It didn't take long to go from chasing down the soldiers as they tried to flee to marching in triumph toward the castle with cheering crowds on either side of the street, celebrating their liberation from the despised Baron and his monstrous mage. Gerhard rode with his sword lifted high, while the mage riding on the back of his steed shook his head groggily. Jarl marched along behind them with Ture and Eivind at his side. Even the men from the tundra managed to get the six dogs that had survived to heel at their sides.
Jarl looked at the faces lining the streets. Most of them were older men and women who were beyond their fighting years, but there was a large number of middle aged men and women who had just never had the courage to stand up and fight. There were few children left in Fjellvidden, most having been sent elsewhere to escape Calephas's immediate interest. But what few he saw were jumping up and down and eager to run and greet the men who had sent the army fleeing.
Quoddy and Machias swooped down from the sky and settled on the back of the horses in front of Jarl and Ture, and they cawed their delight and relief. Jarl grimaced as he saw them, but then smiled a little. For once, he had to admit, the Keepers had actually helped. He nodded to them and said, "Thank you for helping us through the alleys back there. It was... not looking good."
The gull squawked a laugh and stretched out is wings. "I'm just so glad we've all survived. Last night I didn't think it was possible." He turned his head to the southern sky and his chest seemed to deflate as his webbed feet shifted on the horse's back to get better purchase. The horse for his part swished his tail a little more intently. "I hope Lubec's okay." The puffin nodded vigorously at that.
The crowd moved in behind them as they came toward the castle walls and the main gatehouse facing the southwest. Jarl stared up at the walls and felt his heart clench tight in his chest. This had been his home as a child. He hadn't set foot within these walls in almost ten years. How much would be changed? How much would need to be cleaned after the filth that had lived here?
"Look," Ture pointed past the horses at the men standing at the gate. "It's the others!"
Jarl didn't know any of the other Resistance members from Fjellvidden, but he did recognize the handful standing at the bailey-side of the gatehouse as the same who had been in the mill. He did see the black-bearded Innkeeper Brigsne among them, but he didn't see Elizabaeg. A part of him wanted to be glad about that, but he pushed it aside. He'd revealed who he was now. There was no more reason to hide.
"Gerhard, you old dog!" Brigsne roared in laughter as the mounted men passed through the gatehouse and into the bailey. The Innkeeper hefted a broad axe and swung it down to set the pommel at his feet. "Decided to come anyway?"
Gerhard dismounted and helped the groggy Harald to his feet. "And a good thing I did. What of the baron and the mage?"
"Dead," Brigsne said with a grunt. "Or gone. All those the mage had control over are themselves again, and I saw one of his pups just turn tail and flee. The soldiers and all of the Lutins have fled too."
"We'll have to make sure. But first we need to tend the injured and then find some place to make plans. We've recaptured Fjellvidden. But Calephas's soldiers still hold the rest of the villages and towns throughout Arabarb."
"We've put Luvig in one of the bedrooms that wasn't fouled by Lutins I'm not sure he's going to survive."
Harald blinked and was finally able to focus his eyes on the Innkeeper. "Where is he? I might be able to help him. I am a mage of some minor skill." A few of the riders heard that and began to chuckle viciously.
The Innkeeper frowned but hefted his axe and motioned for the mage to follow him. "This way."
While Harald followed Brigsne toward the castle proper, the other riders dismounted and began scrutinizing the fortifications in the event that they needed to quickly mount a defense. The two birds jumped into the air and flew up to the gatehouse towers and cawed excitedly to one another.
Jarl walked straight up to Gerhard and put his hands on his hips. "You heard who I am?"
Gerhard looked him up and down with one eye as he brushed his steed down and checked for cuts. "The thane's grandson, or so you say."
"I am!"
"What of it?"
"I helped us win that battle," Jarl pointed out as he tried to stare down the older man. "And I deserve to be a part of any counsels taken to free the rest of Arabarb."
Gerhard seemed to mull that for a few seconds, moving his tongue from side to side in his cheeks. At last he grunted and glanced at the gatehouse. "We'll see about that. You've certainly distinguished yourself, young Jarl Thoronson. For now, take Ture and Eivind and any others who wish through town to collect our men who've been injured and those who've died. Bring them here so we can treat them, and the rest to wait until we can bury them."
Jarl felt indignation swell up in him at being given so base a task. But after years of living the life of a fisherman, he'd grown adept at swallowing his pride. And, as his mind processed just what he'd been asked, he recalled the many times he had helped his adopted brothers when they were hurt, or what they had done for him when he'd been hurt.
He'd also been asked to lead this task. It may be something small, but it was a start.
"I will see to it," he assured Gerhard with as straight a face as he could manage through his confusing complex of emotions.
Gerhard almost managed a smile as he nodded and offered, "Thank you."
Pharcellus swung his head around, and turned about on his legs, tail swinging through the air behind him as he scanned the northern bank for any sign of Lutins. But no matter where he looked there weren't any more to be found. The dozens that had been camped here had either fled or had died beneath his claws or burned in his breath. For the first time since he'd hurt his wing, he felt like he'd actually done something useful. Lutins - such foul little creatures.
