The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

30

PACES

Ghisla curled herself around her palm, guarding her sacrifice as she crooned her song.

Her sisters sat with her, frightened but not willing to leave, confused but not willing to flee. When the forest began to quake beneath her, sending waves of fury up her legs, some of the women began to scream. But she did not. Her eyes were still sightless, the rune of the blind god still wet on her palm. She dared not stop feeding it. Hod needed her eyes.

The trees shuddered and the leaves shook, and the relentless black abated with a jolt. But the trembling continued, and the gods roared. She blinked, horrified, and tried again, tracing the shape of the rune with her bleeding finger and saying Hod’s name.

“Hody, Hody, Hody.”

But her eyes remained her own.

She traced the scar of the amulet on her right hand, shaking so hard she had to wipe away the blood and try again. But instead of dark she saw light. Instead of black she saw unrelenting white.

“I cannot see the mount,” she mourned, raising her gaze to her terrified sisters. She could not see the mount, and she could not see Hod.

Hod awoke in stages. His left foot screamed, and his right ear burned. Then his legs were being stung by a thousand bees, and his stomach repeatedly fell over a cliff. Someone beat against his back with a rod, and Ghisla’s eyes were gone. His own were flaming shards in his skull.

His throat tickled next, and he hummed, trying to clear it. Dust billowed from his lips and he began to choke.

“I dare not move him,” someone said.

He listened for their heartbeats and heard only his death rattle instead. He bucked and arched, desperate for breath, and his body responded with a lurch and a lungful of air.

“We thought you a dead man,” the stranger said.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?” another worried.

“There’s naught wrong with his eyes that wasn’t wrong before. He’s Blind Hod.”

“What happened?” Hod rasped.

“The temple . . . is no more.”

Then he remembered Dagmar, standing between the writhing pillars.

“Oh no.”

“Aye.”

“Where is Bayr of Dolphys?” he said, trying not to weep.

“He is here.”

“And the princess?”

“She lives too, blind man.”

“What of . . . the keepers?”

“They’re all gone,” the man sighed. “Buried with the Northmen.”

“Buried with their runes,” another man mourned, and Hod closed his burning lids and slid back into the inky abyss.

They slept in the clearing where Desdemona died, huddled together like rabbits in a warren. But Ghisla did not sleep. She never slept; she sang instead, one lullaby after another, and pled with Odin to spare his sons.

The daughters dared not return to the hill, and they could not head for Dolphys. Bayr was on the mount, and if he lived there would be a new king. If he died . . . Saylok was finished. Hiding in Dolphys would not save them.

She tried to give Hod her eyes again, tracing the rune of the blind god throughout the night, but her sight remained and darkness began to fill her chest.

Promise me you will not give up.

I will not give up today.

She persisted, and just before dawn she fed the star on her palm, pressing it to her brow in one last attempt at hope, and she found him.

Alive.

When he woke again, warmth brushed his cheeks and tickled his nose. He was back in the clearing near his mother’s grave, Arwin at his side.

“Baldr’s death was necessary. It marked a new beginning . . . the death of the gods and the rise of man. The rise of . . . woman.”

The sun felt good on his face, and he tipped his chin upward, letting the rays rest on him. Arwin smacked his lips, eating his berries in happy silence.

“You cannot stay here, Hod. When I am gone . . . you must go too. You must save Saylok.”

Hod listened, coming awake to the reality that was the temple mount.

Arwin was dead.

The keepers were dead.

But Banruud was not.

He could hear his heart, pulsing inside the castle walls.

People moved around Hod, and a robe had been shoved beneath his head. He patted the ground for his staff and realized it was still sheathed on his back.

He rolled to his side, thrilled when his limbs obeyed him, groaning when his limbs obeyed him.

The warmth had intensified, and he lifted his face to it, gauging the hour. Morning had broken. He lifted his hand to his brow and located the source of his most pressing pain. His braid was still intact, but his brain was now a throbbing, rotting corpse. The reek of death was all around him, and he welcomed the return of his senses even as he retched.

