The bear, surprised that something so small and puny had dared to attack him in his lair and even now refused to run, lumbered toward him, snarling his displeasure and promises of a swift death. He could feel the spear protruding from his body, but his rage made it nothing more than a minor nuisance.
Aage had never felt so small as the bear reared up and towered over him, but he did not waver as he held his sword before him. He might be young, but he was a Hillman, and Hillmen never shrank from danger no matter how dire the odds. The brown bear dropped back down onto four legs and swiped at him. Aage parried the paw as if it were a sword just as his father had taught him.
The brown bear felt the sharp weapon’s cold sting and jerked his paw back only to swipe with the other. He too knew how to fight. The tiny two-leg slashed at his paw again with its single, long claw. The bear swiped at the human with the other paw faster than his foe could respond.
Aage felt the bear’s claws rake into his flesh and was sent tumbling once again. Despite the pain and tingling radiating down his left arm, he managed to keep from losing his grip on the sword. The brown bear stood tall, roared, and was surely going to come down and crush him before sinking those dagger-like fangs into his soft flesh.
The light cast by Bjarne’s torch flashed and caused the bear’s huge shadow to dance on the cavern wall. The younger brother scampered up the bear’s back like a squirrel up a tree, grabbed a fistful of fur with one hand, and plunged his flaming dagger into the bear’s neck.
Bjarne’s fist pumped up and down, stabbing his blade into the creature’s flesh over and over until its blood extinguished the fire. The bear howled. Aage lunged and drove his sword deep into the wall of fur he could no longer see. He did not bother withdrawing his blade for a second strike, instead working it around inside the enormous body in hopes of severing something vital.
The brown bear dropped to the ground, shuddered, and released a long sigh. Bjarne stabbed it several more times before rolling off its back and finding Aage lying on ground next to it.
“Aage, are you hurt?”
“Yeah, bad I think.”
“Lie still. I’ll try to make another fire.”
Aage could hear Bjarne crawling on his hands and knees in search of one of their satchels. He found one and soon kindled another torch. He scampered back to Aage’s side and inspected the damage.
“I think I’m done for, Bjarne.”
“Shut up and stop being stupid!”
Bjarne stripped down to his linen underclothes and tore them into bandages before donning his wool and furs. He exposed Aage’s wounds and bandaged them as best he could.
“Stand up; I’ll help carry you home.”
Aage shook his head. “It’s too far, and I’m too heavy. I’ve already lost a lot of blood and will pass out long before you get me back.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Bjarne asked, almost pleading for an answer.
“You need to go back without me.”
“No, I won’t leave you here to die!”
“Of course not, you idiot. You go back and bring help.”
Bjarne looked down the dark passage toward what he hoped was a way out. “I don’t know if I can find my way back here, especially in the dark.”
“You can do it. You’re smart. Smarter than me.”
Bjarne forced back the tears trying to escape his treacherous eyes. Hillmen did not cry—ever. “All right, just don’t die before I get back.”
Aage smiled through his pain. “Not a chance. Frieda is going to ask me to the dance for sure once she sees my scars.”
Bjarne forced a chuckle and stood. Aage grabbed his brother by the ankle and stopped him.
“Take my spear. You don’t want to fall into another crevasse on the way back. I won’t be there to save you from another bear attack.”
“Right, but we’re going to have a long argument about who saved whom once we’re both back at the steading.”
Bjarne pulled the spear from the bear’s corpse. He found the two tallow pots in his and Aage’s satchels. He lit one and left them both next to his brother before using his torch to find the way out of the bear’s den. He looked up at the first of the stars beginning to dot the waxing night sky and said a quick prayer to the Almighty before beginning his trek home.
CHAPTER 11
Garran, Adam, and the Hillmen started their trek shortly after the sun came up, and they did not stop until it had nearly set. They ate jerky and dried fruit, oats, and nuts rolled into balls and coagulated with honey. The big Hillmen’s pace was grueling and their patience thin. Garran seemed unperturbed by their coarse commands and plodded on without complaint, often striking up short conversations. Adam found them intimidating at first then needlessly rude as the day grew long and his legs became exhausted.
The Hillmen’s confidence showed in the fact that no one bothered to disarm him and Garren, but there was no mistaking that the flatlanders, while not quite prisoner, were certainly not guests. The lower Highland Range was thick with trees that thinned out the higher they climbed. Mountains grew toward the sky like colossal stone teeth, as if they all lived inside the mouth of a giant wolf or bear.
The sight of the Hillman steading came as something of a surprise. The party had been navigating a deep gulch surrounded by trees. When they emerged, dozens of large pine lodges dotted a small valley blanketed by snow. Smoke spiraled from chimneys poking through thatch roofs. Children scampered about in play, taking advantage of the last rays of sun before darting inside to enjoy a warm dinner. Goats and chickens were everywhere with no clear indication of ownership.
Albrekt led the flatlanders to a small lodgepole pine building apparently used to store barrels, bags of grain, and other sundries. He ordered them inside, closed the door, and posted two of his men outside. The warmth their bodies had generated during the long march quickly dissipated.
