Who Walks in Flame (2 page)

“Only three among us have white-steel weapons, though, so let us pray that our muskets and cannons can accomplish what the more primitive weapons of our ancestors could not.

“Kings of the East, our goal is clear. We must unite to prevent the witch-king from destroying us. Though the nations of the West have already fallen, we are stronger. Together, we can prevail.

“I have no more to tell you. The rest is up to you. May the Goddess bless us.”

Heads nod. Murmurs spread. Voices strengthen, and arguments begin. Who will lead the army? Whose forces will form the vanguard? How will the cost of the war be divided amongst them? How will they guard against treachery in the empty castles they leave behind?

Kerenthos places a hand on Bregissa’s shoulder. 

“It doesn’t take long for men to weaken,” she says, “even when the threat is so clear.”

“And yet, when it comes to the fight itself they will bond as brothers, giving their lives for one another. I’d not be here today without the sacrifice of a man who hated me.” He taps on his wooden leg and chuckles. “Though I still think he could’ve gotten there sooner.”

Kerenthos is right. They will stand proud together, if they can make it to the battlefield intact. Of that, I’m certain.

The nobles cluster into factions with pages running between the lordly knots to announce terms and demands. After some time, a page of King Hugix approaches and kneels before Bregissa.

“My lady,” he says. “It has been decided that a champion elected by each faction shall fight on the tourney field. The ultimate winner will determine who commands the army, and the rest of the officer ranks shall also be based upon the results.”

“Gods,” curses Kerenthos. “What a waste.”

“How many factions remain?” Bregissa asks.

“Thirty, my lady.”

“Thirty!” Bregissa fumes. “We cannot waste the strength of so many of our best fighters before we face the greatest threat of our age!”

“You’re going to have to do something, my love. A tourney cannot unite them. It will only make things worse.”

What would Orthinn do? I have not his strength or standing among these men. They listen to me, but they do not respect me. Deep down, I think they sense that I’m not like him. That I’m a fraud.

Suddenly, tempers flare and a fight breaks out between two champions of opposing lords. Bregissa shoves her way through to the circle where the two men face off. 

“Enough!” she says, but they ignore her.

She leaps in between the two men. One stops, in deference to the Skald of the Land. The other does not. He lunges past Bregissa, trying to catch his longtime rival off-guard. 

Kerenthos jumps in and parries the blow with a hastily drawn cutlass. Enraged, the man turns on him. Bregissa spins around, levels the wind pistol, and pulls the trigger. With a skirl and whoosh, a jet of concentrated air strikes the man without honor. The air lifts him from his feet and lands him on his back, ten paces away. 

Stunned, he rolls up onto his knees. Bregissa unsheathes her sword and points it at him. 

“Stand, and I’ll kill you.” 

I will do it. Millions of lives are at stake at here.

The man sits down and looks away. 

Bregissa begins to stalk around in a circle, meeting as many eyes as she can. The voice of the skald, laced with life and death, earth and stream, wells within her. She glances to Kerenthos. Face set into a frown, he nods in understanding.

I’m so sorry, my love. I should have known this would happen.

“I will lead this army!” she bellows, “loathe as am I to do so!”

Confused mutterings, curses, and newfound hope spread amongst the gathered host.

“But you are the Skald of the Land!” cries one king.

“And a High Priestess,” a second adds.

A third one shouts, “What does a wordsmith know of battle!”

And before she can respond, another yells: “And a woman!” Many second this sentiment.

“Aye,” she replies. “I am a woman, the High Priestess of the Moon, and the Skald. And these qualities make me different from all of you. I seek neither crown nor coin. I have no interest here but victory over our enemy.

“If the tale before us is not one for all the ages, then there is no strength in our hearts. Only in cowardice could we fail to make a story to rival all those that came before, in either victory or defeat. So who else could guide you into legend but the Skald of the Land?”

Heads bob, followed by whispers of agreement. No one doubts the days ahead will become legend—just as no one doubts the Skald of the Land who sometimes graces their halls with songs of beauty and peace, inspiration and strength. 

