by K. J. Hargan
Chapter Five
The Bairn River
The hard, cold rain soaked Arnwylf’s slate blue, wool shirt as he ran through the brush along the edge of the Weald. The tan leather trousers he had also found at Rion Ta were sturdy, and protected his legs from thorns and slashing branches of low shrubs.
It was dark now, and he kept tripping on brush, roots and the uneven, tall grass. He could see the moon rising in the East through gathering, black clouds, and he knew that if he kept it on his right hand, he would continue south and reach the Bairn River.
He didn’t know exactly how he would cross the Bairn, and at night, too. But he knew the garonds with Frea would cross further west and then travel back towards their camps near Byland.
Every human in Wealdland knew that untold garond armies were massing there. They were rumored to be crossing the Flume of Gawry on rope bridges, one by one. It was only a matter of time until they marched straight for the men of Reia.
The men who dwelt in the Weald were another matter. They kept to themselves, safely nestled in their mazes of ancient trees.
Any garond who met effective resistance regrouped south in Byland. So, Arnwylf knew the garonds who had Frea must be heading there.
If she was harmed in any way, Arnwylf thought to himself... No, best not to consider it. They will pay, he thought. And then, black thoughts swirled in his head.
Arnwylf paused to catch his breath. Hunger was creeping up on him, and the relentless rain was finally chilling his bones. Lightning flashed far away.
But, he would not stop. He roused himself. He would find Frea and kill the garonds who took her. Thunder rolled across the hills.
In the deepening darkness, Arnwylf stumbled upon a campsite. It seemed a puzzle to him. He quickly whirled around, in case someone was creeping up from behind. But, there was no one there. The scrubby meadow on the edge of the Weald was empty and silent.
Arnwylf stopped to carefully examine the simple camp site. Someone had stopped for the night. A leather awning was pitched against the rain. A small fire had been started, but was only recently out. Utensils and other tools were scattered. There had been a struggle. Someone had fled his attackers and they had pursued.
They could be the garonds who had Frea. Perhaps they had come across this poor ranger and attacked him. There were no corpses, no blood, no Frea. So she might still be alive.
Arnwylf saw how the brush was crushed and broken in one direction. This was the direction of the fight. Tracking in the rain was difficult, and at night nearly impossible. Arnwylf looked for the signs of broken bushes and trampled foliage. The signs seemed to tell of several attackers against the ranger, moving quickly. The attack was wild and fierce, branches and shrubs crushed.
And then, it seemed the ranger broke into a run with his attackers in hot pursuit. Arnwylf almost lost the traces, but it was clear the parties had veered onto a distinct path that could only lead to the river.
Arnwylf had been running for several hours now and didn’t know if he had the strength to join in a fight. He was hungrier and colder with each passing moment.
Then, Arnwylf heard the rushing sound, faint, but obvious. It had to be the Bairn. He had never seen it before, but he had been to the Holmway River with his father and knew that incessant whistling sound of a river grown fat with rain. Perhaps the fighters had fallen into the river, or turned aside. No matter, his course was clear. If there were garonds, Arnwylf would deal with them.
As Arnwylf neared the river, he began to hear snarls and taunts. He knew it must be them. Wearily, he approached.
The ground was soggy and pools of water gathered along the grassy banks of the Bairn. Arnwylf made his way to an embankment. Below him, in a marshy spot along the river’s edge, three garonds encircled a figure in the water. The garonds stayed to the drier, high ground, swinging their clubs and barking insults. With the moon’s light diffuse through the storm clouds, the combatants were silhouettes poised for battle. The Bairn behind them glowed with the eerie light of wild rapids.
In his delirium, Arnwylf thought the surrounded man, up to his waist in the tributary, was Frea. He thought he saw her red hair, her pale, frightened face. His mind burned white hot with rage. These must be the three who took her, he thought.
With a blood curdling screech Arnwylf leapt forward.
