by Robert Ryan
Her eyes smoldered even more, and there was a sudden anger in them, cold and sharp.
“Pretty? Is that the best compliment you can give me? I suppose you would call the ocean a mere drop of water?”
She turned slightly to face Gormengil. “What do you say, my lord?”
The man who had been Gormengil immediately knelt on one knee before her.
“O Goddess, you are fairer than the sun, and I bask in your glory. When you look away from me, the cold of winter grips my heart. When you gaze into my eyes, I am a drowned man who wishes only to plunge deeper.”
Gormengil did not move, except that he swung his head to look up at Brand. “Shall I kill him for you, O Goddess? Speak the words, and I will fulfill them.”
Brand held the gaze of his former enemy. There was no emotion there, no spark of life. He had been his enemy. But now he was like a dead man, moving to the unseen strings of his mistress like a puppet.
“Not yet, my pet,” Su-sarat said to him, bending slightly to lay a hand on his head as a woman patted a dog.
Brand sensed Furthgil tremble beside him. Gormengil had once been his lord. He was thought to have been dead, but he was not. Su-sarat had somehow saved him, but in that saving he had been changed. His body lived, but his mind was dead. Yet still, he had been the chieftain of the Callenor, however briefly. Would they want him back again?
But Furthgil made no move and spoke no words. He saw who Gormengil served now, and what he had become.
“What do you want here?” Brand asked the goddess. “Time presses, and I have better things to do.”
The way he spoke was an insult. It was intended to be. How she reacted would reveal more of her character.
But she merely smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh Brand, how I would have enjoyed breaking you to my will. But no matter. The past is the past. And in remembrance of the good times we shared together, I shall give you this warning.”
She gestured for Gormengil to stand, and he rose smoothly at her touch, but she did not take her gaze off Brand.
“Leave these lands,” she said, lifting her chin and speaking proudly. “Gods conspire against you, and you cannot challenge our might. Leave warfare behind you. Leave bloodshed behind you. I know you better than you know yourself. You are no warlord, nor heartless warmaker. Each drop of blood spilled is as a tear in your eye. This I know, and thus I give you opportunity to prevent it, and a chance to forestall guilt that will weigh down your very soul. Brand, leave all this behind, and go wherever else your heart takes you. But do not stay here.”
The goddess spoke with power, and even Brand felt the force of her words. All eyes turned to him in expectation. Many seemed worried and anxious, for if he left there was no hope to fight off the Kirsch.
“Lady,” Brand answered. “I hear your words. Even, I would say, they are well meant. But if you truly knew me, you would know that the guilt of betraying my people would weigh me down more than all else. With a clear mind and a patriotic heart, I answer you. And not just for the Duthenor, but all the tribes threatened by your coming. I will not go. Rather, I bring us all together in defiance of your army and your magic, and even of your gods. Shall I defy it all? If I must.”
A deep silence fell, and no answer Su-sarat gave. Instead, she bowed her head as one in deep thought, or perhaps sorrow.
“So be it,” she said at length. “I have given warning, and you have given answer. I can do no more for you, and truly, I regret your passing.”
“I have not passed yet, my lady.”
“But you will, and the world will mourn you for a while. As will I.”
“Don’t mourn me yet, goddess. I’m a hard man to kill.”
“And yet, you are just a man, if a powerful one. You possess a warrior’s skill, and a king’s bold heart. Even, you possess the magic of a lòhren. But these things will avail you nothing. Change sweeps over the land. The starry void spins and turns, and the gods come again. You cannot prevent it. You can only fall before it. Even the mountains topple when the ocean rises in fury. It is destiny.”
Brand laughed. “Destiny? You are wrong. Nothing is destined. Nothing is fixed. You and your kind have a chance to return, and I have a chance to stop you. That is all. And I shall stop you.”
Su-sarat sighed. “Such courage. You could be one of us, but you never will be.”
“I do not wish to be.”
“Then there is nothing left to say. We will not meet again.”
Slowly the image of the goddess turned to mist. Brand watched, wary to the end for she was the Trickster. But she spoke no more, nor made any attack.
Gormengil was another matter though. His body was vague, shifting vapors disappearing in the air, but his face was still clear. And he spoke, his voice void of emotion, but somehow still filled with a cold desire.
“You will not meet her again. But you will meet me. Dread that day, for it will bring ruin to your army and spill your blood upon the earth even as mine was spilled.”
Then the Goddess and Gormengil were gone, but a chill remained in the air.
14. Only by Chance
Hruidgar was sick of the army. Too many people, and too much noise and talk disturbed him. He was a loner, and did not really like people at all. But Brand was different. When he spoke, it was to a purpose. And where he led, others followed.
But for all that Brand spoke seldom, his gaze was never far away, and those eyes seemed knowing. It was not possible for him to know, and yet there it was. As uncanny a thing as Hruidgar had ever experienced.
Few remembered the days of his youth. He was older than he seemed. But once, he had left the Duthgar. Three years he had been gone, and when he returned men questioned him where he had been, and he refused to answer. That had given him a reputation, and afterward he was avoided.
