by Lee Bezotte
Dulnear looked up toward the old man. In that moment, his greatest desire was strangely to alleviate the elder’s agony. “I am very sorry for the pain I have caused you,” he said sincerely.
Shenndel looked at the warrior, frowning. The lines of age seemed to deepen as he stared. “Perhaps, but not nearly as sorry as you will be tomorrow,” he said. He then went back into the house and snuffed out his lantern.
Dulnear dreamed that he was tied to a tree in a broad, open meadow. The grass was tall and lush, and burly oak trees grew thick around its borders. Surrounding him was a crowd of his countrymen, both young and old alike. They looked at him as a mob would stare at a convicted criminal waiting for his execution. He was naked, and unable to set himself free. Though he was dreaming, he felt the same shame and humiliation as if the scene playing out before him was really unfolding. The comfort of a sword, and the concealment of his long fur coat, were nowhere in sight, and the faces of onlookers were filled with disgust and contempt. Some of the northerners laughed, and others jeered as he desperately struggled to escape from his ropes.
As he scanned the crowd, he was surprised to see Faymia standing there with Son and Maren. She was holding Maren close, to keep the young girl’s eyes shielded from his nakedness. Tears covered her cheeks, and she wept as one does at a funeral. The boy Son kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, as if ashamed to look upon the disgraced warrior.
Whipping his wrists back and forth and pulling with all of his might, Dulnear was overcome with desperation to be free. After several failed attempts, the despondent northerner began to call out to his friends for help. He filled his lungs with air and tried to shout, “Faymia!” but not a sound came out of his mouth. The feeling of desperation grew into panic, and again, he tried, “Faymia, Son, please help me!” but there was only silence, and the expressions on their faces showed no change.
Suddenly, there was a sound of thunder in the distance, and charcoal-gray clouds rolled over their heads like liquid misery. The sky opened up and began to pour bitterly cold rain. It felt like jagged stones pelting his body, and he knew that he would not make it if he remained exposed to the frigid shower. He called out to his friends for help again, and again his voice was absent. The looks on their faces told him that they could detect no attempt at communication from him at all, and it brought him more pain than if he would have been all alone.
The cold, wet crowd started to disperse, covering their heads and moving quickly toward a nearby road. Soon there were only his friends, watching and weeping as the mightiest man they knew was reduced to a shivering outcast, without honor, without his strength, and without the means to do anything about it. There was a flash of lightning, followed immediately by booming thunder, and the rain increased in cold and intensity. As the deluge poured, his friends also fled toward the road, leaving him all alone.
Dulnear was naked and abandoned in the truest sense. All that he had, and all that he was, was stripped away, and the feeling of vulnerability was more than he could bear. He attempted to pray, but he still had no voice. The cold penetrated every part of him, and he could scarce remember what it felt like to be warm. When there was nothing strong, or hopeful, or proud left inside of him, he wished only to die so that his anguish would end.
And then came the darkness.
“Wake up, Harbem!” Thorndel shouted.
Through the morning mist, Dulnear could see a small crowd of neighboring men gathered around a fire. It was situated near a wide tree stump just a few paces away. He assumed that his guard had diminished, since they were able to gather without waking him.
“How can you sleep so soundly hitched to a wagon?” Thorndel asked. “Especially on the eve of your execution.”
Many sharp retorts came to Dulnear’s mind. He usually enjoyed making comments that riled his enemies, but not today. He had slept through the night kneeling, and resting his shoulders against the yoke, with the weight of the cart preventing him from falling forward. Now he forced his stiff, aching legs to stand up. “Then it is to be execution,” he observed.
“My father has not made his decision yet,” the bitter man replied. “But I do not believe he would invite an audience here to watch him pardon you.” He then paused, clenched his jaw, and added, “And know this; if he does pardon you, I will come for you, and you will die.”
