Saerheim had become a lively place for Heilirkvam, the annual festival commemorating the midsummer. It was a celebration of a good year, an ode to summer and life, and a night to be filled with poetry, songs, and dancing.
Duvain understood little of what was being said, but he could certainly enjoy the bright colors of the festival. The smell of fresh-baked bread had permeated the village all day, and the rich, meaty scent of roasting pig, venison, and poultry hung thick around him. His stomach growled with anticipation of the feast.
He was fortunate: Squad Three would be off duty during the festivities. The Legionnaires of Squad Five had shot furious glares their way as they donned their polished armor and prepared for the night watch. The on-duty Legionnaires would be able to watch the ceremony only from the fringes as their patrol patterns permitted. But not too closely. Sergeant Brash had promised a flogging to any man caught away from his post. The sergeant wouldn't be attending the party, all the better to keep a sharp eye on his comrades.
A few of the night watch had tried to switch duties with them, especially Duvain, who had proven amenable to such bargains in the past. They'd offered him coins, liquor, trinkets, and other valuables—things he could have used, but which held no allure for him now. He wouldn't miss the celebration for anything.
Winter Festival in Northfield had been the one time of year he'd looked forward to. The little town had come alive with decorations, music, food, dancing, and laughter. People didn't stare at Endyn, for they were too busy having a good time to care. His brother had actually had a chance to step out and enjoy himself as well.
He checked his equipment one last time. He'd polished his armor to a bright sheen and buffed his boots until his hands ached. He had even taken pains to wash his extra tunic in the lake. He felt clean for the first time in weeks.
Endyn looked a fine sight in his armor. The brightness of Endyn's breastplate—crafted specially for him by a Legion armorer back in Voramis—outshone his own. A smile played on his big face. He enjoyed the Winter Festival as much as Duvain.
Owen and Rold had also paid extra attention to the state of their gear—they almost might have passed for respectable Legionnaires. Weasel, however, looked utterly miserable in his freshly polished armor. Opting for sleep rather than caring for his gear, he'd emerged from the roundhouse looking like he'd lost a battle with a muddy stick. Which had prompted a very angry, very loud lecture from Corporal Rold, and a stream of invective at the "dirty runt". Weasel had only just finished the thorough buffing of his breastplate after a full hour of listening to the corporal promise all manner of inventive disciplines—including digging for gold with nothing but his pencil-prick and running all the way back to Icespire in the buff—for disrespecting their squad.
The villagers of Saerheim had set out sawn tree trunks for chairs, arranging them in a broad circle around an empty space in the middle of the square. The clearing needed no boundary to outline it—the very stones themselves seemed to shine with an inner light. In the daylight, they appeared unremarkable, aside from their color: a black somehow darker than any onyx or obsidian he'd seen. But when the sun set, the stone seemed to reflect the flickering light of the torches and mirror the dark, starry sky high above.
Corporal Awr was already seated when they reached the square, face buried in a tankard. He hadn't lost his usual somber mien, but he seemed a bit less dour than usual. From beneath hooded brows, he watched the laughing, playing children, the woman dressed in their colorful finery, and the men in their elegant furs and tunics.
"Corporal," Owen nodded and took a seat beside the man. Awr responded with a grunt.
"Is that more ayrag?" Weasel asked.
Awr nodded.
"Damn," Weasel groaned. He patted his stomach. "I've had the shits for two days now. That stuff don't sit well with me."
Awr shrugged and took another long swig of his drink.
One of the older men of Saerheim, a man who tilled the fields beside Cold Lake, approached with four large tankards. He said something in the Fehlan language; Duvain caught the words "welcome" and "night", but not much else.
Awr gave a two-word response and a nod, bringing a smile to the man's face. He held out the tankards for Weasel, Owen, Rold, and Duvain.
Endyn's brow furrowed, and a shadow passed across his face. Duvain could see his brother's mind working, his pain at being left out.
With a grin, the villager disappeared into a nearby longhouse. When he emerged a moment later, he carried a wooden vessel that was more cauldron than cup—easily half the size of a small barrel. Laughing, he presented it to Endyn and said something in the Fehlan tongue.
