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Brand shifted in his saddle, the better to see Sythric as he spoke. He wondered at first why the old warrior was speaking to him of this. The serious tone of Sythric’s words, and the underlying gentleness in which he sought to cloak them reminded him of his own grandfather; his father’s father.
His grandfather - imparting the lessons life had taught him to his son’s son. Brand smiled for a brief moment recalling a number of times the old man had taken an event in Brand’s life and shown it through his eyes and his experience.
But Sythric’s words this day were not the words his grandfather would have spoken. Of that, Brand was quite sure.
There would have been no counsel on the taking of a man’s life . . . because the Easterling was not a man.
He was not family, not from Wulfham, not of Rohan, and not an ally of the Men of the Riddermark. Those, in themselves, put him under great suspicion; but, the fact that he was a threat to Brand’s family, village, and King made him less than a man in Brand’s eyes. So he had learned from his father and his grandfather, and so he believed.
Brand shifted again, his shoulder was beginning to hurt from the jouncing of the horse as they went along. And uncomfortable, too, because he did not wish to contradict the older man.
‘I appreciate your good words, Master Sythric,’ he began as the man finished speaking. ‘And yes, I have grave thoughts I carry with me. But I must tell you they are worries about how we are to accomplish this task our villages have set for us without losing any more of our companions; and preferably without increasing our injuries as well.’ He looked Sythric full on, his eyes narrowing as he thought how to proceed.
‘The death of the Easterling does not give me concern, Master Sythric. He was no man that I should upset myself with his death. He was worse than a beast, really, as I think on him. Beasts at least attack for natural reasons . . . they hunger, they wish to protect their young, they wish to keep their little domain safe from intruders. I do not mourn him in the least. He was a foeman and would bring down my family, my village, and my King.’
Brand nodded his head a little as he spoke these last words. ‘I know most likely he thought the same as I . . . that is, that had he succeeded in killing me there would be no remorse on his part . . .’
He looked away, his eyes unfocused in the distance. ‘Thank the one who writes our fates that I got the better of him. That the balance tipped in my . . . in our favor, that day . . .’
Sythric’s movements on his saddle as he tried to correct his balance, the seeming look of pain that crossed the old man’s face, made Brand pause in what he was saying. He drew up near to Sythric and reached out to steady him, halting both their horses as he did so.
‘Leod! Meghan!’ he called aloud, becoming alarmed at Sythric’s condition. ‘Come lend a hand and quickly. I fear he might fall!’
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