by AJ Cooper
Harald scratched his thin black beard in thought. “I will compromise. We will send her to this Jannik son of Jannik,” he said. “And for the skald’s sake, we will send her alive.”
Better to send her beheaded; they would torture her and then hang her publicly in that barbaric keep.
“I do not wish our house to be cowardly,” said Harald’s wife. “But my husband is Lord Baron, and I am beholden to his commands. I am sorry, dear skald. Your music has made our lives so bright, and our evenings so pleasant; yet my husband cannot find it in his heart to properly repay you.”
Harald’s face was expressionless despite the accusation.
“It is decided, then,” the watch captain said. “There is one other bit of rumor—that the Ulfr have returned.”
“Don’t tell the people such a fanciful story,” Harald said. “It will frighten them and they will blame me.”
As the watch captain turned to leave, Brand fell to his knees and folded his hands. “Please,” he said, “let me see Hilda before she goes. I must say goodbye.”
“That I will grant,” Harald said.
They hauled Hilda out into the court, her hands bound in rope. She spat on the tile floor. “You are a dishonorable lout, Harald!” she hissed. “You send me off to my death while you sit on your cushioned throne. I am of a noble house and deserve better.”
“You are a thief and a murderess,” Harald said calmly.
“And you are not a man!” Hilda struggled against her rope but the guards jerked her into submission. “And you, Brand? Will you come with me?”
I used to be idealistic, like you. I used to believe in honor.
“No,” Brand answered. “I tried to give you freedom. I failed. But I will give you this.” He moved over and tried to kiss her.
Hilda shook away from him. “I don’t want your kisses,” she said. “You have no honor, boy.”
“That is what you taught me,” Brand said. “And I’m sorry for it all.”
“Stuff your apologies,” Hilda said. She looked up at the lord baron on his throne. “Enjoy your whores today, Harald!”
A flash of red touched Harald’s cheeks. “Give her fifteen lashes before you take her!” he growled. “Let the people watch.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Soon after the incident, Brand retreated to his room and plucked at his lute forlornly. He had not finished one song when a voice interrupted him.
“I am sorry it had to be that way, skald.”
Harald’s wife stood behind him, wearing a white silk dress. Her bright green eyes were full of warmth and a smile was on her lips.
“My husband does what he can to provide peace,” she said. “Although I defend him often, I am afraid that I am not particularly close to him.”
Brand stopped playing. “What do you mean?”
“Does it surprise you that we have no children?” she said. “I tell the people I am barren, and that Brand’s sister-in-law Kenna must bear the heirs, since Harald refuses to remarry. But the truth is—as a… man—Harald can only get stiff in the brothel. Something about commoners… something about the filthy whores that attracts him more than me… a noblewoman of the south who’s been told often of her beauty.”
“You’re from the south?” Brand said. He wondered why in Varda she was telling him this.
“I am from the south,” she said. “I have learned your tongue and have strived for years to speak it without an accent. I come from the capital city—the bad—of Zaros. It lies down the coast. The city is far larger than this port and sometimes I do miss it… the Yule celebrations, the grand palace, the warm summers and crisp autumns.”
“A city larger than Andarr’s Port?” Brand said. He didn’t think that was possible.
“Far larger,” she said. “I have told you all this, and you do not know my name. Or do you?”
“I do not, milady,” Brand said.
“I am Alysse,” she said. “It is not a Badelgard name, as I’m sure you can tell. You are a master of words.” She sat down beside him. “And a master of other things, perhaps?”
The suggestion was vague, yet its meaning was cemented by the fire in her eyes. “My lady,” Brand said, “if you mean to seduce me, I do not wish to betray Harald. You are his wife and I should not wish to get on his bad side. I know well from today what happens to those who get on his bad side.”
“He would not mind,” Alysse said. “You can even ask him.” She smiled. “I will not pressure you to do such a thing, though, my good skald. I have never born him a child because of his perversion… his affinity for common whores. The women of The Cathouse call him the Brothel Sire. Lucky women they are, to lie with a man of noble status, when they are all so lowly.”
