by Robert Ryan
Brand looked at them all coolly. He knew their type, but there was some darker shadow on them. Something drove them, and his glance flicked to the dot that wheeled in the sky. He understood what was happening, and though these bandits were murders, he did not doubt that the will of the witch was also on them. There was no way forward without a fight. Men might die, but he must avoid that at all costs. He must show mercy and use his skill only as a last resort. The eyes of all these men were on him, but so too was the silent gaze of Kareste. He must show her that there were better ways than violence, that the darkness in the hearts of men did not always prevail.
He did not speak to Scarface, but to his men. “This is no way to live,” he said, “to waylay travelers and accost women. If your leader doesn’t see sense, then get yourself a new leader. You can have food for free, but everything else will cost you blood, and some will die. Is it worth it?”
The men did not answer. They looked at him darkly, and once again he felt the will of the witch at work. Without her, without Scarface among them, these men might have seen reason.
“You have your answer,” Scarface said.
Brand had tried reason. Now, he would try threat.
“It’s not too late to back away. Leave now while you can. I can fight. I can fight well, and I wear armor and wield a sword the likes of which you have never seen.”
He drew his blade. The pattern-welded steel shimmered in the bright light, and he heard several gasps. These men would not have seen a Halathrin-forged blade before, but they still recognized it.
“I’m no ordinary warrior. I have skill beyond anything you have encountered. If you come against me I will kill you, each and every one. I do not say this to boast. I say it to save your lives. Stand aside and let us pass, and live another day.”
A few of the men wavered, but not enough. Many looked to Scarface, but he stood there, sure of himself, hatred burning in his eyes. The band made no move to part.
Brand dismounted and handed his reins to Kareste. She looked at him strangely, but said nothing.
The Halathrin blade gleamed in his right hand, and he placed Aranloth’s staff on the ground with his left.
“Even yet, it’s not too late,” he said. “I’ll fight your leader, one on one, and you’ll see that it’s better just to let us pass. There need be no more blood shed than that.”
Scarface laughed. “The only blood to be shed will be your own.”
Brand looked at him coldly. “That’s easy to say, surrounded by your men. Step away from them and face me.”
Brand was trying his hardest to keep things just between him and Scarface. The leader was the head of the snake, and if he was killed the rest would lose heart. But Scarface knew it too. He spat contemptuously, and with an abrupt gesture signaled his men forward.
Kareste spoke for the first time. “Kill them, Brand. You’ve tried everything else, now kill them all.”
The men paid her no heed, but her words made Brand tremble. They were cold. Colder than he had ever heard her speak before, and he knew that he must still try to avoid bloodshed. He must do something special here, but it would come at great risk.
Brand smiled at the men who stepped slowly toward him. They followed their orders, but they were in no hurry. It gave him time to reach into his saddlebag and pull out the diamond Gilhain had given him. He casually dropped it on the ground at his feet. It shone and sparkled, and the men stood still, their shocked silence absolute.
But Kareste was not so quiet. A gasp escaped her lips, for she had travelled far with him and never knew that he carried such a great treasure.
Now was the moment to act, and Brand timed it to perfection. He waited for the nearest man to blink before he moved. It was the smallest of advantages, so small that an ordinary warrior could not make it work for him. But he was Brand of the Duthenor, and his skill had been honed since childhood and ripened by his service as bodyguard to a much-threatened king.
One moment he stood there, the sword held loosely in his hand, and the next he sprang forward and bridged the gap quicker than the thought or reflex of his opponent. He could have killed him before the man even realized what was happening, but he did not. Instead, he struck with the flat of his blade, cracking it into the other man’s hand. Bones broke, and the bandit’s rusty sword fell from his shattered hand as he fell backward.
Brand did not hesitate. He wheeled among the outlaws, spinning and leaping. The sword flashed, but it never drew blood. At times he struck with a fist into an opponent’s neck, sending them to the ground gasping for air. At other times he kicked, low and swift, striking at groin or knee.
Men fell around him. One toppled and groaned after another kick, and Brand knew that man would never father children. Swords flashed at him, but they only cut the air where he had been. Once, a blade glanced off his helm. There was a ringing noise and a flash of pale light as though sparks flew, but then he felled the man with a blow to his temple from the pommel of his Halathrin sword.
Six men were disabled, felled or falling to the ground before the other six could rally. The initial surprise of Brand’s attack was gone, and now the bandits tried to circle him.
For the first time, steel rang on steel as he parried blows. He slipped among them, swifter than they, but one blade against many. Yet the Halathrin blade was of a quality so far beyond the others that when it struck them, they shattered. Steel shards flew. Daggers were drawn, and they drove through the air, but Brand’s mail shirt protected him.
Yet still he began to bleed. Several times he had been cut on wrist and arm. But several more men lay on the ground, knocked out by the pommel of Brand’s sword. Momentum was with him, and fear pumped through the remaining bandits who still stood upright. They backed away.
Brand new he must now make a choice. Scarface, never having joined in the fight, backed away with his men. But if he was left alone, left free to continue as he had started, other travelers, less prepared than Brand had been, would die. Brand did not lower his sword. Should he kill Scarface? If he did, the band would probably fall apart and go their separate ways. But what effect would killing him have on Kareste?