Adam shivered, retrieved a blanket from his pack, and draped it over his back. “Do they plan to freeze us to death?”
“Naw, they’re more apt to impale us on sharpened stakes and post our corpses at the pass,” Garran answered. “It helps to deter other would-be trespassers.”
Adam’s eyes widened and a chill ran up his spine no amount of blankets could defeat. “They are going to impale us?”
“Only if they don’t like what we have to say.”
“What are we going to say?”
“You say nothing and let me do all the talking.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the diplomat and you’re the Pickle Tits.”
“I am not Pickle Tits!” Adam decried. “I am a learned scholar and the Prince of Anatolia. I am perfectly capable of engaging in treaty talks even with a nation of barbaric savages.”
Garran rolled his eyes, smiled, and shook his head. “Oh yeah, you’ll do great. Just shut up and nod to whatever I say.”
The door opened and Albrekt poked his big, shaggy head through. “Let’s go. Melkior says he’ll hear your words before posting you at the pass.”
Adam followed Garran out of the storage hut. “When he says post us at the pass…”
Garran stabbed upward with his thumb. “Right up your priest hole with a lodge pole.”
Adam whispered a prayer as they approached a lodge hall significantly larger than the others they had seen in the steading. Double doors opened to a cavernous interior lit by dozens of torches and braziers. Long tables surrounded by benches occupied by at least two hundred Hillmen and women took up most of the floor space. A massive fire pit surrounded by cut and fitted stones blazed in the center of the hall. Two thrones of hewn logs sat atop a raised dais at the far end. A man and a woman occupied each of the seats and quietly gazed upon the flatlanders as their fellow clansmen hooted and jeered their arrival.
Albrekt stopped them near the base of the dais. “Laird Melkior, First Wife Leila, I present Agent Garran Holt and Prince Pickle Tits of Anatolia.”
Adam turned his head to glance at the l
aughing faces in the hall. “That’s just not right.”
Garran leaned toward him and whispered from the side of his mouth, “Shut up or I will bag tap you.”
“You’ll what?”
Melkior stopped Adam’s further questions. “Why do two flatlanders fill my hall with their treacherous stench?”
Melkior was an imposing man even amongst a hall full of impossibly large and dangerous people. A beard the color of polished bronze clung to his thick jaw. Crystal beads woven into the bristling strands clacked together with every movement. Possibly more intimidating than his substantial size and obvious power was his piercing blue eyes that gleamed with cunning and unshakable conviction. They were the eyes of a man who could not be swayed by compassion or remorse.
Garran ducked his head. “Laird Melkior, first, let me take full responsibility for whatever stench we have brought with us. It brings me no honor to say that my hygiene has developed a certain notoriety.” The laird wore an amused grin and several appreciable chuckles sounded through the hall, but the First Wife scowled with a notable lack of appreciation for his attempted humor. “Great Melkior, we are not simple trespassers and have deliberately sought out your esteemed audience. The young man with me is indeed Prince Adam Altena, the rightful heir to his kingdom’s throne.”
“Garran, I—” Adam began.
“Shut up,” Garran hissed. “That was your last warning.”
“Why do you think that I would have any interest in speaking with the descendant of liars and thieves?” Melkior asked.
“Recently, the Altena line lost its claim to the throne through the same sort of treachery enacted upon your people several centuries ago. We come to you seeking your help in restoring the Altena line in exchange for the return of all the land stolen from your ancestors.”
Adam’s eyes flashed between Garran and Melkior. “I can’t—”
Garran backhanded Adam squarely in the groin. Laughter replaced much of the muttering his declaration had started when Adam fell to the floor holding his abused privates.
“Truth Speaker, come,” Melkior ordered.
An old man with eyes clouded by cataracts shuffled forward, his hunched weight born by a staff that chimed with numerous dangling totems.
The old man touched his fingertips to Garran’s face. “This one is a practiced liar and scoundrel, but there are strong elements of truth to his words. He is also transcended.”
More muttering filled the great hall as the Truth Speaker leaned deeper onto his staff and touched the top of Adam’s head.
“This one is truly interesting. He speaks only the truth even at the cost of his own life. He is also god-touched and, as such, cannot sit a throne by the flatlanders’ own laws.”
Melkior pointed his index fingers at Albrekt and another man and directed them at Garran and Adam. The two Hillmen drew swords and held them above the two flatlanders’ heads.
“If either of them utters anything but the unvarnished truth, strike them down where they stand.” Melkior directed his gaze at Adam. “How can you promise me our land if you cannot be king?”
Adam braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself to a standing position. “I cannot, but my sister will sit as regent until she marries or her firstborn son comes of age. I will do everything in my power to return your lands and rights.”
“She would listen to you?”
“We have always been of similar mind and temperament. I believe she would.”
The old man spoke. “Flatlanders have a convoluted rule. A collection of fools they call parliament holds most of the power, not the King or regent. Even if his sister agreed, she lacks the authority to give us what is ours.”
Melkior glared as ancient hatred flared in his piercing eyes. “As I suspected, your words are hollow and meaningless.”
