Tyrus asked, “How many children do you have?”
“Over forty. And twelve grandchildren.”
Olroth didn’t look old enough to have grandchildren. He had no wrinkles and only touches of gray hair.
Tyrus asked, “When did you start having kids?”
“When the women’s council said I could.”
They approached a hut that looked smaller than Olroth’s and more crowded. Three women, who looked to be in their thirties, worked pestles and peeled a kind of orange root, while inside, a pot of water boiled over a fire. The women and children stopped talking. Their faces became cold and resentful as they glared at Olroth.
“Why are you doing this?” Tyrus asked. “They don’t want me.”
“You’re smarter than you look. Cost me a pile of gold to buy them off, but those children need a father to feed them. Wuldor’s sons will be strong, and we need strong men.”
“I’m not a family man.” Tyrus hated it as he said it. He had never raised a child or nurtured anything. He killed things. “This won’t help you win a war.”
“This is why we fight.”
“I have my own reasons to fight. I have a man to kill.”
“That won’t keep you warm at night.”
“Olroth—”
“This is the Norsil way. You will earn your place. You will act like a man and provide for your family. Or you return to the Proving Grounds.”
Tyrus grimaced, for Olroth was acting as though he had a choice. He could adopt children or be eaten alive by monsters. All the children made Tyrus nervous. They made him self-conscious of his size. They were fragile things, and he knew better than most how easy it was to snuff out a life. Protecting them would consume his days.
“What do I do?”
“Your key keeper runs the household. Later, you will join the hunt and learn the warrior’s way.”
“I know the warrior’s way.”
“You know nothing.” Olroth patted his shoulder and smiled. “You think you are the first man to taunt death? Berserks try to kill themselves to feel alive. They get good men killed.”
Tyrus struggled to swallow. He couldn’t deny the thrill of winning by a small margin, but Olroth watched him with sad eyes. The man was a chieftain, accustomed to being a father figure. Tyrus appreciated that, but he had lived longer than Olroth or any man should. Nothing was more irritating than a young man acting like a wise elder.
“I know what you are trying to do,” Tyrus said, “and I appreciate it. A good chieftain keeps his men happy, but I am not a family man. Tell me who you want to kill. I’ve a talent for that.”
“You smell like the purims. You lived with them for too long. The Dark Walker cannot stay within our walls. No one will allow it. This is our way. We fight. We hunt. And we protect the clan. If Wuldor’s wives speak good of you to the other wives, the rest will come around.”
“Or I’ll be exiled.”
Olroth smiled. “You see, smarter than you look.”
“I’m not good with kids.”
“The younglings are easy. Bring them back teeth or claws and throw them into the air from time to time.” Olroth raised a warning finger. “Never when they nurse though—only play with the ones that can walk.”
“This isn’t going to work. I killed their father.”
“Fathers die all the time. Wuldor inherited two of his wives and won another. Half of those kids were sired by other men.”
The two of them stood in silence. Olroth waited for Tyrus to do something, and rather than worry about the chieftain’s mood, Tyrus considered leaving. Being around people reminded him of all he had given up. He dreaded the idea of wandering the Lost Lands alone again.
Olroth said. “Fight animals long enough and you become one. The clan won’t allow an animal to be around our children.”
“I understand.”
Tyrus studied the hut and wondered how hard family life could be. He took a deep breath as though preparing for battle and ducked inside the door. The women working outside followed him. He found five wives, ranging from young to matronly. The hut was surprisingly large, with several sections divided by hanging furs. Dozens of children kept to the far wall with their mothers. Tyrus wondered what he should do and decided to sit by the communal fire in the middle. He avoided eye contact and enjoyed the warmth, trying to find something worth staring at in the red coals.
Olroth was insane. Tyrus couldn’t imagine sleeping in a hut with the family of the man he had killed. He’d wake with a slit throat. A glance at the women told him which one would do it too—the eldest clearly despised him. Too old to be Wuldor’s wife, she might be his mother. In-laws added another layer to the mess and created politics worse than the noble houses of Rosh. His wives could have dozens of sisters married to important men. They would plot his death over dinner. And Tyrus couldn’t understand a word they said.