But Scarface was not yet done. He tried surprise as Brand had done. The retreat was only an act, for he drew a dagger and flung it with all his might. It spun through the air, wheeling and glinting, but it did not strike its target.
Brand was already moving. The knife whooshed through the air, but he was a little to its side and moving forward. Before Scarface could react the Halathrin blade slid into him, drove deep, and then came out the man’s back.
Scarface tensed. Blood gushed from his mouth and then he collapsed. Quickly, Brand tried to withdraw his sword, but it did not come out as easily as it had gone in. Scarface fell dead to the ground. Brand jerked and twisted his sword free. The others had a moment to attack him during this vulnerability, but they did not move. Shock marked their faces.
Brand looked down at the man he had killed. He had not wanted to do it, but he would not have the deaths of innocent travelers on his conscience. Better the death of a murderer.
Brand glanced at Kareste. She was still mounted, but her sword was drawn, and it dripped blood. A man lay beneath it, dead also, his limp hand open near the great diamond.
Kareste dismounted. She stepped over the body and picked up the jewel. For a moment she studied it, and then she tossed it to Brand.
He caught it. And his movement frightened the bandits that still stood, and they fled, hurrying downriver.
“You’re full of surprises,” Kareste said. “And just when I thought I was getting to know you.” Her eyes glittered as she studied him, but Brand could not read her expression.
“Time to go,” he said.
They mounted and rode into the shallow water of the ford. Behind them several men staggered up, but they seemed frozen in place by awe, and they made no move to follow.
The horses splashed through the water, and it frothed and foamed about their legs. Aft
er a while they clambered up onto the little island in the middle of the river, and then plunged into the water again.
Eventually, they made the far bank. The road started once more, a smooth and wide surface, turfed and slightly sloped to run water from the center to the sides.
They trotted forward. Brand studied the land ahead, and then the sky. He saw nothing to alarm him. Even the hawk was gone.
As they rode he sensed Kareste’s eyes on him. Probably, she guessed why he had not killed the men and what he was trying to do.
“You can fight,” she said eventually. “That much I already knew, but you still managed to surprise me anyway.”
Brand shrugged. Most of the people who knew how well he could fight were dead.
Kareste did not take her eyes off him. “But you should have killed them – killed them all. I would have.”
Brand did not answer. He rode slightly ahead, and he felt her eyes burning into his back.
18. Hope for the Hopeless
“Come!” commanded Carnhaina, and Arell felt the force of her will. It lashed her like a whip, so strong was it, yet it was not even directed at her.
Arell tore her eyes away from the queen. Her concern was for her patient. Aranloth remained still, yet to her expert gaze he looked different. There was more color in his skin, at least as best as she could tell by the shifting lights of torch and star. But more than that, she saw the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed: faster, deeper, more lifelike than before.
“Come!” commanded Carnhaina, and the spirit of Aranloth heard her call and followed her voice. Suddenly, he tensed where he lay on the stretcher; the blood seeped anew from the two wounds on his chest, and his eyes flicked open, wild, uncertain, unknowing of where he was or how he got there.
Arell knelt down and put her hand to his hot brow. She soothed him, and though she saw that he was back from the near-dead, she saw also that he was weak, terribly weak.
She spared a quick glance at Carnhaina, but the queen was already fading. The arm that held the spear seemed insubstantial as it slowly fell. Her eyes were closed. The starlight seemed dim and the torches gutted. In the flickering air the motes of dust that had formed her figure drifted apart and settled slowly into the sarcophagus once more.
The great queen was gone, but Aranloth was back. And yet, a voice, imperious and commanding as always, rang out as though the very stone atop the tower spoke:
Aranloth is returned, but the hope of Cardoroth, as always it has done, rests with Brand. Remember!
Gilhain surveyed the enemy. From the rampart that had withstood the seething masses of darkness, he looked out into a bright morning.
The enemy remained. Fear remained. The knowledge of likely defeat remained. And yet there was hope too. For Aranloth, pale and sickly, yet alive, stood near him. Or rather, he leaned against the stone of the battlement in view of the enemy.
Aranloth had placed himself there. Without speaking he had come with the dawn. What his thoughts were, Gilhain did not know, but he knew this much at least; even in his weakened state the lòhren’s mind was still sharp. The enemy would see him, and whatever spies the enemy had, whatever means of gathering news that they relied on, they would have heard of his collapse and hoped for his death. When the sun had come up, they had all seen that their hope was cheated.
Gilhain moved to stand beside him. “He’s still out there, somewhere,” he said.
Aranloth knew that he meant Brand. The lòhren’s tired eyes looked into his own.
“Do you fear that he has betrayed Cardoroth? That he has betrayed our trust in him?”
Gilhain slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t believe that. But I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing and what he’s thinking. If what Carnhaina said is true, and Arell must have told you of it, he recovered the second half of Shurilgar’s staff, and he escaped the tombs of the Letharn. Yet the staff is not destroyed, and Cardoroth is sorely pressed. What if the sorcerers commence another attack? You’re very frail, my old friend.”
