“Ronen,” Brynjar answered, “my beloved son.”
“Are you,” Hector probed hesitantly, “are you sure they’re dead? Maybe Derek only took them prisoner.”
“I watched them die!” Brynjar snapped.
Hector wished he had said nothing. “I thought,” he responded, trying to fix his mistake, “I thought you were already on your way to the Valley, because Lord Bayl—”
“I disobeyed his orders!” the Drengar shot back. “When night fell, I returned to our village. That was when Drystan attacked our home. He killed Bayl, and when he had finished... my wife was a strong woman, but even she could not stand up to that... creature. That monster.” His voice broke again. “And then Ronen.”
“There was nothing you could have—”
“I should have been there!” Brynjar yelled, waking other prisoners. “I should never have left!” Hector heard him rise to his feet and rattle the bars in his fury. “I should have died with them!”
The Keldan guards came running, shouting for silence. They opened Brynjar’s cell and shoved him back onto his pile of straw. Brynjar roared at them incoherently. They slammed the door shut and ordered him repeatedly to be silent. At last, his shouts faded, and they left.
When they had gone, Hector said softly, “For what it’s worth, Brynjar, if you had, I would have long ago died here. And Drystan would have won.”
Brynjar sighed. “I know.” There was a long pause, then Brynjar repeated sadly, “I know.” He was unapologetic; Hector realized that he would trade Hector’s life for his family’s, and the Alkimite wished he could make that trade.
Curling up on his straw bed, Hector cried softly for the pain he had caused, until he fell asleep.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The ninth of the month of Ennemen
Early in the first hour
The next morning, Hector awoke as Folguen approached to rouse them for their battle. He had kept a fitful night, with little rest and even less peace. His sorrow still weighed heavily on him, and there was an uneasy pit in his stomach that refused to be ignored.
The Keldan rapped on the bars, and Hector got up immediately. Brynjar was already awake, waiting.
“I heard you had a little shouting match last night,” Folguen joked as he prodded Brynjar from his cell. The Drengar was still limping, but he refused assistance when Hector offered it.
“It was nothing,” Hector interjected, cutting off further comment from the Keldan.
Folguen sneered, disappointed that he had missed out on entertainment. “Fine,” he said angrily, “Don’t tell me. Just get your hides up the ramp.” He prodded a little harder this time, but neither Hector nor Brynjar reacted sharply, nor even increased their pace.
The ramp was filled by the dawn light, and the sharp glare was blinding. Hector tried to block out the sun with his hand, but only succeeded in part. But by the time they reached the gate, his eyes had mostly adjusted, and he looked out on the empty sands of the arena, the pit in his stomach churning over at the sight.
“O Aulus,” he prayed under his breath, “O raiser of armies, O god of the flashing helmet, protect us in battle.” Pausing, he prayed again, “O Aeron, O ruin of mortal flesh, O guide, O god before the gate, prevent our entry and turn us from the River Neth. O gods, you will receive rich sacrifices from me for your favor.”
Brynjar made no comment, no prayer of his own. He stared straight ahead, his eyes overcast by his brow. The darkness in his eyes reminded Hector of when they first met, when Brynjar glowered at him for his childish behavior. The Drengar had more scars now, and improper healing had tightened his skin, making him look like he had aged years instead of weeks.
Hector could not refute his impression that Brynjar was ready to die.
Outside, the announcer was engaging in his usual pomp. It soon came time to introduce the unpopular pair. “In the far field,” the announcer began, “the two foreigners who have wrought destruction on the ranks of our combatants! But today, they must fight the toughest warrior ever to grace our arena! Will they be up to the challenge? I give you... the villains from the west!”
The gate slammed open and the guards forced Hector and Brynjar through it. The two men took their time, and did not run to their place on the eastern side of the oval. As they ambled past the center of the field, Hector checked for weapons—and there were none. He glanced at Brynjar, but the man was intent on his destination, and he saw nothing else.