He swung around to stare at the castle on the southern bank and felt some measure of hope when the shouts arising from the city beyond were cheers. Was it over? Had the Resistance won? Pharcellus let his form retract into the human guise that was now very familiar to him. His torn wing still throbbed, but the pain faded when his scales hid themselves beneath a seeming of soft flesh.
The stone bridge, almost a bronze in the midday sun, spanned the gorge and the rushing river, with an arch structure beneath to support the weight. The stones were coated in moss and lichen, and had a particularly old look to them. But they were sufficient for his human weight. He dashed across as quickly as his twinging shoulder would allow.
The road through the grasses was mostly dirt with a few loose stones to suggest an older road that had not seen upkeep in over a century. It led down along the declivity to the southeastern gate of the city and past the eastern walls of the castle. He noted the gaping hole in the side of the castle where he'd escaped the night before, and then let his eyes rove to the walls but there was no one watching them anymore.
He nearly tripped over his feet when he saw one of the pups run up to the edge of the wall and leap off with a limp body cradled in his arms. And then he did trip when chasing after him off the edge of the wall was a young red and gray-scale dragon too young to leave the mountains. He jumped back to his feet in time to watch with jaw agape the little one spread his wings and attempt to glide.
Lindsey was getting better in his dragon body. This time he only had a little trouble chasing his friend up the stairs. Jerome bounded the steps as if they were mere pebbles in his way. But the new dragon had to bunch all of his limbs at the bottom landing and leap as far up as he could and then scramble the last few steps with his claws gouging at the stone to give him purchase. And whenever he leaped he had to resist the urge to spread his wings. They were beginning to feel cramped in the castle corridors and his body ached to spread them wide and stretch them to their limit.
He wondered if this was what Guernef felt like those few times the Nauh-kaee had been trapped with them in human buildings as at Metamor, Breckaris, and Marzac.
Still, Jerome easily outpaced the dragon. By the time Lindsey reached the open air again, Jerome had already reached the western wall and scooped his father's decapitated corpse into his arms. The Sondecki's face had returned to its lupine visage, and his entire body was coated in black fur, his chest muscles broad and wide, and his arms thick like Lindsey's had been when a man. Jerome's golden eyes flashed in the light once as he ran straight toward the dragon and jumped clear over him. Lindsey snapped with his jaws in surprise, and then twisted his serpentine body around and ran after him toward the eastern walls.
His heart trembled in fear as he saw his friend run headlong toward the walls and the forest beyond. Had he lost whatever fight he'd been in against Gmork? Was he running back to his father for good?
Lindsey couldn't let that happen. He tensed his leg muscles and leaped through the air, nearly catching Jerome by the tail, before the half-wolf propelled himself over the battlement wall, legs bracing to hit the ground.
Something in Lindsey's old human mind begged him to stop; but the new dragon body kept going forward, pushing off the stone and accepting the air. At last his wings unfurled and he felt his body jolt as the thick folds of scaled hide caught the wind and kept him from falling face first into the hard, grassy soil.
For one moment Lindsey felt an elation that defied all his fears. He was flying!
And then when he started to wobble in the air as the ground continued to rush toward him he realized that he had no idea how to fly. He tried to move his wings up and down as his arms and legs frantically clawed the air before him. The world tilted on its side as he his tail lashed about behind him. And then, before he could turn end over end, he landed chest first into the ground with a whump. He coughed and managed to wobble back to his feet.
When he managed to get his eyes to focus again he saw Jerome was already another fifty feet ahead of him, carrying the body toward the forest-line. He huffed and started to run, when he caught sight of a very familiar red-haired human in gray traveling clothes running toward him from the bridge. He slowed and waved a paw in disbelief. "Pharcellus? It's me, Lindsey!"
The human blinked and looked him from head to tail as he ran toward. "Lindsey? You're a dragon! Ho ho! How did?"
"Later. I've got to stop him!" He started running again. Jerome's tail disappeared into the woods but his scent was still very strong.
"The pup?" Pharcellus asked, running along side of him as he swelled to his usual proportions.
Lindsey shook his head as his brother quickly outgrew him, making him realize just how young a dragon he really was. He may be a dragon now, but he was still just a child. Still, it didn't keep him from growling with anxious passion. "He's not a pup. He's my friend!"
It took three trips to Calephas's larder to bring enough wine bottles to finally put out the fire in the armory. All three of them carried as many bottles as they could, but there was only so much each bottle could do. By the time they were finished the room stank from so many different odors, some pleasant and others vile, that even if they had wanted to sift through the remains they could never have managed without vomiting.
So instead Alfwig decided that he was going to make sure that the pup had been telling the truth about the baron. Gwythyr knew where the iron door to the hidden wharf was and so he led the husband and wife back into the dank regions of the castle. He kept a discreet distance ahead of them and let the two talk quietly with their heads leaning against one another.
The words that passed between them were few, mixed with joy and sorrow, but after so many years and after so many struggles, there was little that either could say that the other did not already know. They spoke of Lindsey, now a dragon, wondering what sort of future was in store for him. And they whispered of Andrig, their other son who had never returned from the ill-fated assault on Metamor the previous winter. They were parents who knew that tears were coming soon.
