Deathsworn Vol. II

15 - Only a Name

The Ooamanee burned their dead upon pyres in the heart of the village. Their farewells were imparted to the pounding of drums and the rattling of bone necklaces, the living consumed by mesmeric dancing as the fallen were devoured by flames.

Utchaka's pyre was twice the size of the next largest. His three wives wept at its base, scattering into the blaze exotic flowers and spices that stung the nose. Even so, their offerings did little to mask the choking fumes that left Bard with an urge to retch. Would that he could have retreated to the quiet remoteness of the cage, but the Chowonee had commandeered it, and any who went close were like to fall prey to smoke of an entirely different sort.

Instead he held his own rite at the furthest reaches of the village, electing not to join the other Gallowmen as they drowned in wine those demons as had survived the fighting. Bard preferred the company of his prayers alone. He uttered them to the wind, whispering benedictions for the men who had sacrificed themselves in defence of Ooama, but also for the men who had died trying to take her.

He considered himself about done when he marked the presence of someone beside him. The newcomer had approached quietly, nervously almost, barely disturbing the foliage.

"I would have thought you'd be celebrating," Bard said.

"Ain't got no one to celebrate with," Weasel answered. "Tall Toyne's on his throne, Bodkin wants to be alone, and Taaj said my nattering hurts his head."

"You can celebrate with whomever you please. You're a hero now, Bemeji."

"I ain't no hero. And I wish they'd stop calling me that. I didn't even know he was the shar, I just saw his back turned and took the chance."

"Best not tell them that, aye. The way I hear it, you defeated a bloody tyrant in single combat, armed only with a knife."

"Yeah, but I didn't. Just cause they call me a hero don't mean I am truly."

"You are what people think you are, Weasel. Never forget that."

The drums assumed authority of the silence for a time. Eventually, Weasel said softly, "I'm sorry, Bard."

Bard turned to face the boy. Weasel's eyes were on the floor in front of him, his thumbs twiddling bashfully. "... For running away, before. I know I was a coward, and I know you told me to stay, and I won't ever do it again."

"You won't?"

"I swear on the Elders, Bard, all three."

"There are four Elders, Weasel."

"Right ... I swear on all four. I'll do anything to prove it, Bard. Anything except eat more of those mushrooms."

"My Lady of Lavendar was unsatisfied?"

Weasel looked up at him for the first time, his eyes innocent and the lines of his face drawn in confusion. "It was strange, Bard, real strange. There were arrows, loads of them, and they kept going right through my neck. Every time I tried to stop them, another would come, and I felt wet in my throat, like I was drowning on blood. I swear, it was as real as me talking to you now." He fell quiet for a time. "You don't think it means anything, do you, Bard?"

Bard placed his hand on Weasel's shoulder. "No, Weasel. I'm sure visions don't mean anything." And neither do dreams.

"I am sorry, Bard," Weasel repeated.

Bard sighed. "No, Weasel, I'm sorry. You're a boy, not a warrior. When I was your age, I was fighting my brother with wooden sticks to win kisses from Aeila, the miller's daughter. We shouldn't be depending on you. Elders, we can't depend on you."