by Sean McGuire
Die By The Sword
Sean McGuire
Copyright 2011 by Sean McGuire
His mother would scoop him up in her arms and whisper the same words every night. Always the same words. It was an old song she sung. On the wings of her sweet voice, it entered his innermost being, while his wide eyes sparkled. It never left until the day he died.
You always shall endure
When all your foes they come
Hold fast to strength and wrath
And victory is yours
Hold fast, hold fast, my son
Though giants do close in
The gods will see and cheer
When you die by the sword
***
Forty years later, a prison gate opened. A scrawny figure in rags walked out with dignity. It would have made the three soldiers idling nearby gaze with awe, if it wasn’t for a comical limp. The guard behind him smirked, and shoved him all the way into the sunlight. Light ran down the many cracks on the man’s face. A shadow of a smile stole on his face. Forward he limped with energy, and purpose.
“You have returned,” said another man, waiting outside of the gate, at the head of a silent crowd.
“At long last,” said the ex-prisoner, as the rest watched.
“We have water for a bath,” cried a woman, “And real clothes we can give you. Come!”
The crowd swelled and followed the ex-prisoner to a cottage in the middle of town.
“What is that, Mama?” asked a child fearfully, staring at the scarred figure.
“Show respect, child!” ordered her mother, “This is Torthan, the man who fought for our nation’s freedom!”
Forty minutes later, Torthan was eating the best food, and the first unstolen meat, that he had eaten in his life. His skin glowed from hot bathwater. Warm robes covered him. Smiling people surrounded him, chattering and asking him questions. He spoke to none of them until he had seized and chewed every scrap of food on his plate, and drank his ale to the dregs.
“Torthan! There you are!” called a booming voice. It sounded familiar, but Torthan could not find a source in the crowded room.
“Who asked me that?” he asked, standing.
“Over here!” said a fat man in the doorway, “Don’t you remember me, you old rascal?”
“Gerthi,” said Torthan, walking to him and embracing him as warmly as anyone else.
“Birk just told me that you've gotten everything except a history. What dreadful hosts we are!”
“Can we go into a separate room?”
“Absolutely.”
Everyone else cleared from the room, and whispered outside as the two old men spoke.
“When they took you,” said Gerthi, “The rebellion was crushed. Soldiers were everywhere. Only Birk and I are left. But we mourn no longer. We won! In the most unlikely way imaginable!”
“We won?”
“Yes! Now brace yourself. This part will be hard for you to hear. Haltha gave birth to a son when-”
“I know what they did!”
“Calm down, calm down. It’s all past. We can’t change what happened. But Torthan… her son is an angel. He so enchanted Lord Vengir that instead of casting him away as a bastard, he embraced him as his true son. He was still cruel to us, but he loved that boy. We were sure he would corrupt him. But he didn’t! I don’t think he could! The boy’s twenty years old, now, and the kindest, most virtuous man I’ve ever seen-“
“Lord Vengir is still in power.”
“Yes. He is. But Torthan, he’s at his last breath! Sickness has hobbled him, these past few years. He can barely manage his kingdom. He has his son and his lieutenant manage the kingdom jointly.”
“Casrad.”
“He’s powerless. If he crosses the will of Vengir’s son, Vengir hears about it. He hasn’t named his son as successor- and he doesn’t have to. The soldiers and the people shall see to it that Casrad never becomes king of Tulrasia.”
“You’re very sure about that.”
“Look around you! The battle is already won. Vengir’s son has given us luxury and freedom like we never dreamed. Everything we fought for is here. All we wait for now is the passing away of Lord Vengir. Let me get you another wine!”
Torthan looked out the window at the castle, as tall and grey and thick as it had been since the day he was born.
“You always shall endure…” he mumbled.
“What was that?” said Gerthi, raising a wineskin.
“Nothing,” said Torthan, “Nothing to you.”
He looked at the street, where rose-cheeked children played. They were thick; they were well-fed. He was watching a plump little girl run around with a ball when it happened. A war hound leapt out from nowhere and brought her to the ground. Torthan darted for the door. Pain bit at his back, and he stumbled on the chair. Cursing, he seized a staff and limped outside.
“Torthan! What are you doing?” said Gerthi, following and laughing, “Can’t you see it’s playing?”
The child laughed as the dog licked her face happily. Torthan froze in the doorway and watched. The pink tongue splashed on the child’s laughing cheeks, but all Torthan saw were the fangs. They were huge and white. Torthan’s scar twinged as the dog and the child ran off.