It did not take them long to reach Calephas's secret wharf. Gwythyr gawked at the utterly destroyed door and the paw-like handprints indented several inches into the iron. Alfwig pushed past him and ran onto the stone dock and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the two bodies sprawled on the deck amidst a dried pool of blood. He recognized the tiger Weaker instantly, but the headless man was knowable only from the quality of his clothing.
Elizabaeg followed him onto the boat and put a hand on his shoulder when he leaned over the bodies to try and see what had happened.
"Drowned I'd say," he announced after turning the tiger's head and seeing water dribble from his snout. "But somebody cut Calephas's head off. I wonder who..." his eyes spied a bit of parchment in one of the baron's hands. He gingerly pried it free and then felt his heart tense. The backside had a singe word written in a clumsy but determined scrawl.
It was his name.
"What is that?" Elizabaeg asked while Gwythyr approached and gingerly tapped his sword at the edge of the hole near the fo'c'sle.
"A note," Alfwig said as he opened it and started to read more of the same handwriting inside. "To me... from Yajgaj?"
"The Lutin gaoler?" Gwythyr asked with a surprised frown. "I didn't know any Lutins could write."
Alfwig nodded. "Neither did I." His voice choked in his throat as he finished reading the note. He folded it carefully back together and took a deep breath. "He is... a very interesting and unusual Lutin. Do you have something I can keep this in? I have no pouch."
His wife's gaze was intensely curious, but she did not ask him anything. He would have to tell her soon but now wasn't the time. She opened a little satchel draped at her waist and carefully slipped the note within where it wouldn't be damaged or lost. Her eyes met his for a moment, but he turned to the baron's body and nudged it with one hand. "We should bring this back with us. We need to drag it through the streets."
"And the tiger?" Gwythyr asked.
"Was he known in the city?"
The soldier shook his head. "Not particularly."
"Then we'll just dump it back in the river. Let the fish have it."
Together, Alfwig and Gwythyr were able to lift the dead tiger's body and heave it over the gunwale. It splashed into the river and disappeared beneath the current almost immediately. They then bent over and hoisted Calephas's body into the air, Gwythyr holding the arms and Alfwig the legs. They did not bother to try and keep his neck stump from bumping against the gunwale as they carried him off the ship, or from the stones beneath them on the wharf or in the castle halls.
Elizabaeg followed behind, one hand resting over her satchel, wondering just what it was that her husband had seen in the Lutin's note that had shocked him so. Alfwig kept his face set in a thin line, unable to think about anything else.
Two dragons stood side by side, one much larger than the other, beneath the sheltering boughs of pines and fir. Their gray-scaled bulks were pressed close together, wings held tightly against their backs in the narrow confines of the forest. Their claws were pressed firmly into the rocky earth coated with old pine needles and the occasional stretch of moss. The air about them was warmed by their presence, and they could hear the distant cheers in the city, and the cries of birds through the trees, but all the other wildlife had fled at their intrusion into their arboreal demesnes.
They stood watch over a third figure whose silvery black fur coated his entire body, while he dug deeply into the earth with his forepaws, working out a long trench between several trees and behind a cairn of stone that shielded it from casual inspection. The wolf-like creature shoved mounds of earth behind him, revealing a dark, rich loam beneath that was still hard from the winter's frost. Yet it proved no impediment to him.
Lindsey felt a great sense of relief in seeing that his friend had just come to bury Gmork's body. While he would have much rather seen that body dragged through Fjellvidden to be stoned and spat upon, he knew that Jerome's sanity was hanging by a knife edge; any desecration of the corpse of the one he could not help but think of as father might send him fleeing back to the beast for good.
And he was also grateful for Pharcellus's presence and understanding. To be able to look in the red-tipped gray-scale and call him brother and know that it was really true made his new heart pound with fierce pride and joy. Smoke still curled from Pharcellus's nostrils from where he'd let loose another burst of fire when they'd been reunited. Lindsey craned his neck around and opened his jaws, very carefully saying, "I'm glad you're my brother."
The larger dragon rumbled deep inside his chest and his snout broke into a reptilian grin. "And I am so glad that you know. I've wanted to tell you for so long, but... it wasn't my secret to tell. How did this happen? Oh you must tell me. When last I saw you..." his eye slipped down to the headless corpse laying in quiet repose next to the grave Jerome was digging. Pharcellus brought short his enthusiasm and closed him mouth to keep from saying anything more.
"I will," Lindsey promised him. "And you'll have to tell me what happened to your wing and how you came back. I'm sure it's a great tale of valor."
Pharcellus's easy-going manner seemed to return for a moment and then he lowered his snout nearly to the ground. "I fell out of the sky and into the trees." He lifted his snout and craned his head back to look at the tear, but it was hidden with the folds of flesh pressed to his back. "I'm going to have a scar, Lindsey!"
The plaintive way his brother said it, as if a scar was the most horrible thing he could imagine happening to himself, made Lindsey want to laugh. But he checked himself and returned to watching his friend. The hole was a few feet deep already and getting deeper. Mounds of dirt rose up on all sides as the wolf moved back and forth to dig. When the dirt started to pile up inside the trench he shifted into a more man-like guise and would scoop the earth into large clawed hands and deposit them very carefully on the ground above.
