by Robert Ryan
But Gormengil seemed to have anticipated it, for he stepped a little to the side with time to spare and his sword crashed into the dwarven helm.
This time, it was the king who staggered back. Gormengil was upon him, his blade flashing in cuts and thrusts quicker than the eye could follow. Three times Unferth would have died save for the quality of armor he wore, but Gormengil made one strike too many and overbalanced slightly in his haste. Unferth saw his opportunity and the raven-axe moaned again, this time thrust forward so that the spike at the head of the blades could pierce armor and then hook out entrails.
The heir to the throne dived and rolled. He avoided the thrust but a follow-up slash caught him a glancing blow to his helmet. But this time he did not retreat. He stepped in close, avoiding the sweeping danger of the axe and drove a knife deep into the king’s thigh, then leapt back, the blood-wetted knife in one hand and his sword in the other.
Unferth screamed. It was not a fatal wound, but he would weaken swiftly and lose strength in his legs if it was not bandaged. The raven-axe flew once more, whistling even as Unferth screamed, and it cut the air like a streaking shadow.
But this time Gormengil was quicker. Perhaps he had held back before. Or perhaps the sight of Unferth’s blood gave him hope of victory and purpose. Either way he stepped in to meet the attack. The axe whistled, but Gormengil’s sword sliced, and it severed the king’s hand in one blow above the black gauntlet.
The axe thudded to the ground. Unferth’s severed hand fell silently, looking out of place on the grass. Blood spurted from the stump, and the king, wide-eyed, looked in shock at his own gauntleted hand as it lay before him.
Unferth fell to his knees. He screamed again, a terrible sound to hear, but Gormengil was deaf to it. Slowly, step by step he approached, his sword steady before him.
The heir to the throne, he who now would rule, struck swiftly at his uncle. His blade flashed, cutting between the bottom of the helm and the top of the chain mail coat, and it found the small gap there.
Unferth toppled over and stopped screaming, but Horta was not sure if he was dead. Gormengil reached down though, one hand dislodging the helm and with the blade in the other he began to hack.
After some moments, he held up the head of Unferth. “He was a fool, and look where it got him?” He cast the head aside. “I am not a fool. I will lead you better.”
No one said anything. The men were stunned, but Horta knew instinctively what to do and acted quickly. He stepped over to the fallen raven-axe and picked it up. He marveled at the feel of it in his hands and the lightness of it. Of what metal the blades were made, he did not know. Yet still he felt the deadliness of the weapon. Nor could he see any nick or blemish on the metal, which there should have been.
He approached Gormengil. “Hail, Gormengil, king by blood, and by right, and by victory in battle. Take your axe, and if you will have it, my service also.” He bowed slightly, and lifted up the weapon.
Gormengil wrapped a hand around the axe haft, and Horta saw his eyes widen a fraction when he took it. He, too, marveled at the lightness of it.
“Truly,” Gormengil muttered. “It is a weapon of magic.” His gaze fell on Horta, and his eyes were emotionless again. “I will accept your service.” There may have been no emotion there, but there was a glint of knowledge. He understood that Horta had just set the tone of how to react, and Unferth’s counselors all approached. One by one they knelt and swore their oaths of loyalty.
When they were done, Gormengil spoke. “Go forth among the men. Tell them that the Callenor have a new chieftain, and this one is not so craven as not to fight himself.” Then he hefted the axe wickedly through the air, making it whistle and moan.
24. Two Battles
Brand woke. It was dark, save for the wavery light of a single candle. There was a roaring in his head, and a dull ache, but a soft hand touched his forehead, and Tinwellen’s voice came to him, suddenly clear above the roaring. “Sleep,” she commanded. And Brand slept.
When he woke again, the light of the candle was gone and the gray of dawn filled the room he had in the barracks. Of Tinwellen, there was no sign, but Shorty and Taingern were there, their faces grim.
“What news?” Brand asked.
“First,” Taingern said, “how do you feel?”