He scanned the hearts that pulsed and pummeled his head. He’d been left for dead or deemed a lost cause . . . or mayhaps there were simply not enough hands to help all that had fallen. He found his brother, and his chest swelled in grateful adulation.

Bayr lived. He moved. And his loyal band of warriors walked with him.

Hod found Alba, Ghost, and the archer from the wall. Aidan of Adyar moved amid the rubble as well. There were others, and he was thankful.

He turned his attention to the king.

Banruud huddled in the cellars beneath the castle floor. From the galloping chorus that seeped out through the walls, down the steps, and over the bodies that now lined the courtyard, a dozen men were with him.

Hod pushed himself up with his staff.

No one halted his progress or delayed his climb. No one called his name. He took tortured steps to the castle doors, wobbling and weak. But his resolve grew as he went.

The men in the cellar heard him coming and scrambled for swords and shields. He did not descend. Stone steps led down into the dank underground, and he opened the door above them and called down to the king.

“Gudrun is dead, Sire. The Northmen are gone.”

Elbor cried out in sodden relief. Even from Hod’s position at the top of the stairs, he smelled of piss and spirits, but he began to climb the cellar steps as if he’d been pardoned. Hod moved aside to let him pass, but he hovered nearby, waiting for the others.

“And the Temple Boy?” Banruud asked, still uncertain.

“The Temple Boy is no more,” Hod said, unflinching. The Temple Boy was no more. He’d long ago become a man. A chieftain. And soon he would be a king.

“You must come out now, Majesty,” he demanded, using the same quiet, emotionless voice Banruud seemed to expect from him.

He would make Banruud stand in front of his people, those that were left. He would force him to face the chieftains and the warriors who remained. And then he would end him, the way Banruud had insisted Hod end Bayr. If Hod was condemned to die with him, then so be it, but Banruud would die.

The king began to climb the steps.

“You will find Liis of Leok, and you will bring her to me in my chambers,” he insisted.

“The temple is gone, Majesty. And all the keepers with it. Did you not hear it fall?” he murmured.

“But the daughters?” Banruud gasped.

“I know not,” Hod whispered, and he spoke the truth. He knew not. “You must come and see for yourself. The people need to see their king.”

Banruud stank of long hours of sweat and tortured sleep, but he brushed off his tunic and straightened his robes before he left the palace. His cowardly cadre followed.

Hod trailed thirty paces behind, not able—or desirous—to walk among them.

When Ghisla and the other women emerged from the Temple Wood, Alba and Ghost were on the eastern slope. They began to run, the daughters up and the princess down, laughing and crying at the welcome sight of each other.

Ghost was slow to follow, but no less exuberant.

“We couldn’t do it,” Juliah said. “We couldn’t leave. We watched from the wood, and we heard the screams.”

“We felt the earth quake and saw the dome of the temple fall,” Bashti added, her face grim.

“We waited all night. We didn’t know what to do,” Elayne said. “And then we saw you on the hillside and knew it was safe.”

“Is it . . . safe?” Dalys asked, hesitant.

Ghost began to weep, and Alba clutched the girls to her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“What has happened?” Ghisla whispered. “Please . . . tell us what has happened.”

“Dagmar is gone. The keepers too,” Ghost choked out.

Gone? Odin, no.

“And Bayr?” Juliah asked softly, fearfully. “What of Bayr?”

“He is here,” Alba said, and her obvious relief rippled among the women. “He is here. And we are . . . safe. As safe as we can possibly be.”

“What of the Northmen?” Juliah asked.

“Vanquished,” Alba said with a pallid smile. “Come,” she gestured. She turned back toward the east gate and began to climb. They all followed, their steps slow and heavy, their thoughts unbearably loud.

“Where will we live?” a child asked from amid the tired group, voicing the fears of many. “The temple is gone.”

“You will stay in the palace,” Alba said, her shoulders set, eyes steady. “There is room enough for all of you. And we will take each day as it comes.”

The destruction within the walls had them clinging to one another again and weeping in disbelief, but as they walked into the courtyard, the clanspeople gaped, and the warriors clutched their braids.

Aidan of Adyar rushed forward, oblivious to everyone but Elayne, and pulled her into his arms, his composure destroyed.