After scooping out the latest batch of fallen dirt, Jerome surprised them both by leaping out of the hole and shaking himself off from head to tail in a very canine manner. Specks of dirt splattered against their snouts as he did so. His shaggy hide rippled as he finished and came to sit down next to his father's body. His eyes lifted and seemed to stare vacantly for several seconds, nostrils widening, the scent of fresh loam nearly overpowering the pines.
"At least Calephas died and his potions with him," Jerome said in a broad, almost neutral fashion. It was as if he were talking to somebody who wasn't there. Lindsey glanced through the forest but saw nothing, not even a shadow moving in the distance.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Jerome gingerly lifted Gmork's body and laid him gently within the hole. He made sure that the clawed hands were folded over the breast as if in peaceful slumber. Jerome folded his hands before him, his guise still beastly with a powerful lupine head; only the set of his shoulders, chest, and arms gave any suggestion of his human ancestry.
"Eli, have mercy on his soul. Oh Yahshua, please have mercy." Jerome then made the sign of the yew over the body three times, then over his own chest, tracing with his thumb and two fingers, the dark claws pressed tightly together. Lindsey reflexively lifted one of his forepaws to do the same, finding it a little awkward but doable as a dragon. Pharcellus out of politeness solemnly closed his eyes.
Jerome then began scooping the dirt and laid it tenderly atop the body, covering it slowly with the dark earth, but still covering it. It took several long minutes before he had the headless, fur-coated body hidden beneath a layer of loam; but once he did he started moving the earth more quickly. Lindsey and Pharcellus stood between the trees watching him and keeping a wary eye on the woods beyond.
But nothing new came near; no scent, no sound, no sight. Jerome finished pounding the last of the earth in place, flattening the grave site and indenting it with his paws until it looked as if a thousand wolves had danced in that one spot. He then took a single stone from the cairn and set it where Gmork's head would have been. He sat on his haunches leaning over that stone for several breathless moments, long claws digging, almost etching into the stone as they pressed tightly, golden eyes transfixed on the silent marker. No sound echoed in the wood, but what torrents of thought and emotion passed in that simple regard, a cacophony that could never be deciphered!
Lindsey wondered if he should reach out and touch his friend to bring him back from whatever he contemplated. But before he could lift a scaled arm, Jerome sat back and lifted his head so that he stared out into the wood. As if he were fighting back the cry inside his chest he swung his head from side to side three times in each direction. And then he surrendered, tipping back his head and howling with bone-chilling anguish.
The wolf's lament echoed and silenced every bird; even the boisterous cheering in the city seemed a pale, nervous, tentative thing. Jerome's hands dwindled before him until there was nothing left of the man. What sat before them weeping was a wolf, a beast, the very creature Gmork had sought to make of the Sondecki. His once auburn hair had disappeared beneath a hide of a black so rich that it shined with silvery radiance. The wordless howl spoke of sorrow and loss and a heart broken in twain.
Lindsey knew that pain, but for some reason, the misery did not well up in his own heart for his lost kangaroo. Zhypar had truly gone to the paradise that they ought all to hope for. Could there even be hope for whatever soul had once inhabited the body now buried beneath them? And what of Gmork who Jerome said was still alive? How much anguish weighed on a heart in love with one so evil as that?
Jerome howled fives times, each one long, descending into a whimper that only resumed with plaintive misery. There was no response, and after his fifth cry, Jerome lowered his head and trembled. Lindsey took a step closer, pine needles crunching beneath his heavy hands and feet, and stretched out his neck to nuzzle the wolf with his snout.
But Jerome shifted a bit, lifting one leg to scratch at the back of his neck, before he rolled onto his side and shifted back into a more human guise. The lupine features melted from his face, arms and chest leaving only the ears and yellow eyes behind. The fur on his thighs thinned, but his legs seemed permanently locked in a beastly posture complete with tail.
He looked to the two dragons and nodded slowly. "We should go somewhere that the others won't notice me. Let's... let's cross the bridge. I will be less tempted there." His voice was ragged but there was conviction in each of his words.
"Tempted?" Lindsey asked as he and Pharcellus began backing up through the trees to extricate themselves.
"To go back to him. I'm," Jerome stopped and lowered his eyes. His face trembled as if it were trying to turn back to the woods behind them. But he squared his jaw and marched toward the dragons. "I'm his prodigal."
"You are our friend," Pharcellus said firmly. "Come with us. It will be safe across the bridge."
Jerome nodded and followed the two dragons as they made their way back out to the sward and the road leading north across the gorge. Lindsey cast one glance back into the woods but there was nothing to see.
Deeper in the woods where the shadows were long and dark, Gmork watched his youngest bury his old body while those two vile dragons loomed over him. Beside him in the deep lay his other two pups. Both were exhausted from their sprint through the woods away from Fjellvidden, but at least they had been reunited with their father. Nestled between them was the sleeping boy who would soon again love his father.
But for those few minutes Gmork could only stare at his other son, proud that he could become a beast in body, but furious that he had not come to his side. Something had gone wrong, his risk had not worked, and it galled him and made him grind his teeth together to sate his rage.
But then, his youngest lifted his head after climbing out of the grave and looked directly at his father. Gmork stretched out one arm and beckoned him to come to him with his claws. But all his youngest did was speak. "At least Calephas died and his potions with him."
He breathed slowly and felt a slight lessening of his anger. The words had been meant for him, his pup assuring his father that the task he'd been set was accomplished. On some level his youngest still belonged to him, still knew him to be Father. His anger abated and was replaced by hunger.
