by Lee Bezotte
It was a dark chain of thoughts, but the man from the north tried to assuage his conscience by thinking of his young friends in Laor, and how they needed him. He was also considering Faymia and her fate once he was gone. Besides, these good-for-nothings broke into his home and disgraced the memories of his family. What he was about to do, they had coming. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, stood over Thorndel, and raised the blade over his head. The brutish, drunken vengeance seeker was oblivious to the death that laid suspended a mere handbreadth above his chest.
As the warrior stood there, envisioning his kill, he noticed a light growing in the corner of his eye. He glanced toward the door and saw Faymia standing pale and silent, with eyes wide in disbelief.
A feeling of shame descended upon the man. He sheathed his sword and briefly lowered his head. Then he quietly walked over to his friend and looked past her as he thought about what to say. Finally, he met eyes with her and whispered, “These are the men that are seeking revenge for Tromdel’s death.”
“I understand,” the woman replied. Her eyes were pink and her hands were shaking. “But it isn’t right to kill them in their sleep.”
Just then, Dulnear remembered a lesson that his father had given him many times. The right thing is often the hard thing. There is no honor in taking the easy path. In that moment, he wanted more than anything for that to be untrue. He yearned for this to be the exception but he knew that it was not. “I am sorry,” he said, cooling his aggression. “You are right.”
“Dulnear,” Faymia said, with tears forming and lip quivering.
“Yes?” he whispered.
After a pause to maintain her composure, she continued, “I want you to live. More than anything, I want to leave here with you. But you would never know peace if you deviated from what you came to do.”
A tear now ran down the man’s cheek as he contemplated his friend’s words. He thought about the journey south, the time spent with the boy Son and the girl Maren, his newfound friendship with Faymia, and seeing his home violated by Thorndel and Brunnlyn. It had all led to this moment. All he wanted was to be a peaceful man, and now the price of that peace brought a crushing weight upon his heart. “Thank you,” he said, and the two embraced.
There was much crying, though it was done silently. Dulnear’s arms lifted Faymia off of the floor as she wept into the fur shoulder of his long coat. When their tears had subsided, he set her down and looked at her face for a moment. “Stay behind me,” he said. “There is little chance that they would want to harm you, but I prefer not to take any chances.”
The woman nodded in acknowledgement and stepped away from the man so that she stood just outside the drawing room’s doorway. The heavy-hearted warrior then slowly turned toward the sleeping northerners. “Kerraic,” he said calmly and clearly from across the room. It was a casual northern greeting that was usually given in public when one wanted to be polite but didn’t particularly desire conversation. There was no stirring, and no reply. “Kerraic!” he said again, with a growl in his voice.
This time, the resentful intruders groggily sprang to their feet with swords drawn. Squinting through the sleep in his eyes and shaking the booze-laden haze from his thoughts, Thorndel swept the curly black hair from his bearded face and grunted, “I cannot believe it. It is the mighty Dulnear! We were going to come track you down but you came to us instead. How very convenient.”
After months of imagining how their confrontation would play out, the man from the north realized that none of it was going the way he thought it would. He had hoped to help his friend, enjoy his home for his last few days, and surrender himself to Tromdel’s father to make restitution. “What are you doing in my house?” he asked with a chill in his voice.
Thorndel answered, “You took my brother, so I found it fitting that I should take your home. Why would you be so foolish as to return here?” He then peeked behind the warrior and asked with wrinkled forehead, “And who is that ragamuffin of a woman you brought with you?”
Anger was beginning to stir in Dulnear’s chest. He could feel it tighten and tried to remain composed. Stay the course, he reminded himself. Go deep into the difficult thing. “I am here to make restitution,” he declared, ignoring the question.
“Restitution?!” Thorndel questioned indignantly. He then laughed sarcastically and said, “You probably came to slay me the way you did my brother!”
