by Robert Ryan
Brand stopped speaking. The hall was deathly silent. A long while Galdring gazed at him, and then slowly nodded.
“I believe you. And how you came to possess the Helm of the Duthenor, I cannot guess. Long it has been lost to us, but however you regained it must be a story of courage, I do not doubt. But even with sword, and ring and helm, even if you had the heart of your fathers of old, how do you expect to win back this land? Unferth has an army of thousands. How many swords do you bring?”
Brand grinned at him. “I have only my own sword, and the courage to wield it. That, and a handful of friends. But it is not I who shall win back this realm. It is the people, and they will gather to me. Have hope! The history of the Duthenor will be shaped anew, and the pride of old will return. Do not doubt it. Wait, watch and see. I shall set a fire before me that will overrun our enemies.”
Brand took command. He turned to the others in the hall. “Go forth,” he said. “And spread word of my return throughout the district. Let warriors, let those farmers with swords or spears or bows gather tomorrow morning. For tomorrow I march, and the first steps against Unferth will be taken, but not the last.”
There was a cheer from the doorward, and many others took it up. The hall resounded with it, though not all cheered.
Brand turned to the doorward. “Where is the best place to meet?”
The man thought for a moment. “Things like this have always been done at the Green Howe.”
Brand liked the idea. An ancient hero would be buried in the howe, and that would help fire the men’s spirits.
“The Green Howe!” he called out to the hall. “I will leave from there on the second hour after dawn.”
The cheering subsided and many men rushed from the hall. Some would be supporters of Unferth, and that was good. Brand wanted word to spread.
He took a chair at the table where Galdring sat, and did not ask permission. It was the other man’s hall, but Brand did not like him and events had carried beyond the simple lordship of a district. Brand had proclaimed himself, and now the kingship was at stake.
Galdring gave orders to a few men that had stayed with him. They began to remove the bodies of the slain, and then the lord looked grimly at Brand.
“You have doomed us all. There are few warriors in this district. And against Unferth, they will fall as wheat before the scythe. And he will come against you, hard and fast.”
Brand removed his helm and placed it on the table. “So I would expect.”
The shield-maiden looked at him, and there was a cold fire in her eyes. “You’re sure of yourself, aren’t you? But I see no reason for it. Titles and tokens don’t win battles.”
“This is my sister, Haldring,” the lord said. “She usually gets straight to the point.”
“So I see. I like that.”
The fire in her eyes grew colder. “What you like means nothing to me. It’s what you can do that I’m interested in.”
Shorty sat down at the table with Taingern. “Making friends again, Brand?”
“I try.” Brand turned his attention back to Haldring. “You will see what I can do, if you come with me. Shorty and Taingern here are my generals.” He gestured at his two friends. “I want you for my third.”
She looked at him as though he were mad. “You know nothing of me, nor my abilities. I don’t even like you. Why would you offer me such a role?”
“Because I know more than you think. You don’t like me, you say? And yet moments ago when the fight broke out you had a knife to hand and you were ready to fling it. You could have killed me, but you stayed your hand. Not only that, I will have no man or woman about me who tells me what they think I want to hear for the sake of advancement. I want advisors who think of the land first and give counsel based on reality, not dreaming. In short, I want you.”
She looked at him, stunned. “You saw the knife, even while other men were trying to kill you?”
“Of course. I see much, but not all. That’s why I want your help. You know this land, while I only know what it once was and what it yet could be.”
Haldring looked at him in silence a long while. “For someone with no army and little hope, you can be convincing. Very well, I’ll come with you. Unferth had our father killed, so I would risk nearly anything to see him overthrown. I just hope you know what you’re doing as much as you sound like you know what you’re doing.”
It was a good point, and Brand knew it. If he failed, life would be worse for the Duthenor. And if it were just Unferth that he had to worry about, he would not have doubts. But there was the magician to worry about too. Who was he? What did he want? What threat did Brand pose to him? About all this, Brand knew too little, and it was dangerous not to know. What he did know was this, though. The magician had great power. He was driven to fulfil his duty, whatever it was. And he was of a race of people that Brand had never met before. That made it even harder to guess his purposes.
Brand glanced at the Helm of the Duthenor. He had won it back from Shurilgar at great risk. But then the only stakes were his life and death. Now, the future of a nation rested on his skills. That helm was as heavy as any crown, and not by its weight in metal.
He made a choice, and it was driven by past experience. In politics and war, deception could gain much. But in matters of loyalty, honesty was the strongest bond.
He looked at Haldring. “This also I should tell you. I want you to come with me for all the reasons I said, but this is also part of my reasoning. You’ll not like it, but you will appreciate the benefit of it.”
She held his gaze, her blue eyes cold and remote, but this he was beginning to feel was a mask. She was a woman of passions, even if they were held tightly in check. And it was yet another marker that his choice of her as a general was good. A general, a warrior, must feel and believe in things. This drove them to fight. But they must also be able to distance themselves from everything when in battle. In battle, only the winning or losing mattered. Consequences were for afterwards.
