The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

27

ATTACKS

The feast was raucous and rowdy, the North King taunting the chieftains and refilling his goblet with abandon. Banruud made no effort to subdue him, though he dismissed Alba before the first course was finished. Hod listened to her go, his stomach in greasy coils. He was not alone in his tension, for when the meal was done and Gudrun stretched out, snoring by the fire like the castle was already his, Lothgar of Leok and the Chieftain of Adyar pushed their chairs back from the table and demanded an audience with the king. When Bayr added his voice to Aidan and Lothgar’s and Chief Josef concurred, the king sighed and rose.

“So be it.”

“Benjie and Elbor should be p-present as well,” Bayr demanded.

“By all means,” Banruud mocked. “It will be your first council, Temple Boy. We welcome you.”

Banruud snapped his fingers, instructing Hod and half his guard to accompany him. He bade the other half remain behind with the sleeping North King and his unruly cadre.

The chieftains, rattled by the king’s sentry, signaled for their own men to follow, and every man eyed the others with open distrust, clan colors and weapons on full display. Aidan pounced as soon as the council chamber doors were closed and the chieftains were seated.

“You bring the Northmen to the mount, you parade the daughters of the temple in front of their bloody king, and you have not consulted about it with any of us.”

Banruud was slow to answer the Chieftain of Adyar.

“I am the king. I do not take instruction from Adyar, or Leok, or Dolphys, or Joran. I will hear your complaints. But I will do as I wish, just as other kings have done before me. Just as other kings will do when I am gone.”

“Do you take instruction from Berne?” Bayr interjected.

Benjie scoffed, but the other chieftains were silent, waiting for Bayr to continue.

“Between Ebba and Berne, we have s-suffered twenty-seven attacks over these last few years. Benjie d-denies it, Elbor throws up his hands. But our villages have been attacked. Our farms. Our fishermen. We repel attacks on our shores only to be attacked on our f-flanks by these clans.” Bayr had to pause several times and speak more slowly than the king had patience for, and Hod found himself gritting his teeth, willing the room to hold, to listen, to respect the stuttering chieftain.

“Benjie cannot be blamed for rogue bands of marauders,” Banruud said, disdain dripping from the words.

“He can,” Bayr argued.

The king snapped his teeth at the chieftain’s insolence, but Bayr continued, undeterred.

“Benjie encourages it. He is . . . em-emboldened . . . by his . . . relationship to you, S-sire, and has no r-respect for other c-clans or other chieftains.”

“Do you stutter because you are frightened, Temple Boy?” Banruud mocked.

Dakin and Dred grunted at the insult to their chieftain, and the king’s guard drew their swords, a rippling of steel that stiffened Hod’s back.

“He is the Dolphys. Not the Temple Boy, Banruud,” Dred growled.

“And I am the king, Dred. And you will address me as such, or you will lose your tongue.”

“I care n-not what you call me, Majesty. But you will not be k-king of Saylok if the c-clans destroy each other.”

“You threaten me?” Banruud growled.

“If the clans fall, the k-kingdom falls.”

“And who will be king when I am not, hmm? You? The next king will be from Dolphys, and you believe the keepers will choose you. Is that why you’ve finally taken your place at the council table, Temple Boy? You wish to kill me and let the keepers make you king?”

The room became tomb-like with the accusation, and Bayr did not seek to break the silence. Hod thought that wise; to protest was to give credence to the king’s claim.

“You are naught but a hulking ox, Bayr of Dolphys. An ox has great strength, but we do not make an ox our king,” Benjie mocked.

Again, Bayr did not react, but Hod could hear Dred’s outrage. It rumbled deep in his throat like a hungry wolf.

“I have no w-wish to be king,” Bayr stated firmly.

“A king must command his people, and you can barely speak. The tribes of our enemies would breach the temple mount before you could call out the order for attack,” Elbor snickered.

“Better a hulking ox than a blathering idiot,” Josef of Joran murmured.

“Better a good man than a glib man,” Aidan of Adyar purred.

“Better a tangled tongue than a forked one,” Dred growled.

Hod knew every man in the room had his hand on his sword, and for a moment no one breathed, as though wondering who would be the first to lunge. The king’s chair scraped against the floor; the vibration skittered up Hod’s legs. He rose, for his voice came from several feet higher than moments before.

“What do you want me to do?” Banruud asked. “I am a king, not a keeper. I am but a man. I am not a master of runes. We support the temple on the mount, the people worship the keepers, and yet they cannot answer our prayers. My daughter is the last girl child to be born to a son of Saylok. In twenty-four years, she is the only one.” Banruud paused, letting the reminder sink in around him. It was almost as if he believed his own lie.

