by Robert Ryan
“Fair time,” Shorty echoed, “but to where? We’re heading south, but does that mean we’re striking for Unferth himself?”
Brand sat down, and the others joined him. Sighern did likewise, but he still gripped the staff that held up the banner.
“A good question,” Brand answered. “Whatever we do next, our direction must be southward. But we still have a choice. Gather more men as we go, or seek to strike swiftly while the enemy is chagrined by their loss.”
Taingern seemed relieved. “So you have not decided yet?”
“No.”
“That’s good. A hasty decision often leads to trouble.”
“Wise words,” Brand said with a grin, “but what you mean is that a decision based on emotion hinders sound judgement.”
Taingern looked thoughtful. “No one would blame you for being emotional.”
“Possibly not. But the Duthgar needs more from me than that. What I must decide now is how best to defeat Unferth.”
Shorty grinned. “Strike out for him now, so that our army follows hot on the heels of the news of his loss. Catch him with his pants down, so to speak.”
“Not quite the imagery I wanted,” Brand laughed. “But your point is well made. And what of you, Taingern? What do you advise?”
Taingern stretched out on the ground and plucked a stem of grass, which he then rolled between his fingers.
“These are the two questions we need to consider. How many men can Unferth still muster? And how many more can you gather to you as you go? No doubt, the slower you travel the more you will get.”
“I cannot be sure of exact numbers,” Brand answered. “But likely enough, Unferth could muster another five thousand men.”
“Fewer though, the quicker you strike for him and the less chance he has to prepare,” Shorty suggested.
“Quite right,” Brand agreed. “But our own army is now down to a little under a thousand men after yesterday’s battle. If I march quickly, I may only have time to double that. I could end up facing Unferth with an army of two thousand, but even caught by surprise he might be able to match that.”
“And if you march more slowly,” Taingern said, “how many more men could you gather?”
Brand thought on that. “Another two thousand, I would think. That would give me an army of four thousand in total.”
“It seems to me,” Shorty said, “that the slower you go the more you will end up being outnumbered.”
“So it could prove,” Brand said. “But there’s one other thing to consider.”
Shorty grunted. “You’re right. The magician.”
“Exactly. What he’s capable of in a battle, we don’t know. But his magic is powerful, so we can be sure to expect something. And there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Horta may learn of our victory last night by sorcerous means. Unferth may have warning, and therefore a chance to prepare long before normal messages reach him.”
Shorty kicked at the ground with his heel. “That puts a different light on things.”
Brand remained calm. Even after such a great victory, all was still in doubt. His instincts were the same as Shorty’s though. Move quickly and try to use speed itself as a weapon. But Unferth could at this very moment be thinking the same.
It was an interesting line of thought. Would Unferth come to him and attack? It was not really in the man’s nature. He preferred to move in the shadows and manipulate things like a spider in his web. And yet, he had been poked. How would he react?
The more he considered it the more he formed a definite belief. Unferth would have word of the battle swiftly. Horta would see to that. When news reached the rest of them, support for Unferth would diminish. He would begin to lose control. He would worry that other uprisings among the Duthenor would occur, separate from what was happening here. How best to counterattack that? By moving swiftly himself and attacking. And he would do so with everything he had to try to crush the rebellion definitively.
“Gentlemen,” Brand said. “I think we’ll meet Unferth on the road, for he’ll be coming to us.”
“Likely enough,” Taingern agreed. “And once more his forces will outnumber ours.”
“Indeed. And he will think to have the advantage of surprise. But surprise works two ways.”
Shorty grinned at him. “I like it when you have a plan. And I’m pretty sure I can see the glint of one in your eye right now. Am I right?”
3. Battle and Victory!
To march forward and fight, or to establish a fortified position were the choices Unferth gave his advisers. No one suggested any alternatives.
“Let Brand come,” said several of the men. “We can excavate earth ramparts. No matter the size of his army, we’ll have the advantage then.”
“And what if he skirts our fortified position and takes the king’s hall?” others argued. “Then the Duthenor will rise against us to a man and nothing will stop them.”
Another group were all for defending the hall itself. “What need have we for ramparts? Our army will outnumber his. All we need is to hold our ground until he comes and then defeat him.”
Few were the voices that argued in favor of marching forth to attack Brand. But to these Unferth paid most attention. It was the way he leaned himself. Too much was happening, and he had too little control of it. Setting out on a march would bring the men together, give him a greater position of authority as leader and help fortify his standing as a king. When Brand was beaten, there would be no dissent to his rule then. That was the one thing he must do above all others, and as quickly as possible.
His nephew had been the foremost proponent of this strategy. “Attack him!” Gormengil pressed. “Why should we suffer such as Brand to raise arms against us in our own realm? We have the advantage of surprise, thanks to Horta. Let us use that, and blot him and those who support him from the history of the Duthgar. Better that than to debate and whine and worry like a pack of half-witted dogs!”
Gormengil had not held back. It was his way, and he had enemies for it. But he had supporters too, and many of them. He was one to watch. Unferth had named him as heir, for he had no son of his own, but he intended to live a long while yet. But Gormengil knew no restraint when it came to ambition. What he said now was right, but he was to be trusted less for it. He always had secret motives.