“A shield-maiden will lend my army a certain mystique. It will give prominence to it in men’s minds, give storytellers something to talk of and spark interest all over the land. I don’t seek to use you for this purpose, otherwise I wouldn’t admit this. But it is the truth of the matter nevertheless, and you should know it.”
She looked by turns angry, surprised and finally thoughtful. “You’re correct in what you say. So be it. But I will speak my mind when situations arise and not just be a figurehead.”
Brand knew she meant it, and it was perhaps something he needed. Shorty and Taingern never hesitated to tell him if they thought he was doing something wrong, but they did not know this land as did she.
He looked at Galdring. Anger and frustration showed in his eyes, and Brand understood that. The lord had lost command of his own men, and now war was coming. He seemed beaten before it began. For all that he and his sister looked so similar, the one thing that was different was the fire in her eyes.
“I cannot command you to have hope,” Brand said. “But have it anyway. Watch! And over the coming days you will see.”
Galdring sighed. “Perhaps I’ve been under Unferth’s yoke too long. It hasn’t been easy. But I still think you’ve doomed us all.” He paused, then spoke again. “You know, I met your parents once, when I was a child. You are your father’s son. But you have your mother’s gift of speech. So even I shall try to have some hope, but I expect to die because of all this, and many others with me.”
12. There Must be Blood
All day the Arnhaten prepared. They had to be gathered from the village first, then they had to collect dry timber for the bonfire. Finally, they ritually cleansed themselves by performing the sacred chants. And all the while Horta ran through in his mind what must be done. There could be no mistake in what was to come, for to err was to die.
What he attempted now was one of the grand rituals. It summoned not just a god, but one of the greater gods. He had done so before, at need. H
e did so now, because of necessity. To accomplish his task, there was no risk he would not take. Yet still, he felt his heart pound in his chest and the sweat on his brow was as ice against his skin. Only the slow sucking of a norhanu leaf eased the strain.
For this ceremony, he had need of a special assistant. Olbata aided him, running through with him the words of the ritual, helping him direct the others in what they did once more in the sacred grove of the Duthenor. Yet Olbata was unaware of one vital step in the ceremony, one part of the procedure that had vital significance. Had he known, he would have refused. Horta would not have blamed him, so that information he held back.
Dusk crept over the land. Shadows filled the already dark woods and a deep silence descended. Horta made a gesture, and Olbata lit the gathered timber. Some while it took to catch, but then swifter and swifter the bonfire caught until it roared to life and sent a plume of fiery sparks high into the night. But for all the flame, the darkness of the woods only pressed in closer.
Horta placed a fresh norhanu leaf under his tongue. It was dangerous, but necessary. And he had been sucking on the first for hours. Its potency had diminished.
He signaled Obata to join him, and he drew from one of his pouches a statuette of obsidian, black as the night around them. It was one of his great talismans, and it was in the shape of a man with a bat’s head, teeth bared. This he gave to his disciple, telling him to hold it in his left hand and not to let go, no matter what occurred.
Horta moved to the southern end of the bonfire. His positioning influenced which gods may be called. So too the direction of circling, or whether there was circling or not. In this case, ancient tradition prescribed no circling, and he followed what had been handed down from the magicians of old.
The Arnhaten drew near him, and then they also stood still, gathering to each side of him. From one of his many pouches he took some powder, and this he cast in a single throw into the flames.
The fire roared and leaped. Red sparks plumed into the smoke-laden air, followed by trails of white and black. A sweet smell drifted to him, and he was careful not to breathe much of the scent in.
And then he commenced chanting, his words rising up into the darkness with the smoke and heat-shimmer of the fire, up into the fathomless night and toward the hidden stars. The Arnhaten chanted also, intoning the ancient words that he had taught them.
Upon a god he called, one of the old gods that ruled air, sky and earth. In this case, the god was of the earth. His voice rang with power, beseeching aid and asking for audience.
“I summon thee, O Shemfal, god of the underworld.”
At the speaking of the god’s name, the flickering flames of the bonfire parted as though they were a curtain. And even as a man looked through a window, Horta saw into another world. It was not clear, yet he discerned through the writhing smoke, not all of which rose from the bonfire, a great cave.
He did not wish to see, but he must, and his gaze was drawn despite his abhorrence. Within the cave towered a mighty throne of obsidian, polished to a sheen and glimmering with dark lights and myriad reflections. Upon it Shemfal sat, a vast figure of shadows and hidden power. His body was that of a mighty man, and the head was a bat’s, and the sharp eyes within that animal head looked up through the window between worlds and pierced Horta’s soul.
“Come to me, O Shemfal, Master of Death, and hear my plea,” Horta whispered, his voice thickened by fear or the numbing of the norhanu leaf.
And Shemfal came. The shadows that were about him unfolded to become giant wings, leathery but supple. He swept into the air, leaving his throne and rising above his court. Other creatures there were beneath him. Some serpent-like, coiling, sliding, creeping within the shadows. Others walked as men, but were scaled and tusked. Horta saw beings from nightmare and myth, monsters of massive size and small creatures of fang, and sting and poison.