Gmork motioned with his outstretched paw again, inviting his son to join his brothers and leave this wretched place together. All his youngest had to do was to leap forward through the trees and he would easily outpace the two dragons. Gmork recognized that larger of them as the one they'd chased through the woods the night before. Even in human guise he doubted that creature could keep pace with them. The other must be the boy that Calephas had been experimenting on, the one that had come from Metamor. He was far too young and Gmork would not be merciful or patient with him should he take up the chase.
But his pup's eyes turned away and he lowered Gmork's old body into the grave. Gmork put his paw back on the ground and took several long deep breaths while the old flesh was covered with dirt. His youngest's actions were full of reverence and dignity, motivated by the love that Gmork had instilled in him. But the agony of waiting for him to finish was almost too much for a Father eager to flee this land with his pups.
When at last the body had been buried, Jerome lifted his eyes once more, bright golden eyes that gleamed with the fire of a beast, his form wholly that of the wolf, the last vestiges of the human eradicated at long last. Gmork stretched out his paw again, tail wagging slightly, ears erect in ravenous need. But then, to his horror and rage, his pup swung his head back and forth, so broad and so clear that Gmork knew that he had been rejected by one of his own.
It took all of his willpower to keep from growling in fury or from throwing fireballs into the pines over their heads. He did growl at his other pups when his youngest began to howl in misery. They both tilted back their heads to reply in kind, but whimpered softly when they saw their father's fierce glare.
Gmork watched the affair, his arm still outstretched, but now the claws pulled into his palm. His pup spoke to the dragons, and the three of them left the woods. And then one last phrase pierce the red, red rage and made the great wolf of the north pause. "I'm his prodigal."
Prodigal. In the end, the prodigal always returned to the father, humble and contrite. Gmork lowered back into the brush and let his rage seep through his jaws, coursing past his fangs and dancing out across his long tongue. With each exhalation his thoughts grew clearer and the rage abated into a quiet simmer.
His prodigal pup would return to him one day. And he, the loving Father, would forgive him. Gmork's jowls curled ever so faintly into a smile, as empty as it was.
But that day was not today. He scooped the boy back into his arms and with his other two pups, loped through the forest eastward. It was time to leave Arabarb behind. But where could he go? Perhaps he could barter services for his mother for any pet mages she might let him adopt. And there was Marigund too, if he risked traveling through the lands south of the mountains; there was always disgruntled mages in Marigund who might be enticed to take a more beastly path.
As plans sprouted and formed in his mind, Gmork and his three children fled, leaving the prodigal behind; one day they would be a family again.
It took about two hours for Jarl, Ture, and the rest to gather up the wounded and bring them within the castle walls. They were aided by glad men and women of the city, and loaned several wagons. Vysterag the shipwright was one of the first to come to their help, but he seemed more interested in collecting the dead soldiers and hacking their limbs off. The dead Resistance members and their dogs were treated with respect and carried in covered carts back to the castle along with the wounded. Women came to tend them, and men quickly took up the fallen arms to man the gates while others started repairing the ruined barricades.
And everywhere they went through the city they were welcomed as the heroes they were. Jarl didn't even mind that most of them did not recognize him. That could come later.
What he most enjoyed seeing was the headless body of the baron being dragged through the streets by donkey who couldn't quite tell why this lumpy weight had been attached to his harness, and certainly not why people were throwing stones right behind him. Jarl laughed as the stones bounced off Calephas's pasty flesh, bones twisted and mangled as he bounced along the stone roads.
When they returned with the last wagon of injured, they saw that the western bailey wall was now a makeshift hospice with lean-tos set up to give the wounded some shelter. The mage Harald was moving from one to the next, while several of the women cleaned wounds and bandaged cuts and bruises. They even had bowls of hot, savory broth to share.
On the eastern side the dead were being arranged side by side beneath shrouds; even the tundra hounds were accorded such an honor. Jarl had to admit that it was mildly amusing to see three Keeper dogs helping lay real dogs in funeral repose.
Jarl brought the wagons to a stop while Ture and Eivind aided the last two men whose legs had been broken toward the lean-tos. The young man approached Harald who was just rising to his feet, a look of weary exhaustion draped over his entire body like a cape. "Harald," Jarl said confidently. "Where are Gerhard and Elizabaeg?"
The mage rubbed his hands over his vest and gestured with a tilt of his head at the main castle. "Just inside, you'll hear them. Looking over poor Luvig last I saw."
"Will he be all right?"
The mage's eyes grew distant and he ran his hand through his beard, stroking down its entire length several times before answering. "He should live."
One of the men who'd accompanied Elizabaeg into the castle and then Jarl on his rounds through the city had told him what had happened to the alchemist. Jarl had seen men burned by fire before and while it always scarred the flesh, he'd rarely heard of any man consumed by it unless they had been trapped. The dark and distant tones of the southern mage were not reassuring. "What does that mean?"
Harald looked down at the injured man at his feet who had fallen asleep. "Everyone out here will recover and be able to live as they did before; fighting, making families, and passing on their legacies. Luvig probably will never do any of that."
Jarl swallowed. "What happened?"
