by Lee Bezotte
They each took a step back from the other. Thorndel reached up to touch his ear, and Dulnear shrugged his shoulder to assess the damage. Circling each other, the man from the north said, “Well, I am afraid there will not be much of an estate left after tonight. My friends are inside now, preparing to burn it to the ground.”
The sides of Thorndel’s mouth curled in a sinister grin. He then laughed, “Your friends are dead then. Searfain is inside, and he enjoys killing southerners. Others are coming too. You and your pathetic companions came here to die.”
Son followed Faymia through the rear entrance to the house. They each carried a large pot of oil down the narrow corridor, past the library. Quietly, the boy asked, “Where should we start spreading this?”
“Just follow me,” she said, and headed down the hallway to the foyer, then up the grand staircase.
The boy was astounded by the magnificence of the mansion. Even though it was getting dark, and difficult to see, he felt that he was in a place of greatness, and it caused him to think of his rugged friend in a new way.
They passed the second floor and ascended to the third. It was covered with dust and cobwebs, and looked as if it hadn’t been visited for many years. Son tiptoed to the end of the hallway and opened one of the doors. There, he found a room with a child’s bed, and many wooden toys strewn about. He wondered if they were Dulnear’s, and thought about what it must have been like to grow up with so much.
“Let’s start here,” the woman said, and she carefully began pouring oil along the walls. “Don’t use too much,” she added. “The greatest amount should go on the first floor.”
Son nodded and began distributing some of his oil. It was difficult to keep it from spilling onto himself since the jar was so full, and the fuel sloshed about. The smell of it reminded him of the confrontation at the ravine on Aesef’s farm, and he had to remind himself to remain in the moment. They spread some throughout most of the third-floor rooms but endeavored to move quickly for the sake of their friend.
When they were satisfied, they descended to the second floor to do the same. They began at the end of the hallway that was opposite from the drawing room, the room where the flickering lantern light emanated from.
Eventually, they reached the room that once belonged to Dulnear’s father. Son marveled at the weapons mounted on the walls, and Faymia showed him where Dulnear had provided her with a bow and sword. It was painful for the boy to pour oil in this room. It didn’t feel right to destroy a place that held such importance to his friend, even if his friend was asking him to do it. “Should we really be doing this?” he asked in a whisper. “It just seems wrong.”
The runaway slave paused for a moment, and answered quietly, “I can’t believe that we’re doing this either. But one thing I know is that Dulnear has risked his life to save mine more than once. I owe him my trust.”
Son remembered the times his large friend rescued him, and said simply, “Me too.” They then exited the room and continued down the hallway. Suddenly, they were halted by the sight of a large man standing on the opposite side of the staircase.
The man stood silently for a moment, staring at the two with a puzzled expression. He then withdrew a large sword from his belt and demanded, “Who are you?”
Son knew there was no answer he could give that would cause the man to put his sword away. He immediately set his pot of oil down at the top of the stairs and took out his sword. “Get out of here!” he shouted to Faymia as he charged the northerner.
The man sliced through the air with his sword but missed as Son slid along the floor, through the brute’s legs. The boy thrust his blade into the back of the man’s thigh, then immediately rolled out of the way.
The large man released a guttural cry of pain as his left leg buckled beneath him, bringing him down closer to Son’s height. As he pushed on his knee with his left hand in an attempt to stand up again, he swiped toward the boy with the sword in his right hand, almost catching Son’s neck.
The lad lunged at the man but was knocked back when the barbarian landed a backhand with his returning fist. The boy laid dazed as he watched the man return to his feet, cursing the pain in his bleeding leg. The northerner raised his sword over his head to strike the boy but froze when an arrow sank into his ribcage. Faymia stood a few feet away, releasing arrow after arrow into the man, but it hardly seemed to slow him down.
Son scrambled to his feet and swiped at the man’s left hand, nearly taking off a finger. Howling with rage, the northerner tucked the bleeding hand under his right arm and began swinging his sword wildly. The boy ducked and dodged the enormous sword but was unable to make another attack.
Faymia slung her bow over her shoulder and withdrew her sword. While the northerner was occupied with Son, she managed to stab him in the side. The large man growled, then pulled one of the arrows from his body and begun swinging it at Son with his injured left hand while he attacked the woman with the sword in his right hand.
The man swiped the arrow toward Son’s head but the boy met his large hand with his blade. The man was stunned for a moment and Son took advantage of it. He swung hard and removed the man’s fore and middle fingers. In a sudden, erratic motion, the man jerked his right hand upward, causing the tip of his sword to catch Faymia’s left eye. She screamed and dropped her sword as she reached for her face in pain. Son then plunged his sword into the man’s left leg again in a rapid stabbing motion before spinning to the other side of him, retrieving the woman’s sword and pulling her toward the staircase.
The northerner dropped to his hands and knees, spewing savage threats at the two. Son grabbed Faymia’s pot of oil with one arm and used his other arm to help escort the bleeding woman away. When he saw his own oil pot sitting at the top of the stairs he kicked it over, causing the slippery liquid to spill down the staircase.
