Brendon Rehm
The time came and the days of ceremony began, but those were the things all us boys had seen, not the part for the adults and those coming of age, not the part that began on Wildsday that adults were careful to mention only in a round-about and vague manner before those still children in the eyes of the clan. It seemed to me I had the confidence of one who knows he has not stepped off the cliff yet, even as his foot rises above the void, but carried on with my part with no trouble as long as the time for hidden things was not at hand. And then the time was upon me, and the fear failed to arrive at the time expected, cast aside by the following directions from Dranlan the Sword-Master and taking my place among the five other boys. Though it did seem, being a foot or more shorter than all, that I was a runt among hogs. Even when the Storm-Priest began his chant in the Storm Tongue, the fear was held aside by the press of those words shouted to the sky. I could only catch the meaning of one word in ten, but their force was all about me and the adults gathered on the gentle slope of the grazing ground of our town.
Before us was a tall pyre of wood and kindling. Like last year's it would burn for several days, but this was the first time I had seen it lit, caught in the play of dusk's oranges & reds and the ever-creeping darkness that would bring true night. My eyes followed the patterns of winds and smoke, only to notice how the flames remained unbuffeted, and the darkness seemed to close in around the crowd of adults at the rim of the encircled fire while that fire began to brighten, enough to bask the details around me in a yellowed glow that hid the faces of my companions as well as those of the adults. Though I tried to ponder this, my thoughts were caught away by the words, now in common Sartarite, clearly meant to instruct or at least advise us boys:
"Respect hospitality; do not burden your hosts
and abuse or blood their hearth
Eat your bread quietly, be glad
That a Stranger should be so generous.
Do not judge too quickly.
Keep a clear might with strangers
Even the ugliest Dark Troll
Can learnt o be a friend!
Do not waste yourself in many pursuits
One warrior skilled at sword and shield
Can best twenty fighters
Who are poor at many weapons.
Beware ghosts and spirits
The dead and immortals despise us
Let them be, flee from them,
Unless you be holy, magical, or inspired.
Remember your Tribe and your Clan.
There none are strangers or foes.
A wanderer finds no comfort
Until he finds refuge with his own.
Find a deity to aid you
No one is safe without help.
A wise man friendly with power
Fears not even ghosts."
I suppose I should have pondered these words, but my mind was a slave of my eyes, wondering at the tricky glow of the fire at the center and the winds circling the edge marked by the adults, who though visible seemed a blur of indistinct faces set to rough forms. Was that Dranlan laying out weapons before us? Where was the Storm Priest? Yet the chant of "Fight! Fight!" rose from the encircling crowd and I hurried to grasp a spear amid the other weapons. I noted it was blunted, and remembered that though many years boys appeared the next day bruised or bloodied, none had died in my memory. Before I could take stock of the situation someone was upon me, armed with a shield and a sword not blunt enough to console me. Yet fear was again crowded aside by the need to try to remember everything I had ever seen or heard about wielding a spear, the object in my hands did not feel like the saplings we boys had sometimes cut and cuffed each other with, and even then I had come off the worse.
Behind me I could hears the calls of betting, "twenty clacks on the eager bullock," who was that? The jeer of "the runt can't even grip a spear right!" surely meant me. The sword and shield man could well be the "bullock," but had some stranger entered the ring about the bonfire? The light obscured both the faces of childhood friends and the jests of adults I had known all my days. I had waited to receive the swordsman's rush, and avoided his blows, placing some confidence in my quickness, but the laughs and rude comments showed the audience did not think highly of my attacker's skill and still less of my defense as we circled each other trading blows and parries. The jeers behind me continued.
As I avoided another blow my opponent stumbled and lost his grip, dropping his sword in the dust and half-light. I lunged forward with my spear and struck a strong blow to his temple, and was rewarded with the sight of blood leaking from his hard leather cap across one eye. Yet for all that I tried to press this seeming advantage, he managed to block my blows — those that hit — with his shield and even keep stepping toward his sword despite my efforts to cut him off from it. He seemed fiercer and angrier for my cut to his brow, but I had no advantage, instead giving my all to defending myself. But I did hear "ten on the short one" come from some faceless person in the crowd.
