Chapter 36 – Power vs Experience
They all drank Porterhouse's wine in the pavilion set out by the tournament field while he held forth, at length, about Devonshire's battle prowess. He told tales for the battle to overthrow the demon Halphas, and the initial skirmishes with the gods of Romitu. And several more from the re-conquering of the known world for Romitu under General Scioni. Devonshire mostly demurred, or corrected him when he went too wildly over the top.
The wine was a fair vintage. Not truly exceptional, but about as good as you would want to drink watered down in the morning. The troops stood by politely in the hot sun, none on either side questioning the situation.
Winter glanced with concern at his Tritons. They were not regular troops and, on top of that, were not used to the harsh sunshine. He was trying to work out how to interrupt the tidal wave of Porterhouse's monolog and suggest that they might share some of the wine with the troops. In doing so he noticed Arnhvatr watching him. Still trying for that point of connection, he deliberately caught his eyes, and glanced out at the troops, and down at the wine. Arnhvatr nodded slightly, and then looked pointedly at Porterhouse, and back to Winter. Winter guessed the ball was in his court.
Porterhouse was all caught up in a graphic depiction of a night attack on their encampment, where Devonshire, who had already exhausted her personal mana, ended up running around completely naked slashing at all the raiders with sword and tongue. His mother was rolling her eyes and feebly protesting. Winter throught back to the basics his mother had tried to teach him about non-verbal communication. He drew a sharp breath, slightly covering his mouth like he was stifling a yawn. She leaned slightly towards him and tilted her head just a fraction to one side. Well, at least he had her attention. He placed one finger on the side of his cheek in their signal for 'this conversation is over'.
Abruptly Devonshire gave a hoarse throated scream and stamped her feet alternately on the ground. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a child having a tantrum. “Stop now! Stop now!” she cried. Porterhouse cut off in mid-sentence, stunned. “Morning gone. No fighting! Enough blah-blah-blah. Must not waste soldier time.” She had even adopted Porterhouse's abbreviated grammar. “Either fight, or do battle.”
“Yes”, said Porterhouse. “I shut up now.” He seemed totally nonplussed about it all.
Devonshire turned to look at Winter, putting him on the spot.
“Yes, well, thank you, General Porterhouse, for filling in Arnhvatr, here, on some of Magister Devonshire's personal history”, Winter said, to stall for time. He knew the conversation had been going nowhere, but now he didn't really know where to take it. He wished, yet again, that Cindarina was here. But she wasn't. He would just have to take the bull by the horns himself.
“Arnhvatr” he said, turning to the undead leader. “I do not see the profit in this war. It aids no one. Is there any way I can compel you to stop?” He expected a simple 'no', but, instead, Arnhvatr spent several moments considering.
“Your... fiends... here have been intent on stopping it by offering challenges. When they win, we stop for a day”, said Arnhvatr.
Winter nodded. “If I challenge you and win, will you stop for good?”
“You do not wear the badge of Romitu. You are not one of the fighting parties, are you?” said Arnhvatr. Winter nodded. “Then you cannot come between the two of us.”
“Might I challenge your right to lead?” asked Winter.
Arnhvatr stiffened, and then smiled. “Our leadership is usually determined by violence, though not normally so formally.” He nodded. “But some of us prefer the formality. If you so dare, I would not deny the fight to you.”
“You are not afraid then to face a god?” asked Winter. “Or, at least, the son of a god?”
Arnhvatr smiled at him wickedly. “You may have Othr's spear, and you may have Othr's counsel, but I have been dead longer than Othr was alive. I think I have the edge on experience. Do you dare?”
Winter smiled thinly and tried not to show his nervousness. “I'm not sure I dare not to.” He looked about at the troops. “I would hate to see them lose a great commander.”
“If there is naught to be learned by the wonton destruction wrought by the gods in attempting to obliterate my people, it is that disputes are sometimes best settled by proxies”, said Arnhvatr.
