The old man stepped to the fireside and raised his hands for silence. The red glow of the dying embers washed over his chest, setting the faded tattoos beneath his open shirt blazing. Slowly, the noise in the clan hall died down, the sounds of laughter faded and even the rattling of plates vanished. He could hear them breathing, and he could taste their anticipation. It was for this moment that he loved the winter times, the summer months and spring could keep, and the fall had beauty, but it was the winter that he loved. It was the story telling that made the cold months more than bearable, and gave them their own special warmth.
“What story will we have tonight Goran?” A voice called from the crowd. The cry was taken up, echoing off the stout timbers of the clan hall like drums on the hills. There were cries for the tale of Garak and the faeries, and calls for the tale of Rahnwin the beautiful, a particular favorite of the children. He waited for the noise to die down again and smiled. For tonight he had picked a story not often told, but well loved by the clansmen. The shaman liked it little, so it was not told, but what had he to fear from a story? Goran walked upright with the gods and did what was right by his clansmen.
“Listen my friends and brothers,” He cried aloud and began to walk a slow circle around the fire, as the custom demands of storytellers. “Tonight I offer you a story well known and well loved, but not often told, for the shamans love it not!” Hushed laughter filled the room, and he continued. “Hear, if you will, the Tale of Lorgan the Exile of the Bear clan, and father of the three heroes of the Northern Bank! I tell it to you as it was told to me by my father, as it was told to him by his grandfather, who was there as a boy!”
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In the days when Andros, mighty and noble, was king over the land, the winters were harsh an unkind. They were much colder and more desperate times than they are now, for the world has grown warmer since then. When the snow was thick on the land, and the Tribe of the Bear gathered in their clan hall, there came a stranger to them.
The stranger was dressed in the clothes of men far to the south, spun cloth and not the hunter’s trappings. He carried no weapons, and came to them much tired from the deep snow. Some of the warriors laughed at him for a fool, to their shame, but Andros was a noble king, and worthy. He received him kindly and welcomed them to the fires. Such was the worth of Andros the King that the stranger did not even have to ask, as is the custom. In doing so the King redeemed the honor of his clan and shamed those who scorned the stranger.
It is to be said, at this time, that Andros was a noble king and true, but there was division in the Tribe of the Bear, for the shaman that served him were not true. They sought to undermine his rule and lord over the people. Chief among the shaman was Vargos, a man who had been a friend of Andros as a child, but who had grown bitter with age.
Andros fed the stranger from his own portion, and did not deprive one of his people of their meal. It was a lean winter, and the hunting was poor. In this the king what was right, and none could speak ill of him or say he had not treated a guest well. When all that the custom required had been done for the stranger, Vargos stood up and spoke to the king with a suspicious tongue.
“Lord of the Bear Tribe,” He said, “These are cold times and we are a cruel and proud people. This man has come to us, but he is not one of us. You have greeted him as a lost brother, and fed him from your own portion, and shared with him the warmth of our fires and given him the strength of our hearth. Has it not seemed good to you to question him? Where has this man come from, and what ill does he intend to us?”
At this, the king’s wrath was stirred against Vargos, for he knew it was ill to speak of strangers wrongly. “I will not have such suspicions raised at my table.” The king answer. “I will not have my guest ignored so in my own hall. This man, the guest of our clan, has walked far and is weary. He will find rest tonight, and answer such questions, as he will tomorrow. Whatever comes, he will not leave my table but to say the Tribe of the Bear gave refuge to the stranger, as is the custom.”
Those in the hall nodded in agreement, and the true warriors supported their king. There was, however, a faction that thought as Vargas did, and they put him before the king in their thoughts. Among these was Maroc, a mighty warrior of the Bear Tribe. Vargos drew strength from them, and saw his opportunity to bring the king down.
“These are troubled times, my lord.” He said, “We can not let this man loose in our hall and unguarded. Should he mean to rob us, he could do so while we slept. Should he mean to open the doors of our hall to enemies, we could not stop him. Welcome not the viper in, for he will bite you. Your word my lord, is decided, no man can say against what you have chosen. So be it, but I will cast the runes and speak with our fathers. They will tell us the right way.”