Brand was not sure. The roaring in his head had lessened, but not gone. And the dull ache had receded, but not entirely. And there was a stiffness in his shoulder and neck that troubled him.
“Given that I could be dead, I feel well enough.”
Shorty grunted. “Make light of it if you will, but it was a bad blow you took. Or that the Helm of the Duthenor took. A crown it might be to the Duthenor, but the skill of the Halathrin who made it saved your life.”
Brand knew that was true. But his two friends had not come here to tell him so. Something had happened, otherwise at least one of them would be on the battlements.
A look passed between the two of them, and he knew they judged him well enough to hear it, whatever it was.
“There’s good news … and strange news,” Taingern said. “First, and obviously, we repulsed the enemy yesterday. They did not attack again.”
Brand nodded, and wished he had not. A wave of dizziness rolled over him.
“And the strange news?”
“Well, that’s possibly tied to the first. Their losses were heavy yesterday, and it seems that Unferth paid the price for it. Just now, as it began to grow light, we saw the enemy had put his head on a pole just before the gate. Obviously, they have a new leader.”
Brand was shocked. All his life it seemed had been wrapped up in the idea of deposing Unferth and avenging his parents. And now … the man was dead. It seemed that he no longer had direction or purpose. But there was an element of relief too. Vengeance was a heavy burden.
He closed his eyes and thought briefly of his parents. Justice had been done at last, and though it was not by his hand, it did not matter. It was because of him though, because if he had not pressed Unferth and made him suffer military losses, the usurper would not have been deposed. More importantly, whatever he had done in the past, whatever he did now, it was for the benefit of the Duthgar. That was the one thing that must guide him.
Brand opened his eyes. “Do we know who leads the enemy now?”
Shorty shook his head. “We know Unferth had an heir. The men say he’s called Gormengil, and he’s Unferth’s nephew. Whether he’s now in charge though, we don’t know. But the enemy has certainly not left.”
Brand considered that. A new leader could change everything, but it probably would not. Whoever had deposed Unferth was not likely to free the Duthgar and return to Callenor lands.
But whatever happened, he was needed now on the ramparts.
“Help me up, lads. I’m a bit wobbly.”
They looked at him carefully but did not argue. Not even when he had to lean on them just to stand. But after a little while the roaring in his head subsided again and the dizziness passed. Mostly. He left the room on his own two feet, but Shorty and Taingern stayed close, lest he fall.
Dawn broke silently over the ancient fortress, and color leached through the gray remnants of night. But the air was oppressive with the threat of imminent rain, and no sound could be heard in all the vastness of armed men. This would be another day of death, and the start of it was right before them.
Brand had been ready for it, but still the shock of seeing a head on a pole near the gate was sobering. That it was Unferth’s … was, in some way, worse.
Even in death the Usurper looked at him, somehow seeming to accuse him personally for such a horrible fate. And Brand felt sorry for him, and wondered that that was possible.
A lone horn blew, sending a wail up into the gray-clad sky. As though awaiting that signal, a horseman cantered forward from the enemy camp. He came to stop before the gate, and there he looked up at Brand. The head of Unferth close to his own.
“In the name of the new L
ord of the Duthenor and Callenor tribes, I command you to open the gate and surrender. If you do so, Gormengil will let you live. If you do not, you will die. Unless you surrender during battle. Those are his terms, and no other. You have one hour.”
The messenger did not look at Unferth’s head. He gave no sign of what he thought of the fate of his old lord nor the prospects of the new. Neither did he wait for a reply. Skillfully, he eased his horse backward a few steps, his eyes locked on Brand’s, and then he turned and cantered back to the enemy host.
“Not as talkative as Unferth was,” Shorty commented.
“And yet an eloquent message all the same,” Brand said. “And this time a better strategy behind it. The threat of death is balanced by the offer of life.”
