Reclaiming Honor

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  The last door on the right stood open, weak light spilling out onto the hallway floor. He made his way toward it, dreading whatever might lie ahead. Low voices within reached his ears, speaking in hushed, angry tones as he approached.

  “—least let me take her to the family crypt,” a man’s voice growled. “Don’t let him rob her of that, too.”

  Her? They couldn’t be talking about . . . .

  His feet froze beneath him, only a few steps short of the door. He couldn’t move, dreading what lay within his home.

  “She shouldn’t be interred at all, Dubor,” a gruff voice growled back. “You know the custom, the law. It specifically calls for the nameless to be burned, to cleanse their dishonor and sin in fire, lest it infect others.”

  Dubor was his mother’s eldest brother. Tovak knew little of her side of the family, but he’d heard his uncle’s name spoken occasionally over the years, usually in a heated discussion between his mother and father.

  “Then grant a dissolution, Borol!” There was a slamming sound, as if a fist striking a table or door. “As his warchief, you have that power . . . . Please . . . . A dissolution would sever the tie. You owe me that.”

  Borol? Tovak thought with not a little dismay. Borol Ironbrand was Warchief of the Dragon Fist Warband, where his father served as a company commander.

  A long pause filled the silence, and then Borol asked, “And what of the son? No dissolution will cleanse the stain upon him. Nothing short of a miracle could. What will you do? Tell me. Cast him adrift or take him in? It might be better to just cut his throat while he sleeps. Kinder I think . . . .” All Tovak could do was stand there, wide-eyed and in shock. They were talking about him . . . .

  “You read her note,” came the gruff reply. Then a hesitation. “I will do what was asked of me, because she is the one who begged. I owe her that, but nothing more. Understand me?”

  There was a heavy sigh that bordered on a growl. “Very well, Dubor. For old time’s sake and the debt I owe you, I will approve of this . . . .” There was another hesitation, and then his tone changed from harsh to sympathetic. “My regrets for your loss. She was a good woman.”

  “She was that and more,” Dubor said, his voice a mixture of sorrow and anger. “She was my little sister.” There was a long pause. “I always knew no good would come of her union with a Stonehammer. I said as much on the day they were bonded. It mattered not. He still took her away.”

  “I understand,” Borol said. “Do you need help moving the body?”

  “No,” came the simple reply. There was a catch in the throat. “I know what needs to be done. I have already made arrangements.”

  “Very well,” Borol replied. There was a grunt. “These things now belong to the warband. They cannot be permitted to belong to him. The rest, obviously, goes to her kin.”

  “I’ll see to all of it,” Dubor replied, and there was a strange edge to his voice.

  “I suspect you will,” Borol said, and there was something in his voice, as if he were permitting something that, under different circumstances, he might take issue with.

  Footsteps approached the doorway, and a shadow filled the space like a specter. A moment later, a tall, middle-aged Dvergr stepped out of Tovak’s home. He had a heavily braided beard the color of copper reaching down to a wide, silver belt, and his auburn hair was pulled back and tied into a thick topknot.

  The gleaming hilt of a fine sword sheathed at his waist stuck up from a wide belt of black leather and silver scales. He wore a blue, black, and silver cloak over his shoulders, pinned with a large silver cloak pin in the shape of a dragon fist. It was Borol Ironbrand. Tovak had seen him several times but had never met him. The warchief had a large sack hefted over his shoulder, and it was full.

  Borol halted in front of Tovak and stared down, his hard, gray eyes devoid of any emotion. His lips pressed into a thin line, and then he narrowed his eyes. Tovak could not tell if it was in anger or something else.

  A wave of fear and confusion washed over Tovak.

  “You have your father’s face,” Borol said. “Now, you have his shame.”

  The warchief stepped around Tovak and was gone.

  Tovak stood there blinking. He could hear his own breathing as Borol’s heavy boots clomped down the stairs behind him.

