Greylander: The Fiend and the Falgrim
With fever-red eyes the fallen fiend regarded his conquerors. Falgrim. Silently they watched him, their ice-white skin seeming to glitter even in the dim half-light, until one of their number shouldered his heavy bow and walked over to where the Hynaste lay. Eyes like mother of pearl, with a perfect circle of silver for a pupil, stared unblinkingly as the Falgrim man knelt. He bowed his head while bringing his hand to his brow and looked up with what seemed to be a reassuring smile,
“Fal faram, newcomer. I am Imhran Hahmunsson, clan-prince of Oden Aeharad and husband to Kaiyrid, the Khalsdottir of Raunskallr. I am also the one who brought you down, Archfiend.” The first whisperings of a snarl began in the Hynaste’s throat, it was only the pale steel pressing against his throat that kept him pinned to the snowdrift, “You are not of the depraved Machar, yet you ride as they do.” The Falgrim dragged the fiend to his feet, one frost-laced hand clamped on the front of his Machar armour, “You bade your beast murder my clansmen, and one of them was my brother in blood. I will have your head, Ha’alman, just as my ancestors took the Dragon-Queen’s.” Imhran jerked his head at his fellow dragon-slayers, “Bring the cage, this one will stand before the Khalfingel where he can see Machariel’s head, as a taste of the fate that awaits him.”
The red-haired young man did not resist as Imhran marched him to where the other Falgrim stood around a wagon bearing a stout iron cage, manacles were clamped around his ankles and chained to the floor. The Hynaste lay limply as the door was closed with a clang, fastened with chains and secured with four huge padlocks. The wagon driver twitched the reins and the vehicle lurched into a ponderous wobble. It was drawn by caamah; flightless dragons draped in gossamer fur that matched perfectly the whiteness of the landscape, their wide, padded feet found purchase on an otherwise impossible surface while their long tails dragged through the snow. Imhran gratefully settled into a saddle perched on the broad back of one such beast, named Wise, his fatigue was well-earned though; few among the Falgrim had ever unseated an Archfiend astride one of the black-armoured Scarab Dragons.
He cast his gaze out across the cliff-top passage and up to the sky above where the aurora danced and swayed beneath the glowing rings. Two of the four moons hung illuminated as orbs of ice and dust regarding solemnly the silent procession below. The Star of Nordenholt by which he steered his course, shone pale aquamarine. On any other day her serene eye watching over him banished his anxiety. However, discovering a Hynaste astride a dragon, wearing Machar armour and the twisted leer of an Archfiend had filled him with great disquiet. He did not for one moment buy into the Ha’alman’s placid demeanour; an Archfiend did not give up so easily unless they knew they could not escape. Wise rumbled as if in agreement, but Imhran knew the caamah was just hungry, so was he and their party would have to find shelter soon or risk falling asleep while exposed to the cold. None to be found on this ridge, though, to his left was a yawning chasm filled with swirling snow and mist, and he did not need to see the jagged rocks below to know a fall meant certain death. To his right the mountain slope ascended to brush the aurora itself, curtains of snow blew from its flanks like city banners in a fierce gale. Such a gale, thankfully, did not trouble the party of Falgrim and left only a terrible silence in its wake but for the crunch of draconic footsteps.
Two hours passed and the Falgrim left the precarious ridge for a half-buried pass. An avalanche in years passed had nearly filled the gap with tons of stone and snow, but for a large blade of rock that deflected the worst of it this place would have been impossible to navigate. Over time the rock had settled and ice had formed it into a narrow tunnel that was far from silent with its creaks and groans. None remained long with the feeling that all would come crashing down at any moment and soon they emerged into a crescent-shaped valley. Forests nestled along the floor, safe in a cradle of warmth and a strip of silver water shimmered amidst the towering evergreens. But the greatest spectacle stood directly opposite them in the face of another mountain. In the face of the peak, into the very stone, a figure had been quite literally carved, a likeness so immense that its feet hid in the forests below while the upraised arms hung hundreds of metres overhead. Its pose was that of having just leapt from a precipice with arms out-flung, robes billowing and head thrown back. The figure was hooded and betrayed no clues as to gender, the carving on the face seemed to have been left deliberately indefinite in this respect. Behind it the stone had been carved into a glorious semi-circular sunburst.
Despite having seen it before, Imhran stopped Wise in her tracks that he might gaze at the statue so long ago chiselled out. For it was a truly ancient work, here before Falgrim had ever called this place home he was sure. Snow and ice had coated it; avalanches had battered at its flanks and the wind had torn at it with icy claws but it had defied them all and stood there still. And it was not alone. At the end of the valley he could see another figure, this one stood with its hands clasped at its front with hooded head bowed as if in sorrow or reflection. Carved behind it were the spiral patterns of incense smoke. In the valley beyond this another figure stood with hands crossed upon its heart framed by carven lilies, and on across the entire mountain range, dozens of titanic figures each in its own unique pose. Of such fine make were they, that many believed only machines could have wrought them. These mountains were called the Grey Gallery, their statues were called Memorials. Memorials to what, Imhran did not know and he imagined there were none who still did. Still, he found them calming to behold, their untroubled countenances helped to smooth out the ripples on his own thoughts.
“We are but a day’s ride from Djaalrhaldt, though I fear fatigue from the journey might slow our wits and give our prisoner his chance.” Imhran knew his companions eagerly anticipated the warmth of a hold and a hearth, “We will cross the valley and make camp at the feet of the Wind Girl.” No objections were forthcoming and so Imhran nudged Wise into a sleepy amble on the downward path. The trees reached up with snow-swathed branches to beckon them into an arboreal embrace.
