‘That’s always been its danger,’ Ortzel told him. ‘The rhythm numbs the mind and sets the pulse to racing. The people of my race are susceptible to the emotionality of The Drychtnathasaga. An army of Lamorks can be whipped into a frenzy by a recitation of some of the more lurid passages.’
‘Well?’ Talen said eagerly. ‘What happened?’
Ortzel smiled rather gently at the boy. ‘Surely so worldly a young thief cannot be stirred by some tired old poem?’ he suggested slyly. Sparhawk nearly laughed aloud. Perhaps the change in the Patriarch of Kadach had gone further than he had imagined.
‘I like a good story,’ Talen admitted. ‘I’ve never heard one told that way before, though.’
‘It’s called “felicity of style”,’ Stragen murmured. ‘Sometimes it’s not so much what the story says, but how it says it.’
‘Well?’ Talen insisted. ‘What happened?’
‘Drychtnath discovered that a giant named Kreindl had forged a metal that could cut bronze like butter,’ Ortzel replied. ‘He went to Kreindl’s lair with only his sledge-hammer for a weapon, tricked the secret of the new metal out of the giant and then beat out his brains with the sledge. Then he went home and began to forge the new metal – steel – and hammered it out into weapons. Soon every warrior in Lamorkand – or Lamorkland as they called it in those days – had to have a steel sword, and Drychtnath grew enormously wealthy.’ He frowned. ‘I hope you’ll bear with me,’ he apologised. ‘Translating on the spot is a bit difficult.’ He thought a while and then began again. ‘Now it came to pass that the fame of the mighty smith Drychtnath spread throughout the land. Tall was he, a full ten span, I ween, and broad were his shoulders. His thews were as the steel from his forge, and comely were his features. Full many a maid of noble house yearned for him in the silences of her soul.
‘Now as it chanced to happen in those far-off days of yore, the ruler of the Lamorks was the aged King Hygdahl, whose snowy locks bespoke his wisdom. No son on life had he, but a daughter, the child of his eld, fair as morning dew and yclept Uta. And Hygdahl was sore troubled, for well he wot that when his spirit had been gathered to the bosom of Hrokka, strife and contention would wrack the lands of the Lamorks as the heroes vied with one another for his throne and for the hand of fair Uta in marriage, for such was the twin prize which would fall to the hand of the victor. And so resolved King Hygdahl at last to secure the future of realm and daughter with one stroke. And caused he to be sent word to every corner of his vasty realm. The fate of Lamorkland and of bright-eyed Uta would be decided by trial at arms. The mightiest hero in all the land would win wealth, wife and dominion by the strength of his hands.’ Ortzel paused in his translation.
‘What’s a span?’ Talen asked.
‘Nine inches,’ Berit replied. ‘It’s supposed to be as far as a man can stretch out the fingers of one hand.’
Talen made the quick computation in his head. ‘Seven and a half feet?’ he said incredulously. ‘He was seven and a half feet tall?’
‘It may be slightly exaggerated,’ Ortzel smiled.
‘Who is this Hrokka?’ Bevier asked him.
‘The Lamork War-God,’ Ortzel explained. ‘There was a period at the end of the bronze age when the Lamorks reverted to paganism. Obviously, Drychtnath won the trial-at-arms, and he didn’t even kill too many other Lamorks in the process.’ Then Ortzel took up his recitation. ‘And so it was that Drychtnath the smith, mightiest hero of antiquity, won the hand of bright-eyed Uta and became King Hygdahl’s heir.
‘And when the wedding-feast was done, went Hygdahl’s heir straightway to the King. “Lord King,” quotha, “since I have the honour to be the mightiest warrior in all the world, it is only meet that the world fall into my hands. To that end shall I bend mine efforts once Hrokka hath called thee home. I will conquer the world and subdue it and bend it to my will, and I will lead the heroes of Lamorkland e’en unto Chyrellos. There will I cast down the altars of the false God of that Church which doth, all womanly, hold strength in despite and weakens warriors with her drasty preaching. I spurn her counsel, and will lead the heroes of Lamorkland forth to bear back to our homes in groaning wains the loot of the world.”
