by Teresa Grant
Nat quickly laid out his plan. He expected them to balk and argue and want clearer explanations of what Nat couldn’t possibly explain. But, the two Dwarves set their minds to the task, and knew exactly what needed to be done to get Branadon up there by midnight.
“He has to be willing,” Nat told them. He felt it wouldn’t work as well if he wasn’t.
They watched Nat move the heavy boulder, left him to guard the remains, and set off to find their victim, or rather, beloved cousin, depending on how you looked at it.
To their great delight they found him with half their job already completed. The meeting with Nat shook Branadon up more than he cared to admit, and he was busy drowning his thoughts in a whisky barrel with a few of his old friends. They were amusing him with stories of his previous life he already lived, and this in turn would make him return to refill his cup more and more often, which made him think about what Nat said, and the things he’d miss out on if he didn’t give it a try.
“Branadon, just the Dwarf we been looking for,” Faradon bellowed as he clapped him on the back, making him sputter on the mouthful he was swallowing.
“Let’s have a toast!” Borris called, and soon they were pouring everything they could get their hands on down Branadon’s throat.
It was getting late and they knew the trip up the mountain would be a little slower after they had all had so many drinks.
“Come on Branadon, I need to stretch these legs of mine a bit, let’s take a little hike,” Faradon coaxed.
“Arthritis setting in already old man?” Branadon poked at his cousin, never missing an opportunity to gloat. “This fire will warm those creaky joints.”
“You telling me you can’t handle a few pints and still hike up a mountain? Maybe us old blokes here need ta show you how it’s done,” baited Borris.
Never one to let a challenge go, Branadon rose unsteadily to his feet. He’d show these two how to climb a mountain. When a few of the others rose to tag along for the fun, Branadon missed the look that passed between his cousins and the others, causing every last one of them to quickly sit back down again and remain where they were.
They hiked, stumbled, crawled, and rolled back down a few paces here and there but steadily grew closer to the cave. As they tried to get up the mountain path ahead of each other, the cousins started to go to work on Branadon.
“We’ve been chattin’ with young Nat, Branadon. He tells us you’ve a chance for your old self back, and you’re being mighty mamby pamby about it,” Faradon started.
“Ya, too bad you’re gonna miss next year’s Bonfire. Seems a shame I’ll be the one to win next year,” Borris added tauntingly.
‘Bonfire’ was a tournament held by the Dwarfs every five years. The bragging rights that went with it were immeasurable. Branadon’s Axe that was laying up on the blanket with his bones was his most prize possession from the matches. ‘Skull Cleaver’ had been retired and given to him permanently after he had won it for the tenth time.
“You old goat, yer memories are starting to go now too! I believe last Bonfire ‘I’ was given the ‘Mighty Axe’,” Branadon bragged. It was said to have once belonged to Rhom the Conqueror you know,” he told them for the hundredth time.
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong now, aint it? This ‘you’ hasn’t been to the last few Bonfires. And if you don’t give young Nat’s idea a go, you won’t be to the next one either,” Borris insisted smugly.
Branadon stopped short and plunked himself down on a smoothed over stump. He hadn’t thought about that. “You say Bonfire is next year already? How many have I missed?” he slurred belligerently.
The drink seemed to be quieting all Branadon’s doubts about his short mortality and amplifying his reasoning towards a longer life.
Faradon staggered over and hoisted his cousin back up. “Come on, don’t stop now. You’ve only missed a few…”
“Just isn’t the same without ya, buddy,” Borris added, taking Branadon by the other arm and pulling him along as he let out a mighty belch.
Stopping again, Branadon growled with bloodshot eyes, “Who’s been winning em?”
“It don’t matter, come on,” Faradon insisted, hauling him on again.
“I been big cousin,” Borris lied. “And if you did make it ta the next one, I’d still win it,” Borris bellowed in his face, knowing they had him now.
Branadon shook his cousins off, turned around and started stomping down the mountain. “Nat! Nat! Where the Hell are you!” he boomed, half running half sliding back down the path.
