Chapter 35 – Strategic Confrontation
Arnhvatr stood on the dusty plain, awaiting the arrival of the Hero.
It hadn't taken long for word to reach him. Scouts told of a body of warriors advancing from the Black Hole, and how all fell before them. It took slightly longer for some better scouts to bring more clarity. There were twelve troops, of an odd and unusual sort. They had looted Romitu gear, but bore no flag or insignia of that nation. They were led by what looked like a young human with a mighty spear, and a bird on his shoulder.
He was puzzled and uncertain as to how they could be coming from the heart of the Black Hole until this morning, when a liaison party informed him that the party had been sighted on the other side, in the vicinity of the 33rd army. So, clearly, this little troop was not from the Black Hole. Since there was precious little reason to go into the Black Hole, he had to assume they were coming directly here, to him.
What to make of that?
Perhaps it was someone seeking to fight in the challenge games he had set up. From the reports of the fighting, the Hero was quite skilled. That would certainly make for an interesting encounter.
But would it perturb his plans?
In the distance Arnhvatr could see the Orcs assembling on the war field. His absence would be noted, and they would likely be confused by this change in their regular arrangement. They would probably wait to see what was up. They were a good natured foe. Arnhvatr was almost coming to like them. Their attitude towards combat was fresh, honorable and exuberant. Unlike the jaded, cynical, and tiresomely vicious practice that the art had been degraded to after eons in the Black Hole. It was a nice diversion while his plans played out.
But this Hero was not in Arnhvatr's plans. He wasn't sure how this would perturb things. The fact he carried a weapon of power was notable. It would be a fine trophy to capture should the challenge go his way. That it was a spear, his best weapon, could be coincidental. But the bird on his shoulder, especially a black and white bird, was pushing the limit of what could be a coincidence. But reports painted him to be a youngster, not an old fellow. If he knew of their legends, and was trying to impersonate them to be impressive, that was one detail they got wrong.
They approached now and Arnhvatr watched closely. Indeed, as described, a pale young man with long black hair, and a sable cloak strode with confident steps over the field directly towards him. Around him twelve others glided with odd, almost flying motions. They too had confidence, but their confidence was in their leader, not themselves. He judged them not to be of consequence.
Arnhvatr walked six paces in front of his hand-picked lieutenants and waited.
Winter was pleased to have successfully navigated his way across the Black Hole with only a glance at a map. It had been helpful, but, really, the terrain dictated things far more clearly. The best place to advance and the best place to battle were written in the stones. He just had to read and follow.
And here were the Forsaken troops. And beyond them, the banners of the 22nd flew high. He could see the Orcs arrayed upon the battle field, and if he wasn't mistaken, he was pretty sure the one with the wildest array of colors was probably General Porterhouse himself.
But before them was another group. In the daylight the unliving emaciated bodies of the Forsaken looked almost like mummies. All dried skin and sinew, where the armor didn't cover. But even at rest, they stood like warriors. Observant, aware, watching his steps to get a sense of his rhythm and weaknesses.
Before them all stood one. He wasn't taller than the rest, he just seemed so. He stood, agile as a cat in both body and mind. His weapons and armor were clearly battle trophies, as they looked to be of Romitu manufacture. Daubed on the surface, though, was a single stick figure, like the writing on Gungande. That reassured Winter. It meant he was in the right place.
He motioned the Tritons to stop roughly the same distance as the Forsaken leader's bodyguard, and he walked six measured paces and stopped two sword lengths, and one step, from him.
Then Winter realized he didn't really know what to say. He didn't even know how to say it. He doubted the Forsaken had time to learn their language.
His heart sank within him and he really wished Cindarina was here. Bravado was only going to carry him so far. What would she do? And then, the first step was obvious.
“Conscience”, thought Winter at the bird. “Can you teach me how to read, write and speak the language of these people?”
The stab of cold into his mind was contemptuous. Winter winced, but as he blinked away the pain, he suddenly knew the letter of the man's chest was for the sound of an A. Arnhvatr! Thinking back on what the Forsaken they had cowed said, that name came out several times. Knowing the language now he knew it to be in the form of a name, and with an honorific. That must be who this is.
“Greetings”, started Winter, hoping his knowledge of the language would catch him off guard. But the man showed no surprise. Maybe he should have asked Conscience for a rundown of their customs as well. But he feared learning too much. Already he felt very unlike himself when fighting. The more he adsorbed, the deeper he feared his own will was submerged.
“Greetings”, replied the man, cautiously. “What business brings you to this field of battle?”
“I've come to stop it”, said Winter. That got him a raised eyebrow. Or, at least, the faced moved in that way. Only the faintest wisps of hair covered the desiccated skin.