Avoiding the spilled oil, they reached the first floor. When they did, Son looked at Faymia. She was covering her injured eye with one hand but keeping her other eye on their surroundings. “Take me back down the hallway we entered the house through,” she instructed. “In the library, there is a tinderbox filled with matches.”
They swiftly reached the library, and Faymia showed Son where the matches were kept. “Over there, by the window,” she explained. It was almost pitch-dark in the room, and the boy fumbled his way over to the matches.
“Got ’em!” he announced, and they went back out into the narrow hall.
“Great! Let’s light the oil and get out,” the woman said, still holding her hand over her eye.
As they moved back toward the foyer, the boy pocketed the matches and said, “Wait here while I finish this.” Before the woman had a chance to protest, he ran back out into the foyer to pour out the rest of the oil.
While in the foyer, Son could hear the clashing of swords outside. He knew it was Dulnear and Thorndel, and his heart pounded as he considered the outcome of their battle. Suddenly, he heard a booming voice yell, “I’ll kill you!” and he looked to see the wounded northerner standing at the top of the stairs.
Son threw the oil pot as far as he could, and he could hear it shatter in the distance. He then took out his sword and stood in a ready stance. “Come down here so I can take the rest of your hand!” he shouted to the raging goon.
The northerner stepped onto the staircase, his wounded leg slowing him down. He took one step, and then another. He then stepped directly into the oil that Son had allowed to spill on the stairs. He slipped and tumbled down the stairs like a giant rag doll.
When the man reached the bottom of the stairs Son ran over to him, ready to strike before the man could recover. The man’s eyes were wide open and his neck was bent in a strange way. Son realized that he was dead, so he put his sword away and headed back to the narrow hallway.
When the boy was at the edge of the foyer, he took a match from the tinderbox, lit it, and tossed it into the middle of the room. It landed in the oil and the fire spread quickly, illuminati
ng the grand mansion with monstrous orange flames. Son watched for a moment as the greatest home he had ever seen was engulfed in a blaze.
Dulnear’s heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. He clenched his teeth and gripped his sword tightly. The two had been circling for several minutes, trading words, and only clashing occasionally. The man tried hard to focus, believing that his friends were skilled and resourceful enough to get out of the house alive. He took a deep breath, whispered a silent prayer, then swiped his sword toward Thorndel’s neck.
His enemy blocked the attack and the two of them erupted in a flurry of steel, muscle, and sweat. Like two spinning tops brawling they dueled, knowing that only one of them would survive the night.
Dulnear now bled freely from the wound on his shoulder. He tried to push the pain out of his mind, along with the nagging fear for the safety of his friends. He began to regret coming back to the north, and was terrified that his desire to help Faymia might have killed her and Son. He struck downward toward Thorndel’s head but the agitator blocked, locking the sword with his hilt. Thorndel now had control and was forcing the blade toward Dulnear’s neck.
As the two grappled, Thorndel taunted, “You are an absurd failure. I now have the pleasure of watching you get what you deserve for the second time.”
Dulnear knew he would lose the grapple with only his left hand. He curled his lip and executed an iron-fisted roundhouse punch to Thorndel’s temple, causing him to stumble backward. With an injured shoulder, the punch caused Dulnear immense discomfort, but he showed no sign of pain.
Thorndel shook his head and focused his eyes on Dulnear. He began to ask, “What have you got there, some kind of—”
Dulnear cut him off with another punch to the face, this time breaking his opponent’s nose.
Stunned, the vengeful brute shouted, “You broke my—”
But again Dulnear swung, landing a metal fist to the mouth, knocking loose a front tooth.
The embittered northerner wiped the blood from his face and howled in rage as he began to swing his blade wildly.
Using both his sword and the iron prosthetic, Dulnear blocked each blow, but Thorndel’s savage aggression kept him on the defense.
Thorndel managed to land another strike to Dulnear’s shoulder. The pain raced up his neck and down his arm, rendering the iron fist useless. The man from the north was forced back against the house, desperately attempting to keep his enemy’s broadsword from cutting him again. Suddenly, Thorndel’s eyes grew wide. He stepped back and cried, “No!”
Dulnear could smell smoke, and saw flames through the corner of his eye. A renewed strength came over him and he lunged at Thorndel, piercing his ribcage, and giving the sword a quick twist before removing it. Willing his left arm to remain strong and swift, he fought like a drowning man fights to reach the surface of the water. His opponent was now on the defense, holding his weapon with one hand, and stopping the flow of blood from his abdomen with the other.
As the fire grew, so did the warrior’s ability to see his surroundings. At the very edge of visibility, Dulnear could see another northerner fast approaching from the direction of the road. Dulnear was weary and bloodied, but determined to fight until his heart ceased to beat. He continued to advance against Thorndel until he landed a devastating blow against his already broken nose with the pommel of his sword.
Thorndel stumbled backward, staggering under pain and blood loss. “I cannot believe you would burn it,” he exclaimed. “You had everything a man could want!”
Dulnear paused and said, “My father was unable to take any of it with him when he died, as was his father, and those before him. The greatest treasures I have, I found when I walked away from this estate. I should have burned it a long time ago.” He then glanced over his enemy’s shoulder to see that the approaching northerner was closer now.
