Any fool with a tongue and half a mind for imagination can
talk of heroism, but to rise up into the pages of history requires more than simple words or deeds. Rather, true heroes – the kind whose worthy names are forever immortalized in the minds of men – are born out of the highest virtue of them all: selflessness. To kill a score of warriors, or swim a raging river, is impressive to be sure; but to able to put aside all thoughts of oneself, and give without question to the welfare of others, is an ideal that most can only ever aspire to.
Okaz never stopped to question what he was doing, even as his back began to buckle and strain beneath the weight of the catatonic giant slung over his shoulders. The warrior couldn’t claim to be well-versed in the healing arts, but he had seen enough wounds in his time to know that Athawulfaz was in bad shape. Every now and again he could still hear the prince moaning in agony, his cries providing an eerie companion to the torrential storm that had begun to fall. Though he was running as fast as he could, Okaz could still hear the deafening sound of the melee close behind him; a tiny voice in his head begged him to drop Athawulfaz and take off on his own. Ashamed at himself, the warrior shook his head and redoubled his pace.
A grotesque sucking sound indicated that the prince was trying to speak; Okaz did his best to push away the pounding of the rain. “I can…hardly breathe,” Athawulfaz complained weakly. “Who…” he began, but his voice wavered and disappeared beneath a clap of thunder.
“Hush your lordship!” Okaz begged with poorly concealed fear. “You must save your strength, please!”
The other squirmed and writhed blindly in his position, nearly causing Okaz’s knees to break beneath him. “What about…the battle,” Athawulfaz tried again, more insistently. “Who…who won?”
“
We did,” Okaz lied, praying his answer would silence the nobleman. “It was glorious. We routed them from the field in just minutes; everyone fought bravely…especially you.”
Athawulfaz chuckled – or at least, the warrior
guessed it was a chuckle. “I should have known…thank you, Okaz,” he added with a rattling sigh. “If I must go, at least I may leave in victory…”
It was a response that gave little reason for optimism; Okaz found himself speeding again as panic and adrenaline coursed through his body in equal measure. The manly sounds of battle had since faded away; only the rapid beat of the rains was left to mark their flight. Fickle and treacherous even in the best of weather, the country road on which they ran devolved into a veritable swamp, mud and refuse pulling stubbornly at Okaz’s feet with every step. Visibility became next to impossible; the tired warrior only knew that he was headed north, and that to slow down for even a minute would almost certainly spell disaster.
“We have been running for a long time,” Okaz panted, as if speaking to his lord would somehow keep him alive. “We must
surely be getting close now.”
Athawulfaz was racked anew by coughing, his lungs sounding grotesquely thick and congested. “Listen,” he whispered, “tell my brother…tell him that we won…and that the way to the west is open.”
The warrior shook his head emphatically, feeling foreign emotions well-up deep inside of him. “No,
you will tell him! Any celebration would fall flat without your lordship to grace it.” He squinted slightly, impatiently ignoring the sting of raindrops in his eyes. “You must be there to see his Majesty’s dream become a reality; to watch as our one-time enemies throw down their spears and take up our hands in friendship instead. It is as much
your accomplishment as anyone else’s.”
“You talk…too much Okaz,” the prince chided, his pain now making him ornery. “Your head is…fat with dreams and…devoid of reason,” he squirmed uncomfortably. “Set me down…so that I may rest.”
“No,” the warrior insisted; disobeying, for the first time in his life, a direct order from his betters. “We need to keep moving. You are hurt, and there is further to go.”
“What’s the point?” Athawulfaz retorted angrily. “I’m no fool…I know how bad…my injuries are. I may as well…opt for a peaceful death…if death in battle is to be stolen from me.”
“No death is better than any death at all, wouldn’t you say?” Okaz secured the nobleman on his back and began to slow, every fiber of his body burning from exertion. “Come on,” he gasped. “We’ll stop at this farmhouse up here.”
