by Robert Ryan
“Oaths of fealty to you as our chieftain, or our king if you wish. Unferth calls himself such, but you are more worthy. We hear many things here in the Duthgar, even from far away Cardoroth.”
Brand hesitated, and he felt Tinwellen’s eyes upon him. This was not why he had come back to the Duthgar. Not exactly. And yet it was his right by birth. It was the destiny stolen away from him. But what of his responsibilities as a lòhren? It was true that he felt more a chieftain than a lòhren, but it was not that simple. Or perhaps for a time he could be both.
“There’ll be time enough for that later. In the meantime, you need swear no oaths of loyalty to fight for the freedom of your land.”
The two lords seemed a little perplexed, but they bowed.
“As you wish,” Brodruin said. “In that case, perhaps we had better see to our men.”
Brand nodded. “Of course.”
They left him then, but Tinwellen’s gaze did not. He led her to one of the tables along the side of the courtyard, and there they sat and rested for a while.
All around him men were working feverishly on one thing or the other. It would not stop until well into the evening, and what work that could be carried out was done then by torch light.
“They know the enemy comes,” Brand said.
Tinwellen gazed around, and nodded. “You can feel the tension in the air, thickening it.”
It was a good way to put it. But if she felt any of that tension herself, she did not show it.
He thought suddenly of the archers that he had seen practicing earlier. If need be, a thrown spear could still do damage with only a sharpened timber point, but better if it had a metal head. The same could be said for arrows, but doubly so because arrows were more deadly due to their accuracy and the numbers that could be shot.
He signaled a man over. “Track down either Shorty or Taingern,” he instructed. “Tell them, if it has not already been done, to find whatever scrap metal is in the fortress. Old door hinges, cutlery. Anything. Not all will have rusted away. Some must have been protected from the elements. Find it and use it to make arrowheads. We don’t have many archers, but we’ll make the most of them. At least they’ll not run out of good arrows.”
The man went away quickly to fulfil his task. Shorty and Taingern had probably already thought of it, but it may have been overlooked. The weapons and armor of the long-dead soldiers had rusted to dust, but there must be places in the fortress away from water and humidity where some useable metal had survived.
“Will you never rest?” Tinwellen asked, her dark eyes studying him.
His answer was bleaker than he intended. “Time enough to rest when I’m dead.”
For once, she had no quick joke or rejoinder. But her dark eyes remained on him, weighing him up as though he were a piece of metal himself being tested for soundness.
15. Dark Dreams
Brand dreamed that night, and it was like no dream that he had ever had before.
His room was small, likely some sort of officer’s quarters within one of the barracks of the fortress close to the courtyard. It was dark and windowless, but he had it to himself unlike the men outside who slept in long rows along the floor. Whatever beds had once been here were long decayed. The area had been cleaned though, and the roof was in good condition, considering. If and when it rained, it would prove a good place to be.
With a feeling of unease, Brand woke. Only, he knew that he was still asleep. He was dreaming, and yet his mind was conscious of it and capable of rational thought.
He was alone, and unarmed. He wore neither his helm nor carried a sword. But even as he realized this, enemies appeared all around him. And they each held weapons, drawn and ready for use.
That they were enemies, he knew by the looks in their eyes. There was hatred there. It gleamed in their gazes like a torch in the dark.
Worst of all was that among the many enemies were his friends. But they hated him no less than the others, and he felt the pain of that run through him like fire.
Shorty and Taingern were there, their eyes glittering. But it was Haldring that disturbed him the most. She was accoutered as the shield maiden that she had been in life, only he saw her as she had been in death – vacant-eyed and bloody. Those lifeless eyes still managed to look at him accusingly, and the end of her sword dripped blood. She pointed it at him, and she spoke, her voice dripping with scorn.
“Here is the great king. Hail, Brand, murderer of friends and betrayer of nations.”
Brand was as near to panic as he had ever been. What was happening to him? This was a dream, and the people here could not be real. And yet there was something real about it. Some substance and form that was not found in the drifting and random thoughts of normal sleep.
“What do you hold against me, Haldring? It was not my blade that killed you. I would rather have endured it myself than watch you die.”
The moment he answered, he knew it was a mistake. His acknowledgement of their presence made them stronger, and their hatred for him intensified and rolled over him like a wave.
He stepped back, and Haldring immediately stepped closer.
“You did not kill me with a blade,” she said, “but with your incompetence. You should have seen what would happen, and prevented it. You’re a fool. And you’re not fit to lead an army.”
Was there truth to those words? A part of him believed so. A part did not. But none of that answered what was happening to him now, and that was what mattered most. Guilt could be addressed later.
Shorty pressed forward. He was a small man, but he moved with grace. He was a warrior born, and Brand would not ever like to face him in a fight. There was a deadliness to him, and a coldness in his eyes that Brand had never seen before, though he knew the man’s enemies had. Before they died.