  “You.” Dubor stood framed in the open doorway, glaring at Tovak. Dubor’s eyes were a green that reminded Tovak of his mother. Dubor’s hair, like hers, was also a pale golden color. He wore a gray tunic of soft leather and dark leggings secured in the tops of fine black leather boots.

  A gold chain decorated his neck, adorned with a large, gold medallion depicting strong Dvergr hands holding a hammer and chisel. Tovak had seen a similar, albeit smaller, medallion around his mother’s neck, hidden but always there.

  The Stonecarvers were faceless names that, to Tovak, meant nothing but conflict between his parents. They were names that his mother would mention when she thought he was out of earshot. Her family was never openly discussed. No reason had ever been offered by either of his parents, even when he’d asked.

  Tovak knew almost nothing of his mother’s family, other than that they existed somewhere in the city, and he certainly didn’t recognize his uncle who gazed upon him with pure loathing.

  “Get in here, boy . . . .” Dubor barked, and then he disappeared into Tovak’s home, leaving Tovak just outside the doorway. His footsteps faded quickly as he moved deeper into the apartment.

  At first Tovak hesitated. He didn’t know what to think. It was like he was in a nightmare. He had no idea what was going on. He knew for certain something terrible had happened. He found his feet slowly carrying him towards the doorway.

  “I said get in here,” Dubor shouted. “There is something I want you to see.” His voice was full of anger, and the very sound of it filled Tovak with fear.

  As Tovak stepped into the doorway, he gasped. His uncle was nowhere to be seen.

  The tapestries that covered the walls of his home were still in place, but the rest of it looked as if it had been ransacked by goblins. The Dragon Fist shield that had hung over the hearth was gone, as was his father’s zjain, a ceremonial sword awarded to him when he had been promoted to captain. A suit of hardened leather armor in the warband’s colors of blue, black, and silver was also gone from where it had been displayed with pride in the corner. The armor had belonged to his grandfather.

  A long crimson couch and two large amber chairs, normally placed before the hearth, were pushed up against the walls, and the large gilded chest sitting next to the hearth had been opened. Its contents lay scattered across the thick, brightly patterned carpet that covered the floor from wall to wall. The family’s clan banner, depicting a gray hammer held in a fist on a white field, lay discarded on the floor in a heap.

  Tovak heard movement down the central hallway that led to the sleeping chambers. Light shone through the doorway of his parents’ room, and a shadow across the hallway floor showed that Dubor stood before the lantern that hung over the bed.

  For a moment, Tovak thought he heard Dubor give a sob, and the sound of it filled him with dread. Tovak slipped his shoes off and moved down the hallway slowly, fearfully. His footfalls, even on the rug, sounded like thunder in his ears. It was as if the rest of world had suddenly gone silent.

  Time seemed to slow. As he reached the end of the hallway and stepped into the doorway, he saw his mother, and something inside him broke. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. All he could do was stand there and gaze upon her body.

  She lay upon his parents’ thick sleeping mat and wore her favorite dress. The dress was an emerald green, with white embroidered flowers. Her neatly braided hair lay across the side of her face and down her chest, held in place beneath her crossed arms. She looked like she was asleep, but he knew that wasn’t right. Her skin, normally a rosy pink, was ashen, and her lips had turned almost black. On the floor beside her was her beloved teapot, a wedding gift from his father
, and a single empty cup.

  “Look closely, and never forget . . . .” Dubor’s voice came as a growl from where he stood by the window. “For it was your father who did this to her. Your father . . . .”

  His words were angry, biting, and they branded Tovak’s heart like molten steel. Horror filled Tovak’s mind, and his gut clenched in terrible pain.

  “What?” he stammered. “How . . .? Father left almost a month ago . . . .”

  “Your father is dead,” Dubor shouted. “Dead, I tell you. His failure managed to get himself and his entire company killed. The village he was tasked with protecting was razed by the enemy.” Dubor pointed at the body of his mother. “Your father’s failure saw the loss of over four hundred of our people, not counting the warriors of his company.”