The air moved in waves, beaten by the vast wings of Shemfal. Sickly light from braziers of dull red flame flickered and died. And the god rose higher, higher, higher, his eyes unwaveringly fixed on Horta.
The god drew closer. The throne room and all within it were blocked by the vast wings. The bonfire roared to life, sparks streaming and scattering into the air. The Arnhaten fell to the ground like trees blown down by a storm, but Horta stood on quaking legs, sucking desperately at the norhanu leaf.
Into the world of men the god ascended, summoned from the underworld, and Horta felt the blast of those great wings beat upon him, heard the roar of wind flow through the sacred wood of the Duthenor. He glanced at where Obata lay sprawled on the ground, and relief washed over him when he saw the man still clutched the statuette in his hand.
Horta kneeled and closed his eyes. Like a man in prayer he spoke.
“O mighty Shemfal, Lord of the Grave, will you hear the pleading of your humble servant?”
Shemfal answered, and the voice of the god smote Horta’s ears. He felt the words enter his brain, and make it thrum inside the casing of his skull.
“I hear you, mortal. Speak, and I shall pass judgement.”
Horta told the god of his great task, of how he served the gods and of what manner of man Brand was. He told of how Brand threatened his plans.
And the god weighed his words, deciding on the worthy and the unworthy, contemplating life or death.
“You serve me well, Horta. I am not displeased. I shall send one of my own to destroy Brand. He shall be fit for the task, yet what you ask requires blood. That is the age-old pact.”
“Mighty Shemfal, I offer Brand himself as the sacrifice. His blood is of an ancient line, and magic sings within it also.”
“This I know, Horta. Even here echoes of Brand’s deeds are muttered in the dark. He will attend me well, once in my realm and broken into servitude beneath my throne. And great is the one I shall send against him to ensure it comes to pass. Yet the chances of the world are ever uncertain. Should fate go awry, are you willing to pay the price and honor your debt?”
Horta bowed. He knew what the god meant. There must be blood one way or the other. But the blood would not be his own. He glanced at Olbata to ensure the man still held the statuette. Through this, the presence of the god in this world was invoked. If Brand were not killed, Olbata would serve as sacrifice in his stead.
“I accept the price, O lord.”
The great wings of Shemfal beat once more, and the trees in the sacred wood bent against the blast. The god descended into the underworld whence he came, but a light glimmered as something rose in his place.
The force of the wind thrashed Horta’s face onto the ground, but when it dissipated he lifted his head once more. Standing before him was the creature Shemfal had sent to kill Brand. Straightaway Horta sensed its power, greater than that of the wolves, and held in check by intelligence and an iron-like will. All this he read in the keen glance of its eyes, for it stood before him as a man.
Horta studied the assassin. Though he indeed looked like a man, there were differences. The skin, where it showed at face and hand, was pale as snow. And the eyes were a piercing blue, glittering like none he had seen before. The cheek bones were high, the ears delicate and slightly pointed. Trousers and tunic were of close-fitting leather, gleaming black. But over this he wore a chainmail shirt that glinted as though it were made of silver. On his back were strapped twin swords, the hilts of pale ivory and the little that showed of the blades black as obsidian.
The assassin was a warrior, yet Horta sensed magic also, but of a kind he did not understand. The warrior-assassin looked Horta up and down, and the magician felt the contempt of that deathly gaze. There was an arrogance about him that was immensely dislikeable, but Horta sensed it was born of experience. The man, if man it was, had defeated all his enemies in the past. And they would have been great, for he was a creature of the underworld where the one rule was survival.
Without speaking, the man turned on the balls of his feet and strode from the clearing. He moved with grace and purpose,
his every motion that of a sublime warrior. Horta was glad to see him go. He had no wish to talk to him and potentially incur his wrath. Here was an enemy that even he would fear to have, and for the first time in a very long while he wondered if he had gone too far. But the man hunted Brand, and relief washed through him.
13. A Hero of Old
They spent the night in the hall, and for all that Brand loved sleeping beneath the stars, it was good to have a roof over his head for a change.
But they were up before dawn. Galdring did not join them, and for this Brand was glad. It did no good to have a lord in an army who at best only half believed in the cause. He knew it would be like that throughout the district too. Not all who were able to come would do so.
Haldring was there though, and for this he was glad. She would give him trouble at every step, but perhaps it would be of the kind he needed. He tended to reach too high, to expect too much. She would temper that, probably at every opportunity. She liked what had been done to her brother no less than Galdring himself.
It was Haldring who led them from the hall. A dozen men came with them. As many as that stayed behind. They readied their horses, but they did not ride. The Green Howe was not that far away she advised, and Brand had no wish to meet the beginnings of his army from atop a mount as though he were a king. Instead, he must be a general: in charge, but still one of them.
They walked south-west, continuing along the same trail they had yesterday. The sun was up now, roosters crowing from farms they passed and sheep and cattle watching them with mild curiosity.
There were trees here, and copses and woods mostly on the hilltops, but for the most part it was clear ground and farmed. It was a fertile land, the grass growing green and the animals healthy. It was still cool of a morning, for summer had not yet come, but it was approaching.
