No Name for the Free

by Devin Harbison

  It even gains enough understanding to cover its face with one arm to keep the arrows and torches away from its eyes, and, despite the dozens of men between it and I, its other arm seems intent on where I stand, just behind the origin of the flames. So frozen in fear, the only reason I move at all is because Abraham forces me out of the way, and the first reason I move afterwards is because of his screams. With one arm, he covers his face too from the flames, and, with the other, he thrusts his sword forward, grunting and shouting as his sword bites the flames and the flesh of the giant's hand as it reaches through them, ignores the pain, and grabs Ham by the waist.

  It has taken this entire time for me to remove my sword from its sheath, but, even if I had held it already, there would still have been nothing I could do as Abraham gets plucked off of his feet so quick that, in the few moments before the life is crushed out of him, we both cry out. And, I continue to do so after I watch his body get tossed across the field, broken, with nothing but his blood, that of the giant, and his sword stuck through the creature's palm as it too cries.

  The shouts echo throughout the valley so loud that I have no doubt my uncle can hear them too, and the time the giant spends afterwards trying to rid itself of Abraham's sword motivates the rest of us. I can make out Gorm, near the creatures feet, swinging his axe with all of his fury while Yemi and his friends climb up past the creatures knee, where they each dig a sword in, and I, still doing nothing like the fool I know I am, find a solution in the whinnies I hear. Scared by the fire, a single horse stands by it, rearing back, but, when all four of the animal's hooves meet the ground again, I put away my sword, grab hold of the strands of ropes around it that'll have to do for reins, and steer it in the direction of the giant as quickly as it'll let me, one gallop at a time.

  Even with all that is happening, it would be impossible for the other men not to notice or hear the horse as I ride by on its back, and the realization is enough to send any man who can onto or near the other horses that haven't already run off. I am only the first to pass between the giant's legs, but, just as I turn to let my grapple fly, I see several other men on horseback, ready to do the same as I. Luckily, I succeed on my first try, where my grapple catches between rocks over the shoulder of the giant, and the sight of me, alone, getting the horse to continue riding away from the giant, shows the other men what I am trying to do.

  The tension in the rope, when it stretches as far as it can, is almost enough to rip me or my arm clean off of the horse as it keeps running, but I turn enough before it pulls taught to save myself, and keep riding along. Soon enough, several other men have done the same, and the weight of all of us pulling on the giant with the help of five or so horses is what finally sends the beast toppling, between the help of flaming arrows, torches, and the souls brave enough to hack away at its flesh. So, down it goes, falling perfectly along the edge of the camp, alongside the destruction it has caused, and, when the rest of the men start attacking the beast's neck, only to make room for Gorm, we all stand in silence, just as the giant refuses to blink, when Gorm digs his axe halfway through its throat and covers those lucky enough not yet bloodied in red.

  The splatter and spray let out a hiss, and it is hard to say if that noise is from just the spray of blood, or if it is an attempt to scream. Thankfully, all goes quiet soon, but for the sounds of a few men crying out in pain, who I watch get cared for or put out of their misery, before I retract my grapple back into its home, ride over to the rest of the men, and dismount the horse close to the giant's skull to approach Yemi and Gorm, both staring at the beast. Neither of them notices me as I approach, but, when I call out a name that is not either of theirs, their attention is earned.

  "Abraham..."

  The name of the hero who gave us the purpose and the time we needed to survive, and keep everyone else alive, hurts so much to say already, and it feels no better when Yemi and Gorm look at me. Either my face says everything, or the way I say his name to them says more than words could, and the two men couldn't react any more differently.

  Even beneath the blood, I can see Gorm's flesh boiling, red and with throbbing veins on the surface of his forehead, and, before they burst, he grabs hold of his axe from the giant's throat, swings over top of him, and splits the earth. His anger drives almost as much fear into my bones as the giants do, and he cannot be blamed. So much anger, no sorrow, one feeling so strong it is pure, Yemi and I watch as Gorm's fingers press against his temples, and step back as his own fist cracks his skull. Madness, I cannot imagine what goes through Gorm's mind, but, if I were him, and I had lost such a friend, I may beat myself too just to rid my mind of thoughts of failure and guilt, even though we all knew the danger and the only beast to blame has already met its death.

