by Robert Ryan
The hall guards stood. They came to him, one man at their front.
“Are you bidden to this hall, master Horta?”
Horta looked up into his eyes, cold and blue. There was no friendliness there, but despite the drawn sword the man carried, and the swords of his men behind him, there was fear.
“I am bidden.”
A moment the doorward gazed at him, weighing him up and assessing him. He wished to refuse entry, but that would cause his own death. Either by his lord or Horta himself, and he knew it.
“I shall tell the king of your coming, and he will bid you enter. No doubt.”
The man turned and entered the hall. His men remained at guard, a wall of cold steel and colder eyes.
Horta waited patiently. Their enmity meant nothing, and he told himself that the wise man rose above insult and animosity. He thought of his great task, so long in the making, so close now to fruition. Patience here was but a small thing.
The doorward returned. “The king bids you welcome. You may enter, and one of your … assistants also.”
This was not unexpected. It was a slight, one of many, but Unferth knew no better. None in this backward land understood the customs of his people and that a magician kept his Arnhaten about him. It was not kings alone who needed protective guards. Quickly, he gestured to a man in his retinue and that disciple stepped forward. Together, they followed the doorward toward the hall entrance.
The hall was large, larger by far than any other buildings in the district. The broad gables were decorated, and the long sloping roof steep to shed snow. The doorward opened the great doors, huge constructions of oak slabs bound by black iron.
They entered the dim hall. Light came from wooden louvers high in the timber-paneled ceiling, and from a fire that burned in a long pit in the middle of the floor. The scent of smoke lay heavy in the air, and the aroma of food and mead from the previous night lingered.
The doorward led the way. Down the long aisle they passed, massive timber pillars carved with the strange legends of the Duthenor upheld the high roof. The fire warmed the room, casting flickering shadows into the recesses where mead benches were set and beyond them private rooms.
On the walls woven cloths hung, bright in the shadows, and the footsteps of the three men on the timbered floor echoed loudly. Here and there men sat, warriors all, their eyes grim in the shadows, their long-bladed swords by their sides and their war-scarred hands close to the hilts.
Horta gave them no heed, but he felt their eyes on his back as he passed. After some while they approached the high seat where Unferth, King of the Duthenor, sat. A king he styled himself, but rather was he a chieftain of a barbarous and wild people, quick to anger and quick to laugh, dressed in trousers and tunics and wearing boots. They had clothes, and habits, and a temperament that Horta did not like nor understand. But he knew well enough, despite all the strangeness, what motivated Unferth. Greed and fear. Like all men, whatever their origin and customs, he was easy to manipulate.
“Hail, Unferth, king of the Duthenor,” the doorward proclaimed. “I bring Horta, guest of the realm, into your presence.”
Horta gave a bow, but his eyes never left Unferth, sitting high and proud upon his carved seat of black walnut. The doorward left, his footsteps hastening back to the entrance. He had no wish to stay.
“Welcome, Horta,” the king greeted him. “Do you bring news?”
“Indeed sire.” He looked about at several others seated near the king. These were his close advisors, men from his own neighboring tribe rather than the Duthenor. The king trusted them, but Horta did not.
Unferth noticed his concern. “You may speak freely in front of these men. Hold nothing back.”
“Very well. You asked me yesterday to consult the Kar-karmun.” His gaze flickered to the king’s advisors, many of whom would not be familiar with the term. “The Runes of Life and Death,” he added for their benefit.
“And have you done so?”
Horta detected eagerness in Unferth’s voice, though the king tried to hide it.
“I have. The divination was difficult, and the results not easy to interpret. Yet this much is clear. Brand returns to these lands, as our information already suggested. He is a dangerous man, and he brings change with him. Not only change, but the runes revealed the mark of death also.”
Unferth leaned forward. He was close to fifty, yet still a man in his prime and the sword belted at his side and the chainmail he wore were not for decoration. But always there was the shadow of fear in his eyes, and it fanned to life now.
“Whose death?” the king asked.
Horta did not hold back. The truth would serve him best here. “It could be yours, sire. Or mine. Or Brand’s. That he comes is certain, and that also with him he brings great danger. But the consequences of his coming? Fate yet hangs in the balance. But forewarned of danger, we can turn it aside.”
Unferth sat back in the high seat. The black walnut was one with the dim shadows of the hall, but the swirling, intricate designs upon it of gold inlay gleamed brightly.
“He cannot come unobserved,” the king stated.
“Sire,” said one of his counselors. “The crossing of the river is guarded night and day, as you have ordered. He cannot return, nor has yet attempted to do so.”
The king nodded slowly, but Horta sensed his doubt and attempted to spark it to life. “Perhaps. But our enemy is a canny man. At the very least, he will not come openly.”
“There are men at the crossing who know him by sight,” the king countered. “One is on duty at all times.”
Horta nodded. “So I have heard, sire. And your precautions have been wise. Yet the last time these men saw him he was a youth. Will they recognize him now?”
“They had better,” Unferth said. “No man changes that much.”
Horta capitalized on the slight doubt in those words. “They should, but they may not. Nor is the crossing you speak of the only way to enter the realm.”
