The Fall of Rodorhíep Part I
Shades of Night Anthology: Death comes to the people of Cidaen
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The “Shades of Night” Anthology:
Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
The Fall of Rodorhíep I
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Springcombe, Hleoholt
The fires in the lanterns flickered. Above, the stars glittered against the sky, clad in velvet. Babies began to nod, their lids heavy for want of sleep.
In the front of the crowd, sat the three children who welcomed the Chronicler the day before: Rhys, Ceri, and Aled. Rhys looked very disappointed in the last story, wrinkling his fair and freckled nose.
“Not a single tale of battle,” he grumbled.
“Would you rather hear of war?” asked the Chronicler, raising a thick grey brow.
Everyone turned to look at the boy.
Abashed by the attention, Rhys shrank into himself and picked at the hem of his trousers. “I want to hear of heroes,” he said meekly.
“Was Ælfric not a hero?” questioned the Chronicler.
“Aye,” agreed Rhys. “But this tale happened after the greatest of all his deeds.”
“Is that so? Well…” the Chronicler sat back in his seat, stroking his grizzled beard. Someone offered him a pipe. He refused with a graceful wave of his hand.
“Have I not entertained you?” asked the Chronicler.
“I’ve been entertained, sir,” Rhys protested. “I just would like some sword fighting.”
“Then, let us return to Byzmor, shall we? Perhaps we are in need of some action.” the old man’s cataract-ridden eyes twinkled merrily.
Rhys settled back into his position on the ground, satisfied with the outcome of his request.
Then little Ceri spoke up. “What about Queen Æthelwynn?” she asked.
“Æthelwynn,” repeated the Chronicler, brows knitted.
“The Ladying Wyrm,” Ceri said.
Suddenly, he laughed. “Ah! I’ve forgotten how the names change over time and distance. You speak of the Witch-Queen: Hælwyn, Ailwin, Elishannah of the forgotten East, the Flame of the Desert, Wyrm of the Southern Sands, known simultaneously as Destroyer and Liberator of the Three Kingdoms, that woman who was nobly diademed with tongues of fire by the sun. Yes, I know her.”
Ceri’s wide eyes blinked expectantly.
The Chronicler rearranged his rough brown robes, drawing them tighter about his bony frame. “Endless delight to the eyes, yet a wretched poison to men who pursued her. The tale of Queen Elishannah—for that is the name by which she is called in her own land—is a tragedy. Ah.”
Shaking his head sadly, the Chronicler said, “Such was her beauty that none had eyes enough to see what could be seen. Should a man gaze upon her lips, he wished to see her eyes and if he saw her eyes, his soul would languish for another glance of her lips! ” He shook his aged fist in frustration. “Restless was her ever-thirsting heart! Our queen was never truly at ease even with all her gifts. War, blood, and power is the liquor by which Elishannah grew drunk. It destroyed her.
There was a time, however, when all the world bowed beneath her gaze. Her silvering twin-blade was fashioned by the ancient people in whose halls the Rodorians now reside: the city of Cidaen.”
His eyes seemed clear in that moment, as bright as a newborn. The Chronicler whispered the city name with a sense of awe. As he did, a breeze stirred. It carried the biting breath of the mountains, Dragon’s Spine.
Cidaen, a snow-capped crown upon the mountain chain, was a place where storied elven bone was buried, their halls hallowed with silver. It was there where blood-swans took their rest before flying north to feast upon matters of battle.
“So sharp was her weapon,” revealed the Chronicler, “it is said it cut between the veil that separates this world from the next. In that place, a place between, she cast her enemies. That is, until she was bound to that prison herself. So they say. You see, she was sundered from form and flesh by wicked deed. Ah, Elishannah. Oh, Elishannah…”
“You speak as though you know her,” said little Ceri.
As he smiled, the Chronicler’s wrinkles—a roadmap of the life he led—merrily bunched. “And if I did?” he questioned. “I am a very, very old man, young one.”
Ceri would have none of it. “But Queen Æthelwynn is from the start of the Third Age! In the time history was lost!”
“You know your tales well.”
“Will you tell of this war-queen?” asked Aled with begrudging curiosity.
The old man steepled his weathered hands beneath his chin, lips pursed in thought.
