Banner Lord

by Jason L. McWhirter

  The Varga’s eyes narrowed and his huge forehead wrinkled in the process. “Sorello byn nor.” It sounded like another language altogether. Perhaps he was now speaking Marastian.

  “I don’t speak Marastian either.”

  Suddenly out of the morning shadows six other Varga materialized. Brant was amazed at how silent they were, especially for creatures so large. Then he heard Kivalla scream his name and behind the Varga standing before him he saw four more Varga yank the scholar from the shelter, one roughly holding his arms behind his back.

  “Gylock sult,” the Varga before Brant said, nodding to his comrades as he spoke. Immediately they rushed in and grabbed him, holding both of his arms tightly. Two of them dragged him into the clearing next to Kivalla while the rest of the Varga surrounded them. Brant might have been able to fight back, but even with his merging abilities he knew it would be no use against so many Varga. He wouldn’t have a chance and would likely get them both killed.

  One of the Varga came from the shelter holding Brant’s blade in one hand. He handed it to the giant with the white stripes, who Brant assumed was their leader. The Varga inspected the blade carefully before gripping the pommel and sliding the silver steel slowly from the scabbard. His eyes widened as he looked at the Kul-brite steel shining brightly in the early morning shadows. There was a chorus of sounds and words from the others that Brant, of course, did not recognize.

  The leader muttered something else and instantly Brant felt a searing pain in the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. The power of the strike nearly knocked him out. In his daze he felt hands on him as they unbuckled his armor, forcefully pulling it off him. They held his arms down against his side, then brought his hands up in their iron grips while forcing his head down. In his daze he heard Kivalla cry out, and he somehow managed to turn his head up enough to see that they had him in a similar position.

  As Brant’s head began to clear and the pain began to recede he focused on the energy around him. He closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out to the earth, searching for the connection to its energy. Sensing it, he guided more into his body, and was surprised to feel an ever increasing amount of energy flooding into his arms and legs, even storing some deep within his conscious. Perhaps it was desperation or the desire to survive that allowed him to finally access this power, for this was the first time he had successfully pulled a useful amount of energy from the earth. He had never before felt so much power.

  Looking up, he glared at the leader, who now held his Kul-brite blade in his right hand, the tip pointed at Brant's throat. The leader was speaking to him, but his words sounded like gibberish. “Uln,” Brant said. “He is my friend! Do you know Uln!” Brant yelled in frustration.

  Kivalla’s mouth was bleeding and he was on his knees, looking at Brant. “He is asking you if you know a Varga named Uln?” He was speaking in Marastian to see if they understood.

  The leader looked at Kivalla. “We know no Uln. Why you here?” he growled in Marastian.

  Kivalla looked hopeless. “I told you,” he continued in Marastian, “he knows a Varga named Uln. We have come to find him.”

  The Varga leader shook his head. “No Uln.” Then he muttered something in Varga and one of the giants drew a blade from his hip and rested it on Kivalla’s neck.

  Brant could wait no longer. With more energy than he had ever used, he surged power into his extremities and exploded into action. The two Vargas holding him had lessened their grip some, completely confident that no human would have the strength to break away from them. They were stunned when Brant yanked his arms down so hard that they were both jerked downward with them. The violent move ripped his arms from their grips, and, engaging his powerful legs, he exploded upward, his fists striking the two Vargas in the face with enough power to launch the huge creatures into the air to land hard in the snow.

  A Varga behind him reached for his neck but Brant spun away, the giant ripping his tunic from him as he launched into the surprised leader. One hand wrapped around the Varga’s wrist that was holding his sword, while the other struck the creature in the lower abdomen, the intense power of the blow knocking the wind from the giant's lungs. The power of Brant’s strike pushed the leader backwards, his body hunched over as he struggled for air. Brant’s other hand had ripped his sword from the Varga's grip and now Brant spun, and squatted, taking the position of Striking Snake, position nine of the Ga’ton.