The eldest made a clucking noise, and the children filed out of the hut with four of the women. One young girl remained, sitting on her lap. Tyrus and the woman exchanged glances, not unlike two men contemplating a knife fight.
He noticed the girl’s coloring and gasped. She looked like Marah, from his dreams, a five-year-old waif. She had stark white hair but green eyes.
The woman said, “Chores. Others. Chores.”
“You speak Nuna?”
“Trade. Little. Hill Folk.”
“How many speak Nuna?”
The woman didn’t understand, and Tyrus accepted that. He gestured at himself and said his name was Tyrus, and then he gestured at her.
“Aydler.”
Then he pointed at the girl. “Who?”
“Brynn.”
The old woman pulled the girl to herself in a protective manner, and Tyrus raised open hands, trying to convey that he meant no harm.
He went back to staring at the coals. Brynn brought back memories of Marah fighting off the demoness in the Red Tower. He should be protecting Ishma’s daughter, but she reminded him too much of Azmon.
Tyrus couldn’t stay in the hut. Brynn’s face accused him of breaking his oaths, and feeling foolish, he fled from her, stepping outside to clear his head in the cold air.
A small tug at his knee made him look down. Brynn offered him a necklace with a single purim claw hung on a braided strap. Tyrus took the gift, and she ran away. The other wives smirked when he wore the claw. Later, he noticed only children wore the necklaces, but he never took it off.
That night, he slept outside the hut. The ground comforted him, reminding him of his years on the plains, and the snow seemed more hospitable than the women. He fell asleep to the familiar battle between his runes and the elements. The cold sought to blacken his fingers and toes while his runes kept the flesh pink.
II
Tyrus awoke to Olroth squatting over him and cursing in Jakan. Tyrus rolled onto his back and propped himself on his elbows. Dozens of Norsil stood between nearby huts, watching the exchange. Tyrus groaned and stretched his shoulder. The short time he had slept indoors spoiled him. The ground felt harder than it had a couple weeks before.
“Do you know how hard I fought to get you a hut? Do you know the bribes? Outlanders do not lay claims on the dead. I paid Aydler to take you in, and you publicly shame her?”
“I meant no offense.”
“None of the wives are good enough for you? Not even the pretty one?”
“I’m used to sleeping in the cold.”
“You slept in my hut but not hers? Now we have a problem.”
“I will sleep inside tonight.”
“They laugh at me for taking you in. ‘Old Olroth is going crazy. Hit in the head too many times.’ You are the most expensive sell sword I’ve ever bought.” Olroth spat. “Get up. We eat inside like proper men.”
They claimed a spot around the cook fire while his wives ladled porridge into little wooden bowls for
the children. Aydler thrust a bowl at him, splattering him with porridge. She and Olroth went a few rounds as she punctuated her insults with a jabbing finger.
Tyrus said, “Tell her I’m sorry.”
“She’s more angry at me. Don’t interfere.”
“What does she want?”
“She defends her household.” Aydler kept talking, and Olroth turned to Tyrus. “How long has it been since you laid with a woman?”
“She asked that?”
“No. She calls me a fool. Avoid eye contact and tell me—how long has it been?”
“A very long time.”
“Ah, I understand now.”
Tyrus didn’t follow. Aydler vented at the other wives and children. Everyone accepted the tongue lashing except Olroth. He chuckled as though everything was fine.
“That’s why you are so good at fighting,” Olroth said. “Take your frustration out on your enemies, eh?” Olroth grinned. “If I went a week without one of my wives, I’d murder purims too.”
Olroth elbowed Tyrus in the ribs and guffawed. Everyone else watched Olroth laugh. He was that kind of chieftain: he laughed at his own jokes.
