Revjak knew that it would come to this, had guessed it as soon as he had realized that Berkthgar did not mean to split off from the Tribe of the Elk to recreate one of the other tribes. So now Revjak stood facing the brutish barbarian within a ring of all their people. Everyone in the tribe knew what was to come, but it had to be done properly, by the rules of ancient traditions.
Berkthgar waited for the gathering to quiet. He could be patient because he knew that the whispers were leaning in his favor, that the arguments for his ascension were gaining momentum. Finally, after what seemed to Revjak to be many minutes, the crowd went silent.
Berkthgar lifted his arms high to the sky, his hands reaching wide. Behind him, strapped diagonally across his back, loomed Bankenfuere, his huge flamberge. “I claim the Right of Challenge,” the huge barbarian declared.
A chorus of cheers rose up, not a strong as Berkthgar would have liked, but showing that he had quite a bit of support.
“By what birthright do you make such a claim?” Revjak responded properly.
“Not by blood,” Berkthgar promptly answered, “but by deed!” Again came the cheers from the younger man’s supporters.
Revjak shook his head. “There is no reason, if blood does not demand a challenge,” he protested, and his supporters, though not as vocal as Berkthgar’s, gave their own burst of cheering. “I have led in peace and in strength,” Revjak finished firmly, a claim that was all too true.
“As have I!” Berkthgar was quick to interrupt. “In Settlestone, so far from our home. I have brought our people through war and peace, and have led the march all the way back to Icewind Dale, our home!”
“Where Revjak is King of the Tribe of the Elk,” the older man put in without hesitation.
“By what birthright?” Berkthgar demanded.
Revjak had a problem here, and he knew it.
“What birthright does Revjak, son of Jorn the Red, who was not a king, claim?” Berkthgar asked slyly.
Revjak had no answer.
“The position was given to you,” Berkthgar went on, telling a tale that was nothing new to his people, but from a slightly different perspective than they normally heard. “It was handed to you, through no challenge and no right, by Wulfgar, son of Beornegar.”
Kierstaad watched it all from the sidelines. At that moment, the young man came to understand the real reason why Berkthgar had launched a campaign to discredit Wulfgar. If the legend of Wulfgar still loomed larger than life to the barbarians, then his father’s claim as king would be strong indeed. But with Wulfgar somewhat discredited ...
“Who rightly claimed the kingship from Heafstaag, who was by birthright, rightly king,” Revjak reasoned. “How many here,” he asked the general gathering, “remember the battle wherein Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, became our king?”
Many heads bobbed, mostly of the older folk who had remained in Icewind Dale through all the years.
“I, too, remember the battle.” Berkthgar growled defiantly. “And I do not doubt Wulfgar’s claim, nor all the good he did for my people. But you have no claim of blood, no more than my own, and I would lead, Revjak. I demand the Right of Challenge!”
The cheers were louder than ever.
Revjak looked to his son and smiled. He could not avoid Berkthgar’s claim, no more than he could possibly defeat the huge man in combat. He turned back to Berkthgar. “Granted,” he said, and the cheers were deafening then, from both Berkthgar’s supporters and Revjak’s.
“In five hours, before the sun runs low along the horizon,” Berkthgar began.
“Now,” Revjak said unexpectedly.
Berkthgar eyed the man, trying to discern what trick he might be pulling. Normally a Right of Challenge would be answered later in the day on which it was made, after both combatants had the time to prepare themselves mentally and physically for the combat.
Berkthgar narrowed his blue eyes and all the crowd hushed in anticipation. A smile widened on the huge man’s face. He didn’t fear Revjak, not now, not ever. Slowly, the huge man’s hand went up over his shoulder, grasping the hilt of Bankenfuere, drawing the massive blade up from its scabbard. That sheath had been cut along its top edge so that Berkthgar could draw the weapon quickly. He did so, hoisting the heavy blade high into the sky.
Revjak took up his own weapon, but, to his observant and worried son, he did not seem ready for combat.
Berkthgar approached cautiously, feeling the balance of Bankenfuere with every step.
Then Revjak held up his hand and Berkthgar stopped, waiting.
“Who among us hopes for Revjak to win?” he asked, and a loud cheer of many voices went up.
Thinking the question to be no more than a ruse to lower his confidence, Berkthgar issued a low growl. “And who would see Berkthgar, Berkthgar the Bold, as King of the Tribe of the Elk?”
