by Jon Kiln
Kenner furrowed his brow. “I do believe that Brath would have wanted me to give you anything you ask.”
Rothar climbed off Stormbringer. “Can we speak in your tent?”
The two men walked through the camp together. Some of the men recognized Rothar and nodded to him respectfully, while others kept their eyes down, and a few looked at him with suspicion. Tuck spied him from afar and waved like a buffoon.
Kenner’s tent was the largest of all the men’s dwellings, as it had belonged to Brath up until last night. It was slightly amusing to watch the short, stocky man walk through the tent flap, which had been cut for a giant. Another man of Kenner’s size could have stood upon his shoulders and still not needed to duck.
Inside, Rothar sat down on a wooden stool and Kenner, somewhat hesitantly, settled himself into an enormous oaken chair that resembled a throne. Most of the Banewood gangs possessed no such heavy furnishings, not only because no other man had need of such imposing trappings, but because the other clans moved about by necessity. Brath’s group, however, had remained in the willow grove for the past two decades. It was as close as anyplace could come to being a permanent settlement within the Banewood, a luxury made possible by Brath’s wise leadership and shrewd dealings with the crown - as well as Rothar’s friendship.
Kenner offered Rothar a cup of mead, which he refused. He felt that any libation at all at this point would render him as unconscious as Harwin back at Castle Staghorn.
“What is it you need, Rothar?” asked Kenner. “Men? Horses? Weapons?”
“No. None of those things.”
“Women?” Kenner asked, then burst into laughter. “We can get you those too, you know!”
Rothar smiled. “I’ve no doubt you could, Kenner. But what I need is the breastplate of one of the Southlanders you captured.”
Kenner grunted. “If it’s armor you seek, we have far better examples than the poorly made bronze of the Southern devils. Besides, don’t you have access to the King’s armory?”
“I need the Southland armor specifically, because I am traveling south of the wall.”
Kenner raised his eyebrows. “Then you are a fool, but I suppose I can track it down for you, if you wish. Now I must ask, why was that so difficult to ask?”
Rothar stood and leveled an earnest gaze at Kenner. “Because that is not all I must ask for. I also need the head of Brath.”
Kenner spat out a mouthful of mead.
“You must be mad!” he shouted.
“I may very well be, indeed. But I need his head,” Rothar replied in an even tone.
Kenner was as red as the sunset. “Nonsense! For what would you need it?”
“If you think about it, I am sure you will see,” said Rothar. “I need the armor to travel safely into the Southlands - as a mercenary. I need Brath’s skull to gain the favor of Chief Bakal.”
Chuckling now, Kenner sneered, “Bakal will have you cut down where you stand.”
“Not if he believes I am one of his own, and not if he believes I have slain the giant.”
Kenner was silent, brooding. “It is unspeakable, unthinkable. Brath was a champion for us all, and like a father to me. I will not have you disdain his memory by mutilating his body.”
Rothar approached Kenner with a look that blurred the distinction between compassion and menace.
“Brath is gone, my friend, and his body is rotting.” Kenner looked away. “If he were alive and here today he would give me his might and his men to fight the evils that are unwinding in the kingdom, but he has passed over. If you listen closely though, I think you will hear him telling you what he wants you to do. There is no better way to honor Brath’s memory than to let him do one last bit of mischievous good.”
Kenner was quiet for what seemed like hours. Finally he sighed.
“The men can know nothing of it, or they will tear you apart, and me as well.”
Rothar nodded in understanding.
“We laid him to rest by a bend in the creek, a mile east,” Kenner continued. “See to it that the grave site looks undisturbed, and I will make sure no one heads that way for a spell.”
Rothar placed his hands on Kenner’s shoulders. “Brath would be proud of you.”
Turning to leave, Rothar suddenly remembered the rotting skull of Sleeth in his satchel. He had never gotten around to giving it to Bester’s swine. Removing it, he tossed it on the floor at Kenner’s feet.
“I need to lighten my load. You can keep this one,” he said. “It’s much smaller, but it’s the best I can do. A head for a head.”
