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

by K Schultz

  “More like fight and die! What can the three of us hope to do, when there may be hundreds, even thousands of the Dark Ones’ followers by now,” Rehaak interrupted.

  “We have more information now. The fact we are encountering opposition shows we’re on the right path. Besides, I doubt they are all trying to kill us. They must be busy with other plots.”

  “I refuse to be responsible for the deaths of friends! You said it yourself, Laakea, we will meet forces we are not powerful enough to overcome!”

  “We ain’t dead yet, and I fer one intends tuh be summat hard tuh kill. We chose dis of our own accord, so yuh ain’t responsible fer nuthin, an I believes dat the One who brought us tugedder can keep us from harm. Yuh may not believe dis, but I know for a fact dat dere are things wors’n death.”

  “I won’t accept any more of your excuses, Rehaak. As soon as I finish my weapons, we will search for your book, though we travel through the gates of death itself. Now tell us what you know of its location.”

  Rehaak sat silent, humbled by the deep acceptance of his two companions. They were far better friends than he deserved. Throughout his days of wandering and searching he had been alone. If he resumed his search, he would have their help and companionship. He treasured their friendship more than all the knowledge in all the books he had read. Now he had comrades to stand beside him, but if he failed them, it might well cost Isil and Laakea their lives.

  That was unacceptable.

  If they separated, they would be harder to find as individuals than they were as a group. While any of them were alive, the Dark Ones could not have Khel Braah. To protect them and for Khel Braah’s safety, he decided to slip away from them at the earliest opportunity. He would continue, but he would continue alone. Every way he looked at it, he would lose their friendship.

  “I will consult my notes,” he lied. “But first let Laakea tell you his story, it will be late before he finishes. It gives us a chance to sleep on what we have heard and shared.” He hoped he hid his deception well enough to fool them.

  Isil and Laakea shared a look but said nothing further.

  Chapter 26

  Laakea began, “I cannot start in the middle, like the two of you. I’m only old enough to have a beginning.”

  You already know my father and mother were both Eniila who raised me here on Kel Braah. My parents came to escape something that happened in Baradon, their homeland. Neither of them told me what caused them to flee Baradon. I don’t understand how my father knew they were safe in the land of the Abrhaani, their ancestral enemies.

  “I suspect he understood that we tends tuh tolerate most tings dat don’t threaten us lad. One lone man and his woman weren’t hardly no threat. Mebbe dat’s duh reason.”

  “Yes, that’s possible, but why did they flee Baradon? Never mind, I will ask him that question, if I see him again and survive the meeting.”

  “Survive seein yer Pa? Are yuh sayin yer own Pa wants tuh kill yuh lad?” Isil asked, incredulous that a father might kill his son.

  “Father may not want to, but The Code requires it.”

  “What kinda nonsense is dis lad?”

  Rehaak smiled, remembering his own astonishment, at the harshness of Eniila customs and laws, when Laakea had first explained them to him. “Now who is interrupting every sentence, Isil?” he chided.

  Isil gave him an evil glare. “Sorry, go on laddy,” she mumbled, contrite at violating her own rules.

  “I am sorry too Isil, I have trouble keeping my story going in a straight line.”

  “It’s fine if you ask questions when you don’t understand, isn’t it Rehaak?” he said, mimicking Isil’s glare. “You keep telling me that questions are the beginning of knowledge.”

  Rehaak looked at the floor in mock humility and said, “I consider myself duly chastened.”

  “Both my parents were weapons masters, both in their use and in their making. My father became a war leader who led our people during the war that drove the Abrhaani out of Baradon. From the time I was old enough to hold a small wooden sword, he trained me to fight. He said it was needful that I be an accomplished warrior, if I was ever to be a true son of his and a true Eniila. I trained with sword, ax, spear, and bow every day.”

  “Many days I performed the drills with one hand, the other tied behind me. The next day he bound the opposite arm and made me repeat the drills, until I could fight equally well with either hand. Father said that it was important because I might lose a hand or an arm in battle. The limb might grow back but not soon enough to save me.”

