[[The Living World of Alekhaneros begins right after the events of the “Ardent” short story.]]
Despite the fires he fueled in the hearts of those who followed him to the Surface, Alekhaneros soon realized that patience was not among the virtues of his following and that his wish to change what it meant to be Dweghom would not be fast or easy. His decision to avoid constant confrontation with the humans and use the roads less travelled, led to challenges, which he swiftly and personally answered with prejudice. Still, to maintain some momentum he knew that he would have to provide some challenges to his army and turned north, following the shores in search of Nord raiders to interrogate about the Dragonblade.
His search yielded no results, save for the discovery of fishing villages with no warrior in sight to protect them. Not thinking them worthy of his army’s attention, but stirred by curiosity, he and the Mnemancer Rhuidh visited one of the villages on their own, while the army would keep marching. His youthful interest in the humans was soon cured, as the mere sight of two Dweghom sent the entire gathering in the village taphouse to a stunned panic. This impression was changed as the alarm sounded, calling for the villagers to arm themselves against Nord pirates. Intrigued by the sudden transformation of the villagers who rushed to the defense of their small village, Alekhaneros decided to join them. While the villagers successfully repelled the raiders with his help, without the support of his own troops, he failed to capture any Nord that would have information about the siege of the Hold or the Dragonblade. Instead, he was left with what the villagers knew: an army of Nords was about to sail to the shores of Riismark to the west. His decision to deviate from their original destination was yet again challenged, but the Fire Thane did not relent. Thus, Alekhaneros and his army would be trapped into the chaos that became known as the Riismark campaign – but the signs of displeasure among his army, and the Mnemancers, were increasing.
Upon entering the lands of Riismark, Alekhaneros decided to ignore reports about the W’adrhŭn and instead focus on the humans. To pacify his challengers, he attacked the city of Enderstradt and all but raised it to the ground, putting its warriors to the test and allowing those without weapons to flee. After interrogating prisoners, he learned that the Nords had attacked and taken the city of Angengrad. But while his destination was clear, the path remained perilous. As strong as his army was, being caught between the local king and the Nords could prove perilous. So he decided instead to draw the local king out and face him before he faced the Nords. Carving a path through Riismark, his plan worked and Fredrik met him on the field.
After failing to secure victory against Fredrik, the cracks in his army’s trust in him widened. To the quarrelling of his officers, he responded harshly, challenging their mindset and reminding them why they had left their Hold in the first place: to be free of all constraints, even the chains and measures that Aghm would put to their freedom. Stunned by his blunt and open challenge to the Dweghom ways, his officers watched him arrange a meeting with Fredrik. There, Alekhaneros allowed the king two weeks to bring him the Nord leader. After that, he would march and take him himself, not caring who stood in the way.
He never got the chance. During a heartfelt discussion – turned brawl – with his imprisoned same-blood Gheshvirbrod, the Mnemancer Rhuidh and Alekhaneros’ own officers came to declare him without Aghm. And just like that, his army abandoned him.
With only a handful of faithful followers by his side, including Gheshvirbrod, Alekhaneros declared that they would remain on the surface. Trusting his Kerawegh instinct, he proclaimed that a new path had opened for them: naming themselves Unworthy, they would join the wars of humans for provisions – and information. He then pledged to reclaim the lost Dragonblade himself and, once in his hands, he would have a discussion with the Mnemancers about Aghm.
The weeks on the surface have taken their toll on the Dweghom. The land is unknown, the sun burns bright on the eyes and the humans may soon forget their fear and descend upon them. With his eyes set to the east, where the Nords that know the name for Dragonblades are, Alekhaneros is aware of a thread of discontent running through his men.
(Choice: )
Mindless battle is not War. Avoiding eyes, the Host follows the shoreline in search for Nord raiders along the way to “politely” ask them a few questions.
The first punch landed on the warrior’s mouth, painting his lips as well as Alekhaneros’ fist in crimson. The second landed on the forehead and the cracking sound was followed by surprised gasps and grunts of approval in equal measure, before the thud of the warrior collapsing silenced them. Then, there was a moment of peace, broken only by the low whispers of his berserkers’ flames and the distant calls of seagulls.
