by Robert Ryan
And attack they did. They rolled forward as a vast unit, pushing, fighting, killing. The enemy, surprised by the failure of their secret weapon, resisted less than they should have.
The balance had shifted. Both sides felt it, and Brand’s army moved forward, down the ramp and beyond, harassing the Kirsch without mercy. Too late the enemy commanders saw the danger. Too late they tried to steady their ranks.
But the balance could shift again. If the enemy commanders regained their discipline, they could halt the slide. And surprise would not last forever. It was a momentary ally. Also, the enemy still outnumbered Brand.
Already there were signs that the advance was slowing. No soldier liked being beaten back by an inferior force. The battle still hung in the balance.
Brand knew what he must do then. It was a final throw of the dice, and a surrendering of trust to the words of the witch. She had not betrayed him so far, and he hoped it would stay that way. Self-sacrifice is victory, she had said. And he gambled on her prophecy.
Steeling himself and drawing on his well of courage, he spoke. And he enhanced his words with magic so that they carried across all the field of battle, back even to where the three gods of the enemy stood.
“Hear me!” he proclaimed, and his voice boomed like thunder. “I am Brand, and I challenge the three gods who lurk behind their army while soldiers, braver than they, die. I am Brand, and I would contend with you. All three at once, if you have the courage!”
A silence fell, vast and strange for its suddenness was unnatural in the midst of battle. But the battle had ceased. This was something beyond the reckoning of ordinary men, and shocked, they watched and waited in silence and fear.
Brand knew he must go on as he had begun. There was no choice. This was the moment to take advantage of the enemy’s dismay. Char-harash had fallen, and if ever gods felt vulnerable, it would be now.
“Do you hear me, you three? Come forth and do battle, or be known as craven. Come forth and die, as your betters have done already.”
The silence now was profound. Brand stood proud and tall, and there was certainty in his voice. It did not matter whether he felt it or not. Leadership was an act, and he could play his role. Let the gods wonder if he was mad or confident.
But the men near him trembled in fear. They backed away, leaving an open space around him. They wanted no part in what would happen if gods took offence.
Yet even so, three men came to stand beside him. Shorty first, and he glanced at Brand, his gaze unreadable. Sighern second, and though his face was pale he lifted high the Raven Axe and shook it defiantly. Third was Bruidiger, his sword wet with blood and a smile upon his face as though all the world were a joke.
An eternity seemed to pass. Brand did not move, and neither did the gods. They were wary of him, for their power had been lessened and the fate of Char-harash troubled them.
And then the gods were gone. Smoke, fire and mist swirled where they had been, and then drifted away on the air. He had called their bluff, for surely had they accepted his challenge, they would have killed him. But it seemed that gods were unused to exposing themselves to the chances of life and death. They did not have the heart for it, as ordinary people must, and their courage failed them.
Out of the silence a pitiful noise grew. It was the moaning of the enemy soldiers. Their gods had deserted them.
Coldly, for stricken as they were the enemy remained a superior force, Brand did as he must.
“Advance!” he cried, and there was no need for horns to carry the signal, for his voice, still buoyed by magic, carried across all the field of battle.
And the army of five tribes advanced, slaying the enemy before them and routing them.
Many of the Kirsch tried to flee. Some tried to gather together and retreat in order. Some fell in behind Wena, their commander, and these fought hardest. Or most desperately. In battle, it came to the same thing, and it was toward them that Brand came, his sword dripping blood and a cold fury in his heart.
No matter the doings and plots of gods, it was this man, Wena, who had led the enemy and sought to overrun and conquer lands not his own. It was Wena who had threatened to bring ruin to the five tribes and had asked for nations to kneel to him as their overlord.
Shorty and Sighern were with him, as ever. And suddenly Taingern was there also, blood smearing his face from a shallow cut to his head, his helm dinted, but a grim smile on his face.
There was no time for greetings, but a look passed between them. Then they were up and against the picked bodyguard of the enemy commander. These were tall men, dark-haired and broad of shoulder. Axes were their weapon of choice, and they bore no shields.
But swords and shields would have served them better. Brand’s men beat them back, blocking deadly attacks and thrusting with their swords. These men, though brave, fell.
Then suddenly Brand was face to face with Wena. Hatred flashed in the other man’s eyes, and Brand met it with his own implacable gaze.
Wena drew a sword, and he made to thrust with it, but then his other hand gestured and he uttered a word of power.
Brand felt the force of it. Magic was at play, and the taint of dark sorcery filled the air. His own powers stirred in response, but he saw nothing untoward. Yet still he felt something, and he leaped back.
Where he had just stood the earth crumbled in on itself and a fissure opened in the ground. Flames darted within it, and noxious gases rose.
Wena began to incant some further spell, but Brand was done watching. It was time to act, and to end this last battle. If Wena fell, all resistance would fall with him.
Brand discarded his shield, and leaped the fissure, his Halathrin-wrought blade glittering. Red tongues of flame twisted up to meet him, but he passed over them, and his sword flashed down and clove Wena’s helm.
