by V. Holmes
Bren's stuttered response was cut off by a swell of voices as Azirik exited his tent. The king glanced over. He watched the Ageless disappear over the ridge and met Bren's stare. The lieutenant knew everything could be read on his face. He stepped back to distance himself from where the informant had stood, but it was too late.
Azirik strode over. “What did he say?” The king's voice rasped.
Bren opened his mouth to speak, but found no words. His eyes scanned Azirik's features – the arched nose, the wide-set eyes and heavy jaw. Older, but identical to his own. He was right.
“Lieutenant?” Azirik barked.
“You're my father?” His voice was as hoarse as his king's. “Why did you never claim me? Was it cause I was a bastard? Heirs have been made from more questionable stock than a peasant mother, so what was it?”
“She was Laen.” Azirik fell silent at the betrayal on Bren's face. His knuckles were white around his sword hilt. “Does this change your resolve?”
“Gods, I don't know!” Bren rubbed his hands over his face. “All this time you never told me! Toar, you've made me murder my mother's people? Laen-blood or not, kin-slaying is damnable!” His next words were cut short as Azirik's fist slammed up into the left side of his jaw, cracking his teeth together. Bren's vision exploded and he dropped to the ground. He was conscious, but the world spun.
“Get out of here, Brentemir,” Azirik muttered. Without another word he strode into the camp.
Bren stayed on the ground for another moment. Whatever he had been thinking, his decision was made for him now. He hauled himself to his feet and made his way to the tents. He did think about what he was doing, about what came next. Choice books he shoved into his pack, along with his heavier boots and a few extra clothes. He tucked the pack into the shadows behind the tents and went to the armory wagon. He ducked inside with a friendly greeting to the man on guard.
“Just need to mend some things.” His stiff smile belied the pounding in his chest. The man laughed and motioned him through. Once inside, Bren wasted no time. He already wore his jerkin and his sword and dagger hung at his belt. He strapped a quiver and bow to his back, the oiled string going into his belt pocket. He was a lousy shot, but game wasn't going to come to him. His metal studded jerkin was folded in the chest for his troop, but he found it easily. He averted his eyes from the vermillion double-diamond on the breast that denoted his rank. That and his vambraces, rerebraces, and greaves went into another pack. He wanted a mail thigh-guard, but it was too heavy. He dropped the bag out the back of the wagon and folded the armored jerkin over his arm. He thanked the guard and rounded the wagon. He grabbed the bag from the rear of the wagon and his pack before crossing the camp. His steps were measured and slow. His horse was loaded and he checked the saddle when a light cough sounded behind him.
His first-corporal leaned on the post, frowning. “Our orders are to move out at dawn. Not now.”
“Sorier, please.” He did not pause in tacking up. “Leave it.”
“I saw you argue with His Majesty. You are not an angry man.” The captain was a dozen years Bren's senior and had helped raise him in the army way. “Lieutenant are you deserting?”
Bren finally stopped, resting his head against the saddle. Am I? Is that the word? Surely there's one milder, concerned with bloodties and sanity. He caught himself halfway through the rationalization. “There is no word for what I'm doing.”
Sorier shrugged. “Then I'm coming with you. You're my officer. Doric will come too, if you only look at him. You could use us.”
Bren winced. The loyalty of his men was a painful barb of what he left behind. I'm abandoning them! He reached into his pack and ripped the rank-badge from his jerkin. “Your orders are to stay with the army, Sorier. Doric too."
"I pray we meet again.”
Bren mounted up and looked down at the man. “You will understand, soon, why I pray we never do.” He handed him the badge. “You are to fight well and stay alive, Lieutenant Sorier.”
The older man frowned at the fabric in his hands, not understanding until he heard the title of his promotion. He looked up, but Bren was already trotting quickly away. He disappeared into the woods. The Miriken army rode out four hours later, taking advantage of the fog to cover their passage north. Bren watched them pack up from the surrounding hills. He patted his horse's flank dismally. “Happy Midwinter.” The army faded into the trees leaving only lines of hoof prints and cold fires. And him.
