Foxfire (The Blood Oath) old version

Chapter 19: Swordmaiden (new inclusion)

. . . Bryn . . .

Avenge him. Avenge him. Avenge him.

The thoughts coursed through her mind, lighted fire to her blood, and gnawed at her bones. Bryn gazed upon the vacant throne, one step below that of the King, her father. She remembered how once it had held Balder in all his regality. It had fitted him, more than any of his siblings, and now it was hers to mount.

Memories were the only thing left of him, now, memories and the legacy he had set his people upon. The wheels must keep on turning and she would gladly be its rider.

"Daughter," a voice sounded behind her, frail, feeble.

Bryn turned to meet her father's face. The gloom was obvious. His spirit was sunken and he barely stood upright. Grief had done to him in a few weeks what age would do in years. She was disappointed. His weariness had not stemmed from searching for her brother's murderer, but days spent on weeping. She was not used to seeing her father weak. Her whole take on life had been on his sermons of strength and hate of weakness.

King Borias had never hidden his love for his Prince. When he lost a hand to war, Balder had taken his responsibilities so quickly to calm any talks of weakness in the House of Blackmane. Bryn would kill for that look he always bore when Balder was in his presence. But for now, she would feast on whatever bone was thrown her way.

"Father," she held his shoulders and embraced him.

"You look well," he muttered.

"So," Bryn hit the nail on its head, "what forces have we gathered to burn down the hold of the Nightsisters."

"Take on the Nightcult?" a young man said as he entered the court, "you must have chewed a lot of magic mushrooms."

"Durin," she acknowledged his presence.

The young man pulled down his cloak of bearskin and dropped it on a table. Bryn glanced at her father. He must have been really broken to turn to her betrothed, Durin, for guidance. She has never seen him as her equal and often pondered on the Kings decision to join them by marriage.

Bryn charged towards him, her green surcoat fiercely brightened in the beam of afternoon sunlight. "They killed my brother, your Prince, and you would rather sit in your halls drinking ale?"

She turned to the King. "I want to avenge him, father. As the Highprince of War, it is my right. I will lead men against the Nightsisters and wash away the darkness of their perverse ways."

"You will never make it twenty paces to their fortress," Durin crossed his arms, "these are not mere assassins. They are bonded to Vvenom the Dark Patron. Our way is that of the North, blood, sword, and glory above all else. A man who does not avenge his brother or friend is one doomed by Lothar, Patron of Destruction. But we need more than an army to go against the Nightcult."

King Borias strode across the throne room and went up the dais. He paused as he reached his famous chair, lingering by its side for a moment.

Finally, he sat down.

"The Nightsisters we would face when the time is right, but for now we must tend to those who stir them to purpose."

It felt good to hear her father's voice in its full confidence.

"Is there something I don't know?" Bryn shared her gaze between both men.

Durin leaned on a table. "The assassin left us with a parting gift, a crest of Elondale. Perhaps it was a mistake or it was intentional but we cannot ignore the evidence. It would seem the men of Dale had pressed the Nightsister towards killing our Prince."

Bryn moved furiously across the room and picked her warhammer on the rack where she had dropped it. "Henrik the Magnificent shakes your hand with one hand and drives a dagger at your back with the other. The Shade is dead, father. The peacekeeper lives no more. Our home is open to invaders. We must bring war to Elondale before they bring it to us."

"You speak of war, girl, as if you have ever been in one. You are not your brother. Save your strength for the kitchens, you will need it there when we are married."

There was silence for a moment after Durin had spoken. It was as if everyone present in the room had taken time to soak in his words. Bryn dashed towards him, suddenly. She jabbed the handle of her warhammer on his chest and he crashed into the tables.

"What madness?" Durin cried.

"Madness?" Bryn loomed over him. "I am my father's daughter, Highprince of Bjaarmaland, and King after him. Speak to me as such again and I will have you whipped naked in the streets."

"The laws might make you our Highprince, but you are not yet a swordmaiden. A girl cannot lead us in times of war. I will see to it that the Earls moot for a proper leader."

"Who then?" she snarled, "you?"

"Perhaps it is time for new blood," Durin stood to his feet. "With Balder dead, the House of Blackmane is done. No Earl wants a woman for ruler."

"Enough!" the King's voice thundered. "Leave us," he glanced at Durin.

The young man picked up his bearskin cloak and moved towards the door. He paused as he reached the door, glancing back at Bryn with lips moving to unleash a smirk. Durin made his way down and disappeared.

"He is right?" Bryn heard her father's voice.

The aging man rose from his seat and stepped down the dais. He lifted his bad arm for Bryn to see. "I lost my runehand fighting for my people. I can wield the blood-sigil of my fathers no more, and a King who is not blood-bonded is a King who cannot rule. Durin's words were directed at me. He knows Balin is weak and unless you are a Swordmaiden, the Earls will never crown you their prince."

"Then I will perform the Rites, father," Bryn breathed hard, "I will take their trials, succeed, swear the oaths and take my rightful place as Highprince."

"The Earls will not make it easy on you. They would rather see you dead at the trials than mount the Highseat of Bjaarmaland. By law you are now my heir, but they have a way around it."

Bryn kissed her father's cheek. She picked her warhammer and set out for the Temple.

Wars made swordmaidens. Wars turned women to steel. Her mother, Swanhild the Fair, had led men to take castles during the wars against Eastern invaders. But wars can only hold when the world has no Shade to minister over Kingdoms. When there were no wars, there were trials; girls are set against the worst of the Nine Worlds.

Bryn found herself at the doors to the Temple of Destruction. A white towering statue depicting its Patron, Lothar the Fierce, stood at one end. Bryn stepped in the candlelit halls, eyes circling round its sculpted figures.

The laws of her kin demanded that the trials of a swordmaiden be given by the Highorder of a temple. It was a rite which began with the ritual of purity. The old blood is cleansed by success in a trial and replaced by the new blood of a heroine. Bryn was not afraid of dying, but it was fear of failure that sent a cold chill down her spine.

"My child," a voice sounded in the hall.

An old man crept out of the darkness surround the temple's altar. He picked a small lantern and the fire brightened her face.

"Hmmm, I know who you are," he cleared his throat. "An Earl or two might have mentioned of your coming to fulfill the trials of a swordmaiden."

He bent down and grasped Bryn's right hand, feeling her palms with his fingers. "Daughter of Destruction," he said as if bearing a sixth sense hidden from mortals, "do you know a blood-sigil can tell everything about a person?"

Bryn shook her head in a no, half confused.

The Priest stood up, his orange robes flowing with his movements.

"Your trials have been set in stone. You have a week to bring me the runehands of the Nightsister that murdered our Prince."

"What?" Bryn charged to her feet. "How am I to find an assassin who has vanished in the wind?"

"One week, Daughter of Borias, one week or forfeit your inheritance as Highprince of Bjaarmaland."

�[�m)~