‘Happily heard Hygdahl the hero’s words, for Hrokka, Sword-Lord of Lamorkland, glories in battle-strife and doth inspire his children to love the sound of sword meeting sword and the sight of sparkling blood bedewing the grass. “Go forth, my son, and conquer,” quotha, “Punish the Peloi, crush the Cammorians, destroy the Deirans, and forget not to bring down the Church which doth pollute the manhood of all Elenes with her counsels of peace and lowly demeanour.”
‘Now when word of Drychtnath’s design reached the Basilica of Chyrellos, the Church was troubled and trembled in fear of the mighty smith, and the princes of the Church took counsel one with the other and resolved to spill out the life of the noble smith, lest his design dispossess the Church and win her wealth to wend in wains Lamorkward, there to bedeck the high-built walls of the conqueror’s mead-hall. Conspired they then to send a warrior of passing merit to the court of Hygdahl’s heir to bring low the towering pride of dark-forested Lamorkland.
‘In dissembling guise this traitorous warrior, a Deiran by birth – Starkad was his name – made his way to Drychtnath’s mead-hall, and mildly made he courteous greeting to Hygdahl’s heir. And beseeched he the hero of Lamorkland to accept him as his vassal. Now Drychtnath’s heart was so free of deceit and subterfuge that he could not perceive perfidy in others. Gladly did he accept Starkad’s seeming friendship, and the two were soon as brothers even as Starkad had designed.
‘And as the heroes of Drychtnath’s hall laboured, Starkad was ever at Drychtnath’s right hand, in fair weather and foul, in battle and in the carouse which is battle’s aftermath. Tales he spun which filled Drychtnath’s heart with mirth, and for the love he bare his friend did the mighty smith gladly bestow treasures upon him, bracelets of bright gold and gems beyond price. Starkad accepted Drychtnath’s gifts in seeming gratitude and ever, like the patient worm, burrowed he his way ever deeper into the hero’s heart.
‘And at the time of Hrokka’s choosing was wise King Hygdahl gathered into the company of the Immortal Thanes in the Hall of Heroes, and then was Drychtnath king in Lamorkland. Well were laid his plans, and no sooner had the royal crown been placed upon his head than he gathered his heroes and marched north to subdue the savage Peloi.
‘Many were the battles mighty Drychtnath waged in the lands of the Peloi, and great were the victories he won. And there it was in the lands of the horse-people that the design of the Church of Chyrellos was accomplished, for there, separated from their friends by legions of ravening Peloi, Drychtnath and Starkad wrought slaughter upon the foe, bathing the meadow’s grass with the blood of their enemies. And there, in the full flower of his heroism, was mighty Drychtnath laid full low. Seizing upon a lull in the struggle when all stood somewhat apart to gather breath and strength to renew the struggle, the deceitful Deiran found his opportunity and drove his cursed spear, sharper than any dagger, full into his lord’s broad back.
‘And Drychtnath felt death’s cold touch as Starkad’s bright steel pierced him. And turned he then to face the man he had called friend and brother. “Why?” quotha, his heart wrung more by the betrayal than by Starkad’s stroke.
‘“It was in the name of the God of the Elenes,” quoth Starkad with hot tears streaming from his eyes, for in truth loved he the hero he had just slain. “Think not that it was I who have smitten thee to the heart, my brother, for it was not I, but our Holy Mother Church which hath sought thy life.” So saying, he raised once more his dreadful spear. “Defend thyself, Drychtnath, for though I must slay thee, I would not murder thee.”
‘Then raised noble Drychtnath his face. “That will I not do,” quotha, “for if my brother have need of my life, I give it to him freely.”
‘“Forgive me,” quoth Starkad, raising again his deadly spear.
‘“That may I not do,” quoth the hero. “My life mayest thou freely have, but never my forgiveness.”
‘“So be it then,” quoth Starkad, and, so saying, plunged he his deadly spear full into Drychtnath’s mighty heart.
‘A moment only the hero stood, and then slowly, as falls the mighty oak, fell all the pride of Lamorkland, and the earth and the heavens resounded with his fall.’
There were tears in Talen’s eyes. ‘Did he get away with it?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘I mean, didn’t one of Drychtnath’s other friends pay him back?’ The boy’s face clearly showed his eagerness to hear more.