“Anyone else” he asked, hiding a wince. The warrior would come around, he knew, it was his knuckle that had cracked with the impact. “Anyone else feeling like I have forgotten the Dweghom way?” he added with a mocking tone in the end, as he was wiping blood off his knuckles with a rug he was given. Once more, only the flames and seagulls answered.
“Good” he went on. “See to this one’s head. But not his mouth. A swollen lip might keep it shut for few days if we have any luck. As for the rest of you…” He looked up, throwing the bloodied rug to the side. His eyes were narrowed, his gaze catching that of those who had questioned him, one by one.
“If you want to be another Dweghom, go back to the Hold. I will not stop anyone from being what they know to be. But if you do leave, listen to my voice now and know that you will remember its words for the rest of your days: you were offered a chance to carve Memories for the Dweghom. Not for a Hold, not for a Clan, not for a Raegh and not even for you; for the Dweghom. You chose not to.” Then he turned his back on them, as if they did not even exist, as if they were already forgotten.
“Have the scouts reported yet?” he asked his lieutenants “I want to avoid eyes if we can.”
“Unchecked running water pushing a wheel…” one of the scouts grunted. “What more will they think of?”Alekhaneros hid a smile; most of his people never bothered with the Memories recorded about the Tall Men. There had been similar comments on the way. “Floating carriages” another of his men had exclaimed earlier, once fishing boats were seen a little off the coast, while the sheep around had people wondering how dangerous the big white kattä were…. then how tasty. A few unlucky seagulls had also lost their lives, their cries grossly misinterpreted as cunning watch outs raising the alarm for the Tall Men. He had smiled then too, even as he had marveled with his people; his childhood dreams of seeing the open world and the Tall Men were now a reality – he had made them a reality – a reality that, for all its nice moments, saw him responsible for the lives of his men and women.His eyes rested on the village. Watermills were fed by the river, right before it fell lazily into the sea. There were scattered palisades, interestingly enough directed towards the sea, half-heartedly cutting off the more elevated parts of the village from the wooden shacks and small port on the shore.
(Choice: )
There is no need for the March to halt. Alekhaneros with a Mnemancer could enter the village, see the Tall Men, ask questions and gather information – if one in the village still speaks their Old Tongue.
Mnemancer Rhuidh had gotten it all wrong. Human canteens were very calm places. He realized of course that the present state of its patrons, their eyes fixed on him and Rhuidh as if facing War itself in its Prison, was perhaps not the most characteristic of behaviors but surely the man starring focused at his mug had simply missed their entrance and therefore represented the default state of the place. Reserved for quiet contemplation, as one consumed their food and drink, “tabernae” or “popinae”, as their Old Tongue named them, obviously served a purpose of calm relaxation and perhaps a venue for the exchange of Memories.
Ignoring the stares became harder the closer he and Rhuidh came to the obvious keeper of the canteen, for they followed their every move, eyes shining in the glare of the fireplace and the candles in place. It was only half-way that he realized he had been potentially wrong. It was not curiosity that kept those eyes on them. Passing too close for comfort next to an occupied table, a chair awkwardly shrieked as its owner failed to move discreetly further away from his path. The noise made everyone jump nervously and only then did it dawn on the Fire Thane what truly brought the stares.
Fear.
Alekhaneros turned to look at the man and his eyes widening under the Dweghom’s stare only confirmed his suspicions. Rhuidh could not hide his disgust with a snort and, indeed, Alekhaneros almost followed his example. Even though taller on average, the men in the canteen looked smaller, scrawnier, less dangerous than the two Dweghom among them, that was true. But it seemed as if half the village was gathered here. Numbers were on their side and while they would pay a bloody price, victory in the end would be theirs. Still, all but a handful had panic painted all over their faces and it seemed that all it would take for them to run was for him to sneeze or shoo them.
These were the Tall Men of the Dominion? These thralls and workers, shaking under his gaze, these were the rulers of the surface not more than a lifetime ago?
Standing in the middle of the only tavern of a small fishing village, among fishermen and farmers that starred frightful at the Dweghom, Alekhaneros Dheubrodsûn, called Azdhaen, the Fire Thane of Ghe’Domn, laughed heartily.