“Yet you come to me as though I can heal your seed,” Banruud continued. “Why do you not ask the keepers what they have done to end the scourge? Do they not guard the holy runes? Do they not commune with the fates? Do they not have Odin’s ear?”

Banruud waited again, fervor ringing in his voice, and when no one disagreed with him, he continued.

“Five daughters have grown to womanhood in the temple walls, yet they have not been returned to you, to their clans. Their wombs are empty. What hope have they given you, Chieftains of Saylok? What hope have they given your people? Our sons turn on each other. And you come to me with your hands extended, asking me to cure this ill. Why do you not ask the keepers?”

The men behind Elbor all began to grunt in raucous agreement, the sound like a herd of starving pigs.

The chuff and growl of the warriors of Berne, the Clan of the Bear, became a competing swell, and Hod resisted the urge to cover his ears. Lothgar of Leok threw back his head and roared just to compete, the sound reverberating like the lion he claimed to descend from.

“There . . . is . . . no . . . order,” Bayr said, each word succinct, and the cacophony ceased.

“It is not the keepers who rape and pillage. It is not the keepers who send their warriors to plunder the lands of their neighbors,” Dred added, his fury billowing over his grandson’s head.

“We take what we must to survive,” Benjie barked.

“You are lazy, Benjie. Your land is overrun with young men who follow your lead. Our women are few, but it is not the women who plow the fields or trap or fish or fight the Northmen. It has never been the women. So what is your excuse?” Dred argued.

“You are not a chieftain, Dred of Dolphys!” Benjie yelled, and the scraping of chairs and the rattling of swords indicated a battle of some sort had ensued.

Bayr bellowed, and from the sound of it, Benjie had made the mistake of lunging for Dred of Dolphys and had been tossed head over tail and landed with a crash behind Lothgar of Leok. His blade rattled across the floor and thudded against Hod’s foot. Hod kicked it back toward him as gasps of shock rippled from the table to the warriors who lined the walls. Hod wasn’t certain if it was awe at Bayr’s feat or fear at what it would incite.

Lothgar roared again, but this time in laughter. “I didn’t know bears could fly, Benjie.”

From Benjie’s silence, Hod could only ascertain that he was not conscious or he too had been stunned by his newly discovered ability.

“Help the man off the floor,” Lothgar instructed his men.

“The chieftain from Dolphys is not wrong,” Aidan contended as Lothgar’s merriment subsided. “We too have been beset by raiders from Berne. The fish have not stopped filling our nets. There is bounty in the land, and our men continue to be fierce in battle. But there are too many of them without families or female companionship. And some grow aimless . . . and vicious.”

Josef of Joran, a man who was more farmer than warrior, raised his own weary complaints to the king. “We are under constant threat from Ebba. Some of the Ebbans who seek refuge have nothing but the clothes on their backs, but they are willing to work and we welcome them. Others who come want only to take what does not belong to them. We have had to put warriors on the border, and now all who seek entry are turned away. We simply cannot absorb all of Ebba. Elbor sends his poor to me, and he sits like a pig on the spit, an apple in his fat snout.”

“We have been suffering attacks from the Hinterlands for more than a decade,” Elbor shot back.

“As have we,” Josef replied wearily. “It has always been thus among the clans on the southwestern shores. We battle the Hinterlands, Dolphys battles the Eastlanders, Berne and Adyar battle the Northmen, Leok battles the storms. But we have never come against each other, clan on clan.”

“You t-tax your people into the ground, Elbor, while you do l-little to protect them,” Bayr leveled.

“I collect coin for the keepers. And what do they do for us?” Elbor shouted, echoing the accusations of the king.

It was a lie. The keepers lived on very little, herding their own sheep, milking their own goats, and tending their own gardens. Whatever coin came from the clans by way of the king was a pittance. Alms were collected during the tournament, and every farthing went to the preservation of the temple itself. There were no wealthy keepers.

“You collect coin for yourself and for the king. As do we all,” Bayr replied. “The k-king requires far more than the keepers.”

“Careful, Temple Boy,” the king whispered, the words slithering from his mouth.

“This is all true,” Lothgar interrupted, oblivious to the tension that coiled around him. “Yet . . . I have wondered why the keepers can do nothing to end the scourge among our women.”

“As have I,” Josef admitted.

“Aye,” Elbor agreed, eager to turn the subject away from his own failures.

“Something must be done,” Benjie agreed, and his acquiescence had the king sitting back in his chair as though he pondered the question. The chair squeaked with the motion.