It is here that Andros strength failed him, for determined as he was, just as he was, Vargos lorded over him in the spirit. The people then, much as they do now, trusted in signs and omens, and Vargos was the master of twisting the runes. When the king seemed ready to submit to the casting, the stranger at his right hand stood and spoke.
“There will be no casting of the runes over me, Vargos.” He said, “For I trust them not from your hand. What you have said is true, but in speaking it you bring shame to yourself and your clan. Regardless, I will now tell you my story and by it you may know who I am, and of what tribe I am come.”
“My father was a mighty warrior, and while any son would say as much of his father, my father was a mighty warrior. In the days of his youth, the tribes of the mountains gathered to bring the spear down on his neighbor. With the permission of his king, he assembled the war band and ran to the aid of his neighbor, even though they were not his brothers. In doing so, he earned honor for his clan and a bride for himself. Indeed the tribe of his neighbor was so impressed with his prowess that the chieftain gave his third daughter to my father. In this way, my father and mother were joined.”
“In due time, I was born, but the men of my tribe cursed the day of my birth, for my mother died in bearing me. As her soul fled, it darkened the sun with its passage, so that only a ring of fire showed where it was. The shaman of our tribe foretold of great evil in the child, and a black mark was placed on my name from my birth.”
“Still my father was mighty, and for his sake naught was done to me. For the space of ten summers life was innocent, and no man could ask for a better father than I had. Yet all things come to an end, and my father was slain at the battle of black rock, laying down his life to save his warriors. So my uncle took me in, for he was a proud and just king. In this way I grew to manhood and the day of name.”
“It is the custom of my tribe, as it is the custom of many tribes, to have a day of naming for the children. On this day the shaman would cast the runes and give each the name of their totem. One by one the children would be sent to hunt for their totems, and should they slay it they would be warriors and hunters of the tribe. Should they tame it and bring it back alive, they would become mystics and shaman. Rightly, I had great concern over this day, for the shaman who cast the runes were the same shaman who had put a mark on my name at birth, only to watch me grow and flourish. To them I was a mockery of their craft.”
“One by one, my companions were called forth and sent on their hunts, until I alone was left nameless. With great deliberation they called me forward and cast the runes. They vexed and fumed at great length over the runes. They cried aloud and begged each other for another sign, but I could see the cold reason and spite in their eyes. They would find no other signs. At length they told me what the runes had said. Blackmane they said, not even a totem.”
“Their meaning was all to clear, as was their mockery. I was not even fit to live in the tribe, said the lying runes. I was less than a man, and not even a whole spirit. In this way the Shaman cast me out from my tribe, forbidding any to speak to me and sending me into the wilds with only the clothes on my back. Yet the lord of our people was a great king, and his spirit was true. He paid no heed to the lying shaman, but took me by my arm and spoke quietly in my ear.”
“Go to the people of your mother, he told me, for they are a proud people and will know you by your face, for you look much like them. Tell them of your sire, your dame, and all that has happened and take strength at the hall of your grandfather. There he instructed me, make a name for yourself and live proudly.”
“And so it was that I was cast from the clan of my father, for my people are a cruel people and proud. For a season I lived with my mother’s tribe, and learned their proud ways and how to hunt, how to war and how to live truly. I might have made a name for myself with them, but my heart was still with my father’s tribe. At length I left the people of my mother and wandered far into the land, seeking to resume the hunt I had been given. I had thought to hunt until I died, cold and alone. It is a cruel fate, but I was too proud to accept another. In this way, I at least would preserve my own honor and that of my father, even if we are both forgotten.”
“And so that is my story, and I am returned to the north seeking the tribe of my father. Much to my surprise, my hunt has come to an end, and I wish to return to my tribe.”
At this the king was stunned, for he recognized the story, but Vargos stood and challenged the stranger. “I have never heard a less likely story, and I can not find a single sliver of truth in it!”
