Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  The enemy rumbled to a stop hundreds of paces away. This was a dangerous moment, because all depended on them coming forward. Brand did not want to delay battle. That would give Unferth time to send more forces against him. He needed a victory now, clean and quick. If the enemy did not attack, he must attack it. This he would do, if he had to. But better they came to him, tired from marching and overconfident of their numbers.

  Nothing happened. The moment was passing, and the longer they delayed the less likely they would attack.

  “Why do they hesitate?” Haldring asked.

  “I don’t know, but if they do not come of their own volition, I will lure them.”

  “How?”

  “Watch, and we shall see what sort of man commands the enemy.”

  Brand signaled for Sighern to come forward with him. He ordered also that his roan mare be brought forward and a horse for his banner bearer. This was done, and they trotted toward the enemy.

  “Hold the flag high,” he instructed Sighern. “Let them see it clearly.”

  As the two riders approached there was movement and commotion in the enemy ranks. These would be Callenor soldiers to a man, but they knew the banner of the chieftains of the Duthenor. It had flown in victories against them in days of old. And they knew also the stories of its origin. It was one thing to hear that Brand had returned, the rightful chieftain. It was another to see him in person, heralded by such a flag.

  Two riders approached from the enemy. One would be its general, the other was his own banner bearer. This banner was white also, but upon it was the black talon of a raven: the mark of Unferth and a symbol the Callenor held as dear as the Duthenor did the dragon.

  The two groups did not meet in the middle of the space between the armies. They merely came forward part way before their hosts to speak with their opponents, albeit over a distance that required shouting. This was good to Brand’s mind, because he wanted his words heard by all the enemy and not just the general. This would help to influence them.

  Brand knew the general. He had met him once, long ago as a child. He was one of Unferth’s trusted retainers.

  “Greetings, Ermenrik,” Brand proclaimed. “Have you come forth to offer your surrender?”

  The other man laughed. “I think not. I offer you the chance to surrender instead. You are outnumbered near two to one.”

  Brand grinned. “I am not a fool, general. There is no surrender for me. Unferth wants me dead. That is the simple truth. So, why do you hesitate to carry out his orders? Are you scared of the rightful ruler of the Duthgar? Could it be that since last we met, I have grown from a boy into a warrior and you have fallen into decrepitude? You don’t look so young, anymore.”

  The other man did not laugh at that. He had been called a liar in front of his men. They knew as well as he that Unferth wanted Brand dead. And though they were the enemy, it was because Unferth was their lord rather than that they were bad men. They liked the truth, and justice, as much as the Duthenor.

  “You are not the rightful lord, boy. The world turns and the chances of fate give as well as take. Unferth is king of the Duthgar, and I do his will. But this is my promise to you. If you surrender, I will take you to him. Mayhap he will show you mercy.”

  “Interesting words, Ermenrik. The words chances of fate mean different things to us. To you, that chance meant wealth and ease and a life of comfort. To me, it was the murder of my parents.” Brand paused, allowing his words to have weight, and then he continued. “And tell me, Ermenrik, were you there that night? Were you one of the ones that killed a man and his wife? Murdered them? Is their blood on your hands?”

  Ermenrik tightened his grip on the reins of his horse. “Enough!” he yelled. “I have not come here to bandy words with an exile and outlaw.” He turned his horse and rode back toward his host, but Brand was not done.

  “If you will not speak because my words cut, murderer, then how will you dare face me with blades of steel? You are a cur, a lapdog to a traitor unworthy of the men he rules. A king, he calls himself? He is no more than a pig in a muddy sty with a crown of filthy straw.”

  Ermenrik did not slow the pace of his horse or offer a reply. But his back stiffened and Brand knew his words had struck home. He looked across at Sighern, and saw the boy’s eyes were wide. Then he turned his own mount and returned to the army.

  Haldring met him. “Well,” she said. “You know how to stir the pot when you want to. You’ve made him mad enough to attack us just by himself, I think.”