As he leapt, a lightning bolt struck Arnwylf. His body hovered with the light. The energy seemed to pull him up and out towards the combatants. The whole world was illuminated. The leather wrapped hilt of the bronze sword gripped in his hand burned. Arnwylf felt at peace. He could see the upturned faces of the garonds staring up at him in horror. And, he could see clearly now, who he thought was Frea, was a man standing in the water, looking up in awe. All in a split second, Arnwylf landed before the garonds, smoking, and smelling of burnt ozone. He crouched, staring.
As Arnwylf rose, he looked directly at the garonds with eyes glowing with hate. Thunder rolled out in a deafening roar. Arnwylf said, raising his sword, “Prepare to burn in the hell created for your kind.”
The garonds, who were slack jawed at this apparition, screamed like little children, dropped their clubs, and ran away as fast as their squat, little legs could carry them, tripping and falling in the water, crying and shrieking.
Arnwylf staggered forward to the astonished man in the water.
Arnwylf held out a shaky hand. “Happy to rescue you, sir.” And then he collapsed into his arms.
The ranger helped Arnwylf back to his camp, despite Arnwylf’s delirious protestations that he must cross the river immediately.
The ranger introduced himself. “My name is Caerlund. I am an oresmith from the hills of Madrun. You saved my life you odd, young man. We can cross the river tomorrow. We must cross during daylight.”
With that, Arnwylf allowed Caerlund to dry him, feed him, and in an instant Arnwylf was asleep under the leather awning raised against the intensifying rain of the night.
With the cold gray dawn, Arnwylf awoke to the smell of frying fish. It was a scent wafting down from heaven. Caerlund bent over the camp fire. He turned to Arnwylf.
“We’d best move as quickly as possible,” Caerlund said. “Those nasty things may return with friends once they reckon you’re not the Lord of Lightning.”
“Lord of-," Arnwylf stumbled to his feet. “Frea! Who are you?”
“You remember nothing of last night.”
Arnwylf stared at the soaked ground trying to remember where he was and how he gotten here. Then he shook his matted blonde hair.
“No? My name is Caerlund. You saved me last night. You appeared in a bolt of lightning. Nifty trick. Got to teach me that. Reckon the nasties thought you were their boss, the Lord of Lightning.” Caerlund scrutinized Arnwylf for a moment. “Hmmm, in the dark, you might pass for what he’s reported to look like. Haven’t seen him meself. Hope I never do. Supposed to be a right nasty feller. Fish?”
Arnwylf stumbled forward and ate greedy handfuls of fried fish from the copper pan. Then he stopped.
“I’m grateful for your help,” he said.
“Hmmph. You were sent by Hapaun to first save me, then to help me cross the Bairn, I thinks.” Caerlund winked at Arnwylf, and Arnwylf felt instantly at ease with this oresmith. “My people’s legends tell of a lad arriving in a lightning bolt. Scupper me if ever I thought my old eyeballs would ever really see it.”
Caerlund was a short man, broad of shoulder, brawny, strong arms, brownish red hair, intense blue eyes, and with a reddish, brown beard. When he smiled, which was often, it seemed his wide mouth would split his head in two. His laugh was always a brief, loud guffaw.
Caerlund was all business and bustle as he packed his camp gear away into his large leather pack. The speed with which he moved was astonishing.
“Well then,” he said brandishing a bronze axe, “we have us a river to ford.”
Caerlund and Arnwylf retraced their steps from the previous night and found themselves on the banks of the Bairn. The
rain had stopped, but the river was deeper and wilder than ever.
Caerlund immediately set his axe to work on a birch growing nearby, and had it cut down and sectioned into four logs in no time. Arnwylf helped him lash them together with bark from the tree. And, they had a passable raft before the sun had fully risen, its rays bursting through the dispersing storm clouds.
“What’s so urgent on the other side, Arnwylf?” Caerlund carefully asked.
“A... friend, she’s been taken, I have to...” Arnwylf didn’t know exactly how to explain himself.