If travel on the road had seemed difficult, it was nothing compared to the muddy cesspool that Okaz now found himself attempting to wade through. Clumps of mud – or at least, what
looked like mud – rose up as high as his shins or even higher; it was a wonder that a farm had ever managed to survive there at all, in retrospect. Somewhere not far away, a single light pierced the swirling expanse of the fog – a beacon guiding the pair onwards toward sanctuary.
“There are people inside,” Okaz promised, hoping with all his heart that it was true. “They’ll be able to help us, I’m sure of it.”
No response came from the man on his back; anxious, the warrior shook himself as if to wake his baggage. “Your Lordship?” He repeated the motion, more aggressively. “Athawulfaz!?”
Still not a sound emerged. Cold panic gripped Okaz as his stimuli failed to generate a response; he found himself sprinting the rest of the way to the tiny farmhouse, all manner of terrible scenarios racing uncontrollably through his head. “Open up!” he demanded hysterically, his fist rattling the crude wooden door. “In the name of his Majesty, open the door!”
The door opened, swinging noiselessly inward to reveal a thin, scrawny peasant man standing defensively in front of his young son. A single dagger sat clutched in his trembling hand, its construction as crude and simple as the meager furnishings which adorned his home. “Who are you,” he demanded curtly, “to speak with the authority of the king?”
Okaz did not deign to provide a response; the farmer continued to bare his dagger as the warrior muscled his way through the door. The peasant drew back in alarm, and was about to raise a cry when his guest dumped the catatonic Athawulfaz onto the dining table, sending bowls and plates clattering to the floor.
“By the Gods,” the man breathed, his face becoming awash in unmitigated shock, “no…is that?”
“This is Athawulfaz,” Okaz announced darkly, “son of Swartigaizaz and brother of the great King Heruwulfaz – may his reign be long. Just an hour ago, this noble prince was badly injured in a fight with our enemies. I fear he will not survive.”
The farmer touched a clammy hand to his forehead. “Oh my…Baldaz!” he said to the boy, his voice hoarse and constricted. “Run and wake Oma – be quick!”
The child scurried further into the house, leaving the two men alone to their anxiety. “More inauspicious tidings there surely cannot be,” the peasant brooded to himself.
“Baldaz…” Okaz repeated curiously. “Is he the one who beat Brecca in a swimming race?”
“No, that was Beo,” the farmer dismissed, his eyes fixed morbidly on Athawulfaz’s heaving figure. “His wounds are very grave…how on earth did it come to this?”
Okaz sighed, powerless to stop the faint smile which crept across his face. “His Lordship is an exceedingly brave and energetic fighter; it usually does him a service, but today there were simply too many.”
The peasant tentatively approached the table, looking at the nobleman’s lacerated torso in a sort of horrified wonderment. “These wounds could have easily felled a
bear, let alone a man; does he not feel pain?”
The warrior proffered a humorless laugh. “If he does, he certainly doesn’t show it. In the heat of battle, I have seen him become more animal than human; his fury and bloodlust are unequaled. I suspect he would have sooner been hewn in half than lay down his arms.”
The farmer shot his guest a cautious sidelong glance. “Am I correct to presume that
you carried him to my home?”
“Indeed – and I have the bruises to prove it,” Okaz quipped dryly.
The other returned a polite laugh. “What is your name, warrior?”
“They call me Okaz – and you?”
“I am Hludaz,” the other explained. “You have already met Baldaz, of course.”
Okaz was about to respond when a tapping was heard, beating rhythmically somewhere within the house. Perplexed, the warrior was about to question his host when an elderly woman made her way into the room, hobbling along with the aide of a roughly made cane. Every aspect of her reminded one of a hag; her face was wrinkled and leathery from many decades of exposure, and even her limbs seemed to be gnarled and twisted out of shape. “What’s the rush for?”
“Mother,” Hludaz greeted, rushing over to help the woman walk. “We need your help. This man here,” he explained with a wave, “is the brother of the king. He is badly wounded and needs medicine.”
The old woman pushed her son away and approached the prince, examining his body with an utterly impassive countenance. A shaking pair of hands began to feel at the various cuts and gashes, appraising them for unknown qualities. “He is
very badly hurt,” the woman assessed, “but if I set to work right away, I
may be able to save his life.”