They did not discuss what action to take. For Brand, there was nothing to do but fight. Unferth had usurped the rule of the Duthgar, and Gormengil now the same. Nor was there sign any that the defenders felt differently. They wanted freedom from Callenor rule. They had fought for it. Some had died for it. And those who lived were committed to the same course, unwaveringly and with courage.
The hour passed quietly. The threat of rain deepened, and it grew darker instead of lighter as the day wore on. But at the end of the hour, movement rippled through the enemy host. A bonfire sprang to life, flames twisting high into the air, and many horns sounded all at once.
Brand recognized Horta near the bonfire. And there were others with him, dressed in the same type of strange garb that the magician wore. Slowly, Horta leading them, they began to circle the fire. Brand was not familiar with their rites, but he understood the purpose well enough. Horta would invoke some form of sorcery.
But at the same time the warriors of the enemy began to attack. Many were held in reserve, but a great wave of them, greater even than yesterday, rushed forward. They were better prepared for the onslaught that greeted them. Arrows thickened the air, and many fell. But they held their shields better this time, and fewer were killed. The same happened when the javelins were thrown. Men died, but not so many, nor enough. Yesterday, they had gained the top of the rampart with less men. Today, they would do so again, and the danger was greater.
But the defenders now had greater confidence. They knew what they were about. They would not be broken easily, and they knew the task of the enemy was harder and more dangerous than their own. They had learned the wall was their friend, and how to utilize it better to their advantage. And they had won the battle yesterday. No matter how hard things would soon become, that knowledge would buoy them.
Onward the enemy came, and the slaughter was terrible. But they gained the rampart and steel struck steel as blades flashed.
Tinwellen stayed near Brand, and Sighern also. Neither fought, for they acted as his guards. Dizziness had not left him, and the roaring in his head seemed to rise to match the tumult of battle. But he held his sword in his hand, ready to fight as best he could, if he must.
Shorty and Taingern were among the battling warriors. Even as they were of different temperaments, so too were their fighting styles unalike. Yet men fell dead where they went, and the enemy melted away before them.
Brand watched the ebb and flow of battle, trying to remain detached as a general must. But this was sometimes easier done fighting than watching. Too many times he saw men plummet screaming from the battlement. Too often he watched as a man’s sword hand was hacked away, or his entrails spilled. Blood sprayed through the air, gore slicked the stone of the rampart, and the moaning and screaming was louder than the constant roaring in his ears.
It could not go on long as things were. One side or the other must gain ascendancy. And Brand sensed a change. The enemy were excited. Soon he saw why. Up over the rampart climbed a red-armored figure. Gormengil himself, and in one hand he held the legendary raven-axe of the Callenor.
This was the moment. The battle would turn one way or the other now. Brand must fight him, and on the outcome of that fight the greater fight would depend.
But even as he took a step forward, he saw the dead enemy on the blood-slicked stone begin to jerk. Dead hands grabbed once more for sword hilts. Dead throats screamed a war-cry in a language that no Callenor tribesman had ever spoken.
Horta had unleashed some foul sorcery, and Brand must combat it. The defenders would not long stand if those they killed rose from the floor and slew them in turn.
But he could not fight Gormengil and counter Horta at the same time. But which could he ignore? The answer froze him to the spot. To ignore either was to lose the battle, and swiftly.
25. The Prophecy of the Witch
Brand was frozen in doubt. The roaring in his ears rose to a shrieking gale. The world seemed to spin, but he steadied himself. Yet still, he did not move. Some other power had risen also, and he felt the force of it threatening to tumble him into blackness again.
The very air filled with a sense of malice. The hatred was so strong that it turned his stomach. But it was not sorcery of Horta’s making. That much he knew instinctively. It had a different feel to it, a feel both distant and yet somehow familiar.
Mist rose from the stone of the rampart. From that vague turning and twining of tendrils figures emerged. They were men. They were warriors, though they looked different from any Brand had ever seen. Their armor was strange. So too their swords. But they had the look of the eagle about them, of warriors who knew how to fight and had endured all that the world, and battle, and life could throw at them.
