A Lord's Duty (The Chronicles of Galennor Book 1)

by J. S. Crews

  “Aye,” the boy replied, regaining some of the edge to his voice. “You sent men to watch his back. The four of them together are as strong as an army, I’d wager.”

  The boy hadn’t even attempted to hide the sarcasm in his voice, and now it was Vytaus’s turn to be annoyed. Insolent turd, he thought to himself before responding aloud, “Aye, nursemaid. I gave him three men. Never mind that it was three of our very best, men I would trust with my own life. And have for that matter. More than once. I suppose that you, with all your wisdom, would’ve sent a whole army?”

  Belios’s hackles were rising as he sensed his father was laying a logic trap for him, yet there wasn’t much he could do to avoid it. Unwilling, however, to go exactly where his father was trying to lead him, he put in, “I would have sent enough men to make sure they got back here alive. If it comes to blood, the four of them will be swamped.”

  “Well,” Vytaus said, shaking his head, “it’s a good thing I’m still in charge here and not you. The gods only know what a mess you’d have us mired in.”

  He could see he’d succeeded in angering the boy by the way he was shaking his head with that jaw locked and his fists clenched. Nothing wrong with that; Vytaus was not a man who believed in coddling his sons. Both Belios and Brandr were plenty old enough to be called a fool when acting foolish. The problem was that he needed his eldest to actually learn this lesson, and not just allow animosity to wash it out of his mind.

  Turning in his sons direction now for the first time in the conversation, he placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Listen to me. I know there aren’t enough of them to be able to fight a battle. But I didn’t send them to fight, and there are places that four men can go that four-hundred or even forty cannot.”

  He could see the boy’s hot blood beginning to cool as he accepted the lesson. He added, “It’s information we need, son. I need to know what to believe, and who can I trust better than my own flesh and blood?”

  Belios nodded his understanding, but he wasn’t completely bested in the game of wits either. As Vytaus began turning to walk away, he had one last comeback for his father. “I’m your flesh and blood too, Father. You could’ve sent me instead.”

  Vytaus paused for the briefest instant, struck by the way the boy had turned his logic around and used it against him. Turd is getting too smart, he thought to himself. Guess he has been paying attention, after all. Aloud, he replied, “I needed you here to keep me from chopping those damn Galenni’s heads off, nursemaid. You know how much they irk me.”

  That said, he quickly walked away before the boy could say more. What Vytaus did not want to tell Belios was that the elder son had, in fact, been his first choice. It was true what he had said about the value of having one of his own blood carry out the fact-finding mission, but the real reason he chose his younger son was something he would rather not speak about. Strange forces were moving out there somewhere, and Vytaus was troubled.

  He had sent Mileka and her people to one of the outlying villages furthest away from her former lands, where they were pretending not to be who they truly were. He had promised to keep them safe, but he worried about the consequences of it becoming widely known that he was harboring the wife of another chieftain—a woman whose husband wanted her dead, no less. That sort of thing went very much against the customs of the clans, and so it could cause problems the likes of which he would rather avoid.

  Paramount of all, he needed to know if what she had told him was true or just some story concocted to cover her own guilt. Uslan was the closest thing to a friend Vytaus could claim outside of his own kin, and besides that he was also a very powerful man. Crossing such as he was something Vytaus did not relish doing needlessly, yet his own sense of honor dictated he not return Mileka and her people to the clutches of a man who sounded like one bewitched.

  And that was the crux of it. If her story truly was fact, then dark powers were making themselves known, and Vytaus had feared sending his appointed heir out of his sight. Losing his younger son would break his heart, but losing the elder would endanger the entire clan. It was his responsibility as chieftain to protect that legacy.

  Lost in those dark thoughts, he was almost bowled over by a gaggle of wild boys. He cursed, aiming a kick at the nearest arse, but he missed his mark. The little vagabonds just kept going without a moment’s pause. Only one even bothered turning his head to acknowledge Vytaus and it was a familiar face: the Galenni boy he had saved from the Drua’s sacrifice.

  That one was proving to be a surprise.

  Vytaus had been wondering for weeks what had pushed him to save the boy. Finally, he had convinced himself that the youngster’s defiance in the face of the scraggly priest’s blade had impressed him. Surely such mettle was a sign of worth.

  He knew there was still a chance the boy would have to die eventually. He had set out to adopt a youth who had watched Vytaus’s men slaughter or else enslave his true kin. Such things were not unheard of among the Wodonni, but this was no toddler taken from another clan in war, growing up with little or no memory of his own people. This one would, in a short span of years, be a man who might seek vengeance, but that was a problem for another season.

  Vytaus had also soon discovered his defiance was not limited to facing the capering priest’s bloody scythe. His weakling family had branded him with the ludicrous greenlander name Martyn, and he refused to acknowledge being called anything else. Beatings did not help. No matter what he was threatened with or how many thumps he took, he simply bore it with stoicism.