Dulnear took a deep breath. “I merely defended myself against Tromdel,” he said. “It is he who stole my Cre-dreact and challenged me to a death duel.” The penitent warrior noticed that Brunnlyn had lowered his sword and was listening intently. He turned his attention toward him now and continued, “I begged him to stay his sword, but he insisted on fighting until one of us was dead.”
Brunnlyn swallowed. His blue eyes were sympathetic, and he looked as if he was about to say something when Thorndel interrupted, “I care not why you did it! All that matters is that his blood is on your hands, and now my only desire is for you to join him.”
The anger inside of Dulnear continued to grow. Frustrated by Thorndel’s unreasonable desire for revenge, he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and retorted, “He was a bloodthirsty braggart with a death wish!”
Thorndel took a step toward Dulnear, shouting, “I will give you braggart! I will finish what my brother started!”
“Only if you wish to die too!” he replied, partly unsheathing his sword. Just then, the warrior felt a gentle hand on his back as his friend tried to calm him. She said nothing, but he knew by her touch that she was reminding him to exercise restraint and calmly do what he came to do. He removed his hand from his weapon, held it up, and said, “Wait! I truly did come to make restitution. Please take me to your father. He may do with me as he pleases.” He held his hostility back, hoping it would defuse the other’s combativeness.
“Why should I trust you?” Thorndel barked. “You probably want to kill him as well!”
Dulnear said nothing as he turned his back toward his accusers and knelt with hands out and eyes closed. It was a position northerners would assume when they accidentally injured a training partner and they were giving them the opportunity to injure them in return. As he waited for the other northerners’ response, the room seemed to sway like a boat at sea, and there was a dreamlike quality to the moment.
Thorndel growled, raised his sword and lunged toward the kneeling northerner, but before he could strike, Brunnlyn shouted, “Stop!”
Thorndel shot a steely gaze at his cousin. “Why? This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for!”
“There is no honor in striking him down like this. There would be no glorious tale of battle,” he answered. He then put his sword away and continued, “Besides, I believe he speaks the truth. We should take him to your father.”
The raging Thorndel lowered his sword and paused. “Very well,” he said, and he struck Dulnear above the ear with his fist, causing him to totter as he knelt. “We shall take him to Father right now.”
Thorndel and Brunnlyn took Dulnear back to one of the estate’s outbuildings as Faymia followed silently, fighting back tears. They attached a yoke to his neck and shoulders and hitched him to a cart. “It is a long walk to my estate,” Thorndel said. “You shall pull us so that we have the energy to execute you, should my father give the order.” He then laughed as he looked at Brunnlyn for approval.
Dulnear said nothing as the two fur-clad northerners climbed into the seat of the cart, greatly increasing the weight on his shoulders. He pulled the cart out of the outbuilding, each step feeling like the labor of a thousand. As he made his way around the house and toward the road, he peered through the darkness to try and capture one last glance of his home. Unfortunately, the torches that Brunnlyn had attached to the sides of the cart gave off only enough light to see a very short distance.
As Dulnear approached the road that curved around the northern edge of his estate, he stumbled, causing the yoke’s bow to choke
him. When he coughed, Faymia ran to his side. “Stay away from him if you want to keep your head!” Thorndel erupted as he caught her shoulder with the tip of an ox whip.
Startled, the woman yelped and reached back to rub her shoulder.
“It is okay,” Dulnear whispered to his friend, then muscled the cart onto the road. Once there, the load was easier to pull, but nonetheless an immense strain. The woman fell back behind them, whispering prayers and wiping her eyes.
Thorndel glanced at Faymia, then back to Dulnear. “So tell me, Harbem, who is this southern woman who cares so much for a cold-blooded killer like yourself?” he asked through a pretentious grin.
The yoked warrior didn’t appreciate being called Harbem, for it was a derogatory term that meant dead man. He knew that it was true though, since Thorndel would likely persuade his father to remove his head from his shoulders. Even so, he remained silent and did not answer the question.
“Speak!” the vindictive northerner demanded as he stung the side of Dulnear’s head with the whip.
Dulnear’s face turned red and his nostrils flared. The anger in his chest was returning. “What is it to you?” he asked defiantly.