  “Eniila limbs grow back?” Rehaak interjected in amazement.

  “Hush now, Rehaak, yuh can discuss dat later. Let duh lad talk.”

  “Did yer Da not jus leave yuh be a child?”

  “I had time for play, and stories in the evenings. I also helped my mother in the gardens and I loved listening to her sing. She had the most beautiful voice.”

  Laakea fell silent as tears formed at her memory. He swallowed hard, keeping them from overflowing. Isil pretended not to notice, as he struggled to control his feelings. She wanted to save him from further embarrassment, so she silently waited for him. Although his voice was threatening to crack and give away his vulnerability, he mastered his emotions and began again.

  “My mother died three years ago of a wasting illness. After that, Father changed. He grew harder than the steel he forged. Each day he became more unreasonable and impossible to please. One night, we got into a huge ruckus. I dishonored him. I cursed him to his face.” Laakea stopped short. He assumed the logic of his statement was obvious.

  Isil looked at Laakea in puzzlement. When he didn’t respond, she looked at Rehaak to see if he could explain what the boy meant. Rehaak shrugged and pointed with his chin in Laakea’s direction, as if to say, “Ask him.”

  “Parents and young’uns bin scrappin as long as dere’s bin families, I reckon. Den dey forgets ‘bout it and goes on livin. Dat’s what families does.”

  “Not Eniila families, if the child is male and old enough to be accountable for his actions. You don’t understand, Isil.”

  “Yuh be dead right bout dat young’un. How ‘bout yuh ‘splain it tuh me?”

  “Honor is everything to an Eniila. We vigorously defend our honor. Once an Eniila boy becomes a man, he has to live according to the Warrior Code. It is the Eniila law. He is accountable for every word and action, which means if he causes insult, injury or commits crimes of any kind he must face trial.”

  “I am followin yuh so far lad, we have laws, and magistrates, tuh decide duh guilt and punishment of criminals too. We’re not barbarians.”

  Rehaak struggled to hold his tongue, as he listened to their exchange, but he let the boy finish his story, without interference or support. Isil was having the same difficulties that Rehaak had when learning about Eniila culture. He too felt the Eniila had barbaric customs.

  “Not a magistrate, or a court, Isil, Trial by Combat. Injury or insult requires a Blood Debt in payment. The person who suffered the offense, challenges the wrongdoer and the outcome of their duel determines wrong and right. Combat may take place either at once or at the whim of the injured party. The survivor is declared innocent in the eyes of the law and the guilty person pays the Blood Debt with his life.”

  “Dat’s barbaric! How can dat be justice? Duh strongest would always be takin from duh weakest.”

  “You have good reasons to think that. Father often said, ‘Though the gods decide the outcome of the combat, they favor the better armed and well prepared.’ That’s why he said it was so important for me to fight well. There are several Cities of Refuge, for those who can’t or won’t fight.”

  Rehaak could hold back no longer. “The Eniila have ways of curbing excesses too Isil. For example, the winner must assume the loser’s obligations to family or creditors. I don’t pretend to understand it either but let him continue.”

  “Fine, but I still think it’s a stupid arrangement,” she har
rumphed. “Go ahead and finish.”

  “Oh yes and I forgot about hired Avengers too,” said Laakea.

  “You never told me about them, or did you?” asked Rehaak. “Sorry, never mind, continue your story. We can talk about that later too.”

  “I not only insulted my father, I cursed him.” He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a small child.

  “Because of my disrespect to him, he had the right to demand Trial by Combat according to The Code. I knew that I could never defeat him. The gods wouldn’t allow me to win, because he is a better fighter, and because I am guilty. I fled like a coward, ran from my fate, and from justice. That makes me both a coward and a fugitive. If I flee to a City of Refuge, I can live there, but I can’t reach one since those cities lie across the Syn Gersuul in Baradon. Unless I find one, my father can attack me and kill me, or he could hire an Avenger to do it.”