The morning passed with awkward glares. Tyrus had offended his new family, and they lacked a common language to set things straight.
The tension faded after lunch when a group of warriors returned from the plains. His transgressions became minor as people celebrated the men. Over their shoulders, they carried large sacks dripping with fresh meat. Olroth greeted them at the gate and made loud announcements. Everyone cheered.
Later, Tyrus found Olroth. “What is going on?”
“A good omen. No deaths. We will feast tonight.”
Preparations filled the daylight. Men hung meat, and women scraped furs clean while others gathered bundles of wood into a large bonfire. Several cook fires were built, and Tyrus saddened when he learned they ate purim flesh. They prepared it better with spice rubs, but the oily aftertaste remained nonetheless.
The bonfire burned hot while people ate, and men stepped forward with stories. No one translated for Tyrus, but the children watched with wide eyes, and the adults laughed when they jumped. Tyrus enjoyed the flames. Alone, he would never have built one so big. Fuel was a constant frustration, and the light drew purims. He wondered about that and noted that many of the men wore mail.
They were a strange people, he decided, who celebrated life by taunting monsters.
The fire calmed from a loud roar to a pile of white-hot coals. Olroth elbowed Tyrus and pointed. The little blond girl, Brynn, took the place of the storytellers. Across her shoulders draped a six-foot chain. An orb of cloth was wrapped around each end, and she dipped them both into the fire. Then she danced, twirling the flaming orbs.
Conversations died off. Brynn’s grace and precision impressed Tyrus. The little waif transformed into a fierce presence that reminded him of the red sorcerers juggling hellfire. The girl sang in a high, soft voice as she moved. Tyrus marveled that she could twist and leap with her chains while singing.
“She is one of the best fire dancers,” Olroth said. “One day, the men will kill each other to marry her.”
“She is talented.”
“Aydler is clever. Your slight will be forgotten after a feast and a show.”
“What does she sing?”
“She sings of the first clans, who were betrayed by Alivar. He drove us into the wastelands to live with the demon tribes. The dance is for the ghost warrior, the lord of war, who will unite the clans and defy our enemies. The warrior will dance with the dead and drown all who oppose us in an ocean of blood.”
“Your feud with the Kassiri goes all the way back to Alivar?”
“He united the tribes of man against us.”
“Why?”
“During the great war, we refused to kneel before elves and angels. We would not be slaves to the elves, and Alivar punished us for our pride.”
Tyrus had never been one to appreciate dancing, but the twirling fire sparked his imagination. The flames fluttered as they circled around the little girl, and they reminded him of old battles and razed cities. His mind drifted to his nightmares and Marah. He had abandoned Ishma’s daughter. Four years was a long time to live alone. For all Tyrus knew, Azmon was marching against Ironwall to kill Marah.
III
Klay watched Marah teasing his war bear. Chobar grunted and Marah squealed as they played a strange form of tag. Marah would slap Chobar and run, but if she came to a sudden stop and looked at him, he froze. If she didn’t look, he playacted stalking her until she laughed and ran away. The spectacle embarrassed Klay. His fearsome war bear was acting like an overgrown puppy.
Earlier that day, Dura Galamor had paid a visit to the ranger barracks. One of her mercenaries carried her down hundreds of steps to visit, which made the other rangers jealous. They whispered about Klay’s influence. He sent them away so Dura could share whatever had driven her from the tower.
She sat at a bench in the shade. Klay stood nearby and winced whenever Chobar ran from the little girl. Tongue lolling, the bear grinned and bounced out of reach of Marah’s fingers. At least none of the rangers could see him frolicking.
“The child has no friends,” Dura said. “You don’t know what this means to her.”
“It’s damned embarrassing.”
“Chobar thinks she’s a cub. He’s teaching her to hunt.”
“He wants to embarrass me. Trust me.”
“I tried to find her playmates, but she says children are stupid.”
“Compared to her, I’m sure they are.”