  Dubor clenched and then unclenched his fists. He turned glaring eyes to Tovak, who could only stand there, stunned.

  “The name Stonehammer—your name—will forever be known for the massacre at Barasoom Pass. My sister wouldn’t . . . couldn’t bear the shame of your father’s failure, so she took her own life! She poisoned herself rather than live another day as a Stonehammer. Your father died a coward. When it mattered most, he abandoned his company, his duty, and his Legend. He ran from the fight and left his warriors to fend for themselves.”

  Tovak’s world came crashing down. He couldn’t breathe. The room spun around him and threatened to topple him to the floor. Tears welled in his eyes as the reality of it all pressed down upon him like a mountain. His father had disgraced himself. It could not be.

  “No,” Tovak gasped, having difficulty grasping that such a thing could happen.

  So severe was his shock that he didn’t see Dubor rushing towards him. He didn’t see a fist raised. Dubor’s blow, like a hammer, sent him sprawling painfully to the floor.

  “You don’t get to cry for her,” Dubor screamed. “You are a Stonehammer, like your father before you. Child of her womb or no, your tears are an insult to her memory.”

  Tovak felt hot wetness on his cheek. He reached up, brushed his hand against his face, and came away with blood. He was too stunned, too shattered to speak.

  “Know this,” Dubor growled. “From this day forth, you will be a Pariah amongst your people.” He reached into his tunic, pulled out a wrinkled piece of vellum, and held it before Tovak’s eyes as if it were a death warrant. “Your mother asked me to care for you until the Age of Iron, and I am Legend-bound to grant her dying wish. You will find no kindness in my heart for you. I must now bear the embarrassment of having a Pariah in my own home. I will make you pay for that indignity.”

  Dubor paused, his chest heaving in great gasps. His uncle glanced over at Tovak’s mother and remained there a moment. He turned back.

  “Now get up!”

  Tovak slowly pulled himself to his feet, his eyes cast downward. He felt intense shame. It filled his heart and threatened to consume him. He hurt for his father, who had died in shame. He hurt for his mother, who couldn’t bear the shame. He hurt for himself, for he would always be his father’s son, a disgrace to his people.

  “Am I interrupting?” a voice said from the doorway.

  Tovak and Dubor turned to see a young Dvergr, perhaps fifty years of age, standing there. His long hair was a blond color, as was a long and heavily braided beard. It was the beard that caught Tovak’s attention, for it was tied off with a dozen prayer knots made from a soft, orange fabric. He also wore the tan and orange robes of a cleric of Thulla and carried a canvas litter balanced over one of his broad shoulders. His brown eyes moved from Tovak’s mother to Dubor, and finally to Tovak. As their eyes met, the cleric’s eyes softened, glinting in what Tovak took to be an underlying kindness and compassion.

  Tovak felt shame, undeserving of any such feelings. He was a Pariah now, a nobody.

  “Not at all, Father,” Dubor said, his tone losing the anger and rage that had possessed him only moments before, as if it had never existed.

  “I am Sen,” the cleric said as he leaned the litter against the wall. “You sent for me to retrieve the remains of Amelor Stonehammer for a purification pyre,” he added. “Thulla bless her passing.”

  Dubor glanced at Tovak, his eyes still burning with anger. “She is to be interred in the Stonecarver crypts,” he said. “Borol Ironbrand has granted a dissolution of union so that she can be interred under her maiden name.” He narrowed his eyes at the cleric. “She is a Stonecarver. Am I understood?”

  Sen’s eyes shifted cautiously from Dubor to Tovak and back again. A slight frown crossed his bearded face. “Of course,” he said. “It will be as you wish, Master Stonecarver.”

  “And,” Dubor said, gesturing toward Tovak, “I want this Pariah to help you carry her to the temple. Is that also understood?”

  “It is,” Sen replied, betraying no emotion but for a hardening of the eyes.

  Dubor gave a satisfied nod.

  Sen stepped closer to Tovak.