"Big cup for a big warrior, he says," Awr translated.
Endyn blushed, which only made the man's grin broader.
Duvain chuckled. "Look at that, Brother." He slapped Endyn's shoulder. "They like you."
Endyn bowed in thanks, and the Fehlan man responded in kind. Duvain waited for Awr to translate, but the corporal had his face buried in his mug.
"What did he say?" Endyn asked.
Duvain hesitated. "It sounded like he was saying 'thank you'. I think there was something about one of the houses in there, but I'm not sure."
"Oh." A grin broadened Endyn's huge face. He rumbled out a word that sounded like the Fehlan equivalent of “thank you”. The villager laughed and gestured toward the hide containers that held the ayrag.
Endyn stood and went over to fill his massive bowl.
When his brother returned to his seat, Duvain cocked an eyebrow. "Since when have you been learning Fehlan?"
Endyn shrugged. "Listening to you and Awr."
"And why is he thanking you?" Duvain asked.
Endyn's face turned a bright pink. "I…helped them fix one of the houses," he rumbled.
Weasel snorted. "Held up the bloody roof single-handed, more like." He shook his head and gave a wicked grin. "Strong as an ox, your brother, even if he's almost as ugly."
Endyn said nothing, but took a long pull from his drinking bowl. When he wiped the line of ayrag from his mouth, a ghost of a smile remained.
A steady stream of Fehlans trickled into the square, until the open space was awash with laughing, talking, drinking men and women. Children darted among the adults, shouting and playing the sort of games youngsters enjoyed when the adults' backs were turned. Duvain counted close to two hundred people. Everyone in Saerheim had arrived for the festivities.
Someone produced a bone whistle, and soon a high-pitched tune drifted through the open square, adding to the refrain of the baker on the terracotta pipe and the blacksmith on his hide-skin drum. When the tinkle of bronze hand bells entered the fray, the celebration began in earnest.
The people of Saerheim certainly knew how to celebrate. Their dancing was like nothing Duvain had seen in Northfield. Men and women formed into two long lines facing each other. They followed the rhythm of the song with clapping hands, boots clacking against the stone of the square, keeping pace with their fellows. Back and forward they went, a combat of smiles, laughter, whirling skirts, and kicking feet.
Duvain, Endyn, and the other Legionnaires stomped and clapped in time with the music, adding their shouts and cries to the happy mix. For a few minutes, Duvain forgot where he was, but let himself be drawn into the marvelous new ceremony. He'd never experienced anything like it. These people led such simple lives, yet they celebrated that simplicity with such abandon. He was grinning like a fool and loving every minute of it.
Finally the music died down, and the breathless, laughing villagers surged toward the food and drink. The ayrag flowed freely, accompanied by mouth-watering food: roasted pork and goat, smoked fish, cooked grains, and the last autumn fruits and vegetables. The Fehlan language filled the square as two hundred people carried on a multitude of conversations.
No one invited the Legionnaires to join in. The villagers of Saerheim treated them with courtesy and served them along with the rest, but the language barrier caused a rift
that could not be bridged. Awr, the only one who spoke the Fehlan tongue, refused to be drawn into any conversations. He remained hunched over his tankard, only moving to refill it when it was empty.
Duvain couldn't help watching the young women of Saerheim, with their long, flaxen tresses, pink cheeks, and strong features. Many of them rivaled even his height, a fact he found fascinating. He didn't try to strike up a conversation—he was too shy to talk to them, even in his own language—but found nothing wrong with simply observing them. They seemed aware of his eyes on them, and a few even looked his way with inviting smiles.
A tug on his sleeve snapped him around. Before him stood the young boy he'd seen hiding in Eira's skirts days before. He wore the colorful festive clothing like all the other children of Saerheim, and someone had clearly taken pains to scrub his face and hands, though his white-blond hair stuck out at wild angles.