“But what of military leadership?” asks one lord.

“We will vote on a plan of attack and elect generals to serve under my command. I will see that every idea is heard and considered fairly. I will be your figurehead and your bond.”

At that moment, old King Hugix bends his knee and swears that he will follow her. Seeing him concede, the others all agree, even those still apprehensive.
Bless your fondness for my voice, Hugix. You have loved me better than my own father.
 

Bregissa touches Kerenthos’s cheek.
My death looms before me. My doom has come. But at least Kerenthos will live on, guarding the Sacred Isle that bears the seed the Goddess had me leave, for whatever her purpose must be.

“You will remain here, Kerenthos, Champion of the Isle. I command it. In name and with love.”

Please go along with it. I don’t have the heart or the authority to make you. I can’t bear to have you come along and face a certain death, but I’m afraid to go without you. 

Scowling, he replies: “If
that
is what you wish.”

***

Later that night, under the Dark Moon, Kerenthos alone journeys to the heart of the Sacred Isle and approaches the charred Oak of Antenin. Neither spell nor divine wrath strikes him down. He is here, reluctantly, because of a prophecy given to him by the Goddess: 

“When you see that the Sacred Oak of Antenin, struck ill by my wrath, is barren no longer,” the Sun said to him in a vision, “that it carries a human seed, a choice you must make.

“The One Who Rides Through Flame will grant you eternal life and kingship if you stay behind and guard the Sacred Isle. Humanity shall continue, albeit diminished and enslaved for a thousand years. But if you choose to go out and fight against this enemy, humanity will either live on or die free, and even the gods do not know the outcome. Choose carefully, for you are choosing for everyone.

“If you choose to go, you must fertilize the seed placed in the Oak of Antenin. It will be the last hope of humanity should the enemy prevail. If you choose to stay, offer the seed to the One Who Rides Through Flame.”

I’d rather live free or perish
, he thinks.
But what of other men? What choice would they make?
He has wrestled with this decision for three months, ever since word first came to them of the Scorch Walker.
May the gods forgive me, I must decide for my own selfish reason: To protect Bregissa. I would follow her into Torment if necessary, even if I had to take everyone else along with me.

His decision made, Kerenthos does what he must.

***

Bregissa delves deep into the caves beneath The Tower of the Skald. She ventures down here only when the need arises. Her need now is the greatest it will ever be. She must visit the spirit of Orthinn, her father. Her
adopted
father. A man with a tongue so silver that death refused to take him for 150 years. A man adored by everyone but Bregissa.

There is no one she hates more. Because unlike everyone else, she knows him for who he is. A man who would sacrifice his own wife and child for power and then steal another’s child and proclaim it his own.

From Orthinn, Bregissa learned the arts of the Skald, though she has only a fraction of his power. He knew she wouldn't have much talent. That's why he didn’t fear teaching her. Once grown, she was going to be his pawn to use against men, for he knew she would be beautiful like her mother. 

Bregissa killed him on her 18
^th
birthday, after one final day of his brutal
instruction
in the Art. She had spent years researching a spell that would give her revenge, and her dream: To be a true Skald of the Land. Not for her own gain, as Orthinn had done, but to help people make their lives better.

She opens a locked door and boldly steps into the last cave, a small dome-shaped chamber. Runes cover the floor, radiating out from a pedestal in the chamber's center. Over that pedestal hovers the ghostly spirit of Orthinn. Faded and missing his feet already from previous drawings of power. Dark spots on his chest yet show where she stabbed him repeatedly. Even as a ghost they hurt him. This was her intention.

His sunken eyes flash. “Come to take more of my spirit?”

“All of it.”

He says nothing. She stares back.
Finally, he responds, “It won't last. The power will wane in a year or two. They will know you're a fraud, no more talented than dozens of other skalds roaming the land. They will figure out who you are and what really became of me.”

“I have no choice. The Witch-King Khuar-na has returned. The West has already fallen.”

“Truth?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Not even when you said that you would kill me. I just didn’t believe you had it in you.”

“You made me what I am.”

"Can the East stop Khuar-na?”