Garran interjected before he could order his men to strike. “Most of parliament is guilty of treason and conspiracy to commit regicide. Removing the usurper is but one head that will roll in an avalanche of executions when the Altenas rule once again. With your help, we will force parliament, as well as The Guild, to disband and strip them of all influence. Queen Evelyn will have total control and authority to enforce any treaty we draft.”
“Is what the liar says true?” Melkior asked.
Adam sighed and thought a moment. The idea of so much bloodshed made him sick to his stomach, but he knew his sister despite their years apart. “Many people will answer for a great deal when she assumes rulership. The Guild will most certainly fall. The members of parliament who helped orchestrate my family’s murder will face trial leaving mostly the few who quietly supported my father. It will take some political maneuvering, but we will see your lands returned.”
Melkior shook his head. “Political maneuvering. You flatlanders complicate such a simple thing. A Laird rules. His word is law. A leader who cannot lead is not a king. I will not sacrifice the lives of my people on a sandy foundation of maybe and possibly.”
“Melkior,” Garran interjected, “if you can unite the clans and help bring down The Guild, Anatolia will be too weak to prevent you from taking what is yours. If you agree, they will have to keep their promises because they will have no way to betray you.”
“Perhaps not right away, but they will not be weak forever, and we have grown weaker over the centuries while the flatlanders grow stronger. No, be glad I treat you as envoys and allow you to leave with your lives. I will hear no more of this.”
“Laird Melkior, please,” Adam beseeched.
“Enough! I have made my decision. I will not squander the lives of my people for the sake of flatlander politics. Albrekt, remove them from my hall and escort them off my mountain in the morning.”
Albrekt moved to grasp Adam’s arm and march him and Garran from the hall when the large doors burst open and a young boy stumbled in. He caught himself by bracing the spear he held and took several stumbling steps forward before dropping to his knees.
“Bjarne!” Leila cried and rushed to his side.
Melkior was only half a step behind when he knelt next to his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Son, what happened? Where is your brother?”
Bjarne gasped in lungfuls of air and tried to steady his breathing enough to speak. “We fell. A bear attacked us. We killed it, but Aage got mauled.”
“Where is he, son? Where is Aage?”
Bjarne waved a hand toward the doors. “North. Far. We went too far. I told him we shouldn’t go so far!”
The Laird squeezed Bjarne’s shoulder and shook it. “Where, Bjarne? You have to tell me where.”
“I’m not sure. Near the base of the high peaks to the north.”
Melkior stood and shouted to those gathered within the hall. “I need a dozen men to grab torches and come with me. We can follow Bjarne’s tracks back. Someone bring a travois.”
Several Hillmen bolted for the doors. One called back, “It’s started to snow!”
“Blasted hell! We’ll lose the trail before we’re halfway there,” Melkior cursed. “Bjarne, can you find your way back? I know you are exhausted, but we can pull you on a sledge.”
“I…I don’t know, father. I barely made it to a path I knew before it got dark.”
Leila looked to her husband with pleading eyes. “You have to find our son.”
Melkior cast his eyes to the floor and stroked the spear’s haft that lay next to Bjarne. “I will try.”
Adam took several cautious steps toward the grieving laird and his family. “Laird Melkior, does that spear belong to your missing son?”
Melkior stood, gripping the spear in a trembling fist. Here was something at which he could direct his anger and wash away his feeling of helplessness. “You distract me at the cost of your life, flatlander!”
Adam raised his hands in front of his chest. “If that is your son’s spear, I may be able to find him.”
“I’ll have none of your tricks!”
Leila stood and locked eyes with her husband
. “If he can find my son, you had best set aside your anger and pride and let him do so! I will make a pact with the Dark One himself if it brings back my boy!”
Melkior locked eyes with Adam. “I know what you want from me, but my answer is still the same. I’ll not spend the lives of my people even to save my eldest son.”
“I would not ask such a thing. My vows require me to aid those when I can with no thought of reward. I offer because it is right and just. Please, let me help.”
“Set aside your prejudice, husband, or so help me I will bury you next to our son,” Leila promised.
Melkior thrust the spear into Adam’s hands. “If this is another flatlander lie, the manner of your death will be spoken of for generations to come.”
Adam nodded and took the spear. He balanced the haft across the back of one hand and began softly chanting. The weapon teetered precariously for a moment as it rested there then began to slowly turn. It stopped its revolution when the steel tip pointed almost due north.
“He should be precisely in that direction, Laird Melkior.”
“How far?”
Adam shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only tell you the direction, not the distance.”
“What are you all standing about for with your gobs hanging open?” Melkior shouted to his people. “Grab those torches and follow the flatlander!”
Melkior had asked a dozen men to follow him, but at least twice that number headed out into the freezing darkness bearing torches and dragging a sledge. Adam stopped and used his magic on the spear to take their bearing any time an obstacle forced them from their chosen path. Unable to abide by the flatlanders’ slowness, Melkior soon ordered Adam and Garran onto the sledge. Both Anatolians were already exhausted from their trek to the steading and welcomed the respite despite their egos’ denial.
“Nice going, P.T.” Garran whispered as he sat behind Adam on the sledge. “You pissed away an opportunity to negotiate a deal all because of your stupid vows.”
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