At last, he drew breath to answer.
Everyone leaned close.
“I will not tell her tale,” he decided.
The girl (and many folk in that place) deflated, casting Rhys a bitter look.
“At least, not now,” continued the Chronicler. “As I have already declared, we shall conclude tonight with the return of Byzmor.”
As the band lifted their instruments, the Chronicler waved a hand. “Thank you good folk, but this… tale requires no music. For, you see, there was no music in the capital of Rodorhíep on that tender coloured eve. All was silent in Cidaen.”
The Fall of Rodorhíep
Following Byzmor's meeting with Eligos, death called to Rodorhíep.
On that final day, as the sun began to bow its head toward the earth, the members of Rodorhíep’s elite joined together. They sat within a towered hall that gabled wide, large enough to gather the entire royal family. The rafters bore intricate artwork, carved with prayers praising the Almighty, for they were a religious people.
An oaken table creaked under the weight of the feast, the benches were crowded. The light at the table was warm.
Despite the environment, the atmosphere was grim and conversation hushed. A laughter-smith sat silent on his stool, glumly playing with his coloured hat. Not even the wolf-hounds dared to raise their heads for scraps. The food remained as it was served.
Seated amongst the courtiers, a mother fed her baby. Not just any mother, however. By her gently noble bearing there was nothing else she could have been but a lady. She was Adrienne, wife of Leander and Lady of Cidaen. Embroidered silk, furs, brocade, and velvet wrapped her body. Her hair—never cut as was the custom of Rodorian folk—cascaded down her back like a shining black river.
Her quick and heavy lidded eyes turned their amber gaze upon King Cassius.
He sat at the head, poised with cropped grey hair. To his right sat Lord Dion, his nephew. To his left towered Lord Leander, a cousin large in limb and stature for his mother was of Hleoholt1. Standing just beside the group was General Thiodore.
“Your majesty,” General Thiodore whispered, “Byzmor and his army have taken the keeps surrounding Lake Dystomata and the Eastern mountain pass has been breached. They are coming from the Fringe and…” he paused, volume quieting further, “The men say they are bringing those creatures from beyond it.”
Everyone turned to stare.
The dreaded Fringe, a place shrouded in mist and mystery. It was kept at bay by Rodorians and those who came before. Some months ago, without clear purpose, King Cassius shifted his troops from their shared Eastern border.
Dion spoke. “Should they cross the River Haelwyn, they will be here within the week.”
“Less,” interjected Rion, brother of Dion. He sat opposite, food untouched and arms crossed. “An army of their experience could be here within three days. And I am sure they are filled with elation due to their recent successes. They are likely tripping over themselves, slobbering like dogs for Cideanian silver.”
“We’ve already lost a day as the good general rode to us,” answered Leander.
“Half,” returned General Thiodore. “I rode hard.”
“Good man,” complimented Leander.
“I’m sure we will have more time than that,” answered King Cassius. “You forget the time of year and how the rivers rush. We will leave the troops at Fort Astrid.”
Leander’s eyebrows knitted. “My King,” he argued, “if I may be so bold, withdrawing the troops south of the river, closer to us, is the best course of action.”
King Cassius chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes darting about the hall. For these past few months, he had found himself at odds with his cousin. A fit of jealousy had arisen within him as the other council members and voices of Cidaen sided with Lord Leander more every day.
Without looking at Leander, Cassius cut into his meat and said, “it has been decided that the troops should remain as they are.”
Said Lord Dion: “Three of the strongholds between Fort Astrid and Cidaen have fallen, my King. Should the troops remain, they will be cut off from our forces here and us from them.”
King Cassius cast Dion a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for your good counsel, nephew. You and your cousin are noble in word as you are in deed. I will hear no further arguments on the subject. If Byzmor’s raiders travel further we can peaceably make arrangements.” Cassius gestured toward his silent daughter.
Her food also remained untouched.
Seeing this, Lady Adrienne lowered the spoon and addressed the King. “You mean to marry Eudocia to Byzmor, my Lord?”
“It would prevent much strife, Lady Adrienne.”
The entire table erupted in cries of protest:
“That would corrupt the line!”
“My king, you are sacrificing our people’s grace!”