“On the other side,” the announcer continued, “we have the fiercest hand-to-hand fighter ever to enter Keldan lands! Once a great and powerful chieftain, he was cheated of his authority and exiled from his home by his successor! Once again for your entertainment, I give you... Gershon the Wellite!”
The brute that pounded out of the western gate was either a huge man or a small giant. Hector guessed he was seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick, muscular limbs. He had little doubt that the announcer’s claim was true: this man would be a formidable opponent, even unarmed.
The announcer did not hesitate. “Begin!” he shouted.
Without a cache of weapons in the center of the arena, Hector was not entirely sure what to do. He kept his eye on Brynjar, and tried to follow the older warrior’s lead. The Drengar walked slowly, almost casually, toward his enemy. In turn, Gershon, on the other side of the arena, marched his gargantuan, hulking limbs toward them.
When they were about six paces from each other, all three men stopped. Hector looked from Brynjar to Gershon, then back to Brynjar. His friend, not even blinking, stared solely at Gershon. He seemed confident, assured, as though he knew how everything would turn out. Somehow, that did not assuage Hector’s fears.
The huge warlord looked back and forth between his opponents, trying to judge their skills. At last, he bellowed, “At your leave, you mongrels!”
For the first time since they had awoken, Brynjar spoke. Twisting his lips into a self-assured smile, he answered according to custom: “Aulus with you,” then, “You wretched coward.”
Both men attacked. Brynjar darted in low, trying to take the giant’s legs out from under him, but Gershon saw it coming. He brought his bulky knee up sharply, catching Brynjar in the chest and knocking him aside.
By this point, Hector had thrown caution to the winds. Roaring a battle cry, he charged Gershon’s unprotected back. He turned his head down and aimed to tackle the beast. He knocked Gershon forward a pace, but could not wrestle him from his feet. Then a great paw swung around and caught him in the shoulder, breaking his grip and shoving him away.
Brynjar was up again. He kicked out, aiming for Gershon’s knee. The blow struck, but Gershon turned with it, weakening its effect. The behemoth threw a punch at Brynjar. The warrior dodged, grabbing Gershon’s wrist as it passed. He twisted, turning his back on the colossus, but he got his shoulder under Gershon’s elbow. Gripping the other man’s wrist, he brought it down sharply.
From the ground, Hector heard a crack resound throughout the arena. Gershon groaned in pain, brushing off the injury as though he had simply stubbed his toe. He flailed his broken arm, freeing it from Brynjar’s hold. The tough Wellite continued the assault, with his right arm still working perfectly.
Brynjar backpedaled, trying to escape the heavy series of blows. Blocking did little good; his arms were swatted away with the strength of a bear. He could only dodge, and try to exhaust his opponent.
Hector stood again and chased the enemy down. Gershon was facing away from him, so the young Alkimite attacked his legs. He threw himself bodily at the man’s knees, landing the strike with enough force to bend the joints. Gershon fell to all fours as his momentum carried him forward. Hector clambered over him, trying to wrap his arms around the thick neck. Gershon threw his good elbow back, striking Hector in the ribs. The blow knocked the wind out of him, and he let go involuntarily.
Brynjar took advantage of Gershon’s distraction. As Hector fell off, Brynjar swooped in w
ith his fists flying. Gershon took a beating, and by the time he regained his footing and shoved the Drengar away, his nose and mouth were bloodied and one eye was red. Roaring his defiance to the crowds, the huge man charged Brynjar and tackled him. Using his broken arm for leverage, he pinned the man to the ground. Brynjar tried in vain to force him off, but no strike landed effectively.
As Hector crawled to his feet, he tried to catch his breath, but no air would enter his lungs. He desperately gasped for oxygen until a wheezing cough knocked things back to normal. Gulping down the acrid but life-giving stench of the arena, he got up again and looked to the battle.
Gershon still had Brynjar pinned down. Slowly, the brute gripped the Drengar’s head and twisted. At last, there was a snap and Brynjar went limp.
