The Heretic's Song (The Song's Of Aarda Book 1)

by K Schultz

  Unlike his forge in the homeland, Aelfric made no stores of weapons in Khel Braah. Instead, he and his son made plowshares and pruning hooks, tools and tack. They shod mithun and tempered tools, but the blacksmith’s skills ensured Aelfric’s livelihood. The surrounding settlers had never learned to work iron. The city was distant, and iron implements, expensive because of the distance.

  His skills were in high demand even if he was not. The villagers needed him, so they tolerated him and his family. It took years to win that tolerance, since the Abrhaani were always suspicious of him. Given the history of their two peoples, they had good reasons.

  The Eniila had fought the Abrhaani because they trespassed on Eniila lands. After the battles for the coastal cities Aelfric enslaved the Abrhaani they captured and sent them to the interior of Baradon where they now labored in the mines and smelters. He deplored the massacre that took place at E’shook. In part, he attempted to make restitution for the shameful actions of his followers there, but that too had failed.

  It was difficult convincing an Abrhaani captain to give them passage to Kel Braah, but gold salved the man’s conscience. Shelhera and Aelfric sailed across the Syn Gersuul to the southeastern side of the island where the captain assured him there were few Abrhaani living nearby. At last, he got the freedom he craved, a life fashioned with his own hands and skills, without interference from others of his kind.

  Aelfric found a promising location for a home near a small stream. When he found jarnbrák in the bog nearby, he praised the gods for bringing him near iron to refine. With his smithing skills and Shelhera’s agricultural knowledge, they could make a good life, and when children came, build a legacy for their children.

  After Aelfric built their new home, in the isolated valley Shelhera got pregnant again soon after the house was complete. When the time came for her to deliver, she escaped death by a narrow margin. Nothing he experienced on the battlefield frightened him as much as the near loss of his beloved wife.

  At the end of her ordeal, Aelfric had a son. Shelhera survived but never regained her strength. They had many happy years as Laakea grew strong and tall like his father, but she could not conceive another child. Years passed happily until she caught a wasting disease, and grew frail and weak. After three miserable years Shelhera drew her last ragged breath one night, while Aelfric held her in his arms. When the end came, he was ashamed of his relief that the ordeal had ended.

  After her death, Aelfric plodded on, silent, sullen, through a fog of pain and regret. He was a ragged collage of raw nerves and guilt. His house, his forge, and even his son gave him no comfort. Everything he built was worthless and pointless.

  The boy asked endless questions. Aelfric should have drawn closer to Laakea, but his grief was fresh and crushed Aelfric between vice-like jaws of loss and loneliness. In retrospect, he was silent when he should’ve communicated, and he shouted when he should’ve been silent. Aelfric’s bitterness over his loss drove Laakea away and he might never see him again.

  Aelfric prayed for his son’s safety and he longed for his presence, but he suspected both prayer and longing were pointless. He knew he provoked the boy with his anger, and frightened him when he brandished the firewood, while raging at him. The things he said hurt the lad, and the boy retaliated by cursing him. Although Laakea dishonored him, he was proud of Laakea for standing up to him and wanted his son back.

  Aelfric tried to find Laakea the morning after he left, but rain had washed away the tracks and he lost the trail. Aelfric refused to parade his failure as a father in front of Abrhaani villagers by inquiring at the village. Unless Laakea returned of his own accord, he and his son could never reunite.

  Aelfric waited two tendays, lighting a lamp in the window every night, hoping for Laakea’s return. He would have given his eyes to retract his words and have Laakea safe at home. He spent ten long nights pacing the floor of their empty house, his thoughts whirling, in rapid, vicious circles. Aelfric’s loneliness intensified, until he teetered on the edge of madness.

  When he could stand it no longer, he released the sheep from their pen and journeyed to this beach where he and his wife came ashore long ago. He took five days to reach the place where he now stood. Aelfric arrived at dusk and made camp, uncertain why he returned to his landing spot. He looked along the rocky shoreline, his recollections as vivid as the sun glinting off the water.

