and filled with naïveté, against the alien dreams of the ancient fey, for whom life and death were as subtle as the shifting slumber of The Dragon in the vaults of eternity.
That Ecthelion had given himself over to those atavistic instincts was all too apparent from the carnage below, and for the first time Brigdha understood why Meristenzio had placed The Sword in her safe-keeping, far from the halls of Sirion and those who might use it to fulfil ancient prophecies of Elven ascendency. All those years sitting across from him in council, debating with him in the Heru Mellen, sharing bread and wine, they'd lulled her into a false sense of amicus.
The thought carried her back to that night here in Oligarch, the wedding feast when Ecthelion was poisoned. Instinct had warned her that The Sword must be moved from its sanctuary beneath the Temple of the Flow - or was it instinct? She would have to consider this new insight later, back in the safety of her Manse - or better yet, in the restricted scriptoria of the Grey University where until recently she'd served as Rector.
Whatever Garas had done to merit what Ecthelion had unleashed in vengeance would be made clear in due course. Right now she had a promise to keep. Two in fact. One to Glory, and another given long ago to Glory's mother. Resting her slender hand gently on the shoulder of the young princess, Brigdha turned her from the horror below and infused a portion of her own phlegmatism into the girl's horrified thoughts.
"I told you we shall be unmolested, but you must trust me" there was a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she shared the details of a plan long-prepared.
Leopald scrambled up the chimney flue with practiced speed, barely encumbered by his heavy knapsack with its precious cargo of journals and heirlooms. As he approached the top floor fireplace his hands searched the wall for a steel lever, and with cunning born of repeated necessity, they triggered the entrance to his escape route.
During the long centuries Oligarch's palace complex had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, sometimes to suit changing tastes amongst its Orcish and later Elven and Human rulers, other times of necessity following one of the many sieges the city had been subject to, in the process accruing a labyrinthine network of passageways. These architectural phantoms were largely forgotten but during Fontan's occupation Minister of Defence Rhidhana had made the control of the city the lynchpin of her plans, and as any wise commander does had appointed army surveyors to map its defences with the exacting thoroughness the Dubhaines were known for.
Whilst the resulting maps were now dated, much having changed following the fall of Armstrong Ironsides, they were still a reasonable guide to this hidden world as Leopald's previous visit to Oligarch before the current war had confirmed. The route he now followed would lead him to a water cistern deep in the underpalace and from there via a deep-delving culvert to a small copse of woods beyond the city walls. Once there he would make good his escape and rendezvous in three days in Karbala, the unglamorous work of the rat-runner being central to Brigdha's greater purpose.
Etain Dubhaine
Etain's task was to reach Garas and inform him that his daughter was safe - or at least as safe as she could be in a city subject to the random violence playing out all around them. Under normal circumstances meeting with the Prime Minister would be a simple matter of presenting her bona fides to a court official and joining the long queue of petitioners awaiting their turn in the daily court proceedings.
The rape and pillaging of a great city were not normal circumstances. Not even for much-conquered Oligarch.
Garas would be in the field with his Royal Guards, leading the city's garrison in its tenacious last-ditch battles. She'd read highly romanticised accounts of such endeavours, several in the stirring ballads her grandmother's liegemen used to sing on dark winter nights with mead in their cups, the wolves crying in the deep snows and the thoughts of the old veterans turned to the fall of their much-lamented homeland.
Some had never forgiven Brigdha for deserting Fontan and bringing Negev into the Republic, but she tolerated their gruff belligerence for the sake of her niece and her dear friend Basilius. Usually when realms fell their leaders fled like rats, looking for safety wherever they could find it, and to the grizzled greybeards it was a mark of honour that compassing Fontan's fall had taken the death of two great heroes.
Etain wasn't so sure. In her experience heroes died unremarked every day, the courage of their humble births denying them even a footnote in the august histories. But still, there was no denying that her first cousin (once removed) and Chancellor Basilius had both shown a rare willingness to face death sorely lacking amongst the wider nobility.
