by Robert Ryan
He must not fail. The land needed him, and he served her. It was a pity that all his skills related to war, and the fighting of men in groups and single combat. Even magic was a weapon, though only against sorcery. But a man learned what life forced him to learn, and he acted according to the deeds that were required.
There was more to fighting though than the cut of a sword, and more to leading warriors into battle than being the best fighter among them.
He glanced at Sighern. He had asked the young man to keep the Raven Axe a little longer when he had returned and offered it back. No one was quite sure what to make of that, least of all the lad. Perhaps Taingern knew, for he was a deep thinker and he missed nothing, least of all what was hidden from plain sight. But no one else.
“Sighern,” Brand said. “Do you still wish to be my banner bearer?”
The young man nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.” The banner was not on display now though. Brand had ordered it taken down when they entered the lands of the Callenor. It was his birthright, and he was proud of it, but it would be provocative to them.
“Then I have something for you. Keep the old one in your saddle bag for the moment, but for now, use this instead. I’ve had it specially made these last few days.”
He dug into his own saddle bag and handed the banner he had designed and ordered made to Sighern.
“Attach this to the old staff, and carry it proudly.”
The young man withdrew the staff from a leather loop attached to his saddle, and he tied the new banner to its end by the cloth strips attached to it.
But it was only when he held it higher that it properly unfurled, and the design upon it became visible. The cloth gave a white background, and on the banner’s bottom left was embroidered a red dragon, the emblem of Duthenor chieftains. But on the top right corner was the black raven claw of the Callenor tribe.
There was silence as Sighern held it high, but the young man merely glanced at it, giving a small nod of approval after a few moments of consideration.
“Of course,” he said, almost to himself. “We’re no longer just the Duthenor. This army is of Duthenor and Callenor warriors combined. Neither takes precedence over the other. This is a banner all can fight beneath, and die if they must.”
Attar responded solemnly. “You are right.”
Brand gave no answer. Yet again, the young man impressed him. His insight and understanding of situations and events was greater than could be expected from someone his age. Shorty and Taingern knew of the new banner, and they approved. But they had no sense of patriotism to either tribe. Their loyalty was to him.
It had been different with the Duthenor warriors he had found to make the banner itself. He had located men within the army who had some skill at sewing and embroidery, if mostly with thin leather for decorative saddles, reins and the like. When he had told them of the design he wished, they had resented it and even argued. Brand guessed that most of the Duthenor felt that way, but he knew it would change.
Sighern understood better. When the fighting began, warriors would not care much if it was a Duthenor or a Callenor beside them. All they would want was that their comrade held the line with them, fighting shoulder to shoulder and helping to protect one another. They would be one army then, and one people.
The army halted for a rest soon after. The leadership group wandered to the shade of an apple orchard by the road. The fruit was not ripe yet, but the skins of the apples were beginning to show color. The shade was good though, and it was a relief from the late summer heat.
But though he enjoyed the shade, Brand had work yet to do. He called over Bruidiger, the leader of that handful of Norvinor tribesmen who had joined his army.
10. Like Whey from Curds
Wena led his army forward, and pride filled him. The days of blood and glory were coming again. He was a magician and a battle leader, and the gods would favor him for his diverse skills.
Dust rose behind the troops, but not as much as previously. The dry lands of his home were behind him. The new green lands lay all about. Fat, luxuriant and soft.
Even what dust rose in these green lands would be less now. A cold rain had begun to fall. It was little more than a shower, but it would dampen the earth and settle the telltale haze. If there were any enemy eyes in this wilderness, it would help hide the passage of his soldiers. Other than that, he hated the rain.
He hated the land more though. So green and lush, and the wind always blew. It was late summer, but it seemed cool to him. How then would it be in winter? The thought chilled him. Snow and ice and razor-sharp winds, according to legend. The prospect of campaigning for years in such a place did not appeal. But the thought of the bloodshed to come warmed his heart. He would show Char-harash what he was made of.
Horta was a concern though. The man was soft. He had a reputation for treating his Arnhaten well, rather than as the slaves they were until they had endured years of hard service and learned the craft of the magician properly. A state few achieved. But worse, he was the discoverer of the foretold one’s tomb. That would lift him high in the eyes of Char-harash.
And Horta would use that. Oh yes, he would use that. He would seek dominion of all the Kar-ahn-hetep eventually, but certainly in the first instance the army that came now to free and serve the god-king. That could not be allowed.
Wena grinned to himself as he marched. He would not confront Horta, nor challenge him for authority. He would greet the other man as a brother, and when opportunity arose, he would slip a knife into his back. That was how situations like this were handled. But Horta was powerful, very powerful indeed, so it must be done carefully.
Despite the weather, he was in a rare good mood. His mind flitted back to earlier this morning. He had ridden in one of the war chariots. It was an exhilarating experience, but not one that he ever had much opportunity for. The chariots were few in number, only some five hundred in total. And they were instruments of war, reserved for highly trained specialists. One driver and one warrior to each. Only they and kings were allowed to use them, and there had not been a king for a long, long time. That might change.