“And something has been done,” the king said. “I have reached an agreement with the North King. The princess will be a queen.”

Hod held his breath, sick for his brother.

“She will leave with King Gudrun for the Northlands in two days. In return, the North King has agreed to pull his warriors from Berne. An announcement will be made after the melee tomorrow. Your precious daughters of the temple will be left to age beside your useless keepers,” the king mocked.

Silence wrapped the room in guilty relief, and the chieftains began to murmur like it was the only feasible course of action. Benjie stood from the table as though it were settled, and Elbor lumbered to his feet as well, clearly eager to escape further condemnation.

“She should not be sold,” Bayr said, stating the words precisely, breathing between each one, speaking slowly even though Hod could hear how his heart raced.

“She is not being sold. She is going to be a queen, and she will help her country in the process,” Benjie argued.

“She should be queen of Saylok. She is the only one . . . of her kind,” Bayr insisted.

Banruud laughed, sitting back in his chair; it squealed against his weight.

“And how . . . exactly . . . would she be queen of Saylok?” Banruud sneered. “Did you think . . . you . . . might have her? Did you suppose you could marry the princess . . . and when I die . . . you and she could reign in my stead?” Banruud’s voice was hushed with mock surprise, and Elbor grunted.

“That will never be, Temple Boy. Alba’s destiny does not include you,” Banruud said, his tone flat.

Bayr was silent. Hod knew he had never wanted to reign. But it was evident that he did want Alba.

“You are a bloody cur, Banruud,” Aidan of Adyar growled. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the stone, an echo of his disgust. He left the council table without another word, striding for the doors with his men trailing after him. Lothgar was slower to leave, but he did not argue the king’s decision or seek to offer an alternative solution. He followed Aidan from the room.

“We’re done here,” Banruud said, dismissing those who still lingered. Bayr did not leave the table. His heart was a counterrhythm to the king’s, and Hod listened to them both as the room emptied around them and the two men sat, alone but for Hod and a handful of the king’s guard, who hovered near the doors, and Dred and Dakin, who remained in silent support of their chieftain.

“Don’t do this . . . to Alba. To Saylok. The people . . . look . . . to her. She is their . . . only hope,” Bayr pled, his voice low. His heart brayed in his chest.

“It is done,” Banruud said, enunciating each word with a thump of his fist upon the long table. “Leave me.”

“P-p-please,” Bayr stuttered, unable to keep the desperation from the word, and in his desperation, he was not a chieftain but an abused child.

“P-p-please,” Banruud mimicked, exaggerating the sounds so he spat with every syllable. “You dare question me? You love my daughter, and you think I don’t know? She is your sister, you fool. You cannot wed your sister.”

Bayr grunted as though he’d been lanced.

The king laughed and threw his feet up on the table, feigning indifference.

“Surely you knew. Surely your beloved Uncle Dagmar told you who you are? I thought you slow but not entirely ignorant.”

Bayr stood in horrified disbelief.

“You are my son, Bayr. You are Alba’s brother.” Banruud said the words like they were of no consequence at all.

Heaviness spread through Hod, numbing his lips and his neck, his shoulders and his chest, hollowing out his veins and hardening his blood. He would kill Banruud himself. He would kill him, and he would free the mount from his tyranny. He would free his brother from his lies.

“I am n-not,” Bayr denied, aghast.

“Oh, but you are. You are of the Clan of the Bear. Named for me, your father. Desdemona was a passionate wench . . . and so dramatic. Even in death, I’m sure.”

Dred howled in fury, and Dakin grunted in protest, wrapping his arms around the incensed warrior to save him from taking vengeance upon the man who could have him put to death. The king’s guard leaped forward, protecting the king and dragging Dakin and a thrashing Dred from the chamber. Hod listened, bereft, wanting to gnash his teeth and bellow the injustice alongside them.

“You will leave the mount, Temple Boy,” Banruud ordered. “And take the old man. If you want to live—if you want him to live—you won’t return.”

Hod could not feel his legs. He could not feel his hands or his heartbeat. He felt nothing at all. No sensation. No sadness. No breath. No being.

He could hear the king’s guard circling around Bayr, their swords drawn, but no one dared to engage him. They’d all heard the tales. They’d all seen proof of his power. Yet he stood, hardly breathing, like he’d been carved from stone.

Then someone gasped and something fell, and Bayr turned and strode from the room, his heartbeat fading as his distance from Hod grew.

“He cut off his braid,” someone whispered, and Hod hung his head in shame.

For a moment, the king sat in silence, his breathing harsh, his heart oddly echoing that of the man who’d just exited the room, severing all ties.