  Finally, despairing that he could do nothing with him, Vytaus had tossed him out among the village boys that ran wild. Their behavior, while derided to their faces was secretly encouraged, because the Wodonni liked their younglings to have a wild, intractable streak as long as it only went so far. Obedience to clan and their father’s fists was required, but in all other things a boy should resist so that he would grow to be a man who valued independence.

  Vytaus hoped that throwing the stubborn boy to those wolves would accomplish what he was beginning to worry he could not with beatings and blustering: to bring him to heel and, at the same time, show him he could have a place among the Wodonni. He also thought Martyn might make a friend or two among the weaker boys who banded together against the bullies running things.

  Every time Vytaus had seen him after that, he had sported scrapes and bruises, but that was expected. The surprising thing, however, was that lately Martyn could regularly be seen among those leading the gaggle of miscreants, instead of following in their wake with the weaker ones. I must keep an eye on that one, he thought.

  “Gotta be quick to nail one of that bunch, lord.” That was Horgas speaking. He was of an age with Vytaus and a cousin of some stripe; he was also one of Vytaus’s sturdiest fighters and most trusted followers. He was standing beside the wagon that held the cache of weapons for which they’d just traded.

  “Just throwin’ somethin’ works best, I’ve found,” he continued as though it were normal to be having such a conversation. “Rocks and such. A hunk of firewood works in a pinch.”

  Vytaus could not help but smile at the absurdity of that mental image. Shaking his head, he replied, “Am I not keeping you busy enough, Horgas? You have time for throwing rocks at children?”

  “Bah,” was the reply. “For that bunch, I make time. They’re closer to a mess of rats than children.”

  The chieftain was still shaking his head as he put his hand under the tarp covering the wagon’s contents. As he was feeling around, he said, “I want you to take this wagon down to storage. Grab a couple of the other men to help. Tell them I said so. I want you to personally make sure these weapons are properly oiled before storing them. We should still have casks of seal blubber from our trading with the Troglons last year. Use that.”

  He added, “I don’t trust those Galenni cutthroats to have done it properly, and half of our own people would muck up the job, given half a chance. Don’t want rust getting
to them before we get a chance to start using them on the greenlanders.”

  “As you say, lord,” was the response. Horgas had always been a good man. He disappeared around the far side of the wagon to carry out the order, but waited until his chieftain was finished with what he was doing.

  Vytaus was still feeling around blindly under the tarp, but suddenly his hands closed over something promising. It was the right shape and texture—hard and smooth to the touch. Pulling it out to get a look at it, he smiled. It was a glass bottle full of dark liquid and with strange writing on the label. He could not read it, of course, but he recognized the script.

  Most of the time this far north, if a man wanted a drink his only choices were mead or ale. That was assuming the stores weren’t running low, of course. Both of those drinks were brewed during the short northern summer, and they nearly always ran out over the course of the long winters. At that point, all that was left was fermented goat’s milk. Needless to say, Vytaus had long ago learned the wisdom of watering down his ale and mead to make them last.

  Good southern wine was something of a delicacy, not often enjoyed in the Northlands. It was made from some kind of fruit that would not grow in colder climes, and so the Wodonni could not make their own. The greenlanders apparently made oceans of the stuff, however, because it sometimes made its way beyond their borders. A case had been included in the deal they had just made, and Vytaus intended to crack open a bottle. Tucking it under his arm, he signaled to Horgas that he was finished and smacked the side of the wagon as it began rolling away.

  He made his way to the longhouse with his prize, passing beneath the ancient elk skull above the entrance and unconsciously reaching up to touch the muzzle. He could not recall when he had begun that ritual of fondness, but it was a time-tested one. He had often wondered on the reasoning behind his ancestor’s choice of the elk as spirit animal for their clan.

  Other clans had chosen other beasts for myriad reasons, not all of which fell within the realm of reality. Many truly believed themselves linked somehow to the creatures they venerated, including such absurdity as believing themselves descended from them like the People of the Wolf. On the other hand, wolves were at least fierce predators. The same could not be said for the elk, a typically gentle and stupid beast by comparison. Elk were neither predatory nor elusive when hunted, though they were sometimes difficult to locate as they kept to the deeper woods and marshes.

  If pressed, though, they could sometimes be fierce. The long, distinctive antlers grown by the males could wreak havoc, backed by the sheer size and weight of the beasts. Normally tender-natured or not, few things in this world were more dangerous than a bull elk tracking a cow during mating season. Even the fiercest of warriors would find themselves climbing a nearby tree after having a cow wander near their campsite during rutting season. Crazed by lust, the bulls would maim and kill indiscriminately, the noise of the antler-to-antler fighting between competing males reverberating for miles.

  The official dogma handed down from the elders was that the elk was chosen because of its sexual potency and the passion evident in the crazed lust of the rutting season. These were considered signs of masculinity and endurance and even bravery in the beast’s willingness to fight over sexual rights to a female.

  While that may have influenced the choice of totem, Vytaus was a practical enough man to understand there was another reason that likely outweighed all else: food. The size of the beasts meant each kill produced a large amount of meat, and they truly were not difficult prey once located, being slow and lumbering creatures. In a place where the country was hard and survival an ongoing struggle, having such a blessing at hand was thought to be supernaturally ordained, and it just so happened that the wilderness where his people had settled was rich in the beasts.