The bitter cold of the peaks found no place here at the feet of the statue known locally as the Wind Girl. The stone feet themselves were overgrown by thick stockings of grass, moss and trees that were themselves covered in snow. Great domed tents were constructed beneath the evergreens, in a crooked ring around a great pyre. A spit turned within the flames, chunks of meat sizzled into succulence while root vegetables boiled in a stout iron cauldron, an amalgam of aromas that made mouths water of human and caamah alike. Soon enough, Hafmund, the camp cook, would take to the meat with a cleaver and mix it with the vegetables, along with his tongueroot and rosemerry sauce.
“Being in the wilds is no excuse to forgo decent fare,” he said as he spooned his concoction into wooden bowls, “I’ll not be the one to listen to all your wives complaining should you come back with naught but skin on your bones.” Hafmund unearthed a stack of crusty bread loaves and handed them around before sitting against a caamah with his own bowl. More snow began to fall.
Chewing a mouthful of bread and vegetables, Imhran hunkered down beside Hafmund,
“Is there any food to spare?” Hafmund paused in licking the sauce from his fingers and gave him a sideways grin,
“I see I have still not managed to fill that chasm you call a stomach? There...”
“For the prisoner,” Hafmund stopped grinning.
“You want me to feed an Archfiend, Imhran? He’s...”
“I know what he is, but I can hardly claim his blood for my steel if he dies of hunger, can I? You can spit in it if you must, just give him something.”
The Hynaste did not react when a bowl was slid between the bars of his cage, he merely watched Hafmund wordlessly fill it with food and a wooden spoon, and retreat. He and five other Falgrim ignored him as he fell upon the bowl like a starved dog. The seventh, a slender lad who tended the caamah that pulled the cage, kept flicking glances at him from beneath his grey-black fringe. When the captive fiend had finished, which did not take long, Imhran gestured with his spoon to the seventh Falgrim, “Khaaldin, fetch his bowl.” The older Falgrim of the camp chuckled when Khaaldin’s eyes became as wide as saucers, “and give him a fur, something to stave off the chill.” Khaaldin took a step in the direction of the cage, the Hynaste was watching him intently, “Calm yourself, Khaaldin, he will not bite...probably. In fact I don’t know, Do we know for sure that he won’t?” He asked the camp at large and the muffled laughter became louder, something not quite akin to a grin split the Hynaste’s face.
That bowl never seemed so far away as when it lay through the bars inside that cage. As though he sought a coin inside a nest of snakes, Khaaldin tentatively reached for the bowl. One booted foot curled around it and pulled it back a few inches, the Hynaste’s grin now bore an edge of extreme smugness. Khaaldin reached further, and again the bowl was moved. Grimacing, Khaaldin put his arm through the bars right up to his shoulder and made a grab for the bowl. The captive did not move it this time, and Khaaldin was so relieved he had to try twice to get the bowl through the bars, such was his haste. The Falgrim retrieved a spare bedroll from one of the sledges and made to push it between the bars, until the Hynaste leapt against the cage, slamming his hands against the bars. Khaaldin gave a strangled yelp and tripped over his own feet in his frantic bid to escape, the other Falgrim laughed uproariously as he collapsed to the snow. But Khaaldin did not care, and soon they stopped laughing when another joined in the amusement.
Fevered eyes shining with tears, the Hynaste’s mouth split wide as his laughter crackled forth. It was a harsh, maddened laugh, high-pitched and approaching hysterical. It was the laugh of a Ha’alman, the laugh of a madman. The cage rattled as he screamed with mirth, eyes wide and staring at Khaaldin with all the dreadful clarity of the insane, and the blood froze in the Falgrim’s veins. Khaaldin started at the hand laid on his shoulder, the clan-prince wore a fierce scowl, “There is no more fun to be had here, so stay your laughter, Archfiend.” There was not even a moment’s pause in that manic laughter,
“Ha! What is an Archfiend without his dragon, Falgrim? What?!” Imhran’s eyes widened at that voice, a voice that dripped with sick humour, “I am just a Hynaste! A caged dog hahahahaha! No, wait; I am more than that, much much more!” The Ha’alman staggered and swayed, his arms swinging like a half-strung puppet’s, “On your knees, wolf-men, you address the Prince of Ha’al!” There was true fear in Khaaldin’s eyes now,
“How does a Ha’alish Prince end up astride a Scarab Dragon?” But the Hynaste had dissolved back into inane laughter and Imhran dragged the younger man away,
“Do not speak to him, and listen to nothing that he says. Dragonless or not he is still an Archfiend and a Hynaste besides! Swear to me you will not speak to him!”
“I swear.” The Hynaste was watching him over Imhran’s shoulder, “I swear! Clan-prince, if he is a Hynaste, can he not firecast?”
“He is too young to my eye, Hynaste do not cast until their second decade, though his time is near. Best to stay away from him, all of you! If words must be spoken, let me be the one to speak them, one Prince to another it seems.”
“You believe him?” Imhran smirked,
“Believe the ravings of a laughing lunatic? No, but there hasn't been a Prince of Ha’al since the last one ascended to the Throne-in-Flames and became the Grinning King, and none have been foolish enough to claim as much. It does not surprise me to find the Masked Prince’s hand in recent...events.” Mention of the Machar monarch seemed to set off another rant,
“The prince! Not me, the other one! With the red hair, not mine, and the golden dragon! And the blood, sweetness and fire! It...” His face grim, Imhran threw a tarpaulin over the cage and moved to his blankets by the fire, he caught Hafmund’s shoulder and murmured, “If he kicks off again, gag him, and keep an eye on the fire.” The pyre in question crackled innocently. As he lay down, Imhran hoped that his dreams of Kaiyrid would remain free of blood, and flame.
