by Robert Ryan
“Men,” he said. “War approaches on swift feet. Soon this fortress will be tested, our strategies probed and the thoroughness of our training examined. But this I know. The fortress is strong, and the hearts of those who defend it beat with courage.”
Some of the men cheered. Some looked scared. But most tried to show nothing of what they felt, either way.
“But will we win?” called out one of the captains.
Brand wished he was better at delivering speeches. He always seemed to get this question, but he did not mind. And as always, he gave a truthful answer. Men who risked their lives deserved it.
“I think that we will, else I’d not have come here. But there are no guarantees in life. Victory is not assured. Not for us, but neither is it for Unferth. It will be earned, and the payment will be dealt out in blood and death. That is the truth.” He paused, before going on. “And this also is the truth. We have no choice. A fight is coming, and men will die. I could have led Unferth a merry chase around the Duthgar. But I’ve chosen this place to make a stand. And I stand with you, ready to pay the same price of blood or death that you all are. But if there are any who have changed their minds, I give you leave to go now, freely and without hinderance. I’ll have no man here against his will.”
He normally offered soldiers a choice like that. It was fair, and it was true too. Better to have only warriors who believed in the cause and a chance of winning. But it was a double-edged sword. If too many took him up on the offer, morale would plummet.
There was silence. No one moved. That too was normal, but he knew by offering them the chance to leave he played on their pride and they were more likely to stay. He was a general, and it was his job to think like that, but he did not like it.
He spoke again to the men, this time infusing his voice with greater passion. He was no speechmaker, but he knew this was the time to rally them to a state of excitement. He had told them death was possible. He had given them the chance to leave. But they were still here, and this was now the time to offer them hope and heat their blood.
“This army started small. It was just a band of a few men. Back then, I called us the point of a sword. But I said it would grow, and it has. Now we have the blade, and edges, and a hilt and pommel. Now, we are complete. Now, we will smite Unferth and free the Duthgar!”
The captains cheered. All of them this time. But Brand could not help wonder how many would die soon. They were a sword in themselves, but Unferth had his own sword. The walls of the fortress would run with blood, and he had made them feel good about it. And he would do worse, yet.
“Captains!” he cried out into the noise, and it subsided. “Tell your men what I have told you. Tell them victory is at hand. The sooner Unferth arrives, the sooner will that victory come!”
The captains cheered again, and then they went back to the barracks talking boisterously. A small group remained, and he saw that this was made up of his friends. Taingern and Shorty glanced at him, and he read approval in their looks. He had done what was necessary. Tinwellen scrutinized him as though she was assessing the value of a gold ring. He did not care much for that gaze, but then she smiled at him and his heart lightened.
But it was Sighern’s gaze that troubled him. The boy looked at him with dark eyes. There was almost hostility there.
21. Duels are for the Reckless
The next day dawned to a gray day. Fog marched down the ridges near the fortress, veiling the pine-clad slopes that Brand liked. There were no green trees to be seen, nor a blue sky. And though Brand loved mists and fog and rain also, he did not like this concealing blanket.
As the morning passed, the fogs thinned and drifted away. Yet the sky remained dull and overcast. Rain was coming, and perhaps a storm with it. The air was heavy and oppressive.
But with the parting of the fog came another sight, and it was not the marching of pines up steep-sided ridges that drew his eye, but the marching of soldiers. Unferth had arrived, and his army with him. And though Brand searched among the masses for sign of Horta, he was not visible. Yet still Brand knew he was there. The fog was of his making. It reeked of sorcery and had worked to conceal the coming of the enemy.
Unferth may have thought it a good thing to approach so. But it made no difference. Everyone in the fortress knew they were coming. The last men to join Brand’s army had brought word, and his own scouts had been watching them for some time.
Brand stood atop the battlement, the gate tower just to his left. From it the Dragon Banner of the Duthenor hung limply. But that it was present at all would anger Unferth. He would have no liking for what it represented, and its very existence reminded one and all that he had usurped the rule of the Duthgar.
