Black Warrior

by Jolie Jaquinta

  Chapter 37 – Style vs Substance

  Winter stood next to Arnhvatr in the pavilion overlooking the combat field. An elaborately dressed Orcish herald bellowed out Balanoptera's name, his lineage, his rank and his medals. The elaborate detail used with each was clearly highly embelished. But no one knew brash bluster better than the Orcs. Balanoptera preened visibly under the praise and pounded the ground and roared in counterpoint to the more grandly put accomplishments. The rank and file of the 22nd loved it and cheered their hero on mightily.

  Arnhvatr's champion was a massive hulk of a man. Not nearly as large as Balanoptera, but that would have been hard for any human. However, unlike the generally emaciated and withered frame that most Forsaken had, this hero seemed to be crafted entirely of muscle. They did not make any grand announcements, but did make a great show of choosing weapons. He picked up a lance, examined its straightness minutely, then hefting it between his hands. It bent easily and he threw it away with disgust and moved to the next one.

  “This... Balanoptera... is your brother?” asked Arnhvatr, as they watched. “I do not see the family resemblance.”

  “Foster brother”, said Winter.

  “He fights for you gladly. You are close then?” continued Arnhvatr.

  “No”, said Winter. He didn't like this. But from what he could work out from quick whispered conversations with his mother, this had been the most any of the Forsaken had engaged with them beyond picking people to fight. If he was being judged, he might as well be straight spoken. It worked in the Underwater between very different cultures. It might work here. “We've always hated each other. I was fostered to the sea god to replace his daughter, whom my mother killed.”

  Arnhvatr looked from Winter to Devonshire and back to Winter again. “Does your Mother make a habit of killing gods?”

  “Only the ones that piss her off”, said Winter, grinning at Arnhvatr.

  Arnhvatr nodded slowly. “I will bear that in mind.”

  The two fighters faced off in the arena. There was some perfunctory ceremony from the Orcish herald and the Forsaken officiate and they withdrew, leaving the two combatants. They eyed each other warily for a while, judging stance and reaction. Then, Balanoptera adopted a casual stance, drew a deep breath and bellowed an incoherent roar.

  The Forsaken looked a little surprised and tensed up, but there was no other move other than a smattering of applause from the Orcs. So, instead, he shook his spear and bellowed back.

  Winter clapped politely. “Well, at least he has a sense of humor”, he said. “What was his name?” he asked Arnhvatr.

  “Tabarus”, said Arnhvatr. “Not the brightest. But he's the closest match to your champion for brawn.”

  “Tabarus?” said Winter, rolling the sound around his tongue. “That doesn't sound Norslander. Is it a nickname?”

  “No”, said Arnhvatr. “He's from Kemet.”

  Winter looked surprised. “Do you have many Kemet fighters in your ranks?”

  Arnhvatr turned from the circling fighters. “Do you think, after more than a thousand years, we would keep to the same petty divisions of our former lives?” he asked. “There may have been four armies of four nationalities at the start. But we were all wronged by our gods. We're all Forsaken now.”

  Winter was stunned. He had come here assuming that this division of the Forsaken was the Norslanders. The people of his father. That he would have some sway over them because of that relationship. He looked around at the Forsaken around him. He was no expert at human racial distinction. And their time cursed bodies were far from human norm. But a thousand years was a long time. What Arnhvatr said made sense. It was obvious in fact. Constant infighting probably meant constant back stabbing and changing loyalties.

  “There are still four divisions of Forsaken”, said Winter, thinking it through. Given the animosity shown by the Forsaken he had run down on his march over here for this division, it was pretty clear they didn't share one unifying command structure. “If you do not fight under one flag for creed or country, what do you fight for?”

  Arnhvatr watched the fighting for a bit. Tabarus was not swift, but he was the swifter of the two. He darted in and out, jabbing at Balanoptera when the chance presented itself. Balanoptera satisfied himself with taking great thundering swipes and stamps, making the ground tremble.

  “Each person fights for different reasons”, Arnhvatr said quietly. “Some fight because they have fought for so long. It was what they are good at and they seek to challenge themselves to do better and better. Others fight because they have fought for so long and do not know what else to do. There is no rest or respite in the Black Hole.”

  “But they all fight for you”, said Winter, trying to draw him out.

  “Yes”, said Arnhvatr, standing taller. “They fight for me. They do not do so because some god or general made me leader.” He made a deprecating gesture. “I was a raw recruit in the apocalypse. They fight for me because I lead them to victory. And because I do it in a way that suits their temperament.”

