C11 Chapter 11
Arn brought Orest back to the real world when he spoke. ”So, what was it about?” He looked south, where the men had gone earlier.
Rygg played with the ends of his beard and asked Viktra, ”What do you think of Prince Ulfhrem so far, Monglan?”
She raised an eyebrow. ”Seems a good man,” she mumbled.
”Well, Reidr Brenn doesn't think so. He and his bear-men won't be fighting with us any longer.” He stared at each one of them in turn as if daring him to protest the idea, to disagree with Ulfhrem's decree. ”Rollen died for a good cause, one that Brenn Ragnir doesn't believe in. You should all know that the prince makes decisions to benefit everyone. Brenn is here only for himself.”
Orest cleared his throat and stood. ”Excuse me. Gotta go.”
”Careful,” Rygg said. ”There are worse things than snakes and scorpions in this desert.”
Orest made his way several yards west. He watched his feet, remembering to look for snakes and scorpions, or even the rare monster-spider. He had only heard rumors of that last one, but he still kept an eye out. Many soldiers had been stung or bitten since they arrived in Lesh Kalae in the past year, and they hadn't been able to fight for weeks afterward. One of them lost his foot.
Orest stopped when he reached the cliff's edge. He looked down over it, then thought better and stepped back a few feet. He couldn't make out the whole canyon in the dark, but the lake at the bottom reflected the stars and moon. The locals called this place Badr'Amir, but Orest had no idea what it meant. The canyon was a miniature oasis complete with freshwater, trees, and flowers of every color. It was a natural defense at the Northerlings' rear, which is why Ulfhrem had chosen the spot for their camp.
On the other side of Badr'Amir, two or three miles away, more lights shone that flickered in yellow and orange. That was the Weroklan refugee village. Orest had never been there, being scared of those strange people who had trekked from Weroklas to escape another war. It was because of them that he was here, why all of them were here. As long as the Northerlings stood between the prophet and the Weroklans, they wouldn't be harmed. Orest hoped they were grateful for Rollen's sacrifice. The smell of bread baking and meat roasting drifted on a stiff breeze over the canyon and made Orest's mouth water.
He stood on the edge of the canyon and peed into the darkness below. His chest was massive, and his lips were tight as he thought about Rollen, and he wondered if Ulfhrem had even known the man's name. Rollen should be with him now, trying to convince him that the prince still deserved respect despite sending men to die without bothering to learn their names first.
”Who is there?” a deep voice called. Orest spun around, rushing to lace up his trousers.
A large dark man stood some distance from Orest, approaching fast. Orest staggered back but couldn't bring himself to run.
”It's Orest Svardsen!” he called to the nearing giant. ”Just came here to pee.”
The man came close enough for Orest to see his face, and he bent his neck upward to meet two dark eyes. He was one of the bear-men, the one who had come from the lost country on the other side of the Endless. Orest had heard stories of how Brenn Ragnir had sailed across the sea to a place where no one had been since the Crossing thousands of years ago. He hadn't believed it entirely until he saw this huge man for the first time a year ago in Eirmanlenidh. He was at least seven feet tall, all muscle and broad shoulders, long black braided hair, and flawless dark skin. The man's eyes were darker, showing nothing but stone-like emotion.
”Are you,” Orest croaked, ”are you really from the lost country?”
The huge man grunted and moved his hand, ushering for Orest to follow him. Orest hesitated, looking back to his tent and fire, where his friends and Captain Rygg sat. He had never met Reidr Brenn Ragnir, Holder of Creatures, leader of the bear-men, explorer, and even rumored knight of Methyo Genlas. Reidr Brenn would have stories to tell, great ones. Orest loved stories, though he believed only a few. To hear heroic tales from the source was an opportunity Orest wouldn't turn down.
He nodded and walked with the huge man across the sand to the bear-men's section of the camp. There were dozens of tents, perhaps a hundred or more, all in circles around a large central firepit. At the center near the pit was Brenn Ragnir himself, staring into the dying flames, in no one's company but his own.
Orest was suddenly nervous, being so close to the man. He turned to leave, having realized what a mistake it was to have come, especially after what Captain Rygg had said about the bear-men—but the giant grabbed his arm and stopped him from leaving.
Brenn Ragnir looked up from the fire and saw the two of them, then waved them over. Orest walked with his guide and sat with him in the sand beside the reidr. The two bear-men spoke to each other in a strange language, then Brenn turned to Orest.
