Offering The Olive Branch

The chill autumn breeze blew the dead brown leaves in swirls across the path as Luthar steered Stepper over the familiar ground. He’d not set foot in this place since he was eight years old, yet the route seemed as familiar as an old pair of boots. North of Whitestar there was little in the way of civilisation, save for the occasional farmstead or small hamlet. Luthar’s destination was the northernmost village which stood at the entrance to the Frozen Pass, an old trade route in the icy mountains long since abandoned to the snows. He could see the one whole tower of the ruined keep, once strong and mighty, now tumbled and broken, rising above the treeline as they edged closer.

‘Who knew it could get so cold just by going north?’ Lucas grumbled from behind. He’d wrapped himself in furs, and bought some fine gloves in Threftall, yet he still shivered like he was heading to the far north to meet the giants.

‘That’s the way of the world lad. North is cold, south is warm. You’re better off not pondering the hows and the whys, just accept it and deal with what you’ve got.’ Flint’s voice answered, cheery as ever. Luthar couldn’t fathom why he’d volunteered to follow him all this way on a personal journey, but he was glad he was here all the same.

They’d been travelling steadily uphill for days, now the incline increased rapidly as they got nearer to the start of the mountain pass. The trees were thinner here, the lush forests near Whitestar a distant memory compared to the withered, bare trunks that lined the road now. Luthar’s breath steamed in front of his face, yet cold sweat ran down his back as the familiar place of home came into view.

‘Let him do this on his own lad, he needs it.’ Flint had tried to keep his voice low, but it travelled in the still morning air.

The first buildings of his home village came into view, he remembered his father telling him that it once had a name, but it became lost in the passage of time. So few people passed this way that it seemed to survive without one. The large, sprawling house of Will was the first house Luthar recognised, the old farmer’s plot was once the envy of the village with its neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly cultivated fields. Now it was an overgrown ruin, weeds ran riot amongst the broken-down walls and dilapidated buildings. Poor old guy thought Luthar, he was easily in his sixties when he’d left, no wonder he’d gone to the after now.

He spied his parents’ house, set slightly back from the road with its wooden gate and neatly trimmed hedgerows. His father’s lean-to workshop still stood but looked a little worse for wear as weeds crept up the sides and the thatching could have used some extra care. He drew Stepper to a halt, his stomach churning at the thought of finally seeing his family again. He left his faithful horse tied to a fence post and strode through the creaky wooden gate, a spring entering his step as he thought of all he had done since he’d seen his family last.

His eldest brother, Joseyr, answered the door. Being five years older than Luthar he’d changed a lot from the thirteen-year-old boy he’d left behind. He was now a good six feet tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested. A fine sandy brown beard had also sprouted from his chin. He considered Luthar for a second before planting calloused, weather-beaten fists on his hips.

‘Decided to come back, have you?’ His manners hadn’t improved any.

‘It’s been a long time, I thought I should come and see you all. Maybe explain what happened when I left.’ Luthar tried to keep his voice level, emotions were running high, and this encounter hadn’t started the way he’d planned.

‘Us all? You mean just me and Berron then.’

‘What about mother and father?’ The panic began to seep into Luthar’s voice as he realised what Joseyr was getting at.

‘If you’d have been here, you would already know. But since you at least had the decency to come back, I’ll take you to them.’

Joseyr let the door slam behind him and walked straight at Luthar, forcing him to step aside, out of his path. He followed him across the village square, down the lane and into the small churchyard that nestled in the corner of the sorry looking wood. Between the rows of moss-covered headstones they went, names and dates carved to preserve the memory of friends and relatives long since gone. They came to a stop in front of a large, dark grey headstone still free of moss, but bearing the names of Luthar’s parents.

Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, Luthar turned to his brother. ‘How did it happen?’

‘The winter fever took them a couple of years past. Took my wife and son too in case you were wondering.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Luthar stood awkwardly, unsure what else to say. He thought of the loss of Ezekiel earlier in the year and how it had driven a wedge between Chadwick and him. Too many good people gone to the after, way before their time.

‘You should’ve been here Luthar. Mother cried for you every night after you left. Where were you? They needed you!’ Joseyr’s voice got higher and louder as he spoke, jabbing his finger towards Luthar.

‘I left to become a man of the Warrior’s Guild.’ Luthar took a deep breath in and forced his emotions down. This was going very badly.

‘You left us to be a mercenary? Luthar, there’s no glamour in killing, just hurt and suffering for those left behind. I think you should leave now; your priorities are all wrong.’

Joseyr didn’t wait for an answer, he simply turned away from Luthar and walked away as if he were nothing. His own flesh and blood didn’t want anything to do with him. Joseyr’s boots crunched on the brown leaves scattered across the path as he left, instinctively Luthar called out, not wanting to give up easily.

‘What about Berron?’