  He was surrounded by eight Varga, four of whom had bows, each the size of a man, drawn back, with arrows as thick as javelins nocked and pointing straight at him. It was as if time had stopped. He had moved with such power and speed that he had freed himself, and reclaimed his weapon in several blinks. Nobody moved, especially Brant, who was afraid if he twitched one more muscle that they would release their arrows, killing him instantly. Or worse, slice the throat of Kivalla who was still held in the grip of one of the giants, the creature’s eyes wide in shock, his muscles tensed and ready to cut the scholar’s throat.

  The leader had regained his composure and was staring in surprise at Brant’s naked torso. But Brant was shocked not to see any anger or malice in his eyes. In fact he saw something else. Was it fear? No; he seemed almost reverent. “Release him,” the leader said in Marastian.

  The Varga holding Kivalla stepped away and sheathed his blade. In fact, all the Vargas slowly lowered their weapons, as they stared at Brant in awe. Kivalla slowly stepped towards Brant, his hand on his throat as if he were making sure it was still intact. “What is happening?” Brant whispered to Kivalla.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The war leader stepped closer to Brant and pointed at his chest. “Ull Therm.”

  Brant relaxed a little but still held his sword at the ready. “Yes.”

  “You Brant?” he asked in Marastian.

  Brant didn’t recognize the words, but he did hear his name. He looked at Kivalla who spoke for him in Marastian.

  “Yes, he is Brant. I am Kivalla.” Then the scholar looked at Brant, whispering to him in Newain. “He recognizes your burns. He knows who you are.”

  “Uln must have told them to look for me.”

  The war leader put both arms out before him, his elbows bent and his forearms horizontal, with his muscular forearms resting on one another, as he bowed his head slightly. All the Varga around them did the same. Brant recognized the gesture as Uln had done it several times. It was a sign of respect. “I Yeruk. I take you to Tufrak.”

  “Tufrak? Who is that?” Kivalla asked.

  Yeruk looked confused as he thought of the word. “Ruler…king.”

  “We need to see Uln. Do you know him?”

  “Tufrak Te’kanthos Uln’gor, yes, I bring you.”

  Kivalla looked at Brant. “Brant, I think your friend Uln is more than you originally thought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think he is their king.”

  They followed the group of Varga for most of the day, saying very little. Just before dark they climbed a path that meandered through a copse of large vylin trees. Cresting the peak they came to another lake, this one much larger than the one by which they had previously camped. Looking across its expanse, they could barely see the other side. They stood under the tall trees, which were shrouded in clouds, as the sun’s rays began to disappear behind the Devlin Range.

  Before them sprawled a large town, wooden buildings and homes with thatched roofs built along the shores of the lake as far as one could see. It looked like any other town, except the structures were built with huge logs, and were much larger than the homes Brant had seen. At least half of the homes were two stories, held up by tall stout logs with beautiful carvings of animals, real and imaginary. Some of the homes stretched out over the water, erected above the lake’s smooth surface with thick logs driven into the lake’s bed. Long boats propelled by oars, or sails if the wind allowed, traversed the lake carrying people or goods from dock to dock. The town was picturesque, its structur
es simple and sturdy, but it somehow seemed almost majestic to Brant, as Cythera did when Brant first laid eyes on that city. Perhaps it was the lake’s tranquil setting, or the layer of snow along the paths that meandered through the town, reflecting the firelight that shone through the windows of the homes. Whatever the reason, despite being a stranger amongst the Varga, the lakeside town felt like home, which was a strange feeling for someone who never really had one.

  Yeruk motioned for them to follow him. The road they walked was lined with large wood houses, the entrances framed with covered porches supported by log poles, almost all of them decorated with more of the animal carvings. Light from fires and candles shone from within and many homes also had outside fires for cooking, casting orange light all around them, fighting off the shadows of dusk as the sun set behind the mountains.

  There seemed to be quite a few Varga about, males and females both, walking along the streets, performing their evening tasks. The males and females looked almost the same, the same light green skin and the same shade of brown hair. The only difference Brant could see was that the women had longer brown hair, breasts slightly larger than the males, and they were not quite as large. As they walked along the path, curious eyes followed them. It was obvious that it was rare to have foreigners amongst them.