“My troops are strong, and cover the field from end to end.” Arnhvatr gestured with his arms. “We have been waiting for this fight for quite some time. Those of Romitu cover the other end, and stand before us.” He shook his head. “It seems unlikely that your twelve warriors can come between us.”
Winter bit his lip and thought. In the distance he could see that a delegation from the 22nd had broken from the line and was heading in this direction. He tried to think to his conversation with Swan. What was the common ground?
“And, yet, you do not do battle”, said Winter. “I've been told that, day by day, challenges are fought by few and watched by many. If your thirst for battle is so strong and is so inevitable, why has it not been joined?”
Arnhvatr folded his arms and stroked his chin with his hand. “If you are here to put a stop to the fighting, why would you object to the slow pace of the challenges?”
Winter grinned wryly. He guessed you didn't rise to be the leader of a band like this without being smart. This was not a weapon's form he was going to win. Time to play his trump card.
With a smooth gesture, Winter summoned Gungande and drove its butt into the ground, causing a minor earth tremor. “I command you as your god!”
The sudden motion caused Arnhvatr's retainers to drop into a crouch and ready their weapons. But Arnhvatr himself didn't even flinch. “I see you have Gungande, and the unlucky magpie”, he said. Winter gave a sidelong look at Conscience. “This is most curious. They say only the Battle Master can wield that spear. But, none the less, possession alone does not make you a god. And even if you were that god, you would not be our god. We were forsaken long ago.”
Winter chewed his lip and nodded. “Fair enough”, he said. “But I am the son of Othr.” Arnhvatr looked at him skeptically. “After being stripped of his lands and his people he wandered alone for many years. My mother found him, bedded him, and then put him out of his misery.”
Arnhvatr snorted. “Sounds like I should be talking to the mother, and not the whelp.”
Winter bristled, but willed himself under control. “If it matters”, he said, “Othr did not forsake you in the end. It was the rest of the gods that handed down an impossible sentence.”
“It does not matter”, said Arnhvatr. “We served our time, guilty or not.”
“And that time is over”, said Winter. “Why not...” He was interrupted by a sudden blast that knocked them all down. He quickly jumped to his feet as blue crystal began to grow up from the ground around his legs.
“Release my son, you w
ashed out old child abuser!” screamed Devonshire. She had come up with the Orcish delegation and had leaped to the attack as soon as she saw Winter. “Release your hold over him and get back where your Soul belongs!”
“Mother!” shouted Winter, over the roaring of the spell. He slewed Gungande around trying to deflect the antagonistic magic and reverse the binding blue crystals. “Stop it! You're embarrassing me!”
The magic cut off suddenly. Devonshire stood there, shocked, staring at him.
“It's just me”, Winter said, chipping at the crystals.
She narrowed her eyes. “Is this a trick?” she said hesitantly. “No. I don't think anyone could mimic your body language that well.”
Winter rolled his eyes. “Cast a spell or something. Whatever. I didn't break the Soul barrier. It's just...” he looked at Conscience. “It's this bird that's been sending those dreams. Just like Grave Keeper, Othr cheated. The bird remembered for him, and now it's telling me what it knows.”
Devonshire took a deep breath. “I...” She waved her hands and the crystals disappeared. “I'm so sorry!”
Winter shook his head. “It's OK”, he said, although his body language shouted otherwise.
“Did you call her 'mother'?” asked Arnhvatr, looking at Devonshire with astonishment. Despite the difference in years, the word was nearly the same in both languages.
“Yes. That's my mom”, said Winter, sarcastically.
“She thought you were the Battle God, and still attacked you single handedly?” asked Arnhvatr.
Winter shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first time.”
Arnhvatr moved closer and whispered, “Does she have a husband?”
“What's he saying?” asked Devonshire.
Winter rubbed his forehead. “I think he wants to date you.”
Devonshire lurched forward and gave Arnhvatr a slap across the face. He stepped back, holding his stinging face. “Tell him to grow a pair first”, she growled. “And some skin, hair and everything else while he's at it.”
“Cast a language spell and tell him yourself!” said Winter, in irritation.
They were all interrupted by a loud guffaw. Both Devonshire and Arnhvatr staggered as General Porterhouse slapped both of them across the back. He seemed to try to say something, but broke out in thundering laughing again.
Arnhvatr smiled weakly in greeting. Then looked aside to Winter. “Is there any way to stop him doing that?” he asked in a low voice.
Winter stuck out his lower lip. “Not that anyone's worked out.”
“Well met friends!” Porterhouse was finally able to get out. “This meeting worth fine cask of Gartican wine. Let's go tourney field and drink!” He repeated “Drink!” to Arnhvatr in the Northland language and gestured to a pavilion.
“Why not”, said Winter. “This morning's a loss anyway.”