The king slammed his fist on the oaken table and cried, “Silence!”
They obeyed. For though there was damage to Cassius’s reputation, there remained respect for the crown and title which he bore.
“It was I who was chosen to lord over you and I am guardian of this homeland,” spat King Cassius. “So you would do well to settle into my decisions. You dare to presume the Lord’s wishes when it comes to our blood’s gift. How can you know it as I do? I was chosen by birth. Peace will be maintained.”
No one dared to speak.
Adrienne bit her tongue and once more took up the spoon to feed her daughter.
A month before, King Cassius had the priests and orders of nuns, those who might intercede or speak on their God’s behalf, withdraw to their abbeys and monasteries.
They told him things that he did not wish to hear.
At that moment, there came a shift in the air and a scent on the wind: foetid and damp; a mixture of wet earth and a dank rot. A wind suddenly filled the hall and snuffed out the fire. They were plunged into semi-darkness.
Adrienne dropped the spoon to the floor with a clatter. The infant started and looked at her mother with large brown eyes. Such a beautiful baby she was; Lady Adrienne and Lord Leander’s first daughter, Irelia.
Hastily, Adrienne hushed and comforted her startled child.
“Do you smell that?” asked Diane, wife of Dion.
The hall drew collective breath, hands dropping to their weapons.
Witches.
The natural enemy of Rodorhíep, those women, could be sensed by the people by the stench of decaying soul.
Slowly, the spear-shy King held up his hand, wordlessly forbidding movement. His face waxed pale, cheeks hollow. King Cassius knew—as did all—the hour had come.
Those present held, yet looked toward Lord Leander. He remained seated.
“The general will come with me. Lord Leander…” began the King, before trailing into silence. His eyes flicked toward his cousin. Then, he spoke once more, his voice hoarse, “Lord Leander, you have been so bold in taking initiative. Gather the women and children.”
Dion got to his feet. “My King, where will you go?”
“It is not too late to negotiate,” answered King Cassius. His ringed hands clasped tightly as if in prayer.
Dion exploded. “Uncle, they are already within scenting distance! Can’t you sense it on the wind? They have allied themselves with the pythonesses! This is no three days’ march, they are here now!”
“Hold your tongue!” raged the King.
Then, he steeled himself. Taking a breath, the king looked out the window of the hall. “If you care so much, then do as I say and hold the city. Maintain the children and women. I will send the city guards to you and will return after negotiations finish.”
Without another word, King Cassius waved to the generals and his eldest daughter to follow him, leaving the others in shocked silence.
Dion passed a hand over his eyes. “Let me be the one to say it,” he said. “That the king be cattle-kin.”
“Enough, Dion,” interrupted Leander.
A young girl of about seven, spoke up with a shaky voice. “Are we going to die?”
“No,” answered Leander. He got to his feet and rose to his full height. “No, you are most certainly not.” He clapped his hands to regain control over the hall. “We are children of battle, most highly favoured by the Elder One. Women and children, go to the town and gather at the cathedral. Right now, right now. Get to your feet. Doriel, please, get your wife. To the horses. Dion, Rion, the rest with me to the armoury.”
The effect was immediate. Courtiers were shaken from their stupor, blood returning to their faces.
As he passed her, lady Adrienne reached out and grabbed her husband’s sleeve. “They are close, Leander.”
He gently touched her face.
She whispered, “No more than two miles away.” Fear crept into her eyes. “How did they come so close without us knowing?” she asked.
Leander shook his head. “That is a concern for later, Adrienne. We must get to holy ground immediately.”
Without another word, Adrienne lifted her child. Her hands moved swiftly, using a scarf to wrap the baby to her chest before closing her outer cloak.
A loud bang shook the very earth. It was followed by a bright red light that exploded in the sky, visible from the window.
Adrienne’s eyes narrowed. “They’ve breached the outer wall,” she said. From beneath the table, she grasped her quiver and bow.
“Get to the horses!” ordered Leander.
Addressing his wife, he said, “Go up first, I must check that everyone gets out.”
“But—”
“I will be there,” he insisted. His eyes softened, “I promise.”
Adrienne sprinted for the door, forcing herself between the crowd of courtiers. She would get out, she must… for her daughter.