“And have you been with other men?” Brand said.
“I would not ordinarily tell anyone this,” Alysse said. “Only my husband knows; yet I can sense you have a good, trustworthy heart. The answer, I’m afraid, is yes. I have lain with a warrior of mine, Ragni. He died a few months ago of a wound and now I have no one to fulfill my passions.”
“Did you have any children?”
“I have had two sons with Ragni,” said Alysse. “They were blonde-haired like their father and unlike Harald, and I am a worrier. I hid from public view… sent them away to become priests at Dragonmount.” She touched Brand’s shoulder. “If you change your mind about me, dear Brand, let me know. There will be no repercussions; Harald will not care at all, and you may ask him.”
Yet asking a man’s permission to bed his wife was not an acceptable by any means and—in any man of normal character—would not be received well.
At lunch they had a snack of honey loaves, and a helping of fresh farmers’ cheese. Brand played several songs for them—all happy, joyful songs of summer and love. The dark, frightening ones were fit for night, as Harald explained, against the wishes of young Stenn.
A little after noon, Brand asked if Harald would let him visit the city of Andarr’s Port.
“Yes,” Harald said. “Furthermore, you may have ten silvers as payment. Spend it however you wish… go see the dancers or the fire-eaters… watch a play in the theater. Go to the Cathouse or the Pleasure Palace; I hear the Lion’s Den is in a terrible state.”
Kenna glared at her brother-in-law from her seat.
“Only, do not listen to musicians,” Harald said. “You must preserve your own style and not corrupt it with other instruments. I don’t want you to come back with a shawm or a blaring horn. A voice and a lute is what I should want for my family.”
Servants had shoveled the walk to the castle, but in town, snow reached the windows of the houses. A cold wind blew out of the sea from the northeast, making the air burn against Brand’s partially exposed neck. He struggled through the snow and in time reached the crudely-shoveled marketplace. Noticeably fewer vendors stood out here hawking their wares; there were still some, but many had packed up shop. So, too, had the crowd dwindled; Brand assumed that most were inside huddling by the fire.
“I have never seen a storm like this in Andarr’s Port,” he heard a man saying. “Maybe in Ostergard or Trowheim. Maybe in Frostfall. But never here.”
“I hear it’s worse further east,” a woman replied. “My boy was trying to visit his cousins on the farm—just a few miles off the main road—but there was too much snow.”
Brand looked around. He was right in front of The Cathouse. The vulgar image that hung above the door—a naked woman and man in a lovers’ embrace—aroused him. So, too, had his conversation with Alysse brought his lust to the fore of his mind. He wondered what The Cathouse offered that Harald couldn’t find in Alysse. He could resist no longer.
A piece of paper was glued to the door. “One silver,” it read, “for a good time.” “Two silvers for a great time.” “Ten silvers for the time of your life.”
Brand gulped and looked around. No one was looking at him; no one would know about his surrender to temptation.
For ten s
ilvers—the time of his life—Brand got a dark-haired beauty named Volina. During the periodic breaks in lovemaking, he asked her about her life. She seemed surprised that any of her clients would care.
“It gets tough sometimes,” she said in a strange accent Brand didn’t recognize, her shapely body dripping with sweat. “Last night it was cold—terrible cold. And my last client of the evening… he came in through my door. An’ he was a young one, an’ his skin was pale… paler than even you Badelgard people. An’ he just stared at me with these eyes of yellow for minute and minutes… an’ then he bit me… s’pose he is an aggressive one… and then he said, ‘Tomorrow night we’ll all be coming for you.’”
He got back to the keep later than he had hoped. The sun was setting in red over the sea. Out on a glass-walled porch—a priceless marvel not even King Sven possessed—Harald had a piece of canvas on an easel, and was hard at work painting the setting sun. Judging from half-finished painting—the sun and its reflection—he had done a competent job, even if he had no great artistic ability.
“Good work, milord,” Brand said from behind.