“Stop! Stop!” Faradon shouted behind him as they tried to overtake him and turn him around. “He’s up here! He’s at the top of the mountain, ya great igit!”
Branadon’s blood was boiling too hard to even suspect the trap, he whirled around and lumbered up the rest of the way with his cousins barely keeping up.
Nat rose as he heard what sounded like a stampede coming through the brushes.
“There you are, boy! Let’s do it! I’ll show you two lunkheads how to carry a War Axe!” he shouted behind him. “Watch I don’t take your heads off with old Cleaver when I win it again next year,” he hollered at Borris as he came up, not knowing he already owned it.
“Get to it lad!” he instructed Nat impatiently.
Nat was very surprised to see him so willing. Then he guessed how the cousins had persuaded him to come, as the Dwarf swayed towards him. Nat just rolled his eyes. He looked at the cousins as they both nodded encouragingly at him.
They walked by and sat themselves down on a nearby log about twenty paces away to watch. They didn’t have near as much to drink as Branadon, but they did have enough to ensure they weren’t the least bit squeamish about what was about to happen.
Nat looked at the moon. It had just about reached its zenith. Not a cloud in the sky, not that he knew if it made any difference or not, but it felt like it should. Everything felt right for what he was about to attempt.
Nat retrieved his old bones from the cave by levitating them out into the clearing, then turned to Branadon. “You’ll have to strip down, Branadon. I don’t want any foreign material mixing in with what I’m doing. Then lie down here next to your… well lie down right here by your old axe,” he instructed.
Branadon removed the blade Mollywog had bought and lay it carefully on the ground. Then he picked up his mighty axe and hugged it to his chest for all he was worth. Nat had to pry it away and lay it aside too before he would remove all his clothes and lay down. “Hmph, still sharp,” he mumbled smugly, as he noticed he must have hugged it a little too hard as he watched a small trickle of blood roll across his chest.
The hike up the mountain must have burned off a bit of the alcohol’s effects, because he was beginning to reconsider.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing lad?” he asked a little uncertainly.
At that, both the cousins stood as if to come and hold him down, should he choose to make a break for it. But, Branadon just closed his eyes and added, “Get to it boy, I ain’t getting any younger.”
Nat placed his left hand on Branadon’s chest, and his right where the chest should be over the bones. Concentrating with all his might, he let his mind drift. Suddenly an eerie green light started emanating from Branadon. From nowhere, a wind arose and blew the green into a spiral above him. The light seemed to be attached to Nat’s fingertips, and as it rose it pulled him to his feet and started to lift him from the ground
“Help me!” he screamed, “I’m losing him!”
Nat’s face was changing too. His hair began to turn silver. Not grey or white, but silver with tiny gold highlights. His features remained relatively the same but his skin thickened. The texture was not that of a human boy. When he opened his mouth to shout again, his teeth were no longer blunt. Each ended in a point, not as sharp as when he’d been a baby, but definitely coming to a point.
Faradon and Borris both ran to Nat’s side. They thought he was taken over by some demon.
They didn’t know what to do, but reluctant as they were to approach this new apparition, they were not about to let Branadon go without a fight.
“Nat,” they screamed, “Nat, what have you done? Nat is it still you?”
The wind whipped at their words and tore at their clothes.
To their horror Nat’s knees were passing their heads before they jumped into action. They leapt up and grabbed hold of Nat’s legs pulling him back to the ground.
“Help me,” he cried above the howling wind. “I can’t reach his bones!”
Each Dwarf grabbed an arm and pushed down with all their might. Nat was so hot his clothes were smoldering, and they seared their hands when they touched him. As Nat’s fingers touched the first bone there was a horrific whoosh that blew all three back about ten feet.
The green light was gone and there lay Branadon. Not the young Branadon they had just climbed up here with, but the Branadon they had lost the day The Scale tipped. He looked whole, but he was badly beaten. He looked as though he had been dragged up the mountain by his feet.
Beside him lay a naked old crone snoring soundly.
