Brina the Victorious

We read often

as the scholars best know how to write

of old songs by our forlorn ancestors

from the lost epoch.

Some of war, some of grief,

some of mirth and glee

some of adventure and deceit

and some of jokes and ribaldry

and many of enchantment.

In the far north this song was written

In a time of kings and roving barbarians

composed among frozen mountains

discovered in frost bitten ruins.

Of all these old songs I can tell maybe some

but not all.

But Listen, true lords and noble ladies!

I will tell you of “Hemford and Brina the Victorious”.

Hemford was known from the deserts of ebony to the coasts of Ivory

An adventurer ordained with a wealth of treasures, knowledge, and wisdom.

From a miner’s camp he started, but only in wandering, never in work, did he find his greatest pleasures. Great deeds spreads by mouth gossip of slayn giants, drowned sea monsters, and fallen castles to the south. Taken by his hand alone.

In the far countries deep inland, they whispered of famined villages' soil revitalized

by his invention. Of crumbling bridges reconstructed, of clean water filtered from brackish, soiled water.

But few know of his later years when he grew disenchanted of questing for idle things like riches or reputation, and became enamoured with a deep yearning to share his wealth and experiences among great mountains and open skies, maps of lost cities, tombs of ancestors, this is what compelled him to take a journey to the cold land. Up a northern path he treaded. His greatest days long  passed.

His flesh sagged from the bone. Brittle hairs hid his scars. He moved slower. The slope lifted over tree tops. The hawks watched the old adventurer. But he stood up straight in his chainmail. An axe on his hip. He entered a hamlet along the road as the sun dropped among four shacks in the middle of feeble fields of frosted dirt and runt crops budding with a single leaf. The peasants returned home from the fields in a group, and as they passed they recognized Hemford by his attire and fabled weapon. The fur cape and the Shield-Splitter. They flocked around him, some begging, some holding their children for a blessing, some asked for stories of the outside world.

some offered him gifts- money, daughters, livestock, all of which he rejected without casting a noticing glance. Apart from a cloak provided to him by a small child to cover his bald head from the falling snow.

Hemford denied his fame, claiming that travelers and songsingers over time exaggerated his greatest glories- but that he would tell the true stories to anyone that might accommodate him for a night and he only wanted to stay with whoever was the hardest worker in the village.

Many lived collected under four sod longhouses. A scant minority lived in shackles around the outskirts of the village. The town appeared leaderless, without a smith, without a healer, without a jarl or landlord.

Brina, son of Arnhoir the Honest, boasted to the embarrassment of his father, that it was he that  works from before the sun rises to well past its descent. Arnhoir grabbed the boy, his face red and ashamed. Arnhoir the Honest, the smallest property of the village- a mere shack with frigid dirt flooring, goats as housemates, a humble fire pit, with hay for the small clan to sleep on in the corner. He farmed a weak plot. Yet he and his sole son worked hard to cultivate the land. Hemford read the hardship in their color drained faces, the worn and tired eyes, the deep wrinkles and hardened flesh, and recognized the misery from his own time in and among poverty.

Hemford pointed his battle toughened finger at Arnhoir and asked him the name of his clan. Arnhoir admitted that his clan had no name. His wife died of madness, two first sons died of plague. Arnhoir pulled his only son to his side to declare that the boy was the only thing he had, and thus was not worthy to host such a legendary idol.

But Hemford already made his decision, and he declared thus:  “Anyone who labors  hard is a hero to me”.  Arnhoir's son smiled as a great joy ignited in his heart.

Hemford entered their shamble of a shack. He ate there, and retold stories of his adventures, companions, enemies until the wolves howled at the emerging moon. Hemford showed them the scars on his body, the knicks taken out from his armour, and where he found the weapons he decorated his belt with. Never once did Hemford purchase any of these- he either made them himself or recovered them from the tomb of a long dead tyrant. Brina's eyes lit up like lighting following a passing storm. The boy stood again proud and as tall as he could make himself, and implored Hemford to adopt him as a colleague, perhaps a squire- anything that Hemford needed, Brina claimed to possess the ability to do. Polish armor, sharpened weapons, saddle horses, tell jokes, sing songs- but Arnhoir recoiled in horror. He ordered his son to be quiet, and turned to Hemford, petrified to see the old adventurer with an expression of deep consideration. Arnhoir explained to Hemford: “If you had any children you would understand. He can't leave. He doesn't know what's out there. Doesn't know of the dangers. He doesn't even have a sword, or armour! And I'm too poor to provide him with any equipment.”