”Tlamuq says you lost someone today,” he said. His voice was calm, friendly, comforting, and sad. ”He can see it in your eyes. So can I.”
Orest drew his eyebrows together, wondering how someone could know something like that just by looking into their eyes. His chest tightened, and he nodded.
”His name was Rollen. We were close.”
”You can't be older than seventeen or eighteen,” Brenn said. ”Was this your first battle?”
Orest nodded again. ”But I didn't fight. Captain Lier made me stay behind everyone.”
Brenn picked up a long stick from the woodpile beside the pit and poked at the embers. Sparks floated up a few inches and disappeared.
”I've lost people,” said the Holder. ”No one could ever know what you're feeling, but I do at least understand what it's like.”
Orest pressed his lips together and swallowed. ”Do you mean your brother and father?”
Brenn tilted his head. ”Yes. But I was thinking of someone else just now. A few people.” Brenn looked away from the embers and into Orest's eyes. ”Do you know about what happened a few years ago in Methyo Genlas? The colosseum in Goryeo?”
Orest thought about it. ”No. Maybe. I'm not sure, sir.”
”Well, at any rate...” Brenn shifted his position, switching which leg he sat on. ”I lost two friends that day. One was killed. He died in my arms. The other was taken right in front of me. I was helpless to save him. I don't know now whether he's dead or alive. And then a couple of days after that, I had to say goodbye to my best friend.”
”Did she die?” Orest asked.
Brenn shook his head slowly. ”I don't know. She left with others of her faith who were being hunted after the attack.” He pointed east to the walled city. ”She grew up there, and that's where she was headed when I last saw her. It's my only clue to where she might be. If she's alive.”
”Is that why you're here, sir? To find your friend?”
Brenn didn't answer. He threw the stick into the fading embers. ”I'm sorry. My name is Brenn. I didn't ask yours.”
”Orest.”
”Great name.” Brenn smiled a bit. ”Like Orest Storm-Chaser, the man who rode a dragon into a hurricane and returned with stories of another world.”
Orest nodded grinning. ”My father loves those stories. So do I.”
”Well, listen to me, Storm-Chaser,” Brenn said. ”Being a soldier is a difficult life. On the one hand, you give fealty to your commanders and obey them, no matter what the command. It's a vital part of keeping an army effective. But on the other hand...” Brenn glanced up and spoke as if to the sky. ”Sometimes, you wonder about those orders. Sometimes there isn't a clear, correct choice that allows for both duty and honor.”
Brenn looked over at Tlamuq, smiled, and said something in that strange language. Tlamuq laughed, and it surprised Orest that the stony man was capable of laughter.
”This isn't the first time I've fought under the command of a man with misguided intentions,” Brenn told Orest. ”I know it's late now, but do you like stories?”
”Yes. Very much.” Orest's heart rose at the idea.
”Are you tired?”
Orest shook his head like a child allowed to stay up for midwinter's night.
”Would you like to hear about the colosseum, or when I was a soldier for Methyo Genlas?”
Orest gaped. ”So, you are a Jongan knight!”
Brenn laughed through his nose. ”On paper, maybe. Is that the one you want to hear, then?”
Orest considered the options. ”Was it after your friends died?”
Brenn nodded solemnly.
”Then I'd like to hear that one,” Orest said. ”I like hearing things in the order they happened.”
Brenn switched positions again, said something to Tlamuq, and took a deep and slow breath. Tlamuq said something, and Brenn replied with a confused and amazed look.
”What did he say?” Orest asked him.
”Apparently, I've never told him his story. I guess it never came up. Get comfortable.” Brenn leaned over the pit to rebuild the fire. ”This is a long one.”
It was Spring of 4030 AT—or March 2014, if you'd rather imagine it that way—four years before the Northerlings invaded Lesh Kalae and one day after the colosseum attack in Goryeo.
Brenn carried a small body back to their inn, and Keren matched pace so she could hold the cold hand. The crowds were thinner than they had been the day before, and the city was quiet and reverent, though not still. Brenn held back tears as he passed crying people, and Keren looked straight ahead and gripped Denzin's tiny hand until they reached the inn. It was empty but for the owner and his three sons. ”We could see the smoke from here,” said the innkeeper. ”Did you see it?”
