Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 8

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Violence

The Bad Lands

“Please, let us rest.”

Conscious though he was of the waning day, Mac Brón grunted his assent. The empress smiled, and looked about for some surface smooth enough to sit upon. The warrior glanced back. They’d been hours in the badlands above the Devil’s Eyebrow, and yet he could still almost make out where they’d climbed out of it. When he caught the boy’s eye, his thoughts were plain.

Tammet first attended to his mother, then walked over to Mac Brón.

“Shall we scout around?” said the boy.

Mac Brón nodded. The two climbed higher on the jagged butte until they were just out of earshot. The boy glanced back at his mother, then leaned in toward the warrior.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said the young man, “but what’s the alternative?”

Mac Brón made no answer. He studied the landscape. As a child, before the witch had wormed her way into their lives — or, at least, before he’d known what she was to his father — Mac Brón’s family had taken a voyage to Tarkaric. It was the only long sea voyage he’d ever made, and it had placed in his heart a brief, burning desire to be a sea captain. Yet the voyage had almost been cut short. A storm had cut them off from the convoy, and they’d encountered a serpent of the deep. It had only been an adolescent, else their single craft would have been swallowed whole. But he remembered the gaping mouth that came out of the ocean, and the look of the water as it cascaded down its throat, rolling over rings of jagged teeth that spiraled down its dark gullet, like a stairway to hell. The teeth always stayed with him. They were an obscenity; all of different sizes and shapes, having no common theme but death. These lands were like them.

“Your mother is already spent,” said Mac Brón, “but we’ve hardly made progress.”

“It’s only the first day,” shrugged the boy.

“Aye,” said the warrior. “That’s what concerns me.”

He was thinking of their stores, and of water, and of whether there really was a bridge into the Black Lands. And of who had built it. Suppose they reached the southeast, only to learn that this bridge was a mirage, and that they must climb down a more perilous way, and re-enter that cursed road, exhausted. But there was no real choice. It had been foolish, anyway, to think they could share the same highway with troll men and black robes. They must go on.

“I say we follow the goats as best we can,” said the boy, “while edging southeast. They know the way through. And if our stores run low…”

Mac Brón smiled grim, and looked at him. “We can eat them?”

Tammet shrugged.

“I would eat nothing in this place,” said the warrior. “The very ground is cursed. Can you not feel it? But we shall need water. Let us hope for a good storm.”

They both looked up at the sky. Here, it was impossible to tell if its color portended rain, or only the foul fortune of the land. The air had always the same foul thickness. Tammet glanced over his shoulder at his mother.

“Perhaps the land will change. We could stumble upon some easier way.”

The warrior grinned, a grin the boy had come to know spoke the opposite of its natural meaning.

“In this land,” he said, “I should suspect, especially, any easy way.”

Tammet sighed. “You’re no help.”

“Let’s go,” replied the other. “We must climb higher before darkness falls.”

They resumed their trek. The empress was quiet for most of it. The stately smile stayed on her face, but only by an act of will. The badlands were wearing on her. By the time they made camp that night, Rusu was a ghost. Mac Brón helped them pitch their tent. He himself slept, sword in hand, in a hammock strung in the rocks above them.

The morning brought some slight hope, and they trudged on. Their spirits were lifted further when they came over a ridge, and looked down into a gorge teeming with goats. The beasts moved along either side of mossy walls that knifed south in the same general direction they were heading. They chewed the thorny shrubs, and chomped at foliage so dark green it was nearly black. No stream was visible, but the wearing and the water stains, as well as the pattern of growth, proved that this gorge collected the storms that came, which in turn sustained the life that was here. As they watched, a strong wind came through, sweeping aside the mist that covered the lowlands. For a moment, they saw farther into the valley.

“Look!” said Rusu. “It flattens out!”

Mac Brón saw that she’d spoken true. The gorge indeed widened, and the land within it became flatter, and more lush. Buttes and strange fingers of rock still knifed up from within this expanse, but they were covered in moss, and bushes that grew sideways. Something else grew along their sides too. He could still not make sense of these, though he’d briefly caught a glimpse of these same structures once before. They reminded him of the burs on the sides of oaks. Like tree burs, he found them unsettling, for they had no obvious cause. And rocks, of course, were not alive.