Kenner turned up his nose at the ghastly thing. “What am I to do with this?”
Rothar shrugged. “Make soup.”
Chapter 13
Kenner retrieved the breastplate of the fallen Southlander and Rothar set out to exhume the body of Brath. He found the gravesite easily enough. The mound of earth was piled up as long as two ordinary men on the bank of a lovely meandering stream. Nightingales were beginning to sing as the evening started to give way to nightfall, and the sweet smell of apple blossoms hung in the air. This truly must have been one of the only traditionally beautiful places in the Banewood, where sunlight was permitted in the day and the moon and stars shone fully at night. A fitting resting place for a man who was basically very good, Rothar thought.
As Rothar dug deeper into the soil, the smell of the apple blossoms was increasingly overpowered by the stench of human demise, and soon he had unearthed the head and shoulders of the massive Brath.
He paused and looked upon the passive and pale face of his old friend. He looked no more dead than Harwin, and a part of Rothar almost expected him to stir and his eyelids to flutter open. Truly, this was one man that he would never have expected to see fall.
This was not a beheading that Rothar would savor, and he would not taint the blade of Esme with this task. Propping Brath’s head up on a large tree branch, Rothar used his broadsword to separate Brath’s head from his shoulders, forever.
In the failing light of evening he thought for an instant that the giants eyes opened, just as the sword passed though his neck. And beneath the songs of nightingales he could swear he heard one massive gasp for air, followed by a brief dying groan.
Shocked, Rothar stumbled backwards and nearly toppled over a fallen log. Righting himself, he crouched to examine the massive face of Brath, the head having rolled in the direction which he stumbled.
Nothing had changed, eyes still closed, skin still white, still cold. But an impossible spray of blood speckled the red beard around the giant’s mouth.
Rothar rubbed his eyes. He had been awake for longer than any man should be, and he cursed himself for not asking Ariswold for some white thistle to help him stay alert.
He crammed Brath’s head into the satchel and fastened it to Stormbringer’s saddle. He had to adjust some of his other gear in order to compensate for the considerable added weight. With that, he climbed atop the stallion and headed towards the southern end of the Banewood. He knew the ride through the wood would take all of the night and more. Once he reached the edge, he would cut westwards again until he reached the Valley of Mourning.
The Valley of Mourning was the lowest and most easily traveled area of the Southern mountain range. No one truly knew who named the pass. It was rumored that the crown gave it it’s moniker in order to discourage travel through the mountains from either direction. It was also said that Southlanders had dubbed the valley as such to further instill fear in the hearts of folks in the civilized kingdom. Still others said that the Valley of Mourning had earned it’s name in the ancient days, when wars between the crown and the Southern tribes had come to a head in the pass, leaving thousands dead.
Rothar kept the breastplate of the Southlanders strapped to the back of Stormbringer’s saddle. He would not dare wear it until he was entering the pass. There was no greater distinction between two cultures anywhere in the world than between the civilized kingdom and the lands south of the
mountains. Strangely enough, the Southlands were technically a part of King Heldar’s domain, although no king in the last two hundred years had dared to try ruling it. On the northern side of the wall, the bronze armor was a mandate of death. Any man wearing it was a killer and was to be killed. South of the wall, any man not wearing it was as good as dead already.
As night grew darker, a heavy fog settled over the Banewood. Once again, Rothar let Stormbringer be his eyes, as gauzy tendrils of mist blotted out any moonlight that dared peek though the heavy canopy. Frogs chirped in black pools along the trail, and unseen night animals snapped twigs and clawed at tree trunks in the distance.
Suddenly, Stormbringer’s head and shoulders dropped from beneath Rothar, and he could hear the horse’s hooves skidding on loose and rocky ground. Man and horse plummeted down some unseen distance before crashing sideways into a heavy thicket. Stormbringer nearly rolled on top of Rothar, but the wise horse righted itself just in time.
In the impermeable fog, the pair had meandered off the trail and stepped into the dry bed of some ancient river.