“I have listened and considered and weighed all of your views,” Unferth said. “This is my decision. Gather the army. We march to war, and we march at dawn tomorrow.”
He turned to his personal servant. “Fetch my axe and armor. I ride to battle and victory!”
The man hurried off. He would retrieve the sacred battle apparel of the chieftains of the Callenor, what had never been worn in the lands of the Duthenor. Unferth had taken the rule without bloodshed, but there would be bloodshed now. The Duthgar would swim in a sea of red, and Brand would sink beneath the crimson tide.
Swiftly he gave orders and made plans. And the more he took charge the better the men obeyed him. It was a lesson learned, and he would not soon forget it. A leader must impose his will, and the more he did that the less dissention there would be.
As he slept that night though, the whisper of doubt returned to him. What if Brand won again, despite still having the smaller army? What if Horta failed once more to kill him by sorcery? And most of all, threaded through all his lesser fears was the greatest of them, the one that he did not just worry over but had seen begin, the loss of his authority over those he ruled. It was slipping away, and though he had drawn tight the reins of leadership once more, the dissention would return quickly at any setback.
It was a long night, and Unferth tossed and turned and drifted finally into a dark sleep. And he dreamed as he had never dreamed before. Here, in the shadow-world of his thought, he found his true self and the strength that was inside him.
A white-coated bull charged him, dark eyes blazing and head tilted down, his horns set to rip and impale. But wi
th a deft touch of Unferth’s hand the beast’s anger was stayed. It shook its head and then wandered off, grazing the sparse grass nearby as though nothing had happened.
Unferth strode away. A hawk flashed through the air, all wings and speed and confidence. That was him now. Unferth the hawk, lord of the sky.
The ground beneath his boots was withered and dry. Dead grass crunched beneath his tread. The sun beat down, but even as he felt the oppression of it, he thought of a cooling breeze and one rose to caress his skin.
Ahead was a range of mountains, purple-blue in the heat haze. There he knew he would find good shade beneath stunted trees or in the lee of some cliff. He turned toward it.
In the way of dreams he found himself there straightaway, winding his way down a rocky slope. There were no trees, stunted or otherwise, and he felt a prickle of unease as though unseen eyes watched him. What land was this that he dreamed of? It was not like the green hills of his home.
The heat dissipated. Steep walls of stone now towered either side over his path, and he walked down a canyon that was silent, still and peaceful. It was daylight, though dim in the declivity, and the stars filled the daytime sky like a thousand beautiful lights.
Benevolence washed over him in waves, and all was right with the world. A clatter of hooves sounded ahead, and some sort of animal like a mountain sheep leapt nimbly away from a pool of water and disappeared into vague shadows on the canyon sides. Unferth moved toward the pool.
It was clear as glass, but on its dark surface he saw the reflection of his own face. It seemed to him that he was a king of old. Wisdom etched his features, but there was strength there too. The courage of the heroes of legend was in his glance, and upon his head sat a crown of stars.
He knelt and drank of the water, finding it sweet and intoxicating as wine. It refreshed him, cured his thirst and filled him with strength.
With a graceful movement he stood, and found that he was not alone. A young man, dressed in strange robes of a golden hue, sat cross-legged on the stone shelf beside the pool.
“Greetings,” the man said. “I trust the water was pleasant?”
“Indeed.”
The young man gestured, and Unferth knew it as an invitation to join him. He too sat cross-legged, opposite his companion.
“My name is Char-harash.”
Unferth inclined his head. The man before him was highborn, probably royalty, that much was evident, but he himself was a king. He bowed to no one, though even seated he had the feeling that he should. He dismissed it.
Char-harash smiled, his face open and honest. “A king of your standing ever seeks wise counselors, does he not? And yet the voices of the multitude always clamor in your ears with petty concerns. Tell me that it is so?”
Unferth was pleased. Here was a man who understood his situation. “It is so.”
The young man nodded sagely. “It is always thus. But you are special. To you, I offer my services. The wisdom of the ages is at your disposal, and I shall aid you in your troubles. This is what you wish, above all else, yes?”
Unferth bowed his head. “You read my mind.”
The other man gazed calmly at him. “If I am to help you, you must say yes.”
“Yes, my lord. I wish your help above all else.”
Char-harash smiled. It was an easy smile, a smile to instill confidence. On another man, it would have seemed cruel. But on a lord such as Char-harash, it was fitting.
“Tell me of Brand.”
“He is the rightful lord of the Duthenor,” Unferth said. A vague feeling of unease overtook him once more, but the young man reached out and touched his hand.
“All is well. There shall only be the truth between us. That will be good, will it not?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What sort of man is Brand?”
“He is dangerous and hard to kill. His skill with a sword is said to be sublime. And he possesses magic too.”
The younger man considered that. “But you could beat him, could you not?”
“Of course.”
“What is his weakness?”
Unferth wanted to answer quickly, but this required thought. The water in the pool remained still and clear, and the gaze of the young man was intent.
