Strife & Valor: Book II of The Rorke Burningsoul Saga

by Regina Watts

  “I burned the fields,” said Gundrygia, “and chased the fools from Soot into the hills—just as mankinds burned the fields of all my creatures whenever they endeavored to settle somewhere and begin their own agricultural communities. I used my magic to show them what it’s like to lose everything…and now, Wotsung, I think I’ll show you.”

  Never had I heard that word in all my days beneath Weltyr’s eye, but there was no time to ponder it. Gundrygia’s eyes glowed a hot violet-pink, the air around her shifting to a similar hue. I released my companions, ready to meet an opponent I was not confident I could best—

  And a pair of ravens bolted from the dark, their beaks and talons poised for Gundrygia’s eyes.

  Amazing to think that a woman so terrifying might be afraid of anything in turn! Yet the sharpness of her scream as the ravens descended to tear at her face and scalp was like the wail of a dying banshee. As she howled with fear, the visible evidence of her magic vanished. Instead Gundrygia raised her arms before her eyes and cringed away. Her gimlet servants scattered, the little cowards, and the lantern fell from her hands.

  To my awe, one of the ravens caught the lantern’s handle and flew off with the hefty relic gripped in its black claws.

  While this mighty bird—surely more than twice the size of even the largest raven I had ever seen about the streets of Skythorn—bore the lantern from Soot, its brother continued the vicious assault against Gundrygia. Cringing face filled with terror, the woman cast me a look, grit her teeth, and drew the hem of her dress up over her head.

  The twisting fabric transformed in an instant to the plumage of a snowy owl. Shrieking in this new form, Gundrygia flapped silently off with the second raven in close pursuit.

  I had to make a choice, and made it in an instant. Without saying a thing to Valeria or Branwen, I tore off after the fast-receding ball of light that marked the raven with the lantern.

  The women called after me, but there was no time to waste. I was already far behind the bird and, encumbered as I was by my armor, it flew farther and farther beyond the possibility of my acquisition. The raven soared effortlessly beneath the pale face of the obscured moon, the beating of its widespread wings evident in the lantern’s golden light.

  Less effortlessly, I pursued it. On and on: it flying, me running, I thought of nothing but getting Odile’s lantern back safe and sound. The treasure was too valuable…and, after it had been identified by Gundrygia as that same relic Fortisto had mentioned, I could not let it go without a fight.

  I was just not prepared for the fight I was due.

  Focused as I was on the bird, I did not realize how far it had led me outside of Soot’s boundaries until the ball of light descended not far from the site of our horseback lesson. Seeing my chance, I paused only for a few short breaths before doubling my pace. Strife bounced in its scabbard to keep the pace of my steps. Moments later, I stumbled into a quarry of stones and through these high piled stones followed the raven’s call. Its croaking laughter was gradually rendered unnecessary by the glow of the light that led me to itself…and to the old man at whose feet it shone.

  After all I had been through in the past forty-eight hours, I could hardly believe my eyes. Thinking my vision failed me, I blinked several rapid times—but Hildolfr was no mirage.

  Much as he had when represented by that nameless creature in the secret garden cave of the Nightlands, the ranger sat upon the edge of a great stone. This time, rather than tending to his pipe, the one-eyed old man and last of my traitors sat with one hand upon his knee while the other remained casually draped about the lance forever within his reach. His familiar raven, its feathers glossy in the light, perched upon his left shoulder to casually groom itself.

  “Hello, Rorke,” said Hildolfr, his tone strangely mingled somewhere between pride and sorrow. “It’s good to see you again.”

  My heart was as stony as his seat. “I wish that I could say the same. Each time Weltyr has deigned to show you to me has proved more painful than the last.”

  Hildolfr’s lips quirked beneath his beard. “Is that so?”

  “Indeed, it is. First, a heinous creature of the Nightlands stole your form to address me; next, you appeared to me in a dream. Now you’re here: a hallucination brought on by ceaseless, sleepless riding and the fatigue of a hard-fought battle.”