  Kivalla looked at Brant, his eyes wide as he sought to take it all in. “This is incredible. I bet we are the rare few who have ever been allowed here.”

  “They must have learned the Marastian language from somewhere,” Brant said.

  “King Elwyn said they traded with them occasionally, purchasing Marastian goods in exchange for Varga timber and furs. My guess is they have learned the Marastian language over time, as a necessity.”

  Yeruk led them to a large wooden structure built out over the expansive lake. A walkway to the right of the home led out over the water to a large dock beyond. But the walkway was not the entrance. The covered entrance was tall, twice the size of Brant. Huge logs supported the roof and hanging from the middle of the ceiling was a lantern, which cast a warm glow on the entry as they stepped up the large steps. The door before them was quite large, built for the Varga, over three heads taller than a man. Two wooden chairs sat on either side of the door, thick leather from some unknown animal stretched across the stout frame to form the seat and back. They looked quite comfortable to Brant, although they would be much too large.

  Yeruk knocked on the door and several moments later the door opened, revealing a Varga woman, her long brown hair framing a passive face, typical of how all the Varga appeared. Brant had noticed that with Uln, that no matter what he was feeling, his expression remained more or less the same. He was very hard to read, and it seemed that he was not unique in that regard.

  Yeruk spoke a few words to her. Brant was only able to recognize his name and Ull Therm. Immediately her passive expression changed. It was that same reverent expression that he had seen on the others' faces when they had learned who Brant was. Yeruk stepped aside so that she could see Brant and Kivalla clearly.

  The female Varga stepped forward, standing a head and a half taller than Brant, and placed her hands similarly before here, her forearms held horizontally together as she bowed her head slightly. Her mouth curled up in what Brant hoped was a smile, exposing her sharp white teeth. Then she looked at Yeruk and said something to him in Varga. He shook his head and Brant heard him say Marastian.

  She looked at him again. “Friend Brant, I Lor’eela, welcome,” she said in Marastian as she stepped back inside and motioned for them to enter. Kivalla translated what she said. She said a few words to Yeruk and he and his warriors departed, leaving Brant and Kivalla standing just inside the doorway.

  The interior was open and spacious, simply adorned with basic furnishings. The furnishings, mainly tables, chairs, and shelving, appeared to be built with function and comfort in mind. The large room they were in appeared to make up most of the house. At the back was a door that presumably led out to the dock. In the middle of the room was a circle of huge stones expertly placed together, inside which burned a roaring fire, the smoke rising to a hole in the middle of the roof designed to let the smoke out but no rain or snow inside. A huge ladder rose to a landing where two large doors were visible. Brant guessed they were their sleeping chambers.

  Lor’eela shouted something in Varga and someone shouted back from the door that went out to the dock. A few moments later and the door opened, and Brant found himself staring at a familiar face. It was Uln. The big warrior, his chest bare despite the cold, stepped into the room and stopped in his tracks, his green iridescent eyes widening in surprise.

  Speaking in Schulg, Uln smiled, exposing his sharp front teeth. “I knew I see you again, my friend.” He walked over to Brant, reached his huge hand out and they gripped hands. “It good to see you.” His Schulg was choppy, as was Brant’s, but they could converse well enough.

  Brant was smiling. “And you, my friend. This is Kivalla.”

  Uln turned to the scholar and put his hand out again. They shook hands as well, Uln’s massive hand eclipsing his own. “Friend of Brant's welcome. You met my,” he searched for the correct word in Schulg, “mate.”

  They both nodded and Kivalla spoke to them both, also in Schulg, one of the many languages he was proficient in. “Thank you for allowing us in your home.” He was speaking to them both but looking at Lor’eela.

  Lor’eela showed her teeth. “You speak Schulg and Marastian?”

  “I do.”

  “But you not Marastian or Schulg.”

  “No. I am scholar and advisor to the king of Dy’ain.”

  Uln, who also spoke Marastian, looked at Brant. “Friend,” he said in Schulg, nodding towards Kivalla. “Friend of Dy’ainian king. You have much to tell.”