  “Seems tuh me dat runnin away be more an act o’ common sense dan cowardice, tuh my way o’ thinkin. Why couldn’t he have just extended k’harsa tuh yuh?”

  Laakea ignored her interruption. He didn’t want to get side tracked into Rehaak’s murky definition of that term again, so he continued. “As things stand now, according to The Code, any Eniila designated by my father as his Avenger, can challenge and kill me on sight with no penalty. If I find my way to a City of Refuge, I can never leave it, unless I become a member of The Brotherhood.”

  Laakea looked to Rehaak for help with the explanation, since it wasn’t getting through to Isil.

  “Your explanation is just fine lad. Isil understands what you told her, but she does not believe civilized people should settle their differences that way.”

  Indignation overcame Isil, and her words spilled out, like water boiling out of a pot left on the fire. “Blamed right! Lot o’ nonsense! Parents killin dere children, after duh grief o’ bearin em and raisin em. Dat’s idiotic!” She finished and gave a final exasperated look at Laakea and fell silent.

  “Well, that’s Eniila justice,” Laakea replied, with a defensive tone. “If I see my father, he has a duty, to test me on the field of honor according to The Code. Only the strongest are fit to live.”

  “And where is he now?” Isil asked of no one in particular.

  “I don’t know,” both men responded in unison.

  “So he could come bustin in and start hackin at yuh, any moment?”

  “That is true, Isil,” Rehaak interrupted, “but I believe he has gone off somewhere. I do not know where or why. I know how Laakea handles himself in a battle. Although he is still young and inexperienced, he is lethal. Aelfric is a much more seasoned warrior than Laakea. None of us either individually or even together could defeat a warrior the likes of his father.”

  “Den why are we still hangin around here like duh stink on shit?”

  “Because I want to complete the weapons I need, to protect Rehaak’s sorry backside, from the assassins.”

  “Well why are we sittin around tellin yarns den? Git tuh work, both o’ yuh!”

  “That’s part of the problem, Isil. The metal is special. I can’t forge it like regular steel.”

  “Well use regular steel den and stop messin around!”

  “I would if I had enough steel,” Laakea growled, with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Exactly,” Rehaak said. “But we me gain more from the riddle of this stuff than just better weapons.”

  Laakea nodded in agreement. “If I can master the secret of this metal, I will learn something important to our future survival.”

  “Or it may just be an exercise in character building for us both,” Rehaak interrupted with a smile. “Look how we have changed through our efforts.”

  “Yup, I noticed dat right off,” Isil leered at the men. “I likes muh men all hot and sweaty with big muscles, but mebbe yuh been tryin tuh use duh wrong methods on dis stuff. I mean if it ain’t steel mebbe yuh should stop trying tuh work it like steel”

  Laakea shot out of his seat as if jabbed in the backside by red hot metal from the forge. “Why didn’t I think of it? I’m and idiot.”

  “What an incredible revelation, I knew that long ago,” jibed Rehaak. “But what are you saying?”

  “Isil’s right Rehaak; I’ve been doing this wrong. I just remembered a song my father sang at the forge. He learned the song from his father, a work song passed along from father to son.”

  “Ehlbringa, they called it. Stronger than steel, light as feathers, the color of old sea-ice. Father said the ancients worked it, before The Sundering. No one has seen it in centuries. Its source was deep in the roots of the mountains. Father never saw Ehlbringa, but his grandfather claimed that our family worked it in ancient times, though he never saw it either. His grandfather also claimed our ancient ancestors were the greatest smiths and warriors who ever walked the face of Aarda.”

  “And I bet they were fifteen feet tall, had eyes like molten lava, and ate whole mithun for breakfast, uncooked, of course,” Rehaak joked.

  “Yuh’d figure that a man chasin a lost book across duh entire world, fer most o’ his life’d be more tolerant of others people’s legends, wouldn’t yuh lad?”

  Laakea and Isil both glared at Rehaak.

  He stopped smirking and fell silent.

  “I have found nothing in the manuscripts about Ehlbringa.”

