by Robert Ryan
“I have proven now that I am as I claim. Let Gingrel stand forth.”
There was movement inside the shadows of the hall, and a voice answered him, though he could not see clearly who spoke.
“I can hear you from here, Brand.”
“You know who I am, and this choice I give you. Surrender to my justice, or die.”
Gingrel answered him. “I have done no wrong. Let me send a swift rider to Unferth, and I will ask him to come here. I am but a lord, not the ruler of the Duthgar. These matters are above me, and I must await his instructions.”
Brand knew he would get nowhere here, not this way. Shorty also whispered in his ear. “The man is merely playing for time.”
“There shall be no riders, no messages and no delays,” Brand said loudly. “I give you until one hour after dawn tomorrow to surrender.”
There was movement again, and the hall door was slammed shut. There would be no more talk.
Night came soon after, and Brand’s men became restless. They knew as well as he that enemies could come upon them while they were in the open. It was a danger, but Brand did not think Gingrel’s supporters would be here yet. His coming and march here had been swift, too swift for the enemy to properly mobilize. But that would change tomorrow. After that, they were increasingly likely to be attacked.
“What now?” Haldring asked.
“Now we wait,” he replied.
“Have you considered attacking the hall?”
“I have, but we would lose men that way. The doors are narrow, and even if we broke them down one man could hold us off.”
Haldring hesitated, and then spoke again. “We could burn them out.”
Brand knew this suggestion would come up. It was a terrible thing to do, even to an enemy. But there was a history of it, though usually it was considered a crime in the Duthgar, no matter what prompted it.
“I’ll not burn them out.”
Haldring looked at him a long moment. “Do you have the guts to lead men into war? Not all decisions are easy.”
He could not complain, because he had told her he wanted the truth from her. And it was a valid question. She knew as much as did he that he needed a victory, and that time was running out in which to obtain it.
“I have the guts,” he said. “But I’ll not kill Duthenor as well as the enemy. And besides, the night has only just begun. It will be long for us out here, but it will be long in there also. And the oaths the Duthenor swore to their old lord will grow restless.”
She studied him a while longer, but said no more. She had suggested the burning, and it was her job to do so. But she pressed it no further for her heart was not in it either. He was glad of that.
Night fell. Fires were lit, scouts sent out and a perimeter of guards established. It was a dangerous situation. Nor could Brand rule out a sudden attack from within the hall either. It was not likely, but it must be guarded against.
The Duthenor he commanded were of good cheer. Finally, after years, action was being taken against the invaders. That good cheer would not last though. The long night would wear it down, and failure to secure a surrender tomorrow would erode it further.
Brand thought on what he would do if that occurred. He would not burn the hall, but he could attack it. The doors could be destroyed, yet both the one at front and the one at the rear were narrow. This was on purpose, and it ensured that even one man at each door could long hold off an attacking enemy. And all the while the threat increased that other hostile forces would arrive, group together, and attack.
He had another course of action. He could withdraw, and pursue one of the hostile forces that would soon gather. If he destroyed that, he would have his victory. But Gingrel would then be free, and able to attack.
Yet another option was to divide his forces. He could leave a large enough band here to hold Gingrel within the hall, and lead the rest to find and destroy what forces he could find in the district that supported Unferth. That was a dangerous tactic also, for he did not know how large those forces were and his own was not so large as to make dividing it an easy decision.
He had problems, and he knew it. But it would not help to worry over them all pointlessly. He would decide in the morning as he must, and the night would be long and could bring news or events to change his plans anyway.
They slept, but it was a restless sleep. Always there was the movement of sentries as they patrolled or changed shifts. At some point, the sky clouded and rain threatened. But it held off and remained dry. After a few hours, the clouds dissipated.
Brand woke, slumbered again and woke once more. All was hushed, and yet he sensed that something was happening. Had he heard a noise? He looked to the sentries, but from what he could see of their dim forms nothing had disturbed them.
It was some while yet until the dawn, but not that long. The eastern sky seemed a little paler, perhaps. And then there was a sudden noise from within the hall. Brand heard banging and raised voices.
Swiftly he rose and drew his sword. He had slept in his boots, as had the others. They were up quickly also, and Brand woke other warriors nearby.
There was more noise from within the hall, loud now and urgent, and the clash of steel on steel was a part of it. Suddenly, the door flew open and men struggled within it. One fell, dead. Out staggered a Duthenor warrior, but there were others behind him. They held the door open against a force from within that sought to kill them.
“Attack!” Brand cried, and he led the way. The Duthenor inside had done what he hoped, but he knew also that they were outnumbered and would be killed swiftly unless help arrived.
Brand was the first in. There was light inside, and it showed turmoil within the hall. There was desperate fighting, mostly near the doors. There were several bodies on the floor, and the air was full of battle-cries and the clamor of sword against sword.
With a flick of his wrist Brand deflected a stabbing blow at his head and slew the man who had tried to kill him. He pressed forward into the fray, his sword flashing and his helm glittering. Men fell back before him and space opened to allow more Duthenor into the hall.