“You’ll find her. I know,” Caerlund softly said. “After all, you’re the true Lord of Lightning, I reckon.” With that Caerlund pushed the raft into the water.
The makeshift boat was unsteady and Caerlund and Arnwylf clung tight. With one hand Caerlund tried to guide the craft with a pole cut from one of the branches of the birch tree.
Arnwylf felt the strength and power of the river insistently pushing. Then Arnwylf saw a triangular fin rip through the surface. Arnwylf clutched Caerlund and pointed.
“What the- Marowdowr! There are no Marowdowr in the Bairn!” Caerlund exclaimed in fear. Then, two triangular fins broke the surface at the same time.
“There are two!” Arnwylf cried.
Caerlund desperately worked the birch pole, trying to guide their unsteady raft. Then, like an explosion, the triangular face of the marowdowr burst out of the water. Its face was white, its crown dark blue, its eyes black and dead, and its mouth full of jagged, triangular teeth. As its huge mouth clamped down on the splintering birch raft, its dead, black eyes rolled back into an eerie white.
An instant after the first struck, the second attacked on the other side. The small craft rocked and buckled.
“We’re done for!” Caerlund shouted. Then, “Look!”
Three, light brown, crescent shaped fins broke the rushing surface, then four more.
“Merebroder! Praise Eann!” Caerlund bellowed.
The merebroder were smooth, long, tan brown, with snouts that wore a perpetual smile. They deftly slammed into the marowdowr, in twos and threes. The merebroder attack on the marowdowr was quick and devastating, and the effect was immediate as the vicious water beasts rolled over in the water in pain, then rapidly wriggled away, swimming downstream.
Arnwylf and Caerlund laughed in astonished relief. The merebroder lifted their smooth heads out of the water to stare with dark eyes at the desperate men.
As if they knew just what the men so desperately desired, gently, the merebroder pushed their bodies against the raft, guiding it to the opposite side, breath spraying from the hole in the tops of their heads.
Caerlund and Arnwylf quickly waded ashore. Sopping wet, Caerlund shook his head. “Marowdowr in the Bairn! They’re beasts of the sea!” Caerlund then turned back to the merebroder swimming together in a joyful group.
“Thank you!” He called.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf spoke respectfully to their slowly swimming rescuers. As if in response, a smaller, younger merebroder leapt clear out of the water in a thrilling arc. Arnwylf was filled with wonder.
“I ne’er saw Marowdowr in the river afore, only out at sea. Must be the bones and whatnot the garonds have been throwing into the water these days,” Caerlund mused. “Hmmph. But the Lake of Ettonne doesn’t join with the sea. Something’s wrong there. Never mind.” Caerlund scratched his beard. “I seen Merebroder in rivers afore. Thank Eann, they came just in time.” Then Caerlund looked sideways at Arnwylf as if he was the cause of both their fortune and misfortune. Arnwylf looked down in embarrassment.
After climbing the bank, Caerlund faced Arnwylf.
“I head east, and to home, Arnwylf. Come with me. Your friend is lost.” Caerlund said putting his other hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.
“No.” Arnwylf said. “She is alive and I will find her. Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy.”
“And yours, I reckon.”
After a long handshake, Arnwylf and Caerlund went their separate ways.
Arnwylf headed south and west looking for any busily traveled trails Frea’s captors might use. But, before the morning was over, a large company of heavily armed garonds captured Arnwylf.
Frea felt the rocking of the horse under her stomach. The grass of the Meadowland whipped at her face. The garond held her tight. She had seen her father crumble to the ground and hoped he wasn’t seriously hurt.
The world flashed by in a blur. She knew she was far away from her family before the seriousness of her situation began to sink in. A rain began and the horses continued at a gallop. They rode over the flat rolling hills of the Eastern Meadowland, which were rich greens and tan yellows. The tall, dry, summer grasses were no problem for the horses and it felt like flying. Sometimes birds or nesting animals burst from their hiding places as the horses sprinted past.