"He lost one of his eyes and one of his ears, but the others should still work once they heal. His face will be a ruin even after it heals. And his arms... I had to remove both of his arms at the elbows. The flesh there... was cooked through."
Jarl felt sick at the thought of it, but found the ire to declare, "If this is to be my house, then Luvig will always live here in honor."
"Your house?" Harald turned to look at him in surprise, noting his earnest expression. Suddenly his lips twitched in a half smile as understanding dawned. "Oh, Gerhard said something about you being the old thane's grandson. I'm glad you're alive, Jarl. Go on now. I have many more to tend."
Jarl stepped past the mage as he made his way toward the main castle gates. He glanced back once and noted that there were more bodies to be buried than there were to be healed and sighed. Some of those had been his friends. At least none of them had been his brothers.
Once inside the castle's main door, the passage forked in three directions, but he only heard voices from the passage directly ahead of him. He walked down the narrow hall lit by lanterns until he came to a wide room with several tables. Nobody was sitting at the tables, but several people were sitting on them, gathered in a sort of circle. He recognized Elizabaeg, Brigsne, and Gerhard, as well as the soldier who had been a spy for the Resistance. There were a few other faces he did not know.
"Jarl," Gerhard waved his hand, a broad grin dominating his face in a way that seemed utterly alien to the dour man. "Come! There is much still to discuss. Did you gather all the wounded and dead?"
He nodded as he walked into the midst of the circle and crossed his arms over his chest. "Harald and many of the women of Fjellvidden are tending the wounded. The dead are being arranged. Where did the Keeper dogs come from?"
"The kennels," the soldier spy said with a grunt. He sat next to Gerhard who had a firm, glad hand on his shoulder. "Gmork kept them there as his pets, but... Gmork is dead now and so they are free."
Jarl noted the way Gerhard and this soldier kept close and appeared to smile at each other. And then he looked at the shape of their eyes and cheeks and barked a laugh. "Your his father!"
Gerhard nodded and patted the soldier on the back. "Father to a son he'd thought he lost. Gwythyr here never told me he was joining the Resistance. I spent two years thinking you'd betrayed your family!"
Gwythyr shook his head and laughed, "Father, I told you. If I'd said anything then we'd all have been forfeiting our lives."
Jarl shook his head and blinked, even as several of the others laughed again. "I'm confused."
"Then let me explain it," Gerhard said. He quickly described how Gwythyr his son had left their home two years ago declaring that he was joining Calephas's army. The news had come as a great shock to Gerhard who had tried to raise his boy to loath the usurper and pederast. But it had been a ruse as Gwythyr sought to become an informant to the Resistance. He'd hated having to do it, but had he told his father the real reason, if one of them were captured then both of them would die.
"But," Gerhard finished as he looked at his son one more time, "we don't have to worry about that anymore."
"But what we do have to worry about," the man sitting next to Elizabaeg with graying beard and stern regard, "is what to do about the rest of the soldiers still holding all the villages in Arabarb. Far too many escaped Fjellvidden today. They will regroup quickly. The commanders of the garrisons will vie to see who can command what is left of the armies. We have only Fjellbvidden, and we did it with men from all over Arabarb, a third of which are now dead. We cannot hold this city, nor can we keep everyone here."
"That's true," Brigsne admitted with a grunt. "I heard some of the tundra men complain that they wished to take the fight up north to free their lands."
"And I don't want to leave the south for long," Gerhard agreed. "But if Fjellvidden is captured again, then everything we did was for nothing."
"Not quite," the man next to Elizabaeg said in his growling voice. "Calephas is dead. He will never come back. And the mage has been defeated and his pups have fled. Let us hope they do not return. And the Lutins are fleeing or dead. Arabarb is for men and for our dragon friends." This last he said with a crooked grin.
"Which means that this is a fight for men, and that is something we can win."
"But we do have to protect Fjellvidden," Jarl said. "We need to repair all the defenses and find weapons for the men of the city. And when news spreads of what we did here, other cities will destroy the soldiers too."
"Agreed," Gerhard said with a quick nod to the youngest man present. "I have already given instructions that the barricades be rebuilt. They should be up in a few days. I was hoping to have Ture organize the men of Fjellvidden. It's been ten years since they have fought and they'll need some discipline to become effective defenders. Only then can we move on the other villages and provinces."
Jarl grimaced and narrowed his eyes, "Why do you feel you have the right to give these people commands? You are not from this place, and you are here only because you changed your mind about helping."
Brigsne grunted and tensed and Elizabaeg lowered her eyes, sighing deeply. Gerhard regarded him evenly. "Jarl Thoronson, you are young and you have not led men into battle. I have. You of all should know that alone inspires our people."
"They came to fight when I called them, when I said who I was!"
"Aye, they did," Gerhard nodded, his lips curling into a sullen glare. "They remember your grandfather. But that does not mean you are equipped to guard this city. It does not mean you can."
Jarl ground his teeth and balled his hands into fists. "It is the honor of my family! It was my family that was slain. It was my grandfather and father whose heads decorated pikes on the castle walls!"
"I am well aware of that!" Gerhard shot back, standing up and drawing his arms over his chest. "But that does not mean we should trust Fjellvidden to you."
