“A magical person,” Garibond explained, “more so even than those brothers with their gemstones. Your father went to her land to convert her people to his religion and wound up seeing the truth in SenWi’s beliefs.” He presented the book to Bransen. “It’s all in here. All the secrets.”
“M-m-my…fath-fath-fa-ther?” The boy trembled, tears flowing more freely. What are you saying to me? his thoughts screamed at Garibond, though he knew that he would never find strength to voice the words. You are my father! You! Not anyone else! How can you say these lies? Why do you wish to hurt me?
“SenWi knew that you both were dying,” Garibond went on very slowly, making sure that Bransen was hearing him past the obvious turmoil his revelations had brought. “So she used her magic to give you what was left of her own life, so that you could survive.”
Bransen seemed to simply melt then upon the bed, his tiny body bouncing with sobs, and assorted shrieks issuing forth from his tortured mouth. Garibond rushed to him and held him and let him cry it all out. For more than an hour, he sat with the boy, gently patting him and telling him that he loved him and that it would all be all right. For more than an hour, he told Bransen that he was old enough to learn of these unsettling things, and promised the boy over and over that he would understand just how special he was when he heard the full story of his mother and father.
Finally, Bransen composed himself enough so that Garibond could pull him back up to a sitting position, and then the older man truly began the story. He told Bransen of his younger days with Bran Dynard, of how Bran had entered the Church of Abelle but Garibond had not. He spoke of Bran’s travels to the strange lands south of the southern mountains, relating all the stories Bran had told to him of the Behr and the Jhesta Tu. His good eye sparkled when he talked of Bran’s return to Pryd Holding, SenWi at his side, determined to enlighten his brethren about the beauties he had learned among the Jhesta Tu.
“That first day back was trouble, though,” Garibond said in more somber tones. “Your father and mother came across a woman who had been tried and convicted before Bernivvigar.”
Bransen shuddered at the name.
“He condemned her to death, and so she was bitten by a deadly snake and hung up to die slowly and painfully out along the southern road. Powries were there with her, dipping their caps in her blood!”
Bransen sucked in his breath, eyes going wide, fully caught in the tale now.
“But your mother and father fought them away,” Garibond said, his voice showing his eagerness in injecting some real drama into the story and to paint Bransen’s parents in the heroic light they deserved. “And then your mother—what a special lass she truly was!—used her mystical powers to cure the poor girl. Aye, but in that, she brought the poison into her own body, and it was that same poison that so hurt you, and her, in the end. Your affliction is because of generosity, my son. That might make it seem harder, I suppose, but to my thinking, it makes you no less a hero than your mother.”
“Is—is—is she st-st-still…a—live?”
“The poor girl? Well, I’ve no idea, to tell the truth. If she’s not, then it has nothing to do with that day, ten years ago. She left here of her own accord, walking with strength. And all because of your mother.”
Bransen sat quietly and let that sink in, then turned a curious look up at Garibond. “B-b-b-but…my…fa-fa…”
“Your father?”
Bransen nodded.
“He was sent away by Father Jerak. Jerak did not much like your mother, for her powerful religion threatened him, I think. He didn’t want to hear what your father had to tell him. So he sent your father away, to the north, to Chapel Abelle on the Gulf of Corona.”
Bransen’s curious look didn’t abate.
“I don’t know,” Garibond admitted. “We never heard from him again. He may be up there at Chapel Abelle to this day, but Father Jerak’s been telling me that he never got there at all. I do not know what to believe, Bransen.
“And I cannot believe that I told you all this in one sitting!” Garibond went on a moment later. “But you had to know—and you have to know that this changes nothing between us. You and me, we’re family. Father and son, as far as I’m concerned. And don’t you ever say to me again that you should die.” He poked a finger threateningly at Bransen’s face. “Don’t you ever!”
Garibond couldn’t hold the scowling pose, and he fell forward, wrapping Bransen in a tight and loving hug, and he held him there for a long, long time.
Garibond watched Bransen closely in the hours following their talk. He had placed so much on the shoulders of the frail boy—too much, perhaps.
Bransen, whose face was far too numb to show any but the most extreme emotions, seemed to move about with his typical posture and demeanor, giving Garibond few clues. He kept going back to the thick book, however. He’d stand beside it and run his fingers over the cloth cover, staring down, as if he were trying to somehow connect with his mother through those mystical pages.
“Do you know what a book is?” Garibond asked him on one such occasion.
Bransen jumped back from the tome, startled by the unexpected remark, and shifted to look curiously at Garibond.
Garibond smiled to reassure him, then walked over. “A book,” he explained, gently pulling open the cover of the tome. He watched Bransen as he did, and was surprised at how the boy’s eyes lit up, and at the sudden look of curiosity that crossed Bransen’s face as he leaned in closer to see the gracefully curving letters.
“Your father penned it, one line at a time. It took him years.” As he spoke, Garibond ran the tip of his index finger under the first line of the text, right to left as SenWi had taught him. When Bransen tentatively moved his hand toward the enticing letters, Garibond took him by the wrist and placed his fingers on the soft page. “Each of these lines is a letter,” he tried to explain, and he scrunched up his face, wondering how in the world he might even begin to explain what a letter might be. He took Bransen’s hand more firmly and moved it across one complete word, then spoke the translated word, “foot,” out loud.