Even as Brand understood what was happening, the figure of Kurik, wizard-priest of the Letharn appeared before him. The man seemed taller than the warriors he led. He seemed stronger, more life-like. And the sense of malice that came from him was overpowering. His hatred had endured through the eons, and though his true enemies were dead, their descendants yet lived in Horta and his followers.
A moment Brand held the gaze of Kurik. No words passed between them, but the spirit of the dead man seemed to swell and grow. His eyes flashed and then he shot like an arrow of light, arcing over the battlement and toward Horta.
Brand looked around again. All over the battlement the dead Horta had raised were being hacked by the ghost-warriors of the Letharn. The Duthenor had crowded back, pressing themselves against the rear of the rampart, and no harm came to them.
Through the turmoil Brand’s gaze met Gormengil’s. Hatred burned between them, fierce as the sun. Yet the fray swept between them, and though each was ready to fight the other, desperately wanted to fight the other, it was not fated at that moment.
The press of men around Gormengil drew him back to the rampart, and there, taking hold of ropes and ladders they fled. Few warriors stood up to an onslaught of ghosts, though to Brand’s eyes it seemed that the spirits only attacked the sorcerous dead that Horta had raised.
The ghosts of the Letharn faded away as the Callenor retreated. Their spirits were free at last, tied no longer to this world nor the last tragedy that they had endured here. But they had won a final victory for themselves, though Brand knew not for him. The enemy would regroup. They had failed yet again, but they were not defeated. A third time yet they would try to take the fortress.
He moved to the edge of the rampart, and all along the wall the Duthenor did the same. Out over the field the enemy sprinted back to their own host, fearful of what had happened on the wall but still alive. And the crimson figure of Gormengil was among them.
“He runs as fast as his men,” Shorty said, his gaze on the same figure.
“But he is a man of pride,” Brand answered, “and all the harder will he come against us again when the time comes.”
Shorty did not dispute it. Nor anyone else. The army below them was in disarray, but it was not broken. The bonfire was scattered into burning debris across the field, scattered sparks and coils of smoke. Of Horta and his followers, there was no sign. Brand hoped he was dead, but did not think it would be so.
Almost Brand ordered a sortie, and he saw the question in the eyes o
f Taingern and Shorty. They had both thought of it, but he shook his head. The confusion of the enemy was momentary. The ghosts of the Letharn were gone and Gormengil was alive to regroup his men, and he would do so quickly. And still the enemy outnumbered him.
They watched from the walls, and Brand decided what he had to do.
“Gormengil is the key,” he said quietly.
The others looked at him, and Sighern voiced their question. “The key to what?”
“To victory. To saving lives, or trying to. He wants to fight me. I want to fight him. If I kill him, the Callenor will have no true leader left. Gormengil binds them better than Unferth, but without him, they have no one.”
“A duel then?” Sighern said.
Tinwellen shook her head. “No. I won’t permit it. You’re still injured. You can’t beat him. You need just a little longer to—”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Sighern interrupted her. “You must fight him, and you must beat him.”
Tinwellen turned her dark gaze on the young man, and her look was cold as death. But then she ignored him and swung back to Brand, placing her hands around his head.
Brand felt the coolness of her touch, and he marveled at the joy she brought him. But the roaring in his ears seemed to rise and swell, and the dizziness that was with him ever since he had been struck in the head weakened his legs. Almost he fell, but not quite. And as though from a great distance he heard Sighern’s voice again.
“Let him go, witch!”
Abruptly her touch was gone from him. He opened his eyes and realized Sighern had pushed her away. The cold light in her eyes was bleaker than he had ever seen it, and amazed he watched as two knives appeared as if by magic in her hands and she darted at Sighern.
But Sighern acted quicker than she thought. His sword was still drawn from the battle, and reflexively he lifted it and thrust as she came at him.
Tinwellen drove herself onto the point, and then staggered back. The blade slid out of her belly, and Brand knew it for a mortal wound.