  I can only be thankful that Gorm storms off, in the direction of our tents, before he lets out any more frustration, or someone does something foolish to frustrate him further, and I am thankful too that Yemi keeps his head on his shoulders, and helps me do so too. As Ham had done more times than I can count now, with how strewn my mind is, Yemi puts his hand on my shoulder, and asks a question that moves us both along.

  "Where is his body, Fjord? You do not need to speak. Just show me."

  As weak as I feel, unable to say what has happened aloud, I am able enough to move in the direction I saw his body land, past so many other bodies, the red of the blood in the grass shining from the few stray fires that burn, and any pieces of our camp or supplies that have gotten caught in the destruction too. Yemi even makes use of some of the belongings that have been destroyed when he and I stop beside Ham, where I am unable to look at him in such a state, lest it be how I remember him and his face until the day I meet my own death. So, with one of his swords, Yemi cuts into the fabric of a tent that is only lifted off of the rest of the blood on the ground by a tent pole or stake that has almost snapped in half.

  He is then quick to kneel beside his old friend, careless to how his knee sinks into the dirt, and, after he has put his hand on Abraham's cheek for a short moment, Yemi covers him with the cloth, no longer so lucky to stay unstained. Part of me wants to just run off, but the rest of me knows how wrong that is, so I am thankful once Yemi turns to face me, and even shows a tear on his own cheek, and I get the chance to ask him something.

  "Do you know how he wished to be buried?"

  There is only so much I could say right now, and that is appropriate, when Yemi and I have spoken of how we want to be buried before, and when I am sure he wants to see his friend taken care of properly as much as I. Fortunate for us all, it seems he had the same conversation he had with me, with Ham too.

  "As ash, so no one could ever hurt him again."

  Those words are the last I hear for some time, as Gorm eventually returns with many of Abraham's belongings, since he seems to know what to do with his body too. One might think Gorm would be giving directions and courage to the other men in such a trying time, but his expression, while he carries Ham's bedroll and a few of his other belongings, shows he struggles as much. And, that is probably for the best. We all appear to have friends to bury tonight, and it wouldn't be right to ask the others to stop and focus, or just to ask them to help us bury one man together when so many others lay breathless. So, the three of us get to work.

  The state of the camp leaves plenty of spare wood around, enough for us to make a raised platform for Abraham, and, when it comes time to move his body on top of it, I leave it to them, and just watch. All that leaves is to put his belongings close. Gorm and Yemi then stand beside him for some time, and it is hard to tell if they say anything to each other, or a prayer for him, from where I stand. I simply watch quietly, aching inside, and, once Gorm heads to find something to set fire to his body, I feel someone else's hand in mine. I can tell already who it is without looking, and I only stare at her briefly as she speaks.

  "I am sorry, Aedan."

  The pain in my heart stops for a moment when she says that, and it comes back as soon as I s
tart to think to myself, why is she saying sorry to me, when I have known him for less time than anyone else here? Why too do I hurt so much for this man, when I am so new? They finally set fire to the base of the wood we have piled up, with far less speed than the man we bury managed to produce a few sparks during such a heated moment, and I find myself trying to identify this hurt that I don't think I have ever felt before, or at least since I was old enough to understand what it meant when my father told me my mother was no longer alive. Not even Em's touch is enough to soothe those thoughts, sadly, so, rather than standing and watching as his ashes become one with the wind, I squeeze Em's hand to show her some emotion before I let go and walk back over to the giant's body where I find what I am looking for. Still in the beast's palm, Abraham's sword is stuck, and, as I pull it free, I remind myself that I am doing no wrong by taking this to keep, and cherish. For, just like my mother's necklace, I want something so I will never forget this man.