The garonds were frightened and angry. She could hear them snap at each other in their guttural tongue, and surprisingly, she could almost tell what they were saying. Frea remembered the first time she had seen a garond. It was in her home castle of Ethgeow. She was only eight years old, and the shackled garond was paraded to the center throne room for all to see. Its clothes were simple woven fibers, unlike the leather and bronze armor all garonds now wore. The creature fell to its knees and pled in its grunting tongue. The lords and the ladies of the court of Haergill, dressed in fine reds and golds of the realm, laughed and taunted the poor thing.
It seemed to Frea, at the time, that the garond long ago kept saying “Please”, as though its people were in great danger.
Frea remembered Apghilis, an atheling, or lord of the court, a beefy man with a fat, square head, and small, cruel eyes, slapping the garond to the grey flagstones of the throne room. Her grandmother led her away as Varknifl and the other vassals of Apghilis pounced on the creature and began to viciously beat it.
As she left, she caught her father’s eye. Haergill sat as though he was entrapped in his royal robes. His battle crown seemed to be shackling his head. He sat completely still as the garond cried in pain. His eyes darted to Frea, and as she left, she saw the sad, painfully disgust with which her father’s station had ensnared him.
Night was falling and they had covered a great distance. Frea began to realize the garonds who had kidnapped her had not killed her right away for some reason, but she couldn’t fathom why.
The darkness of the night enveloped them. The dark storm clouds blotted the light of both moons, and all was black and shadows. The rain intensified. Lightning flashed behind them and the garond’s horses abruptly halted in fear. Thunder rolled across the meadows.
The garonds loudly grunted at each other in their language, then turned their horses to the left, riding hard to the south. Frea knew they were headed for the river.
Frea felt sick and her stomach hurt. The horse was slick, and she knew she might be killed if she fell from the horse at full gallop. Under the purple, woolen frock she had found at Rion Ta, she wore a small dagger. Its sheath dug into her side. The garonds hadn’t taken the time to search her, so she kept the small blade hidden for the right time.
The rain pelted them like small, incessant stones. Lightning flashed again far away. The garonds pulled their horses to a halt. Frea was unceremoniously dumped from the horse. The three garonds pulled on the manes of their horses so that the horses would lie down on the wet grass. Then the garonds themselves plopped down on the soaked grass. The garond who stole Frea clutched a handful of her red hair in his meaty hand. Thunder grumbled from far off.
The garonds grunted to each other. Frea identified the three by their facial characteristics. There was Boil, named for an enormous boil on his nose; Drool, because he always did; and Eyebrow, who had one massive, bushy eyebrow. Frea was surprised to find she was beginning to understand their tongue more and more. Boil complained that he was hungry and they should eat Frea immediately. Eyebrow, the one who had a
death grip on her hair, and who seemed to be the leader, mentioned something about bringing all red haired humans to the master. Whereupon Drool cursed, and called his fellow garonds unpleasant names. Eyebrow threatened Drool and then they all settled down.
The four of them sat in the pouring rain next to their unhappily shifting horses. A lone, pine tree nearby offered some cover, but the garonds were too thoughtless to use it.
Frea pulled at her captor and pointed at the tree. Drool and Boil stared at Frea then the tree. Eyebrow clouted Frea, and she stayed still.
“Idiot.” She said in garond tongue. Eyebrow looked up, thought, it couldn’t have been Frea, and then he looked over at Drool.
“You are the idiot,” Eyebrow said to Drool.
“What is it you say?!” Drool half rose.
“Sit down,” Boil said. And the garonds miserably lay down in the battering rain.
Frea was freezing, but also very tired. So much had happened this day, the garonds leading them from Bittel in shackles, then freedom by the Archer, hunting the stauer, empty Rion Ta, the elf, the attack, her kidnapping.
As she drifted on the edges of sleep, Frea thought of her grandmother. She never knew her real name, only the name she had called her in childhood, Miri. Her grandmother had a stern, strong face, a close set of white and grey curls.
