Chapter 16: The Keturah Prince

Berin encounters a member of the Bacana tribe for the first time since the war commenced. Will his anger cause him to kill another?

The Keturah Prince

Berin was eating his meager midday meal with Grasio and the other workers one vero, near the end of their ‘incarceration’ as Grasio called it. It was one of the few times they were able to see Glavino, who was isolated in the kitchen and made to work strange hours. He even slept separately from the men of the factory floor. So when Glavino was sent out of the kitchen to present the food to the workers, Berin and Grasio were relieved to see their companion.

“Are you well, Glavino?” asked Berin.

“I am. How is the ankle?”

“It is perfect.”

“Not true!’ cried Grasio. ‘I heard him complaining about it last night.”

“It does hurt at night, after a hard vero of work.”

“Work! Berin does not work at all.” Grasio punched him on the arm.

Berin laughed.

“Seriously, Glavino, are you fine?”

“Stop asking like a woman if I am fine! Do not worry about me. I do not sleep well, but I get leftovers!” He patted his belly, slightly larger than it was when they first entered Skarbor.

“Any news from the floor of the war?”

“Glavino is a rhymer! None since the last time we spoke. How about from the kitchen?”

“The Bacana have indeed taken over the Midran Passage.”

“No!”

“Quick, tell us, before we have to return to work.”

Glavino stopped pretending to dish food to the workers. He glanced upwards. The other two followed his eyes. They noticed a man walking up the staircase to the owner’s office.

“That man does not have the look of the Kraik.”

“You are correct. He looks like a northerner.”

“Could he be one of us?” gasped Glavino, too loudly. His superior summoned him back to the kitchen.

Surely not another northerner was here, in Skarbor, of all places. It was the opposite side of the world. No one from our lands came here.

“One of your kindred?” leaned Yernikov from another table.

“He looks like a northerner. I cannot tell. Perhaps it is a Vergaran refugee like me, seeking shelter from the war.”

“Shall I take a closer look?”

“Dare you?”

“I shall.”

Yernikov crept to the edge of the staircase. He glanced around, noticing most eyes were on the door of the office. Any new man entering the compound was bound to draw attention. Yernikov quickly bounded up the stairs, making far too much noise than he desired. The door swung open and nearly collided with his crouched head.

“Yernikov!” yelled Rednikov.

“Sorry, boss, I was coming to see who the new man was.”

“Telling the truth, for once?”

“Yes.”

“Well, be gone, you scoundrel.”

“Yes, yes of course, cousin, I mean, boss.”

Cousin?

The door slammed and Yernikov walked down the stairs.

Cries of laughter came out from the men as they madly stuffed their face with what was left on their plates before being summoned back to work.

“Sorry, Berin,” said Yernikov.

“Not to worry. Rednikov, is he your cousin?”

“On the side of my mother, yes.”

“Then why are you not one of his men, instead of working down here?”

“You will learn, northerner, not to ask such questions here in Skarbor.” Yernikov left, the pace of his walk almost resembling a run.

Later, while the men were working, Berin spied the newcomer from a distance. He had been convoked to the anvil room to refine the metal into its shape. Berin wondered why he was working there instead of with them, where the real backbreaking work occurred. Perhaps it was to keep the northerners all separate. The man had a stoop about his stature, as one without confidence or purpose. He carried himself aloofly, withdrawn from those around him.

“I must find out where this man is from,” he said to Grasio and Yernikov.

“I cannot try again. I shall be reprimanded.”

“Me neither,” whispered Grasio.

“I shall wait for the right opportunity.”

It was not until late that night when work was halted and the men were allowed to retire to their shelters for the night.

“Yernikov, tell us, why do you work here? You are not a criminal.”

Yernikov smiled.

“It is for the money. We are the best-paid job in the land. And what better way than to serve your country making these items?”

“True.”

“Why do you think criminals are sent here?”

“Like you?”

“Yernikov, you know our story. We are not criminals.”

“I am humouring you, Berin. I know not. Perhaps, because the work is fierce, knowing you are not being paid for it is the worst torture of all.

Berin nodded his head.

