The Brave and the Dead

by Robertson, Dave

The girl set down the tray and filled the goblet without acknowledging either man. She left the room without a word. Gahspar took a sip of his drink, then set it down. When he looked up, the king was watching him.

  “Good, eh?” the king said.

  “Yes,” Gahspar said. He wasn’t sure how to act, or what to do. This was all much less formal than he had expected. “Very good.”

  “You have a story to tell me? I do love a good story.”

  “Yes. Well, it’s not so much a story as some things that actually happened that I feel you should know about,” Gahspar said. “Because they’re true and they’re important.”

  Gahspar picked up his goblet using both hands; he didn’t want the king to think he was left handed. In many parts of the Northern Kingdoms, left handed people were considered unlucky.

  He saw King Reinvarr glance at his bandaged hand.

  “Go ahead then,” the king said.

  Gahspar cleared his throat nervously.

  “You may or may not know that Surgaart is at war. An army of dead men, ancient resurrected warriors, has now taken over all the major towns,” Gahspar said.

  The king’s eyebrows went up, he looked comically surprised.

  “Dead men? Now that is a story,” the king said. He smiled. “Go on.”

  “We were chased out of the forest near Errborg. We decided to come here, to tell you because you are the only one who could stop the army. My friend and I climbed the pass to come here, but there was a bad winter storm. Snow, wind, freezing. We were attacked by bandits. I killed one and we escaped them, but my friend died up there.”

  King Reinvarr sat, nodding. He motioned for Gahspar to continue.

  “Uh, well, The snow was very deep and the cold was brutal, but I made it over the pass. I slept one night in a snow cave, that’s when my friend’s horse died. Mine survived. He’s small but he’s tough,” Gahspar realized he was getting off the subject, but King Reinvarr seemed to be hanging on every word. “Anyway, I made it down the pass. I could hardly ride I was so cold, frozen almost. A nice family took me in and helped me for a few days. I lost a few toes from frostbite, and a few fingers. Then I came here.”

  The king took a long swallow of his drink and set down his cup.

  “I hear so many stories, from messengers, from emissaries, from allies,” the king stood and began to walk back and forth. “Most are boring reports of who is growing what or who is hiring ships. Boring. Your story is good. There is action, a gang of bandits, an evil army. A brave man like you faces hardship and peril and lives to tell of it.” The king stopped, his hands on the back of his chair. “You need only to learn to tell it better. To add details. Draw in your listener.”

  Gahspar looked up at the king, confused.

  “But it’s true. It’s all true.”

  The king smiled, pulled out his chair and sat.

  “True, is it?” the king said.

  “Yes,” Gahspar said, “every word.”

  The king traced the route of his elaborate mustache with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Tell me then,” the king said. “You fought these bandits up near the pass. Did you have all your fingers then?”

  “Uh, yes, but I’ve been crippled since birth. My right hand was never able to hold a sword.”

  A quick look of surprise showed on the king’s face, before he managed to hide it.

  “You fought left handed?” the king asked.

  “Yes, but in Surgaart I was fighting with an axe. I had to tie it to my right hand and wrist. That way I could hold my shield in my left.”

  “Tie it …?”

  “Yes,” Gahspar said, looking the king in the eye. “On the pass, the bandits surprised us; I had no time to tie on the sword. I drew it left handed and swung from horseback.”

  The astonishment showed on the king’s face again and he slapped his palm flat on the table top. He smiled, beating the table top. He began to laugh.

  “Good, good. Very good,” the king said. There was a light in his blue eyes. “Let me see the hand.”

  Gahspar unwrapped his hand and held it out. The king leaned over to study it. He noted the stumps of lost fingers, then the remaining index finger, fused into a permanent curve. He sat back in his chair.

  “Tell me of your friend.”

  “One of the bandits threw a small knife. My friend was wounded. We rode as fast as our horses would go. I don’t know if that killed him, or the weather, or both. I put him across his horse and kept going. When his horse died, I had to leave them.”