Winter looked at him intently. Unlike the ravaging monsters the other Forsaken had been, this commander was very clear and determined. Winter wasn't quite sure what he was up to. But he had a sense that he had a goal, and that everything he was doing here was towards that goal. This 'delaying' with the battle of champions. Even talking to Winter. Whatever it was, Winter figured he was probably right, that hundreds of years of fighting and leading gave him a staggeringly high tactical advantage. This was not Winter's strong point. No matter what happened, it would almost certainly play to Arnhvatr's advantage.
But, something deep inside of him liked this Arnhvatr. Winter had seen all shapes and sizes of creatures in the Underwater. Some far uglier than the desiccated visage of Arnhvatr. And his twisted human features were probably hard for others like his mother and Porterhouse to get around, but his life had been largely free of human faces. He knew it was probably wrong, but something in him trusted Arnhvatr.
“Quite so”, said Winter. He might as well give into his play and see where it leaded. If trust was justified or not. “Do we each pick our strongest and send them to the field?”
“You are the challenger”, said Arnhvatr. “You should pick your most appropriate champion. I will, in turn, pick an appropriate match.”
Winter sat back in his chair. 'Most appropriate'. The rephrasing was deliberate. He had no hope of reading Arnhvatr's body language on this. But the look in his eye made it clear that this was Winter's test. Arnhvatr was probably as good as Winter's Othr fueled combat analysis. Whoever Winter picked, Arnhvatr would work out how good a fighter that was, and choose one to match it. Therefore his judgement of Winter would be pronounced in who he matched against Winter's champion.
Then it came to him: it did not matter how good the fighter was. Arnhvatr could always pick someone who was better. What mattered was the style in which he fought. How appropriate he was to the fight. What Winter needed was someone with swagger, with bravado, who felt that he could win, no matter what the odds were.
“General Porterhouse”, said Winter, turning to him. “Has all of the 22nd army mustered? Including the civic workers?”
“Yes”, he said. “All who could hold a weapon. No use for those who can't.”
“Good”, said Winter. “May I borrow one of them?”
A short while later the detail Porterhouse had sent out returned. They marched smartly across the field. Along with them marched Balanoptera, towering over them.
“Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Devonshire had asked Winter in simple Elvish after he made his request.
“No, not really”, said Winter.
“Well”, said Devonshire. “If it all goes to hell in a handbasket, I've got your back.” She looked wryly over at him. “Just try not to make me choose between loyalty to my son and loyalty to my liege.”
Winter smiled wryly back at her. “I'll try mom.”
Balanoptera had been presented to General Porterhouse. He accepted his salute, ran him through a few drill commands. Then put him at ease.
“Foster brother”, said Winter, stepping forward. “I have a task fitting for a son of Atlantica. Are you up to it?”
Balanoptera stared at him in shock. Then several emotions passed over his face. First, it contorted into a sneer. But, before he could say something, he seemed to gain command over his reaction and moderated his expression. He glanced quickly over those assembled, then, intently, back at Winter. He let his face resume a semblance of a sneer again, but without as much malice.
“So, baby brother”, drawled Balanoptera. “Got yourself in trouble that a foster son of Atlantica couldn't handle?”
Winter
relaxed. The gamble had paid off. This wasn't the spiteful bully in front of him. His mother had been right. Time in the army really had worked a change on him.
Winter shrugged expansively. “Well, I came here to knock some heads together. Had to challenge Arn here to do it.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “But then they said I can't fight the duel myself because I wear your father's crown.”
“Huh”, said Balanoptera, exaggeratedly looking over Arnhvatr. “He doesn't look so tough.” He flexed his mighty muscles. Then shrugged. “Well, if a promise was made on the crown of the Northern Seas, any Son of Altantica should be willing to stand up. OK, baby brother. I'll bail you out again. Only...” he looked at him with mock warning, “You owe me one.”
“Thank you brother”, said Winter. For the first time in his life, he didn't hate Balanoptera. He wasn't sure he forgave him for the years of misery he had inflicted on him and many others. But at least he thought he someday might. “Make Dad proud.”