“We should go that way,” said the empress. “And it’s the direction we’re already headed.”

“No,” said Mac Brón, flatly.

The empress shot him a look. It was but a instant, but in that instant, he perceived her surprise at being so rudely denied.

“It seems wise,” she said, with more restraint. “That way leads southeast. That’s where we saw the bridge. And there is life there. And…and…there must be water too.”

He nodded. “All good, sensible reasons for taking that route,” he said. “Which is why we’ll not take it.”

Rusu blinked, a look of fatigue and exasperation cracking her genteel veneer. Instead of protesting, she waited for him to explain. He would have preferred not to.

“Look again, empress. At the flat lands, and the green buttes. What strikes you?”

She stared into the valley. After a moment, she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said.

He came over and sat beside her. “Look at the goats.”

“I see them of course,” she said.

“But what do you not see?”

She stared for a moment, clutching her hands in her lap like a small child. Then she tensed.

“God of Light,” she whispered. “They do not leave the sides of the gorge.”

Mac Brón nodded, happy she’d noticed so quickly. The brush and moss on either side of the gorge was sparse, and well-gnawed. Between them, the flats were covered in a dark gray sand. Yet the green buttes that rose from these flats had hardly been touched. They were not too steep for goats, and it was plain that the foliage was of the same kind as that upon which the goats fed. Why wouldn’t the beasts cross the flats to eat it?

“Now study the flats themselves,” pressed Mac Brón. “Do you notice anything odd?”

Rusu strained her eyes, then shook her head, but there was a sharp intake of breath from behind them. Tammet, with his younger eyes, saw what Mac Brón saw.

“They’re like…pits? Oh yes, I remember. The dark spots. When we first climbed out, and the sky cleared. What do you suppose they are?”

Mac Brón shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. But those goats know. And the troll men, I guess. I don’t plan to get close enough to find out.”

The empress nodded slowly, then looked up at the toothed lands. She wiped away a frustrated tear. Mac Brón averted his eyes. Thus far, he had only seen her queenly confidence. Her every movement had been practiced, polished, and for the sake of others. This new weakness unsettled him. The empress had limits, and he was pushing her past them.

“It will be alright,” he said.

The words felt like a lie. He had no reason to think they’d find a path through. And there were still the Black Lands to contend with, even if they escaped this godsforsaken place. After a time, she recovered herself, and looked up.

“It’s just that I thought we’d found the way out,” she said. “Could we…at least consider hiking along the sides of the gorge? Go only where the goats go?”

He shook his head. “If you think these crags are exhausting, imagine creeping along a slant for miles upon miles. And, anyway, we don’t know how long it continues like that. The gorge might force us downward. And we’re not goats. We don’t know if we can climb back out, or else lose days backtracking to where we are now. Better to stay up high, even if the way is harder at first.”

She turned away. “I’m very thirsty,” she said at length.

He offered her his own canteen, and tried not to think about how light it was becoming. She took a pull from it. Mac Brón went over to Tammet.

“We’ll press on until late afternoon, then set camp,” he muttered. “I have something I want to show you while it’s still light.”

Tammet stared back at him, his face full of boyish curiosity.

“Is your mother well asleep?” asked Mac Brón.

Tammet glanced at the pitched tent, and nodded.

“Good,” said the warrior. “Now go and fetch you pack.”

There was eagerness in the boy’s eyes, and no irritation at the orders flatly issued from barbarian to prince. Quietly and carefully, he entered the tent, and removed the pack without waking his mother. Dropping it hastily, he reached in, and drew forth the short sword in its scabbard. When he looked up, Mac Brón was smiling. Here was a new smile, fatherly, and almost warm. The grizzled man pointed at a messa some distance away. The two climbed it together in silence. Once up, they walked to the center, which was wide and flat enough for quick movement.