“May you find the world of slumber soon,” Grasio farewelled Berin, settling down in his makeshift bedding. Berin tarried until nearly all of the men were asleep before venturing out to discover the newcome northerner.

Berin found him squatting outside his own shelter, slowly muttering as he faced the moon. Berin coughed to gain his attention, and the man stopped at once, turning sharply to him as though he were a schoolboy about to be confronted by the headmaster.

“I am doing nothing, sir!” he said abruptly.

“Do not fear. I am not a guard, only a fellow worker.”

The man’s shoulders, stiff and tense, dropped in relief.

Berin continued in the Akolan tongue by telling the man his name.

“I am from Vergara. Are you a northerner as well?” he asked.

The man stiffened at the sound of Vergara, and waited for a moment, before nodding his head slightly.

“Where are you from?” asked Berin, but the man shook his head.

“I would rather not say.”

“Why?”

The man stopped and looked away. In the corner of his eye, the only part that Berin could see, teardrops began forming.

“Fine then, what is your name?”

“Shirin.”

Berin suddenly suspected the reason for Shirin not revealing his identity.

“You are Keturah, are you not?”

Shirin’s silence confirmed the answer.

Strange, numbing emotions awashed Berin. Here was a man from the land of hostile, of evil. To grasp this man by the neck and strangle him was a desire like a volcanic eruption rushing up the chamber towards the crater. He had taken away his family and his land, or at least his kin had done so. Someone had to repay, and Berin was seriously considering the judgement of all of Bacana’s sins to fall upon Shirin. Justice would then, at least for a moment, be paid.

“What are you doing here?” asked Berin, his voice seething with increasing rage.

“I was in the Keturah army, one of the soldiers, I mean, one of the conscripts to invade Vergara. I witnessed some terrible things done by my countrymen, things that I cannot utter, lest they invade my thoughts. It was when I saw a woman being abused that I knew this was not a course of action for me. I immediately defected and fled southwards to Goiim. There I thought I was safe, but unbeknownst to me, the army continued to invade. Already they trespassed the northern tip of Goiim. And now they have taken hold of the Midran Passage. I had to escape. It seems neither east nor south were options, so I braved the Put Desert and perorated here.”

Berin’s rage dissipated with every word of familiarity Shirin spoke. Here was a man, not a man of conquest and vulgar invasion, but one of compassion.

“Do you hate me?”

“Not if you are telling the truth,” said Berin.

“You should. I committed evil.”

“But you had the courage to stand up for humankind.”

“True.”

“You left the evil behind.”

“True.”

“You know, I have committed evil.”

“How so?”

“I killed a Keturah soldier. Well, more than one.”

“During battle?”

“Not a battle. During a fight in my house.”

“Were they going to kill you?”

“Yes, me and my friend.”

“Then it is justified.”

Justified. That is the word. Berin’s shoulders loosened. He breathed deeply. He was justified to kill those soldiers. His life or their lives is what made the difference. They were out to get him. He stopped them. He was justified to do exactly that.

“They also took my family.”

“How many?”

“My wife, my daughter and my son.”

“I am sorry.”

“What for? You did not kidnap them.”

“No, but my kindred did.”

“What about your family? Do you know anything of them?”

“My family…’ Shirin started, then looked away. He coughed. ‘It is getting rather late. I must retire to bed.”

 “Shirin, the, the name sounds familiar,” stammered Berin.

“It ought to. Most northerners know the name.”

“You must be…no!”

“Yes, I am a member of the extended royal family. I am a lord back in Keturah, only I had no military skills, so I was classified as a common soldier. Labar could not place someone such as myself as a captain of a company.”

“Remarkable,” was all Berin could reply.

Shirin was indeed sent to the metallurgy factory by the constabulary Harnikov, thinking it would be apt for all northerners to be sent there.

“I thought as much!” said Berin.

Rednikov, sensing danger for Shirin if he was placed with Berin as a refugee Vergaran, was instead sent to the anvil section. He feared Berin would discover Shirin’s identity and lash out in anger.

“I nearly did,’ Berin told Grasio and Yernikov later when they were informed of Shirin and his identity. ‘I was close to wringing his neck.”

