Fall of Rodorhiep (part III)
their king will wear the red flesh and a great shadow shall fall over the earth
Good day, dear reader! You might be expecting the finale for Blackwater this week. In order for the final episode to be in its best form, I needed a little more time to get it in order. Stay tuned for the final battle.
For now, please enjoy Shades of Night.
Kindly,
M.E. (the Chronicler)
The Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
The Fall of Rodorhíep III
What followed was a bloody, vicious battle.
An underground river exploded to the surface. It washed away the scent of death. Man and witch alike slipped on the icey stone. Blood ran pink. Witches, no longer rejected by holy ground, transferred their bodies between Rodorians. They slashed with graceless abandon; they gouged and mauled with iron talons.
Yet the Rodorians fought gallantly, hewing at the evil ones with all their strength. Dion fell to the axe of a raider and his wife to a witch’s blade. One by one, the men and women of Rodorhíep were cut down.
Adrienne stumbled. Her bow clattered to the ground. The world swam before her eyes and blood thundered in her ears. She glanced at her shaking right hand. A single thin scar ran along the back of her hand. She swallowed thickly.
Poison.
Adrienne looked for her Leander. He leaned heavily on his sword surrounded by bodies. Each breath he drew was ragged. A deep gash in his side spilt his life’s blood.
So, this was indeed the end.
Adrienne’s eyes were glassy with tears. “There’s more,” she called over the din.
Leander looked at the falling dark and shook his head. In the night, their power grew. “Adrienne,” he said, voice trembling, “I must use the sword’s light.”
The wind blew, carrying a flurry of snow. The fighting, the screams of those in death throes; it all quieted. Adrienne drew a breath, letting the frigid air cool her rising fever.
Despite it all, her daughter lived still. “Do what you must,” she said.
Abruptly, a set of three witches materialised. They turned their heads toward Adrienne. One curled her lip and pointed. “Her first, then the man who guards the door.”
Adrienne reached back only to grasp at the air. Her quiver was empty. Instead, she took up the curved knives in her belt.
One witch stepped forward and released a high-pitched laugh. “You are truly a woman of Rodorhíep,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Stupid until the last breath.” She offered a hand. “You know my lady, it is not too late. Cut your hair and join us. Our coven welcomes all. The Evil One needs only a single token in exchange.”
Adrienne said nothing.
The witch sniffed the air. There was a pause as her black eyes widened, becoming impossibly darker. “Oh,” she breathed. “A daughter fair, a small babe.”
Adrienne felt her blood run cold.
Sighing, the witch cocked her head. Her grey tongue, tattooed flicked out and caught a stray snowflake. “Give her to us. Give it. You can have many children, Lady. We only ask for one.”
Adrienne rooted herself to the spot. Her eyes narrowed, flicking between the three dark women before her. The poison began to numb her fingertips. Thought Adrienne: I will feel no pain.
Looking the first witch in the eye, lady Adrienne spoke, her voice hoarse but firm. “You will see hell today.”
The smile ebbed from the witch’s features, replaced by a snarl. Her hand curled into a fist. “So be it.”
All three witches rushed forward, met in the middle by the last noblewoman of Rodorhíep. She slashed and stabbed at the women in short, quick strokes. Once, twice, three times down the chest.
The left witch fell, then the right.
Only the one in the middle remained, her talons striking out at Adrienne and catching air.
Behind the fight, Lord Leander whispered prayers and incantations, his words escaping from his lips as vapour. The ground around him began to shift as he spoke. Particles of rubble and snow lifted into the air and hovered before beginning to slowly move clockwise around the man and pushing outward.
Adrienne slipped on the winter-slick ground just as the witch jabbed forward with her talon. They fell to the snow, striking and missing until Adrienne managed to gain the upper hand. Adrienne pressed her knee into the witch’s chest.
“You bitch,” growled the witch. She attempted to push up against Adrienne but found she could not, for Adrienne’s strength was emboldened by the fury of motherhood.