The savages ahead of them would not know proper military tactics, still less the means to face horse-drawn chariots that moved at speed and broke enemy formations. No, they would be surprised at that, and they would fall back in dismay.
The battle to come did not disturb Wena. He grinned to himself as he walked, but between one pace and the next that grin was gone.
Something was coming. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as it did when he performed the rite to summon a god. Only he had done no such thing.
He signaled the army to a stop, and drew his short sword. Was this some attack by the enemy? He felt magic at work, and that was always disturbing.
But it felt familiar also. It could not be the enemy. Unless it was Horta? Could he be launching a preemptive attack? It was possible, but he did not think so. He would need all the help he could get for the Rite of Resurrection that must yet be performed.
Smoke writhed up from the ground as though the earth itself was afire. Fire seethed in the air, and mist twined through it, turning instantly to vapor.
Three figures sprang into being, and Wena stumbled backward a few paces. Then he knelt. For he knew who these figures were. Shemfal, Su-sarat and Jarch-elrah. They were gods, and not just gods but leaders among gods. Nor was that alone what intimidated him.
It was unprecedented for three gods to appear at once. It had not happened in living memory. Perhaps not even in legend, but he could hardly think.
A shadow fell over him, and he knew Shemfal had stepped closer. His great wings moved and shimmered, and a terrible light was in his eyes.
“Stand, mortal,” the god said. “If you have no courage, we will find another in this army to lead.”
Wena rose. His legs were unsteady, and his heart pounded in his chest. Death filled the air, or at least the possibility of it, but he forced himself to look int
o the eyes of the Lord of the Underworld.
Shemfal gazed at him the way a man might study the fruit of a tree to see if it was ready to be picked.
“That is better,” the god intoned. “If you would serve, you must have courage and wit.”
Wena did not hesitate. “I have both, O Great One. Command, and I shall obey.” He gave a small gesture to his Arnhaten, and they stumbled toward him. A sacrifice may be called for, and he had no intention of facing that request alone. Dying was for lesser servants, but the gods did not always know that. Better to have all his options close to hand.
Jarch-elrah gazed at him, as though reading his very thought, and those eyes pieced him for there was madness in them.
But it was Su-sarat who spoke. “Courage will be needed more than wit. We know your task, and we have deigned to help you. Our thoughts will be your thoughts, and you will have little need of your own.”
Wena was not sure what that meant, exactly. But it revealed one thing at least that he liked. They did not intend to kill him. That was what mattered above all else.
It was time to try to take some initiative. “We hasten across the lands, O Great Ones. This Duthgar that we seek is getting close, according to my guide. Soon we will unleash war, and find the tomb of the god yet to be. Then—”
Shemfal towered over him, but as he stepped closer Wena observed the famous limp.
“We know this, mortal. You will do these things or die. But there is more you must do.”
Su-sarat leaned forward now. “Peace, Wena. We have felt your tread on the earth, and the gods know you for a man of distinction. You are marked for greatness, and truly the days to come will allow you to shine. But there is more for you to accomplish in this fight with Brand.”
She reached forth with her hand and touched his cheek then. The thrill of it ran through him.
“O Hunter of the Night, I am your servant. Command, and I obey. My guide has brought word of this Brand who leads the enemy. I will crush him for you.”
Su-sarat smiled at him, and her gaze was kinder than the shade of an uzlakah tree in the desert.
“You will crush his army, but for that man … I have a plan of my own. Leave him to me, but as for the battle with his forces, this is what you will do.”
She bent near him, and her soft breath was upon his cheek. Just as well to remember that she was the Trickster, and honeyed words could swiftly become a venomous bite. But as she spoke, he liked the strategy that she outlined.
“First, travel swiftly,” she advised, “for Brand himself hastens. Keep your main army with you, and make no attempt to hide. His scouts will find you quickly enough. But pick a man of judgement, and let him take a smaller army, one of three thousand men, and task him with flanking Brand in secret. This will not be easy. Let him have your best scouts in order to kill Brand’s. Tell him also that failure is certain death, for should Brand become aware of him too early, his small army will be destroyed before you arrive.”
Wena nodded slowly. He would not interrupt, for he liked the plan, and he knew what was coming next.
“When you approach Brand’s army,” she continued, “slow down your advance. Give the second army time to maneuver, for it must needs travel wide and further than yours to escape detection. Then when you have joined battle, the second army will descend upon Brand’s in surprise and fury. Caught between two forces, the enemy will be destroyed.”
It was as Wena thought. But he was not so sure of the outcome.
“Yet still the enemy may retreat,” he said. “If so, and if well led, they may salvage the situation and surprise will be lost.”
“And what will you do then?” Su-sarat’s voice was a whisper.
“Then I shall follow with speed and force, harassing him all the way. He must turn and fight, else be destroyed piecemeal. But in the end, by force, or surprise, in one hour or over days, he will be destroyed.”
Su-sarat nodded. “Let it be so, but you will find that he does not retreat. Be wary that he does not attack just when defeat is likely. He is that sort of man.”
Wena noted that. He was surprised that there almost seemed to be admiration in the voice of the goddess. But likely he imagined it. The gods did not admire men.