“Now boy, I may not always be around. Your mother has her strengths and charms. No doubt, some are charms indeed. But you are a man, and can no more wield magic without paying an awful price, than your mother can marshal violence without injury to her own nature.”

Tammet frowned. “Well, one could say I have a magic.”

“You are royal, that is all,” said the warrior. “That’s no magic, but a grace of your office. Yet emperor or no, you are a man. Your strength must be in your body. Come at me now.”

Tammet hesitated, then stalked forward, adopting the gentleman’s stance. Several quick faints and thrusts followed, which displayed his noble training. Mac Brón circled, and avoided the blade. Seeing this, Tammet seemed to grow in confidence.

“I have only practiced with a bokar,” said the boy. “I don’t want to accidentally run you through.”

Mac Brón’s laugh took him by surprise.

“Little of fear of that, prince.”

At this, Tammet redoubled his efforts. He closed on the northman with greater speed and purpose, weaving and thrusting with vigor, but without effect. With every missed stroke, he became more fierce. For his part Mac Brón seemed hardly to move, yet he avoided Tammet’s blows with ease. Finally, as if bored, the barbarian sidestepped an angry downward stroke, and, in one quick motion stepped on the prince’s sword, snared its hilt behind a dagger he’d produced in an instant, and punched the boy across his face. Tammet staggered backward, then crumpled to his knees. The prince spat blood onto the rocks. When he looked up, Mac Brón’s black sword was on his throat.

“It’ll cut, even twisted,” he said, with a wry smile.

“You cheat!” snarled the boy. “Fight me sword on sword, like a man!”

Mac Brón laughed again. “Like a gentleman, you mean. But I am not gentle.”

The boy stood, and raised his blade.

“En gaur-”

Mac Brón struck his sword so hard that the boy dropped it. The barbarian lunged, caught him by the throat, and kicked his legs from under him. Now the prince was on the flat stone, a hairy forearm across his jugular. He struggled, but could not free himself.

“Get off me!” said the boy angrily. “You haven’t out-fenced me! It’s only that you’re stronger.”

“Technique beats strength,” said Mac Brón, laconically.

“What ‘technique’ is that, barbarian?”

“The art of killing, boy. The same technique the Bolghirim used on your father.”

Tammet howled in rage, and twisted violently, but to no avail. Finally, he leaned down and bit the warrior’s arm. When Mac Brón did not release him, he bit down harder, and ground, and twisted, determined to draw blood. Mac Brón let go. His arm came back bloody. He rubbed the wound, his eyes smoldering. Yet he grinned.

“What is so funny?” said the boy, raising himself. “I suppose you’re satisfied to have made me a beast like you!”

“But I am a beast, boy. And so are you, when the occasion calls for it. And that is your first lesson. It’s an ugly one, so listen well. Only gentlemen like you — spoiled, pampered, kept in glass like a flower — can afford to make fighting a pastime. For you, swordplay is a game of darts. And you are used hitting a mark that does not move, or hate you. Today’s lesson is that swordplay is about killing, and nothing else. If you fight, you had better kill. Nature awards nothing for style.”

Tammet glowered at him.

“And here is your lesson, barbarian-”

His hand flicked out so fast, that Mac Brón did not even consciously recognize the motion. Only years of experience moved his body to the side, and his hand to catch the dagger — his own dagger — as it sliced through the space where his face had just been.

“-Don’t talk so much!” finished the boy.

He stalked off, stopping only to sweep his blade from the ground and re-sheath it. Mac Brón watched him go, smiling all the time.

For the next three days, they pressed southeast. Mac Brón tried to skirt the gorge that also led that way, but the land jutted up between them, forcing him further and further to the south. It was for the best, he supposed. Out of sight of the easy way between the gorge walls, the temptation to use it would be lessened. In that time, Rusu spoke little. She seemed to struggle with a quiet misery greater than the journey itself. Twice he was woken in the early morning by the sound of her retching outside her tent. Her fatigue was written all over her face. No doubt the thick, sometimes foul vapors of the place were getting to her, making her work all the more. So he let her rest.