“Balfor, make sure my daughter is in her chambers for the rest of the night. Put a guard at her door,” Banruud ordered.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“The rest of you . . . leave me.”

Hod moved to go with the others, but Banruud called him back.

“Hod,” Banruud said. Hod tensed and turned, but the king did not continue until they were the only two left in the room.

“Follow him.”

“Who, Sire?”

“The Temple Boy.”

Hod waited, knowing there was more.

“Follow him. Make sure he leaves the mount. And when he does . . . end him.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And Hod?”

“Sire?”

“It would be better if he were not found.”

When the warriors of Dolphys came to the temple not long after sundown in search of their chieftain, Ghisla’s alarm continued to build. Dagmar had slipped away to pray, but everyone else was present to hear the warriors relay their account of the king’s council.

“He knows, Master Ivo,” Dred of Dolphys confessed. “I should have told him long ago. But Bayr knows the truth now, and I fear it has broken him.” Dred’s face was streaked with worry and wear, and the warriors around him shifted in distress. Their faces held traces of their own shock and disbelief, as if they too had been seared by the mistreatment of their chieftain. The Highest Keeper did not have to ask of what truth Dred spoke.

“The king has banished him,” Dakin said, grim. “But he is the Dolphys, and our allegiance is to him first. We will not let this stand.”

“What should we do, Highest Keeper?” Dred asked.

“Wait for him near the Temple Wood,” Ivo answered. “He will not go far. His heart is here. His . . . fate . . . is here too.”

When the men from Dolphys left the sanctum, Ghisla followed them. It was a testament to their dazed devastation that they didn’t notice her hovering behind them until they neared the east gate. Those who saw her would simply assume the men were acting as guards, if they took notice of her at all. No one milled around; the east wall overlooked the winding climb above the Temple Wood, darkness had fallen, and the festivities were elsewhere.

“Dred of Dolphys, I would have a word, please,” she said, touching his sleeve.

The men turned as one, startled, and the youngest one stepped on the back of the red-headed warrior’s shoe, causing them both to stumble and the elder one to curse.

They all clutched their braids in confused respect.

“Liis of Leok,” Dred said, bowing.

“Please, I know you are worried about Bayr. But I must know . . . in the council . . . with the king . . . was the blind man there?” she implored.

Dred frowned and cocked his head. His face had aged in the last hour. In the torchlight his hair was that of a silver wolf, but his form was as muscled and hard as a warrior half his age. He was a man who’d spent his life wielding a sword and had never had a woman to make sure he fed more than his hunger for battle.

It was the redheaded warrior who processed her question first. “Aye. He was there. He stood back from it all, behind Banruud’s chair.”

“He is the king’s man,” the warrior they called Dystel added softly.

She dared not dispute that and simply thanked them, turning away. The liquid feeling in her legs became acid in her stomach.

Hod knew what had transpired. He would be aware that Bayr had left the mount.

“Why do you ask, daughter of Leok?” Dred pressed, detaining her with a hand on her arm.

“She is the king’s harlot,” the youngest one blurted. “I’ve heard the tales about her.”

Dred swung on the warrior, knocking him back. “Ye’ll not be speaking that way to a daughter of Saylok, Daniel. The king has abused and abandoned many. I’ve a mind to cut out your tongue.”

Daniel was immediately repentant. “Forgive me, Dred. Forgive me, Daughter.”

She nodded once, caring little for his opinion of her, one way or the other.

“Things are not what they seem,” she whispered. “Bayr is . . . not the only son of Banruud.”

It was the only thing she could think to say to convey the complicated nature of Hod’s involvement. His relation to Banruud would not condemn him with these men. Not when their beloved chieftain had just found himself in the same position.

“What do you mean?” Dred rasped.

“Exactly what I say. The king has abused and abandoned many,” she repeated, raising her eyes to his.

The guard on the east gate peered over at them, curious.

“Do not judge too hastily,” she said. “I beseech you.” She didn’t dare warn them away from the hill. It would only make them want to remain. They needed to do as Master Ivo—and the king—had demanded. They needed to leave the mount, and she would not delay them further.

“Find Bayr . . . and go. There is nothing to be gained by warring with this king. Eventually, he will reap what he has sowed.”

“He warned us as well, Daughter. Mayhaps now . . . I understand,” Dred murmured. He was reeling, and there was no time.

“Go. Please,” she urged. Her sisters would notice her gone, and already two sentries approached. It was not every day that she made two successful escapes.

Dred grabbed his braid, a signal of his respect, and the other men did the same.

Then they left through the east gate, their swords swinging and their strides long.