To this, the stranger replied, “You know the truth of it yourself Vargos. If you do not, then you have swallowed your own lies and cast the runes against yourself! Know this then, that my father was Tark Ghostbear, of the Tribe of the Bear, and my mother was Sanila of the Hawk. The king who spoke to me when the shaman cast me out was my uncle and the father of Andros, who sits as lord of the Bear Tribe. You were there Vargos, even if you lie to yourself, for you were the shaman who cast the runes falsely and read them against me!”
At this, the warriors in the tribe were taken back, and they could sense the blood in the air. They gathered by their king, all but Maroc and those with him, who stood by Vargos. In this way the Bear Tribe was divided against itself, but Andros did not stir himself, for he could see there was more to come.
“I have journeyed the lands, far and wide, I have seen things you cannot explain.” Said the Stranger. “I have delved into mysteries you know nothing of, and at last I have found that which I was sent out to seek. Know that I am Lorgan, whom you have named Blackmane, and I have completed my hunt and redeemed my honor. All this has been done to your shame, Vargos, for you have cast the runes falsely.”
With this Lorgan bent and seized a leathern sack that had been brought with him. Reaching inside he withdrew the cape of a hideous beast, its skinned face ringed with a shaggy mane of coarse black fur. “Your quest is complete Vargos, and I demand my right as my father’s son.” With that he threw the hide at the shaman’s feet.
Vargos was wild with rage. He sneered at Lorgan, and at Andros the great king, but his words stopped in his throat when his eyes fell on Andros. The king’s fist clenched and clawed at the arm of his chair, his face was contorted and red with his wrath. Had he not been king, or been a lesser king than he was, the shaman would have been slain then and there. The king’s life is not his own, and his justice is the strength of the Tribe. Andros knew this, and long had it been the only thing preserving Vargos’ life. At length, the king spoke.
“Do not think, Vargos that you will divide this tribe with your pretensions, or that you will wrest the strength of the Bear to the ground. Do not think, Vargos, that you can easily dismiss this charge, for this matter stands not between you and Lorgan, nor between Lorgan and the Bear, but between you and I, and through me the justice of the Bear Tribe.”
At this the king stood, and swept his gaze over all in the clan hall. “There will be no bloodshed but what is required by the law of justice. Return to your seats.” He commanded them, and slowly they obeyed. “This is my cousin, Lorgan. He does not look like us, for he favors his mother’s people. His hair is dark and not red, straight and not curling on his chest. He stands taller and strides longer than we, and his body is not so thick or his shoulders so massive. Yet the blood of the bear flows thick in his veins, and the speed of the Hawk is also his birthright. Tark is his father, and such as it is his will I give him all that his father left to us. His mace, shield and sword are now his son’s, may the memory of Tark never die.”
At this the warriors cheered in the hall, but the noble king raised his hands for silence until at last he had it. The king’s voice was soft like the hiss of a serpent when he spoke. “He should never have left us, it is too our shame.”
Then the eyes of Andros fell on Vargos like fire. “You, Vargos, have been exposed. You stand this day, at this moment accused of speaking false oracles to the Tribe of the Bear, to your very family. The proof of this is plain to see; it stands before you and lies at your very feet. Long have I suspected you, but this is irrefutable. The code of justice demands your life is forfeit.”
At this pronouncement, the King’s warriors rushed to seize the false shaman, but Vargos was cunning and knew the law as well as the king. As they reached for him, he threw himself forward, seizing the pillar of the clan hall. None could touch him for the pillar is sacred to the Bear.
“Andros, Lord of the Bear Tribe!” He cried out, the spite thick in his voice. “I am accused by a man who has his father’s name and honor at stake. It is the custom of the Bear, and it is demanded by the law, that such matters are resolved by challenge. I am not a warrior, oh king, and as such it is my right to request a champion. I choose Maroc, and if this man wishes to claim his honor, let him overcome.”