I changed tactics and waited for the moment when he reached for the sword, sweeping the dirt with my spear and casting dust up to his face. This proved more troublesome in his eyes than blood had, and though he had his sword again a moment later I caught it with my spear and again he lost his grip, due more to luck than my skill I think. Now I attacked all out with a savage and quick blow to his shoulder that brought a cry of pain: carried away by the furor of battle I immediately attacked again and managed to jab the same spot but this time heard a muffled crack of bone breaking or his shoulder dislocating. For a moment I was as surprised and distracted as he on the ground before me, but I remembered at once many tales of battle and thought to threaten him with my spear and call for his surrender lest I make another blow. When his pained "I yield" came back I moved to stand over him, to protect my victory lest another of the combatants best me and take thus two ransoms.
As I looked around, the light of the fire seemed to withdraw somewhat and I saw the familiar faces of two childhood friends victorious over two others who had once seemed so tall and strong in my eyes. Looking down I was shocked to see Amalric, whom I had known all my life and one I might have called friend if I had the courage, being tended to by Vareena; the prettiest girl in the village but simple of mind at best, yet still blessed with the arts and spells of healing. It occurred to me now, seeing first her kind tending of Amalric, and then her uncritical and gentle look at me, that perhaps the simpleness of her mind made her better suited to healing than one with sharp thoughts of blame and justice. She only saw suffering and those needing care, never the violence or passion that may have brought that suffering.
For the first time I had a moment of calm to choose my actions with thought and I tried to look proud of my victory but still not belittle my childhood’s companion. I laid Amalric's blade and shield next to him, praising his skill over my luck, but as always Amalric gave hardly a word, and then ones that failed to reveal his mind. But things were happening again now. The bonfire so warm before seemed to shrink in upon itself and become a disk of light but without heat, as the Storm Priest bade that we take the path westward until dawn when we could return…if we survived. The six of us, healed of our wounds and bruises turned away from the disk of light and faced west where a familiar path ought to be.
Before us was a path amid woods — not the open road amid orchards we knew so well, but one shrouded in the growing darkness with overhung branches clasping above to make a pallid arched tunnel into deep shadows. The air seemed too still and sounds seemed to lack any wind to carry them. Obedient to the command of our Priest we advanced, though I felt no shame at letting the taller ones take the lead. I had proved I could hold my own and more in our fight, let one of the losers face the next challenge and prove himself.
So we set foot on a dark path and left our village behind, the sounds of the adults beginning the night's revels (perhaps remembering their own initiation into adulthood) strangely muted in the shadowed thickets that grew from the earth and bent back again sealing all but our entrance and the way ahead. Where were we going and how far could we go before dawn? No one ventured to talk despite that we must all have troubled our thoughts over the same things.
The wood was strange this night, more like a forest of stone than the orchards and dales so familiar west of Apple Lane. Worse, sounds seemed muted, as if hearing was less useful here - as futile as squinting to peer into Dark Season's blackest night. I gripped my blunted spear tightly and let the others lead, casting the occasional look aside or behind but finding nothing but that muted silence. The adults had always said the Initiation was one of the clan's most powerful magics, renewing the people by testing a new generation, but what youth believes that? Yet, now, every tale of the Godtime, of Heroes facing awful spirits in strange lands seemed more real than any of my short life.