He could not remember the last time he had laughed this hard. With Gheshvirbrod, perhaps, as cadets, right about the time he had first started dreaming about seeing the Tall Men for himself. The same Tall Men that had frozen in terror, just because two Dweghom walked in their canteen and that were now looking at him like a madman, exchanging baffled looks with each other. This, of course, drove him into more laugher and in the merriment of the moment the dreaded Fire Thane could not see how this cycle would ever be broken. Soon enough, some of the Tall Men joined in, nervously at first, then uncertain until finally, relieved perhaps from their fear, many laughed heartily with him. One even got up and raised his hand to pat him on the back. Luckily for him, a war horn sounded, distant, almost drowned by the laughter in the canteen.
Silence fell among the Tall Men but only for a moment. They jumped up, men and women alike, throwing chairs and shoving tables out of their way but this time they were frowned, determined. One word dominated their lips, shouted, urging the others.
“What do they say?” he asked Rhuidh. “Is it a warcry? An alarm?” The Mnemancer shook his head negatively, tilting it as if trying to discern.
“Thieves?” he said uncertain in the end. “The word means water-thieves, I think. It could be Nords.”
Choice
Aghm among the Tall?: The Tall Men panicked at the mere sight of two Dweghom yet they did not hesitate for a moment when the water-thieves came. Grimacing with some approval, Alekhaneros drew his weapon and joined the fight. He doubted he could capture a Nord with these amateurs as his following was far, but still.
It was one of the most frustrating experiences of his life, fighting among the Tall Men. They had no real understanding of war and fighting, not by his standards at least. They fought defensively, which he guessed made some sense considering their equipment and obvious lack of training but which he couldn’t really embrace, so he had found himself alone among the water-thieves repeatedly. They also cheered for him during the battle; who in their right minds stopped fighting to cheer?! They had also stopped him from setting fire to the water-thieves’ boats, which he found incomprehensible. Why not claim their most prized possessions? Rhuidh would later explain their rationale; if he had burned their ships, they would have nowhere to go and would have fought to the last man. When he asked what was wrong with that, they thought he was joking.
But the true frustration was the human themselves, especially the water-thieves. They did not simply kill; they defiled the dead, cutting off heads and raising them to bathe in the blood. Some of them would stop, mid-fight, to attempt and defile the women against their will, while women would cut the manhood of villagers, mocking them in their pain. Even children were not safe in the fight, those too small to bear arms.
They disgusted him. There was no Aghm in defiling the dead, no Aghm in mocking the defeated.
When the battle ended, they came and spoke to him, cheering him as a hero, offering him drinks which tasted like… well, nothing really. It was some kind of yellow foamy water with no real taste save for a slight tingle on the tongue. It offered the same satisfaction that the fight had; none.
“They say” said Rhuidh “that these were an advance force. They say many Nords come. An army. But they know not where.”
Alekhaneros nodded. “We will halt the March” he said in the end. “And we will find them.”
THUD… THUD… THUD… THUD THUD… THUD…
He exhaled, reveling in the sensation. The land spoke to him and his heart beat in the rhythm of the drums of war, distant but approaching. He smiled, for he knew, without a doubt, that this is where he was supposed to be. He opened his eyes.
“HOST! Harken to me!”
“Azdhaen!” came the reply. But just as he could hear the call of war brewing, so could he hear his following’s voice. His people were divided.
“We have come a long way on the Surface” he yelled. “And while you may ask why, know that the answer will be given on the field of battle soon! And those too craven to join us will be reminded their place!”
“Azdhaen!” came the reply once more.
“We do not know this land, who fight for it and who would die for it. But we know they will die if we will it. We do not know where their rulers are. But we do know our enemies are here. They are coming by water on the edges as we speak. So we will find them and make them answer for the Dragons on their wooden shields! Make them answer for the lost Draegbhrud!
“Azdhaen!”
“This land is trembling with excitement for it knows! It knows that war has come to it!”
“Azdhaen!”
“It knows the Dweghom are here!”
“Azdhaen!”
“IT KNOWS THE DWEGHOM MARCH!”
“AZDHAEN!”
Choice
Follow the shores – find the Nord ships.
Follow the shores – find the Nord ships
“These lands are empty, Azdhaen.”
He grunted, nodding in agreement. “I encountered more movement in my Dheukhorro…”
The harsh laughter from his followings made him smile. Their spirits were high and that was good. He knew there were still those among the March who voiced objections but…
“ENOUGH!”