“I could be a lord in Cardoroth,” the smaller man said. “With a manor and grounds and servants. I could be enjoying life. But no, you don’t want that for me. Instead, you drag me to this barbarous land to face death for a people who mean nothing to me. And I’ll die here, because you’ll make a mistake. You sicken me.”
Brand was not going to answer, but this time no answer seemed to be expected. Taingern lifted off his helm, and Brand saw a dagger jutting from his eye.
“You betrayed me,” his friend whispered, but his voice rang loud enough inside Brand’s head that he would have heard it across the other side of the world. “I gave up everything for you. I, who could have founded a school of philosophers to study the meaning of life and bring wisdom to humanity, died by your own hand. If this is what you bring to your friends, how do you think to lead a nation? You will bring your people to ruin.”
It seemed to Brand that the number of his enemies was growing. Wherever he looked, they milled about and cast accusing gazes at him. But he could seldom recognize their faces.
Yet now another stepped forward to reproach him, and the face suddenly became clear, a face he would never forget though he was not yet grown to manhood last time he saw it. Unferth.
And Unferth wore the Helm of the Duthenor. Tall he stood, and proud, though there was an air of justice about him.
“I am the rightful ruler of the Duthgar. I have united two nations, and more will follow. What once was a petty chieftainship, I have raised to the status of kingship. The high seat is no more. Instead, it is a throne. The people prosper beneath my hand, and what do you do to disrupt things? You bring war. You are a warmaker. You are not, nor will ever be, a ruler. But I forgive your sins against me. You know not what you do. Though after this, that excuse will not suffice.”
If his demeanor was one of justice before, now it was one of executioner. He drew his sword, and Brand saw that it was the Halathrin-wrought blade that was his own.
As though this were a sign, all his enemies turned their faces upon him at once. And they drew their weapons also, and death was in their eyes. They leapt toward him, and he turned and fled, but they followed swifter than he ran, and he saw tha
t they flew through the air after him as the hawk hurtles toward the dove.
Anger shot through him. He was no dove, no prey for others. And whoever, or whatever, these others were, they were not real. Another thought ran fast on the heels of that. This was a dream, and if so, it was his. If his enemies could fly, then so could he.
He leapt up into the air, and in the manner of dreams the earth fell down behind him and his mind swam the currents of the universe.
With a thought, he was high in the sky, his enemies trailing behind. With another, he was in the deeps of the void with the brightness of stars about him. But still, his enemies followed.
With a silent laugh on his lips he dived down again, hurtling through their ranks and dispersing them. He plummeted back to the blue earth, and there he found the peaks of ice-clad mountains. In life, he had a fear of heights. But in this dream world he leapt from peak to peak with gladness in his heart. But still the enemy came after him.
At a thought, he descended into deep valleys below. It was dark and secretive. Massive pines grew all around blotting out the stars in the sky and even the mountains. But he could still feel those mountains, and their roots that delved deep into the earth, layer and layer of stone and minerals and water and caves. The world, the universe, was boundless. And his mind could take him anywhere. Yet still his enemies found him, and their rushing presence drove the joy from his heart.
He fled again, this time slipping beneath the still waters of a great lake. It was dark and cold, but he breathed of the water as though it were air and he swam with the silver-scaled fishes that roamed the water, turning and twisting in silvery beauty, their scales flashing in the pale light when they came near the surface.
And even here his pursuers found him. They swam also, and their eyes bored into him with icy malice colder than either mountain peak or the depths of a lake.
He could not escape them. And even as he swam, they lifted bows that they had not had before and shot fiery arrows toward him. The fish were gone. The lake was dark no longer, but lit by orange streaks that darted around him and caused the water to bubble with heat.
Where had bows and arrows come from? If his pursuers could do that, then why not he? It was his dream, after all, and therefore he should be able to shape its reality. Even as the dream-thought came to him, he understood the truth of it.
He turned to face his pursuers. At a thought, the sword of his forefathers was girded at his side. He drew the Halathrin-wrought bade, and it flashed wondrously beneath the water. This gave the enemy pause.
Next, he set the Helm of the Duthenor on his head. He was the heir to the chieftainship of the Duthgar, and he had won this long-lost artifact at risk to his life. It was his to wear, and not Unferth’s.
A moment later chain mail followed, gleaming silver like the scales of a fish. And finally the banner of the chieftains of the Duthenor floated above his head. The dragon appeared as though it were swimming in the water, and Brand knew also that if he wished he could give it life and set it after his enemies.
But the banner, even in his dreams, was stained by blood as it was in life. There were some realities that bound both the waking and the sleeping worlds, some events that could not be forgotten.
His pursuers halted. At his thought, their weapons vanished. It was his dream, and he would command things as he wished. The Helm of the Duthenor that protected Unferth’s head vanished also, disappearing in a sharp burst of light.
And then Brand moved toward them. A moment they gazed at him, surprise on their faces, and then they melted away in an eddy of water and were gone.
Brand was pleased. But the feeling did not last long. Two new figures rose from the depths of the lake, and he cursed violently.