  “What foolishness,” he thought.

  In his memory, he saw her jumping out of the boat into the water again. Shelhera was laughing, as they reached the shore, standing in the thigh-high surf. Their life together began here, on this beach. Aelfric understood why he had returned; it was a pilgrimage of sorts.

  Once the boat grounded, they unloaded the supplies, and hauled the empty boat further up the beach toward a grove of trees to hide it. Later he came back to turn it upside-down on two large logs to preserve it from decay. Under it, he stored his weapons wrapped in oilskins, and sealed in a brass chest. Aelfric swore never to return and wield the sword in battle. He wandered, until he found himself at the grove again.

  The trees were larger. Underbrush hid the boat from view. He located the hull by pushing his way through the thick growth. Aelfric scraped the moss and leaves from its hull where it lay atop the decaying logs. The boat builders had tarred it to help prevent rot and the tar worked well. He flipped it upright. It appeared sturdy though he was no competent judge of the sea and the craft that sailed it.

  Under the boat, inside the brass chest, lay the oiled skins that wrapped his sword and his war bow. He raided the tomb of his old life and inspected the items. The bone bow was unaffected by the weather, but the bowstring had rotted away and rust pitted the sword where the oil did not protect it. The quiver, covered in mildew contained arrows that were sound. Abandoning these implements of war was a pointless gesture.

  “A man cannot escape his destiny or his past,” he growled. “I am like these weapons, rusty, tattered, and moldy.”

  Aelfric swung the blade in a few practice arcs. The sword remained unchanged, but he had grown old. Stiffness hampered movement in his wrists and shoulders.

  He sat in the bracken and wept, mourning his losses for the first time, succumbing to the grief that held him prisoner for so long. As the sun heated the back of his neck, grief gave way to anger and he stoked the fires of rage to overcome the crushing pain of his losses.

  He arose cursing, snatched his sword from the pile of weapons, and hacked at the thick brush. Aelfric slashed and hacked as if he was in the thick of battle once more. He saw the faces of ghosts. His old foes stood before him passing judgment on him once more, controlling his actions without justification or understanding.

  In an hour, he exhausted his anger, but he had cleared a passageway through the brush to the beach. It was wide enough to pull the boat through and launch it if he wanted. Aelfric realized that was exactly what he wanted, refuge from sixteen years of memories and things reminding him of his pain. To hell with the son who dishonored and abandoned him! To hell with these pensive, passive Abrhaani! He would return to Baradon and make the schemers pay for their treachery. Since he could not escape his destiny, he committed his life to reclaim it.

  Aelfric rested on the grassy bank that overlooked the beach, listening to the breakers and the cries of the gulls. Rage and grief burned out, calm settled on him like a warm blanket. He would return, but, not today.

  In the morning, he started the long walk back to the forge. Aelfric spent sixteen years away from Harthang, the city of his birth but it was time to return. Once Aelfric assessed the political climate in Baradon, he could make detailed plans.

  If Aelrin, his brother, lived it was time to settle his grudge and take back his rightful position. He fought for it, suffered, and bled for it. Once the people learned of his return they would follow him. The people loved him even if their Lords did not. He had decades old scores to settle with Aelrin and the Council of Barons who treated him like a cur. The dog had gro
wn old but it’s teeth remained sharp enough to bite the conspirators.

  Nothing remained to keep him in exile. The anger he held in check, boiled to the surface again. It felt good to be angry, to plot revenge, and envision his hands encircling his treacherous brother’s neck, until Aelrin’s eyes bulged and glazed in death.

  The ghostly faces returned, their voices blending into a savage roar. “The King is dead. Long live the King! Long live King Aelfric!”

  Aelfric looked as deeply into their eyes as any mortal could stand, unable to discern whether they rejoiced or lamented his return. He was beyond caring.

  Chapter 18

  The sun was high in the treetops, when Rehaak’s groans of pain awakened Laakea from his near coma. Laakea checked on Rehaak, who stirred, as he tucked the blanket in around him. Rehaak was feverish. Laakea brought water to wet Rehaak’s lips and got the semiconscious man to swallow a little.