“Uk, cover your eyes Fare, it’ll blind ya,” Borris shrieked.
“Don’t be so daft,” Faradon yelled, and removed his shirt to cover the old lady’s dignity. Then he walked up closer for a better look at Branadon.
“Nat, are you feeling alright?” Borris asked as he helped him to his feet. “Nat, what happened to ya?”
“Me? Look at you!” Nat snapped as he staggered over to Branadon.
Both Borris and Faradon’s beards had turned the same silver color as Nat’s hair. It was very striking. Later they would show it off proudly like a trophy, but for now they looked baffled at each other as they fingered their beards and watched Nat check Branadon over. Their clothes hung on them a little looser as well, but when Borris mentioned it, Faradon was quick to tell him not to think about it.
Nat could feel Branadon’s heart beating strong beneath his fingers. “He’s alive. This must be what he looked like at the exact moment of his death, minus the specific injury that killed him of course. I think he will be okay. He’s got enough drink in him to dumb the worst of the pain, but if we don’t tend to him quickly, we just may lose him all over again.”
Nat was too exhausted to attempt any healing. Besides, he had already stretched his luck this night.
In all the excitement, they momentarily forgot about Mollywog. Borris was stepping back as he was again admiring his beautiful beard and fell right over her, finally awakening the sleeping old woman.
“Are ya tryin’ ta kill an old lady ya great oaf!” she hollered at Borris.
Spying Nat she scolded, “Boy, what are ya playin at? What have you done with my nice warm warrior?” she complained as she groggily struggled to sit up.
“Noni! I’ve missed you!” Nat cried, hugging her to him. I put Branadon back where he belonged. I’m sorry but I couldn’t let him die. I just couldn’t. Here, take my shirt too,” he told her, as he helped Mollywog stand, and looked at Borris with his hand out.
Grudgingly Borris also removed his shirt and awkwardly handed it to Nat to drape around the woman.
“Nice ta see ya’ve grown comfortable with your looks.” Mollywog told him as she looked Nat up and down approvingly. “Always thought you looked better that way anyhow.” Only Silina and Mollywog had ever seen Nat in his true form.
“I was just trying to fit in more before. With my assorted group of parents, I had a lot to choose from. The human form feels more natural to me. I can’t seem to switch back to it though,” he said, as he screwed up his eyes and concentrated hard.
“Ya look just fine the way ya are lad. Ya don’t need to be lookin’ like everybody else,” Noni told him, scowling at the Dwarves as if they were the ones saying he didn’t fit in.
“I can’t seem to change my looks anymore. I guess I gave that part of my gift to Branadon.” Looking down at the bloody warrior he insisted again, “We better get him to some help. I’ve never tried my magic to heal things and I’m not about to practice on him.”
Mollywog picked up Branadon’s discarded clothes and started to dress in them as well. No one said a word as she struggled into his pants and held them up nearly to her chin.
She handed Nat his sword and croaked, “I think this here’s supposed to be yours. Hasn’t that big bugger given it to you yet? Figures! I should a hung aroun’ a little longer.”
Nat stared at her speechless, as she huffed at him and started down the mountain.
Just then they noticed the silent crowd of Dwarves and men standing just inside the ring of trees around the clearing. Sentries were far from their posts, people from down at the bottom had come running when they saw the light. They all stood like statues starring at the drama unfolding before them.
Nat thought about just levitating him down the trail but with all the people watching he didn’t want to start a riot. Borris ran into the cave and grabbed the blanket the bones had been on and they gently moved Branadon onto it. He grabbed a corner of the blanket in front, Faradon took hold of the two back corners and Nat took hold of the other front. Then they hoisted Branadon up and started down the pathway behind the Wog.
The silent spectators slowly shook themselves out of their shock and began to cheer.
As they approached the camp, they gathered an even larger crowd. No one seemed to really know what went on back there, but it seemed that some great battle was won with their hero Branadon at the center.