“It reveals how much anger you have for the Bacana,” said Grasio.

“It certainly does.”

“Perhaps you must learn to deal with your anger,” said Grasio.

“I will deal with it when I get my family back. Right now, it is the anger that fuels my…”

“Motivation?”

“Yes.”

Grasio was right, Berin thought later. The anger inside of him killed the trader back in Akola. It now drove him to nearly killing Shirin. Perhaps it was time for release.

Berin sought the gods and answers from them during the last veros of their ordeal in the metallurgy factory. Though no answer was revealed from the heavenly realms, he knew that with time his rage towards the Bacana washed away.

“There is something different about you,” said Grasio one evening.

“I look more handsome, do I not?” joked Berin.

“No, that is not possible. I mean, you cannot get any more handsome. No, the way you carry yourself…”

Berin did not answer. Berin rooted within himself the peace of heart and of mind, the peace he started to feel when he first entered the wild, untamed Kraik territory. There was no sense holding grudges against the Bacana. It was eating into his strength. As soon as they were released from the metallurgy factory, his strength would be required to find his family, rather than use anger to fuel his resolve. He was more than his anger. With the help of Grasio and Glavino, and, if the gods allowed, Yernikov and Shirin, Berin firmly believed he had the inner strength to find his son and the rest of his kin.

Berin and Shirin continued to meet together most nights, discussing what they missed of their homeland.

“I miss those Keturah mushrooms,” said Shirin one night.

“Ah, you will have to meet Glavino. He greatly loves those mushrooms.”

“How did he come about them?”

“He would climb over the mountains and collect them.”

“Did he know that is taboo, it is against the law for any Vergaran to enter the kingdom of Keturah without permission?”

“I think not.”

“Right before we invaded Vergara, there was a man who entered Keturah. My colleague pursued him, only to realise he and his soldiers had reached Vergara. That started the invasion.”

“Are you saying it was the fault of the Vergaran?”

“Of course not. I am merely telling you the invasion was premature.”

Occasionally Grasio joined them on these late night discussions, though he found it difficult to remain awake. Shirin buoyed Berin’s energy to the point where only half the normal amount of sleep was required, even with the intense daily work in the metallurgy factory.

The last few veros of their confinement breezed like the winds west of Akola and soon Rednikov and Harnikov released them in a good-natured manner.

“I believe this is yours,’ said Harnikov as he returned Berin his sword. ‘It is a sword of great worth. I ought to keep it. It is fashioned far better than anything Rednikov could make in this factory,” he remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I heard that!” butted Rednikov, before realising humour was in Harnikov’s tone of voice and returning a brief smirk.

 “Thank you,” was all Berin could mouth.

“Use it wisely, somehow I think you are going to need it before winter sets its face on the earth.”

Rednikov managed to negotiate with the Dag men for Glavino, Berin and Grasio to ride with them as far as the Haut Passage, between the Dag and Aig mountain ranges. Berin begged Shirin to join them as well, for Shirin was not incarcerated like the other three were, and was in the metallurgy factory on his own admission. Though Shirin had gained some boldness, he rather enjoyed toiling quietly in the anvil room. He declined the offer before Berin could ask Harnikov.

“And anyway, you are heading towards my countrymen. If we were captured, I would be hanged for desertion. I cannot face that. No, I will remain here. This is my home, for now, until the war is over.”

Berin had to admire the man for upholding his beliefs. He was right; it was suicide, should they be caught. Berin and Grasio farewelled Shirin with lumps in their throats. Glavino wondered why. He was not told until later Shirin’s background.

“What about you, Yernikov? Will you join us?”

“Travel towards a war? That is foolhardy. No, this is my home. I cannot leave here. If the Bacana come, I will ready myself to stave their invasion.”

“I am certain you will fight valiantly for your country.”

“Berin, may you find and liberate your family.”

“I shall.”

“Send word when you do.”

“I will make sure he does,” said Glavino.

The trio climbed aboard a cart, carried away from Skarbor. Berin glanced behind him. Entering the citadel full of dread, he now left with renewed vigour, though into yet another unknown part of his world.

Onwards we roll!