That was for the best. And for his part, he became a hunter, roaming the wilds and bringing meat into villages in harsh winters and furs for trade at other times. He had never grown rich, but he had avoided people as much as they avoided him.
They were dead now, most of them. Few knew his name, still less that he had ever been away from the Duthgar.
But he had. And it was the best time of his life. Seeking adventure, and to forget a girl who had spurned him, he joined a merchant caravan heading south. He had wanted to go to Cardoroth, but the merchant was going to Esgallien.
One destination was as good as any to him though. And anyway, it had not been the destination that mattered. It was always about the journey, and the strange lands and wild places of Alithoras that lured him. That merchant had a knowing gaze as well. He was a man who understood.
So it was that Hruidgar fell in with men in Esgallien who understood him too. The Raithlin they called themselves, a last offshoot of a legendary scouting organization. Their skills were extraordinary, and their courage just as great. They taught him, and he trained with them. Even, he undertook missions with them. But he never became one of them.
Learning what he could, reveling in their skills, he formed a camaraderie with them that he had never felt elsewhere. But eventually the call of his own homeland came to him again.
He returned home. And if he was a loner before then, he was more so afterward. But Brand had drawn him out, given him authority and responsibility. He recognized his skills, but he had no way of knowing how they were acquired. Yet still, those blue eyes fixed him at times as though they saw all secrets.
Hruidgar would serve that man well. It was almost a vow. Seldom had he contributed to his community. You could not contribute to something you were never really a part of. But Brand had picked him out and trusted him with a task. He headed the army’s scouts, even if there were not enough of them and he was sick of all the people and noise.
But he did contribute now. At the same time, he knew his own character. He needed time in the wild by himself. The scouts would report directly to Brand for a while, and all would be well. He would return refreshed and ready for the last stage o
f the great events he had been caught up in.
He rode a slick black mare, though he would have preferred to be on foot. It was easier to scout that way, and to remain unseen, but he was getting older now, and the horse would allow him to cover much more ground.
But where should he go? He had sent scouts out in all directions, but most had been sent to the south-west. Only a few had gone south, so he turned his mount in that direction. Those men needed his help more than the others. There were fewer of them, and they were the less skilled. In truth, all the scouts were no more than hunters. They were crafty in the wild, but had they known the true skills of the Raithlin they would have been in awe.
He nudged his mount down a slight slope, and once more checked that his assortment of throwing knives, daggers, short sword and bow were all in place. A man could never be too careful, but there would be nothing to find where he went. Still, old habits died hard.
He slipped away into the night, and it welcomed him like a long-missed friend. The army camp was perhaps a half mile away now, but it was invisible. The noise of it, a low rumble in the distance pierced by high-pitched shouts and laughter, still came to his ears though. But soon that would fade. So too the scent of smoke in the air. And when they were gone, he would be truly alone.
He moved south, a shadow in the night. Not only was he leaving the army behind, but the populated edge of Callenor lands. Ahead was the wild. There were no farms and fields. Even hunters would be scarce. He eased forward at a walk, letting his mount choose a path and keeping his own senses alert to the surrounding dark.
He was alone now, and he began to think like himself once more. Almost, he was like another animal that roamed the land. He scented the air. He lingered on the higher points of ridges, looking further afield to see if there were campfires in the darkness ahead. He never moved too far along a straight line, because he had no wish to be predicable.
But even here in the wild, he would not be quite alone. Some few of his men had been sent this way too. They would be out there, somewhere. Though he doubted they would see him or he them.
Brand had allowed him quite a few men. More than he would have thought, but it was still not enough. Maybe that was just as well. It gave him reason to leave the camp and have a look at things for himself. It would only be for a day or two, but that would be enough for him to regain a sense of his own self. When that was done, he could return to the bustle of the army and the milling together of all those men.
The night drew on. He rested at times, even dozing a little now and then. At other times, he led his mount by hand. He did it where the ground was rough and he feared the mare might make too much noise or break a leg. Brand did it all the time, and he had no such reason, though still a practical one. He did it to show he was one of the men. If he walked where they walked, he would fight where they fought. Warriors respected that. A single gesture such as that was worth a thousand words.
Dawn began to break. It was a quiet time, that period where night gave grudgingly way to day. It was a dangerous time too, for a man’s thoughts could drift and ebb, and the tiredness of a long night could catch up with him.
That was particularly dangerous for a scout. That was when an enemy would spring a trap. Not that there were any here, yet still it seemed just that little bit too quiet.
Hruidgar sat taller in the saddle. Just thinking of enemies gave him the sense that he was being watched. The wilderness always did that, but the man who ignored his instincts in the wild might soon be dead. And those instincts sparked to life now. Even the mare seemed a little uneasy, flaring her nostrils nervously as if catching the scent of something that she did not like.
He rode on, but warily. Even so, it was only by chance that he discovered the body.
15. Not my Heritage
The army was on the move again, and the scouts had brought in word of a great gathering of warriors ahead. Five thousand strong it was, but it was a Callenor force and not the enemy.