The enemy commander lurched backward, his split helm falling away and revealing his shattered skull. The white of bone showed through a mess of gore and brains, and then he collapsed.
The fight of the enemy collapsed with him, and the Kirsch fled the field.
“We have won!” Sighern cried, but he looked around at the ruins of the battle and the wreck of war, and the triumph on his face died.
29. Free of Ambition
The Kirsch fled, and the five tribes harried them until the sun set red in the west and a cold wind blew from the mountains of the north.
When dark fell, the fire went out of the hearts of the warriors, and Brand ordered a camp to be established and fires built. Tonight, they would eat and drink and revel in the life they yet lived. But also, they would remember who had died.
And there were many. Fields would lie fallow next spring that should be turned by the plough. Many were the warriors who would never tread the land of their farms again, nor milk cattle, grow crops nor harvest the golden ears of wheat as the seasons turned. Sons, husbands, fathers – the dead were many and the grief was great.
Simple warriors had fallen, but also lords. The names were given to Brand as news passed among men, and of those he knew he mourned the lesser and the greater alike.
Arlnoth, the red-haired chieftain of the Norvinor had fallen to a spear driven through his body. Yet in dying he slew his killer and two others of the enemy. Brodruin and Garvengil, both lords of the Duthgar had perished. The first killed early in the battle by a sword thrust to the groin and the second by an axe even as the battle was nearing its end.
The Callenor payed a price in blood also. Attar and Hathulf had both fallen, one to arrow shot and the other to a spear in his leg. It had not been considered a dangerous injury, but on moving back through the ranks to be bandaged, he had collapsed and died.
Brand knew he would learn more names of the dead as time passed, but for now he must care for the wounded. These had been gathered together and helped as much as possible. Brand went among them, but he saw that here and there men still died. Yet most, if they could, shrugged away their pain as he talked to them pretending that not
hing troubled them though their skin was pale and blood seeped through bandages.
The long night passed in a strange blend of joy and grief. Few slept even a little, and Brand none at all. Yet the next day he felt strong. His task was accomplished, but there was still work to do and decisions to be made.
He ordered timber to be cut to burn the dead and stop the spread of disease. This was done, and long rows of biers were fired just before noon.
The fallen warriors of the five tribes were kept separate from the Kirsch, but the reek of smoke merged and drifted skyward together. The dreams of dead men went with it.
When this was done, the army rested again. Not yet were they ready to travel, and wagons and litters were being made ready to carry the wounded that could not walk.
But Brand and the lords of the various tribes met. Shorty, Taingern and Sighern were with them, and Sighern still bore the banner of five tribes proudly. He and the banner went wherever Brand did.
From the Waelenor and Druimenor warriors, few as they were, there were no lords. But the two most senior men were invited. Brand wished that all the five tribes be represented in any decisions made.
Small matters they discussed first, but needful. The care of the injured was uppermost in their minds, and the transporting of them to the nearest villages where they could sleep beneath a protective roof and feel the warmth of fires while healers were gathered to tend them.
But when this was organized, Furthgil, that gray-bearded lord of the Callenor spoke.
“Brand. You are chieftain of the Duthenor and Callenor by right. Yet you could be king, and I would have it so. And the people need you. If you announce this thing, it will give them heart and take their minds off the tragedy just past and turn it toward a brighter future.”
Brand did not answer straightaway. And before he could, Thurlnoth, the most senior Norvinor lord there, for he was the son of Arlnoth with his same red hair, bowed. But Brand noticed that Furthgil had looked to him before the other man moved, and he knew this had been discussed before in private.
“I would swear fealty to you also, Brand. And call you king. I would serve under your kingship as a chieftain.”
At length, Brand spoke. “To the lordship of the Duthenor and Callenor, I have a claim. But it is not so with the Norvinor. Why would you serve beneath a king?”
Thurlnoth answered without delay, and Brand knew again that it was a matter he had considered previously.
“Because the Norvinor are a small tribe, and as recent events have shown, the chances of the world are many. The Kirsch are defeated, but may they not come again? We have enemies in the north also. It is a world full of foes and uncertainty. A king, and being part of a larger realm, would offer us better protection against such things.”
Brand thought on that. Then he turned to the men of the Waelenor and Druimenor tribes.
“What do you think of this? How would your chieftains react?”
It was a difficult question. If the Norvinor were a smaller tribe than the Duthenor and Callenor, then the remaining two were far smaller. They would fret at the thought of a kingdom forming on their borders, one that might annex them if they were not willing to join freely.
“We’ve discussed this with the others,” one of the men said. “For our part,” and he gestured to his companion, “we’re just warriors. We can make no agreement nor say with certainty how our chieftains will react.”
“But you can guess,” Brand suggested.
The second man nodded. “It seems to us that our lords will see the advantages that Thurlnoth described. But at the same time, they would wish to retain their chieftainships over their own land, and rule there according to their own ancient traditions.”
It was as good an answer as Brand would get without the chieftains themselves there. And he was sure these men would speak favorably. They had seen what the combined force of the tribes could do.