Hemford slapped his knee. “Then I shall! There is no expense too great for me. Your son is at the age when I first set out to find fortune. I'd hate to be the one who might refuse such a chance to experience the miracles of our world.”

“Where are you off too?” asked Arnhoir.

“To find the ruins of AzkurKoatza, sire.”

“Nay! I will never submit my only son to such an errand. No one knows if that

city even exists.”

“I found this map on the body of a crusader floating down the river. If the map is accurate, then it shows the way to the ruins.”

He showed Arnhoir the map. He studied it, but handed it back admitting to Hemford that he was not literate. Hemford pointed to the scribbles, showing him the village they currently rested in, and then showing him the path northwards just under the cliffs of the frozen coast. Some forty miles away.

“What if your wrong, and it isn't there?”

“A warlock in the desert wrote a book about the lost cities, and in this book he tells that the city is lost under the glaciers of the frozen coast. Something is there, and I'm going to find it.”

“I've never been apart from my son, sir. I don't know if I can go without him for long.”

“If that's your decision, sire.” Hemford said, but felt crushed as the Brina's lightning eyes sunk, and he slumped defeated.

Hemford went off the next morning, waking up just as light appeared over the horizon. He noticed Brina absent from the shack, but he took his leave believing the boy to be working as he claimed to. However as he crossed from the town and crossed over the fence of mountains, the young Brina intercepted him. Hemford asked him to explain how he caught up so fast, and Brina explained that he never went to sleep, and left once his father and Hemford dozed off he took his leave, knowing from the map which way Hemford would travel.

Hemford shook his head, though deeply impressed with the boy's determination, expressed his wish that Brina mind his father, as the farmer was right. Dangers are abound in this world. But Brina refused to listen. He began to emotionally plead with Hemford, asking him to take him from the back breaking work that never amounts to a thing, from the small hamlet of daily routine that he could only escape through imaginary treks. For years, he claimed, he wanted to see the frozen coasts, for years, he longed for his chance to depart from the hamlet and never return.

Hemford took the boy by the collar, looked at him with conviction, and told the Brina: “We stop at the city on our way, and get you a weapon and something to protect yourself. We go to the frozen coasts, and I take you back. What your father does to you or me is up to him.”

Brina lost his dreary demeanor and danced like a merrymaker, and joked like a jester the whole week and a half it took them to reach the city gates. There, Hemford purchased for the Brina a bow and arrows so he could hunt for himself, a fishing pole to catch fish, a net to catch bugs if he became desperate for food. He took Brina to an armorer, and paid the man to make for Brina a cuirass of leather since iron he feared would be too heavy. He purchased also a barbuda helmet, the only pre made one small enough to fit the boy’s head. He then bought a saber for the boy to use. Hemford spent the rest of the journey sharing everything he know about the art of sword fighting, surviving in the wilderness, and ways to avoid death in general.

When they arrived to the frozen coasts, Brina was so amazed by the magnitude of the glaciers that Hemford worried that the boy stopped listening to his lesson. Hemford lead the way down the cliff, lowering himself down by rope, and Brina following just behind him. Once on the rocky shore, Brina looked determined and focused. He practiced all that Hemford taught him along their search. He dug out fish trapped in ice, he shot a big crab, and they ate its meat for days. Brina and Hemford dueled to keep their skills sharpened, and to Hemford's suspense Brina  kept up with him and even countered his strikes. They found each other laughing as they dueled, losing idle time as their practice became enjoyment.

After two weeks, Hemford showed Brina on the map where they were, and pointed to the cave before them. “That's it. It's what the warlock writes about. Looks just as he describes, and smells the same too. Be prepared, and stay close to me.”

The two went inside, Hemford leading and Brina behind. Glowing ice cycles illuminated the frost bitten walls. Vines of ivy hung from the ceiling. Rats squeaked, and water dripped into frigid puddle, freezing once it met contact. The deeper in they went, the darker the cave became. The glowing ice worked only where it met sunlight to absorb. Hemford lit a lantern and held it out. The oil smelled like whale and cast moving shadows onto the walls. Brina felt himself growing nervous and more nervous as the path tilted downwards into a stream of moist,warm air.