  “The other leaders, then”, said Winter, “they fight differently?”

  “As different as these two”, said Arnhvatr, pointing to the battle.

  It was clear that Tabarus was the better fighter. His moves were precise and well thought out. Balanoptera had immense size and immense strength. But he also had some sort of instinctual cunning. There were several times when Tabarus set him up, Balanoptera fell for it, but right at the last minute he realized he was doomed and pulled something. Dust in the face, sweeping Tabarus's feet out from under him, and even sitting on him at one point. Everyone was watching intently wondering if Tabarus would finally set up a situation that Balanoptera's luck didn't win him out of.

  “Tabarus will win”, said Winter.

  “Are you so certain?” said Arnhvatr.

  “You would not pick someone who would lose”, said Winter.

  “Your foster brother is not doing that badly”, pointed out Arnhvatr.

  “You would not pick someone who would win easily”, said Winter. “You've been doing this a lot longer than I have.”

  “If you knew you were going to lose, why did you fight?” asked Arnhvatr.

  Winter looked straight back at him. “If I did not fight, I would also lose. Since losing is a foregone conclusion, it isn't important. What is important is how I conduct myself down the path I have chosen.”

  Arnhvatr looked at him very long and hard.

  The end was a long time coming.

  Tabarus managed to impale Balanoptera eventually. But with such mass and such blubber the blow was not immediately fatal. But now Tabarus had lost his weapon. When he reached for another one Balanoptera mocked him so fiercely that Tabarus abandoned it and fought on with just his fists. Several broken ribs and a crushed leg later, Balanoptera had lost so much blood he could only thrash around in the dirt while Tabarus beat repeatedly on his forehead. Since Tabarus could stand, and Balanoptera could not, the two officials declared the Forsaken the winner.

  Arnhvatr and Winter entered the ring. The Forsaken leader passed his wine cup to Tabarus and sent him from the field. Winter bent over and waved his hand in front of Balanoptera's unswollen eye. There was no reaction. A full squad of Orcs entered to lift him from the field.

  “The fight was conducted fairly and with honor”, said Winter, loudly for those assembled. “I concede the victory to you.” He bowed. There was some polite clapping from the Orcs, led by Porterhouse.

  Arnhvatr nodded in return. “You will not have the honor of leading my army today”, he said. “But your brother conducted himself well on your behalf and I promise you a position of honor within it.”

  There was some more polite applause before Winter did a double take. “Wait, what?”

  Arnhvatr looked at him in mock surprise. “Do you now remember the terms? You challenged my leadership. If you won, you would lead my army. Since you lost, you must serve my army.” Everyone all around the field went very q
uiet.

  Winter swallowed heavily and his heart beat fast. The training Conscience had given him kicked in and his mind started generating possible attack options. In the corner of his vision he could see his Mother. It was subtle, but he knew enough magic to see that she had summoned a local reservoir of mana and was poised to unleash it, but was looking to him for guidance. He took a deep breath and pushed the rage deep down in him. That was not him. That was Othr’s soul, trying to break out. That was not him.

  “Were the terms not clear?” asked Arnhvatr. He didn't taunt, but he did defy him to say otherwise.

  “The terms were not clear to me”, said Winter, slowly. “Given how your champion conducted himself on your behalf, I have to assume you are an honorable person and the terms were clear to you from the start.” He exchanged a glance with his Mother before continuing. “The fault is mine. I accept your interpretation of terms as fair.” He bowed his head. “How shall I serve your army?”

  “As our god, of course”, said Arnhvatr.

  Winter's head snapped up. “What? Isn't that what I first said?”

  “No”, said Arnhvatr. “You wanted to command us as your worshipers. For us to serve you. To impose your will upon us.” He folded his arms. “I am commanding you to serve us as our god. For you to be the divine expression of our will.”

  Winter looked at him wide eyed. This ancient horror had completely, thoroughly and utterly outfoxed him. He gave him what he came here seeking, but not at all in the way he sought it. He had heard the clerical debates between a god's followers and the follower's god. But he had always thought it was stupid semantics. They just wanted Othr back. But not the Othr who had forsaken them, but the one who had supported them.

  Conscience chuckled dryly in his mind's ear. “You should be more careful what you wish for.”

  Winter blinked the moisture out of his eyes. He looked up to make sure his mother wasn't going to do something rash. Her eyes brimmed the same as his. “So be it”, he said quietly.