Nat didn’t want to explain what really had happened and kept trying to get them out of the way because they needed to get Branadon’s wounds tended to. Everyone wanted to get a look at him and were very concerned about all the blood they could see dripping from the blanket. Every sentry they passed wanted to know where the old lady had come from, and how she had managed to get past them, not to mention whose clothes was she wearing.
Finally, Faradon took charge and bellowed for everyone to shut up and stand aside.
They took Branadon to his tent and ordered bandages and hot water to be brought in. Faradon had been in so many battles, he had a lot of practice sewing men up and stopping the blood from flowing. They soon had him bandaged from head to foot and were spooning some warm broth into his refusing mouth.
Coming around more and more, Branadon groaned, “What happened? My head feels like you smashed a rum barrel over it instead of helping me drink it. Where’s Nat? Why am I all bandaged up? Did we really try to resurrect my old bones? Poor Nat, hope he wasn’t too disappointed…”
Branadon trailed off as he spied Mollywog. His mouth hung open comically as she came towards him. She had changed into some clothes that fit a bit better, but not by much. She shuffled over to his bedside and leaned in nice and close as if to inspect his injuries, and suddenly cried out, “Boo!”
Everyone worried Branadon would now die of a heart attack the way he almost jumped out of his skin.
“I was gonna say ya still owed me a few months,” she guffawed, “but I think I just scared em outa ya! Ha!” Her cackles of amusement rang through the tent as she shuffled out into the night wiping her eyes and laughing for all she was worth. “Mighty Warrior... Boo…”
Branadon looked at Faradon’s new beard with questioning eyes, “It worked?” he croaked doubtfully.
“You bet it worked. Do you have your memory back as well?” he inquired hopefully.
“Now you mention it, I think I do. I remember everything, even these past few months. Where’s Nat?” he persisted.
“I’m right here Branadon,” Nat answered, coming up closer to the bed.
Branadon just stared at the strange being in front of him. After a few moments, he calmly closed his eyes and mumbled quietly, “Of course Natty, of course you are.”
Branadon healed quickly. He had several new scars to add to his collection, but he fully recovered in no time, another of the amazing attributes accorded to Dwarves.
After the initial s
hock, everyone soon accepted Nat’s new appearance as well. It was no longer possible to keep his gift a secret. Along with the other changes, Nat grew a little older too, although this time it was unintentional.
As Branadon recovered, he and Nat could be seen on many occasions walking the mountain paths. Both were restless, waiting for everyone to arrive, and wondering if they would beat the demon Slater here or not.
They practiced with Nat’s sword ceaselessly. His precision was such that Branadon found himself hard pressed to keep from feeling the steel. Gone were the practice swords. Branadon wanted him to bond with the Dragon Sword. Having ‘Skull Cleaver’ back, he did not miss the beautiful sword at all.
“Noni had no right to give it to me Branadon,” Nat argued for the hundredth time. “Please take it back.”
“Like I keep telling you Nat, tis small payment for what you’ve given me. Besides, I think you were meant to have it all along. It suits you. Special blades have a way of finding their way into the hands of their true masters. It never really belonged to me. This here axe is all the weapon I ever wanted, or will ever need,” he assured him.
“Thank you, Bran, I accept it then. It does feel like an extension of my arm. Watch, I’ve been playing with it a little.”
As Branadon watched, the ruby eye of the Dragon winked at him.
Branadon jumped, “Aha, you young cuss, I knew you couldn’t be that good, you’ve enchanted the blade!”
Nat looked offended. “I only enchanted the Dragon. It will only allow people who love me to touch it.”
“Well, you can’t fault me for wishful thinking now can you, I guess I’m getting a little long in the tooth to keep up with the likes of you?” Branadon replied sheepishly.
They walked along the lower paths. By mutual consent, they never traveled to the very top of the mountain again. It felt like it would be tempting fate.
“Something bad is coming isn’t it?” Nat inquired. “I can feel it.”
“Yes, I feel it too. I can’t wait to introduce you to your parents though, but there’s a mighty big storm blowing in. Maybe I should send you back to Arilonia. If something were to happen to you now…”