From where he waited, Brand had a clear view of all that transpired, but he kept his eye also on the men lining the ramparts all around. They were quiet and grim, but he saw no panic there. Nor should there be. Unferth’s army was bigger, but the men here had grown used to the walls and their advantages. They had discovered by their own training how vulnerable an attacker was who sought to scale it.
Unferth came into sight. He was too far away to recognize by his features, and Brand had last seen him a long, long time ago. But there was no mistaking the armor he wore, for in its way it was as famed as the sword Brand himself carried and the Helm of the Duthenor on his own head.
The helm and armor of Unferth gleamed red as blood, and a shiver went up his spine. Then he smiled to himself. That, of course, was the intention of the color. It could as easily be black, or green or some other hue. But it was red to produce fear in the enemy, to remind them that they might bleed. It also served to highlight the wearer so that his men knew where he was at all times. That could be both a good and a bad thing. Much depended on the leader.
Unferth would be tested here. Would he lead from the front? Would he fight with his men and prove his courage to the warriors he led? If he did, he might die. If he did not, they would not so willingly follow him. It was a hard choice, and one that Brand had made many times. He did not think Unferth had ever been in that position. He was rumored to be a skilled fighter, but he had been involved in skirmishes only and never a war.
Brand knew he would fight. It was his way, but also circumstances dictated it. Unferth was in a more difficult position. The risk of scaling the battlement was great, and retreat was difficult. Not so atop the walls. Brand could fight up here himself, and then step back to let men take his place. All battles were fought in the mind as well as with weapons. Unferth’s red armor was a tactic. Brand fighting himself was another. No one could expect a besieging general to scale the walls, but when the enemy leader fought with his own men it would make Unferth look the worse for not doing so.
Even as Brand watched, Unferth came forward out of his host with a small group of men. The warrior beside him held high on a pole the banner of the chieftains of the Callenor. The cloth was snowy white, and upon it was the image of the black talon of a raven.
The Raven Banner infuriated Brand. Who was this man who dared bring it here to Duthenor lands? But that it angered him also worried him. He must be above that. A general must not succumb to such things, but rather be cool and level-headed at all times.
Unferth would not be expected to come to battle without his banner. But that went two ways. Brand gestured to Sighern. “Retrieve our own banner and bring it here, close to me.”
The young man moved away and Shorty grunted. “It seems that Unferth wants to parley. And what’s going on with his armor? It looks like he’s been rolling around in raspberries.”
“So it does. But legend says it’s dwarven-made. The color is unusual, but it’s not lacking in quality. Nor his helm or axe.”
“I think it’s cute,” Tinwellen offered.
Brand had to laugh at that. “Please tell him so when he gets here. No words could be more insulting to him.”
“But you’ll try to find some anyway?” Taingern asked.
“Of course. If I can ups
et him, he’ll be more likely to make a mistake.”
They did not have to wait much longer. Sighern returned, holding aloft the Dragon Banner even as the Raven Banner drew close below and Unferth stood before the wall.
Brand did not wait for the other man to speak. “Hail, Unferth, chieftain of the Callenor, usurper of the Duthgar and murderer. State your business.”
The cold voice of Unferth came in reply. If the greeting had bothered him, he gave no sign of it.
“Hail, Brand, outlaw and bandit. You know my business here. It is to bring you to justice for crimes against the Duthgar. You have brought unruly war to the land, and you will be punished.”
Brand slowly drew his Halathrin-wrought blade. “By this sword, and the helm I wear, and most of all by the name you have given me, I declare myself the rightful heir to the chieftainship of the Duthenor. Do you deny who I am, or my rights and responsibilities?”