The cheer was louder still, obviously so.
Revjak moved right up to his opponent, unthreateningly, one hand up and his axe’s head low to the ground. “The challenge is answered,” he said, and he dropped his weapon to the ground.
All eyes widened in disbelief, Kierstaad’s perhaps widest of all. This was dishonor! This was cowardice among the barbarians!
“I cannot defeat you, Berkthgar,” Revjak explained, speaking loudly so that all would hear. “Nor can you defeat me.”
Berkthgar scowled mightily. “I could cut you in half!” he declared, taking up his sword in both hands so powerfully that Revjak half expected him to do so right then and there.
“And our people would suffer the consequences of your actions,” Revjak said quietly. “Whoever might win the challenge would be faced with two tribes, not one, split apart by anger and wanting revenge.” He looked to the general gathering again, speaking to all his people. “We are not strong enough yet to support that,” he said. “Whether we are to strengthen the friendship with Ten-Towns and the dwarves who have returned, or whether we are to return to our ways of old, we must do so together, as one!”
Berkthgar’s scowl did not relent. Now he understood. Revjak could not defeat him in combat-they both knew that-so the wily older man had usurped the very power of the challenge. Berkthgar truly wanted to cut him in half, but how could he take any actions against the man?
“As one,” Revjak repeated, and he held out his hand, bidding his opponent to clasp his wrist.
Berkthgar was wild with rage. He hooked his foot under Revjak’s dropped axe and sent it spinning across the circle. “Yours is the way of the coward!” he roared. “You have proven that this day!” Up went Berkthgar’s huge arms, up and out wide as if in victory.
“I have no claim of blood!” Revjak yelled, commanding attention. “Nor do you! The people must decide who will rule and who will step aside.”
“The challenge is of combat!” Berkthgar retorted.
“Not this time!” Revjak shot back. “Not when all the tribe must suffer your foolish pride.” Berkthgar moved again as if to strike, but Revjak ignored him and turned to the gathering. “Decide!” he commanded.
“Revjak!” yelled one man, but his voice was buried by a band of young warriors who cried out for Berkthgar. They, in turn, were outdone by a large group calling for Revjak. And so it went, back and forth, mounting cries. Several fights broke out, weapons were drawn.
Through it all, Berkthgar glowered at Revjak, and when the older man matched that intense stare, Berkthgar merely shook his head in disbelief. How could Revjak have done such dishonor to their people?
But Revjak held faith in his choice. He was not afraid to die, never that, but he truly believed that a fight between himself and Berkthgar would split the tribe and bring hardship to both groups. This was the better way, as long as things didn’t get out of hand.
And they seemed to be heading in just that direction. Both sides continued to yell out, but now each cry was accompanied by a lifting of sword and axe, open threats.
Revjak watched the crowd carefully, measuring the support for him and for Berkthgar. Soon enough he understood and admitted the truth.
“Stop!” he commanded at the top of his voice, and gradually, the shouting match did diminish.
“With all your strength, who calls out for Berkthgar?” Revjak asked.
A great roar ensued.
“And who for Revjak?”
“Revjak who would not fight!” Berkthgar quickly added, and the cheers for the son of Jorn were not as loud, or as enthusiastic.
“Then it is settled,” Revjak said, more to Berkthgar than to the crowd. “And Berkthgar is King of the Tribe of the Elk.”
Berkthgar could hardly believe what had just transpired. He wanted to strike down the wily older man. This was to be his day of glory, a victory of mortal combat, as had been the way since the dawn of the tribes. But how could he do that? How could he slay an unarmed man, one who had just proclaimed him as the leader of all his people?
“Be wise, Berkthgar,” Revjak said quietly, moving close, for the buzz of the astonished gathering was loud indeed. “Together we will discover the true way for our people, what is best for our future.”
Berkthgar shoved him aside. “I will decide,” he corrected loudly. “I need no advice from a coward!”
He walked out of the circle then, his closest supporters falling in line behind him.
Stung by the rejection of his offer, but not really surprised, Revjak took comfort in the fact that he had tried his best to do what was right for his people. That counted little, though, when the man looked upon his son, who had just completed the rights of passage into manhood.
Kierstaad’s expression was one of disbelief, even of shame.
Revjak lifted his head high and walked over to the young man. “Understand,” he commanded. “This is the only way.”