  Brand winked at her. “Words make sharper weapons than steel. Now, let’s just hope he’s not smart enough to wonder why I provoked him.”

  Brand dismounted and asked a warrior to lead his and Sighern’s mount to the rear of the army. Then he turned to the front once more and studied the enemy.

  There seemed to be a debate of some kind, for there were several figures gathered round Ermenrik, and there was much gesturing. But whatever the conversation entailed, orders were soon given. The men about Ermenrik dispersed, and the army began to move.

  The Callenor came forward, a shrill horn blaring wildly, and the clamor of sword on shield came with them. Brand had achieved his aim. Now, he must hope that his tactics proved successful.

  His own army was silent. The Duthenor did not bother to make noise or blow horns to scare the enemy. They trusted to their steel and the skill of their arms instead. And yet there was nervous tension within them that must be released.

  The enemy ranks came close now, gathering into a trot as they came.

  “The dragon!” cried Brand.

  The Duthenor had been waiting for this. It was the battle cry that their ancestors had voiced, and they took it up.

  “The dragon! The dragon! The dragon!”

  Arrows were loosed from both armies. They flickered and slivered through the air. Brand gave a command, and the men raised their shields. The volley of arrows failed. Neither side had many bowmen.

  Next, the long spears were thrown. This had less effect than the arrows. It was by sword and shield and the hearts of men that this battle would be won or lost.

  Brand waited. He stood in the middle of the front rank. He was both a target for the enemy, and a rallying point for his own men. Of Ermenrik, he saw no sign.

  The shield wall felt strong about him, and Brand breathed deep of the air. The noise of the trotting enemy was loud now, their cries fierce, the whites of their wide eyes gleaming.

  The two forces came together in a roaring crash. Swords flashed. Shields resounded. Men cried and screamed and yelled. Like an ocean wave smashing onto the shore the enemy swarmed and crowded, seeking to move further, deeper.

  The Duthenor were forced back a pace. Then two. Haldring, locked in close by his left side, killed a man with a sudden jab. Brand flicked his blade at just the right moment and tore open the throat of a burly warrior, his red beard bristling beneath his helm. Blood soaked it now.

  The dead men fell. More died around them. Others took their place, coming forward through the ranks to fill the gap.

  Slowly, the wave of enmity lessened. The Callenor came on, but the Duthenor held them back. The initial momentum had been diffused. This gave heart to the Duthenor but stole it from the enemy.

  But the battle was far from done. The enemy had claimed no swift victory as they hoped, but their numbers were yet the greater.

  The man to Brand’s right fell, an axe forcing its way through his helm to bury itself in his skull. Brand cut the attacker’s hand off as he tried to pull back the axe. The man wheeled away, screaming as he disappeared into his own ranks. He would not live unless a healer tended him swiftly.

  A warrior pushed forward into the empty place in the line beside Brand, filling the gap. Behind, the shadow of the Dragon Banner fell over him. Sighern was where he was supposed to be, marking the place where Brand stood. And the enemy came against him, again and again. Callenor warriors almost seemed to fight among themselves to reach him, as though there were a pr
ize for killing him. And well there might be. Unferth might have offered one. But this was for the good. The focus of the attack was on him, and where he stood. But this was the strongest part of the shield wall. If it held, and it was so far, the rest was safer.

  A horn blew at the back of the enemy ranks. There was movement among the Callenor, and spearmen came forward. Ermenrik was trying something new.

  Through the ranks they came, and men gave way to them. They reached the front, spears lowered, and thrust forward. The jabs were fast, and they could be delivered with more power than a sword thrust. Yet they were less agile.

  “Forward one step!” Brand commanded. His call was taken up and repeated along the ranks of his men. They shuffled forward, and pressed the spearmen back.

  But the spearmen were not done. The maneuver had taken them by surprise, for they required more room than swordsmen, and they were crammed. But they regrouped and pressed forward again, and this time it was the Duthenor line that buckled in several places.