Alekhaneros turned and looked at the one who had shouted. A dark-haired warrior, clad in a Thane’s armor with no helmet. There was a following behind him; not a handful of misguided cadets, but a proper following, from different Clans and castes. His officers and advisors brought their hands to their weapons. But not his Berserkers, he noticed with a frown.
“Enough!” the challenger said again. “Why are we heading to where the sun sets? Was not our destination the eastern Holds? Azdhaen, you have led us astray from our purpose. We are a March and Host no longer for you would have us roam the surface without purpose and without Aghm like exiles! I say you are no longer fit to lead this March. I say I can bring Aghm to us. I am-“
“I do not care who you are.” He answered loudly but without passion, without anger. “Do not force your memory upon me, Dweghom. But fight well enough before you die, and the Mnemancers might care.”
Choice
Victory
“The idiot-with-no-name did us a favor” someone said. “A good, quick fight to hasten the blood and calm the nerves” they went on with a laugh.
Alekhaneros did not respond and the chuckle died around him faster than usual.
“Azdhaen..?” someone asked but his grunt silenced them and the question was forgotten.
From all the fights he had had since his Dheukhorro, this had been the first when his Berserkers did not fight beside him. This, he knew, was the real problem in his hands. If he noticed, so had others and that idiot-with-no-name would be the first of many. He needed a war, not some glorified brawl against naysayers and would be challengers.
“You!” he said, pointing at a Dweghom wearing only a chest plate over her gambeson. “Are you sure?”
“Tall, strong, ashen-skinned or in shades alike, riding beasts of old” the Dweghom replied. “It is as the Memories describe them. They saw us but did not give chase.”
He nodded and looked north. No Nords on these shores, but a city of men could be seen in the distance, banners flying on its feeble walls, with water-carriages forming half a circle, blocking the entrance from the sea. They were expecting the Nords, he realized, or at least feared their coming. And he would not avoid another city.
There would be no more roaming the surface. He’d get his war.
Choice
Keep going North – Attack Enderstradt
Enderstradt
“The world once trembled at the mention of Dweghom. Now I look at them. Do I see them fleeing before the mere sight of us? Do I see them screaming in panic, their walls unmanned, their houses empty? No. I shall tell you what I see.
I see forgetful creatures, unwise in their ignorance, untaught by the lessons their dead ancestors scream from their forgotten graves. I see ignorant armies, who think that holding metal means mastery over it and stacking stone upon stone means “wall.” I see them gathering water in wooden buckets from holes in the ground and from their wet shores, thinking they can battle fire. But I also see something else. I see humans brave enough to stand, ready to fight. I see them clad in arms and armor, not be necessity but because they are warriors by choice.
I promised you once that we shall make the world remember us. It starts here. Cure their forgetfulness. Remind them how true fire burns. Remind them how easily their stone walls break. Remind them what mastery over metal means. Honor their bravery and show no quarter. Meet them as warriors and claim their Aghm.
You are how this new age will remember the Dweghom. Remind them what the word means.
Level this city by darkhours.”
Choice
Victory.
“Ang… Angengrad!”
Ancestors, the man had water in his eyes and by the smell not only there. Alekhaneros shoved him to the floor with disgust, leaving the man trembling and whimpering, his very existence forgotten by the time two warriors had dragged him away. Ironic, considering the human served as a mnemancer for his people.
“Take that thing away from me,” Alekhaneros said, turning his back to the clerk and rubbing his hand on his trousers.
“I will prepare the men to march to this Angengrad, Azdhaen?”
“Not yet,” he said. There were decisions to be made. The city proved less than the challenge he had hoped for but then again humans tended to take such things personally. For them, he had declared war on their Raegh, this Fredrikh whose name the warriors kept repeating as a war cry; then as they died. His Dweghom were unmatched but they were not invincible. It would perhaps be wise to ensure he did not meet two enemies at once. “Give them a cycle’s rest,” he said in the end. “Let the mnemancers record.”
“As you command. Deaghm dhorro, Azdhaen.”
Deep in thought, he crossed his hands behind his back and let his eyes wander over the flaming rumbles that had been a city; the first city to fall to the Dweghom in centuries. In the end he nodded absentmindedly, acknowledging the praise, but he remained silent; as silent as the two Flame Berserkers standing behind him.
Choice
Carve a path through eastern Riismark – Force the human Raegh out.