The man sitting next to Elizabaeg held up one hand with a regard that seemed born of patience. "Jarl Thoronson. I knew your father and served under your grandfather Thane Angulf Amundson. He was a towering man with a wicked temper, the strength to break trees, and a laugh that made the wine flow more freely and tenderized the meat at feasts. My wife has told me how you have lived hidden these seven years as the adopted son of a fisherman in Seydisfjord. What of them?"
Jarl stared at the weathered man with graying beard; he still had patches of red hair in the midst of the age, and from the way he carried himself and regarded everyone in the room, he knew this was a man of patience, of valor, and of a strength beyond his years. And sitting next to Elizabaeg as he did, he knew this had to be her lost husband, Alfwig, the man so many in the Resistance had looked to for leadership. A man he had long hated from afar, but now that he was in his presence knew he could never hate again. There was something about him, something that reminded Jarl of his father Thoron Angulfson. His heart ached at the mere memory of him.
And with them he thought of his adopted family. His new father who had always been and always wished to be a simple fisherman plying the coasts for his trade no matter the weather. He thought on his adopted mother's pleasant smile, strong arms that swept her children close whenever the soldiers came knocking, and the way she used to whistle to herself while she tended clothes or cooking. Then there were his brothers and sisters, more than he ever imagined any family could have, who had welcomed him without complaint, enduring his bouts of weeping and anger with equanimity and generosity. They taught him a trade that he did not relish but that he was grateful for nevertheless. And they had given him a family when all of his own was taken from him.
"I could never abandon them," he admitted, his voice softer and his eyes lowered. But he lifted them with new fire in his lungs. "But I am not just going to be a fisherman either. I know what needs to be done for this city and for Arabarb! Once we secure Fjellvidden, we next need to drive the soldiers off the coasts. That's where the wealth is. If they have none of that then we can trap them in the forests and kill them like deer and bear."
Alfwig nodded. "And the Pass? What of the fort in the Pass? Calephas's soldiers still control it."
Jarl took a deep breath and nodded. "Aye, they do. But they have no supplies unless we send it to them. They can hunt, true, but not enough. We only need starve them and they'll surrender in a few months. Or flee."
"But what of your family?" Alfwig asked again, his voice almost gentle as well as stern.
"No matter what, I will be there when we free the southern coasts. They don't know who I really am. It should be me that tells them."
Gerhard narrowed his eyes. "Why not just go back there when all the land is free and be their son again? You could make that land your guard and be close to them always."
Jarl swallowed and turned back to the red-haired man whose hard face did not seem to have any charity in it anymore. "Because that is not my ancestral home. This is! Although if you are so intent on becoming thane yourself, Gerhard, then between us it can only be settled with blood. I will challenge you for this guard if you so desire it! First blood from the chest. If I win, Fjellvidden is mine and you may lead our forces to the southern lands and mountains where you come from. If I lose, I ask only that you allow me to lead the men to retake Seydisfjord and the other coastal villages that I might be thane of that guard."
He drew his long knife and held it before his chest, the tip coming to his lips. "What say you, Gerhard? Will you?"
Gerhard regarded him for several long seconds while the other men in the room held their breath. Elizabaeg, the only woman present, frowned at them both and looked ready to jump to her feet and scold them both for being foolish children. But she said nothing, lettering her eyes fix upon the other man to see what he would do.
After studying him intently, noting the knife and the fire in his eyes, Gerhard uncurled his arms from his chest and drew his sword. It was longer and thicker than his knife, and it would take all of Jarl's skill to avoid being skewered by that blade. His opponent lifted the blade for a moment, staring past the shaft toward the young man with hard blue eyes. Then he lowered the blade and set it down on the stones beneath them.
"I will not," Gerhard said at last, his voice soft and reserved. "But not because I believe you are ready to be thane, young Jarl Thoronson. But because I do not wish to be thane of this or any other guard in Arabarb."
His response surprised Jarl; while it removed a rival, Gerhard still made it clear that he would not support him. He scanned the others in the room. "Well, if you won't challenge my right as the heir to Thane Angulf Amundson, will anyone else?"
"Jarl," Alfwig said gently, "lower your blade. No one here wishes to challenge you. No one here denies you first claim to the guard of Fjellvidden." He extended one hand and smiled in a way that made his weathered and solid face seem as gentle as an Autumn rain. "You are still young, and you did not have the chance to learn what your grandfather and father wanted very much to teach you. I will support you, out of love and loyalty to your grandfather and father who were good and great men. But only if you can demonstrate that you have the patience and wisdom to listen to those older and more experienced than yourself. Can you do that?"
Jarl took a deep breath and slowly lowered the knife until the tip pointed at the floor. His knuckles were white around the pommel. "I know I don't have the experience I should," he said, carefully considering his words. Alfwig was he whom the others trusted. If he had this man's support, he would win them all. "It's been nine years since I lived in Fjellvidden; Ture and others will know far more about what needs to be done here, and who can do it. And you Gwythyr, you will know too. I don't know all of my weaknesses. I can be short-tempered. And I have wanted this guard to restore my family's name and honor.
"I don't remember who you are, Alfwig. I don't remember you or your service to my grandfather. But I know that everyone in the Resistance who was important or based here in Fjellvidden looked to you with confidence and hope. I resented that and I am sorry. Please help me do what is right. I don't ever want to see invaders steal our home again."