“You will die, Adrienne of Cidaen!” the witch said, sing-songing through bloodied teeth. “You will die and we shall drink of the blood of your firstborn!” She laughed hysterically.
“Send your sisters my regards,” spat Adrienne. With that, she sank the blade deep into the woman’s throat.
As the witch gurgled, several things happened at once. Above, clouds formed. The words that Leander spoke hastened and a silver light began to emit from deep within the sword. Leander was unaware, lost in a trance. His face was turned toward the sky where the two moons hung and the crown of the sun just remained. Thunder began to roll. Leander planted the tip firmly into the ground, grinding it down and chanting louder and faster.
Simultaneously, a shadow fell over the embattled witch and Adrienne. Adrienne turned her attention from Leander to the newcomer. A new witch stood above them. Her hair was grey and yet her face was devoid of lines. Wide eyes sat too far apart. Pinning her cloak together was a bone-white serpent consuming its tail. The symbol was a mark of a high priestess of the coven, known as a Pythoness.
“Erichtho!” gurgled the dying witch beneath Adrienne.
Erichtho stretched out a black-gloved hand, holding her palm over the ground. “I will scatter your people to the wind, Rodorian. I bring flesh from the Fringe, blood of Cidaen, and it shall awaken the one who sleeps.”
Adrienne’s thoughts turned to the tunnels deep beneath Cidaen, carefully guarded.
“He has wandered, Lady Adrienne,” whispered Erichtho. “He has wended but now he comes home. We now bring the Fringe to you.”
A chill ran up the Lady’s spine.
Heavy mist descended. Adrienne lost sight of everyone save the witch before her.
Taking a breath Erichtho closed her hand. “Awaken, creatures of the dark. Open the tunnels, creatures of every shade of night rise…” The rest was unintelligible, her words repeating and looping and then meshing together before the witch’s words flipped. An awful rumbling shook the earth and filled the air with a roar. It was as if the very mountain itself was awakening.
Everywhere, people began to retreat: Byzmor’s men, the devil-women, and Rodorians alike. They ran for the cover of the trees and beneath the mountain’s rocky outcropping.
Adrienne withdrew, crawling backwards from the witches.
“Our king,” Erichtho whispered, eyes closed, “he shall wear the red flesh.”
There came a rumbling from beneath the ground and a smell so powerful that it even overwhelmed the scent of the witches.
Sulphur.
Erichtho’s eyes slipped open and she revealed a twisted smile. “And his shadow shall fall unto the earth.”
Then a sound—no, not a sound, a vibration—simultaneously loud and low so that Adrienne could feel it in her teeth, her bones, her chest. It was something akin to the creaking of a great ship; a moaning followed by a boom. It then tapered off a strange sound, like the purr of a great beast.
It went silent.
Nothing moved, not even a breeze stirred the trees.
Adrienne felt terror seize her. Her heart pounded; her breath shook. She pressed a hand to her mouth. It couldn’t be… this noise was spoken of by sailors who’d ventured too far West; by Rodorian hunters who travelled too deep into the Fringe.
Adrienne pressed her face to the earth and a hand to her mouth. If only, if only King Cassius had not severed ties with the Holtians. For there was no Rodorian, no matter his skill, that could take down a monster of this size.
Adrienne’s gnawed her lip as she looked to the skies. A shadow could be seen hovering closer before disappearing. Through the mist and snow came a beating of wings.
“Oh, Elder,” tearfully whispered a nearby Rodorian woman.
Adrienne clasped her hands and began to pray in silence. St. Isern the Ironblade, I beg thee to intercede on my behalf.
Even the witches—those that Adrienne could see—shrank closer to the ground. Some crouched. Erichtho retreated into the treeline, steps as quiet as a cat’s.
One wild-eyed witch remained as she was, grinning as she stared into the fog. “He comes!” she cheered. Her voice echoed against the mountains, shrill with insanity. “He co—.”