Would Garas be willing to risk so much? That was unclear even to those with deeper sight than hers. However one thing was certain - that he wouldn't let the city and his determined independence slip from his grasp without the bloodiest fight, no matter the forces facing him. So far his people were of like temper and if he could rally them again who knew which way the Balance would tilt?
Idly she wondered if the people of Karbala would stand as firmly behind the Shadow King if he were ever brought to this test, warily padding through the palace complex with her blades drawn, keeping to the servants' passages, her destination the old armoury by the northern wall.
- * *
Few amongst the nobility evinced an interest in sorcery. Outside the borders of Shadowdale it wasn't considered a fit topic for dinner conversation, and even there the Shadow King relied more on the reputation inherited from the realms founder than on the actuality. However in recent weeks many sorceries had been unleashed on Oligarch. Some of these were obvious, direct attacks on Garas and his ministers, others much more covert.
There would be no accounting for the unholy rites performed in hidden fanes, the fell powers bargained with and sated according to their unearthly desires, all to bring Garas to nought. Fell powers who now hovered over the city, slavering for their choice sweetmeats.
Etain was crossing the sombre charnel house of one of the palace's many reception chambers, the scene of a bloody slaughter as fleeing servants found themselves caught between Ecthelion's killers and a handful of half-petrified courtiers compelled by pride to hold their ground. None of them had slowed the Elven reavers, rune-wrought steel cutting through flesh, bone and ceremonial armour with equal indignity.
The turmoil in the High Firmament was a conflagration of such proportions that even a novice such as herself couldn't help but sense the pervasive actinic tang, the hairs on her neck catching stiffly in the rough silk padding of her jerkin. Etain tugged at the collar and wrapped her scarf around her lower face and neck, partly to ease the itch and partly to block out the sweet cloying stench of death.
As she did so she felt, as much as heard, a deep base thrumming, it's speed increasing as she moved further into the room. Months hunting in the haunted vaults and sepulchres of Krimml and Karbala had tuned her instincts to the danger which now surrounded her and she burst into a sprint as she made to cross the chamber as swiftly as possible, but alas to no avail.
The gruesome hulks of courtiers and servants, men and women, young and old, snapped to their feet like marionettes on tautened strings. Though for the most part unarmed there were a good two dozen of them or more and the eyes of each burned with the same cruel intelligence as broken limbs cracked into place and bloodless hearts beat a deathly uniform tattoo, each cadaver but one appendage of a superlatively subtle hand bent to her destruction.
It beggared belief that such dread and unquenchable malevolences could exist, and yet to the unremarked night rangers such as Etain - men and women held in contempt despite their tireless battle to hold such chthonic madness at bay - such encounters were a.. routine? yes, a routine occurrence. A routine occurrence in the crypts, the sewers, the unholy fanes of backwoods cults and ancient barrows... but not fresh and vital, dead flesh rising from the wreckage of a battle still being fought.
Bloodied hands scratched at her, pleading faces mocking the fear building within her breast as the press threatened to overwhelm her. Drawing on every fount of discipline and courage she stilled her rushing pulse and stared deep into the eyes of the corpse pressing closest to her, a girl of no more than eight or nine years, her hair a dirty thicket of honey-blonde tangles, caked with blood from the head-wound that had stolen her life. Despite her slight frame she had the strength of several men and Etain struggled to bring her knife to bear as the girl crushed her arms in a powerful embrace.
Had it not been for the unexpected arrival of guardsmen in the livery of Chief Justice Maximus, Etain would have joined that dreadful danse macabre, instead a furious melee ensued as swords and feet and hooked knife slashed and stabbed and stomped, repeating the butcher's work of Ecthelion's killers with adrenal-fueled desperation - tragedy turned to mocking farce.
Standing half-exhausted amidst the bloody ruins Etain cleaned her blades and held them hilt-first to the sole surviving guardsmn, letting the scarf fall from her features, "I'm Etain, bodyguard of Lady Brigdha Dubaine, and I'm your prisoner."
