C8 Chapter 8
Rygg jumped to his feet, bumping against the table. ”Don't speak for me, boy. As a man I can speak for myself. Brenn, you're yet unfledged in wyelore and leading men in battle. I've 'held your bear-men, those who follow you like a god, but they don't fight behind you or alongside you. They fight on their own grounds, and so you can't say that you lead even your own men in the fighting. I know of your spell in Sawelas, and I also know that you fought naught but your commander. On behalf of Ulfhrem, I'd have you sit down and stop speaking before I choose to take that blade myself.”
Brenn gave no response to Rygg, speaking only to the prince. ”Ulfhrem, this wye will end one way or another, but I'd rather we weren't all killed before then so we can eftcome home. We lost too many men today, and the Soduqir lost just as many. Neither side can afford another skirmish like today's.”
”I ken we never weened this wye to be a long one,” Ulfhrem said. He picked at the remaining meat on the goat carcass with his fingers and chewed on a hunk of meat. ”Our first aim here was straightforward, but the shape of things have wended. As much as any other man, I will to forlet this searing desert and eftcome to the green highlands of Eirmanlenidh. But we can't forlet Lesh Kalae until the prophet is undone and Kammun is overwon in the name of my father, your king.” He looked around at the officers and brought up a hand. ”Will someone other than Rygg add his own thoughts to this warp?”
Rygg cleared his throat, and Ulfhrem closed his eyes for a moment.
”My aetheling,” said the captain, ”I would have you bethink that I've e'er been trowfast to you and upheld you as my headman, and I vow my trow to you until my felling day.” He placed a hand on his heart. ”But I don't long to die in this waste. I'm a man of the Valk. Cool rain and white snow run through my veins, and my heart yearns for my homeland, the swarthy plains and wheat farms, my wife and infant daughter that I've barely known. My men, as well, are keen to return to their families and to a sun that doesn't burn them, and air that isn't so dry that it forstops their lungs. My men have lost a heap of their friends and brothers today, and they're now listless. They're weary and bleaked, and I don't ken how much longer they can go on.”
A low groan of consensus floated through the tent from the other officers. Ulfhrem frowned at Rygg.
”We've all rearded our recking about lingering on in this wye, Andreas. But what do you bid? Should we forlet? Forleese our aim and atithe the prophet to go on? Leave him to his attle deeds and let the Weroklan unhomed to die by the score at his hand?”
Rygg shook his head. ”No, my atheling. We must not leave this barren sand until the prophet is outdone, and the Weroklans are sound. This wye must end, aye, and it must end soon, as drovakthyr Hreidar has said. Our wyemen must be gathered stronger than eft, and the breaths of our men lifted, else we should moot with the prophet and come to words.”
”There are no words for it!” Brenn said, and all heads swiveled to him. ”The prophet must die. As long as he lives, there will be no frith, neither for the Weroklans or for the Soduqir folk who abye from his trothwye.”
Andreas raised a finger. ”Ah, but there we have a bug. The prophet is a Holder and can no more be killed that you can, dear Brenn. As it's not wit whether the prophet has any barns, the Power of Space has no erfkin, and therefore the prophet must not be felled, lest the Form keel into the Shatter and the allbeing be rent down the middle. Our only wale, if we should end this war and eftcome to our beloved Eirmanlenidh, is to moot with the prophet and have him make an oath in the name of his god that he will let the Weroklans live in his land in frith, else we should fang him and hold him haft until an erfbarn can be wrought. And then the prophet may be let to die, and his barn would be brought up in Ekkio, and the baleful mind that the child may have erf'd from his father be taught away as he or she wits to walk the Dual-Path and respect the drovak.”
Brenn stepped forward. ”We can kill the prophet.” He patted the sword at his side. ”This sword holds all four Powers, and as long as it is for someone to wield, the Form and the Shatter will bide in balance.”
”And who will be the one to kill him,” Ulfhrem sneered. ”You?”
”Might be. The Power of Space can't stand against all four combined.”
Ulfhrem's eyes narrowed. He walked around his table and through the seated captains until he stood before Brenn. He jabbed Brenn in the arm where a bandage was wrapped around a cut. ”What is this?”
”A wound. There was a battle today.”
”So still with your crafty sword, some cheed managed to get past you and fornigh snithe your arm?”
”It's only a small cut. It'll be sound in a day or two. I can't say the same for the man who gave it to me.”
Ulfhrem stared into Brenn's blue eyes, and Brenn stared back into the prince's brown ones. ”You have no barn,” said the prince. ”No erfkin to the Power of Creatures.”
”Haven't I just reckoned you that my sword—”
”I forbid you from fighting hence.”
Brenn's face twisted into confusion. ”You've no right.”
”I am your aetheling.” Ulfhrem gestured to the dozens of men behind him. ”And theirs.”
”Are you threatening me?” Brenn whispered.