The Callenor had gathered more quickly than Brand had thought. It was a good thing, yet it still made him nervous.
The two forces drew closer, and out of the Callenor a small group detached and came to Brand. They would be lords, and their gazes swept over the bigger army, but came back to rest again and again on the banner that Sighern carried.
Brand gave the reins of his horse to Taingern, and stepped forward to meet them.
“We’ve come to join you,” one of them, a silver-haired man, said simply.
“You’re welcome, and you’re needed,” Brand replied.
They shook hands and greeted one another. But their gazes kept going to the banner. Brand said nothing, waiting for them. And one of them at last mentioned it.
“What does the banner mean? I’ve not seen its like before.”
“It means this. The Duthenor and the Callenor fight together. For a time, we’ll be one army with one purpose under one leader.”
The silver-haired lord spoke. Hathulf, Brand had learned he was called.
“For how long a time?”
“Until the threat we face is beaten. And after? Only as long as you wish. I’ll not forge a kingdom by force. I’ll not make the Duthenor and Callenor one people. Not unless they want it.”
The older man seemed thoughtful. “And what if they do want it?”
“Then all things are possible. But let’s not ride the horse until it’s caught and saddled. We have an enemy to beat first. Nothing else matters until that’s taken care of. Nothing at all.”
Hathulf seemed to accept that. But his gaze, when it was not on the banner, was on the Raven Axe that Sighern now carried through a loop in his belt.
“And what of that?” he asked, gesturing toward it but not naming it. “Why does a boy carry it and not you?”
Brand was not sure if Sighern appreciated being called a boy anymore, but no insult was intended and the words seemed to roll off him.
“I don’t carry it because it’s not my heritage.” Brand said no more, but he waited. Another question would follow soon after.
Hathulf grunted. “According to the messages I received, you won it and it’s yours. So too the chieftainship of the Callenor. At least according to ancient law. But if you don’t want the axe, why not give it to a Callenor lord? Why not give it to someone whose heritage it belongs to?”
There it was. And it was a dangerous question in its way.
“The axe is temptation,” Brand answered. “It’s mine by right, but if I give it to a Callenor lord, what then? Would he not begin to wonder, holding that axe, if he could unite the Callenor beneath him? Would not the thought arise in his heart that he could be a chieftain? And what then of our alliance?”
“So, you mistrust us then?”
Brand replied swiftly. “I trust my understanding of the hearts of warriors and lords. Tell me. If I gave you this thing, would you carry it and not be tempted?”
Hathulf grinned at him. “You’ve been honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you. I’d be tempted. Very tempted indeed. So I agree. Best that it shouldn’t be in my hands, nor any other lord of the Callenor. Yet still, why give it to a boy and not one of your great warriors? I see men with you who seem no stranger to the press of battle.”
“I give it to Sighern because he also, despite his youth, is no stranger to the press of battle. He has the courage of a true warrior, and wits as sharp as a well-kept sword. But most of all, I give it to him because he’s young. He thinks little about the Duthenor and the Callenor, and all about fighting and beating our enemy. I can trust him with it. To him, it’s an implement of war rather than a symbol of leadership.”
The eyes of the Callenor warrior studied Sighern anew, and silence fell.
At length, Hathulf spoke, and it was to Sighern. “High praise indeed. But now that I look at you properly, the words ring true. Sighern I’ll call you, and boy no longer.”
Sighern answered him. “Too high praise I think, for I’m just a simple farm lad. But I’ll swin
g this axe in the battle to come, and I’ll fight for the Duthgar because that’s where I was born, and I’ll fight for the Callenor because I have the great honor of carrying this axe for them. I’ll do my best to be worthy of those who wielded it before me.”
Hathulf nodded slowly. “I believe it. Though not all who held that axe before you were men of honor. But most were, and I don’t think they’d be displeased for you to carry it now.”
He turned again to Brand. “I’ll serve you, and my men with me. Lead us well, for if the messages are true, you’ll need to be the greatest war leader our peoples have ever known.”
“Sadly,” Brand answered, “that’s exactly what I am.”
16. A Long Night
The light was a little stronger, for the sun was close to breaking over the rim of the world, and Hruidgar could see better.
And he did not like what he saw. Scattered around were the prints of wolves or wild dogs. They had spent time here, for their spoor was everywhere. But most of all, they had gathered at the base of an oak tree, ancient and hollowed in its lower trunk. Save there was no opening. This had been blocked by a mighty branch fallen several years ago.
It all looked natural, but he knew it was not. That branch, large as it was, had been moved.
Carefully, Hruidgar dismounted and tied his reins to a sapling. He studied the branch, and one side was paler than the other, and the darker side showed signs of dry rot. Until recently, it had lain on the ground.
No animal moved a branch that size. Still less to place it against the opening of a hollow tree trunk. Men had done that. Hunters maybe. But a cold twist in his gut told him that was not the case.
Something lay hidden in the hollow, and he guessed what. It must be a body, and the effort of concealing it was for one purpose. It was not meant to be discovered.