Su-sarat withdrew, for Shemfal loomed closer. Wena felt the enmity between them, and it seemed they did little to try to hide it. She sneered at him, and he pretended that she was not even there, assuming a lofty arrogance befitting a lord among gods.
Jarch-elrah growled deep in his throat, but after a moment Wena interpreted that to be a laugh. It sent a shiver down his spine, but he ignored it. His attention was on Shemfal only.
“The Duthenor are soft,” the Lord of the Underworld declared. “When the time is right, slaughter them in blood and fury. It would please me. And all the better will those who remain alive come to serve their new masters.”
Wena bowed, and when he looked up again the shadow of the god had passed from him, and Shemfal and the other two had their backs to him, walking away. In a moment, they disappeared in roiling smoke. But the limp of the bat-winged god had been obvious.
One of the Arnhaten nearby laughed nervously. “The legends of the feud between the snake and the bat are true,” he said. “And the snake had the victory.”
Wena did not hesitate. In a single motion he drew his sword and decapitated the man. The head rolled on the dirt, and the body stood a moment, blood gushing. Then it fell in a heap.
Wena casually bent and cleaned the blood off his blade with the man’s cloak. Then he stood.
“Bury the man,” he ordered the other Arnhaten. “Make it a narrow hole, and place the head in first with the body after, feet up.”
Wena moved aside and issued orders for the detachment of the second army. He would squeeze the blood from these soft northerners like whey from curds.
11. He Would be a King
Bruidiger came over to Brand, as requested. His every step was casual poise, and he had the look about him of a warrior born. The grace of a dancer was needed to be a swordsman, and a will of iron harder than any blade. This man had both. But it was more than a look, for Brand had seen him fight. Even so, the man smiled now with good nature. The Norvinor, Brand had discovered, were a happy and laughing people, quick to joke and quick to make light of themselves. It was a trait Brand admired, and all the more so in deadly warriors.
“Can I do something?” Bruidiger asked.
“Yes. I have a job for you, if you’re willing,” Brand answered.
“Name it, and it will be done.”
“You’re like Sighern – always agreeing to things before you know what they are.”
“Guilty as charged, my lord. But then again, I can always try to back out of things afterward if I don’t like them.”
“True enough,” Brand said. “But I don’t think you’ll want to back out of this. We need more warriors, and your homeland is on the further side of the Callenor lands. It’s getting closer. So, would you be willing to go to your chieftain, and to tell him what’s happening? And then, on my behalf, ask him for help?”
“Of course,” Bruidiger replied. “But I can’t guarantee what he’ll say. But if rumor of events in the Duthgar has already reached him, it’ll help.”
“I can ask no more than that you try.”
“When do you want me to go?”
“Now. I’ll have a fast horse given to you. And one for each man in your small band if you like. They may prefer to go with you.”
“I don’t think so. Their place is here, even if I’m not with them. What comes is a threat to us all. But I’ll ask them.”
It was not long after that Bruidiger sped away on a black mare. It was a fine horse, though not as good as Brand’s roan. Just as well that Bruidiger’s men had not gone with him – the army had few horses and fewer still that could keep up with the black.
Brand turned his thoughts away from Bruidiger. He would succeed in convincing his chieftain to send warriors, or he would not
. There was nothing more Brand could do about it. But his own army was a different matter.
For all that he was trying to create a sense of unity among the two tribes, it was not easy. The lords of either tribe seemed to bicker among themselves, and they were quick to feel slighted at an accidental word. To be sure, there was mistrust there, but it was more than that, and Brand knew it.
They all sought power. It was what lords did. And the current situation created a void. For the moment, all power came from Brand. He was careful to assign tasks, responsibilities and praise equally, but he also made choices based on merit. It was a concept they did not understand. They had come to power through networks and connections and the luck of being born to certain parents.
They knew though that war was at hand, and battle and death. If he himself was killed, a likely enough possibility, someone would have to take charge. Most of them wanted it to be themselves, and they fought for power now to make their rise easier in such an event.
A few of them had also seen what he had long known. The new banner had made it clear, for those with the eyes to see. The Duthenor and Callenor had once been a single people. They could be so again. They could become powerful, and have a powerful king to lead them.
Brand knew he could do that. But should he? The Lady of the Land had said he would be a king, but not of whom. And always the mountains of the north beckoned him. Why was that? And how did it fit into anything?
The army was on the move again, but Brand found an opportunity to talk to his oldest and most trusted friends, without others listening in.
“Should we win the battle ahead,” he asked, “what future do you see for the two tribes?”
Shorty scratched his head. “You always like to plan ahead. Me? I’m only thinking about the fight just in front of us and how to win it.”
Brand laughed. “Pretend all you like, Shorty. But you see things as clearly as the finest strategist, and you’re as wise as any philosopher.”
The other man grunted. “If you say so. But alright, this is what I see. You’re already forging the two tribes into one nation. And you know as well as I that if we win the battle ahead, these men who have fought together will draw close as brothers. Suffering together does that. You’ll have them all in the palm of your hand, and a kingship beside, if you want it. And if you’re alive.”