“I have done many pictures,” Harald said without looking back. “Pictures of the aspens in the family wood; pictures of my nieces and nephews; pictures of my brother Ivarr; pictures of my naked wife… I’m no real talent. I wish I were like the great Ranoul from the south. He was common, but he had talent. Me?” He paused. “I was just born into my greatness.”
“The gods gave you your noble blood,” Brand said, “just as they gave Ranoul his talent.”
“And as they gave you yours,” Harald said. “But with your talent, you can play songs. I just sit on a soft-cushioned throne and rule the city best as I know how, and as best as I know the wishes of the High King.” He paused, dipping the brush in a red dye and then darkening the red sun. “The gods gave me the throne. The gods liked me enough to make me a Riverhall. And I suppose the gods despise the common.”
“I hope not,” Brand said. “I don’t wish to live in such a world.”
Harald kept painting.
“Did my friend come back?” Brand said. “I heard the roads were rough outside the city—impassible even. I thought perhaps you portsmen weren’t used to such hard traveling.”
“My men are perfectly capable of getting through snow,” Harald said. “They are probably there now.”
That night, the cooks doled out large bowls of mutton stew, and steins of dark winter ale. Brand sipped down the bitter drink with equal bitterness as he thought of Hilda.
“You have no honor, boy.” Better than being dead. Yet Hilda’s certain death made him feel guilt as much as letting her kill Gunnar.
Harald guzzled his stein, and then slammed it on the armrest. “You are in my court now, boy,” he said. “You are a skald of the House Riverhall.”
Brand mumbled assent. He needed to go after the Hilda’s trail. He couldn’t live with the knowledge he hadn’t gone to die with her.
“What troubles you, skald?” Harald said.
“We have treated you perfectly well,” Kenna said in a cold tone. “We have treated you as our equals, though I gather you are common.”
Brand stood up. “I cannot live, knowing that I betrayed Hilda. I cannot live, knowing that I let you take her away, and I didn’t follow after her.”
“You’d be a fool to throw away all you’ve gained in my court,” Harald said. “I have given you much. I have given you wine and good food, and hope for a good life. If you want to be placed back on the Hangman’s List, or delivered to White Wolf Keep with your friend, I’m sure that can be arranged.” There was no emotion in his voice.
Brand opened his mouth for a retort, then decided against it. Wisdom over honor. “I am ungrateful,” he said. “I will serve you from here on, I swear.”
“You swear?” Harald said, and then stood up, the gold of his coronet shining in the torchlight. “Will you take an oath of service to the House Riverhall? I must warn you; if you take the oath and break it, you will be executed as a traitor.”
Brand hesitated. The words that came out of his lips were, “Yes.”
“You will swear an oath to me, the Lord Baron?” Harald said. “And both to my family and to my noble house?”
“Yes,” Brand said. His stomach twisted to knots at the thought of it.
“I will make you an honorary member of the nobility,” said Harald. “I will appoint you housecarl, and you will from then on be known as Sir Brand.”
“Will you grant titles of nobility as freely as you give your love to whores?” hissed Lady Kenna.
Harald snapped his head toward her with bared teeth, his eyes filled with rage. “You are not even my sister, Lady Kenna. You were my brother’s wife, but if you test my mercy I fear you will be disappointed.” He glanced back at Brand, then stood up and drew his sword. “This is the sword of my father, and his father before him. It is the sword of the House Riverhall—the Riverblade—and with it I will make you a housecarl, if you will say an oath.”
Brand nodded and stood up and walked in front of the throne. Lady Alysse was smiling. Harald laid the flat of the Riverhall blade on Brand’s shoulder. “Repeat after me,” said Harald. “I, Brand…”
“I, Brand…”
“Pledge to be honorable and just.”
“Pledge to be honorable and just.”
“I swear fealty to the House Riverhall,” Harald said, “and I pledge my utmost loyalty to them, and leave my life at their mercy.”