Time passed, and the dark tunnel of tree limbs and dirt path continued to muffle our steps and provoke fitful glances and startled looks as we thought to see something only to find nothing but stillness. Until we came to the river where no river should be, wider than the Creek at flood and icy cold un-natural to Sea Season. We stood, the six of us, taking its measure of swirling currents and finding our swimming surely lacking the skill to challenge it. The others seemed to be stalemated, and somehow I found myself suggesting a plan to ford it. To tie what spears we had together in a square that we could all hang onto and swim as one but with the strength of all six. But I had to admit those who said the churning current would rip apart any weak knots and still over-master our strength were right. Still we came to devise a plan standing there in a ring alongside the torrent. With an understandable reluctance, Amalric used his fine warrior's axe to fell a tree that seemed sure to bridge the gap. As the smallest and most agile I made my way across our rude bridge, I am not ashamed to say on my belly with my sling cord used to make sure no errant swell or hidden trick threw me into that fierce water. If the companions of my youth snickered at me, the muted churning of the river hid it. When I took up my spear and watched ahead as they crossed, they seemed to take me as an equal in a way they never had as a group before.
This time, as we pressed on westward, I took the lead. Things seemed strange but neither had we faced anything insurmountable; I began to feel confident again. Perhaps with the irony so loved by the gods, the path immediately began to rise, though the dark wood still hid anything more than a stone's throw from our route. Our progress moved from leaning into the uphill steps, to careful plodding aided by spear or hand for steadiness, until we began to climb a rough cliff face, though I could not exactly remember ceasing to walk. Still, despite the thought of "insurmountable," climbing was one of the things I am good at and I showed it to the others by not merely leading the way but actually outpacing my stronger and taller companions, though eventually I did lose hold of my spear (thankfully my lunge to keep it served to knock it away from my companions below and failed to break my hold on the rock face). I should have noticed the wind at such a height, the sounds of my efforts and the other, but in the focus on climbing I seemed to be sealed off like a chick in its egg with only my desire to get out to touch my senses. Thus it was I that finally reached the strangely barren peak, a bald crown unmasked by woods or anything else. My eyes were drawn forward to a stead west of me, slightly lower than the ground I stood on, a rough-hewn palisade surrounding a long house with a few sheds and work buildings along the inside. A gate was prominent on the eastern side that faced me, and the path down from the crown did not vary or offer any other destination. With barely a glance for the others I strode down toward the gate, for surely this was where we were meant to arrive, the distance beyond holding a grey mist that seemed too final to allow another destination.
Only free of the woody tunnel did I notice I was again in twilight, though it still held the flavor of dusk even as it should be the dawn. Walking down the slope I could see the stead better, finding it rudely kept with clear signs of damage unrepaired. The long house and outbuildings too gave the look of a community not lax, but strained beyond its means. Indeed, for such a size I ought to see either a few workers and watchmen about, or a steadier column of smoke than was visible at the misshapen hearth's vent. Nearing the gate itself I could see the damage to the wall was from frequent and violent battle, in places the sharpened logs seemed chewed rather than cut, elsewhere it seemed burned or even melted. The gate before me was hardly worthy of name so battered it was, yet it still managed to stand and it was no surprise it stood wide open. Standing just outside the lintel I could see similar if lesser damage inside, though I also saw scattered tools and equipment that signified neglect more than combat. By now the watchmen should have appeared or at least called a warning to their companions from hiding outside the reach of an intruder.
I took a look up and beyond the steading, and realized that what I had taken for a mist was something worse, something out of stories told by winter hearths or half-remembered from nightmares. How does one describe the end of the world? There was a vast emptiness beyond, lacking even emptiness since I could not imagine anything that would fill it. All one's life was utters words like "void" freely thinking all know what it means, but this was the void that made the word and only those who saw it with me can really understand me. Who would live here at the edge of the world? My clansmen were approaching so I called to the stead, and thus warned my companions that things were uncertain.
It was with relief I saw a man emerge from the long-house. He was tall and strong of arm and leg but, like his home, carelessly dressed and showing signs of both neglect and rough handling. For some reason it was the two daggers on his belt that caught my eyes. They seemed to say that here was a man who expected to cast and lose his spear, shatter his axe upon his foes, and still he would draw his daggers in each hand and fight close until an end came. His armor spoke a story equal to the history of the well used palisade. His face was clean and free of wounds or obvious scars, but it still seemed weathered and battered, and he called "Halt, Stranger! Who comes this way, to a place which is not allowed to everyone? Do you come in friendship or as a foe?"