Φ
The 8th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
Alea glared. “I disapprove of your methods.” She reached for the spit of bacon only to be driven back by Arman's territorial growl.
“You burnt it three times in a row, milady. I'm not risking the last of it.” He poked it carefully. His grin widened at the violent sizzling of fat hitting their fire.
“You'll smell of lard for the next two weeks. Especially if you continue to wear that damned jerkin.” She sat back, confident in her barb.
Arman just rolled his eyes. “This one's warmest, plus my other one has a busted shoulder.”
“I could mend it. Or better still, teach you how. Perhaps you should have brought your mother along.” She watched as he tended their food. Their camp on the ridge was more exposed than she preferred, but there was evidence of previous fires. She hauled herself to her feet with a groan. “Let me see.”
“It's in the left side.” Arman pointed with his knife. “I can't get the thread to hold.”
“You just have to braid it before sewing. It makes it stronger.”
“I told you I couldn't braid.”
Alea almost asked when he told her such a thing. When I was covered in blood, reeling from discovering I was the Dhoah' Laen. Her face grew still and she picked at the tattered threads of his jerkin. “A lot has changed, hasn't it?”
Arman glanced over at her change in tone. “Yes. More than I ever thought.” He set the bacon aside to cool and went to crouch beside her. “I don't let myself think about it, though. I just focus on the future.”
She frowned. “No. The key is to just exist in this moment. Have a goal in mind, perhaps, but address each step in turn. Otherwise fear of the future will paralyze you. You will have forgotten the present.” She watched his hands fiddle with the new leather pieces. “What's this?” She turned his palm up and peered at the faint stain. It looked like an old burn, but she was certain it had not been there before.
Arman rubbed it thoughtfully, as if searching for the words. “Your mother came to me several nights ago. She wasn't there but her mind was, I guess. She asked me to protect you. The old Rakos bound themselves to a single Laen.” He held up his palm next to hers. The stain on hers was faint and silvery. “I swore a soul-vow to guard you.”
“Arman! This is serious!” Her voice broke at the last whispered words. She forced herself to breath slowly until her composure was still again. “I swear I will not let you down.” It did not carry the weight of his promise, but he smiled at the sincerity.
“Whatever bloodshed there is," she warned, "I will see this battle through."
His eyes were luminous when they met hers. "Then until I can no longer lift a blade or bow or fist, so shall I." He gestured to the leather in her hands. “Now enough doom-talk. Show me how to braid.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The 10th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
The Province of Athrolan
BREN BLINKED AGAINST THE bright light. Half his jaw was stiff and aching. It took him a few moments to realize he was staring at an evening sky. The naked branches overhead looked like black veins in the white marble of the moon. His body ached from the hard, cold ground.
Icy rain stung his face and his jaw cracked as he tried to lick drops from around his mouth. He was thirsty. He rose with a sigh and bound up his bedroll. Sudden decisions were well and good, but the day afterwards always had him uncertain. Sleeping through most of it hadn't helped his spirits. He had nowhere to go. He hummed softly as he tacked up. Su
ddenly a soft voice cut through the bare trees. He crouched, drawing his knife and peering at the forest from under his horse's belly.
A moment later two riders emerged a few paces from him. They were halfway across the clearing before they saw him. The woman drew up immediately, backing her horse and fumbling with a bow strapped to her saddle.
The man snarled and drew a knife from a bandolier across his chest. "Drop your weapon."
The woman frowned at her companion. "Arman, he's alone."
"I don't give a damn if he's trussed up as a harvest pig, he's Miriken."
Bren's brows shot up. "I like her better." Her gaze met his and all the air left his lungs. It was as if he looked on a vast scattering of stars and was dwarfed by their majesty. Her eyes were brilliant gray-blue, bordering on silver. He knew her immediately. He dropped his knife and fell to his knees. Something akin to joy, to fear, bubbled in his chest. "Toar, I thought we killed you."
"You're Azirik's man?"