Rothar stood and dusted himself off. He checked the bags on Stormbringer’s saddle and made sure the head of Brath was still attached, along with his weapons and gear.
“This just won’t do, my friend,” he said to the stallion.
There was no sense in continuing under these conditions. So Rothar led Stormbringer up the river bank and they picked around in the fog until they found a large evergreen to camp under. Rothar dared not make a fire in the Banewood, especially so far from the willow grove. He had no connections with the clans in these parts of the wood, and any vagrants that may come upon him were as likely to try to kill him as anything else. Besides, the dark and the fog would conceal man and horse enough that he could finally get a little rest without worry.
Rothar leaned against the great tree and closed his eyes. Sleep came instantly, the type of deepest sleep that brings dreams of years past.
The trap was set, and Rothar laid in wait within a row of rosebushes. The roses were in full bloom, and he was completely hidden from sight, sacrificing his flesh to tuck neatly within the thorns. Rothar clutched a wooden dagger close to his chest with one hand and held a small twig in the other. He willed himself to calm his excited breathing, to slow the pounding of his heart. Far down the end of the row, he saw his friend step out, cautiously approaching, his head swiveling back and forth, searching for him.
The boy was a spitting image of Rothar, but older, a little taller, and less wily. As his friend neared the hiding place, Rothar snapped the twig in his hand and silently backed out onto the other end of the row of roses. He heard the other boy rush towards the sound. Rothar dashed up a few paces, passing his pursuer and ducked back into the thorns. Peeking out, he saw his friend poke his head into the bush where he had snapped the twig. Rothar slipped through the roses and closed on the boy. He slashed his wooden dagger across the back of his target’s knees and threw his shoulder into the middle of his back. The boy yelled and toppled to the ground, Rothar on him like a wolf.
“Spare me!” the lad screamed.
Rothar laughed and raised the toy dagger for the kill.
“Rothar!” shouted an angry voice from behind. Two armed sentries rushed towards the boys. “Rothar! Get off him!”
The shouting guard grabbed Rothar by the arm and angrily jerked him to his feet. The other sentry gently helped the other boy up and dusted him off, checking him head to toe for injuries.
“Your father is calling for you,” the gentle guard told the boy. “Run and get cleaned up before you go to him.”
Rothar’s friend nodded, gave Rothar a smile and a playful punch on the arm, and dashed off.
“As for you,” said the angry sentry, “the cook is looking for you.”
Rothar shot the guard a defiant look before turning to slowly walk away. The soldier wheeled and kicked Rothar hard in the seat of his pants, sending him staggering.
“Why do you treat the boy like that?” Rothar heard the kind guard ask as he hobbled away.
“You saw it,” the shouting guard replied. “The bastard struck the prince.”
Chapter 14
Rothar was awakened by a slight whistle and a small concussion next to his left ear. He felt tree bark pelt his face and neck. He opened his eyes. Dawn was beginning to break and the slivers of sky he could see through the trees were a hazy, pale yellow.
Another whistle and thud, this time by his right ear. He turned to see an arrow stuck neatly into the tree trunk, inches from his face. Looking the other direction he saw a matching arrow, equally close to his head. The close proximity to his face allowed Rothar to see the markings on the arrow: three crimson rings, just behind the arrowhead.
Rothar turned his face forwards towards the silent forest and grinned broadly.
“Either you recognize me, or your aim is suffering with age!” he called out.
A voice from somewhere in the wilderness hollered back. “You tell me which!”
A third arrow whistled in and struck the tree no more than an inch above Rothar’s head.
Rothar laughed. “Peregrin, you really know how to wake a man up!”
Behind a distant tree, a head popped out with a beard full of gleaming teeth and a head of wild yellow hair. The man that stepped out after the head was somewhat tall and very thin, and wore clothes made of all manner of animal hides.
“And leave it to you to sleep in the cutthroat woods with no shelter!” Peregrin shot back.
“Who needs shelter when you have the ever watching eye’s of the Imperial Hunters upon you?” said Rothar with a laugh.