Though Thorndel was brash and reckless, Dulnear knew that he would still be a challenge for him. Like his brother, Tromdel, the man seemed to thrive on conflict. He remained silent. His heart was heavy, and he questioned his decision to come here. A feeling of great uncertainty came over him, and he wondered if there truly was life on the other side of death. The thought of having no conscious existence terrified him, and he began to pray quietly under his breath.
Thorndel looked as if he was about to say something else when his father emerged from the house. The old man was dressed, and armed, and his hair and beard had been combed. He walked over to Dulnear and Thorndel, and addressed the nearby group of northerners. “Countrymen,” he began in a sour, tired tone. “The son of Athnear has returned to Tuas-arum. For generations, his family has looked down on us from their grand estate, thinking they are so much better than the rest of us. For years, they reigned undefeated in battle, and the hands of our kinsmen were proudly displayed throughout their home.”
To Dulnear, it seemed as if the world around him was spinning. His head felt like it was on fire and his knees barely held his weight. He heard the words being spoken but they sounded distant, as if in a dream. Though they were the words he had traveled for weeks to hear, he struggled to maintain his concentration on them.
Shenndel continued, “This poltroon fancied himself above our way of life and fled to the south. He claims there is a better way, but none exists that carries any honor or glory!” The man’s passionate words about the way of the north elicited applause from his friends, and he gave a dignified smile before he went on. “My son Tromdel sought him out. He tried to get him to come back but he was impaled for his effort.”
Dulnear interrupted, pleading, “That is not true! He stole my Cre-dreact! He sought a death duel!”
“Silence!” Thorndel shouted, punching Dulnear in the face. He then smirked at the bound warrior before returning his attention to his father.
“It is true that he came here of his own accord,” Shenndel explained. “He claimed his desire was to make restitution.”
Through the surreal oration of the broken father’s decision and the throbbing pain from Thorndel’s fist, Dulnear labored to focus his thoughts toward his prayers to the Great Father. He prayed for the strength to die well. He prayed that his death would not be for nothing. He prayed for the safety of his friends in Laor, and for Faymia. And he prayed that other northerners would grow a distaste for their violent culture.
Shenndel went on, “Unhitch him from the wagon but leave him in the yoke.”
As Thorndel did as he was told, Dulnear began to feel a sense of relief. He knew that it would be difficult to lose his head with a yoke around his neck. He looked at the men gathered around the fire and thought that perhaps they were there to form a gauntlet for him to endure. I can take what these men can dole out, he thought to himself. I will recover.
“When I think of what happened to my eldest son, I am weighed by a sense of shame,” the old man said. “This man has brought humiliation upon my entire family. However, if I take his life, none of his family would feel the shame I have felt, for he is the last of his kin.”
The words that Shenndel spoke caused the sense of relief to evaporate as the penitent warrior imagined how he might be humiliated. The temptation to run gnawed at him, but he knew he wouldn’t last long with a gang of angry northerners pursuing him, especially with a heavy yoke around his neck. Besides, he was determined to do what must be done.
“Therefore, the son of Athnear shall be as a dead man living,” the resentful father announced. “Take his right hand!”
The announcem
ent shot through Dulnear’s chest like a javelin. “No!” he yelled. “Kill me!”
Thorndel grabbed the yoke that was secured around the pleading warrior’s neck. There was a moment of struggle, and then several of the other northerners came to help drag him over to the nearby tree stump. They beat him as they pulled and yanked at the yoke, almost breaking his neck. When they had him at the stump, they ran his head into the side of it, taking the fight out of the man.
As Dulnear slumped over the edge of the tree stump, Thorndel gleefully grabbed his wrist and stretched it across while another man pulled back the sleeve of his fur coat. Again, the beaten man struggled, but the other northerners made it impossible to escape.
When Shenndel walked over to them, he already had his sword drawn. He dragged the blade across the exposed wrist and declared, “This will be my finest trophy. And you, Daeultu, shall be scorned and despised for the rest of your days.” He then flashed a spiteful grin at the warrior, accompanied by a low growl.