“I deny nothing. I recognize your heritage, and for the proud lineage that is yours I will not hang you as a common criminal. But I am king here now, and your heritage is of no matter. Come down and surrender, and I will show you mercy. Fight, and I will see every man here dead. Either by sword in battle, or hanged as criminals if they surrender too late.”
Brand could hardly believe it. Unferth was an idiot. It went against all the stratagems of war to suggest that surrendered soldiers would still be executed. It meant that once the fight began, there was only one way to live, and that was through victory. Without surrender as an option, his army would fight harder, and to the very last. Men with their backs to the wall were the hardest opponent of all to beat.
“You will have to take this fortress first, Unferth, to make good your threat. And that you cannot do.”
A silence settled between them, cold as ice. But Brand was not done. He spoke into it, his voice even colder and thick with contempt.
“And you name yourself a king? Nay. You are no king. I once served a true king, and you are not his equal. You are a fool wearing a crown of straw.”
Even as he spoke, Tinwellen whispered into his ear. “Don’t go too far, Brand. There’s a chance to make peace here, or he wouldn’t have come to speak with you. Thousands will die for your pride if you don’t make the attempt.”
The weight of her words carried force. There was a truth to them that he could not deny, yet at the same time he felt the futility of it all. War was inevitable, because Unferth would never renounce his rule of the Duthgar, and he himself could not let the murder of his parents go unavenged.
But even so, he heeded Tinwellen, though it was not in the way she intended.
“Unferth!” he called. “At heart, this battle is between us, and us alone. Men will die here, by their hundreds or even thousands. But you and I can stop that. I will come down and fight you, man to man. Let that be an end to our hostility. Let that decide who rules the Duthgar.”
Unferth did not answer at once, and the longer he waited the better pleased Brand was. His opponent had not dismissed the challenge out of hand, and the longer he delayed answer the more credence it had. Those who followed him would know he had considered the matter before saying no, if he did so, and they would wonder if it was a lack of courage that informed his decision rather than strategy.
At length, the usurper gave reply. “I am a king, Brand. Duels are for the reckless. I do not gamble the fate of my realm on a battle between two men. Surrender, and I will spare your supports. Fight, and I will kill you all. Choose!”
Sighern shook the Dragon Banner, and he hissed in Brand’s ear. “The men who follow you won’t ever surrender. They don’t just fight for you, but for their own freedom. Send Unferth to hell, and his army with him.”
Tinwellen looked at the young man, fury in her eyes. He returned her gaze with cold contempt.
Brand was about to answer Unferth when Hruidgar also whispered into his ear. The hunter had been the last scout to return into the fortress and give Brand news of the approaching enemy.
“Patience, Brand. Stall for time. No more Duthenor can enter the fortress, but that doesn’t mean a small army isn’t gathering somewhere behind Unferth. Stall, and let time work to your favor. If that happens, we can crush him.”
Seldom in his life had Brand ever been indecisive. It seemed to him that all the advice given to him was good, and yet it was all contradictory. How was he to decide?
“Well?” Unferth called up. “What’s it to be?”
Brand sheathed his sword, and then leaned forward over the rampart to answer.
“Attack if you dare, Unferth. You’ll spill the blood of your men in vain.”
The usurper did not seem displeased. “You are proud now, Brand. But when every last one of your men lies dead around you as proof of your folly, I will have you brought to me alive. And then you will kneel at my feet and name me lord. Only then, when you have drunk deep of the dregs of woe, shall I kill you.”
Unferth swung away, and he departed with the men he had brought. The Raven Banner hung limply in the oppressive air, and the threat he had voiced hung in it also, more ominous even than the banner of an enemy nation in the Duthgar.
22. Battle and Blood
Brand watched silently as the enemy made ready, nor did anyone else speak.
Unferth’s army had come prepared. The front ranks moved forward, burdened by hundreds of coiled ropes with grappling hooks tied to their ends. Ladders had been made also. These, as with all the equipment, had a makeshift appearance. All would have been made hurriedly by men who had not observed such equipment in use. None of the Duthenor or Callenor had attacked a fortress before. Not that they were inferior warriors, just that their lords built no fortresses. They were a small people, Duthenor and Callenor alike, and they had no need of fortified strongholds. That might change after this.