Bransen stared at him, then nodded and looked back at the page.
Garibond was tired from his long work that morning and even more from revealing so much painful information to Bransen. He wanted nothing more than to eat his supper and go to a well-deserved night’s rest. But he could not deny the look on Bransen’s face and, given his fears that he had overwhelmed the boy with sorrowful news, he understood his duty here.
Besides, after a few more minutes, after settling on the bed with Bransen sitting beside him, the book across their laps, Garibond found himself invigorated by teaching. He went through each of the letters, as SenWi had done with him. He pointed out and spoke aloud all the familiar words he could readily find on a page, then read complete sentences.
Garibond remembered SenWi’s plea to him, that he teach the Book of Jhest to her child. He considered the high hopes, the promise held by the coming baby, and he had to fight back tears over and over again.
For now he considered the futility of this exercise. What might he really teach this idiot boy who could barely manage to walk and talk?
But Garibond quickly pushed those negative thoughts away, even managing a wide and sincere smile when Bransen stuttered out the word for arm. This exercise wasn’t about the boy, the lonely older man soon realized, but for him. This was a way to reconnect with those lost to him, to hear again the voice of Brother Bran Dynard and that wonderful wife of his.
Finally, the daylight faded too much to continue and Garibond rose to leave, closing the book.
Bransen clutched it close and would not let go.
Smiling, nodding, Garibond let him keep it. A short while later, candle in hand, Garibond checked on the boy, to find him sleeping restfully—more so than Garibond had expected given the revelations of the day—his arms wrapped about the book, holding it close to his chest, his head on the clothing of SenWi.
18
r /> For the Line of Pryd
The smell of brine hung thick in the air; they could hear the waves crashing against the rocks beyond the few remaining eastern ridges, and with great hopes and great hunger to be done with this awful campaign, the men of the many holdings pressed forward. The intensity of their charge drove the bloody-cap dwarves before them, spurred by the common cry to “push them into the sea!”
Led by their eager young prince and by the mighty Bannagran, the men of Pryd Holding drove hard from the southern end of the line. Bannagran charged out in front, his heavy axe clearing the way of powries with powerful sweeps.
One dwarf got past that flashing blade and rushed hard at the large man’s side, short sword leading. It clipped Bannagran’s hip, and the man grimaced and turned. Out snapped Bannagran’s hand, catching the dwarf by the front of its leather tunic.
Up into the air went the powrie, soaring over the ridge line to bounce down the rocky eastern side.
Two other dwarves pressed Bannagran furiously from the front, whacking at his blocking axe with their spiked clubs. He was forced back and slipped down to one knee, and the dwarves charged in for the kill. But Bannagran scooped up a large rock and hurled it forward, smacking one powrie squarely in the face. Up came the huge warrior, prodding the spiked tip of his axe straight ahead to halt the charge of the second dwarf.
The powrie had the better angle and tried to shove that axe aside, but so strong was Bannagran that even off balance, even with only one hand holding the axe shaft, he managed to keep the powrie at bay.
Bannagran got his feet under him, and he stood up and lunged forward, his other hand now slapping against his axe handle. He forged ahead, and the powrie gave ground and slipped a step to the side. Instead of following the movement, Bannagran snapped his axe the other way. Suddenly free of the entanglement, the powrie stumbled on the uneven ground, putting distance between himself and the axe—and that gave Bannagran enough room to maneuver and strike, his axe plowing into the dwarf.
He had to reverse his swing immediately, though; and he took the head from a second dwarf that was clambering over the rocky ridge.
Propelled by the warrior’s gains, Prince Prydae led the rest of his forces in a sudden charge up the ridge. The powries broke before them, affording them the high ground and offering a moment of respite from the nearly constant fighting of that morning. As soon as he was clear, the prince rushed up beside his friend and clapped Bannagran on the shoulder. “We have met our objective and the sun has not yet reached its apex,” Prydae congratulated.
“Our comrades have not shared in our good fortune this day,” Bannagran replied as both of them looked northward, where the men of several other holdings lagged, mired in heavy battle with the fierce and stubborn dwarves.
“If I could offer them sons of Bannagran to spearhead their charge…” Prydae said, and when Bannagran turned to regard him, he found his prince smiling.
“I hear the waves!” one man cried from behind them, and that brought a cheer from all the men of Pryd.
Prydae’s smile became a wry grin. “Is our work done this day?”
Bannagran saw the answer clearly in the man’s expression. “It came to us too easily,” he replied with a shake of his head.
“Let us press on.”
“We risk leaving our support behind,” Bannagran warned.
“To the east a bit, but then north,” Prydae explained. “Let us turn the end of the line so that the powries cannot flee around us.”
Bannagran looked back to the battlefield in the north, across the broken and rocky terrain. All seemed quiet in the east, after all, and the day’s fighting was not half done.
Prydae clapped him on the shoulder once more. “You take half our charges and move straight north in support of the men of Laird Ethelbert. I will hold your eastern flank with the other half.”