16. Char-harash
The figures drew closer. Brand knew them, and he remembered them well despite the years that had passed since he had last seen them alive. It was his mother and father.
Anger flared through him. This dream was his, and yet he sensed another power at work. The first attack against him had failed, and now his parents were the second. It was too much, and his anger increased even further, but he compressed it into a cold ball inside him. This allowed him to think.
The figures were no more his parents than his previous pursuers had been friends and enemies. They were imagined. And he did not think that it was him who had done so. The dream was his, but someone else, some other force, was using magic to draw out these thoughts from his mind and give them reality within the dream.
But it was a dream, and anything seemed possible here. And all the myriad manifestations of his fears and concerns must have an origin. That they came from him was true, but it was just as true that whoever was doing this to him must also be present, else they could not delve into his thoughts as they had and give them substance within the dream.
Whoever that person was, they were responsible for what was happening, and if they existed, which he was certain now they did, then they must also have a location within the dream, a point of entry into his mind. If he could find that, he could find them.
It was time for the hunted to become the hunter. That the dream was his own helped, for originating in his mind he had the power. He used it now.
He opened his senses. His mind encompassed the dream world, and all that was about him fell away. There was nothing now but the void, and the stars wheeled and spun in the inky sky. This was good, for everything revolved around him. It was his dream after all.
Except one thing did not. One lone star far away on the edge of the sky did not move. That was his enemy, and with a thought Brand, or the dream of him that his sleeping mind had conjured, flew through the vastness and shot toward him as an arrow from a bow.
Even as he felt the vastness of the void speed past him, Brand lifted high his sword and a white light glittered on its edges as a cold fire. It was the embodiment of his wrath, and he sensed the other light retreat away from him.
But Brand would not let it escape, or rather the person it represented. For he sensed the other presence now. It was a man, and one full of malice. He sensed surprise also, and he caught a flickering image of a cave.
The light he pursued vanished, but not quickly enough. Brand sensed the trail it left, and he followed it through the void. Dark was all about him now, without star or moon or the cold glory of the universe. He was in the void no longer. His dream-self had now entered a cave somewhere in Alithoras.
He waited in the dark. His enemy was close by, and unmoving also. But unmoving did not mean scared, or not dangerous.
The cave was not as dark as he first thought. There was a soft light casting faint shadows, and this came off both his helm and his sword. He wondered if he still had the powers of command that he possessed in his dream to alter its reality. Would that work in this place, given that it belonged to the real world and he was only a dream within it? There was only one way to find out.
He willed light to emanate from the sword, but nothing happened. The rules of the dream had changed, because what was happening was no longer solely within his mind. It was different now. Some part of his mind was in this place, and this place was the lair of his enemy.
Brand felt vulnerable in the dark, for he could be easily seen by the light his sword and helm gave off. On the other hand, without light, even dim as it was, his enemy could approach unseen. That would be worse.
Gradually, his eyes adapted to the light. He saw now that this was indeed a cave, though the walls had been smoothed and evened, what little he could discern of them. It was perhaps a man-made chamber.
He dwelled on that thought a moment. What sort of chamber would be hewn out of rock such as this? He did not like the conclusions that he reached. And the more that he began to see of this chamber, the less he liked it.
There was evidence of paintings on the walls, though all he could see was the occasional human shape and some brighter patches of color. It was too dark to observe more, and he was not yet ready to move close
r to look. To move might be to die, if that was even possible in a dream. Best not to chance that, yet.
To his right, some bulky objects stood out. These were large earthenware vases, he decided at length. Some were waist high to a man. Some appeared to be sealed, while others were open. And from the open ones he could now see the faint luster of gold. It was confirmation of what he had begun to believe. This was a tomb.
He gazed a little to the left. There was a stone platform there, almost like a dais in a throne room. But it was no dais. Upon it something rested, and he began to wish for the dark once more. Some things were better not to see. But he steeled himself, for he had discovered his enemy, and having discovered him he must learn more. Knowledge was power, and ignorance death.
He stepped closer. The sword he held high in his hands, the point of it just below the level of his gaze. And that which rested on the stone platform became clearer.
It was a body. Ancient it seemed, for the skin, where it showed, was dried and leathery. But the hair that spilled from beneath a strange helm showed traces of color and little damage by time and elements. And the face was there also. No skull was to be seen, but rather the same dried skin as on the hands. It could have been a fresh burial, but it was not.
In the air were the fragrances of cedar oil, myrrh, cassia and frankincense. He had smelled their like once before. He had been in a tomb before, and one built in ancient days by the Letharn. They used such things as embalming agents to preserve the flesh of the dead. And he knew it was so here, also. But he guessed this was no Letharn tomb, but one that belonged to the Kirsch, the ancient enemy of the Letharn.
The body was armored, and a sword of strange design rested near the withered right hand of the corpse. The robes it wore were golden, and the color was evident even in the dim light. There was a suggestion of sorcery too. It lingered in the air, and he knew that some powerful spell had been worked here long, long ago. And it yet endured.