  “Dat don’t mean it ain’t dere. What was important tuh Laakea’s people mightn’t a bin considered important tuh ours. Maybe our great scholars should’ a bin more thorough in what dey included in dere writin’s.”

  “Yuh said it yerself; we lost too much from duh ol’ days. I be thinkin dat mebbe dey weren’t as thorough as dey should’a bin or yuh should’a bin more thorough in yer research. Yuh ain’t found duh location of duh Aetheriad yet by all yer searchin, either has yuh Mr. Scholar, but does dat mean it ain’t real?” Isil said.

  “No, you are right. I have not seen every document ever written.”

  “Another idea occurs to me. I did not know it existed so I never asked questions about it. I have discovered that though we speak the same language, we use words that Laakea does not comprehend. For example, he does not understand k’harsa,” Rehaak replied, chastened by Isil’s tirade.

  “I’m not surprised he doesn’t understand dat word, duh way his people live, dere is none of it among ‘em, or in ‘em,” Isil interrupted.

  “It is not one sided. Laakea has words I don’t understand either. That is correct, is it not Laakea?”

  “Uhm — I guess so. I wasn’t listening to you.”

  “Probably duh wisest choice, in dis case, young’un,” Isil needled.

  “I am trying to remember the words to that song, the only song my father ever taught me, called; The Song of the Smith. It’s strange, because my father rarely sang. Mother sang often and Father didn’t, except for this one song. I’m convinced it tells me how to work the metal of the blades, if I can understand it.”

  “Can yuh sing it to us den lad?”

  “Good idea,” Rehaak chimed. “I don’t think I have ever heard you sing, hum or even whistle.”

  “My voice might crack but I will sing it for you if you both promise not to laugh.”

  “Go ahead lad.”

  Laakea took a deep breath and began singing. It was more chant than song. He was hesitant at first, but then gained confidence as he continued in a fine baritone without the boyish squeaks that often broke through lately.

  Blacksmith, fireborn, fierce and able,

  Selvyn stands at Hyrim’s table,

  He drains the flask giv’n by the King.

  Takes Ehlbringa he is given,

  That from Aarda’s heart was riven,

  He gives his promise to the King.

  He alone has heard the call,

  Come to stand in Hyrim’s hall.

  He stands alone before the King

  Feather-light like sea-ice it shone.

  Steel, such strength could
never own

  He will work it for the King.

  Fire burns within his blood,

  He needs no charcoal or no wood,

  Weapons he promises the King.

  Master of the forge and flame,

  He calls the metal by its name,

  His will forms weapons for the King.

  None before him had the skill,

  To bend Ehlbringa to their will,

  For the armies of the King.

  Takes the fire in his hands,

  Forms the metal where he stands,

  In the presence of the King.

  Those who want to work the same,

  Must not fear the heat or flame,

  Must only fear its Maker.

  Call the metal by its name,

  Stretch the hand and hold the flame,

  Sing out to The Maker.

  Draw the fire deep inside,

  Mold Ehlbringa thin or wide,

  Calling on The Maker.

  Seek the shape within the mind.

  Fingers form, the flame’s design

  Sons of the Great Maker.

  Sons who never fear the flame,

  Sons who bear The Maker’s name,

  Never shall they falter.

  Those who quail must bear the loss,

  Fire will require a cost,

  At his flaming altar.

  Rehaak had a powerful urge to join Laakea in his song although he knew neither the words nor the melody. He thought his own song of thanksgiving might mesh well with Laakea’s. He dismissed it as foolish fancy and concentrated on the words and melody just as Laakea finished singing.

  “Well dat was entertainin fer sure, but I don’t see how dat’s gonna help yuh. A body can’t take fire in his hands and sing tuh metal tuh make it do what he wants. Sounds like plain foolishness tuh me.”

  “Perhaps you’re right Isil. Sometimes people write things as metaphors and symbols of what is real. We’re too tired now to think clearly. A new day and fresh minds will help us understand the bard’s meaning.”