  “As do you,” Brant replied. “You are Varga King?”

  “Tufrak, yes, I am.”

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I was not at time. My father was.” Brant saw Lor’eela lower her head at the mention of Uln’s father. “Come, sit, we talk much.”

  They all sat by the fire while Lor’eela brought them cups filled with a brownish liquid. She set a pitcher next to Uln and departed, climbing up the ladder to one of the rooms above. They took some sips of the strange beverage, and although it was slightly bitter, its sweet aroma provided a nice contrast. It was cold, obviously stored in the snow, and despite its odd flavor was quite refreshing.

  “It called Tanus. Made from bollo mushroom,” Uln explained.

  “It's good,” Brant replied, drinking deeply.

  Uln smiled. “Careful. It strong.”

  Kivalla took a sip and agreed with Brant. It was good. “It is fermented from this mushroom?” Uln didn’t understand and his facial expression showed it. Kivalla switched to Marastian, thinking fermented was the Schulg word he did not know.

  Uln smiled. “Yes. Mushroom hard to find. Rare.”

  They spoke long into the night, each telling their story. Kivalla and Brant began to feel the potency of the Tanus, and slowed to taking small sips, while Uln seemed unaffected, pouring himself several large glasses throughout their conversation. As it turned out, when Uln had been captured nearly four years ago, his father, the chief of the tribe had gone in search of him. Uln had been captured while meeting with a group of Kaelian traders along the Dunnel River. Occasionally, once or twice a year, the Varga traded with a few select merchants. On this particular occasion they were set upon by a scouting party of Saricons and their Schulg mercenaries, who were scouting north of their occupied lands. Uln had only six warriors with him, and the Saricons had over fifty. They were killed to the man, along with the traders, and Uln was taken captive, being severely wounded in the process. From there he exchanged hands several times before ending up with Tangar. By that time his wounds had healed. Uln’s father knew where he had gone to meet the Kaelians, so started his search there. He and twenty of his best warriors searched the Kaelian lands south of Heyrith
all the way to the Pelm River. The lands there were rife with war as the Saricon war machine was battling the combined armies of Kael and Dy’ain. Unfortunately, he and his warriors got mixed up in the violence, and were killed by Saricons before he could rescue his son.

  “I’m sorry, my friend, about your father,” Brant said.

  Uln blinked several times. “When I come home. He gone. I chief now.”

  “You told me you had family. Yet I see no children,” Brant said, looking around.

  “I have son,” Uln said. “He training now, with Rykeesa.” He thought for a moment. “It means scouts…army…or warriors.” He was having a hard time coming up with the proper term but Brant understood what he meant.

  “How many warriors in this Rykeesa?” Kivalla asked.

  “Six thousand.”

  Kivalla was shocked at that number. The town seemed large but not that big. “That is large. All here in this town?”

  Uln shook his head. “No. We have two smaller villages.”

  “How many warriors here, in this village?” Brant asked.

  “Three thousand.”

  Brant sat forward in his seat, warming his hands as Uln placed another chunk of wood on the fire. “Uln, I have a favor to ask you.”

  Kivalla's expression perked up in interest. He had originally thought that Brant just wanted to pay his friend a visit, but now he was thinking there was more to the visit than he had let on. “We are at war, my friend. As you know, the Saricons have taken most of Kael and Dy’ain.” Brant had already told Uln their story, and why they had come to Elwyn. “King Jarak, my friend, is raising an army to take back his lands, to defeat the Saricons. I have come to ask for your help to do this.”

  Uln sat back in his chair and drank from his cup again, processing what Brant had said. “I owe you everything, friend Brant. You want me take my people to war?”

  Kivalla listened intently, visibly intrigued. If Brant could convince the Varga to fight on their side, they just might have a chance against the Saricons. Kivalla, thinking quickly and playing along with Brant, interjected. “Tufrak Uln, it seems to me that the Saricons are as much your enemy as they are ours. You yourself were captured by them, and they killed your father. If we do not come together to fight off the invaders, I’m afraid they will conquer all of us, one by one.”