While she rested, Mac Brón taught the boy. Though only twelve, Tammet took instruction well. He plainly thought little of the northman’s counsel to kill in any way possible, yet his fighting improved. Though trained to competitive fencing, under Mac Brón’s tutelage the boy moderated his flourishes, and increased the speed and savagery of his attacks. He learned quickly an economy of style that made all of his movements more dangerous. The northman watched him soak up these lessons like a sponge, and remembered what it was to be young, and teachable. Now they battled beneath a midday sky. Dark and cool as it was, both men were breathing hard.

“There, I’ve killed you again,” said Mac Brón.

Tammet side-stepped, and thrust at his kidney. Mac Brón seemed to disappear.

“And again,” he said. “Remember, you are the weapon. Not that metal toy in your hand.”

Tammet came at him in a controlled fury.

“And again!” said the northman, dodging, and nicking his face with the blade-tip. “How does it feel to be dead, boy?”

Now Tammet laughed. He pointed with his sword at Mac Brón’s left thigh. Black blood seeped from under the leather. Had the stroke been a few inches to the right, the blood would have been bright red.

“Ask yourself!” exclaimed the youth, beaming.

Mac Brón blinked, and studied the wound. The placement could not have been accidental. Then he smiled, and flung his sword to the ground. Tammet took a step back, confused, as the northman rushed toward him. Closing the gap in a heartbeat, he swept the boy up, and crushed him in a bear hug.

“You did it, boy! You killed me!”

“Get off!” said the prince.

The warrior danced around long enough to embarrass his student, then set him on the ground, laughing. Tammet tried to maintain his irritation, but smiled anyway.

“Shall we keep moving?” he asked.

Mac Brón nodded. “Go wake your mother. It cannot be more than a day or two before we can cut east, and find some path back to that bridge.”

The prince nodded, and made his way toward a gap in the rocks where his mother was resting. He found her already awake, and packing their things.

“Have you learned much?” she said.

Her voice was breathy, and her skin was pale. For the first time, Tammet was concerned for her health.

“Yes. At least I hope so. Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “Some devilry lifts its hand against us. It is subtle, and I cannot see it to push back. I am…tired.”

The prince said nothing, waiting for her to elaborate. When she did not, he set down his sword, and helped her with the packing.

“Mac Brón says we must be close,” he whispered.

She looked up, and pursed her lips.

“We shall see,” the empress finally muttered.

In a quarter hour, they were climbing again. Almost immediately, Rusu seemed to shrink into herself. Up and down they went, sometimes forced to crawl up ladders of crumbling stone, other times to lower themselves down steep inclines. By mid-afternoon, the empress tottered on her feet. Now Tammet was sure something was wrong with her. She was a genteel creature, and not accustomed to long travel, and yet they had walked many miles together before reaching these lands. She ought not to have been so very tired, and so quickly.

For his part, the prince was not so much tired, as aggravated. The constant climbs and descents, the thick, foul air, and the repetitiveness of the landscape made him feel as if were running inside a wheel. He longed for something, anything, to break the monotony of it. Even a troll man would perhaps not be so unwelcome. At least it would mean they were closer to the other side.

Mac Brón led the way. He hiked in a crouch, tensed as if ready to spring, and yet hesitating.

“Does this place ever end!” grumbled the boy.

The warrior clambered up a ridge, and came to a dead stop. His head sank, and he shook it slowly.

“What is it?” asked Tammet.

The prince looked at his mother, and was surprised to see her nodding to herself.

“What?” he repeated. “Why did you stop?”

Mac Brón waved him forward. Helping his mother, Tammet clambered up the ridge, and looked down. If he was not winded before, what he saw was enough to snatch all the air still in his lungs.

Below them lay the gorge. The same gorge that held the black goats, and the widening flats, and strange, burred buttes covered in lush, dark foliage. They’d passed it days ago. It ought to be miles behind them. Yet here they were, at its entrance. The gorge stared up, like an old friend waiting, and Tammet realized that he’d stood in this very spot several days ago. He sank to his haunches, and groaned.

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