He could hear shouting across the field; a man, riding up and down, was yelling like some kind of maniac, while his army showered him with a battle cry response now and then. Then he heard all of them chanting.
“By the Deep Fires, what are they doing?” someone among the ranks asked.
He did not reply, taken by the voices across the field. The chanting of the humans was not what would move a Dweghom, not really. But he… he felt different, didn’t he? He had been different, ever since the Dheukorro. Under the chant, hidden between their voices, he could hear the Call and see the patterns of War; not his war and not this Fredrik’s war. Across the field, the world was calling to him, inviting him to remember his purpose, summoning him partake in the War. Eä’s War.
He opened his eyes, never realizing he had closed them. Whoever or whatever that Raegh, that King of theirs was, the War had already embraced him, the patterns had already included him. He knew not human history but he knew this with certainty. Killing this Fredrik had Aghm, he realized, and not the kind the Mnemancers awarded but the one Alekhaneros valued. Failing that, defeating him would do the man a favor. The human thought he was charging against him but he was charging blindly into was a War he neither knew nor could ever hope to understand. For if this human defeated a force of Dweghom this day…
His fellow Ardent would revel in the destruction, of course, screaming that Freedom can only come through war. He thought differently. Freedom did indeed come through War; but true War was not a scoring competition, it was not mindless, senseless, empty conflict. War meant purpose and a victory should mean more than a handful or even bucket-loads of Aghm on a ledger. This was why he had left his Hold. This was why they had all followed him. He had purpose. Now he needed the victory.
He turned to face his army and noticed his Berserkers eyeing him. For a moment he wondered if they could guess his thoughts but, dismissing the thought, he raised his voice.
“Their Raegh is mine!” he screamed to his army. “The rest are yours. Moaghm Dorh!”
“MOAGHM DHOR!”
“Silence.”
But, as he had feared, it would take more. His captains and advisors kept shouting, cursing, threatening, passing blame or claiming their Aghm was intact. Only the mnemancer was silent. The mnemancer and him.
“I said, SILENCE!”
This brought results but he knew that without a follow up, it would not last.
“My Aghm, your Aghm, human Aghm…” he said, with a mocking tone. “You argue like first year cadets.”
“Azdhaen, we were defeated.”
“We were halted. We have suffered losses, yes, but so have they. They stopped our march and, by the Deep Rock, that is an achievement for a human. But they are still human. Your Aghm is safe for they can have none, if that is all that matters to you. Only the Aghm you can gain has increased, nothing else.” He was starring at the mnemancer while saying this; not threateningly but obviously not interested in his input either.
“The question is,” he went on after a while “do we care?”
The shouting was resumed, this time addressed at him. Good. He would much rather they vent against the person they were really angry at than risk fractions and enmities break his army.
“Did we not leave to break the new shackles of our people?” he asked after a while, raising his voice above the crowd until they were silenced. “Did we not leave the Hold because the chains felt tight around our necks? Our purpose is not Aghm nor is it the humans of this land; not yet at least.”
He watched them shift uncomfortably. They always did, when he spoke this dismissively about Aghm. But in the end, the followed; or at least they had so far.
“Regardless, we were halted and that we all Remember,” he went on. “No one here can claim otherwise and I, for one, do not like it. We can embrace this War with the human. We can test our Aghm against this ‘honor’ of theirs. And by my missing eye, we will show them which bears true strength.”
Grunts of approval met these words.
“But as I Remember this, I Remember our purpose more; to find out how the Nords know our words and by what right they claimed a Draegbhrud. This human Raegh may not have Aghm, but he displayed some worth. Telling him our purpose, giving him the opportunity to stand aside while we see to our purpose would not be out of place.”
They were murmurs and grunts. Noone liked it but all saw the truth. The human’s achievement had earned him the respect to choose his place in the War.
Choice
Talk with the human Raegh.
The Meeting
There were no banners. No heraldry. No ornamented weapon, shield or armor. The sage had been adamant in that. The Dweghom, he had claimed, gave entirely different meaning to such things. The wrong symbol, even the wrong animal or creature on a banner or an engraving, could be taken as an insult. So, Fredrik was dressed in simple chain and bore a single, plain sword taken from a man-at-arms and had walked – walked! – to the hill’s top; apparently, even riding while the Dweghom leader walked could be perceived as an insult. Again, could be. For a sage, there was a lot the man had speculated. Watching him swiping the sweat from his brow for the millionth time did not exactly fill Fredrik with confidence but it was all he had; the only sage who had studied the Dweghom language. In contrast, the translator that the Dweghom had brought with him seemed passive, almost indifferent.