“I thought you were gone,” Aidan rasped. “I thought you were in the temple.”

Ghisla searched the faces, pausing in the place where she’d seen Hod. He’d been sitting up. Talking. Whole. But he didn’t sit by the wall any longer. He was not in the courtyard at all.

Bayr greeted the daughters one by one, clasping their hands and expressing his thanks. His gaze settled on Alba, and devastation rippled over his face before he bit it back.

He still didn’t know.

He turned away, as if the sight of her was too much to bear, and then he froze, his broad back obscuring Ghisla’s view. Dred cursed beside him, his voice trembling with loathing, and the men around him shared his sentiments. Ghisla shifted, stepping around the men to see what had so upset them, and her stomach plummeted.

King Banruud descended the palace steps, his clothes slightly rumpled but his shoulders back. He still wore his cloak and his crown, and he clutched the hilt of his unsheathed sword. A handful of his men, all able bodied and weapon wielding, made a sloppy perimeter around him, their eyes skittering to the unclaimed dead and the ruin of the temple. The Chieftain of Ebba followed a few steps back, weaving as he went. He looked as though he’d barricaded himself in the cellar with a cask of the royal wine. Limping behind them, a short ways off, was Hod, leaning heavily on his staff.

Ghisla jerked and stumbled toward him, but he stiffened as if he heard her heart and raised a hand, palm up, bidding her stay.

No one spoke as the king approached, but every chieftain turned to face him, their tattered clansmen—most still wearing the gore and grime of battle—falling in behind them. Alba moved to Bayr’s side, signaling her allegiance, and Ghisla watched as Ghost drew a dagger from the bodice of her gown as if preparing for battle.

“We’ve defeated the Northmen. Praise Odin. Praise Thor. Praise Father Saylok,” the king boomed, nodding at the chieftains as though he’d fought beside them. Banruud’s retinue shook their swords at the indifferent sky, shouting in celebration.

“Praise the Dolphys. Praise the keepers. Praise the clans,” Dred shot back, his voice raised above the king’s guard. Then he spat at Banruud’s boots and wiped his chin.

“You were told to leave, Dred of Dolphys, under threat of death, as was your chieftain,” Banruud said. His tone was mild, as though Dred caused him no real concern, but his eyes were on Bayr. He leveled his blade, but Bayr did not flinch before his sword.

“You severed your braid, Temple Boy. You’re a traitor to your king, and yet you stand on my mount, eyeing my daughter and my crown,” Banruud ground out.

“She is not your daughter,” Ghost said, drawing the king’s gaze. “And that is no longer your crown,” she added.

Banruud’s face paled. His eyes skittered from Ghost to Ghisla, as if she might rescue him with her song.

He looked away again when he found no softness in her gaze.

“The keepers made me king,” Banruud bellowed, his hand tightening on his sword. Ghisla thought for a moment he would try to strike Ghost down. Ghost lifted her chin, as if willing him to do it.

“You lied to the keepers. You lied to the clans. You lied to your son, and you lied to my daughter. We will take your crown, and we will choose a new king,” Ghost spat.

“The keepers are gone,” he sneered back. “And you are a slave.”

“The keepers are not gone,” Juliah called out, moving behind Ghost. Elayne, Bashti, and Dalys were right behind her, their purple robes attesting to Juliah’s claim. “Master Ivo made us keepers. And as keepers, we declare that you are no longer king of Saylok.”

Banruud’s eyes jumped to the chieftains, as if gauging their support. Aidan of Adyar gripped his braid and sawed his knife across it, and he tossed the thick blond plait at Banruud’s feet. Logan of Leok and Josef of Joran did the same, their mouths twisted in disdain. One by one, every warrior cut his braid, throwing them down and severing their allegiance to the king. Elbor began to stumble back, and Banruud’s men dropped their swords in surrender, unwilling to stand against the clans.

Banruud had no one. He had nothing, and the thing he had feared most had come to pass. Bayr would take his crown, and the wraith that had haunted him was no longer lurking in his tortured conscience but standing in front of him, fearless and unopposed. With a desperate roar he lunged at her, seeking to use her as a shield as he thrust his sword at Bayr’s chest.