“Speak, or I shall hitch her to this cart for the return journey!” Thorndel shouted with another crack of the whip.
“She is just a friend. We met in Ahmcathare,” he answered as the pain from being struck by fist and whip pulsated with increasing intensity.
“Just a friend?!” the obnoxious brute retorted. “She does not look like the type of person you would waste your time with. She is probably a prostitute!”
“No!” Dulnear denied. “She is just a barmaid. We happened to be traveling in the same direction and became friends.”
“I do not believe you!” Thorndel insisted. “Perhaps if she sat up here with us, your memory would improve. Bring her here!” he barked at his cousin.
The blonde-haired, full-bearded Brunnlyn jumped down off of the wagon and was upon Faymia before she could escape. He took her arm and began pulling her toward the cart as she struggled to release herself.
“No!” Dulnear yelled as he stopped pulling the cart. “She is of no consequence!” The northerner felt his anger turn into rage. He was helpless to do anything to aid his friend, and wished he was free to wield his sword to defend her.
Brunnlyn hesitated for a moment. He looked over his shoulder toward Dulnear, and then back toward Faymia. Without a word, he scooped her up with his right arm and carried her back to the cart as she flailed even harder to be free. When he got back into the seat, he placed her on his right side and whispered something to her.
When Dulnear noticed that his friend was sitting to Brunnlyn’s right, rather than in between the two louts, he relaxed a bit and began to pull the cart again.
“Now, tell me the truth,” Thorndel continued. “Who is she?”
“I have already told you she is a barmaid that I met while traveling past Ahmcathare. She said she had always wanted to visit the north, so I offered to be her guide. If you are so interested in her, then you may ask her for a date!” Dulnear replied, keeping it hidden that Faymia was a runaway slave.
“You are not amusing!” Thorndel huffed as he cracked the whip again. He cackled and added, “You are the worst guide ever! You brought her here to watch you die, and now she has to find her own way home.” He then turned his attention to the woman, and continued, “Perhaps you would like to stay with me. I might find you useful as a house slave!”
Faymia shrieked, leapt from the cart, and began running in the direction from which they came. As she did, Dulnear stopped the cart and listened to her flee into the darkness. The tightness in his chest subsided as her footsteps became more faint in the distance.
“Go get her!” the dark-haired ruffian commanded his cousin.
Without moving, Brunnlyn replied, “Leave her be. We are here to avenge your brother, not waste our time on vagabond travelers.”
“Hrmff,” Thorndel seethed. “I suppose you are right. Besides, I need to focus my thoughts on how I will make this murderer’s death as painful as possible.”
Dulnear was relieved that his friend was out of the cart and free of the two goons. He hoped that she would go back to his house and take whatever valuables she could carry. He hoped that she would make her way someplace far away and safe, maybe even to Laor, where Son and Maren were. As he continued closer to Thorndel’s father’s estate, a sense of urgency to get the ordeal over with came over him. His pace quickened and his resolve grew as he pulled his accusers into the night.
CHAPTER TEN
DEATH OF A WARRIOR
When they arrived at the estate of Thorndel and his father, Shenndel, it was late, and dark, and the morning dew was already beginning to form on the ground. It was a smaller property than Dulnear’s, with a more modestly sized house. The dwelling was a two-story cottage with a thatched roof and had none of the defensive properties that Dulnear’s impressive home possessed.
As they slowly moved over the steep path that led to the house, Thorndel began to yell, “Father! I brought you something! Come see who has returned!” There was no stirring in the lightless house, so the vindictive northerner leapt out of the cart and ran ahead, shouting, “Father, I have returned with Tromdel’s murderer! Come out and see!”
When they were all just a stone’s throw from the front door, a spark could be seen in one of the second-floor windows, and then a lantern glowing. It disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared on the first floor just before the door swung open. Shenndel stood there. His face displayed fatigue and agitation, and it was surrounded by unruly white hair and an equally unruly white beard. A long fur coat was draped over his nightclothes. “You found him!” he exclaimed, and he walked out to examine the exhausted, yoked Dulnear.