The enemy drew closer, plainly visible now. The last trailers of fog had gone. Brand watched them closely, assessing their discipline and how they were organized and how quickly they responded to orders. What he saw was what he expected. They were no match for a professional army of full-time soldiers, but they were not that far behind. The same could be said of his own force, only he had begun to train them well and they had an edge.
Unferth’s numbers were more worrisome. Five thousand men marched beneath the shadow of the Raven Banner. It was not a king’s army – it was a chieftain’s army. Even so, it outnumbered his. Five thousand were set against three. The walls helped there, and Unferth was not the general Brand knew that he was himself. But though the fortress helped in many ways, in that respect it was a partial hindrance. Out in the field Brand’s superior skill and experience would show. But the walls reduced tactical choices, and that stole some of his advantage. No matter. War was like that. It took and it gave, it surprised and it ran to expected courses. It was set in its ways and fickle. It was a gamble, and the commander who gambled least had the most chance of winning.
It became clear that Unferth intended a frontal assault. He was not going to try to surround the entire fortress and attack it all at once. Rather, he was going to concentrate on the wall that housed the gate. This was the weakest point, and the tactic made some sense. Other commanders may have acted differently, but Brand did not mind. He was prepared for such eventualities, and every tactic had advantages and disadvantages. This, he considered, worked to his advantage. Unferth felt the gate to be a weakness, but Brand knew it was well repaired and highly protected. The enemy would discover so to their cost.
Horns sounded. Signals were given. A mass of the enemy separated from the main host and began to march forward. As they closed on the fortress, they gathered pace. Finally, they ran with their shields above their heads to protect themselves from the rain of death they feared would come from above.
And that rain fell. Arrows were shot first, the hiss of them as they thickened the air was loud and frightening. Nor could men run, hold up a shield and also carry ladders and ropes well. Especially without training and practice.
Arrows struck home, finding gaps and weaknesses. Men died, falling to the ground to lie still. Others jerked and spasmed. All were trampled by those who followed.
Then fell the javelins. These killed fewer, but still wounded many. Again, the wounded were trampled, though some managed to turn their backs to flee. Arrows killed many of these also.
The survivors reached the wall. Faces were visible now. Men with frightened eyes looked up. The wall seemed tall to them, the chances of reaching the top meagre. And when they did, swords still awaited them. Surely, there was no harder task in warfare than what they faced now, and the knowledge of it must have been bitter. So too their curses for Unferth, who had brought them to this.
But the men were brave. Callenor tribesmen may have been the enemy, but Brand admired their courage. They cast up their grappling hooks and pressed their ladders against the wall, and they scrambled up. Speed meant less time to be shot at. Reaching the top of the wall meant a chance to fight, sword to sword and man to man. And if enough of them did so, they might win the rampart and live. So they came on, desperately.
They were met with dropped rocks, many the size of a man’s head. Helms were little defense against this. Shields offered better protection, but it was awkward to hold one and climb at the same time. Even doing so, many men were dislodged to plummet, screaming, to death below.
And yet the enemy came on, driven by a need to reach the top for a chance at survival and supported by their large numbers. It seemed that their attempts to do so were futile, but those who lived climbed with speed and those above who cast missiles must make space for the men who hacked away at scaling ropes and dislodged ladders with poles.
Brand watched, hearing the sounds of battle that he hated, seeing men’s heads cracked open like melons or bodies broken in death below. He felt triumph at the difficulty the enemy had in even reaching their opponent, and he felt gut-wrenchingly sick at the terrible deaths meted out. He watched, and he heard, and he wished it to keep going and to stop all at once. It was war, and he had done this before, and if he lived, must needs likely do it again.
