The Fall of Rodorhiep Part II

In which Lady Adrienne arrives at the top of the mountain

Hello all!

This is a reupload of a post. I was dissatisfied with it for a lot of reasons, unpublished it and present it to you now in a shortened format (with a lot of edits).

Without further ado, please enjoy.

-M.E. Beckley

Willy Pogany c.1912

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Previously…

Bloodied waters turned clear and the foaming spray whitened. There was no sign of Eliana. Adrienne stood in shock on the riverbank. Beneath her, Fidem shifted in the snow. He was wary of the growing darkness. 

From within her cloak, she felt her child stir. Regaining her composure, Adrienne urged her horse onward. Witches pursued in eager flight, like bush-grinning wolves after a fawn.

A cloaked figure slid from the shadows, reaching toward the road, toward her, toward her child. Adrienne tried to outride the dark being, but the figure appeared again between the next cropping of trees.

Then the next and next.

Adrienne willed away dread. The warmth of her daughter against her chest was a reminder that she should not—could not succumb to fear.

Steady in the saddle, Adrienne drew the string of her bow back. She split her lip on her string in her haste, drawing blood. Her amber eyes gleamed like that of a cat’s, watching the night-watcher, tracking the witch. She exhaled and counted in time with her thrumming heart.

One,

two,

three…

The noble lady let fly.

The silver-tipped arrow soared, shining like starlight.

Thwap!

It met its mark through witch’s veil.

One after another, the dark women melted out from the shadows only to be struck down again and again by Lady Adrienne. Her arms ached. Yet where one fell, three more took its place. They were rapidly closing in from behind at her horses heels.

Adrienne saw light up ahead, a path through the trees.

A witch drew ever nearer, now a finger’s breadth away from the Fidem’s tail. With one final effort, Adrienne dug her heels into the horse. It soared with a valiant leap across a deep snowbank, emerging on the other side and landing firmly on the path to the cathedral.

Holy ground. 

Adrienne took a moment to catch her breath, looking over her shoulder at the tree line. All that remained was the murk beyond the pines. One shaking hand reached down to caress the crown of her Irelia.

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Adrienne rode her horse up toward the gathering of people. Leander, to her relief, already arrived. He stood by the doors as legions of children poured inside, hastened by their parents.

She dismounted and rushed into her husband's arms. “They are just behind,” Adrienne told him. “They’ve killed Eliana!”

He embraced her tightly, then looked down to see their daughter safely sleeping. “You should not have gone up alone,” he whispered.

“I did not realise how quickly they would come,” Adrienne answered. Absent-mindedly, she stroked the baby’s head. “We escaped but… cousin Eliana did not. Her and her daughter were taken by the river.” Adrienne began to tremble and shake. Leander laid his own hand atop his wife’s and the baby. “Go into the cathedral,” he urged Adrienne. “We have little time.” 

Lady Adrienne gave her child unto young Sophia and shut the doors to the Cathedral. Then, she returned to the growing group of warriors. 

“That fool, King Cassius, allowed Byzmor into the old keeps,” said Dion as he wrapped leather about his forearms. “My guess,” he continued, “He’s gotten into the texts on darkcraft.”

Leander nodded. “I can smell traces of it.” 

“But it took too long for us to notice,” said Adrienne. 

“Only contractual magic that could do that,” mused Dion.

Leander’s eyes momentarily slipped shut in horror before opening. “Crossroads,” Leander finished. 

“Precisely,” answered Dion. 

Adrienne replenished her quiver from the arsenal. “We’re blessed that it has its limitations,” she said. 

“We’d be further blessed if our King would do his duty,” hissed Vitus through gritted teeth. “He remains in his tower, praying that the Elder One should continue to find him in His favour.” Standing near, he had overheard their conversation. He stood ready, his sword held in a white-knuckled grip.

“Would that it were Cassius, rather than his elder brother, that perished in the battle of the Ardan,” whispered Dion. “Then perhaps we might’ve had King Cyprian the second. How different things might’ve been.”

Leander said nothing.

“Our king tries,” said Diane. “He’s gone to negotiate.”

Dion scoffed. “You really believe he would go to the base of the mountain? Of course not. He likely sent a general. The good general’s headless body will be returned before sundown. That is the way of these things. Anyone with any sense could know this.” 

“No one wanted war,” answered Diane. 

Vitus continued to glare out into the pines as he said, “Of course not! And yet we bear this responsibility! Cidaen is a gateway North! A gateway South! If we fall, the beasts in the tunnel can rise. The Fringe will spill into Æburne and then Rofric.” He turned and gestured with his chin toward a place beyond the pines.  “Don’t forget who is sleeping beneath the mountain.”

Everyone quieted, exchanging looks.

“And now we are without friends. Not even Holtians,” sighed Dion.

“The king was right to sever ties,” said Vitus with a sigh. “We would have a grave beyond the Sea of Ismere if we’d continued on with those Holtian warmongers.”

“Nay,” argued Dion. “Perhaps there is something to the Holtians philosophy: peace through war.”

“They are feeders of ravens. They persecute the Cyld,” said Vitus.

“Does this matter right now, Vitus?” snapped Dion. “Whether they harass their man-neighbours? Our own Rodorhíep is on the verge of collapse.”

The conversation faded from Adrienne’s attention. As she prepared her bow, she watched the guards at the edge of the Cathedral ground receive a note. One guard read it and surreptitiously passed it to another. Then, one by one, each began to withdraw and disappear into the woods.

At that moment, Byzmor’s soldiers emerged from the trees, both below and behind. They were silent, their black armour glinting in the late sun.

The conversation of the Rodorian’s petered into silence as they took notice.

Sweat beaded on Adrienne’s brow. Perhaps it is too late for us, she thought.

Dion whispered to Leander, “How did they surround us up here?” 

One of the soldiers, a particularly large man, hefted a war hammer. In their language, a signal was given and he swung it high above his head. The group of Rodorians closed ranks and prepared for battle. Instead, to their surprise, he gave a great shout and brought the hammer down upon the ground with all his might. A spider’s web of cracks appeared in the marble.

Leander understood immediately. “Adrienne, stop him!” he shouted

Lady Adrienne’s arrow struck the foreigner in the chest. He stumbled back, looking down at the shaft that protruded through his chest with an expression akin to confusion. A moment passed. He swayed. Then he reasserted his grip on the hammer. He smiled through bloody teeth. He let out a loud roar, almost inhuman, and once more slammed the weapon into the marble.

What followed was a loud crack.  An underground stream erupted, spilling out and over the rocks. A massive split burst forth into the stone, crawling out in many directions. The crack moved with purpose toward the cathedral until it came to the door. The great oaken entry groaned and splintered.

Diane’s eyes widened with terror. “They’ve cracked the ground!” she cried. Turning to the others, she shouted, “They’ve cracked the ground! They can get inside!”

“No,” whispered Vitus. 

An unfamiliar voice spoke from within their group. “That’s no way to welcome guests.” 

They wheeled about in time to see a cloaked woman drive a large knife into Vitus’s chest. Her smile was strange—too wide and strained—further marked by wild black eyes.

Vitus gurgled before collapsing to the ground. As he did, the witch withdrew her weapon, a spray of blood marring the snow. A second later, her head was severed from her shoulders by a blade. Leander expertly turned his weapon in his hand, the ancient blade singing as it slashed through the air.  “Brace yourselves!” he ordered. 

Heinrich Lefler