He could not look away from her. I'm not Azirik's anymore. He was not ready to say those words aloud. He pointed to the bruise that was still livid on his face. "I'm not sure whose man I am now."
"I thought Azirik would punish desertion with death." Arman said, shifting his weight uneasily.
Bren shook his head. "He usually does. I think he made an exception for his bastard son." He glanced up at the glaring man. "Do you think I could stand? My knees aren't what they used to be."
The woman's eyes were wide and she glanced at her companion. "Arman, it's him."
"It's a trap, milady."
She glared at him. "An'thoriend told us for a reason."
"An'thoriend?" Bren ignored the blond man's scowl at his interruption. "As in the An'thoriend?" He pointed his first two fingers like horns. "He worked for milord king as an informant. I suspected he was double crossing us, though. He was the one who told me who my father was."
The woman dismounted carefully, refastening her bow to her saddle. She crossed the clearing slowly, ignoring Arman's protests. "I suspect he enjoys playing gods with our lives." Her head tilted with curiosity. She stopped less than a pace away and leaned down. Her hand brushed his face and she frowned. "I know your face. I've seen paintings of Azirik." She paused at the pale gray eyes and tapped the bridge of his nose with one finger. "Those, though. Those are mine." She stepped back. "Who are you?"
"Lieutenant Brentemir Barrackborn. Former lieutenant, now, I suspect."
"Why former?"
"I've been thinking too much. Questioning when I shouldn't have been. Killing that girl—the one we thought was you—was the hardest thing I've ever done." He picked at the ragged skin around his nails. "I decided to fight for you."
Her lips pursed. "You're a terrible liar. You had no intention of fighting for me."
Bren's face heated. "Won't you kill me outright if I say otherwise? With your..." his wiggled fingers illustrated power.
"No." She jerked her head at the man behind her. "My guard might, but I wouldn't." She straightened. "We were going to camp here. You might as well share our fire. I don't like the idea of losing sight of you just yet. Ceir Bodian is a day's ride away. Tomorrow I expect you can find the road."
He nodded haltingly and rose. He moved to undo his tack once more when her guard's horse shouldered his aside.
"I'll be taking your blades." The man's yellow-green eyes narrowed on him. "You're still a harvest pig to me, no matter what she says."
Φ
The fire was laid quickly, their movements practiced. They've been on the road together a while now. Bren sat back, deciding it was better to be useless than try to help and have his intentions misread. "What're your names?"
"I'm Lyne'alea and he's Aud'narman Wardyn." She flashed him what might have been a smile. "Call me Alea."
Arman growled from across the camp and dumped his gathered firewood with more anger than was strictly necessary. "Did it occur to you that he's here to spy on you, milady?"
Alea frowned and set water to boil. "Arman, don't be rude, he can hear you. He's no longer fighting for Azirik. He's just a lost soul."
"How can you know?"
"I just do." She unrolled her bed, putting the fire between herself and Bren, despite her fair words.
"He's Azirik's blood!"
"And so am I!" Her tone plainly said the argument was over, but Bren stared at her, incredulous.
"Excuse me, milady?" He knew erring on the side of formality could not hurt. "What do you mean so are you?"
She looked at him with surprise. "You don't know?"
"Azirik refused me as his son because my mother was Laen. An'thoriend said my mother ran away because she was protecting something. He said she carried something that would change the world." His gaze inched over her features. They were Laen, but there were echoes of something else. "It was you, wasn't it."
She did not answer, but her expression told him enough. Instead she stood. "I'll go dig a latrine. Arman, don't kill him while I'm gone. I'll hear it if you do."
Arman crouched by the fire, his expression mulish. "I'm just glad we ate the last of the bacon yesterday. I'd not want to share it with him."
It was fully dark when Alea finally broke the awkward silence. "Planning on taking up as a healer?"
Bren jumped at her voice. He leaned against a tree, absorbed in a book on edible plants. "I'll read anything. I'm slow at it, but I enjoy learning."
"You learned a lot in the army?"