Joseyr stopped and turned around, head shaking sadly. ‘He’ll have less time for you than I do. If you’re really determined to make that much of a nuisance of yourself, you’ll find him propping up the bar. I warn you though, he didn’t take our parents passing half so well as I did.’ With that, Luthar watched his brothers back disappear round the corner without another word.

The inn was a ramshackle two storey building in the middle of the village where the farmers and other men congregated after their hard day was done. Luthar stepped into the gloomy common room, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted. It wasn’t busy this early in the day, just a few old men slumped at tables and a quiet game of cards being played in one corner. Luthar recognised Berron instantly, the same sandy brown beard stuck from his chin, except Berron’s was crusted with ale, spit and who knew what else. He had the same broad shoulders as Joseyr, only this time they were slumped against the bar in agonized defeat. A lazy hand raised a half empty mug of ale to his lips but more ended up in his beard than his mouth.

‘Berron?’

Berron let out a loud burp and frowned at Luthar, apparently struggling to see him correctly. As he leaned forward to get a better view, he slipped off his seat and flailed wildly at the bar, trying to keep himself from the floor. He failed miserably and with a clatter he followed the wooden stool onto the boards.

‘I think it’s time you went home Berron, you’ve had enough already today.’ The barkeep was less than amused. He planted his meaty fists on the top of the bar and leaned over to peer at Berron’s pathetic form. ‘Besides, you owe me two shillings already. No more for you until you square up your tab, do you hear?’

Berron evidently did hear the barkeep, he snorted and rolled over to his front, getting up like a babe first learning to walk. Helped by another stool and the surface of the bar he stood up unsteadily, turning to look at the man demanding his money.

‘I’m good for it, you know I am.’ Berron slurred his words so badly they were barely discernible. All around the room men shifted in their seats to get a better look at the cause of the commotion. Luthar felt his cheeks burn as he realised what he was caught up in. A man of the guild didn’t look good when he was involved in a drunken squabble.

‘Not good enough Berron. You can pay me now or you can get out!’ The barkeep now had a wooden club in his hand, slapping it into the palm of the other. Eyes narrowed and breath heavy, Luthar realised he was willing to use it.

Thinking fast, Luthar stepped between the two of them, hoping it would avert any further escalation. He retrieved two silver shillings from the coin purse at his belt and slid them across the bar.

‘Please take these for my brother’s tab. I’m sorry for the commotion, I’ll try and get him home.’

The barkeep scooped them up quickly, like a hungry snake snapping at its prey. He bit each one, he only spoke when he was satisfied they were both real. ‘Much obliged to you sir.’

‘Come on Berron, let’s get you home.’ Luthar made to help his brother leave but was angrily swatted away.

‘I don’t need your help, I can manage.’

Luthar watched Berron stumble to the door, zig zagging along as he bounced off tables and a wooden pillar. As soon as he’d reached the exit, he fell face first into the ground outside. A few chuckles rose from the gathered patrons inside as he struggled yet again to get onto his feet. Luthar sighed as his patience began to wear thin.

‘Come on Berron, get up. You look a fool down there.’

‘You mean a fool who stuck with his family? A fool who held his mother’s hand while she died? The same fool who buried his father? Where were you Luthar? Where the hell were you?’

That stung. Luthar could feel the tears stinging the backs of his eyes as he looked down at his brother’s angry, drunk face. Spit dribbled down into his beard as he snarled the words out like some ferocious animal. Completely at a loss, Luthar turned and walked away, just like Joseyr had walked away from him.

‘Don’t you turn your back on me you little weasel!’

Luthar spun around just in time to see a drunken punch graze his shoulder lightly before Berron collapsed into a heap for a third time that afternoon. Luthar stared down at him, this really wasn’t how he intended for today to pan out.

‘Berron, I’ve tried to make things right with both you and Joseyr.’

‘Don’t speak to me of that fool! Thinks he’s better than the rest of us because all he thinks of is father’s business. Cares naught for anyone else.’

‘And apparently you only care about the bottom of an ale mug. You’re both as bad as each other, don’t know why I bothered.’ Luthar could take their problems no more. Joseyr cared nothing for anyone except his business, Berron was a fool and a drunk. Why was he wasting his time with these selfish brothers of his? He had a perfectly good family back at the guild. ‘Sort yourself out Berron, you’re an embarrassment.’

Luthar retrieved Stepper and stormed away from the village and back down the dirt track to where the others had stopped. Flint was busy sparring with both lads at once, optimistic smile firmly plastered about his face.

‘So, how did it go?’ He asked casually over his shoulder as he forced Lucas back with quick blows.

‘Badly.’ Replied Luthar, eager to be away from the place.

‘No chance of turning it around?’

‘A bit less than zero.’

‘Shame, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. Where’s next for you?’

‘Lorez, with all haste I can muster.’

‘Lorez? Why?’

‘There’s a tournament there soon, and I badly need to hit someone.’

Flint’s face split into the almightiest grin Luthar had ever seen. ‘Get your bags packed as quick as you can lads, we’re off to watch Luthar Shoresmith fight!’