  “You have a hard head my friend, and it’s a good thing, otherwise I’d be sticking you on a pile of firewood and lighting it. You’d be headed to the afterlife,” Laakea said, not expecting an answer, as he lowered Rehaak’s head back onto the bed.

  “I must get more water, but first I’ll fetch the weapons I left behind last night,” he said, knowing that Rehaak couldn’t hear his explanation.

  Laakea dreaded seeing the carnage in daylight as he headed back to the site of the night’s battle. The site of the slaughter was grisly enough in the moonlight, but with the heat and predation by scavengers daylight promised to be much worse. He must return and treat their bodies with honor. Rehaak’s attackers were scoundrels and cowards, but Laakea vowed not to behave with honor.

  Laakea covered their corpses with something to keep the scavengers away, following Abrhaani burial customs. He had no time for proper Abrhaani burials or cremation in Eniila fashion but he hoped to find clues, to their identities, and the reason they attacked Rehaak.

  Carrion birds circling overhead made it easy to find the battle site, evidence the forest attempted to clear away the stains of violence. The sun overhead was hot and made his grisly task even more unpleasant. Laakea chased off the scavengers, before he pulled the bodies into the forest and covered the remains with brush and debris, glad he skipped breakfast this morning. The smells of death and decay brought on fresh waves of nausea. If he had eaten, he would have had more energy, but he didn’t want a repeat performance of last night’s gut-wrenching vomiting. It neared late afternoon before he finished.

  Laakea did not find clues to the identities of the dead men but he noticed something significant, although he did not know what it meant. He saw markings when one brigand’s shirt slid aside revealing tattoos across his chest and shoulders. The tattoos prompted Laakea to check the others. Each one had the same basic design with different runes included. Laakea suspected members of a secret society might carry such emblems. Either someone hired them to attack Rehaak, or their organization carried a grudge against his friend.

  After he dealt with the bodies, he scooped up their scant belongings. Laakea sorted through the stuff back at the clearing and tried to make sense of it. His head spun and hunger muddled his thoughts. He had gained six more long knives, like the ones Rehaak had stashed these in fireplace niche. These were his lawful spoils, to use as he saw fit. Laakea now had more than enough metal to cold-forge arrowheads.

  He entered the hut in time to see Rehaak slump back onto the bed with a groan.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “Like a boulder fell on my head. What happened?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Nothing after leaving the Miller’s.”

  “Six men attacked you on the trail. One of them knocked a chunk out of the side of your head, as I arrived.”

  “What were you doing out there? I told you to stay —”

  “If I’d listened to you — you’d be dead!” he interrupted.

  “Good point, but try to make any further points quietly please. I have a headache.”

  “I’d say you’re lucky to still have a head,” Laakea said, with a grin, relieved that his friend was recovering.

  “Did you drive them off then?”

  Laakea paused before answering. “Sort of — I drove them into the next life — I killed them.” His face flushed at the memory.

  “Six men? You’re just a boy! Ah, my head.”

  “Stay calm and don’t bellow. I imagine its worse when you shout than when I do.”

  “You are right. But you killed six?”

  “Just five, you killed one before they split your head open. You must rest. I’ll get you more water and put it by the bed. We can talk later.”

  “A man’s life is not taken as easily in real life, as in hero’s tales. You will need time to heal from the psychic wounds arising from killing men,” Rehaak advised, as he lay back on the bed.

  Laakea watched as his friend closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the agony.

  “Do you need something for the pain?” he asked

  Rehaak told Laakea how to prepare herb tea. Once the tea took effect, he drifted off to sleep again.

  After Rehaak fell asleep, Laakea fed himself. He had eaten neither breakfast nor lunch and it was near evening. He felt as weak as his wounded friend. Eniila weakened without regular meals. Laakea knew little of the healing arts, but he was glad the tea brought relief to his friend.