Aranloth looked anxious. “There are many chances in the world, for good or for ill. Something has happened. More is going on than we know, and I wish I knew what it was. But I know this much at least. I trust Brand, and I gave him my staff, and I gave him my diadem. Those things are symbols, but with my trust in him I gave him power also, the power embodied by those symbols. He now represents the lòhrens, and he must make choices even as a lòhren, and the fate of Alithoras has become his concern, not just Cardoroth, no matter how much he loves us.”
Gilhain thought about that. There was evidently more going on than he knew. He had thought that lending Brand the staff and diadem was just a practical means of giving him some power to fight off enemies. It appeared to be more than that though, but in just what way he could not quite see.
Aurellin joined their conversation. “Brand is not as others,” she said. “Whatever he does, he does for us, and perhaps now also for others too. But I will continue to trust in him, to hope in him, as I have done before.”
Her words struck a chord with Gilhain. That was how he felt, even though after what Carnhaina had said, he should have been riddled with doubt.
Lornach interrupted his musings. “Look over there,” the Durlin said.
Gilhain followed his gaze. He saw nothing at first, but taking his eyes off the closer northward fields and looking in the distance, he saw what the sharp eyes of the little man had noticed before anyone else: a dust cloud.
They watched in silence. Soon other men along the wall noticed it too, but there was nothing anyone could do but wait and continue to watch. That it was caused by riders was obvious, and a great many of them too, but who they were and what they were doing was beyond any guess.
The cloud deepened. The riders drew closer, and there was an occasional flash of metal and color. As they approached, Gilhain estimated their numbers. He took it to be a large group, perhaps a thousand strong.
“Is it an attack on the enemy?” Lornach asked. “Or reinforcements for them?”
Gilhain was beginning to understand. “No,” he answered. “It’s not either of those things. Most especially, it’s not an attack. Look at the horde. They have set up no defense, moved no troops to face the riders.”
“Then what is it?” Lornach asked. “And what difference can a mere thousand riders make?”
Gilhain did not answer. Nor did Aranloth speak, though by the look on his face he had guessed the same answer that Gilhain knew in his heart.
“It depends on who leads them,” Aurellin said.
Lornach pulled at an earlobe, trying to figure it out. While he thought, the column drew closer.
“They’re not Azan,” he said. “Nor are the horses the alar breed of the south. These are northerners, that much is now obvious. But if not Azan, then who?”
They continued to watch. The elug war drums muttered away, sending a different message from normal; it was not a battle beat. And this was proven as the horde opened its ranks and allowed the column through.
The men on the walls were watching also, and this made them uneasy. It was bad enough that the enemy received reinforcements, however small the number in the greater scheme of things, but it was worse that they were men, and northerners also. It was not something that they could comprehend.
There was much movement in the camp below. Messengers were sent, riders went back and forth, and the horde itself was excited by some news that rippled through it.
“We could have done without this,” Gilhain said.
Lornach shrugged. “It’s still only a thousand odd men.”
“But look at the horde. They have news to consider, something different to think about, and likely enough a reason for better hope. All those things are taking their minds off their recent defeats sooner than would otherwise have happened. The timing is bad for us.” Gilhain straightened his shoulders as though mentally preparing himself for something yet to come. “But it is what it is, and we’ll deal with it as we�
��ve dealt with everything else.”
A little while later a small group of riders emerged from the ranks of the enemy. They wore bright colors, and the harness of their horses glittered. They were proud men, sitting astride their mounts as though they owned the very land and all that they could see.
At the head of the group rode one man, aloof and prouder even than his companions. On his head he wore a winged helm, a Halathrin helm, for no others gleamed as did they, or bore the mark of such craftsmanship. But Cardoroth had seen its like before. It seemed to some that it was Brand returned, but others said nay. Brand’s helm was horned.
The man’s mail coat shimmered in the light. No cheap thing was it either, and there were few in the realm who wore armor to match it. Likewise, his sword was a precious thing. Light flashed from the diamonds and precious stones set at its pommel. Yet he bore the look of a man who could fight, and the sword was not just for ceremony.
They approached, proud and haughty. No flag of truce they raised, deeming it beneath them, yet no arrow sped from bow nor jeering word from mouth to rebuke them.
Just behind the lead rider was a second man. His face was pockmarked, his long black hair held bound by a thick ring of beaten gold. And he carried a staff with a banner wrapped around it.
They came to a stop near the wall. The lead rider did not turn, but he made a flicking gesture to the man immediately behind him. The rider undid a leather thong that held the banner wrapped tight in its position. When it was untied, he held high the staff and shook free the cloth.
All the men along the Cardurleth saw it. The Durlin saw it, and Lornach saw it and finally understood. It was a well-known banner: on a sable background was threaded a gold eagle, one taloned claw lifted and raking at an invisible enemy, its great wings half stretched out.
“The royal banner!” hissed Lornach, and he looked sharply at the king.
“Indeed,” Gilhain said. “None should dare to unfurl it except at my order, and none do – except one.”
“Hvargil,” muttered the queen.