Leander turned to the hall’s mantlepiece and found his eyes upon a sword. Around him, the chaos of men as they armed themselves, fell silent. It was as if there was a voice calling out to him. Like a silver bell, it was high and clear.
He stepped forward.
Many names were ascribed to it, Seraphim’s Fang or Line of the Archangel; yet its origin was shrouded by mystery. It was long, double-edged; its cruciform and hilt intricately detailed. Strange markings etched the blade in a language long forgotten. It gleamed silver, almost as if it emanated a light.
Lord Leander never once dared to wield the weapon of his ancestors, he had only been its steward. None in his lifetime had touched it. It remained on the wall, there as a symbol. How long since it tasted the dew of slaughter?
At this moment, however, the battle-light called to him.
He reached out and grasped it.
Feathers-fall blanketed white the ground as Lady Adrienne fled. Higher and higher up the mountain she raced; into the pines and over frozen brook. She sat astride Fidem, a great black stallion whose allegiance belonged only to her.
The sound of thundering hooves and her own laboured breath filled her ears. Winter’s blade cut deep and bitter. Adrienne’s cheeks burned against it. Swaddled against her, the baby did not fuss.
Adrienne was high in the stirrups, over the horse with her black hair streaming behind her like a wild banner. She drove her horse as fast as the animal was able. Somehow, in the confusion and panic, she had separated from the group. Lady Adrienne found herself alone.
She could sense them stronger now. It was all around her and growing as the sky’s black cloak descended. Fidem bounded expertly between trees. Adrienne looked over her shoulder and could no longer see the Great Hall.
At once, her very soul ached for her husband.
“Hurry, my pulse,” she whispered.
Adrienne knew in her heart that Leander would make it. He promised.
She faced forward. Already she could see the beacon at the highest point of Cidaen. All Adrienne needed to do to reach it was follow the river North and navigate the final rocky slopes.
She came to a stop on the river bank. It was stone-studded, unstable beneath a normal horse’s hooves. Yet Fidem was one with the mountains, swift of foot and as constant as his native home. Carefully, the lady guided her steed onward, passing dark waters.
Just then, Adrienne caught sight of a woman heading opposite of the Cathedral. She was on foot, her black hair escaping a fur-lined cap. In her arms was a tar-lined basket. The corner of swaddling cloth peeked from beneath the lid. Without hesitation, the woman waded into the freezing river, holding the basket high above her head.
Recognising her, Adrienne neared. She called over the rush of water. “Eliana!” Adrienne shouted, “Cousin! Eliana!”
She caught up, walking alongside Eliana on the riverbank.
“Haven’t you heard, Eliana?” asked Adrienne.
Eliana paused, struggling against the current. “I can smell it,” she answered. Her tone was flat, matter-of-fact. “It is the Pythonesses of the Crow. I suppose we shall all die.”
Cousin Ellie had always been a little odd. Eliana, maternal cousin to Adrienne, was a brilliant woman. In Adrienne’s experience, those who were blessed with extreme intelligence deserved allowances for their strange ways. Eliana was highly valued at court as a talented healer and chemist. She was credited for using alchemy to adapt silvering practices for crystal clear mirrors.
“We shall not,” argued Adrienne. “Lord Leander is gathering the children on sanctified ground.”
“Then you are all fools who pretend not to know the ways of our enemy and the weakness of our king. They have allied with men. What good is your holy ground?”
Adrienne scowled.
Catching her expression, Eliana attempted a smile despite her chattering teeth. “Dearest cousin, death and witchcraft should be familiar to us all.”
Indeed, Eliana was well-acquainted with both. Her husband had suffered an illness by the way of a witch. A curse. For many hunters who became careless, such a death was common. He left Eliana a widow and his child, fatherless.
“Will you surrender, then?” questioned Adrienne.
“I will make my own way,” Eliana said.
“Is there not a greater threat to the Pythonesses if we are all gathered?”
“I will make my own way,” repeated Eliana.
Seeing she would not succeed in changing her cousin’s mind, Lady Adrienne said, “You are following opposite the river.”
“I know,” answered Eliana with a nod. She continued her fight against the frigid current.