No sooner had this stunning pronouncement been made then the healer set to work, reaching for her various pots and jars without as much as a single word. Okaz watched with cautious excitement as she began to carefully mash ingredients together, shoving bitter spoonfuls of the medicine past Athawulfaz’s motionless lips.
The prince’s survival was still far from assured; but if nothing else, Okaz could be sure that he had at least been given a chance. All of the exertion and stress of the previous hours seemed to suddenly catch up to him; his whole body felt heavy as he flopped down into a nearby chair.
“You seem very tired,” Hludaz observed kindly. “Would you perhaps prefer a bed? I would be happy to open my home to you, after all you have done.”
“I am fine, thank you,” Okaz assured. “I would prefer to remain at his Lordship’s side until we are certain he will be okay.”
“I understand – and I will certainly be glad to have a warrior keeping guard for us!” Hludaz laughed, the tension of the previous deathwatch slowly disappearing.
“Ha,” Okaz laughed humorlessly, “you will need more than just one warrior if things are as I fear them.”
“What do you mean?” the other asked perplexedly.
“Only
one man not in the army knew we were marching south today,” Okaz said with a simmering anger that surprised even him. “And that man is the same who gave us the orders in the first place.”
Hludaz gasped, “surely not King Heruwulfaz?”
“No – his brother: the
honorable Lord Hrabnaz,”
***
“You have
lied to me!”
King Bidajaz conducted his reaction with masterful theatrics, reeling backwards in his throne as his whole face was consumed an expression of shock and indignation. “Good Hrabnaz,” he chuckled incredulously, “I didn’t expect you back for another day, at the earliest! What on earth are you shouting about?”
Hrabnaz dashed the king’s good-humor with a single swipe of his hand, the pair of royal guards backpedaling cautiously out of the potential line of fire. “Do not play me for a fool!” the prince roared, leveling a trembling finger at his patron. All in the room were as still and silent as statues but for Hrabnaz, who continued to shake and heave in the center of the hall as if he might explode.
“I surely won’t,” Bidajaz said kindly, “but first I think you need to help me understand what has you so upset – else how can I hope to be of any help to you?” As an actor he was unmatched; his every word and mannerism, down to the slightest idle motion of his hands, was performed effortlessly and immaculately.
“The seneschal just brought me the report,” Hrabnaz explained, struggling to keep his voice level. “According to him, the main Sweboz army was just ambushed on its march southward.”
Bidajaz erupted into a chorus of triumphant laughter, his fist banging excitedly on the arm of his seat. “And it was a success too, so I’ve been told! After all our planning and skulking we have
finally scored a tangible victory against our foes!”
“My
brother was among that host!” Hrabnaz bellowed, utterly sickened by the king’s joy. “Who
knows what happened to him?! What if he was hurt!?”
“It would be quite the shame if he was only hurt,” the king chuckled, prompting a small crowd of advisors to hurriedly do the same. “If he lives we may have to devise some way of finishing him off.”
No words were necessary; the horrified stare plastered on Hrabnaz’s face was an entire speech unto itself. What little mirth had emerged from the cluster of retainers quickly fell flat again, leaving silence to reclaim the hall. Bidajaz sighed as might a laborer put to a task, pushing himself reluctantly from the comfort of his throne. “Come boy,” he asked rather than demanded. “Walk with me for a minute – it’s a beautiful night.”
The other hesitated for a long moment, squinting suspiciously in response to this altogether unexpected invitation. His right hand hovered somewhere near the hilt of his dagger, betraying the ongoing conflict in his mind. A single clap echoed off the walls as he took a tepid step forward. “You had best explain everything,” he asserted as he took another step, “and if you lie then Gods have mercy on you, because I surely won’t.”
Bidajaz almost laughed, but he quickly thought better of it; even the slightest display of flippancy might have turned the young prince against him. Through Hrabnaz’s cooperation he had been handed the tools he needed to keep the independence of his people and orchestrate the downfall of the Sweboz; he would gladly do anything not to lose it.