  A spear rammed at Brand’s foot, and he lowered his shield to block it. At the same time another warrior drove his spear at Brand’s face. He twisted, and the long blade smashed into the side of his head. The Helm of the Duthenor rang, and Brand stumbled and fell to the ground. In a frenzy, the enemy pressed forward to try to kill him.

  Haldring threw herself down before him, her own body protecting his and her shield held before the both of them. And then Sighern leaped forward without a shield. In his left hand he still held the banner, but in his right he gripped a blade and it flashed and stabbed furiously.

  A spearpoint gashed the boy’s right side, but then Brand surged up again. Haldring rose with him. Together they reformed the line, allowing Sighern to move back.

  Brand retaliated. He was upset at himself for his error, and angry that two people might have died to save him. He thrust his shield at the enemy, and the silver blade of his ancestors flashed and killed.

  The Callenor stepped back before him, and Brand shouted. “Forward two steps! For the dragon!”

  All along the line the shout went up, and the Duthenor tried to surge. In places the Callenor line rebuffed them, but in others it was pushed back two paces. And then, seeing their line fall back in many places, even those lengths of the Callenor line that had held their ground fell back to form one line again.

  From behind him, Brand heard a message relayed by a warrior. “Brand! The enemy is sending a force to attack our left flank!”

  Brand could not look back, but he raised the tip of his sword high to signal that he had heard. It was what he had feared, for the enemy’s greater numbers allowed them to attempt it. But there was nothing he could do, not directly, and he knew the men on the left flank would form a shield wall and hold firm. As best they could.

  He gambled, and shouted another order. “Forward march! The dragon attacks!”

  All about him, up and down the line, the Duthenor and Callenor strove against each other. The spearmen were falling back, the tactic proving unsuccessful, and swordsmen replacing them. But if now the Duthenor could gain momentum and break the enemy, the attack on their left flank would falter. Yet it was a roll of the dice, and he knew it.

  What would have happened, Brand did not know. But he knew he was right to place trust in Taingern and Shorty, for even as the Duthenor rallied to his call and tried to press forward, he sensed the battle shift.

  There was turmoil in the enemy ranks. A commotion grew in the rear and spread. Above even the shout and din of battle he heard a swift thunder of hooves and knew that the fifty horsemen he had sent out had finally attacked. Their timing, or rather the judgement of the two men that led them, was perfect.

  The thrill of battle surged through him. The chance of victory fed it. “Attack!” he roared. “Attack!”

  And the Duthenor pressed forward. Their shields barged against the enemy’s shields, their swords stabbed and their throats voiced their battle cry: For the dragon! For the dragon! For the dragon!

  The Callenor were caught between two forces. They were tired, surprised and badly led. Panic ensued.

  The Duthenor rolled forward, killing quickly. At the rear of the Callenor force, they tried to rally, for the initial thrust of the horsemen dissipated as they wheeled away and circled back to attack again. But now the panic from the front of their ranks caught them and their morale broke.

  Some tried to flee the field, others to rally together. Some were slain fighting, others as they turned their backs to run. It became a rout and the blood of the Callenor flowed.

  A group to the left managed to flee the field, but the bulk of the enemy were hammered between the separate Duthenor forces. Fully half their number were killed before they surrendered, throwing down their swords.

  Brand gave swift orders. The Duthenor surrounded them, but stopped killing. Ermenrik appeared. He had not dropped his sword, as well might be expected. There could be no surrender for him. Only overdue justice, and he knew it. He harangued his warriors, urging them to fight, but they ignored him.

  “Silence!” Brand yelled, and Ermenrik ceased, the sword still in his hand.

  Brand strode toward him, his own bloody sword still in his hand. Others came with him. But when Brand spoke, he raised his voice so all the Callenor heard his words.

  “Warriors of the Callenor! Your surrender is accepted. You will suffer no further hurt, but you will leave your swords on this field and return to your own lands. This you will swear, and then you will be free to go. Do any think these terms unjust and refuse them?”

  There was silence. What Brand did was a risk, but at heart the Callenor were no different to the Duthenor. Honor mattered to them, and he believed they would be true to their word. Not only that, word would spread and the opposition he may face in future battles would more easily surrender and have less reason to fight.