”Yes.” They climbed the steps to their room.
”Would you like something to eat?” the man shouted up after them.
”Send it up later,” Brenn replied. ”I'll be asleep in a minute.”
Keren opened the door for him as she continued to hold Denzin's hand, and Brenn laid him down on the bed and covered him with a blanket. Keren lay beside him on her side, staring.
”Don't look at him, Keren,” Brenn whispered.
”He can't see me.”
”You shouldn't look at him.”
She said nothing, and Brenn let it go, then found another blanket and spread it on the floor to lie on. He slept until midday. When he woke up, there was a plate sitting on the bedside table with bread, cheese, and apples.
”Did you eat?” he asked Keren, rubbing his eyes.
”Not hungry.”
Brenn ate some cheese and an apple but left the bread. He found his canteen beside his pack and drank it all. The water was warm and old.
”What do we do?” Keren asked.
”Find a place for him.”
”Good.”
”Then we can start for Lesh Kalae,” he said.
”Do you think that's a good idea now?”
”What else can we do?”
Keren's eyes were red from lack of sleep and a surplus of tears. She rubbed them with the heels of her hands. ”What about Hirnhyo?”
”You know I can't go back. Not yet.”
”You aren't going to find your father in Kammun,” Keren said.
”No, but at least we can get you home, try to find your sister.”
”What about getting you home? You've been away from your mother longer than I've been from Kammun.”
”One step at a time,” he mumbled.
”So, what do we do now?”
”Find a place for Denzin.”
”How?”
”I'll figure it out.”
Brenn went downstairs and stopped to watch two soldiers speaking with the innkeeper at the counter. The innkeeper shook his head at what they were saying, and eventually, the soldiers left. The innkeeper looked at Brenn.
”I think they were looking for you,” he said.
”Why?”
”They were looking for someone like you. Big, wears a bear-skin cloak. I told them there was nobody like that here. They're searching the city.”
”Did they say why they were looking?”
The man shrugged. ”You were here yesterday. During the attack.”
”Yeah.”
”Maybe you saw something?”
Brenn shook his head. ”No more than anyone else saw. Will they come back?”
”If it's you they're looking for, they won't find you anywhere else, and they'll be back, eventually.”
”I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone I'm here.”
”Less trouble for me if you weren't, I'm sure.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ”World's gone mad... Will you be staying long?”
”Not unless I have to,” Brenn said. He knew suddenly that his hands were in his pockets, and he tensed his shoulders up almost to his ears. He relaxed them. ”I don't think it's a good time to leave just yet.”
The innkeeper reached beneath the counter and brought up a bottle of ale, uncorked it, and gave it to Brenn.
”World's gone mad,” he said again. ”People accosted in the streets. I haven't seen much, but I've been hearing them for the last few hours.”
”Heard them?” The ale was good. It tasted like apples.
”Shouting, screaming, that sort of thing. Once I thought I heard the twang of a crossbow. Reminds me of the war. You aren't old enough to remember, are you?”
”Sure I am,” said Brenn. ”I was twelve when it ended. My brother and father both fought.”
”Is that right? Which company? Maybe I knew them.”
”Actually, they were with the Valk. From Eirmanlenidh—sorry, Esterlenth. That's where I was born.”
”Ah, the army of the Wolf. I thought I recognized your accent. Did you ever meet the man who led an army of men and beasts against Krazor Gaeten? What was his name...”
”Deohild Ragnir. Yeah, I met him.” Brenn took a drink, appreciating the small burn the alcohol made in his belly.
”I hear he was a great man and a better soldier. Shame he's gone. Gods know we could use some leadership in times like these. World's gone mad.”
Brenn finished his ale and set the bottle on the counter. He reached for his money, but the innkeeper raised a hand and said, ”On me. Seemed like you needed it.”
”I did,” said Brenn. ”Thanks.” He hesitated, then said, ”I lost two friends yesterday.”
The man scratched his cheek. ”That boy you carried in earlier...?”
”Dead. Do you know of a place I can have him buried?”
The innkeeper shook his head. ”No cemeteries for at least fifty miles outside the city. All bodies are burned. Since the plague, you understand.”
”I forgot about that.” Brenn chewed his lip. ”But he can't be burned. He was Hanoan.”
”Never met one.”
”His body must be returned to the earth as intact as possible.”
