by Justin Wayne
***
Dunawar sat up from the floor and wiped the drool from his cheek. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he stood and swayed slightly as he made his way outside. The sun was nearly risen he noted and the townsfolk already bustling about their business to prepare for the cold months.
Then he shivered and realized they were already upon them, and he wasn’t wearing his tunic. He looked down at his bare torso and grimaced slightly as he noted the strain on his flesh from retaining such muscle mass. Then he swooned slightly again and the taste of ale was still strong in his mouth.
“I really am getting old aren’t I?” He turned back inside the Guard’s quarters and plopped down at the table; knocking over a dozen empty mugs on their sides.
“Yes,” a voice answered from behind. “Yes you are.” Robaine entered and clapped the chief on the shoulder before sitting across from him with a wide smile splayed on his face.
Dunawar noticed as he filled his mug with more mead. “What’re you so happy about?”
The captain shrugged casually and picked at a slice of bread with his fingers. “Just a new day with so many new opportunities. It’s quite extraordinary to think of how often we take such a thing for granted.”
Dunawar’s eyebrows rose as he drained his cup. “Oh, uh, yeah. I know what you mean.” He stuffed his mouth full of pork and prayed the conversation would soon change subject.
“So how goes it in Rusk?” Robaine asked tentatively. He eyed every facial movement to discern any emotion the old Warrior may attempt to mask.
“Well, I’ve been gone about a month,” he leaned his head to the side. “So I’d be willing to bet nothing’s changed. Same as before, with us taking care of the people while the dwarves take care of the metalwork.” Another bite of pork. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh no reason in particular.” Robaine replied noncommittally. “Just that when I was there last, about a week past, I saw the tides beginning to shift.” He smiled inwardly as the chief froze and leaned forward, eager to hear more. “A sort of power struggle between your clan and the dwarves has always been present; a push and pull. But you found a median for the two.
“However, a third group has risen and aims to take control of both.” He clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers. “And combine them.”
Dunawar scowled at his plate and miraculously lost his appetite. “Who? What fool would dare try such an escapade?”
Captain Robaine leaned back and stroked his chin in thought. His eyes roved the ceiling as he pretended to sift through his thoughts and remember who it was responsible. He exclaimed an “Ah!” and slapped his knee. “Yes, that’s it. It’s the Guard!”
The chief paused incredulously and stared. Of all the choices he had anticipated; politicians, priests, regular workers; the Guard was not among them. “How the hell would they be in charge of anything?”
“Well they are in charge of protecting the cities and keeping them safe. They have the largest numbers and plenty of soldiers among scholars. All in all it seems rather plausible to me.” He popped another piece of roll into his mouth. “Not to mention they have such wondrous relics now.”
Dunawar sat up straight and eyed the man. “Aren’t you a captain of the Guard?” He whispered to the smaller man.
Robaine stared back unflinchingly and even smiled.
“Tell me, Dunawar—“
“Chief. Chief Dunawar.” he corrected.
“Of course.” Robaine conceded. “Tell me Chief Dunawar, have you ever been one to partake in matters of the mind?” The Warrior’s blank stare was answer enough. “I thought not. You see, there are two kinds of will. Physical will, in which your strength and stamina are tested; this you excel at.
“And the mental kind. In which your intelligence and overall resolve as to who you are is strained.” He paused to ensure the chief was listening. “I have spent many years honing the latter, and have found that with the right tools,” from beneath his cloak he removed Cleave Rend. “One can exercise such prowess just as you and others like your savage kind do every day.”
Dunawar bristled at the insult and stood so quickly his chair was knocked over. He held his chin high and puffed his chest out. His muscles bulged as he tensed for a fight. “You truly have the tongue of a politician; forked and whispering deceit.” He stepped forward menacingly and towered over the captain. “And I shall rip it from your mouth.”
“The only thing you shall take from my mouth shall be my commands.” Robaine spat and sneered as Cleave Rend begin to warm in his hand, emitting the fog he had longed to enforce for years. “Your brother spoke just as defiantly as you. But in the end, it was all the same.”
Dunawar roared and flipped over the table with a cacophony of clanging sounds as the platter and dishes rolled away or shattered. Robaine leaped back from the heavy wooden furniture and brandished Cleave Rend in both hands as the fog continued its slow crawl across the floor.
“What have you done, Robaine!” Dunawar screamed into the captain’s face, echoing Durgen’s words. Veins bulged and he had gone flush with rage. His wild eyes raked the room for a suitable weapon, then settled definitively on the black axe within the man’s hands.
He strode forward, reaching for it, when his mind blanked. He stopped mid-stride and looked around. Confusion swam about him and he couldn’t remember why he was here. Scratching his head, he looked to the captain and recognized his face.
“Ah, Robaine! Have you any idea what we were discussing?” He took in the dismal shape of the room and the wrecked arrangement of décor. “Or fighting about?”
The captain smiled and nodded. “We had just come to an agreement last night on joining organizations; your clan and my order. However a few of your kin didn’t see eye-to-eye with the plan and stormed out after a rather heated argument. Specifically your brother.”
Dunawar nodded slowly as if it all made sense and surveyed the room once more. “Durgen did all this? He’s usually the calm one; hates politics and arguing.”
Robaine stuttered and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, he..he felt very strongly about this and demanded you return him to the head of the clan at once. Yes! He did, and then when you refused, he took up arms and was escorted out. He left in a drunken stupor; to forget the night’s events I suppose.” He rested his hand on the Warrior’s shoulder and looked down at the ground as he spoke.
“I’m afraid he was found dead earlier this morning.”
Dunawar froze and sat down heavily in a chair. He stroked his hair back from his face and doubled over with his head supported in his calloused hands. “How?” he breathed.
“It appears his fire got loose, and his cloak caught.” the captain whispered. “An accident.”
Dunawar shook his head once again and rubbed his temples and eyes. He loved his brother dearly and owed much to him, but it was the Warrior way to honor, respect, and even expect death. He stood determinedly and set his jaw in a firm line.
“Then we have much to do; funeral rites to prepare and a feast to cook. I take it we are in Delvin?” He nodded at the affirmative. “Then we must return to Rusk immediately. You can tell me more about this conjoining of our groups as well.” he said with a frown. “I can’t for the life of me recall anything about it and it seems such a strange idea.."
Deep down he knew something didn’t feel right, but any time he tried to think about it; to devote any amount of thought behind it, it melted away through his fingers like sand. He inhaled deeply to steady himself, unknowingly breathing in the fog, and was soon on his way home; the invisible puppet strings of Robaine upon him.