“He has the weakness of all good men. Morals constrain him. If he cast them away, he could be truly great.”
The young man did not seem best pleased at that answer. Unferth sensed he wanted to know more about Brand’s personality, his style of leadership and the type of military strategies he employed. But Unferth knew none of those things.
Char-harash looked at him solemnly. “And how do you intend to beat Brand?”
“I will crush him by weight of numbers and surprise.”
The young man considered that. “Yes, these are strong tools in the hand of a skilled warlord. Strong indeed, but the warlord who wields them must be the best.” The young man looked at him intently once more. “Are you the best, Unferth?”
“I am. I was a chieftain, but I made myself a king. I united two tribes and I—”
“Who is second best to you?”
It was an easy question and Unferth answered quickly. “Gormengil, my lord.”
“Tell me about him.”
“The blood of chieftains is in his veins. He is young, ruthless and ambitious. He is quick to find trouble, but he can be subtle too, especially so for one of his age, though it’s not normally his way. And he can fight also. He’s a great warrior, greater than myself. Most people say he is the best fighter among the Callenor.”
Char-harash remained quiet, listening carefully, and then he seemed to come to a decision. He raised his hand and Unferth stopped speaking.
“All will be well,” the young lord said. “Rest easy and sleep now. Brand is a grave threat, but already steps have been taken against him and he is snared in a trap.”
“But what shall I—”
“Hush,” Char-harash commanded. “Sleep. All will be well.”
The young lord reached out and brushed his fingers against Unferth’s brow. A wave of contentment rolled over him. Sleepiness came with it and he felt his mind drift. The little canyon grew darker. The pool was lost from sight. Only Char-harash remained, a golden-clad lord standing tall and proud as a king of old. For the first time, Unferth saw that in his left hand was a wooden rod, pale white and gleaming with a sheen of sorcerous power. In his right was a sword, the edge wickedly sharp.
Char-harash leveled the wooden rod at him. “Sleep,” he commanded. And Unferth slept.
The night wore on, and Unferth dreamed once more, but he did not meet again the golden-robed lord who promised to help him. When he woke, he felt better rested than he had in years. And calm too, considering that he marched to war.
He put the night’s dreams from his mind. Reality called instead, for today would be a day of history, for he himself would ride to war and the armor and weapon of his great ancestor that founded the Callenor realm would once more inspire terror among their foes.
His manservant entered the room, bearing a tray of food. He did not speak, having long since learned to answer questions only. Unferth wished he had more like him: well trained, silent and obedient.
He quickly ate a meal of bread, thickly sliced ham and soft cheese. While he did so, the manservant waited nearby should he want something. But all Unferth wanted to do was ride. He dismissed him, finished eating and then looked at the armor. It was laid out on a chest before him, and it sent a thrill up his spine.
Reverently, he pulled the mail-shirt over his head, placed the gauntlets on his hand and the helm on his head. Then he took up the weapon of his forefathers. It felt good in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the door and strode down the length of the hall and outside.
Warriors gazed at him, and then bowed. There was fear in their eyes, or so he thought. If not, there should be. He knew he looked the part of a battle king. And soon the Duthenor would see him, and tremble at the folly
of even thinking about rebellion.
He led a procession of his closest friends and best warriors down out of the hall and into the field beyond the village. Here his army was gathered, or at least the first part of it.
Over a thousand men waited. Others would swell the army in the next village and the next. But it was these men who saw him first, and their eyes were riveted to him. This was a sight most had not seen in their lifetime.
Unferth came to a standstill near where his mount was tethered. He stood before it so all could see him. The chain mail shirt he wore was of the finest steel, each ring wrought and linked by cunning skill beyond the reach of mortal blacksmiths. It was lighter than it should be, stronger than it seemed, invincible to blade or dart. The dwarves of the Anast Dennath mountains had made it, and spells were woven into the metal at both forging and joining. So at least the legends claimed. But what drew the eye was that each link was lacquered red, crimson as bright blood, and no amount of time or strike by any enemy had ever tarnished it.
Upon his head rested a mighty helm. This also was fashioned by the dwarves, and spells were upon it too. Engraved into the same red-lacquered metal was a single rune: karak, which meant victory in their tongue. From the eye slit Unferth gazed out and saw his army. Pride and strength filled him.
He raised high now in a sudden thrust the weapon of his forefathers. It was made of the same metal as the rest, though lacquered black rather than red. The weight was somewhat less than it should be, for it was a double-bladed axe. Each half swept back like wings, but there was a stabbing spike in the center, slightly curved like a beak so that it could also hook and gouge. This was a weapon of legend to the Callenor, for it was made for their founding chieftain. And it was made in the image of the symbol he took as his own: a raven.
Unferth gave the axe a flourish, and then he slipped the haft through a leather thong on his horse’s saddle and mounted.
The men began to chant. The Crimson Lord! The Crimson Lord! The Crimson Lord!
He liked it. Once more he felt confidence and invincibility flood through his veins. He would destroy Brand. And yet even as he thought of his enemy the whisper of doubt returned. He knew it would always be there. The only way to silence it would be to kill his opponent.