With a broad smile, the boy rattled off a string of Fehlan words and held out a piece of bread. Duvain didn't need to understand the language to understand the gesture. When Duvain took the bread, the boy darted away. Duvain shouted a "thank you" after the fleeing child, who took refuge in the safety of his mother's skirts. His big blue eyes followed Duvain's movements as he broke the bread and stuffed a piece in his mouth. He exaggerated his enjoyment of the food, which elicited another shy smile.
One of the older men brought over a platter of food for them. Weasel and Rold dug in without a word, but Endyn and Duvain both used their limited Fehlan to offer their gratitude. The man smiled and gave them a polite nod before returning to the others. Owen sat in silence next to Awr, an odd expression—a mixture of longing and sorrow—on his face.
When Weasel noticed Owen's expression, he rolled his eyes. "Keeper's beard, Owen! Not this again."
Owen looked over to him and gave a sad shake of his head. "Can't help it. Issala would have loved this. The dancing, the singing, the celebration of life."
"Of course she would!" Weasel shook his head. "Awr here's the only one who hates a party."
Awr scowled but didn't rise to the bait.
"Look," Weasel said, "you're just goin’ to make things worse if you keep thinkin’ about it. You've still got two years left before you see her. Might as well make the most of the life you've got." A sly grin broadened his face, and his eyes went to the pretty brunette he'd been eyeing all night. "And let me tell you, life here ain't all that bad."
"Keep it in your pants, Weasel," Rold snapped. "Captain's orders."
Weasel's head snapped around, and his eyebrows rose. "You serious?"
Rold nodded. "Like a sword to the gut. Lord Virinus has already pissed off the natives enough for one lifetime—the man's no bloody diplomat, he's made that much clear, just a man rich enough to throw his influence and gold around to feel powerful. His treatment of the healer hasn't won him any allies. The last thing we need is someone getting in the family way and complaining to the captain."
A nasty smile spread Weasel's face. "Oh, there're plenty of means around that particular outcome."
Rold gripped Weasel's collar and yanked his face close. "Lay one finger on those girls, and Sarge has given me the thumbs up to slice your little prick off. Got it?"
Weasel scowled, but muttered, "Got it."
Rold looked at Duvain, Endyn, and Owen in turn. "Captain's made it crystal clear: enjoy the celebration, but keep your hands to yourselves. The Fehlans get mighty prickly when it comes to their daughters."
"Daughters are worth a fortune," Awr explained. "Fehlan fathers try to marry them off to the right men with a big enough dowry, set themselves up for life."
Duvain was disappointed, but he nodded. "Understood." Endyn nodded his comprehension as well.
"Good." Rold raised his tankard. "Then drink up and enjoy the party. Our watch doesn't roll around until dawn."
A drum beat sounded, and all eyes turned toward the cleared space in the center of the square. The blacksmith pounded on his hide drums, the rhythm changing from festive to somber. The villagers quickly rushed to take their seats around the stage.
Elder Asmund strode into the cleared space and began to speak. The man's strong voice had a hypnotic rhythmic quality that reverberated across the square. Duvain found himself leaning forward to pay closer attention. Though he caught only an occasional word or phrase, he guessed it was a speech celebrating the end of the harvest or the arrival of winter.
Applause greeted the end of the speech, and Elder Asmund took a seat at the front of the crowd. All eyes turned toward the main longhouse.
Captain Lingram appeared in the doorway, dressed in his finest clothing, his armor polished to a brilliant sheen. A woman clung to his arm. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any of the other women in Saerheim. Her flaxen hair hung long and silky down to her waist, and she was tall—almost as tall as the captain—and lean. In her left hand, she gripped a stick that she swung across the ground, using it to navigate through the square.
The captain escorted the blind woman through the rows of seated villagers, helping her to step over the boundary logs and onto the stage. Her arm lingered for a moment on his before she released him.
"Now that ain't fair!" Weasel protested. "Why does he—?"
"Captain's prerogative," Rold cut him off with a sharp smile.
More than a few in the crowd caught it as well. Someone shouted something in the Fehlan tongue, eliciting an embarrassed smile from the captain. The blind woman answered in a sharp tone that brought laughter to the crowd, but there was no anger in her voice. The people of Saerheim clearly enjoyed this part of the spectacle.