“We are united, but I have my doubts if it will be enough.”

“I am impressed. Honestly. You took little of my spirit last time. Your skill has improved.”

“I have more confidence. And the Goddess gifted me some power along with a prophecy.”

“That's not a good sign, you know that?”

“I know.”

Bregissa draws forth a metal amulet, savoring the moment as fear flickers along his ghostly face. "True death comes for you at last.
Father.
"

She plunges hand and amulet into his spirit. Orthinn screams.

***

Kerenthos never intended to honor the bargain with Bregissa. But he knew it would be easiest on her if he simply showed up with the army, days out on their march, at a time when it was too late to go back. That way, she wouldn't have to worry about it.

The time has come to tell her
, he thinks,
I have no choice.

Bregissa is standing beneath the shade of a scraggly oak, humming a tune beat into her by Orthinn, long ago. Hiding behind a nearby wagon of supplies, Kerenthos watches as a scout runs up to Bregissa and reports: "The Witch-King is only a day away, my lady."

"What does Lord Tantren think of the land here?" The Kings had elected Lord Tantren as the army's tactical and strategic commander.

"I don't know, my lady."

Kerenthos steps out from hiding. "Tantren thinks this is as good a place as any on the plains to face the Witch-King. I was just speaking with him not half an hour ago."

Bregissa spins. Her eyes flare. Her lips draw in. Anger flickers across her face, then vanishes. She turns to the scout and says calmly, "We shall make our stand here. Let it be known to Lord Tantren and the Kings of the East."

The scout hurries away and Kerenthos limps toward her. She turns away and gazes across the plains again. 

"I'm sorry, Bregissa. I had to come. I had to protect you."
You are all I live for. I couldn't stand to face another day without you. I could have lived as a king, forever. I chose you instead.

She doesn't answer him.

"You are angry with me?"

"Should I be?" she replies, languidly.

"I lied to you."

"Was it a lie if I didn't believe you?"

"You knew I was with the army?"

He spots a brief flicker on her face, a smile almost. "I did not. I thought you had kept your word. I am … surprised."

You're hurt but you will never admit it.

"I hope you will forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. You have been true to who you are, and I love you."

"But you won't face me? You won't greet me with a hug or a kiss? You must miss me as I miss you."

"I am angry for now. Maybe I will look at you tonight, over our last meal before the battle. I think it's gruel again."

He chuckles. "We're on campaign. It's always gruel."

"War really is distasteful then."

"Your humor is poor." 

She shrugs. 

"Since there's so little time left for humor, perhaps you should leave what's left to me."

That does make her smile, for a moment, and he knows that in an hour or two, she will no longer be mad at him. That is good, because he fears he will be too exhausted to stay awake through dinner.

***

The Scorch-Walker rocks beneath him. In the distance, parched grasslands burn. Desert spreads behind him as the energy flowing from his iron amulet dries streams and withers all verdant things. He does, however, leave an occasional oasis. After all, he is merciful, Khuar-na the Witch-King.

He strokes a hard, crimson scale and speaks to the Scorch-Walker. “Flame and smoke as far as the eye can see, my friend. I never wielded so much power before. I can now create deserts within days.”

Alien thoughts seep into his mind:
amulet, planet core, magnetic forces, heat
.

“Yes, I agree.” He lifts the amulet and rubs a thumb across its surface, feeling an unseen micro-fracture that had almost destroyed the device. “It could not have held much more energy, though.”

His thoughts turn to his slain people, now dust and faint memory. So what if they had the eyes of reptiles and their blood ran cold? They were still as like the people on this planet as not. They had not deserved the genocide the humans unleashed upon them.

His eyes narrow as he looks out upon the Army of the East gathered before him in their thousands with pikes and swords, horses and armor, cannons and muskets.

Though the cannons could kill him and injure the Scorch-Walker, Khuar-na does not fear gunpowder. A smile tugs at his lips. “A deadly surprise awaits them, old friend. They will learn why the West fell so easily.” The Scorch-Walker’s laugh echoes in Khuar-na’s mind.