In an instant, she was ripped from the earth. The witch was taken up into the air by something too swift to discern. She did not even have a moment to scream.
Everyone held their breath.
Adrienne counted the seconds as they passed.
One,
two,
three—
The dragon exploded out of the fog with a roar. It exhaled and tongues of blue flames erupted over the battlefield. The dragon spat its bitter breath without discernment. Witch and Rodorian alike caught fire. The trees burned, the snow melted, and steam and smoke filled the air. Blue sulphuric flames licked the ground.
From her place on the ground, Adrienne stared as her people were slaughtered like rabbits. There was an intelligence in how the beast hunted: it picked up men like rag dolls, only to dash them on the mountainside; it snapped them in half with powerful jaws.
Adrienne wanted to scream at the carnage. For a wild moment, she hoped the poison running through her veins would do its work faster. If only death would take her peacefully, rather than the horrible violence before her eyes.
Once more, Lady Adrienne prayed, this time aloud. “St. Isern, I beg thee, intercede on our behalf. Oh, Elder One, let thy light shine as a beacon and guide our souls home. Let us not be scattered, though let the will of the Elder be done.”
Just then, Leander brandished his sword, a flash of light filling the sky. What followed was the crack of thunder. The dragon released a horrible hiss and wheeled back. It took to the sky once more with a single beat of leathery wings.
In her terror, Adrienne could not move nor rise from her place on the ground. All thoughts were replaced by a child’s poem:
With every strike, the saint fought on;
a battle fought until the dawn.
Clash of steel, a thunderous sound,
echoed across the battleground
The dragon lost interest in Leander and the stragglers on the peak. Instead, it turned its beastly body Southward. Adrienne traced its path to the city. There was nothing she or anyone could do about it. Cidaen would burn.
“The dark is upon us!” cried a witch. “Rodorhíep is ours!”
Suddenly, Adrienne felt a strong hand grasp her by the arm. “Adrienne!” shouted Leander. “The Cathedral. I must seal it.”
Adrienne gritted her teeth and stumbled to her feet, holding tight to Leander’s robes.
The ring of energy remained, now encircling them. Leander sank to his knees and Adrienne collapsed beside him. She wrapped her arms around his frame and tucked her body close to guard his throat, looking out in defiance at the coven members who remained before her.
Then Leander, his full weight leaning on the sword before him, looked at the witches. “You are cast out.”
With a great cry, he lifted the weapon before slamming it down with all his might, burying it into the earth.
There was the ringing as if from a large bell. A light filled the dark, as strong as the sun. A bright fire licked up the blade.
Adrienne spotted Erichtho in the trees. She sat upon a branch, cloak gathered against the bright light. Her lips were pressed together, brows drawn in dissatisfaction. She had the mountain, but she wanted its daughter too. The two women locked eyes. The corner of Erichtho’s mouth lifted.
Adrienne understood.
Perhaps today the Cathedral was shut. Who was to say that it would be tomorrow?
As the light enveloped Adrienne, her mind turned to her infant daughter. Irelia, my love, she thought, live and be many. Live so that our nation may one day return home.
What was left was stone.
To this day, Lady Adrienne and Lord Leander guard the cathedral, their stone figures forever sealing the doors shut.
For more stories from this anthology, click here.
Hello and thank you so much for taking the time to read my work!
When I wrote this piece, I included the dragon element, but
’s “there be dragons” post inspired me to amp up the fear factor. It was originally way toned down, but I think that dragons should always be big.I hope I stuck the landing!
In the next and final episode of the Shades of Night anthology, I will conclude the Chronicler’s stay in Springcombe.
Many thanks,
M.E.B. (the Chronicler)
Excellent use of the dragon as an eldritch force of nature. Great and terrible and powerful! This was a very cinematic episode--well done! You have successfully bought my patience to wait for blackwater 😂