“The Great River lies between Brand and us,” another of the counselors said. “It’s called great for a reason. It’s wide and deep and cold. The currents are strong also, and only a fool would seek to swim it, with or without a horse.”
“That is true,” Horta replied. “Yet swimming is not the only way. As I have heard the tale, he escaped this realm long ago by crossing the river when it was frozen.”
Unferth shook his head. “That was in winter, and far to the north. Besides, against that possibility, or the chance of boat, I have set men to patrol the river border all the way north into the mountains from which it issues. He will not come that way, and if he does he will be marked and killed.”
Horta gave a slight bow. “Even so, I suggest you send more men to guard against his coming. Even, though this would be inconvenient, I advise closing the river crossing to trade temporarily.”
The king pursed his lips and thought on that. But Horta knew before Unferth answered what decision he would make. Too much tax was raised from incoming merchants, and the king loved gold. He needed it to maintain the loyalty of his men.
“I think that unnecessary,” the king announced at length, and his counselors vigorously nodded their agreement. “Brand is a dangerous man, and I accept that he will try to enter the realm. And also that he has proven difficult to kill in the past. But is he a god to defy all the measures I have set in place against him? No, he is not. When he comes, one way or another, his threat will be eliminated. Permanently.”
Horta disguised his chagrin. It would serve no purpose to press the matter futilely. “As you wish, sire. I am but a humble servant.”
The king smiled. “You speak humbly enough, yet there is enormous pride in you, Horta. I like that. And you have served me well. I have learned that your runes are worth listening to, and your counsels also, but you are wrong to fear Brand.” He paused. “Nevertheless, I will send an extra ten men to the river crossing. He shall not pass, and live.”
Horta bowed aga
in. “I live to serve, sire.”
“I do not think so. You are a secretive man, as well as prideful. Your goal, whatever it is, remains your guiding force in life. I do not hold that against you, but see that it does not cross my purposes.”
“Of course, sire.”
“You may go now.” The king gestured to one of his men who handed Horta a pouch. It rattled with the dull clink of gold coins.
“Thank you, sire.” Horta took the pouch and turned to walk back through the long hall, his assistant one step behind him.
He had not gone far when the king’s voice halted him. “It seems to me that you wish Brand dead as much as I do, magician. Why should that be?”
Horta went perfectly still for a heartbeat, the blood in his veins turning chill as the air of this land he hated. And then he slowly turned, his face a mask. He must reveal nothing.
“I serve you sire, as I have these last several years. I think only of your interests, and Brand’s death best fulfils that purpose.”
Unferth laughed, and then stroked his uncouth beard, black and silver. Horta was disgusted. Why did so many of these northern barbarians not shave? But the king, for all his vulgar ways, was not stupid. He fixed him with his pale eyes.
“I do not think so. And yet you have served me well. Best that you do not falter now.”
It was a threat. Veiled, but still a threat, and Horta felt anger rise within him.
“I shall not falter, sire. I serve, and I give myself to that service, in life and in death.”
The king waved him on, and Horta turned and kept walking. He allowed himself the hint of a smile. He had not said what he served.
As he walked, the smile faded. Still the men in this hall gazed at him with their pale eyes, full of enmity. They mistrusted him. And that thought nearly made him smile again. Unferth saw much, too much perhaps. But at the same time he did not see enough. The men in this hall, as with many of the men who held power throughout the realm, were not Duthenor tribesmen. They were from a neighboring tribe, Unferth’s tribe. They were his hold of power on this land, subduing the Duthenor. But the Duthenor were like dry grass waiting to be fired. They could rise at any time. And the king’s own men … they did not like him. Under the right circumstances they could turn on him too. Unferth saw the first danger, but was oblivious to the second. The wolf dreamed only of the fatted sheep, not the tearing fangs of other wolves.
He went on, the scuff of his sandaled feet loud in the dim hall. The bag of gold he placed within one of the pouches that hung from his cloth belt. Gold? It was an insult. Did Unferth think he was a dog whose loyalty could be purchased with throwaway scraps? Time was when he dined off gold platters and drank from gem-encrusted goblets. Servants tended his every need and dark-haired women with bright smiles massaged oil into his skin and eased away the day’s care. He had wanted for nothing, and those days would come again. He must just bide his time a little longer.
He and his assistant exited the hall, and the Arnhaten waiting gathered to him, following him down the stairs. They all sensed his mood, but the assistant he had taken with him knew the cause and spoke when they were out of earshot of Unferth’s guards.
“What now, master?”
Horta came to a stop and took a deep breath before he spoke. “Now, we ensure the death of Brand. He is a threat. The king cannot see past his hatred, cannot see his enemy as anything but an exiled man. The precautions he has put in place should work. But they may not. Brand is greater, more dangerous and touched by a higher purpose than the king dares admit to himself. Therefore, I will take my own steps.”
“Magic?” his disciple whispered.
“Indeed. Magic of the darkest kind. Brand will not survive it.”