‘Surely you wouldn’t want to waste your time with some tired, worn-out old story that’s been around for thousands of years?’ Ortzel said. He feigned some astonishment, but there was a sly twinkle in his eye. Sparhawk covered his own smile with his hand. Ortzel had definitely changed, all right.
‘I don’t know about Talen,’ Ulath said, ‘but I would.’ There were obviously some strong similarities between the culture of present-day Thalesia and that of ancient Lamorkland.
‘Well, now,’ Ortzel said, ‘I’d say that some bargaining might be in order here. How many acts of contrition would the two of you be willing to give our Holy Mother in exchange for the rest of the story?’
‘Ortzel,’ Dolmant reproved him.
The Patriarch of Kadach held up one hand. ‘It’s a perfectly legitimate exchange, Sarathi,’ he said. ‘The Church has used it many times in the past. When I was a simple country pastor, I used this exact method to ensure regular attendance at services. My congregation was known far and wide for its piety – until I ran out of stories.’ Then he laughed. They were all a bit startled at that. Most of them were fairly sure that the stern, unbending Patriarch of Kadach didn’t even know how. ‘I was only teasing,’ he told the young thief and the gigantic Thalesian. ‘I wouldn’t be too disappointed, however, if the two of you gave the condition of your souls some serious thought.’
‘Tell the story,’ Mirtai insisted. Mirtai was also a warrior, and also, it appeared, susceptible to a stirring tale.
‘Do I sense the possibility of a convert here?’ Ortzel asked her.
‘What you’re sensing is the possibility of failing health, Ortzel,’ she said bluntly. Mirtai never used titles when she spoke to people.
‘All right then,’ Ortzel laughed again and continued with his translation.
‘Hearken then, O men of Lamorkland, and hear how Starkad was paid. Some tears then shed he over his fallen brother, then turned he his raging wrath upon the Peloi, and they fled screaming from him. Straightway left he the strife-place and journeyed even to the Holy City of Chyrellos, there to advise the princes of the Church that their design was done. And when they had gathered all in the Basilica which is the crown of their o’erweening pride, recounted Starkad the sad tale of the fall of Drychtnath, mightiest hero of yore.
‘And gloated then the soft and pampered princes of the Church at the hero’s fall, thinking that their pride and power and position were safe, and spake they each in praise of Starkad and offered him good gold beyond measure for the deed he had done.
‘Cold, however, was the hero’s heart, and he looked upon the little men he had served, recalling with tears the great man he had slain at their bidding. “Lordlings of the Church,” quotha then. “Think ye that mere gold will satisfy me as payment for what I have done in your behalf?”
‘“But what else may we offer thee?” they asked in great perplexity.
‘“I would have Drychtnath’s forgiveness,” quoth Starkad.
‘“But that we may not obtain for thee,” they said unto him, “for dreaded Drychtnath lieth low in the House of the Dead from whence no man returneth. Pray, mighty hero, tell us what else we may offer thee in recompense for this great service thou hast provided us.”
‘“But one thing,” quoth Starkad in deadly earnest.
‘“And that is what?” they asked.
‘“Your heart’s blood,” quoth Starkad. And, so saying, sprang he to the massy door and chained it shut with chains of steel that none might escape him. Then drew he forth Hlorithn, Dread Drychtnath’s bright blade, which he had brought with him to Chyrellos for just this purpose. And then took the hero Starkad his payment for the deed he had done on the plains of the Peloi.
‘And when he had finished collecting that which was owed him, the Church of Chyrellos lay headless, for not one of her princes saw the setting of the sun that day, and sorrowing still that he had slain his friend, Starkad sadly took his leave of the Holy City and never returned there more.
‘But it is said in dark-forested Lamorkland that the oracles and the auguries speak still of the mighty Drychtnath and of the day when the War-God Hrokka will relent and release the spirit of Drychtnath from his service as one of the Immortal Thanes in the Hall of Heroes that he may come once more to Lamorkland to take up again that grand design. Then how the blood will flow, and then how the kings of the world will tremble as once again the world shakes beneath the mighty stride of Dread Drychtnath the Destroyer, and the crown and throne of the world shall lie in his immortal grip, as was from the beginning intended.’ Ortzel’s voice fell silent, indicating that he had reached the end.
‘That’s all?’ Talen protested vehemently.