"I am Egil Argart, a redsmith's son, and I travel west until the dawn, but I come in friendship to your stead" I replied in a voice that seemed almost un-natural after the muted wood and the focus of the climb to the hill's crown.
"Greetings, I am Hengal Vingkotsson, the lord of this place. You are welcome here Egil. I offer you hospitality here, in my house, and promise my protection to you and yours while inside. I offer you water to quench your thirst." His voice rang with a rhythm and rich tone and somehow he had brought a ladle of water to hand before me.
"I thank you for the water as we have traveled far looking for the dawn," and taking a taste before passing the ladle to the others I said, " I am no great warrior but whatever aid I can give you will serve to protect you and yours while I am at your hearth." This was the greeting of hospitality I had heard so many times before in the village. When strangers came to rest on the way Runegate or Jonstown, when the stories of heroes were told, when the Storm Priest made rituals of welcome. Yet now I was speaking and the weight of the bond felt firm and tight upon me. A support to an honest man, a chain to a false one. Had I responded correctly? These words were important yet I was speaking as if playing by the barn with Amalric.
"You are welcome guest, And I offer you more: a blanket to sleep under while you are my guest. This is a thing I only offer friends," Hengal continued with the ease of practice yet deadly serious.
"I accept your offer and will speak ever of your generosity." Surely that was the correct wording, and in my heart I vowed to be truer than I had ever been before to such words.
"Then you are welcome guest. And I offer you more: meat to feed your hunger, a thing we only offer to kinsmen and those as good as them."
"I am honored by your gift and will aid in any hunt or tend your cookpot while I rest here."
"The you are welcome guest. And I offer more: salt as a token of your honor. This is a thing I only give to those who are great, or show promise of it."
"I thank you and will ever afterward speak of your honor and generosity."
Then you are welcome guest. And I offer one thing more: duty, which is only offered to those who would come sit close to me, in my family."
"I accept this duty and will seek to return it as your honor and generosity richly deserve."
So it was that I am my companions became guests at the stead of Hengal Vingkotsson at the edge of the world.
True to his word, Hengal bade me sit at his side by his hearth as we took a coarse meal and drank plain beer. I asked why his stead was in this condition, where were his clansmen to man the walls, his clanwomen to cook and mend and watch the hearth fire? He replied that the constant battle from those beyond the edge had eaten away at his steading's numbers, wearing his people down by work or wounds until he was the last left. But he would neither flee nor fall before any assault as long as breath held within him and his arms obeyed him. I told him my family was one of crafters not warriors, but that I would serve him as I had promised and set about doing what I could to fix the neglect of his camp. Here I used some twine to repair a broom, there I used a bit of wire to fix his cauldron's handle, next I stacked wood neatly and close by the hearth, and as I set about these tasks the night proved I had seen dusk twice in one day. As I judged dawn approaching I made sure to finish up my preparing a simple fare of nuts and a pot of broth at the fire that Hengal might not need for food and drink as he prepared for battle. And he warned us that a raid was sure to come no later than the dawn, but he would stand at the gate while we could take the places that looked good to us to defend ourselves. My companions, bettered armed and armored than I, rose from their rest, and took places on the wall. I considered my crude singlestick and my sling, and chose as many good stones as I could manage. I climbed to the roof of the stead where I could see about me and try to aid whomever was in need if only my sling shots would be true.