  “Life would be much simpler for you were I not before you now, Rorke Burningsoul…but it would also be the same as everybody else’s life. And you’ve never been satisfied with the idea of living everybody else’s life. Isn’t that why you joined the Order?”

  “I joined the Order in service to Weltyr, whom I thought you yourself knew nearly as well as I did. Your treachery down in the Nightlands proves otherwise. What have you done with the Scepter?”

  “I have taken it out of the hands of those who would misuse it.”

  With a scoff, I drew Strife. The ranger remained where he sat, unmoving.

  “All night,” I said, unable to help the frustration in my voice. “I’ve been asking simple questions and receiving no answer. This night, this journey, my whole life! I’m tired of it. I’ll ask you again, you old snake—where is the Scepter? Or is it in the same place you left that missing eye of yours?”

  Now Hildolfr laughed, albeit in the dark way of a disbelieving adult to whom a toddler had just spoken crossly. “My missing eye is the one you see through now, Paladin. I cast away my foolishness…now it stands before me.”

  The second raven croaked in the distance and earned the attention of the first. With a flapping that whipped up a miniature gale, the bird upon Hildolfr’s shoulder rocketed into the air and flew to find its cohort. I let it go without looking away from my opponent, saying only, “I can’t stand here chatting all night, Hildolfr. There’s a madwoman about—”

  “Gundrygia fears the very sight of me. She’ll be nowhere near here while my birds are about.”

  “You always were very coy about your animal companion.”

  “I was forthright…when you asked me about them, I told you they were out in the world, off doing my business for me. And they were.”

  “I hope for their sake that they are talented fighters enough to survive Gundrygia’s magic. What business do you have knowing that baleful woman’s name?”

  “What business do you have knowing that baleful woman?”

  While I scoffed, somewhat shocked to be evidently reproached for something this man had neither business nor manner of learning, Hildolfr’s stoic lips turned up in a crooked smirk. It was a fond, grandfatherly expression that at that moment enraged me for what I perceived as mocking intent.

  “You do remind me of myself, Rorke…when I look at you, I remember what it was to be young. Sometimes I even long for it again, but I admit that my spirit is more peaceful without the young man’s pursuits.”

  “What would you know of me, Hildolfr? The past weeks have seen me so changed that I hardly know myself.”

  “I’m glad you’re starting to understand that.”

  My jaw tight, I brandished Strife and assured him, “Since you understand so much about me and my journey, perhaps you’ll manage to make me understand what drove you to such perverse lengths as absconding with the Scepter of Weltyr.”

  “The Scepter is mine.”

  “It is the All-Father’s property. It belongs in his house.”

  “It belongs in whomever’s hands he sets it in, Burningsoul. For years, it has been trading owners. Awaiting a worthy champion of Weltyr.”

  “It awaits its chance to return home to the Temple. You think you know the highest divine will?”

  “No,” said Hildolfr quickly. “Not even I know those cold machinations without assistance. There are magics so deep and experiences so profound not even the most educated and ancient magician could experience them and live.”

  I shook my head. “At least you’re not completely mad. Grimalkin said you were changed when the Scepter came into your hand…I didn’t want to believe it, b
ut this conversation has given me the sense that he might be right.”

  “Careful, boy.” Rising from his perch with his lance in one hand and his good eye upon me, Hildolfr advised, “You know I abide much, but such consistent disrespect is not something I will tolerate.”

  “Then prepare to yield the Scepter.”

  Strife’s blade gleamed in the light as I charged forward.

  “Rorke—”

  I had seen Hildolfr’s speed in battle, but I had not been faced with it myself. The lance seemed to jump up in his hand. With a grace that was truly second nature, Hildolfr bounced my blows aside and left me wondering what enchantment had been woven over the tight-lipped man’s weapon. Runes glowed around the shaft when it was in the midst of battle, but, as with many things, Hildolfr had always managed to change the subject when I inquired about it. He was as crafty with the dagger of his tongue as he was with the point of his spear, and while our weapons clashed, each glance of Strife reverberated through the quarry rocks and off into the distance.