Bannagran fixed him with a knowing stare.
“I will spread my forces out in a secure line north to south,” Prydae promised, “to ensure that I am not flanked.” He clapped Bannagran once again and moved off, calling his men to order.
“The daring young Prince of Pryd,” Laird Ethelbert remarked when one of his commanders brought news of the unexpected northward curl of the army of Pryd Holding. “Ever out in front is that one.”
“The powries break before his ranks,” said the commander. “The men of Pryd have marked themselves well.”
“Yes, particularly Prydae’s large friend. One victory after another for the men of Pryd.” Ethelbert smiled as he considered his own words. He wasn’t jealous of Prydae’s gains; quite the contrary: Ethelbert figured that Prydae’s reputation would serve him well when he annexed Pryd Holding into the greater kingdom of Ethelbert, opposing Delaval. Though they remained far in the north, the men of Delaval had no doubt heard of Prydae’s exploits here. What might their reaction be if Laird Delaval, attempting to take all of Honce for himself, ordered them into battle against the daring and cunning young prince and his soon-to-be-legendary champion?
“Tell your men to take the valor of Pryd Holding as their example,” Ethelbert instructed his commanders. “Let us press forward as Prydae and his forces seal the trap. The more powries we kill now, the fewer we will have to kill later. Perhaps this day will mark the end of our troubles.
“So valiantly, one and all of Ethelbert!” the laird cried loudly. “The completion of our task lies before us this day, and the road home is at hand!”
With cheers reverberating along the line, the men of Ethelbert Holding charged forward against the fierce dwarves. Their advance inspired those armies of the lesser holdings flanking them to fight on more courageously.
Laird Ethelbert shifted his gaze from his own men to the army of Pryd, who were forming a line east to west, up one side of a ridge and down the other. Still the powries broke before them as they made their way north.
Ethelbert wondered if he might be watching the champion he would name as heir to Ethelbert Holding.
The powries continued to break ranks and flee, and the men of Pryd, led by their new champion, Bannagran, eagerly gave chase. Even those at the end of the line looked ahead more than behind as they swept along the ridge line.
Which was exactly what the powries had anticipated.
Standing in the center of the two lines, Prydae clearly saw the first signs of the counterattack. Powries leaped up from concealment in the rocks and pressed against the trailing edges of the Pryd line.
“Turn, lads! Close up the line!” he cried. “Hold, Bannagran! Tighten the ranks!” As he shouted, Prydae moved south along his trailing forces, and each step more clearly revealed to him the urgency of the situation. For this was no disorganized and desperate maneuver by the dwarves. The prince had to wonder if all his army’s gains that morning had been but illusion. Had the powries allowed him, even enticed him along on his sudden push?
There was no time for Prydae to stop and think about it, for the fight was on at the southernmost end of the line, his soldiers already sorely pressed by a score of dirty dwarves. Into their midst charged the valiant prince, his sword ringing hard against a powrie weapon.
He turned the powrie blade and, with a burst of rage, leaped forward and struck hard, driving his sword deep into powrie flesh. He cried out to bolster his men; but it was hardly necessary, for his presence alone had already stabilized their defense and solidified their determination. Not a man broke ranks and ran.
For a moment, the powrie attack seemed to waver, as several dwarves fell, and others shied from the sudden presence of the mighty prince. But then came further proof to Prydae that this was not an improvisation by the bloody caps; for the second wave came on the length of the Pryd line, locking his men into place as they tried to reinforce the weakness along their ranks. And from the south and west, behind Prydae and his men, came a second group of dwarves, howling and hungry; and some already seemed to reach for their berets, as if the spilling of human blood was inevitable.
 
; Prydae batted aside one thrusting sword, then backhanded to clip off the head of a spear. Then he ducked to avoid a second spear, thrown from somewhere in the rear ranks of dwarves. Acting purely on instinct now, Prydae roared encouragement to his men and forced himself to press on. For he knew that to run was to die, that the dwarves had them caught, whatever the outcome might be. And he knew that without his example many men would turn and run and that would spell doom for them all.
“Hold strong!” he yelled, parrying another sword blow, then thrusting forward to send a powrie spinning down in pain. “Fight them, I tell you! Hold strong! Bannagran!”
Above all the turmoil, Bannagran heard his prince’s call. He brought his axe high to intercept an overhand chop by one dwarf, then stepped in, his sheer strength forcing the powrie’s axe over its head. He gave a sudden jerk, throwing the powrie off balance, then caught the dwarf by the front of its shirt and lifted it into the air.
“Bannagran!” Prydae called again in desperate tones, and the mighty warrior threw the dwarf back into its fellows, forcing that entire section of the powrie line backward just a bit—enough for him to turn and locate his prince amid the confusion of the melee.
The huge man winced as Prydae swiveled away from one thrust and barely pushed a second spear aside. Bannagran’s hopes soared for an instant, when Prydae not only intercepted a third blade but also suddenly turned and sprang forward, his sword taking down one of a trio of powries. The prince landed in perfect balance and began to fend against the remaining two.