  From there, I avoid anyone else, either the dozens of faces I cannot put a name to or those who know mine and care, and creep back to my tent, that I now share with no else. The grass is still flattened where Abraham's bedroll laid for only so long, and that is the only sign left that he ever stayed in here. Everything else is gone, but for his sword that I make mine, and, once I have laid that down on the dirt too, I take off the waterskin he gave me as his last gift, with Em's flower still upright within it, and lay that down too. Ready to do nothing but lie down as well, even though I know day comes too soon, I exit my tent instead and step off towards another tent that I saw on my way back, and can only hope it still holds what I'm looking for.

  As I walk, everyone else remains involved with the mourning and the cleanup, so much so that I wouldn't be surprised if I had half of the camp to myself, and, with that in mind, I step into the same tent where I met Yemi, ready to wash the filth from my body and the thoughts from my mind. I was a fool not to leave my sword and glove in my tent before I left, but that matters little once they come off first, only for every piece of clothing to follow. That includes the piece of cloth from earlier in the day, when Gorm and I entered my old home, for I had left it wrapped around my neck, forgotten, afterwards. And, as I wash from head to toe as best as I can, water fills my eyes. Not because it drips from my hair, down my forehead, and into them. But because they drop from the corner of each as I keep my pain as quiet as I can.

  Part of me hopes this is finally the death of my father hitting me along with the death of everyone else, the weight of it all, yet the rest of me knows the tears are for Abraham, and for the fear of how many of us will make it out of this alive. So many times have I cheated death, that the guilt comes back too, and I even think to myself, while I get the soap off, that maybe I am cursed to outlive those who I am unfortunate enough to love as friends or family. Here, the love is only unfortunate because I feel I have lost enough, and pray that I lose no more with the weight it forces me to bear, and, before my mind puts to thought anything else that drags me down so hard, I dry off and put back on enough of my clothes to carry the rest along with my sword and grapple, I embrace the chill of the wind and morning dew as I drag my heels.

  I leave it that way, growing colder, even once I enter my tent again, and closing the flap does little to help, thankfully. Against my skin, the cold feels good, good enough that I forget about everything else and worry solely about the shaking in my bones, and, after I have laid the rest of my belongings down, I tie that random cloth from earlier around the waterskin, as a reminder of sorts. I try to tell myself it is the little pieces, the good bits, the mementos, that matter more than anything else right now, when I lie on my side and feel my necklace sway to the side, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was midday by the time I next open my eyes, when I hear shuffling too close for comfort.

  In my tent, a shadow stands over me again, half asleep, and were it not for the voice I hear soon after, I would think Abraham was back from the dead, or here to visit me as a ghost.

  "Your skin is so pale, you almost look blue, you fool."

  Light seeps in behind the man's figure in such a way that one might even think him an angel, ready to take me to Heaven after I was stupid enough to freeze to death, but the accent of the man and the swords at his hip say otherwise. Before I can say anything else, he picks up my jerkin from the ground beside me, and words only come when I feel it against my skin, and realize what warmth is again.

  "Thank you, Yemi."

  I roll onto my back afterwards, to see what else he is doing in here, or why he was in here at all, and that is when I see how full Yemi's arms are, with a small chest and his bedroll under the left one, and, before I can say ask why he has brought them, he tells me first.

  "I worried it might not be the same in here for you, without his snoring throughout the night."

  Yemi then throws his chest down, and lays his bedroll out, but, rather than lie down to finally get some rest, he drags in a crate that I cannot tell if it is filled with liquor or wolves from where I am. And, right now, I'd invite either in just to lighten the mood we are all surely in, since I assume all is done out there if Yemi is here, yet the comfort of my jerkin as a blanket and someone else to share this tent with helps me doze off so that I may be ready come the next step of our journey, wherever it leads. I can only hope, wherever that is, the cold does not get so bad that I get chills like this.