Kierstaad walked away. Logic might have shown him the truth of his father’s bravery this day, but logic played a very minor role in the young man’s consciousness. Kierstaad felt ashamed, truly ashamed, and he wanted nothing more than to run away, out onto the open tundra, to live or to die.
It hardly seemed to matter.
* * * * *
Stumpet sat on the very highest peak of Kelvin’s Cairn, which seemed an easy climb to her. Her waking thoughts, like most of her dreams, were now squarely focused on the south, on the towering peaks of the Spine of the World. Fleeting images of glory and of victory raced through the dwarf’s mind. She pictured herself standing atop the tallest mountain, surveying all the world.
The impracticality of the image, the sheer irrationality of it, did not make its way into Stumpet Rakingclaw’s conscious thoughts. The constant barrage of images, the stream of delusion, began to erode the normally-pragmatic dwarf’s rational sensibilities. For Stumpet, logic was fast losing to desires, desires that were not truly her own.
“I’m on me way, towering peaks,” the dwarf said suddenly, addressing those distant mountains. “And not a one o’ ye’s big enough to keep me down!”
There, she had said it aloud, had proclaimed her course. She immediately began gathering together her things, then swung herself over the edge of the peak and began her scramble to the mountain’s base.
In her haversack, Crenshinibon verily purred with elation. The powerful artifact still had no designs on making Stumpet Rakingclaw its wielder. The sentient crystal shard knew the stubbornness of this one, despite the delusions it had gradually enacted over the dwarf. Even worse, Crenshinibon understood Stumpet’s place in her society, as a priestess of Moradin, the Soul Forger. Thus far, the artifact had managed to generally sidetrack any of Stumpet’s attempts at communing with her god, but sooner or later, the dwarf would seek that higher level, and would likely learn the truth of the “warming stick” that she kept in her pack.
So Crenshinibon would use her to get away from the dwarves, to escape to the wilds of the Spine of the World, where it might find a troll or a giant, or perhaps even a dragon to serve as its wielder.
Yes, a dragon, Crenshinibon hoped. The artifact would like to work in collusion with a dragon!
Oblivious to such wishes, even to the fact that her “warming stick” could wish at all, poor Stumpet cared only about conquering the mountain range. And even she wasn’t sure of why she cared.
*****
On the very first night of his rule, Berkthgar began to reveal the precepts that the barbarians of Icewind Dale would follow, a way of life such as they had lived until only a decade hence, before Wulfgar had defeated Heafstaag.
All contact with the folk of Ten-Towns was ordered to stop, and, on pain of death, no barbarian was to speak with Bruenor Battlehammer or any of the bearded folk.
“And if one of the bearded folk is found in need on the open tundra,” Berkthgar said, and it seemed to Kierstaad that the man was looking directly at him as he spoke, “leave him to die!”
Later that night, Kierstaad sat alone under the wide canopy of stars, a tortured soul. Now he understood what his father had tried to do that afternoon. Revjak could not defeat Berkthgar, everyone knew that, and so the older man had tried to work out a compromise, one that would benefit all the barbarians. In his mind, Kierstaad realized that Revjak’s abdication when the majority favored Berkthgar was a wise, even courageous thing to do, but in his heart and in his gut, the young man still felt the shame of his father’s unwillingness to fight.
Better if Revjak had taken up his axe and died at Berkthgar’s hands, Kierstaad believed, or at least a part of him believed. That was the way of their people, the ancient and sacred way. What might Tempus, the god of the barbarians, the god of battle, think of Revjak this day? What place in the afterworld might a man such as Revjak, who refused honest and rightful combat, find?
Kierstaad put his head in his hands. Not only was his father dishonored, but so were he and his family.
Perhaps he should proclaim allegiance to Berkthgar and reject his father. Berkthgar, who had been with Kierstaad all the years in Settlestone, who had been beside Kierstaad when the young man had made his first hunting kill on the open tundra, would welcome such support. He would see it, no doubt, as a solidification of his position as leader.
No. He could not abandon his father, however angry he might be. He would take up his weapon against Berkthgar if need be, and kill the man or die in order to restore his family’s honor. He would not desert his father.
That option also seemed ridiculous to the young man, and he sat alone, overwhelmed, under the vastness of Icewind Dale’s canopy, a tortured soul.