Brand took a deep breath. All his life it seemed had been driving him to this point, but having reached it, having kingship within his grasp, he did not want it. He was a lòhren, and the land needed him. And though the Lady of the Land had foretold that one day he would be a king, he knew now it would not be of the five tribes. His fate lay elsewhere.
He sighed. “All that each of you say is true. Truer even than you know. Our enemies are many. In the mountains north of us dwell evils untold. South, far, far to the south, a great darkness stirs. It grows and prospers. This I feel in my bones. The lòhren Aranloth has gone thither, and in time we will hear of great events. Hopefully, we will hear that the champion he will raise to stand against it is victorious.”
He held back a moment on the last thing that he must say, assessing their mood. Everyone looked at him strangely. They knew that he was more than a normal man. They knew that he was changed since the Lady of the Land had appeared to him. But not by how much. He was a lòhren now, and he felt the land. He sensed the evil in the south as a man sensed a cloud drifting between him and the sun.
At length, he finished speaking. “You should form this kingdom of the five tribes. It is needful. But I will not be king. I am a lòhren, and I have other duties.”
At that, they fell silent. Their faces showed they were aghast, but they had no words.
Brand glanced at Taingern and Shorty. They at least did not seem surprised. And strangely, nor did Sighern.
Furthgil found voice for his thoughts. “But lord, everything you have done has … seemed to me to position yourself as king of all the tribes. And we think it a good idea. Will you not reconsider?”
Brand knew he must be decisive here. “I have worked to bring the tribes together. They need a king. But it will not be me. My time in these lands, even the Duthgar, grow short. I am called elsewhere.”
Furthgil shook his head sadly. “Then all your labor is in vain. Without you, the tribes will go their separate ways.”
“Do you really think so? I don’t. The leaders of the five tribes know better than that.”
“I fear not,” Furthgil replied. “At least, they might know better. But they won’t act on that knowledge. Instead, personal ambition will rule. We’ll bicker and fight among ourselves to try to take the throne. And when no one can gain acceptance and trust from all the others, we’ll go back to chieftainships and tribal lands.”
It was Brand’s turn to shake his head. “If you cannot rise above that, even seeing the need for a king, then you deserve what you get. But there is another choice beside me or bickering among yourselves for ascendancy.”
Furthgil accepted the rebuke, for he knew it was true. But still there was a trace of bitterness in his voice when he answered, though Brand thought it stemmed from the truth of his words rather than from anger.
“What other choice can there possibly be?”
“Take for yourself as king one who is not a lord nor even a noble. Choose a man free of ambition. Pick a warrior both wise and courageous. Let him be young, so that he is not steeped in old prejudices, and yet able to learn and appreciate the customs of different tribes. Find someone who will rule all and treat all fairly. Was that not how our ancestors chose their first chieftains?”
Furthgil stroked his beard as though deep in thought, but Brand guessed his mind had already grasped the obvious.
“Who would you propose for such a thing?”
Brand pointed at Sighern. “There is the man I described. Has he not fought for all of us? Has he not shown wit and courage? Does he not still stand before you, even now, carrying the banner of the five tribes? And has he not always been proud to do so?”
The suggestion caused a stir. But Brand removed himself from it. He had done what he could, and now the leaders spoke to Sighern, asking him questions and weighing things in their mind. It would do no harm that the lad had saved Furthgil’s life. Furthgil was the most powerful lord left alive among the five tribes. If he accepted Sighern as king, it would sway all the others greatly.
Brand left them to it. His part was don
e. He had returned to the Duthgar and achieved what he had wanted, but events had grown and shifted.
The Duthgar was not what it was. He was not who he had once been. The past was a dream that could be relived only in the mind, and the future was what called him now. It would be bright and new. But also dangerous.
Shorty and Taingern had followed him. They knew better than all others what he had done, and how he felt.
“Where to now?” Shorty asked. “Back to Cardoroth? Elsewhere?”
Brand did not answer immediately. But both his friends saw his gaze turn northward.
Epilogue
Brand did not return to the Duthgar. He wintered in Callenor lands, occupying a hunter’s cabin high in a range of forested hills. But he was not alone.
Taingern and Shorty had cabins nearby, though they spent most of their time in his before a hot fire in the hearth during the day or close to the red coals late into the evening.
Sighern had been declared king, and the Banner of Five Tribes went with him wherever he traveled. He had his own bannerman now to carry it. Also, he now wore the Helm of the Duthenor that Brand had given him as well as carrying the Raven Axe of the Callenor.
Even the Waelenor and Druimenor chieftains had acknowledged him as king.
Brand was pleased. And though he enjoyed the solitude of the forested hills, he was not idle. He sent out word for what he intended in spring, and word came back from those who would join him.
The deeps of winter came. And they passed. Snow bound the roads, but still word went to and fro over the lands of the five tribes.
Spring approached, and men gathered. Hardy men and true. Warriors all, fierce and proud. And it mattered not to Brand from which tribe they came, and it mattered not to them.
They were one band now. A thousand strong. Well-armed, provisioned and thirsting for adventure.