Twenty paces away, Hector couldn’t stop it. Pain and grief fought with the bile and anger rising in his stomach. He could not stop it—and the only way he could live with that was by avenging it. “Brynjar!” he roared in his fury. Forgetting his aching ribs and sore limbs, he took off at a sprint over the sands toward his enemy.
When he collided with Gershon, his training took over. The foundation came from his preparation to join the Alkimite guard; it was reinforced by his fights with Affet; it was crowned by Brynjar’s teaching over the past month. He punched, kicked, and grappled with a man twice his size.
Gershon was taken aback by the ferocity of the attack, but that did not last long. Growling in frustration, he struck out with enough force to kill the boy.
Hector twisted out of the way. Then he ducked, avoiding a flailing swing from the other’s broken limb. Rising sharply, he punched upward. He struck Gershon under his chin, knocking the man back.
Gershon took a few extra steps to create space between them. He turned away, trying to shake the stars from his vision. Hector did not hold back. Closing the distance in a dash, Hector jumped to add the force of gravity to his attack. His fist collided with the side of Gershon’s head at an angle chosen more by chance than skill.
Gershon collapsed.
The crowd was silent.
Hector rushed to his friend’s side. He knelt down, taking the man’s head in his hands. But Brynjar was already dead.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The thirteenth of the month of Ennemen
During the night
“Do the gods impart this ardor to the minds of man, Azos, or is his own fierce desire a god to him?”
Azos looked at Fintan, concern evident on his face. “What are you thinking, my young friend?” he asked.
Fintan pointed at the sleeping Regiment all around them. “After what happened to the Thuites, and to Duncan, I’ve longed to fight these men,” he said, “Look at them. They are drunk from celebrating yet again this night. They’ve cheered for the deaths I caused for ten nights, and I can’t sit idly by any longer.”
“Good,” Einar interrupted, creeping up beside them. Azos glared at him, but he ignored the older Sundan. “It’s time we escaped from here.”
“Escape?” echoed Azos, “We are still far from the Valley.”
“Close enough,” Einar replied, “While they’re still asleep, we break the rest of the prisoners free and go through the woods to the north. We’ll put some distance between us and the Regiment before crossing the fields south of the Valley. Once we reach the Pass of Anthea, we’ll be safe.”
Fintan nodded. “I’m with you, Einar.”
“It’s too risky,” Azos interjected, “We should wait until we’re closer.”
Einar snapped, “If we’re still within sight of the Regiment when we get to the fields, we’ll be dead long before we reach the Valley. There will be no cover and no rest out there. We need to escape now if we’re going to survive.”
Azos sighed and acquiesced. The three men gathered their few belongings and set out across the camp, headed toward the large prison tent they had once called home.
On the way there, they came upon a troop blocking their path with their sleeping bodies. Fintan drew his sword, but Azos caught his arm. Fintan cut short any reproach, whispering, “Azos, I must do this, by my own hand. At last, our situation calls for it: this is our path!”
Azos’ grip tightened. “There must be a safer way,” he whispered back.
Fintan twisted his arm away, breaking his friend’s grasp. “Remember what they have done to us. Remember how they slaughtered our people, our families. Recall that fervor you had to slay every last one of them when we were captured.” He gestured to the sleeping soldiers and said, “Now is our chance.”
Einar interrupted again. “Whatever you do, do it quickly. We haven’t got long.”
Fintan and Azos glared at each other in silence for a few moments, then Azos broke the stare. Slowly, he nodded, then, breathing deeply, he drew his own sword and smiled with grim determination. “Let’s go.”
The two Sundans slew the Leonites in complete silence, eliminating two troops of strong warriors en route to the prisoners’ tent. Einar saw that both of them would have slaughtered the whole camp, given the opportunity. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, briefly and wisely, “Dawn draws near, and the light will not be our friend here. Enough punishment has been exacted, and our route has been made through the enemy.” He gestured toward the tent, now in easy reach.