Exchanging names and titles took some time, with the two translators trying to understand each other. He recognized some of the words the Dweghom translator spoke, as he had tried to speak some ancient form of High Tellian. To his words, his sage sighed with some relief, happy that perhaps some middle ground could perhaps be found. From that point on, a series of exchanges seemed to happen, now in the Dweghom language, now in that ancient Tellian. It was tedious and tiring so the two leaders spent most of the time starring at each other.
“Enough,” Fredrik said to the sage eventually. “Ask him: why did they attack us? What do they want in our lands?”
“Sire, I would advise that-“
“Ask,” he said and the sage jumped as he struggled to communicate with the Dweghom once more. Eventually, this Alekhaneros spoke in his rough language. Curiously enough, he spoke like Fredrik would expect a teacher or a preacher to speak, not a King or a general; a mild tone, calm and looking at him in the eyes.
“He… He says something about a big war” the sage said after some time consorting with the translator. “A war that your Highness is a part of but cannot hear. He says that he is not interested in your lands. It is wet and soft. But what is done here will be part of history. He says the Northmen stole their words.”
“They… stole their words?” Fredrik asked.
“I… I think so, sire,” the sage replied, wiping his brow yet again. “They stole their words and a killer of dragons.”
“What on Eӓ are you on about, man?”
“Sire, I swear that is what he said. It is… quite different from reading their runes, I am afraid.”
“Tell him there are no dragons or their killers in these lands. There are Nords, that much is true. And he is stopping me from kicking them of my lands. Tell him if he leaves, I will kill those Nords myself.”
The back and forth between translators began anew. Eventually, Alekhaneros… laughed. Then he answered.
“He says Tall Ones – I think he means humans – cannot fight the war of the Dweghom. He says you must stand aside. He will kick the Northmen off your lands.”
“And roam my lands freely, like they have done so far? I think not. Tell him I remember Vatsdam. I remember Enderstradt. Tell him to withdraw east. Tell him not to harm any humans. That will allow me to attack the Nords. And once I succeed, I will allow him to question their leader about their stolen words.” He waited impatiently as the exchange began anew.
“He says,” the sage said in the end “that you fought with weight. I think he means well. For that reason alone, he listens. But you must prove your… weight.”
It took hours before they at least understood each other. Or at least, until Fredrik thought they did. The Dweghom demanded right of way to Angengrad. They offered no guarantees about their departure after and if he allowed the Dweghom to pass would at best paint him in a weak color; the King that allows others to fight for him. At worst, he would be a traitor for he had no doubt what the Dweghom attacking Angengrad could mean. Even Otto’s allegiance would be shaken, he feared and he was just one name in a long line.
On the other hand, they were willing to offer him two weeks to bring the Nord leader to them; if he failed then… Well. As their leader said, without enough weight, he would have no right to rule these lands. What that meant, truly, he could not know for they would not say. But he didn’t like it. And if the Dweghom decided to ravage his lands, Erich Schurr and his imperials were right outside Brandengrad…
Choice
Two Weeks.
“I was thinking of old Barghur. Our first real fight,” Alekhaneros said to his prisoner then smiled, almost fondly, at the memory. Then he motioned with his head towards the east and the rattle of chains as the prisoner moved was the only answer he received.
It was a river of people he was looking at, wave upon wave of men, women and children, moving slowly from south to north in the distance, like lava lazily moving in its carved paths. The strongest, most capable of them, helped the others, all the while carrying or dragging what they could. Their clothes were dirty and tattered, their expressions broken and empty, their eyes desperate and lost.
“There he goes” Alekhaneros said once he had motioned towards the refugees. “Old Barghur. Pitiful. With no more Aghm than a rock. Not really living, simply surviving, fit to be no one, to do nothing but serve. But still he mopped. What not even the constructs would do, he was assigned to. That was his role in the Hold. And still he did it, still he mopped. Like that city’s non-warriors. Useless, their lives doomed to be decided by others – braver, worthier, stronger. Sleeping together in crèches under the sky for they were found unworthy of a home. And yet… there they go. Carrying their buckets and those even more pitiful than them. Mopping away…” He then suddenly turned and stared right into the good eye of his prisoner.