Brand had trouble with that last line. “I swear fealty to the House Riverhall and I pledge my utmost loyalty to them, and leave my life at their mercy.”
“I will fight for them, if my lord requires, and serve them until the day I die…”
Brand gulped and hesitated. Then he repeated it. “I will fight for them, if my lord requires, and serve them until the day I die…”
“I will do whatever the Lord of the House Riverhall wishes me to do, and never argue.”
Brand had a feeling that line wasn’t really in the oath. “I will do whatever the Lord of the House Riverhall wishes me to do, and never argue.”
Harald smiled. “And I, Harald Riverhall, Baron of Andarr’s Port and Guardian of the Sea, grant Brand the honor of a noble warrior, and from hereon he will be called Sir Brand, Riverhall Housecarl.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The night’s feast was interrupted when Captain Erik of the River Guard ran in. He was pale-faced and panting hard. “My lord Riverhall,” he said, “There are things climbing over the city walls. We have only a garrison of a hundred troops, your lordship, and these intruders are like none I’ve ever seen.”
“Lock the castle doors!” Harald said.
“Why don’t we send our little housecarl to defend us?” said Lady Kenna.
“Shut your mouth, Kenna,” Harald said. “The boy is not trained in a sword, and the sound of a lute in the darkness will not protect from invading men.”
“They are not men, milord,” said the watch captain. “They are white as snow… they are grown men, grown women, little girls and little boys, mature and immature; and they all fight with equal ferocity. Half my men have been slain and we have only cut off the heads of a dozen; they are terribly strong, although they bear no armor or swords.”
“Shut the doors!” Harald repeated at a shout. “And you stay here to protect us.”
“I will not abandon my men!” the captain said.
“Yes, you will,” Harald commanded.
“I won’t!” The captain turned and ran for the door.
Harald drew out the Riverhall sword with a metallic ring. “Take one more step, Erik,” he said, “and I will put you on the Hangman’s List.” The captain stopped. “I will peel your skin like an apple, and douse your wounds in salt.”
Brand shivered at the words.
The captain turned around. “Yes, lord.” He knelt with a hand on his pommel. “I will not disobey you, Your Honor.”
“Good,”
Harald said. “Now… lock the doors.”
The winds howled outside. The little girls wept in fright. Of the Riverhalls, only young Stenn had brandished his sword and talked eagerly of charging into the evil night.
Brand walked up to Harald, realizing he could not withhold what he knew any longer. “Milord,” he said, “I know what lies outside the castle walls.”
“What are they?” asked Harald. Brand could sense fear even through his outward, manufactured sternness.
“They are darklings,” Brand said. “A witch—one of the Ulfr—has reanimated the dead. They serve under her.”
“There are two things wrong with your statement, boy,” Harald said. “Firstly, the Ulfr have all died out. Secondly, the dead cannot fight.” He frowned. “And thirdly, look! You’re scaring the girls.”
I’m scaring you, Harald.
“They were already scared,” Brand said. “And the dead can fight. I have been to the land of Blackfold, in a den of an Ulfr witch.”
“And did you see the dead fight?” Harald scoffed.
“No,” Brand said. “I did not see them in Blackfold; there, I only felt them. But I saw them in the Darkling Wood.”
“What do you suggest we do, boy?”
“They retreat at daylight,” Brand said.
“Where do they go?” Harald said.
“In graves; in the clouds. Or to another world! Hell take me if I know,” Brand said. “Tomorrow, in the morning… I think we should leave.”
“Leave?” Lady Kenna shrieked. “Leave our riches and our fair port? Leave our castle? Our ancestral home? Our sacred wood?” She laughed bitterly. “You don’t know what you speak of, boy.”
Harald scratched his beard in thought. “He may be right, sister-in-law,” he said. “But where would we go?”
“To Oskir… to somewhere that has an army!” Brand said.
“We can’t make the journey to Oskir in a day!” Harald said, and laughed.
“If we all ride horses, and leave at first light, and ride hard and fast; perhaps we could get there in one day,” Brand said.