“Something is down here.” Hemford slid down and pulled Brina with him. They tumbled over rocks and frightened away the rodents with their clanking of equipment. Other sounds emerged from deeper in the cave. Ferral sighs and groans. Hemford pulled Brina up, and told him to be ready for anything. The lantern shattered, and the oil burned, revealing the rest of the way impassible due to a collapse. Hemford pushed against the blockage, removed loose stones, but he found that the blockage went on for miles and sealed the passage shut. The feral groans arose once more. Hemford came away from the earth rubble and told Brina to remain by the fire. Something came for them. A dozen groans darted along the walls, snarls and smacking of flesh as tiny eyes emerged in the fire light, holding small but sharp razors cut from unmeltable ice. The creatures pounced, and the two fought them back as they retreated back up the incline. Halfway up, Hemford looked around. Blood on his weapon, and dead feral creatures littering his path, but Brina was gone. Hemford hurried back down, slashing and hacking at the creatures . Brina's sword lay against a rock on the incline. His helmet down further way, and the rest of his supplies scattered down. At last he found Brina laying in the dirt, face down, arms and legs twisted, the creatures prodding his body with their spears. Hemford released a rage he thought only possible for a younger man, and cut the rest of the creatures into ribbons, chopping the little devils apart even after death before going to Brina with a heavy dread filling his heart.

He rolled Brina over, and saw the boy died when one of the creatures nicked his thigh. Brina probably didn't even feel it,or was too proud to say anything, and when he lost too much blood he tumbled down the incline. Hemford scooped the boy up, and carried him out of the cave.

Hemford lived for two more decades. In that time he refused to return to the far north, his memories and shame too great. However when an old companion from the northern city called on him, Hemford was compelled to head northwards once more. He took the same path as before over the mountains, but didn't stand up straight like a legendary adventurer- more as the old man he felt he had become. He pulled a hood over his head as he crossed through the hamlet. He hoped none would notice him, so he moved at night, silently, hiding his armour and weapons beneath a cloak. Unfortunately he forgot where he acquired the cloak, and one of the villagers recognized the gift they bestowed to the hero, and they cried to the rest of the hamlet- only fifteen people lived there then, and they all just as before assembled to once again meet the famous adventurer. They didn't ask him this time about his own journeys or stories, but about Brina- what became of Brina? And Hemford began to fill with tears, much to the grave concern of the villagers. Among the crowd stood Arnhoir the Honest. Hemford hung still, wordless, motionless, Hemford he dropped his head, swallowed, and turned to the hamlet. He told them about Brina- how the boy caught him as he travelled, about his resourcefulness in nature, and how the boy kept Hemford alive after the rope broke as they descended the cliffs. He told them that Brina nursed him, aided his healing, and searched for the cave as well as brought food to nourish Hemford until at last the boy came back to camp with the news of his discovery. Limping, and on crutches, they went into the cave, deep inside, only to be ambushed by monsters in the dark. The villages held their breaths. Arnhoir looked like a statue about to tip over. But Hemford told them if Brian hadn't been there with him, that he would have died in that cave or on the rocky beach, and that he was honored to have such a companion. The villages came closer. They wanted to hear more about their great hero, and so he told them all about the adventures and treasures recovered by the stalwart farmboy. How Brina slew more brutal monsters than he ever had, and braved far worse challenges than Hemford dreamed of accepting. Hemford looked above the villagers at the aurora burning in the night sky, and suggested that he believed Brina to be a king by now. These stories captivated the villager's imaginations for years to come, and as the generations developed, these stories became embellished- Brina the Victorious became a word greater than the entire life of the meager hamlet. Long after the village became a ghost's wail in the wind, the stories remained.

Hemford left the next morning, awaking from an old woman's chicken coup and moving on, but along the way out he saw Arnhoir the Honest toiling. Lifting a worn out hoe with a labored grunt over his back and wedging it in the cold, barren soil. He stopped to rest, looking tired, but with a light in his eyes. “I'm glad my son is out there doing great things, sir.” he said to Hemford. “But if you run into him, just tell him that his father wishes he would come visit. Just one time."