The crowd looked at him silently. Torthan’s face was locked in acute misery. When he saw his onlookers, his face twisted into a scowl. Gerthi stood behind him. Torthan seized his shirt collar and dragged him back into the cottage.
“Do you want to know where this came from?” said Torthan, pointing at the deep groove near his right eye.
“No,” said Gerthi, “I don’t. Torthan, my friend, you’re not the only one who suffered-“
“What do you mean to tell me? Did you suffer, Gerthi? Olm told me everything when they brought him in. You hid with the women and the children- and made some more children. Don’t tell me how horrible that was.”
“I married one of the women and I kept everybody safe! It wasn’t easy!”
“You weren’t with us at the start, Gerthi. You were a captain’s son. Don’t ever forget that. You sat in that castle day after day, stuffing your face on the same things you’re stuffing it with now. Outside, we suffered. I was born among the tribes. My mother died taking me, a helpless infant, through the freezing northern plains, just so I could live in a happy life in this great country Tulrasia we heard about down below. What a waste.”
“You told me this story long ago. Why don’t we sit down and have an ale? Birk makes excellent-“
“I’m not finished! Lord Vengir’s men found me in the snow, and found me a peasant home. It was the only kindness I ever got. Vengir made Tulrasia into his own special corner of hell. He had come to power by killing his elderly father, and blaming it on someone else. He put military law on his new country, and he never took it away. He made war on the northern tribes. He stole our food. He raped our women! There was not a wife, daughter, or sister safe from his ravaging embrace.”
“I know that, Torthan; I know all of that.”
“Then I met Haltha. She hadn’t been touched yet, and I couldn’t let her. I’d had enough! I killed a man who leered at her, and I took her away into the wild. I killed every solider that came near us. Vengir sent an army after me, but by then I had friends. We won the first battle. We got spies out, and we got you on our side soon after.”
“We both know how the story goes. It’s over now! Relax!”
“When they took me, we were at the height of our glory. We started raiding Vengir’s tax collectors, and as fear swept through Vengir and his men, I rode to summon the tribes. With their strength, we could have taken the only thing that still protected Vengir: his castle.”
“I know everything! Just stop!”
“Ca
srad betrayed me! He slunk into the castle and sold my plan for power with Vengir. It was sunset when Vengir and his men found me. Slowly, they set a circle round me. Men. And dogs. The dogs they held back. The men came up and shot me with arrows. When I couldn’t stand any longer, they beat me with sticks until I could no longer see the dying sun in the distance. Lord Vengir himself came up. He told me every last thing he did to my Haltha, my love. And then he loosed a dog on me.”
“What madness has come over you, Torthan? You aren’t the man I remember. There is venom in your tongue, now!”
“And there is nothing but poisoned honey in yours. Twenty years I rotted in Vengir’s jail, whipped and starved to nothing- and what welcome do I get from you? Complacency. Luxury. Blindness! Do you truly believe Lord Vengir will let your freedom drop into your mouth like roast meat? Has he suddenly stopped his raping and his scheming for the sake of one little bastard?”
“Torthan, that bastard is Haltha’s son!”
Torthan’s head lowered, and his eyes narrowed into slits.
“Don’t ever speak about Haltha to me again. Or her son.”
He took his hand from Gerthi’s throat as several soldiers ran into the cottage.
“We heard shouting,” said one, “Is anything wrong here?”
Torthan sized him up. He was thickset, and wore light chain-mail. A sword hung from his belt, and the hilt looked like it had rarely been touched. Torthan’s eye landed last upon the soldier’s nose. It had a curious tilt to it. Torthan’s scar twinged again.
“Why, no,” said Torthan, smiling, “I got a little overexcited. Twenty years of confinement is difficult to recover from in an hour, don’t you know? Give me a night to sleep and all will be well.”
“Very good,” said the thickset soldier, “Though while I stand here… there has been much injustice inflicted upon you by our predecessors. In their name, I would like to apologize.”
“There is little you can do about that,” said Torthan, still looking at the shape of the man’s nose, “But I am sure you will pay for it. Your father worked in the dungeons, did he not?”
The thickset soldier shifted uncomfortably.
“Yes. He did.”
“I’m sorry.”
The thickset soldier walked out with the others. Gerthi shut the door before anyone else could come in.
“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” said Torthan, “It has been two decades. I should like to see a nice bed. I don’t know any of these people outside.”
Gerthi showed him to a bedroom silently, and left the room. He avoided the crowd that pressed at him for details.
“I’ll talk to him in the morning,” he said when they proved persistent, “For now he needs some peace.”
He wrapped his fur cloak tight around himself, trying to squeeze out the possibility that Torthan was right about Lord Vengir.