Frea remembered finding her mother and an atheling whose face she couldn’t discern in a dark corridor of Ethgeow at night. Bad dreams had driven sleep from her eyes. The Atheling held her mother tightly insisting Haergill would never return from his latest war campaign. Her mother, Halldora, did not answer the atheling, but her eyes were all aflame. The atheling raised his hand to strike her mother.
“Dare you risk a most gruesome death upon your lord’s return?” Miri’s voice rang out like a clarion in the stone corridors.
The atheling did not turn, but released Halldora as though she were a stinging nettle, and strode down the corridor covering his face. Torches were brought and servants gathered. Halldora insisted there was no bother.
Miri found Frea silently weeping in a dark corner.
“You saw?” She said. Frea nodded her head. “And you were afraid for your mother?” Again Frea nodded.
“And there was nothing a small girl like you could do.” Miri gathered her granddaughter in her strong arms. Frea felt instantly safe. “There will come a day, dear daughter of my daughter, when you will have strength to fight, and it may seem strange, but your greatest move against your enemy will be to not fight.”
Frea drifted to sleep with happy memories of the once mighty Ethgeow, grey stone spires, long curling flags of a golden sun on a rich, red field, streaming from turrets, athelings parading in bronze armor, ladies bedecked with white and yellow jewels moving gracefully, a happy prosperous people.
Frea remembered how her father had often asked her to sing for him, and although she was but a child, and made up the tune and words, the music seemed to erase the care and worry from her father’s face like magic. Weeping, Frea fell asleep.
In the cold, wet morning the garonds silently mounted their horses, eyes shiftily watching for enemies. They rode like mad men to the Bairn River, a hungry and grumbling Boil constantly staring over at Frea.
Near the river were flocks of black and white birds that rose into the air with a mournful call of “pee-teeee”. Boil and Drool chased after them, but caught none. Frea thought they were idiotically comedic, but dare not laugh.
When they reached the banks of the Bairn, the river was swollen and wild from the night’s rain. Eyebrow threw Frea from his horse, and then the garonds dismounted and howled with rage. Frea dared not run.
“We must ride west at least another day on empty stomachs!” Boil bellowed at Eyebrow.
“Be silent, fool!” Eyebrow bellowed back, with a death grip on Frea’s hair.
Drool circled around to stand by Boil. “She’s not much meat. She won’t be missed.”
Eyebrow murderously growled at this insubordination.
Frea stared out at the white rapids of the Bairn. Without thinking, a song rose out of her. She sang of home, and family, happiness and peace. The garonds stood completely still as if bewitched. The song was mournful, but hopeful and the music in Frea was powerful and enchanting. The refrain ended with, “Peace and love at home.”
“Peace and love at home” Frea spoke again in garond.
The silence was palpable.
Tears welled in Drool’s eyes. Eyebrow stood completely still as if trying to understand the emotions stirring in his heart. But, with a rising scream, Boil lunged at Frea with his bronze clad club. Eyebrow swung around, and with his own club, crushed Boil’s skull with a one, wide stroke. Drool and Eyebrow regarded each other.
“Well?” Eyebrow snarled at Drool.
Frea felt the dagger underneath her purple woolen dress. She could draw and kill Eyebrow with a single slash. But then could she stop Drool? Frea seemed to hear her grandmother speak as though she was standing right behind her. “Your greatest move against your enemy will be to not fight.” Frea dropped her hand from her secret dagger.
“He was an idiot,” Drool spat on the corpse of Boil. “We should ride west along the river.” Drool nervously eyed Eyebrow’s massive, tensing shoulders, and then looked down at Boil’s body.
Drool quietly snarled sideways at Eyebrow and mounted his horse. They left the garond’s body on the sandy shore of the Bairn River. The three of them rode on looking for a place to ford the wild and rushing Bairn, as Boil’s riderless horse followed after.