2. That Sort of Man
Brand endured the lash of the whip in silence. Seven times it streaked across the skin of his back. Seven times he gritted his teeth and rode a wave of pain that tore his flesh, churned his stomach and set fire to the marrow in his bones. And seven times he swore vengeance. Silently.
The head guard of the merchant caravan enjoyed whipping the junior guards. Brand was not junior to him in any way, shape or form. Yet just now, in this time and place, he was. Fate had willed it so, and Brand knew he must endure. But not for much longer.
He felt hands upon him then, deft hands undoing the rope that tied his arms around a tree. Brand had allowed himself to be bound, had accepted this punishment for a misdemeanor. It was necessary to his purposes. But he would not forget. Not ever. And the man who whipped him, who decided his punishment and enjoyed meting it out so much, he was marked for death.
The tight-bound rope fell from his arms and Brand staggered away from the tree. His legs were weak, and light-headedness threatened to see him fall to the ground. He fought it off, and those same hands that unbound him now gripped his shoulder. They held him steady and helped keep him upright. There was kindness in those hands, and he would not forget that either.
The world seemed to swim before his vision for some moments, and then he realized that the hands belonged to several men. He saw their faces now, concern in their expression and the glint of anger also. Not at him, but at the head guard. Yet they were careful that only he saw it, and not the head guard himself.
The pain began to recede, and Brand felt the sting of splashed vinegar flare it to life once more. Yet there was honey in the mixture, and this took some of the edge off the sharpness. This too he endured, for it was the standard preventative of infection, and he could not afford to succumb to sickness. Too much needed doing, and too many people depended upon him.
A moment later the guards began to ease his tunic back on, and he raised his arms to help them. The movement sent new spasms of pain through his body. He gritted his teeth once more, desperate for the agony to cease. It would pass, as all things passed, and he strove for a sense of serenity amid the turmoil that wracked his mind and body.
He did not quite attain the mental state that he sought. But he needed no help to stand, and he kept his hand away from the hilt of the sword belted at his side. Now was not the time, and if he could not rise above the urge to kill, he would never fulfil the purpose that he was needed for. Yet still, a cold gleam of hatred burned in his eyes as he slowly turned and faced the head guard.
The man stood a dozen paces back. The whip was still in his hand, the cord trailing along the ground before him, a satisfied smile on his face. Yet that smile faded as Brand stared at him.
Laigern stared back. The smile was gone, and his massive frame seemed taut and ready to explode into action. His muscles rippled and flexed as he began to fidget with the whip. He sensed the threat in Brand, the unspoken menace sparking through the air between them.
“Do you want more, boy? Turn around and get back to your duties.”
Brand held his ground. “I did not know that looking you in the eye was also a misdemeanor.”
“It is when you look at me like that.”
The two men glared at each other, and tension filled the air.
“Enough!” called another man. This was the merchant. “You take offence too easily, Laigern. You just whipped the man. Have done with it.”
The head guard turned to where the merchant sat in the driver’s seat of one of the wagons, seemingly impatient to get underway again.
“You need guards,” Laigern said. “Any time you feel like interfering with my men, and how I discipline them, just let me know. There are other caravans and other merchants.”
The merchant shook his head. He was an old man, thin and scrawny, his hair and beard silvery white. But his eyes were shrewd and bright.
“You’re the best, Laigern. I know that. Your caravans never get attacked by outlaws, but trouble will find you one day, mark my words.”
Laigern grinned at him. “I eat trouble for breakfast, old man.” His gaze flickered back to Brand. “Don’t get any ideas, boy. If you think to try something against me, you’ll get a sword in your belly. Do we understand each oth
er?”
“Perfectly,” Brand answered. He understood also that the reason Laigern’s caravans were never attacked was because he bribed the outlaws and fed them information about other merchants, their whereabouts, schedules and the goods they carried. He was a robber as much as the outlaws.
Laigern turned away, coiling the whip and stowing it back in the saddlebag of his horse that was tethered nearby. Brand only took his eyes off the man when he heard footsteps approach him from the side.
Tinwellen walked up to him, all curves and dark hair and deep-brown eyes that swallowed a man whole. How the merchant had fathered a daughter like her, Brand did not know.
“You’re a fool, city boy,” she said while she shook her head. But the words were not meant unkindly. “There are no town guards here, no king’s rule. If he were to kill you, there would be no one to stop him. Best let him be and forget about it.”
Brand knew her words came out of concern for him. It was all she would say openly, but he had felt her eyes on him for days now. Her father had seen it also, but said nothing.
“Would you forget about it?” he asked quietly.
For a moment her eyes flashed, and he glimpsed her fiery side. “I would if someone as smart as me gave me the same good advice. At least until I was in a position to do something else.”
“Ah, well, now that is good advice. I shall bide my time.”
Brand guessed well enough that any man who raised a hand against her would wish he had not. Especially when one of her many daggers slipped across his throat. She would not be one to delay retribution a moment longer than necessary.
He decided to shift the conversation. “Why does your father put up with him?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s scared that Laigern would rob him if he were dismissed. He’s a bad man. You’re not the first one that he’s whipped, nor will you be the last.”
“Don’t bet on that.”