"Not truly, no. I was raised in the barracks from the time I was six. There were few books to share among the other orphans." He lifted the book. "Besides, this might be useful."
"You were raised by the soldiers?"
"Yes. I was put in the army at ten—two years early cause I was tall. I was considered an orphan after my—our—ma left." He shook his head. "I didn't know you were my sister."
Something like relief tore through her. The man before her had killed her people, would have killed her had things be different. Yet here he sits, saying he no longer wanted the soldier's life, saying he's my brother. "You think that changes anything?"
Bren looked away, smoothing the creased pages of the book. "I don't know. If I had known—"
"What? You would have escaped Mirik as a boy? Sailed from the people giving you food and shelter and training? I think not." She could not place the root of her anger, her confusion. He's not your mother. He did not leave you without blood family. He was just a boy. She put her head in her trembling hands. "I'm sorry. This is just confusing. I can't decide if I should be happy to meet you or angry. Perhaps after the war..." She shook her head. "We wake at dawn. Arman, take first watch." She shucked off her boots and retreated to her bedroll. She buried her face in the hard pillow, wondering why she felt like weeping.
Φ
The 13th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
Hoof beats thrummed through the frozen ground. Arman was alert in a moment, knife drawn. A quick glance told him Bren was a sleeping lump by the fire. Alea was curled into her bedroll. He crept to the exposed ridge, peering down to the road below. Moonlight made the rocky path a white ribbon. He could not make out any crests on the approaching riders, but he recognized the wooden armor as Berrin. It was possible they would miss the camp, but Arman knew better than to take such a risk. He rushed back to Alea, donning his bandolier as he crouched beside her.
She rose silently, understanding the look in his eye. "How long?" She grabbed her pack, haphazardly buckling her bedroll onto it.
"Ten, maybe less." Arman dragged their horses behind a windfall as he saddled up. He caught her glance at the still-sleeping Bren. "Leave him. He's their ally." He mounted up, waiting until Alea did the same before edging his mount through the wide-spaced trees. Hearing hoof beats, Arman turned, a knife sliding into his hand. "What are you doing?" His voice was deadly.
Bren reached over and tugged his sword from Arman's saddle. "There is nothing for me in Ceir Bodian. Beside you, however, there could be."
; Arman's lip curled with distaste, but there was no time to argue. A cry went up as the Berrin discovered their campsite. Arman swore and they kicked their horses into a gallop. The time for secrecy was over. "You gave us up!"
Bren rolled his eyes. "No, idiot, you forgot to stamp out the fire!"
Φ
The 14th Day of Vurgmord, 1251
"Where are we going?" Bren rubbed down his horse, noting a tremble in the animal's left hind.
"North." Arman stalked over to where Alea crouched, filling their water skins. The forest was thicker and the Berrin had fallen behind. The trees were twisted and the sound of falling water filled the air. The sun had crested the mountains to the east half an hour before. Its light was cold, but welcome after the twisting darkness that was the forest at night.
Alea glanced up from the stream. "Fort Hero. It's just over that rise."
"When we arrive, you and I will have a talk." Arman added a curled lip to his threat.
"I think you've spoken enough for the both of us, but I understand." Bren was still questioning his own motives and was resigned to Arman's distrust. They remounted, but the pace was easy as they rode the last league. The sloping hill before them had been cleared of trees. In its center stood a fort surrounded by double walls. The first looked over ten paces, the next another five more.
Alea sped across the field, Arman and Bren trailing her through the gateway. Her eyes widened as they halted in the courtyard. The garrison was the size of a small town. Stables stretched the length of the left wall. Barracks stood on the right and ran along the rear in an "L." The fort was rough, but clean. The smell of wood smoke and meat hung in the air. A pen of chickens stood by a smoke house.
A squire trotted up to Arman, his face lit with curiosity. "What can I do for you?"
Alea dismounted beside him. "We're expected. I'm meeting Commander Dorcal." The boy ran off and she stretched with a sigh. She was uncertain what to expect from the commander. She knew of Athrolan's great heroes, but she was not sure what to picture.