“Please,” was all that Dulnear could whisper before he felt a quick jerking motion below his wrist and heard the roaring applause of the men all around him. He then felt himself being carried, and then tossed to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he could see his hand being held aloft by the old man. There was blood splattered across his white beard, and he cackled blithely. The warrior smelled something like burning flesh, then felt searing pain enveloping his arm. A couple of the invited guests were holding the fresh wound to the fire, cauterizing it so that he wouldn’t bleed to death.
“That is it!” Shenndel yelled. “We would not want him to die now!”
Thorndel was laughing triumphantly nearby, and Dulnear could hear his own arm sizzling in the fire. Finally, the men pulled the arm out and dragged him back over toward the stump.
The old man and his son continued to gloat, and the whole earth felt like it was a small boat on an angry ocean. Finally, mercifully, Dulnear lost sight and sound of everything around him and slipped into unconsciousness.
Cold water splashed across Dulnear’s face. He was only unconscious for a moment but, in his condition, it felt like hours. As the world around him slowly materialized from darkness and silence, the awareness of great pain through his arm and head emerged. Like a demonic drumbeat, the ache throbbed with each pulse of his heart. Through the celebration and revelry, he heard Shenndel order, “Take this refuse off of my land! He is a one-handed Nairetu, and it is shameful to even be in his presence!” The wounded warrior felt someone assisting him to his knees. As he moved, the agony increased, and he strained to hold onto his consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he saw Brunnlyn tucking his head under his left arm, helping him to his feet. “That is right,” the old man continued. “Take him back to his estate, where his many trophies will remind him of his loss. The great Dulnear is nothing more than an object of ridicule now!” He then roared with laughter as his companions raised their mugs and drank to his malicious statement.
As the men laughed and cheered, Dulnear made his way down the path and to the road, with the help of Thorndel’s cousin. He was in shock and exhausted, and the whole matter was made more difficult since he was still attached to the yoke. The wooden device felt much heavier now, and it seemed to be digging into his neck, exacerbating his condition.
When they reached the road and were no longer in sight of the assembly of revelers, Brunnlyn urged Dulnear to sit down for a moment. Wearily, the warrior sat, and Tromdel’s cousin carefully removed the yoke from his shoulders. When he was done he crouched down, looked Dulnear squarely in the eyes and asked, “Why did you not kill Thorndel and me when you had the chance?”
Still in an agonizing fog, Dulnear thought for a moment, then answered, “I am tired of killing.” His voice was weak, and he tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. He continued, “There is a better way than fighting and killing, and it cannot be found with more fighting and killing. I am so convinced of this that I was willing to go to the axe if it meant a little more peace in Aun.”
“But what of your honor?” Brunnlyn asked. “You have never been defeated in battle.”
The one-handed warrior emitted a weak laugh at the thought of the northern idea of honor. “There is a higher honor than that of dominance in combat,” he explained. “There is a dignity in mercy, and fulfillment in peace. When I saw all of the trophies in my home last night, I felt only shame.”
Brunnlyn rubbed the back of his neck. He began to speak, but cut himself short. After a moment, he said, “You should not return to your estate. Thorndel means to take it from you, and your head as well.”
Dulnear released a weary exhale. “But I am already worse than dead,” he lamented.
“I know,” the fair-haired northerner replied. “But my cousin is a killer without sense. He cares not for fairness, only the thrill of ending lives.”
“Then I have failed in my purpose for coming here,” Dulnear replied.
Brunnlyn pressed his lips together and his eyebrows pressed inward. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But you must get away from here. Go back down the road toward your home, but do not stop there. Head south again, and never return to the north.” He then carefully helped the man to his feet and watched him walk until he was out of sight.