  “Give it up, Rorke,” said Hildolfr. “I didn’t come here to harm you, and I won’t—but what will happen instead will seem almost worse to you.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, old man,” I told him, shifting away and swinging Strife in an arc against my opponent.

  Hildolfr raised his lance to block the blow.

  The top half of Strife glanced away, jarring my hands with the new and lighter weight they gripped.

  Like that, I wielded only half my sword.

  My stomach turned itself inside out. An infinite number of thoughts flew through my mind—the future duel, the ominous nature of such a sign, the immediate threat to my life in the context of this conflict. But, most of all, the teachings of my Church reared up to my consciousness and shook me from my naive slumber.

  The enchantments fused into the metal of the blade were prayers so powerful that they could only be broken by Weltyr.

  I could not admit it. It was too much to see him. If I had believed it fully while I stood there, I would have gone mad—terribly mad. I would have shaken with fear as I did later on when I considered what had happened, and what had been happening for the entirety of my journey. For the entirety of my life.

  Feeling as if my own numb heart had been struck in two, I regarded the shattered edge of Strife’s blade as though from a distance, then tried looking up into Hildolfr’s face.

  I could not make myself.

  Slowly, silently, I genuflected upon the ground, first to lower the broken blade and then to clasp my hands together.

  “I am so sorry,” I said softly.

  “To whom do you owe your fealty?”

  My heart hammered in my chest. Face flushed, I knelt there, frozen. Was this how the mouse felt before the cat? I closed my right hand into a fist to place it over my heart. How wet my palm felt with sweat! “To Weltyr, and Weltyr only—Weltyr above all the most coveted material bribes that Urde could dare offer me.”

  “Your loyalty’s not to the Church? To the Order?”

  Given pause, I searched for a trap. I glanced up into his face but found that I could not ever again directly behold the eye that was once so friendly to me. Fear filled me to even gaze near it. I had never known myself to be a coward, but I suppose now that only the greatest of fools would persist in bravado when faced with the truth that admonished me then. Glancing down at his boots, I said, “No—only to Weltyr.”

  “And that is why I am entrusting you with this task.”

  My mouth dry, my eyes searching for any purchase upon his person and in the end not even able to hold the sight of his boots, I studied the earth beneath them instead. “Please, my Lord—what task is this?”

  I am still not convinced that his answer pertained to what he considered my true task, knowing as he did that the information was too overwhelming to be delivered to me then. “You must protect the women who are meant to perpetuate your line,” he answered instead, which was also the truth. “You must teach your children to live by my laws and wander far and wide, spreading knowledge of me as neither the Church nor the Order can disseminate.”

  “Are these institutions not manifestations of your word? Are they not the enforcers of your will upon Urde?”

  “No institution can understand the teachings I provide. Only a Wanderer can carry my news about, and only a Wanderer can understand it—but those to whom the Wanderers carry my news are doomed to only understand such things insofar as it suits them.”

  Lips dry, my gaze still darting about, I asked, “Do you mean to say it is my destiny to leave the Order?”

  “All these things will sort themselves in time.”

  To my astonishment—and, somehow, greater fear—he lowered his lance to the ground and slowly knelt before me. Hildolfr’s once-familiar hands fit to my shoulders and I forced myself to keep my eyes open.

  “You’re wise to humble yourself, Rorke,” he said in that same grandfatherly manner from before, “but you, of all men, have little need to fear.”

  The crown of my skull itched as I looked upon him. This was the aged face of the same friend with which I’d journeyed to the Nightlands—a man with whom I’d ridden horses and sparred while traveling and flirted with women all over Cascadia.

  And all this time…all this time.

  “Master,” I said, my throat parched, “why me? What purpose serves my line?”

  I paused, searching his face, afraid to ask more but unable to help myself.