Somehow Sighern had found his way in, and his sword cut and slashed close to Brand’s. He should have stayed without, and Brand knew he would not forgive himself if he were killed. But he could do nothing about it now.
A huge man with a red beard came at him, and Brand leaped forward killing him with a swift jab the other had never even seen coming. The clash of steel was deafening, and he saw Shorty and Taingern close by. Haldring was with them, her blonde hair spilling out behind her helm and her sword darting like a serpent’s tongue, dealing out death wherever she strode.
The hall was become a charnel house, full of spilled entrails and the smell of blood and urine and smoke. More Duthenor entered the hall and pressed forward.
“Halt!” Brand cried. “Halt!”
He stood among them, Duthenor and Callenor alike. He was taller, and marked by a kingly sword and helm, but there was an authority in his voice that allies and enemies both heard.
“Halt!” he called yet again, and opponents who had been fighting stilled, eyeing each other warily. A hush descended with the stillness. Brand knew that at any moment turmoil could break forth again. It hovered in the air and a man just blinking at the wrong time could unleash it once more.
“There is no need for more death!” Brand called. “Stand back a pace. Everyone. Do it!”
Warriors all over the room shuffled. Some moved back more than others.
“There has been enough killing,” Brand said more quietly. “Let it end now. Duthenor and Callenor alike are but following their leaders. Let Gingrel stand forth!”
A tall man approached from the back of the hall. He was thin, and dressed in princely clothes. His hair was red, grown long and tied back behind his head with a gold band. Rings glittered on his fingers. A prince he seemed in truth, living in wealth and luxury in his hall. Yet he had the look of eagles about him, and there was
a cold light in his eyes, cold as the steel of the naked blade he held loosely in one hand.
“I am lord Gingrel,” the man said.
Brand studied him momentarily. “Will you surrender?” he asked.
“No. I will not. You may be in my hall, and death may come, but we shall kill many of you before it does.”
Brand was silent a long while. “Duthenor blood is precious to me,” he said at length. “I will not spill it unless I must. And Callenor blood is precious also. We fight here as enemies, but of old did we not belong to one far greater tribe? Do we not sing the same songs and share many of the same heroes?”
No one answered him. He did not think they would. Gingrel continued to study him with those same cold eyes.
“Let there be an end to this,” Brand said. “Let Gingrel and I alone fight. One of us will die, and that will be an end to it.”
Gingrel seemed surprised. “You would duel with me?”
Even as Gingrel spoke Brand heard a hiss from Haldring and saw her give a slight shake of her head. It seemed that Gingrel had a reputation as a fighter. He certainly looked the part.
“This I swear,” Brand said. “If I am killed, I command those who follow me to leave and return to their homes.”
Gingrel grinned at him, and for the first time there was a light in his eyes. He was a man who loved to fight, and he saw a chance for victory in this.
“Will you tell your men to surrender, if you are killed, Gingrel?”
Gingrel moved slowly toward him. “I will not be killed, but yes. They will surrender.”
“Then stand back, everyone. Sheathe your swords, and clear room for Gingrel and I to face each other.”
The two men drew close. The fire pit in the middle of the hall was to Brand’s left. Embers shimmered there, and he felt the heat off them even where he stood.
Gingrel moved like a viper, all smooth and effortless. He was a natural-born warrior, but so too was Brand. And Brand saw opportunity in this. What happened now would spread from district to district and cross and re-cross the Duthgar. If he won, and he intended to, it would help establish his credibility. Moreover, if he won in spectacular fashion…
Gingrel leaped forward, his blade cutting a shadowy arc in a backhanded strike. It streaked through the air, faster than thought. Time slowed. Brand watched the blade, allowed it to whisper death close to his head as he ducked just barely enough to avoid it. Before it had even passed over him he had begun to move forward himself, the blade of his forefathers sweeping out.
There was a sickening noise. Red blood spurted from severed arteries. Brand’s blade took Gingrel in the neck between helm and chainmail coat. His body remained still, but the lord’s head toppled away. It fell into the fire pit. Smoke rose as the long hair of the head caught fire. Skin sizzled. The body, still pumping blood, slowly fell backward.
It was over before it had begun. Brand lowered his sword, resting its point on the floor and leaning on it casually.
“Thus is justice done,” he said solemnly. “As Gingrel fell, so too will Unferth.”
The Callenor men looked at him, uncertainty and shock in their eyes. They knew their lord for a great warrior, but he was now defeated, and easily. And they were in a hall full of their enemies.
Brand spoke before they had a chance to decide what to do. “Callenor!” he called. “I am true to my word. I accept your surrender. Moreover, I promise you shall be allowed to keep your swords and walk freely from this hall. What say you?”
There was movement among them. One man stepped forward after a while, older and grizzled, his face showing a scar from a long-ago battle. His gaze fell momentarily down into the firepit, but he looked back up at Brand quickly.
“Truly? You will let us go free?”