Adrienne kept pace, all the while staring out into the trees with growing anxiety. “They are close,” she warned her cousin. “Come and we can share the saddle. Fidem here can carry us both!”
“You cannot outrun them, Adrienne,” Eliana said. “Even astride a horse as swift as your Fidem.”
Adrienne pursed her lips. “What are you doing in the water, then?”
“We know they fear water.”
“Eliana, come out. This river is not wide enough to stop a witch. Let us go to the Cathedral together. You’ll freeze—the baby will freeze.”
Her cousin shook her head, holding up the basket. “This will keep her safe.”
“And you?”
Eliana considered Adrienne with kohl-lined eyes. Adrienne met her gaze easily, taking in her cousin. Eliana’s skin was pale, lips beginning to turn blue.
“It matters only my daughter,” answered Eliana. “I just have to walk until the sunset and two full moons… then the river shall flow backwards.”
Adrienne’s hands tightened on the reigns. “Ellie, that is a wive’s tale.”
Eliana’s brow twitched. “Do you think that I would be careless with my daughter’s life, cousin Adrienne?”
“No, of course, not—”
Suddenly, the scent of death fell upon Lady Adrienne in a great wave, so strong her eyes watered and the words were torn from her mouth. Fear gripped her heart.
From out of the corner of Adrienne’s eye a shadow melted from behind the trees and seemed to lengthen in form.
It was them: those hall-watchers,
friends of death and the devil.
A cloaked figure lunged forward and reached out with a pale hand.
Adrienne dodged with expert horsemanship.
Keeping herself braced in the saddle, Lady Adrienne retrieved an arrow from her quiver and set it into the bow at her side.
She searched for a target with sharp eyes. For witches are creatures of the shadow and they could hide in the murk. Over many thousands of years, Rodorians trained their vision to search the dark.
“Show yourself!” Adrienne shouted.
Steel answered. It sang through the air, two razor-sharp knives flying toward Adrienne.
Using her bow’s handle, she deflected their path. They clanged against the bow and spun away, over Adrienne’s head. Without missing a beat, she loosed an arrow once, then twice both meeting their mark. Lady Adrienne knew more enemies would take the first witch’s place.
Lady Adrienne looked back to see Eliana standing motionless. She was waist-deep in water now. In her chest, buried to the hilt, was the dagger the witch had thrown.
“O Elder One,” whispered Eliana, eyes wide.
Blood flowed forth, turning the water’s white foam pink.
“Give me the basket!” cried Adrienne. She moved toward Eliana, only to be stopped by another volley of daggers.
Two more knives struck Eliana. Yet iron will kept her upright and her child kept her moving.
“The baby!” Adrienne called once again.
Eliana’s teeth gritted, holding fast to the basket. “Just until the two moons are full… And the sun sets on a fallen world. Fallen world. Crown he of the highlands and feeder of ravens.”
Suddenly, Eliana looked at her cousin. All colour drained from her face. “Dearest cousin, it shall be Rodorian stones that offer up their arms! Our children shall be sojourners, dearest Adrienne.”
Her words made little sense. Adrienne knew fate’s knife was pressed edge-ward to Eliana’s life. She should leave her cousin for the sake of her own daughter. Yet, she found she could not.
From deep within the forest, a high-pitched whizzing could be heard. It was followed by another flash of light.
The Lady Adrienne, distracted by the fresh assault, did not see Eliana fall but heard a thunk followed by a loud splash.
In sealed basket, Eliana’s daughter was whisked away by churning rapids.
When Adrienne looked back at the river for Eliana, there was nothing.
Part II coming soon
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Other stories in the “Shades of Night” Anthology:
Last Words of Ælfric, Brother of the King
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From the Author:
Hello, all! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. This anthology is the lead up to my debut novel, Shades of Night. It is my baby, so to speak. I pray that you look forward to its release.
If you’d like to support me, please consider sharing this story with anyone who you think would also enjoy it.
Stoney Hollow is paused, but fear not! It shall return as soon as I am able to push through writers’ block. You deserve high quality stories!
Hleoholt, a nation of men who grew to slay giants
Wow! This is well written and incredibly imaginative. Keep it coming Chronicler!
I love how lyrical and mystical your prose is in this story. I've been thinking about it all day, to be quite honest.