  “What is a “Wotsung?””

  The smile that crossed his face was one I had rarely seen Hildolfr wear. His good eye crinkled with the appearance of teeth that were bright, white, and perfectly straight, each one gleaming in the light of the lantern.

  “You have much to learn, Burningsoul…and your companions are nearly here. Protect them, and love them, and find others who will see the wisdom in your heart.”

  For some reason, I thought of gentle Elishta-bet—and the duel, for which I now had no weapon. “My sword! Oh, what am I to do about Strife?”

  “Never challenge me again,” he said, releasing me and rising while I studied the ground at his feet, “and you will find a sword in your moment of greatest need.”

  I exhaled, lifting my head to ask him so much more.

  Instead of the man who called himself Hildolfr, I found the Scepter of Weltyr.

  ORDER RESTORED

  A GREAT TENSION released upon my sudden solitude. My armor rattled around me while my body collapsed into tremors, the euphoria to be alive mingling with profound fear, respect, and gratitude.

  It was impossible to comprehend what had just happened. Impossible to think that I had just been met with (and journeyed with before!) the most powerful of the gods. The Great All-Father, whose far-seeing eye uncloaked the contents of all the world’s shadows.

  And the evidence of my bond with him had been shattered by his sacred lance.

  My heart twisted in pain. The broken sword still lay before me on the ground. Unspeaking, I lifted both pieces of Strife to my heart. How easily I might have met the fate of this sword!

  How easily I might (any second, every second) meet the fate of that sword even now.

  Overwhelmed by tears, I covered my eyes in one hand and silently wept.

  As far as I had already journeyed, as close to death as I had come, as many battles as I had already fought in my then-short life, I did not tangibly awaken to my own personal fear of death until that very moment. It were as though Weltyr had forced me to draw nearer it by steps: first, with the pain of Adonisius for his family and my new regard for the act of killing. Then, by sparing me in spite of my arrogance.

  My body screamed with relief to be alive, to know itself—to have its future, its past, itself. Friendly chemicals as I had never felt swept through me…but I had been left with something that I knew from that very moment would never depart me. Aware of Oppenhir’s shadow as I suddenly was, feeling its palpable black form cast across my face, (and, worse, u
nderstanding that it had always been there, waiting for me to notice), I knew that I had not escaped it. That none, truly, could ever escape it.

  None save for those who, by the grace of Weltyr and the gentle hands of his Selectrices, joined the Hall of Valor.

  With a glance at the scepter reclining against the rock where Hildolfr sat moments before, I remained kneeling and shut my eyes. With Strife still pressed to my breastplate, I prayed as even I had never prayed before, with my attention focused on whole-heartedly celebrating what it was to be alive. Yes! Just to be alive. To be blessed with a mind and conscious perception and Weltyr’s great gift of Reason—one of the greatest powers granted us. To be alive, and to have therefore the conscious basis of reality and all its nuances: the wonders of the sense-organs, the majesty of the sun, the loving arms of a woman, the promises of things unknowable but hoped for and all the adventures of the future.

  And yet to be alive so tentatively. To be alive on the face of a vessel circling a ball of fire amid a cold, black ocean. To be one heartbeat away from nothing—nothing. To be one heartbeat away from not even knowing nothing.

  As if any man could.

  “Rorke!”

  Branwen’s call seemed only to reinforce the beauty of the All-Father’s gifts. How ignorant I had been to scorn her for even a moment! How ridiculous I was to hang the mistakes of anyone over their character and judge them by these flaws. Was I not the most flawed among all men I had known, even if only to myself? How dared I sourly close my heart against fully loving Branwen when her betrayal had been Weltyr’s will? How could I help but forgive her when she, hearing my footfall as I rose to call to her, burst into the quarry where I prayed?

  “He’s here,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth, “he’s here, Valeria!”

  Branwen’s smile turned upon me again—but how her face fell when she saw Strife in my hand!

  “Rorke! What’s happened?”