  “The horse, it was also wounded?”

  “No. The horse was exhausted. The conditions were too harsh for it,” Gahspar said.

  “But not for you. You endured. You fought. You survived,” King Reinvarr said, raising his fist.

  “Yes, and so did my horse, though it was close.”

  “Yes,” the king said, looking off into space. “Of course it was. That’s what makes a good story.”

  “I came here. I did all of this … I needed to tell you of this threat. Of the disaster in Surgaart. The jarls, the chieftains, they are all dead. An evil has taken over. I came over the pass to tell you and to ask for your help.”

  “Well,” the king said. “There it is. The noble reason for your great adventure.”

  The king looked at him, a hint of a smile behind his blue eyes. “At first I thought your story was a bit cumbersome. Awkward. But now I see you were holding back, saving the best bits to the very last. Well done.”

  King Reinvarr began to get up from his seat.

  “Surgaart needs your help.” Gahspar said, a little too forcefully, considering his audience. “ We are lost and under the rule of an evil man. He’s not even a Norseman.”

  “All true,” the king said calmly. He ran one finger nail along the edge of a front tooth. “You say this is all true.”

  “Yes,” Gahspar said emphatically. He realized that in his haste he had cut off the king. King Reinvarr ignored the slight.

  “You realize, I’m sure, that lying to the king is punishable by death?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The king stared at Gahspar as if doing so would change his answer. After several seconds, he began to pace back and forth again, hands behind his back. He stopped, addressing Gahspar.

  “Look, let’s do without the army of dead men, can we agree on that?” the king said. “An army has taken over Surgaart, let’s leave it at that.”

  Gahspar nodded.

  “I’d heard rumors, of course. People had come over the pass before the weather got bad. They said there was fighting there,” the king sat again. “At that time, Errborg had not yet fallen. You’re sure it has?”

  Gahspar nodded. “I fought in the last battle there.”

  “Harvat too?”

  Gahspar nodded again. The king looked down at the table’s shining surface, his mind far away. When he looked up, his typical smile had faded.

  “You’ve come to ask for my help. Exactly what is it you are asking?”

  “We need you to send your army into Surgaart. Defeat the skel … the conquerors, and free the people.”

  “You’ve just told me how hazardous the pass is. Now you want me to send my army over it?”

  “Uh, no Your Highness, I was thinking you could send men to the coast and then take ships down the shore to Surgaart, attack that way.”

  “By the time we got there, winter would be settled on all the land. We couldn’t fight in that.”

  “I could,” Gahspar said, looking the king in the face.

  The king laughed. The light glinted off his rings as he ran a hand through his hair.

  “Gahspar, you are quite a man. I will discuss this matter with my advisors. In the meantime, you can join my ranks. We could use a man like you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Sword

  Gahspar followed the king’s man, Sundin Garn, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow clad in the blue and silver uniform of The King’s Guard. Gahsp
ar had seen graceful elk disappear into stands of dense forest, not a leaf moving or a branch disturbed. Sundin reminded him of that. He was in charge of the king’s forces, that much Gahspar was told, though he wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. He also wasn’t sure what was about to happen. When a king asked you to join his ranks, you didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  The two of them stepped into a muddy courtyard, the chill of the morning hitting Gahspar squarely in the face. Before them were ten men. They were large men, like most in Orngaart. Gahspar was not small, but the average man of Orngaart was nearly a hand taller than he was. The men of Orngaart were big-boned, with bulky muscles and strong backs. The ones in front of Gahspar were no exception.

  They stood in a rough line, dressed in a motley collection of wool garments and leather armor. Most had swords, though Gahspar saw at least one man that wore only an axe on his belt. Sundin stood in front of the men, and Gahspar stood next to him, wondering if he was expected to join the other line of men.

  “All of you, welcome,” Sundin began, “You are here because you are stouthearted men, fighting men, who have been recommended to King Reinvarr’s service. You have fought. You have raided. You have proven yourselves.”