  Their entire culture had been molded around the worship of the Great Elk as a beast of bounty. They fed and clothed the people; their hides were used in the construction and weather-proofing of homes; and tools and weapon-hilts were fashioned from their bones and antlers. Those were but a few among the great many benefits.

  The elk were only hunted now ritually and in times when need was great in order not to deplete their numbers. Allowing the sacred and venerated creatures to be hunted into extinction was a concept that represented anathema to the beliefs of the People of the Elk, for they believed that when the elk were gone from the forests it would be a sign of the ending of the people themselves.

  Vytaus, for his part, wondered how the elders managed to conveniently ignore the fact that the declining population was itself an omen of the very endtimes spoken of in such prophecies. Such things were ill luck to speak of openly, however, and so he shook his head to clear the thoughts from his mind.

  The afternoon had grown long, stretching into early evening, and Vytaus was well into the bottle of sweet southron wine when the slave entered. The chieftain was sprawled in his high seat, drinking from a clay cup and lost in thought. The girl approached warily, unsure how to interrupt his solitude without feeling the back of his hand. This one rarely acted with unnecessary cruelty toward his slaves, but she had learned long ago not to press her luck.

  Sparing her the need, he suddenly came out of his reverie and seemed to notice her for the first time. ”What is it?”

  She was caught by surprise, stumbling over the words for a moment before finally stammering, “Lord, your son bid me say you’re needed.”

  He perked up at that. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Is there word from my other son?”

  The skinny slave girl shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably, looking almost ready to start bawling. She looked confused for an instant, then stammered, “Lord, I... I... don’t know. No one said...”

  She glanced nervously toward the door and back as though wondering if he wanted her to go and check. Instead, he again rescued her from an awkward moment by raising his hand to get her attention. Of course she would not know. That was foolish of me to ask, he thought to himself. Wine must be dulling my wits. Aloud, he said, “Go and tell Belios that I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She needed no further encouragement, scurrying quickly away without another word. Vytaus waited a few moments before rising from his seat. As much as he would like to rush out and get the news about Brandr, there were perceptions of which a man in his position need always remain aware.

  His mood had turned dour—probably helped by the wine—as the hours grew long, and he had begun to worry in earnest about his younger son. Unfortunately, he could not act like any other father might. Rather, he must always project strength for any who might be seeking weaknesses they could exploit. It was tiresome, but it was also something he had gotten used to long ago.

  With that in mind, he suppressed his paternal angst and took his time. What would be would be, whether for good or ill, so he was only delaying his own knowledge of it. He rose from his seat, and walked over to take a long pull of water from the pitcher on the rough hewn wooden table where he took his meals. The wine had gotten to him more than he had expected. He would have to remember that the next time he opened a bottle.

  Figuring he had delayed enough, he slowly walked out of the longhouse and toward the gates as though he hadn’t a care in the world. It was something of a struggle to watch his own gait for signs of drunkenness as well as maintain his poise. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to break into a run, but he knew he must not. All the while, fear gripped his heart more and more with every step. He strained his eyes to try to look for any sign of his younger boy in the distance, but it was no use.

  As he neared the gate, he could see Belios staring intently down the hillside, and so he moved to join him. As he came up alongside, his eldest said nothing but simply pointed. Following the gesture with his eyes, Vytaus smiled despite the instinct to hide his feelings.

  There, approaching the fort on horseback and preparing to climb the switchback was Brandr, leading those his father had sent with him. The party
appeared unharmed, which spoke well for the results of their mission. That was when he noticed the others, however, and his smile began to fade.

  Trailing behind the riders was a gaggle of people on foot, here and there carrying sacks over their shoulders or children on their hips. Some were even leading scraggly-looking livestock. They were dejected and weary, and they did not belong here.

  Brandr was looking up the hill, and he paused when his eyes met his father’s. Vytaus could nearly hear his son’s slow sigh, the one he always gave when about to explain why he had done something he knew his father would be upset over.

  Boy, he thought to himself, what have you done?

  * * * * *

  “What were you thinking?”

  Vytaus was again slouching into his high seat in the audience chamber of the longhouse, this time from aggravation rather than worry. His sons stood before him, both of whom he wanted to throttle for different reasons. Brandr looked so much like he had when standing there as a child, awaiting his father’s punishment for something he had done wrong, that Vytaus would have almost found it heartwarming were he not ready to strangle the boy. Belios, on the other hand, was drawing almost as much ire for finding the situation somehow comical.

  Brandr was staring at his feet, obviously hesitant to answer. All was quiet; Vytaus had cleared the room, not wanting anyone else to hear what he and his sons discussed until he was ready to say something publicly. First, he must understand himself before he could hope to inform anyone else of the debacle his younger son had likely caused.

  The seconds stretched uncomfortably long, leaving doubts as to whether or not the boy would answer at all. His brother snickered yet again, and Vytaus glared angrily in his direction. “I’m glad you find this all so amusing,” the chieftain said with a false smile, dripping sarcasm.