"Nor do I or any other man here," Alfwig agreed with a slight nod to his head. "But one thing more; if you had to choose between your family's honor and your new family's lives, which would you choose?"
Jarl ground his teeth together again and forced himself to take two deep breaths before answering him. "My family's lives. I was too young to save my first family. I do not want to lose a second. I'd have no honor at all if I let them die."
Alfwig's lips pursed between the scraggly beard and he inclined his head respectfully. "Then, young Jarl Thoronson, I believe one day that you will be Thane Jarl Thoronson. But now is not the time to squabble over such things. We are going to work together to protect Fjellvidden and to reclaim our homeland. When our fight against the foreign soldiers is done, then we can speak of thanes and of guards. And," he lifted one hand to still Jarl's tongue, "I believe you will do far more to reclaim your family's honor freeing all of our country than you will ever do being thane over Fjellvidden."
Jarl forced his temper to sit still and he considered the older man's words. They did sound like the sort of advice his father and grandfather would have given him. He pondered the idea of leading a charge of horsemen into Seydisfjord, bearing gleaming armor and swinging both axe and sword. Once the soldiers were routed he would dismount and embrace his adopted mother and father, and each of his brothers and sisters. How well he could see the looks of joy on their faces.
"Very well," he said and sheathed his knife. "Very well, Alfwig. Let us talk no more of thanes and guards. I only ask two things. That I be part of our counsels as we fight to reclaim our home. And that I be allowed to lead our men into Seydisfjord."
"The first is already done," Alfwig noted with a sweep of one hand. "The second we cannot promise; Eli alone knows the future. But if it is is possible it will happen. Now come, let us talk as friends and fellow warriors of Arabarb. There is much that must be done and little time to do it."
Jarl felt the tension ebb in his chest and arms as he sat down on one of the tables and listened to the other men discuss all the dangers that they still faced in Arabarb. The image of coming to the rescue of his new family filled his heart with joy. And he knew it would make his father and grandfather smile.
For a long time the sea birds Quoddy and Machias perched on top of the gatehouse tower and watched the celebrations move through the city streets and the wounded receive care within the castle bailey. They moved about the stone crenelations as normal birds, a white and gray feathered gull, and a black and orange feathered puffin. They cawed to each other occasionally and pointed out interesting sights down below, such as the dog Keepers helping tend the dead, Pharcellus teaching Lindsey how to breath fire on the northern bank of the river, or the rapidity with which a new array of heads and bodies were put on display outside Fjellvidden's gates.
But for the most part they stood and enjoyed a brisk afternoon breeze. The day had warmed comfortably but now with the sun starting its descent in the southern sky, the air had begun to cool. They savored each breath of wind that brushed through their feathers, over their webbed feet, and across their beaks. Quoddy even took the time to preen himself, working out a few kinks in his back and wing feathers with several careful bites.
Neither wished to end the moment. Although they had been resting only just yesterday, it felt like forever ago since they had last been able to relax. But everything they had come to Arabarb for was now accomplished. As they stared down at the many people working to rebuild and rejoice, Quoddy realized that he would miss this place. Perhaps when they left Metamor in the fall they would have to come back for a visit.
Machias bounced on his webbed feet and waved his wings up and down in the air, cawing as he made a complete spectacle of himself. Quoddy lifted his beak up and his mind from its introspection to see what his puffin brother had seen. To the southwest he could see a distinctly familiar black shape gliding across the sky. Long in neck and wing, with yellow webbed feet and a black beak that brightened to a radiant gold just beneath his eyes, there could be no mistaking that countenance.
Quoddy spread his wings and made a racket too as he jumped up and down on the battlements, cawing eagerly to the other bird. It banked after a moment and turned straight toward them, beating its wings fiercely. Quoddy and Machias jumped to either side to get out of the newcomer's way, their hearts thudding loudly in their chests.
And then with another series of downstrokes, the Cormorant came to a stop atop the tower, his body stretching upward into the closest proximity to manhood that any of them could attain. His face and eyes beamed with delight. "Quoddy! Machias! It's me again! I'm me again!"
Quoddy and Machais transformed at the same time, and they wrapped their wings about their brother, cawing and laughing with a joy they could scarcely imagined ever feeling. "Lubec!" Quoddy cawed and then nuzzled his beak along his brother's neck. "Oh, Lubec, it's so good to have you back!"
Lubec would have burst into tears if he could have. "It's so good to be back. Oh, I'm so sorry. Those things I said, those things I wanted. Oh, it was horrible. I'm so glad neither of you ever had to think those things. I'm so glad you're safe!"
"We all are," Machias agreed with a squawk. "It's so good to see you again, Lubec. Now we really can go home."
Lubec glanced out across the castle and city and nodded. "I wish I could have known this land like you two did. I... I just want to leave it behind."
"Not tonight," Quoddy advised gently. "Tomorrow if we're up to it. I'd like a good night's sleep and some good cooked food before we even think about flying back to Metamor."
Lubec nodded heartily and Machias cawed his approval. "And you need to tell me about all you did. I... I want to hear all about it. Tell me about southern Arabarb. Tell me about the tundra. I want to hear it all!"
Quoddy and Machias were only too happy to oblige their dear Cormorant brother.