That rose-light that marks dawn in coming but not yet here, revealed a shambling hopping mass approaching the gate that Hengal stood firmly athwart, ready with all his weapons. My companions muttered and some even cried out along the walls, but it was that advancing band in a chaotic jumble before Hengal that drew my eye. How to describe that legion of disorder? That misruled mob? Which had horns and which teeth? What thing slavered over bloated lips or tentacle and tongue? I cannot recount them like some Sage of Lhankor Mhy, nor boast of their panoply soon to be savaged like some Storm Bull bravo. I remember only the one I faced — alone with but a sling and stone in my hands and a singlestick that never left its place in my belt. I tried from the first to aid Hengal, but my stone flew wide; thankfully I had at least not hit a friend, but in that mass it was but a drop in a churning lake even if I had hit my target. And my target saw my attempt, with beady eyes in a badgery face, surmounted by fantastic quills upon its back, and born hopping forward with uncanny speed by graceless frog's webbed feet. It leapt a great hop and was upon the roof, my second stone though ready flew wide and I knew I must gain time and space to draw my singlestick. I turned and leaping myself, caught the edge of the roof with the best of my agility, only to tumble artlessly when I made to fall to the ground. Landing on my shoulder I was in agony as I saw the Spiny-Badger-Frog land in front of me and make to leap atop me. Its mouth gaped wider than any badger's mouth should, revealing a mass of spiny teeth that seemed to clamp and bite with a mad beat faster than that of my heart. It leapt and I struggled in vain to see it take a deep bite from my left leg, tearing with its teeth to swallow the gobbet of my flesh in a single gulping moment before it shifted again atop me and seemed ready to swallow me whole even as the agony tore away my sight and thoughts from this nightmare.
I sensed the warmth of the Yelm as true dawn rose, and felt better than I had any right to expect. Half-rising I saw my trousers neatly repaired and rolled up the baggy leg to seem a neatly jagged scar as if the same hand had sewn my missing flesh back onto me. Nor was this the last wonder, for next to me was a replacement of the spear I had lost, yet a finer and more generous gift it was than the rough and blunt thing my clansmen had made available to such as me, who had no weapon of his own at the fight that had begun the Initiation. And I was different too, not just in my scar or a new outlook after serious events, but in the tethers of power at the disposal of my will, I now knew the way of calling the winds to speed my slingstones onto my target and of calling those same gusts to block and cushion blows against me. Hengal was truly generous, and again I told myself I would not stint in fulfilling the words I had given him.
My companions seemed to have had similar experiences and some, like me, had tangible gifts as well as intangible ones, though I noted Amalric still had the same axe his family had so generously given him the day before. We quickly saw we were in a field girt by trees well known to us all and not far from the western edge of town, but we had managed no more than a few steps toward our village when we saw Dranlan walking along the path and startle at the sight of us. He rushed forward with a rare eagerness and hailed our fortunate return. When he said that after two weeks the clan had given us up for lost, I was not the least in amazement, for to a man we had thought a single night had passed, though a strangely long one.
Dranlan hustled us into Apple Lane proper and soon he and the Sheriff were plying us with questions in the tavern and making up for many missed breakfasts with food and finer drinks than I think any of us had been allowed before. It seemed that while others had been gone for a night, we had been gone for two long weeks, a thing not heard of in living memory and told rarely even in tales. The Storm Priest had been pleased we had not been found dead at the dawn like some past, but had worried at the loss of the year's young men even if we had been taken into the god realm whole by the generosity of Orlanth. But now that we had finally returned, even this cloud was blown away and his mood and the whole village's was jubilant amid the promise we offered for the coming year and future years beyond. Surely they told us this was a good thing for the village and our clan.
Indeed, I felt that our village seemed someone blessed, as tools seemed sharper, pantries tighter and cooler, and even our cook pots that bit more flavor-full. All of us felt strange to be home, even as the days grew into weeks, and I took lessons in spear-work from Dranlan as thanks for my part in bringing good fortune to the clan. I felt proud, like the others, to be accorded an adult and one of the fyrd ready to follow the clan's call to battle, but that pride was supported by the generosity of the gifts
Hengal had given me. So I made sure to take a goodly post of sturdy long-lasting wood and have the Storm Priest make sure I carved the runes rightly, so that when I planted it firmly in that field where we had awaked, all who passed by that had wit to read would surely know:
"By Hengal Vingkotsson's generosity,
I, Egil Argart, lived to see the dawn,
That this place never forget
The gifts given to one who honored Hengal,
Who stands alone at the edge of the world,
Yet never without aid when in true need."