  Laakea sorted the belongings of Rehaak’s attackers and tried to make sense of Rehaak’s assault, but he found no clues why the men attacked his host. Rehaak had told Laakea the story of an earlier attack, by men bearing similar weapons. Who organized the obvious conspiracy that targeted Rehaak?

  Scholars made unlikely targets for assassinations, but this particular scholar might still have other secrets that provoked a lethal response from someone. A powerful person or organization coordinated these efforts, but who had enough power, and malice toward Rehaak, to use power in this deadly way?

  Laakea needed better weaponry and increased vigilance in case more attacks occurred. The increasing numbers involved in each attack demonstrated an escalation. He needed Aelfric’s help to forge weapons to combat this threat, or he needed to manufacture his own, but he needed a forge and tools for that to happen.

  Aelfric had told Laakea it was time for him to do his journeyman project at the forge, but his departure prevented Laakea’s final test of skill, making a sword, since swords were the most difficult to master. Forging a weapon that handled well required planning, patience and experience.

  The long knives provided Laakea with enough raw materials. He could cold-forge the arrowheads here, with metal he recovered from them, but he needed swords for close combat, and it might cost his life to use his father’s forge.

  As soon as Rehaak could travel, they must go to his father’s house. Laakea needed to convince his father that Rehaak needed their help, even if Aelfric killed him. Ironically, Laakea’s death would ensure that Aelfric helped Rehaak. The custom of Blood Debt was a two-edged weapon. The Warrior Code required that the winner of a dispute, assume the obligations and responsibilities of the loser. Duelists disclosed debts and obligations before the fight began, so that each combatant knew in advance, what his new responsibilities entailed.

  The Code used this custom to balance the scales of Eniila society, and eliminated frivolous challenges. It weeded out the bullies. The cost of defeat was death, a high cost indeed, but when winners assumed another man’s responsibilities and debts, victory was not cheap. It was common practice to borrow huge amounts of money, to discourage anyone from issuing challenges against them. Shrewish wives had much the same effect according to his father, as did large families, or indigent relatives. The rich childless man with a sweet-tempered wife needed every battle skill he could muster.

  If Laakea swore a Sword Oath to Rehaak, the Warrior Code compelled his father to help Rehaak, as though Aelfric had sworn to help the scholar with his own mouth. Rehaak got the help he need
ed, regardless of the outcome. If Aelfric killed Laakea, the Code forced him to assume Laakea’s obligations to Rehaak. The issue that hindered them was Rehaak’s ability to travel.

  Laakea made the arrowheads from the guards and tangs of the long knives while Rehaak slept and recovered. In five days, Laakea made enough broad-heads for the shafts he prepared earlier. If he worked by lamplight tonight, he could attach the broad-heads to the arrows and sharpen them before he slept.

  Laakea checked on Rehaak again, as he did throughout each day. He found Rehaak sitting at the table eating and drinking. Rehaak looked much better, though he noticed that his friend winced as he chewed a crust of bread.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked the injured man. “Do you remember anything from that night?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened from the time you left until you got back, it may help sort things out for you.”

  Rehaak smiled at the boy, “That is a good suggestion. I was unaware you have gained so much wisdom.”

  “I have learned more than I needed, since I came to your aid.”

  Rehaak let the comment pass, and nodded. “Well, I will share my memories, but you must fill in the blanks before I awoke.”

  Laakea agreed with a nod, but sharing the events of that night made him apprehensive He hoped that Rehaak would not reject him for his actions. His earlier experience with Rehaak made Laakea more confident in Rehaak’s friendship, but everyone’s tolerance had limits.

  Evidence of his wild blood lust might be the final sticking point for the tolerant man with the bandaged head. It was one thing to live with a coward, but it was another thing to live with a homicidal maniac. Laakea considered telling just the facts and leaving out the emotion, but he knew Rehaak would sense he was holding back. Laakea decided it was time to stop running from his fears and live with the consequences no matter how it turned out. He might as well just tell the story, and let Rehaak sort out his response for himself.