  Brand turned to Ermenrik. For this man, justice must take a different form. He was a murderer. But indecision wracked him. Should he kill him now, or put him on trial?

  Ermenrik seemed calm, but without warning he leaped forward. Steel rang on steel as Brand deflected his blow. But then the enemy general swung wildly, and having failed to kill Brand he struck at Haldring who was close by. She blocked his strike, but staggered back under the weight of it. Again he struck, but she recovered and flicked her blade at his leg, opening an artery in his thigh. It was a killing blow, but as she moved back out of the way she stumbled over the body of a slain Callenor soldier behind her and Ermenrik’s sword ripped into her throat between helm and chainmail.

  It was Ermenrik’s final move. Brand’s sword half-severed his neck and Sighern smashed his blade against the general’s helm. The man’s head lolled to the side at an unnatural angle and he fell to the ground, one leg kicking.

  Brand rushed to Haldring. Blood spurted from her neck, and she had fallen to the ground, her hands futilely trying to stem the pouring out of her lifeblood. One moment Brand looked, fear chilling his heat, and then he acted. Swiftly he grabbed the pole from Sighern and stripped away the Dragon Banner.

  He must stop the flow of blood, or she was dead. He knelt by her side, pressing the white cloth into the wound. In moments it was bloody, and she looked up at him, the light fading from her blue eyes.

  “Live!” he breathed.

  She seemed about to speak, but then she gasped and died. His hands were covered in her blood. He bowed his head, tears running down his cheeks. He did not move, still pressing the cloth against her wound, but the blood had ceased to flow for her heart had stopped beating. But Shorty and Taingern were suddenly there, and gently they raised him up and eased the now bloody banner from his hands. It fell to the stained grass.

  Brand’s gaze dropped to Ermenrik’s corpse, and he kicked it. The dead body moved, and then fell back, lifeless once more.

  Rage infused Brand. Why did the good die while evil prospered under the sun? But kicking a dead man was no answer. Instead, he wept, and two armies watched him.


  The sun hung low now on the horizon. Fittingly, it was a scarlet sunset, a ruin of scattered clouds colored as though by blood. But there was more blood on the grass of the Duthgar than blazed in the sky.

  All around was death, and the smell of death, and the low rays of the sun, red through a growing pall of smoke, shot through everything with an eerie light.

  Crows and hawks and ravens gathered. Animals that scavenged haunted the forest edges. But they would not feed off the dead. The smoke grew stronger, and the roar of fires louder. Brand had ordered timber collected and the bodies of the dead soldiers burnt on massive biers, one for the Callenor and one for the Duthenor. It could be done swiftly, and it would prevent the spread of disease.

  The surrendered Callenor had left, marching west into the setting sun and toward their own lands. Brand and a few others stood now before Haldring’s grave. She was the only one who had been buried, and a cairn of small rocks marked her resting place. Words had been spoken, memories shared, and her sword driven into the cairn as a sign that here rested a great warrior. It was the Duthenor way, and though over the years the sword would rust and time destroy it, while it lasted none would take or touch the blade.

  There was a stir in the small group. “Who is that?” one of the warriors asked.

  They turned and looked where he gestured behind them. From the south came a person, a lone figure shuffling toward them purposely along the road whence the Duthenor themselves had earlier come.

  26. Old Mother

  Brand watched the figure approach. If the remnants of a battlefield disturbed whoever it was, they gave no sign. Instead, they moved ahead purposefully, oblivious to all that was around them, one step after another straight toward him.

  The breeze that had blown through the fighting died with the sunset. The air was still now, and heavy with acrid smoke. It drifted sluggishly over the ground like fog, obscuring the newcomer now and then until the person drew close.

  The walker was aided by two walking sticks, one in each hand, crafted of some dark timber. These she used to help her, for Brand saw now that it was a woman, and she moved quickly despite whatever frailty required use of the sticks in the first place.