One of the villagers placed a stringed instrument in her hands. The instrument resembled a harp, but with a hollow body that echoed and amplified the sound of the strings. When she strummed it, the strings resonated with a deep, throaty pitch that Duvain found alluring.
She started slowly, a rhythm that came quietly at first but grew in strength as each strum built upon the last. A tenuous sound, almost hesitant, yet holding the promise of growth. One of the hand bells joined her, adding into the building melody. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, Duvain was lost.
The words didn't matter—the music and her sonorous voice carried him along. From behind her, a willowy figure dressed in bright green scarves glided onto the stage. She was young and beautiful, graceful, with a supple body and fair skin. She danced to the tune of the music, her movements airy, playful, like a river sprite or fairy.
The rhythm of the music changed. From slow to chirpy and energetic, with a happy tone that brightened the light glowing stones and the torches ringing the stage. Another figure appeared on the stage, this one clad in bright yellow. Strong and confident, he twirled the young woman in his arms and lifted her high over his head. His power added to her grace, and her beauty enhanced his strength.
Duvain caught the word for "summer" among the lyrics of the song, and suddenly he understood. Spring and summer. Beauty and life.
The tune changed again, this time changing to a deeper, richer tone, melodious. It seemed the trees themselves bent toward the sound. The two dancers threw off their green and yellow clothing, revealing robes of orange and red beneath. The coming of autumn.
From behind the singer, another figure appeared. Elder Asmund, dressed in grey and white, with a long white cloak hanging from his shoulders. When he stepped onto the stage, the notes floating up from the lyre shifted lower. The drum added a quiet beat, which only increased the menace of the cloaked figure. Winter had come.
The man in grey and white stalked toward the dancing couple, who frolicked unaware of him. They twirled and spun, eyes locked on each other, faces radiant. Duvain found himself holding his breath as the white-robed man drew closer, reaching toward them with outstretched arm. He and the crowd sighed when the couple glided away at the last moment.
Winter pursued autumn. Though the colorful figures eluded their pursuer, the red and orange scarves hanging from their clothing fell with every st
ep. The ground was soon littered with the bright-colored cloths. Beneath the scarves, the dancers wore dull brown robes. A bone pipe added its high-pitched wailing to the tune.
Melancholy mingled with despair in Duvain's chest. The music touched something deep inside him, and the lyrics and dance brought tears to his eyes. He knew the inevitable was coming: winter would triumph.
At last, the cloaked figure caught up to the two lovers, drawing them into the embrace of his white and grey robe. The young man and woman remained intertwined as they disappeared beneath the cloak, and the music fell to a quiet, mournful tune. A few final notes of the pipe, and it fell silent. The drum and hand bells faded into the night. Only the strumming lyre remained, accompanied by the haunting sound of the woman's singing.
Finally, her voice trailed off, leaving the lyre to carry them to the end. Yet, in those last moments, the tune changed again. The song remained deep and forlorn, yet here and there a few of the bright, cheery notes were sprinkled in. From beneath one corner of the white and grey robe, a green-gloved hand appeared.
Silence.
Thunderous applause broke from the crowd, and the people rose to their feet. With a broad grin, Elder Asmund lifted his cloak and helped the two dancers to stand. They swept a bow, which brought fresh cheers. The three of them supported the blind woman as the crowd shouted and whistled their approval. Though she blushed, a broad smile spread across her face.
Duvain found himself at a loss for words. Judging by the expressions of the others beside him, they felt something similar. Endyn brushed a tear from his cheek, and Owen swallowed hard. Weasel buried his face in his mug.
Oddly enough, Awr was smiling—an expression Duvain had never seen before.
"Always loved that," the grizzled man rasped. He spoke to no one in particular. "She's better than anyone I've seen in Storbjarg."
Duvain's eyebrows rose. Storbjarg was the largest Fehlan village—a city, really—home to the chieftain of the Fjall clan. When had Awr been among the Fjall?
Ragged Heroes: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 5) Page 11