Brand answered without hesitation. “I will let you go, with your swords. I will not ask oaths of loyalty from you. You may not give them, and if you did you may not keep them, for your alliance is to your old lord. It was his mistake to think an oath of convenience would bind forever. This only I ask of you. Swear that you shall leave the Duthgar, and never return here armed for war.”
The old man looked at him hard. “And if we do not?”
Brand answered once more without hesitation. “Then you will die. And you will die for nothing. Think carefully.”
The old man gazed at Brand, his expression unreadable. “We shall so swear it.”
Each man then came before Brand, and he swore the oath as Brand had asked. And then they followed the old man out the door of the hall and disappeared into the new day that was beginning.
The Duthenor held the hall, and Brand had given the men the victory they needed. And the story of his growing army and quest to unseat Unferth had been enhanced. But Shorty was not so certain.
“Can the men you just let go be trusted? I fear, despite their oaths, that we might end up fighting them anyway. Only next time they’ll be with Unferth.”
He did not say it in front of the Duthenor, but spoke quietly to Brand while the men were clearing the hall of dead bodies.
“It could be,” Brand agreed. “But I don’t think so. They seemed good men to me, it was the lord they followed who was bad. And besides, the story will spread among the Callenor. Better to face men in battle who know they can surrender than those who know they must fight to the death. Because then they will, with everything they have.”
Brand gave orders then. He had the treasury of the hall brought to him. This was in a locked box, and it was no great treasure. But there were gold coins and rings and precious stones. It would help him keep the men on side, and it would pay for supplies also.
He also ordered whatever food could be found to be gathered up as well. Haldring raised an eyebrow at this. She understood what it meant, but did not say anything.
A little while later they left the hall and closed the door behind them. The Duthenor were gathered there now, and an extra twenty men they did not have before.
“See!” Brand said, addressing them all. “Our army grows and word spreads. It is a slow start, but sure. The usurper will come to fear us! This I promise, but for now we march again.”
The men cheered and got ready to move. Sighern, standing near Brand seemed confused.
“Aren’t we going to rest here first?”
“No, lad. We could all do with some, but we must move fast instead. We must never be where we are expected to be. Not while our force is small.”
“The men are ready,” Taingern said. “Where do we go next?”
“A good question,” Brand answered. “But I don’t know.”
Shorty laughed. “A simple plan is good. No plan … not so much!”
Brand gathered the reins to his horse. “I’ll have one when I need one,” he said with a wink. “For now, the only plan is to get away from here. We’ve done what we came to do, but there could be other hostile forces anywhere. It’s time to disappear.”
15. A Man of Secrets
Unferth sat on the high chair, oblivious to the goings on in the hall around him. Brooding they called him, often. But they were fools. He was thoughtful, as a great leader of men must be. Few understood that. Of them all, perhaps only Horta.
The magician sat nearby, his disciple Olbata beside him. Strange names for a strange people, but they were useful, which was all that really mattered. And yet Horta always seemed to give him bad news. He had done so just now, and yet he always had a solution to any problem.
But why were there so many problems? Unferth shifted in his chair. Even the high seat seemed uncomfortable of late. He should be enjoying all his successes now, instead of worrying. It was the way of the wolf to fight toward leadership of the pack. This he had done, and he had succeeded. He ruled two lands now, side by side. The Callenor were his own, the Duthenor subjugated. He had become now a king instead of chieftain. And he could do more, yet. Surely things should be getting easier and not harder?
Horta would be a help with that. He knew things, not least
of all the hearts of men. That he looked strange did not matter. That he dressed strange was irrelevant. He was a man who wore a skirt and a bearskin rug over his shoulder. But no one ever dared laugh at him.
Unferth cast his mind back to their first meeting. The foreigner had been dressed the same way on that very first day. He had felt the urge to laugh, but the cool, steady gaze of the other forestalled it. Here was a man of power, a man who could kill and who had used that skill often. And when he had proclaimed himself a magician, causing thunder to boom in the hall and mead in cups to turn to ice as proof, Unferth had believed him. More, he knew that together they could achieve much. And all the little man asked in return was permission to explore the Duthgar.
What the magician searched for, Unferth did not care. Treasure probably, for men had dwelt here long, long before the Duthenor came. But whatever treasures there were would long since have been found. But none of that was of import now. Now, that Brand had come back.
Of course, he only had Horta’s word for that. Somehow, Brand had entered the realm despite the precautions set against him, and begun to build an army. Horta would not say how he knew, only that he had spies through the land and that the king’s own messengers would confirm it very soon. Magic of some kind, Unferth guessed.
“How did Brand get across the river?” Unferth asked. “It was guarded!”
The magician gave an elegant shrug. All his movements were elegant, as though he were born of nobility. But looking at how he dressed, that was not possible.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s a man of skill and determination. He found a way, and he is here now, moving against you. That’s what’s important.”
Unferth tried to restrain his irritation. “The man is a nuisance,” he said. Quietly, he seethed, but it would not do to let his advisors see the effect Brand had on him. Horta looked at him silently though, as if he knew exactly what was going on. Unferth did not like it. The man knew too much, but kept too many secrets of his own.