  Gorm

  Our feet could not have helped us leave the valley where so many died, any faster, but they would have benefited from more time and some patience for so many men, only a few days into our trek to a kingdom I look forward to even less than my own. With no end in sight, some of those with us are at an end, either with their wits or physically. The ground is covered in snow, up to the knee in some places, but it is still easy to look behind us, or in front of us, and see where we have come from and where we are going.

  Even with so many feet making a path through, there is enough snow and wind that nature could make our tracks disappear in quick time, but such a being cannot rid the earth of our blood. One after the next, the flesh and leather of some of the men's toes and shoes have cracked enough for red to stain wherever they step, and, when those men collapse, we do our best to find room for them to lie down in what wagons remain after the destruction our last fight caused.

  Thankfully and unthankfully, so much was destroyed that many of those wagons are filled with empty space, so even those who do not hurt take turns sitting in them, wrapped in blankets, before they step back down into the snow and trade with someone else who needs to get warm. It also no longer surprises me that Gorm is so tall, or why. The man walks at the front of our caravan, not too far from where I walk, and even Yemi struggles to keep up. The rest of us have wrapped ourselves in whatever cloth we could find, many left from the tents that were smashed or bent, but not Gorm.

  His arms are still bare up to his shoulder, except for a cover of fur that wraps around his neck and trails down the front and back of his upper body, and he carries a smile on his face that says, even though he is not home yet, he feels at home in the cold. A giant of a man doesn't struggle through the snow as we do, when snow that tickles our knees and thighs struggles to rise above his boots that he has no trouble lifting in and out of the ever-shifting white. My own legs get stuck from time to time, and Em is the one to help pull or dig me free, if I cannot do so on my own. She has wrapped herself in furs, thicker than anything else we all carry, and she has packed away her dress for leather that makes her fit right in with the rest of us, brown in color from our clothes and blue in the flesh from the cold. Only her hair, of a color like no other, sets her apart even when other men have hair longer than hers.

  Were it not for what Gorm knows, I'm sure all of us would have frozen to death long ago as well, and, for those same reasons, I'd bet no one reaches their kingdom unless they once called it home too. I can only guess Em didn't live there long enough to grow used to it like her father has, and, beyond just what their b
odies are capable of, I imagine Gorm has walked through these woods, mountains, and valleys so many times. Weeks have gone by since I last saw a patch of unfrozen grass, and the closest I've gotten to seeing anything like that is the stone of the caves Gorm knows like the back of his hand.

  At the end of the day, there is always another cave, large enough for so many men, horses, and supplies, that he finds for us to keep us warm, and start the cycle over. We walk as far as we can through the snow, he finds shelter before night grows too close, and we stop, rest, eat, whatever we have to do to be ready in the morning. Never did I think I would learn to love caves so much too. Darker than sin, one is never not filled with some animal, bears, bats, anything but giants thankfully, but, no matter the animal, there are always bones, shit, and the smell that comes with it. Yet, none of us could care less. Anything is better than the cold and snow, when there is a chance to light a torch or fire where it is dry and where the wind does not blow or when there is a moment to lie down on stone so hard they'd deform our own bones were we to sleep too long, I'm sure. Anything is better than the outside, truly.

  I'd even take the bears over the bats, for their shits are not so spread out. And, if they don't like us coming into their home so much that they put up a fight, it is just more blankets for us whenever we get our turn to sit in a wagon and warm up. All of that is good, and makes the days bearable, but, today, most of us avoid the wagons. Today is supposed to be the day we reach the city we have been looking for, according to Gorm, and, though the snow is making us all wild, I don't think he would lie, or be mistaken. Still, so close, there is no sign of the city the man has described in great detail. Gray stone is what we look for. Such a color blends in with the snow, almost, but he tells us that the walls are so tall they are impossible not to pick out. So, all I can hope for now is that the tree branches above our heads, dead and without any leaves, will open up so that all of us can look up into the mountains ahead, and see what we need to get the last bit of hope in our feet.