“Tell me, same blood,” he asked “You challenged old Barghur then. Would you challenge them? Would you have killed them?”
“Of course not” Gheshvirbrod answered. “It would be like striking wood.”
“Ah!” Alekhaneros exclaimed, as he turned to face the refugees once more. “Then perhaps you are beginning to see.”
“You remember only what you like” the prisoner answered. “That was not why we fought. You said then that Barghur was Dweghom.” Alekhaneros nodded.
“He was,” he said, ignoring the scoff. “He could have left the Hold. He could have tried to challenge and regain some Aghm. He could have gone to the Deeps. He didn’t but he had the freedom to do it. I could never respect or condone his choices nor did I mourn his position or find it unfitting. But he made those choices freely; he was Dweghom.”
“And yet” Gheshvirbrod said, raising his hands, the rattle of chains mocking him as he did “here I am, in chains. Less free than old Barghur. Less Dweghom, by your count.”
“If all you could challenge was Barghur,” Alekhaneros turned and screamed – his expression harsh, cruel, angry madness dancing in his eyes – “then your chains are fitting!”
“I challenged a Thane! And you stole-“
“You were cornered by one!” Alekhaneros waved dismissively. “You fool! Fool! Oh, what a glorious, worthy death Alekhaneros robbed you from! What a memory of Gheshvirbrod would have been carved that day! And while you’d smirk satisfied in your death, you would have served him in the end, your glorious memory carved on his deathhall, binding you till the world breaks again! Fool!”
He paused, controlling his panting.
“You fool,” he said again sighing, turning to face the refugees once more. “You still do not see, same-blood. I was not protecting Barghur. I was not robbing you of glory.” Silence fell, Alekhaneros looking to the east, Gheshvirbrod to the floor.
“That… that is not our way” the chained Dweghom said in the end.
“I say we should be free to choose our way.” Alekhaneros turned, eyeing the shackled wrists of his same-blood before looking at him, thoughtful.
“It will never last,” Gheshvirbrod said. “It is not to be Dweghom.”
“I am Dweghom,” he answered, nodding. “And I chose to try anyway.”
Choice
Set him free.
He pulled his axe, grabbed it with both hands, eyes widened, lips snarling. Then, with a scream, he lowered it on the chain. Sparks sprouted from the metals clashing and the chains rattled as they danced freely from Gheshvirbrod’s wrists. Then, silence, the two men looking at each other.
“It will never last,” Alekhaneros said before the question was asked. “That is what you said. And if that is so, you too should be free to choose to try anyway.”
“You’ve kept me strong,” Gheshvirbrod answered. “Well fed.”
Alekhaneros simply nodded.
“And we are alone here. Sixty, maybe seventy paces from the guards and your precious berserkers.” Again, a nod was all he got for an answer. “They would not stop me,” Gheshvirbrod went on.
“You know me, same-blood,” Alekhaneros answered, a near-playful look in his eyes. “I would not let them, if they tried.”
Choice
Alekhaneros.
There was a hint of a smile on both their faces when Gheshvribrod tackled him; a playful sparkle danced in their eyes as their perfect memories drowned the present. Every blow, every block, every grapple was repeated, as their first fight was revived in mind and deed, only this time it was Ghesvhribrod that had tackled Alekhaneros, not the other way around. Had they continued, the outcome was certain. And as their minds raced through the memory faster than their bodies, they both knew how the fight would play out.
But then Alekhaneros deviated from the Memory and Gheshvirbrod was forced to follow suit. With every new blow, block and grapple, the playful sparkles dwindled; their eyes grew colder, harsher, narrowed. Soon, snarls and grunts had erased the smiles, as the fight was joined in earnest, the two Dweghom rolling on the floor, exchanging hard and honest blows, while trying to pin the other down. And yet, in the end, the Memory was repeated. Freeing one arm from a grapple, Gheshvirbrod blocked a punch, struggling to shove his opponent off of him. A second punch stopped him, landing on his jaw. His thick skull drummed by the blow, his strength leaving him for a moment, his sight blurring. He hazily saw Alekhaneros lifting his hand for a third, finishing punch. The voice he heard clearly.