  “Your mother?” the cleric asked.

  Tovak gave a nod.

  “We will take her together,” he said.

  Tovak said nothing, his eyes going to his mother.

  “Will you be coming with us?” Sen asked Dubor.

  “No,” came the immediate reply. “I need to settle affairs here. I will then return home. Send me your bill, and after you have prepared the remains, give word when the Stonecarver clan should assemble for the Ceremony of Interment.”

  “As you wish,” Sen said. “You will hear from me on the morrow.”

  “Tovak,” Dubor said, glaring at him. “I want you to come straight to my home as soon as Father Sen is done with you.”

  Tovak froze. He had no idea where that was.

  “Well, Pariah?” Dubor said, narrowing his eyes.

  “I . . . I don’t . . . know where to go,” Tovak finally managed.

  “Thulla’s bones,” Dubor growled. “Will I have to do everything with you?”

  “I will take him to your home, Master Stonecarver,” Father Sen said, “once we have attended to his mother.”

  Dubor turned his eyes to Sen and let out a frustrated breath. He nodded once and then strode past them both. He moved into one of the other rooms, where he could be heard moving things around, as if searching for something.

  Sen reached out a hand and laid it upon Tovak’s shoulder.

  Tovak jumped at the touch and turned to regard the cleric. Part of him wanted to cry, but the memory of Dubor’s blow and his harsh words were foremost in his mind. He was a Pariah. His future was uncertain and everything he had known had just been torn down. His father had been responsible for the deaths of many people, including his mother’s suicide. He felt the weight of that crushing his heart like a vice, for he had loved both his father and mother dearly. Now, he felt nothing but disgust for his father.

  What have you done to me? What did you do to Mother? He wanted to cry out in both frustration and agony, but his fear of Dubor’s wrath kept him silent. He felt tears prick his eyes.

  “Come, my son,” Sen said softly. “I will help you attend to your mother. Perhaps Thulla’s words might give you some comfort. Shall we pray?”

  Not quite knowing what else to do, Tovak gave a wooden nod.

  “Very good, my son,” Sen said and proceeded to pray for the soul of Tovak’s mother.

  Tovak’s family, his honor, and his future had been ripped away in an instant. He had no idea where he would go from here other than his uncle’s home. Beyond that, his future would be a bleak one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The present . . . .

  Tovak stood in front of Dagon’s tent, clenching and unclenching his fists. A wave of sadness tore at him. As hard as he tried, he could no longer remember his mother’s face. A terrible rage stole over him, replacing the sadness. He trembled slightly. He wanted to turn, storm back into Dagon’s tent, and rail against the injustice of it all.

  Fueled by rage, Tovak considered challenging Dagon to a fight in an Adj
udication Circle. It was a tradition amongst his people. In the Circle, two could settle disagreements, grudges, and even feuds. Anyone had the right make a challenge, even a Pariah.

  Tovak knew his anger at Dagon was misplaced. The captain had a right to be angry, hateful even. A hopeless breath slipped from Tovak’s lips. Challenging Dagon wouldn’t change a thing. He understood deep down he did not have a prayer against such a seasoned veteran. And even if by some miracle he won, it wouldn’t earn him a place with the pioneers, let alone wipe away the stain of being a Pariah or the turmoil of emotions that hounded him.

  Over the years, his anger had fueled his drive. It was what had kept him going. Tovak knew he was just as good as the next Dvergr, and while at the Academy, which he had fought to get into, he had proved just that.

  He took a breath full of frustration and glanced toward Dagon’s tent. Father Danik’s voice echoed back to him.

  There is a place for the fires within. Store them like food before a siege. And when the storm comes, draw upon them when and only as needed, for the storm will break and your time will come.

  It was a passage from the Tales of Uliand Stormhand, one Father Danik was overly fond of quoting.

  “The storm is still out to sea,” Tovak reminded himself, feeling his anger and rage recede a little. Like a wound, the hurt was still there, a terrible ache that over the years he’d been unable to remove.