“Maybe,” Dura said, “but she needs to learn how to make friends. She will need them in the coming years.”
“Is that all you want, some playtime for Marah?” Klay gave her a knowing smirk.
The old woman’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but she said nothing, so he went back to lamenting his deranged bear.
Dura asked, “How often does the king of Shinar visit you?”
“Never. Why?”
Dura gestured at the gates to the ranger barracks, and Klay saw Lahar Baladan walking up the pathway. Klay excused himself and walked out to meet him. Lahar appeared sober and a shadow of his former self. He had grown soft and fat, like a retired soldier. The face maintained a boyish appearance despite the thicker cheeks. Since he had taken a liking to Annrin, Lahar became popular with the rangers for buying them mead.
“Greetings, King Lahar.” Klay bowed. “How are the Shinari knights?”
Lahar grimaced. “I’ve disbanded all twelve of our great host.”
“Disbanded them, Your Grace?”
Lahar gaped at Marah and Chobar’s game. “I’m tired of listening to them talk about avenging a dead kingdom. Tell me, Sir Klay, does the Red Sorceress always visit you in person?”
“Less and less each year. All the stairs are hard on her.”
Lahar gasped, and Klay turned to watch Chobar grab Marah into a great hug and roll with her. Chobar didn’t hurt the girl, but it looked as if he was playing with his food.
“Do war bears usually play with little kids?”
“Never. But she has a way with animals.”
“The bear doesn’t hurt her?”
“Not even a scratch. I wish I were so lucky. He occasionally swats me, and it leaves a bruise for weeks.”
“I’ll never understand why you people ride those things.”
“You’ve never fought a half-giant before.”
Lahar drew closer and became serious. “We need to talk, but after the sorceress leaves.”
“Regarding what?”
“Doesn’t it bother you that a child who couldn’t walk survived a battle with a demon?”
“Tyrus saved her.”
“After the nurse died, is how I heard the story.”
“Yes, well, Tyrus would say the stories change with t
he telling.”
“After the sorceress leaves, find me. You know where I like to drink.”
“Your Grace, the Hill Folk know where you like to drink.”
Lahar watched Marah for a while longer before leaving, and Klay returned to Dura. She waited for him to talk, and he did his best to make his eyes twinkle as he withheld secrets from her. He didn’t have the knack for it though, and she gave him a perturbed look.
Klay said, “Lahar has taken an interest in Marah.”
“Has he now? Sober enough to ask questions?”
“Surprisingly sober if the stories about him are true.”
“They are. Samos won’t shut up about that idiot boy. And what did he want?”
“What they all want—to know how a baby could survive a fight with one of Azmon’s monsters.”
“Did he ask about her parentage?”
“Not yet.”
Dura scratched her chin. “I wonder who pulled him out of his cups. I will need your help to protect the child. I’m too old for this nonsense. We must keep Marah’s secret until we can send her to Telessar.”
“Lord Nemuel will take her?”
“I’m working on it. After Azmon and Edan, I don’t have it in me to raise another Reborn. Not that I’ll live long enough to try.”
Klay hoped he hid his surprise. He often forgot that Dura had tutored the Prince of the Dawn. Dura and Azmon had begun fighting decades before Klay was born. She had the wrinkles to prove it, a face etched with wisdom. Relaxed, watching Marah play, she appeared to be contemplating the fall of empires. He wondered whether she did or if old schemes left scars on her face.
“There’s nothing you can do—” Klay bit off the words to avoid dying. “With your runes?”
“I know how Azmon stopped aging, but I chose a natural life. I’d like to finish this war, but I won’t take the runes in this condition. Can you imagine spending eternity too feeble to walk up a flight of stairs?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Hush. I should have died a couple years ago, but I think the little one is meddling with my health. After I die, Larz Kedar will become the high sorcerer of the Red Towers. You will need to tell him about the girl’s parentage.”
Willing to Endure: A Dark Fantasy (The Shedim Rebellion Book 3) Page 9