Sufficiently reprimanded, but aching to continue the fight, the two Sundans followed Einar to the prisoners’ tent. It was the work of a moment to kill the drowsy guard and slip into the canvas jail. The three friends rushed through the place, cutting bonds and rousing the captives.
Then Fintan heard voices of men outside. He gestured for silence, an order too slowly obeyed.
“What’s going on in there?” one of the Leonites asked.
“Where’s the guard?” wondered the other.
They drew closer. Then, suddenly, Fintan heard the telltale sound of swords being drawn. “This man has been killed!” one of the enemy shouted.
The other burst into the tent, weapon high. Fintan dispatched him as quickly as he had arrived, but he could not catch the other man. The Leonite tore away into the night, shouting, “The prisoners are escaping! The prisoners are escaping!”
Fear commanded urgency. The three friends and a host of captives cut through the far side of the tent. “Into the forest!” Einar ordered. Wordlessly, hoping their route would go unnoticed, the prisoners obeyed.
As they passed among the trees, they could hear several troops making chase behind them. “Don’t look back!” Einar called, as softly as he could, driving them onward. This had not gone as planned, the Alkimite lamented. They were supposed to be free and clear, unnoticed until morning; now, the Regiment would be roused early and start their march even sooner. They might even press on through the next night in an effort to catch their lost prisoners. Einar sighed angrily; they had a few more sleepless nights ahead of them.
Fintan helped the captives through the woods. Most were capable men, but several had been weakened by months as slaves to the Regiment. Fintan knew almost all of them from his time in the tent. It seemed like a lifetime since they had followed Einar into the employ of the Regiment, too long to harbor regrets now. Fintan tried to ignore his conscience, berating him for abandoning them to captivity.
A few minutes later, they broke through the trees into the open beyond, climbing a steep hill. As they crested the hill, Fintan looked for Azos, ready to sigh with relief at their escape.
But Azos was not with the rest of the group.
“Azos,” Fintan muttered under his breath, “where did we lose you? All the way back in the woodland?” Turning, he went to the edge of the downward slope, back the way they had come.
He saw Azos stumble out of the woods far below, followed closely by a troop of Leonites.
Fintan drew his sword and started over the cusp of the hill, only to be pulled back at the last moment and thrown to the ground. “It’s too late!” Einar hissed at him, pinning him down, “You won�
��t do any good down there!”
“Then I’ll attack them outright!” Fintan snapped back, struggling to break free, “I’ll bring a quick and heroic death to us both!”
“Don’t be a fool!” Einar answered, “The gods find no heroism in the waste of a life.”
“What am I supposed to do?” demanded Fintan. “It’s my fault he’s down there now. I brought him along, I attacked the Leonites, I brought this down on top of us!” Grief scattered his words past the choking lump in his throat. “He hadn’t dared to do anything, if I hadn’t forced him! It should be me down there!”
“It’s too late,” Einar repeated. Fintan ignored him, pushing to the edge of the hilltop, and he looked down at the scene below. Azos was dead, and the enemy troop was making its way up the slope.
When he saw his fallen friend, Fintan wept. Einar had to drag him to his feet.
The two men chased after the captives, who had continued onward at Einar’s behest.
*
The 2040th year of the Sixth Era
The fifteenth of the month of Ennemen
Late in the tenth hour
Lochan, the tracker for Captain Martin’s troop, watched as the Keldans paraded their chieftain out of his hall to meet with the Leonites. Captain Martin stood with imperious dignity before his nine subordinates, waiting with scowling impatience.
Lochan had done his duty with startling effectiveness. It had been simple enough once he knew from where the Alkimites had come, and where they were going. The sensible choice was to follow the river, which led to the cottage, about two days earlier.
Lochan had told Martin that no one had been there in a month, so Dyseg had broken in. They found unkempt blankets on makeshift beds, and five sets of dishes which had been cleaned just before the inhabitants’ departure. Lochan discerned that the Alkimite travelers had stopped there, and gained a new companion, likely a hermit. The rest of the troop had been more interested in the large stores of well-preserved food.
The Chimaera Regiment Page 13