He held out his lantern and looked sternly into the eyes of the man who had ended his son’s life.
“I told you I would bring him to you!” Thorndel exclaimed.
“Be quiet!” Shenndel demanded as he continued to gaze at Dulnear. He then inhaled sharply, spit in his face, and slapped him repeatedly. “So, you thought you could hide in the south and rob me of my Doltais. You are not so clever, son of Athnear!” Then he turned his attention back toward Thorndel. “Well done, my son. Where did you find him?”
Thorndel answered with a series of mutters that were barely discernible. His expression went from one of total victory to one of veiled embarrassment. Finally, Dulnear broke in, “He found me at my estate.”
“What?!” Shenndel bellowed with indignation. “But you left to search for him several days ago!”
“He only arrived yesterday,” his son explained, still looking embarrassed.
The old man’s eyes tightened and his lip curled. “So you have been at his estate this whole time?!” he asked.
“Well, yes, we were destroying his family memories,” Thorndel gloated. “You should see the paintings in the drawing room.”
“Paintings do not fight back!” his father exploded. “He could have traveled all the way to Saol while you were busy tearing up heirlooms!”
“And drinking my wine,” Dulnear added, still hitched to the cart. He found the exchange between the father and son amusing, and didn’t mind adding fuel to the fire.
Looking both irritated and inquisitive, Shenndel stared at the yoked man. “Why would you return to your estate? Do you have a death wish?” he asked.
“Sir, I did not have a quarrel with your son Tromdel,” Dulnear began. “He tracked me down near Blackcloth and stole my Cre-dreact in order to draw me into a duel. Though I pleaded with him not to fight, he would not relent. I slew him during our battle, and I have come here to make restitution.”
“He lies!” Thorndel blurted out. “He would have killed us in our sleep if not for my keen senses.”
“It is not true,” Dulnear explained. “He and Brunnlyn were asleep in the drawing room when I arrived. My sword was drawn and poised to strike but I stayed my han
d and announced my presence to them instead. I am here to make things right, and end the circle of vengeance between us.”
“It is he who is lying, Father,” Thorndel accused. “He even had a southern woman with him to help carry out his scheme.”
Shenndel’s eyebrows shot up and the wrinkles on his forehead became more pronounced. “Woman? Where is she now?” he asked in a demanding tone.
“She fled while we were on the road here,” his son answered. “Brunnlyn clumsily let her escape.”
“Brunnlyn, is this true?” the old man asked, turning his attention to his nephew.
The man paused, then answered, “Uncle, I believe Dulnear speaks the truth. He could have slain us in our drunken sleep but he did not.”
“He COULD not!” Thorndel shouted.
“Enough!” his father scoffed as he struck him across the face with the back of his hand. “Your words are giving me a headache. It is late, and with what remains of this night, I will sleep on what I am going to do.” He then addressed Dulnear, “But first, tell me, how many of my kinsmen’s hands are displayed on your shelves? Twenty? Thirty?” He then leaned in closer to the warrior and waited with an expression of malice.
The penitent man’s stomach felt as if a hole had just been opened in it. His head was hot and his knees weakened. He tried to tally, in his mind, how many hands were arranged throughout his house, and how many of them belonged to members of Shenndel’s clan. He lost count, took a deep breath, and finally answered, “I do not know.”
“Speak up!” the old man commanded.
“I do not know,” Dulnear repeated. “Please forgive me. I no longer wish to make war.” He then lowered his head in shame for the sins of his past, and of his family’s role in the cycle of northern violence.
Shenndel’s face turned crimson and his hands began to shake. He snatched Thorndel’s sword and held it over Dulnear’s neck. His breath was noisy and he ground his teeth. He then closed his eyes and slowly regained his composure. Once it had returned, he ordered his son and nephew, “Leave him hitched to the cart till morning, and watch him.” He then handed the sword back to Thorndel.