The pain and fatigue were great, and the one-handed man from the north fought to stay on his feet as the unbearable rhythm continued in his arm and head. He had lost his hand, but it was as if the heart was torn from his chest, and nothing remained but a great emptiness. His greatest desire was simply to lay down and die. As he walked, his body felt increasingly weighed down by the regret of his decision to make restitution for the death of Tromdel. It would have been easier just to let the brute kill me. I am a fool, he thought to himself.
Bloodied, burned, and beaten, Dulnear slowly continued his arduous journey down the road, occasionally stumbling from dizziness and the excruciating pain that refused to relent. Willing himself to stay on his feet, he looked up, and could see someone in the road ahead of him. There stood Faymia, waiting for him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AN EMPTY CHEST
Dulnear stood in pain-filled bewilderment at the sight of his friend. He looked at Faymia, feeling equal parts relief and shame. He carried a great fondness for her, but was no longer the warrior she knew the day before.
“Dulnear!” she cried as she ran toward him. “You made it!”
The man stood and looked into the face of the woman. Tears began to pool in the corners of his eyes. “I failed,” he lamented, and his knees gave out. He fell to the ground and began to weep. “It was all for naught. I have lost everything and gained nothing. Tromdel’s brother still seeks my death, and I am a Nairetu now, worse than dead. My hand has been taken from me, and I can no longer wield a sword.”
Weeping along with the sobbing northerner, Faymia reached out, lifted his chin, and looked into his eyes. Her forehead wrinkled with concern. “What can I do?” she asked.
“Leave me,” Dulnear said, trembling. “I will only bring you misery. I will return to my home. There, Thorndel can complete his revenge by ending my life and claiming my estate. It is the only way that you, and the children in Laor, will ever be safe.”
Beneath the tears, an amused expression crept over Faymia’s face. She held her gaze on Dulnear’s eyes and asked softly, “Is anyone ever truly safe?” Then she added, “You cannot protect everyone all of the time, my precious. Besides, I have already gone through the dread of losing you once, and I don’t think I could do it again.”
Dulnear lowered his head. The pain and shock of the last few hours made it difficult to think clearly. He waited until his tears subsided, and then pulled himself up off of the ground. Finally, standing there, he admitted, “I do not know what to do.”
The woman reached up and wiped away some of the blood that was drying on her friend’s face. She then gently lifted his arm, pushed back the sleeve of his coat, and examined the blackened wound where his hand had been removed.
“Let’s start by dressing these wounds,” she said.
The man exhaled deeply. He trusted the woman and said, “I have supplies at my home, but we must be fast. If Thorndel finds us there, he will kill us both.”
“Okay, are you sure you can make it there quickly?” Faymia asked with a concerned expression.
“I have to,” Dulnear assured as he began walking toward his estate. Each step was painful, and it was difficult to summon the will to continue, but having his friend with him brought a measure of fortitude.
When they arrived, they entered through the eastern kitchen door. The kitchen was a large room with an ample roasting range to one side, and in the center of the room was a long wooden table with benches situated on each side of it. Being in the house during daylight had a different feel to it than the night before. Windows allowed light to illuminate the room. A layer of dust could be seen covering everything, and cobwebs were plentiful.
While Faymia ran back outside to fetch water from the well, Dulnear sat at the end of the table and waited. It had been a long time since he had sat at the kitchen table. It reminded him of times during his boyhood when he snuck mid-afternoon snacks while his father was busy working. Even though growing up in the north was difficult, there were still times in his childhood that he remembered fondly, and when he thought about them, it made him sad that they were gone forever.
When Faymia returned with clean water, she helped her friend remove his long fur coat and gently cleaned his wounds. The sensation of cold water on burned flesh was foreign and unpleasant. As it mingled with the black marks on his skin it flowed onto the floor, leaving puddles of dark-tinged water. Dulnear told her where she could find clean linens with which to dress the wounds. She rushed off to get them, and made sure to take enough to make extra dressings if they were needed during their journey south.