  The ragged group of men watched Sundin soberly. He was the type of person that men listened to.

  “You are all brave, or you would not be here, yes?” Sundin said.

  The men grumbled in general agreement.

  “If you think you are brave, I want you to meet this man,” Sundin said, motioning toward Gahspar. “This is Gahspar, from Surgaart. He has been recommended by the king himself.” Sundin paused to let the words sink in. “Gahspar fought in Surgaart where a terrible war is underway. The fighting there was brutal. Men lost homes, land and families. Many have died, and good men have become outlaws.”

  Gahspar noticed how Sundin held everyone’s attention. He spoke very dramatically, raising his tone to emphasize certain points and lowering it to draw the men’s interest.

  “Gahspar rode over the pass to tell our king of the situation there. He rode over even though a massive storm was on its way. He fought through snow, ice and wind. Through conditions that most of us would never attempt. The snow got deeper and deeper, the weather worse. His friend was killed by bandits, his horse died from exposure. Such was the ferocity of the storm, but Gahspar pressed on.”

  Sundin paused to watch the men before him. When he resumed, his voice was quiet. The men had to lean forward to hear.

  “Gahspar lost some fingers to frostbite,” Sundin motioned toward Gahspar, “but does he give up the sword? Does he quit fighting? No. Gahspar ties his sword to the stump of his hand and continues fighting.”

  Gahspar saw some wide eyes and raised eyebrows among the men who were now studying him closely.

  “This is bravery. This is the type of man King Reinvarr is looking for.”

  For the next two days, Sundin ran Gahspar and the other ten men through a rigorous process. They attacked straw dummies shaped like men, blocking, slashing, and stabbing according to Sundin’s instructions, which changed with each attempt. When the men lined up for their turn, Gahspar lined up last so he could watch the others and do as they did. They cut wooden rods and attacked stationary targets. Gahspar’s attacks were close, but not quite on par with the others. They all seemed to chalk it up to the recent loss of his fingers, and Gahspar didn’t correct them. The other men saw him as a hero, and a hero got a little leeway.

  To Gahspar, the brave thing was training alongside these seasoned warriors. These men had come from all over Orngaart, recommended by someone important just to get a tryout. Facing any of them was a challenge. With each exercise, each repetition, Gahspar’s resolve was tested.

  At the end of the second day, they sparred one-on-one. This was Gahspar’s most difficult test. He was no match for the man across from him, but he nearly held his own by sheer effort. Afterwards, as Gahspar walked from the field, bruised and sweating, Wender Orloff stood waiting for him. Gahspar was surprised. Was this their way of telling him that he didn’t measure up, that he was being sent away? He knew that not all of them would make the king’s ranks. He also knew he was one of the weakest.

  “Gahspar,” Wender said. “I need a few minutes of your time.”

  Gahspar nodded, untying the sword from his hand. He followed Wender out of the courtyard.

  He was led to a small room with a desk in one corner and benches along one wall. There were weapons hanging on the walls: a halberd, a chipped, tarnished sword and a war hammer. A tall, fat man sat on one of the benches. He had graying, curly hair that stuck out from either side of his block-shaped head. The man had several tools and other items which he was arranging on the bench next to him.

  “You are Gahspar?” The man said, looking up.

  “Yes,” Gahspar said. He started to introduce himself, but the man had already turned back to his tools.

  “The king has asked me to make you a new sword, a gift from him.”

  Gahspar was surprised. The king was an unusual man.

  “You prefer the shorter sword?” The man stood, he was wearing a heavy leather apron with a mosaic of black stains on it.

  Gahspar looked down at the sword on his belt. It was shorter than what most of the men used.

  “It’s easier,” Gahspar said, holding up his right hand. “My fingers …”

  The man looked closely at Gahspar’s hand. He took a tool and measured Gahspar’s palm, then he did the same with his remaining index finger. The fat man stepped back then, resting his flabby chin on his fist, then he selected a length of string which he wrapped around Gahspar’s wrist in two different places.