“Say it,” Alekhaneros said, panting, his teeth bloodied by the open, lower lip or his broken nose or both. Gheshvirbrod opened his mouth but another spoke first.
“Alekhaneros,” the voice said and, as if the flat voice hadn’t betrayed the truth already, lifting his head Gheshvirbrod saw the Mnemancer Rhuidh, coming into focus when his vision started to clear once more. Warriors were with the Mnemancer, he realized, as were Alekhaneros’ berserkers, the Sorcerer and the lesser Thanes. Ignoring them, his same-blood was keeping him pinned to the floor, fist still held ready to fly once more. He hadn’t turned to the Mnemancer’s call; Azdhean still starred at him, eyes wide and maddened.
“Say it,” he said again. “Don’t let others save you this time.”
“Alekhaneros of Clan Dheubrodsûn,” Rhuidh spoke again and went on “the one called Azdhaen. Your Memories have been weighed.”
“Ignore them,” Alekhaneros said. “I openly questioned Aghm. Now they would give me a mop. Say it!”
“You have failed to reclaim your Clan’s Draegbhrud,” the Mnemancer went on, in that annoying, monotonous tone of his, ignoring the few Dweghom that walked to stand by their Thane, regardless. “You have failed to March to Aul’Domn where you declare the Draegbhrud was held. You have failed to capture a Nord Raegh. You have failed to defeat the human Raegh.”
“Think for yourself,” Alekhaneros said again, his panting lessened now, much like Gheshvirbrod’s senses were sharp once more. “Picture me with a mop, same-blood and tell me if it is fitting.”
“These are the goals you proclaimed for your following,” Rhuidh went on. “You have led them to failure. Alekhaneros Dheubrodsûn, called Azdhaen,” even the next words he spoke without passion or fervor, as if they weren’t about to change a Dweghom’s fate. It was what it was.
“Deaghm nutet,” the Mnemancer decreed.
Eyes widened, Gheshvirbrod looked at Alekhaneros, his fist only now being lowered; one Berserker and a handful of warriors stood behind him. Out of three clans he had led to the Surface, those were the only ones that would still follow.
“Say it,” Alekhaneros said to him once more.
Choice
Deaghm dhorro : “I see your worth.” – Gheshvirbrod will stay with Alekhaneros and the few that will follow him still.
Epilogue
“What now?”
Alekhaneros did not respond at first. His eyes were turned south and east, as if with a look he was trying to pierce the horizon. His former March had disappeared that way earlier that day but Gheshvirbrod knew he was not looking for them.
“You are doing that thing, again,” he sighed and only then did Alekhaneros blink and turn to face him.
“What? Ah. I guess I was.”
“I am regretting my choice already,” Gheshvirbrod chuckled. “I want you to know I came with you despite your weirdness, not because of it. I can’t believe for a moment you are truly a Kerawegh, as they say.”
“Believe what you will,” Alekhaneros answered annoyed. “I don’t call myself a Kerawegh, why should you or anyone else? But the Dheukhorro did change me.”
“That,” said his same-blood grimly “I do believe. You did not answer. What now?”
Alekahneros scanned around him, his eyes going through the warriors that had remained by his side, preparing to march the moment he gave the word. A good lot, some of the best among the March, he thought.
“I do not think the March will ever find the Draegbhrud that way,” he said in the end.
“What difference does that make, now?”
“I still want to find it,” Alekhaneros said and his eyes were bright with madness as he turned to face his same-blood. “I want to find it and claim it and I want the world to know I wield it.
“Alekhaneros…” Gheshvirbrod started but he was not allowed to go on.
“Until then,” Alekhaneros said “we will do the one thing we know how to do. We will fight. Not for Aghm. For provisions. For metal. For spices. For food. If the Memories are to be trusted,” – Gheshvirbrod shifted uncomfortably at this – “then they always need warriors on the Surface. So we will fight for them. As, without Worth – the Unworthy. We will learn their language and we will learn their ways. Then, we will learn what their Mnemancers know for if anyone has stolen a Draegbhrud, it is the humans. The thieves of history.”
He paused, eyes now turned to the western horizon, his gaze searching in time as much as it scanned the land before him.
“And then, only then – when the blade is in my hands, when we have succeeded where the March has failed – then we will speak of Aghm with the Mnemancers once more.”