Free The Long War 03 - The Red Prince by A. J. Smith Page A

hear.
    Now he was alone, walking across the dense undergrowth towards the line. He could hear no sounds of combat and hoped that the Karesian Hounds had not attacked in the time he’d been away.
    ‘Is that how humans say hello?’ came a soft reply.
    ‘Sorry. Time is short, my friend,’ said Nanon. ‘Loth seems to be taking The Edda literally.’
    Silence. He could sense deep thought from his friend.
    ‘Is the Fell lost?’ asked the Vithar.
    ‘No, we are holding them. The Daylight Sky stands with me.’
    ‘Then why the Shadow Flame?’
    It was a hard question to answer. Nanon wanted to say that Loth was a fool, but thought better of it. ‘Apparently the Fell Walkers think that our end is inevitable. Worse, in fact, they think we’ll all be turned into Dark Young.’
    ‘Loth is a fool,’ said Joror, making the Shape Taker feel better for a moment. ‘Has he begun lighting the fires?’
    ‘He said so, yes,’ replied the old Tyr.
    ‘Then you have thirty days. The Shadow Flame does not spring into life with a simple touch of fire. It takes blood and exertion to bring it back.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what it is, Nanon?’
    ‘Not really... but neither does the Tree Father. He’s more interested in his suicide.’
    As their connection strengthened, Nanon felt himself in two worlds. He was standing, alone and still, in the forests of the Fell, and he was sitting in the auditorium of the Heart, next to Vithar Joror.
    ‘What is it?’ he asked.
    The Vithar tilted his head in greeting.
    ‘The Shadow Flame is a doorway of sorts, to a hall beyond the world. It is a shadow and an echo of the ones we loved. To light it, a Dokkalfar must give enough of himself to reach beyond, to rekindle the last ember of memory that yet remains of the Shadow Giants.’
    Nanon took in the air as he listened, unsurprised by what he heard. ‘The memory is not strong, though, and it fades.’ He looked down at leaves and grass. ‘Maybe there’s a tiny piece of me that agrees with Loth.’
    ‘When the Shadow Flame can no longer be coaxed to life, our race will truly be godless,’ said Joror, sensing the melancholy that had enveloped his friend. ‘But we still live. We have lived without a god for millennia. You would be the first to tell me this, Nanon.’
    ‘And I’d be right, but it’s still a depressing idea,’ replied the Tyr.
    ‘Depression is a human trait, one of many you are exhibiting these days. Is that a longsword I see at your side?’
    ‘I prefer the weight,’ he replied. ‘So, thirty days, yes?’
    ‘Indeed. I assume you have a counter-strategy,’ prompted Joror.
    ‘I do. I’m going to help the Dark Blood kill the enchantress... then see what the Ro can do about a host of Karesian Hounds.’
    ‘I’d say good luck, but it would be rather human to do so,’ said the Vithar, showing more humour that most Dokkalfar were capable of.
    ‘We’ll talk soon.’
    Nanon closed his eyes and felt grass beneath his feet. When he opened them, he was alone in the Fell with only a slight smell of jasmine to remind him of where he had been. Any sense of relaxation or calm that he may have felt was gone now. In the near distance he could hear troubling noises: the sound of bowstrings and metal armour. The Hounds were once again pushing the line. He broke into a run and within a few minutes he could see the dead Dark Young marking the boundary.
    A cacophony of grunts and moans arose from the massed ranks of Hounds as arrow after arrow smashed into the Karesian column. They had been advancing for a few minutes. The Dokkalfar war-bows had, once again, stopped them cold.
    Above him was Tyr Dyus the Daylight Sky, his hands blurring with motion, firing arrows into the enemy. Either side, forest-dwellers sat in the branches of trees or behind dense brush, hurling leaf-blades with deadly accuracy. Each Tyr was the worth of a dozen Hounds. At least, that was the case so long as they remained in the Fell.
    ‘Tyr Nanon,’ greeted