  “Take off your tunic,” the man said.

  “I don’t know what this …” Gahspar started to say, but the man wasn’t listening.

  Gahspar took off his tunic and undershirt. The man looked him over.

  “Hmm, show me your swing,” the man said.

  Gahspar tied the sword on while the man watched, curious. Then Gahspar took a horizontal swing, looping it up and into a downward slash, he finished it with a straight stabbing motion.

  The man nodded, stroking his short, gray beard. He had Gahspar simulate attacks from a few different angles, slowly and smoothly.

  “Your arm’s weak, but your shoulders are pretty strong. You’re what, a farmer? A builder?”

  “Sorry?” Gahspar said.

  “Well, you’re not a trained soldier; I can tell that from the way you handle a sword.”

  Gahspar could feel his face turn red.

  “Look, here, instead of swinging so wild,” the man said grabbing Gahspar’s arm and forcing him through the motion, “draw it across in an arc, like this. You feel the difference?”

  Gahspar nodded, repeating the motion to set it in his head.

  “Turn this foot,” the man said, kicking Gahspar’s foot gently, “about this far. Small change, big difference. When your body is positioned correctly, your shoulders and hips work together, not every part fighting each other.”

  The man sat down and started drawing lines on a little board with a piece of charcoal. Gahspar practiced the two things the man had shown him. The man seemed lost in his work.

  “Are you going to tell the king? About me being a farmer?”

  “Huh?” the man said, looking up. “Oh. No. The king says make you a sword, I’m going to make you a sword.”

  The man returned to the task of drawing things on the little board. After a few moments, he gathered up his tools and other items and stood.

  “I’m going to make you a better sword than that one you’ve got. If that’s a family heirloom, I mean no offense, but I can do better. Wender will let you know when I’m done.”

  The man walked his considerable girth out of the room, with some difficulty, and Gahspar was left alone. He went back to the common room he shared with the other men.

  Being at sea was a horror. Ingo couldn’t imagine a worse situation. It was bad
enough to be trapped aboard ship with a group of dead men, but these creepy, evil abominations never slept, never rested and never tired. When the winds had died and Ingo had made the decision to row, the skeletons had put their backs to it. They were steady and strong, singing old war songs in hoarse throats as dry and scratchy as old leaves. It made his skin crawl just to hear it. The things rowed, and sang, sang and rowed. The dead men were relentless, never hesitating, never slowing. They were making good time, but it was all a little too much for Ingo. He touched his right temple rapidly, tapping out a steady, neurotic little beat. It seemed to make him feel better, just a little, then he saw one of his mates watching him.

  “You cracking up on me?” the man said.

  “I’m fine,” Ingo said.

  Ingo wasn’t happy about being the lead ship. He had been hired only to take the ship to Orngaart, nothing more, but they had to go around the Estgaart coast, and it wasn’t clear if these dead men were at war with Estgaart or not. Maybe even they didn’t know. If they stopped to fight, it could take weeks to reach Orngaart, not days, and Ingo wasn’t sure he could take that. Also, what would happen when they got to Orngaart? Would ships come out to fight them? Would they be allowed to put in at one of the ports? There were a lot of possibilities to worry about.

  The skeletal things looked ready to fight. In fact, they looked like they couldn’t wait to kill something, and it didn’t matter to them who or what they killed. Ingo’s apprehension grew.

  On the second ship, Vorus stood and watched the Estgaart coast slip past. He knew that a lot of his dead men had scores to settle in Estgaart. They would love nothing more than to pull up somewhere and settle a few, but Vorus was determined to get to Orngaart. Orngaart was more powerful, more worthy. It had a king who could summon a powerful number of fighting men. It was richer, more organized, better defended. Vorus relished the challenge. Once he defeated Orngaart, it would strike fear into the leaders in Estgaart and Vastgaart, and he enjoyed striking fear in others. He found it very helpful in achieving his goals.