Such was the treachery of Vargos, that he would not fight his own battles, but his tongue was cunning and he had the king trapped by his very greatness. Even though the king’s rage was great and his fury ran deep, he was forced to grant Vargos his wishes, for such was the law. So Andros gave Lorgan his own sword, and Maroc took up his cruel, twin headed axe, and they entered the circle. The light of the torches glistened off their bare chests, and Maroc looked on his foe with scorn and derision.
“You will die this day, little man.” He sneered at Lorgan. “You lack the strength of arm and thickness of chest to withstand me. Come close and let me crush you with the embrace of death.”
It is said that Maroc was a giant among the bear, larger than his clan in every dimension. It is Maroc that made the stand at the gap, and he is counted among the greatest warriors of the Bear. Lorgan as it has been said, favored the Hawk, and he was built like his mother’s people. Taller and lighter than the bear, he stood over Maroc by a head, but could not match his strength of arm.
“Enter this circle, Maroc,” Lorgan said simply, “and you will die.”
Maroc charged Lorgan with a roar, swinging his axe high over his head. Lorgan never raised his blade, but merely stepped to the side of Maroc’s dreadful blow. The clan hall shook, and the most dreadful duel in the history of the Bear had begun. They two fought round for round, but neither could exceed the other by a blow. Their wounds oozed and the blood flowed freely from numerous cuts. At great length, Maroc threw down is foe and raised his axe high, meaning to split Lorgan’s skull. Lorgan however, was not beaten and moved quickly out of the way, striking Maroc’s side as he rose. Maroc fell to his knees, stunned by the unexpected blow. Lorgan gained his feet, striking Maroc’s head from his shoulders with an almost careless blow. Wearied he turned to the king.
“The strength of the bear was in Maroc.” Lorgan said. “He was a mighty warrior, and his strength will be missed. We are a cold people, cruel and proud. Go with the Bear, Maroc. We honor you as a warrior should.”
“Go with the Bear.” The warriors in the hall chanted in unison.
And so it came to pass that the king exacted his justice on Vargos, adding the murder of Maroc to his sins. For this reason, anyone who lies and seeks to escape justice is said to ‘be like Vargos’ for Vargos would not relent, even when confronted with the truth. What became of Lorgan you ask?
When Lorgan was recovered and his wounds had healed, the king brought him into the clan hall. Before the entire Tribe, Andros offered him half the wealth of the Tribe, and placed the war band beneath him if he would stay with the Tribe of the Bear and take up the name of his father.
Lorgan turned to the king, with sorrow in his eyes. “I cannot stay, cousin. I cannot stay, just king of the Bear. Vargos’ treachery has cost the Bear Tribe more than we will ever know. In my hunt I have seen things I should not have, I have heard things I should not have, and more over learned things I should not have. I am not fit to live with any tribe, for my heart is filled with the mountains of the north and the hunting call of the Bear Tribe, but my head is filled with knowledge of the south, east and west. I no longer think as a warrior of the tribe should. I have learned the art of war from masters who were ancient when my grandfather was a boy. I have been taught how to draw sounds so that they stay, and how to pick them up again as words. I have seen creatures that the northlands know not, and that knowledge has hallowed me. I am not my father’s son, Andros king of the Bear Tribe, I am changed by my journey. For this reason, I cannot stay. I cannot dwell with the Bear Tribe, nor with the Hawk Tribe, and I will not take my father’s name. I have redeemed his honor and my own, that is enough. So let me have the name that was given me for my shame, I have redeemed it as well.”
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None of the Bear Tribe then living would see Lorgan again, but his name is honored among us even still. The black mane of the beast he slew hangs over the throne of the king. His children returned to the Bear Tribe, and fought valiantly among us, for they are the three heroes of the Northern Bank.
The old man lowered his hands and ceased his circuit of the fire. His voice was gentle as he spoke into the still air awash with the dying glow of the fire. “What then is to be said of this tale? Let it be said that lies uproot the strength of the clan, and that honor is the courage to exile oneself.”
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The Lord of the Iron Wastes holds his hammer high in the air, shouting a torment... 'Weak fools!'
The Tale of the Exile
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