It was a warm and windy night that the two men ventured out into, the purple sky above laced by a brilliant web of stars. Word had been passed around about a storm gathering somewhere in the east, but for now the weather was as pristine as could be. It was a strange time indeed for treasonous talk.
“We haven’t had weather this nice in ages,” Bidajaz commented pleasantly. “I was growing more than a little sick of the cold, let me tell you.”
“Hold your dissembling,” Hrabnaz growled. “We have more important things to talk about than the seasons.”
The king let out another sigh, no longer willing to beat about the subject at hand. “Yes, yes, I know. You’re worried about prince Athawulfaz, correct?”
“He is my
brother,” Hrabnaz insisted. “The same blood that runs through him is in me also. You must have known that he was in the army as it was marching – why did you go ahead with the task.”
“I made a crucial decision,” Bidajaz replied testily, “one that will go a long way to protecting the Heruskoz. There is no doubt that it was the right thing to do.”
“But…” Hrabnaz stammered, “he could be
dead! I’ve known him my entire life – better than anyone else, and-“
“So what? Hrabnaz, listen,” the king insisted, grabbing his pupil paternally by the shoulders. “You have already renounced your allegiance to the lands of Sweboz; Athawulfaz and the others – they are not your kin anymore. You may think to show them clemency, but what would happen, do you think, if they ever found out about all that you have done?”
A fleeting image of a sword flashed through the prince’s mind, the blade gleaming as it swooshed down upon the neck of a traitor. “I understand,” he said solemnly, “but this is not a case of mere treason, your Majesty. What we are talking about is
fratricide – nothing less!”
“You told me that your brothers were always inequitable to you,” Bidajaz reasoned patiently. “That they stole your honor, robbed you of your glory, and consigned you to the most menial and wretched tasks they could possibly think of. Did you not spend half a year patrolling treacherous swamplands in the far south?” he asked theatrically. “That sounds as much like an attempt to kill you as anything else.”
“They may have tried to hold me back,” the prince relented, “but they were surely just misguided. It can be all too easy for lesser men to fall into the cursed vice of jealousy.”
The king managed to suppress a snicker. “Hrabnaz, if you are ever to be a king then you must now begin to think like one. Put aside the emotions that have made you weak and suggestible; discard all your foolish sentimentality and overactive empathy! Your brothers are no kin of yours; they have spent their entire lives keeping you weak and making themselves strong! Your lot is now permanently cast against them – the ancient laws will show you no mercy if you treachery is ever revealed. When you see them, do not see the faces of your brother but see them for what they
really are: enemies and obstacles to be overcome and destroyed! When you treat with them do not do so with love and compassion, but with
hate – for hate can be the most powerful of allies, when wisely and justly used.”
“To take up arms against my own family,” Hrabnaz whimpered, “what man would ever deign to look me in the eye again!?”
“What man would dare not to!?” Bidajaz cried, his eyes seeming to literally burn with passion in the darkness; the prince could only recoil helplessly. “All kings are beloved in triumph – your name shall be like legend, its echo ever carrying down the vaulted corridor of the histories. Wherever you shall ride your lesser will flock to you, straining and breaking themselves if only to
look upon you. All those who thought they would be great – Heruwulfaz, Ansuharjaz, and Athawulfaz – shall be cast evermore from human memory, all of their achievements being raised to your name instead. From riverbank to rolling riverbank your domain shall stretch, encompassing all the worthy people of the world and leaving the rest to wallow in agony for want of your supreme grace.”
“But…what if it never comes to pass?” Hrabnaz moaned, his willpower draining from him with each passing second. “What if all of my – all of
our efforts fail?”
“It is too late to worry about that,” the king asserted. “If you fail to fight, then time itself shall work against you – your treachery shall become bare and you will be hunted for a lowborn dog. If you pursue this dream then you may still fail, true, but the alternative is greatness everlasting. I think the choice is clear.”
Hrabnaz refused to commit to anything, but fate had already been set into motion. “If I were to…to fight…what should I do?”
“Ride to the house of your brothers,” Bidajaz said softly. “Do what you know you must.”
Later, with all others asleep and with only the Gods themselves to bear witness, Hrabnaz rode for the lands of Sweboz.