Noticing the glance, Thorndel looked behind him, then back toward Dulnear. He began to laugh, “I told you others were coming! Tonight, the great Dulnear dies.” He then brought his sword down toward Dulnear’s wounded shoulder.
Dulnear immediately blocked the strike, then counterattacked, slicing Thorndel’s chest just below his collarbone in the process, sending the man another step backward, grasping at the fresh wound. He brought his sword down hard, disarming him. Dulnear growled and kicked the man square in the chest, sending him to the ground.
“Wait!” Thorndel pleaded, lying on his back. “Please don’t kill me!”
Dulnear noticed that the approaching figure now had his sword drawn and was racing toward them. “Not to worry, wastrel, I will be sending you company soon,” he said as he raised his sword over his head to strike the final blow.
“Stop!” the approaching man shouted. “Do not do it!”
As the man stepped into full view behind the fallen northerner, Dulnear could see that it was Brunnlyn. Thorndel’s cousin looked intently at the bleeding, one-handed swordsman, and he stood in a fierce fighting stance.
From the ground, Thorndel began to taunt, “What now, Marhail? What now? My cousin is here to kill you. Perhaps we will cut off your other hand and display it on the mantel.”
Brunnlyn stood over the taunting man and looked down at him with a pained expression. He sighed and quietly said, “I am sorry, cousin. Please forgive me.” He then plunged his sword through the heart of the wrathful Thorndel, silencing him forever.
Dulnear couldn’t believe what he had just seen. He took a small step back and blinked. “Why did you do that?” he gasped.
Brunnlyn pulled his sword from Thorndel’s chest, wiped the blade on the grass, then placed it back in his belt. He looked at his palms for a moment, then explained, “You would never know the peace you seek if you had killed him. Now retribution will fall on me, and you are free to live your life in the south.”
Dulnear was stunned by his answer. He shook his head as he gazed into the night sky. “Why would you do that for me?” he asked.
“You have shown me that there is a better way than hatred and violence, and you were willing to die for that better way,” Brunnlyn answered. “Besides, you have already sacrificed so much, and it is not right for Thorndel to demand more.”
Still astonished by what he had just seen and heard, Dulnear put his sword away, and asked, “What will you do?”
“I will take my cousin’s body to my uncle,” he said. He then looked down and continued, “My fate will be in his hands.”
“Why do you not run?” Dulnear asked. “You do not have to subject yourself to that bitter old man.”
“I cannot. There must be no mistake about who killed Thorndel or you risk another confrontation,” Brunnlyn answered.
“I do not know what to say,” the man from the north uttered. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”
“Then live it well,” Brunnlyn said. “And I will try to do the same.” He then hefted his cousin’s lifeless body over his shoulders and began walking back toward the road.
Dulnear watched the man walk off, thinking deeply about what had just happened. Then, shaking him from his thoughts, Son appeared before him. “Dulnear! Faymia is hurt!” he yelled, and the two of them ran back to their horses.
Dulnear, Son, and Faymia stood with the horses as close to the burning mansion as they could without the heat being overwhelming. It was the only way the man from the north could see well enough to attend to his friend’s wound. He had Son retrieve some pine sap and he used it to close the cut under Faymia’s eye.
“This resin has been quite indispensable lately,” the one-handed warrior said as he carefully applied it to the wound.
The woman trembled as her friend attended to her. “I can’t see out of that eye,” she said.
Dulnear carefully looked into the blood-red, damaged eye. He knew that she would never see from it again but hesitated to tell her. Finally he said, “I am afraid that eye has seen its last.” He then held her close as she wept into his chest. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I believed that anyon
e inside would have come outside to face me. I did not know that Searfain would be waiting for you.”
When Faymia had finished crying, she sat down in the grass to rest. Son fashioned a sling for Dulnear’s arm and tended to the wounds on his shoulder. He then stored the heavy iron fist with his other belongings on the massive Mor. “What do we do now?” he asked his friend.
Dulnear sat down next to Faymia and gazed at the burning house. He felt sorrow, relief, and anticipation, all at the same time. Memories played through his mind as he saw flames burst through windows and heard the crashing of timber inside. “Now, I suppose we watch it burn,” he said.
The three of them sat on the ground together, occasionally wincing when a loud crash could be heard, or commenting on the floating sparks that danced above the house. Eventually Son and Faymia fell asleep, leaning against their large friend. But Dulnear stayed awake, watching all that represented his old life blaze through the night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RANSOM
The next morning, Dulnear sat near a small fire drinking a cup of coffee and reading from an old, leather-bound book. His house was now a blackened stone shell that contained the broken, smoldering wreckage of the night before.
When Son awoke, he rubbed his eyes, glanced at the burned mansion, then at Dulnear and asked, “Is it time to get going?”
The man from the north took a last swig of coffee, closed his book, and stood. “Good morning,” he said. “Yes, it is almost time.” He then walked over to Faymia, who was still sleeping in the grass. He looked at her face, which had now turned a plumb and yellow color around her left cheek and eye. “We just need to take care of a couple things first. By any chance, was there a wagon in the shed when you went to fetch the oil?” he asked.