But Banruud had failed to notice the dagger in Ghost’s hand. His actions had trapped her hand between them and drawn her knife into his belly.

Ghisla heard the wet clasp and suck of the blade being turned.

The clatter of his sword on the cobbles was accompanied by his dumbfounded groan. He should have pled for forgiveness, but he only wanted answers.

“Who . . . are . . . you?” he gurgled, the words soaked in blood.

“I am the daughters of the clans, and the keepers of the temple. I am Alba’s mother, and Dagmar’s friend.” Ghost’s voice broke on Dagmar’s name, but she pressed on. “I am everyone you have wronged. And I am Ghost, the new Highest Keeper.”

The king brayed, the sound terrible in its dread and dismay, the bawl of a downed bear, and he fell to his knees, swaying and searching the faces of his condemners.

“Hod?” he moaned. “Where are you?”

“I am here,” Hod said softly from the edge of the circle. He made no move to approach his father, and he did not weep, but his face was lined with compassion.

“Liis . . . Liis of Leok,” Banruud groaned. “You must sing to me. You must sing to me. I am dying.”

He reached a hand toward her, beseeching, but the effort made him topple onto his side. She clutched her hands to her chest, unwilling to touch him and unable to comfort him.

There was no time for a song.

Banruud groaned again, a deep, pained rattle, attempting to ward off what was to come, and then his eyes closed and his body softened, sighing against the stones.

For several long seconds, no one moved or breathed or spoke.

“The king is dead,” Hod said. “His . . . heart . . . beats . . . no more.”

The eyes of every man, woman, and warrior turned to look at him, and Ghisla moved toward him, desperate to guard him from their wary gazes. But Hod did not shrink or slink away. He used his staff to pick his way to the body of the king, and when he reached her side, Ghisla stood over him, guarding his back as he crouched beside Banruud.

Ghost had begun to weep. Alba too. Bleak, stunned faces, blood-streaked and coated in ashy grime, surrounded them. No one rejoiced at the king’s death, and no one argued its justice.

“Who are you?” Bayr asked. “You fought beside us . . . but I do not know you.” His words were slow, careful, the way they’d always been, but he did not stumble over a single word.

“He is the confidant of Gudrun and henchman of the king.” It was the captain of the king’s guard who accused Hod; he feared his fate would be the same as Banruud’s.

A rumble of agreement swelled among some of the sentries and clansmen.

“He sailed with Gudrun and guarded the king,” a warrior of Berne protested.

“But he fought with us,” Dred said.

“I was with him on the wall,” another man vouched. He was the archer Ghisla had seen with the rune.

“But who are you?” Bayr repeated softly, still gazing at Hod, and Hod answered without argument or defense.

“I am called Blind Hod. I was an apprentice to Arwin, the cave keeper of Leok. And I am the devoted servant of Ghisla of Tonlis, Liis of Leok.”

Ghisla’s sisters gasped, and Ghisla held her breath, but Bayr simply waited for him to continue.

“I am also the son of Bronwyn of Berne . . . and the late Banruud.”

A hiss snapped and sizzled among the small crowd, but Dred of Dolphys raised his sword to the sky, as if signaling his support.

“And I am elder brother of Bayr of Dolphys, the rightful king,” Hod finished.

“Bayr of Dolphys, the rightful king,” Dred boomed, and the men of Dolphys raised their swords beside him.

From Banruud’s lolling head Hod slipped the amulet of the king, the one he’d used to burn Ghisla’s hand, the one that had been passed down through all the rulers of Saylok. Hod rose, swaying but solemn, and drew it over Bayr’s matted, blood-soaked hair.

“You have always been the rightful king, brother. The Highest Keeper knew it when you were brought to him the day of your birth. And our father knew it too. It destroyed him, but it did not destroy you.”

“Long live the Temple Boy,” Alba said, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks.

“Long live the Dolphys,” Dakin cried.

“Long live King Bayr,” Ghost choked, her bloody blade raised in agreement.

“Long live Baldr and Hod,” Ghisla whispered.

And Hod stepped back and reached for her hand.