“You’re just lucky you don’t look a tad bit more like a bear, or I’d have had excuse to bag you!” answered Peregrin.
The two men embraced and Peregrin’s eyes fell upon Stormbringer, with his odd cargo of Southlander armor and tremendously bulging satchel.
“Well, I’m afraid to ask, but I suppose I’m bound to. Where are you going, and why?”
***
Rothar had no reason to lie to the huntsman, and was in fact glad that he had been found by Peregrin. The huntsmen were unique in the sense that they were the only people in all the King’s realm that could move throughout any society with ease - even the Southlands. This unilateral acceptance was an ancient privilege of the huntsmen, and was attributed to their exceptional skills.
In some parts of the kingdom there were legends of villages being terrorized by bears or wildcats, and without exception these legends ended with the intervention of the huntsmen, who would efficiently and memorably end the plague and inevitably feed the masses with the spoils of their victory.
One old story was told of Twistle, a town at the top of the Yawning Cliffs, directly above the King’s City. Twistle came under siege from a ravenous pack of wolves; all the livestock was killed and then children began to disappear. The huntsmen converged upon the town and ultimately drove the pack of wolves off of the Yawning Cliffs. The wolves cascaded down upon the King’s City in what would forever be known as the Lupine Rain.
Aside from the instances when they were called upon to exterminate beasts in the cities and villages, the huntsmen mostly kept to their own kind. They lived a nomadic lifestyle in the forest, going where the game went. They were welcome in the Southlands due to the fact that the bloodthirsty hordes south of the mountains had little interest in hunting animals, as they were usually occupied hunting man. Besides that, the arid badlands yielded little in the way of game. The huntsmen made a couple of trips a year into the southern wasteland to sell hides and cured meat. They were the only northerners who could travel safely south of the wall.
It was because of the huntsmen that Rothar could speak Caltanian. When he had run away as a boy, Rothar fled deep into the Banewood, becoming hopelessly lost. On his third shivering night, he was happened upon by a huntsman named Timber, who was out checking snares. As deadly as huntsmen are to animals, they are kind hearted, if not a bit ambiva
lent, towards their fellow man. Timber took young Rothar back to his camp, fed the starving boy and let him sleep by the fire.
When morning had come and the huntsmen packed up camp, Rothar simply followed along. Nobody seemed to mind, and the lad soon proved himself to be a quick study at setting traps and skinning weasels. Rothar admired the lifestyle of the hunters, and quickly adopted it. The men taught him how to shoot a bow, track prey, pitch a tent and how to catch fish when there was no other quarry about.
Rothar was a huntsman for most of his formative years and into young manhood, so he had made many journeys into the Southlands. At first, the Caltanian had seemed strange and awkward on his tongue, but in time he came to appreciate the fluid sound of the language. He had roamed the southern settlements freely with Peregrin, who was Timber’s youngest son, and the two had even made friends with some of the Southern boys, before they reached the age when they would be taken far into the desert to become deadly fighters, or to die.
Rothar could no longer travel freely in the south. The children of huntsman clans were tolerated, but only because the leaders of the clans were so well known and relied upon. A grown adult stranger could not expect to walk into any settlement south of the wall without being captured and killed.
***
“I am off to play in the sand,” Rothar told Peregrin, using an expression that they had often used as boys when they spoke of their trips to the Southlands.
“Returning their armor are you?” Peregrin queried, still looking at Stormbringer’s cargo.
“In a sense,” answered Rothar. “Do you happen to know where old Bakal is making camp these days?”
Peregrin shifted his gaze to Rothar. “I likely do. If I tell you, will you steer clear of him?”
Rothar smiled slightly. “Have I ever?”
At that, Peregrin began to laugh. He was remembering a day long, long ago, when a mischievous young Rothar had pegged the chief of the southern devils square in the forehead with a rock from a slingshot. The hulking chief had been knocked flat on his back and came up bellowing. He probably would have killed Rothar, if he had known who had flung the stone, but the shot had come from a hundred yards away, where Rothar and Peregrin crouched behind a watering trough, doubled over in stifled laughter.