”I am your high headman,” Ulfhrem whispered back. ”I haven't the need to threaten.”
”So you bid me not to fight to leese me from being killed, but threaten to kill me if I'm not beholden?”
Rygg stood. ”I hold a deep respect for your kin, Brenn...” He rested a hand on his own sword. ”But I will follow aywhich order my aetheling gives me. We don't have to kill you. You can still live handless.”
Brenn looked around at the other captains. Some now stood with hands on their sword hilts like Rygg. Others looked between the three men in fear and anticipation, ready to spring at the first sign of action.
Behind Brenn, Tlamuq and Dayl sat patiently, though Tlamuq's eyes showed that he would leap to defend Brenn at the slightest notion that he was in danger. Dayl's face betrayed his need to run back to the relative safety of his tent.
”I don't believe this,” said Brenn. ”I am the Holder of Creatures, the last on Earth, and I hold a sword given to me by someone who might as well have been Odlik himself. But you threaten me and bid me not to fight? Fine. I didn't come to this land for you, or for anyone here. We'll see how well your wye goes while I stay this sword out of it.”
Brenn said a word, and his two friends stood, and Brenn led them out of the tent. Before he passed through the door flap, Ulfhrem called after him.
”Perhaps it won't be stayed from the war for long, reidr.”
Brenn ignored him, and the tent was emptied of bear-men.
The three of them returned to the southernmost end of the Northerling camp, where the dagak'hotl stayed. The tents were near to the edge of Badr'Amir, a vast canyon valley more than three miles wide.
The dagak'hotl camp had fifty large tents, all set up in concentric circles around a central fire, beside which in the innermost circle sat Brenn's tent that he shared with Dayl, Tlamuq, Limbaco, and Tapoa. Limbaco and Tapoa were by the fire when the others arrived, spread out on the sand, and watching the myriad of stars as the light made dancing shadows across the tops of the tents. They said nothing as Brenn, Tlamuq, and Dayl sat beside them.
Brenn sat on the packed dirt in front of their tent. The fire burned low, and a few other dagak'hotl cooked dinner on it—rice and beans with a few small bits of pork, which was part of their stock taken from Ekkio, not raided from Isaf. Rice was what the dagak'hotl were used to eating after a decade in servitude, and although they didn't much care for pork, it was their only option this far into the war. Brenn enjoyed the smell of cooking food as he removed his sword from its sheath and oiled the blade with a dirty rag. It didn't need to be sharpened or cleaned, but it gave him something to keep his troubled mind occupied. The sound of the cloth rubbing over the steel and the smell of cooking beans brought back a fog of memory, and Brenn stayed with that memory for several minutes.
”What's the plan?” Dayl asked. Brenn jumped, and Dayl laughed. ”Sorry, did I interrupt an introspective moment?”
Brenn put his sword away, leaning it against the tent wall behind him. ”I was thinking about Keren.”
”Ah.” Dayl sat with a sigh beside Brenn. ”So, what is the plan?”
”There is no plan. But for now, I need to avoid Ulfhrem. He wants my sword and won't let me fight until I give it to him.”
”He said that?”
Brenn tilted his head. ”Not in those exact words, but yes.”
Dayl smiled in amusement. Dimples appeared on both olive cheeks beside the corners of his mouth. ”Okay, so...what? He can't make you do something if you don't want to.”
”I took an oath,” Brenn said, giving Dayl a hard stare. ”Besides, maybe it's for the best. I can't risk getting killed, even though the world will be safe as long as the sword exists. But I don't want to use it.” If the sword had eyes, Brenn would've felt it staring at the back of his head.
Dayl looked at the wrapped sword and chewed his bottom lip. ”What's the point of having a magic weapon if you can't fight with it?”
”I can, but I won't.” Brenn shook his head. A lock of yellow hair fell over his face and he blew it to the side. ”I wish I could explain it to you. To me, that sword is only a way to allow the prophet to die without the Form and the Shatter breaking apart.”
Dayl scratched his stubbled chin. ”How's your arm?”
”Fine. What did you do today?”
”Not much.” Dayl stretched his legs out in front of himself and leaned back on his elbows. His back popped. ”I wandered down into the valley, or canyon, or whatever it is. What do they call it?”
”Badr'Amir. It means Oasis of Amir, who was a prophet before they went into hiding.”
Dayl looked up at the twinkling stars. ”Kalaea is a pretty language, you have to admit. I wish I spoke more of it.”
”You're in the best place to learn it.”
”What, here in a Northerling army camp?” Dayl laughed, his dimples showing again, looking even more profound as the fire cast shadows across his face. ”Everyone here speaks Ekkioska, and I can still barely understand it after having known you for so long. Your language is so...rough.”
The two friends sat in silence as the cookpot on the fire boiled over, and a man ran over to tend it. He stirred its contents and nodded with approval at what he saw in the pot.
”Rice is ready,” he said with a loud voice, addressing everyone within earshot.
