by J. S. Crews
The boy’s answer to that attempt to get under his skin was simple silence, coupled with a look that let his father know he was fooling no one. After a moment, he continued, "You know exactly what I’m talking about."
Doing his best to look exasperated, the chieftain harrumphed and finally acceded. "Fine. You’re right. I am troubled by what’s being said, because what’s being said is TROUBLING... assuming it is to be believed."
The boy could not argue with that logic. The rumors concerning the mysterious figure referred to simply as the Black Robe had been making their rounds among the clans for months, often growing in the telling as such tales were wont to do when traded around fires all across the Northlands. In the end, it was nigh impossible to tell what was truth and what was fiction, but there were some things upon which all of the tales seemed to agree and none of them were good.
"What do we do if he comes?"
Vytaus shook his head. Damn me if this boy isn’t persistent, he thought. He decided to turn the tables on him yet again. "What would you do if you were chieftain?"
Belios drew in a long, deep breath to swell his chest, obviously aware that he was being tested and his answer would be judged strictly on its merits and without emotion. Vytaus, he knew, was more than simply his sire. A father was asking the question, but it was the ruler of their people who would assess the worthiness of his words. When his answer came, it was simple and to the point: "Fight. Defend our people. Defend our home."
The clarity and matter-of-fact perfection of that statement caused Vytaus to smile as he nodded in acknowledgment. "Aye, boy," he began, "that is what we shall do, and it seems to me that perhaps you will make a fine chieftain one day, after all." That praise brought a smile to Belios’s face as well, and father and son shared a warm moment together as they returned to watching their warband cross the river.
Later that day, safely across the border and into their own lands, Vytaus sensed the ground rising slightly beneath his horse’s hooves and knew it wouldn’t be long before they were home. They had been passing outlying villages for the better part of the past few hours. Nestled among the hoary pine forest their path cut through, these communities were made up of those who had either chosen to live a quieter life away from the main settlement that was the heart of their people or else they lacked position, being distant cousins of those with clan blood that was more pure. Either way, they owed fealty and tribute, and each man held a vote in clan affairs.
Vytaus had long ago made a game out of trying to pinpoint the exact spot where the topography began to change. It was nothing more than a way to break up the near-endless monotony of the horses swaying and their hooves clop, clop, clopping on the stones that dotted the path, but it built anticipation for returning to a place that he truly loved. A short time later, it finally came into view. One moment they were surrounded by thick, dark woods on both sides with the path before them disappearing around a bend and the next the trees fell away, revealing that the path lead down into a modest valley full of woodlands and small farms. The entire panorama was centered around a flat-topped rise crested by the hillfort.
The walls surrounding the fort were constructed of heavy logs, lashed together with hempen rope. The cracks between the logs were sealed with a mixture of dried mud and straw, and Vytaus knew those walls concealed a fighting platform on the inside that would allow defenders to fire arrows at anyone attacking or engage those coming over the walls.
The path they were traveling rose to meet the hillock by way of a twisting switchback that would guarantee hostiles would suffer heavy exposure to fire from above. This was the only entry point, the remainder of the outer edge of the rise below the walls guarded by deep trenches with fire-hardened spikes. A true army might overcome such obstacles, but not without bleeding horribly in the effort. A lesser force would have no chance.
It was a military structure in every sense, the kind of place that was needed if a man wished to sleep at night without worry in the ever-fractious clan atmosphere of the Northlands. Beyond that, however, it was also a thriving community. Within those walls were the lodges of the most prominent members the clan. All of this was centered around the longhouse, where Vytaus and his family lived as the result of his position as chieftain and which served as a common space for important community events.
Smiling at the site as he always seemed to do, Vytaus kicked his horse to greater speed as most of the others followed suit. A few trusted men would come along at a slower pace with the slaves and stolen grain in tow, but he would not be kept from his home longer than necessary. If anyone wished to gripe, he would welcome it as long as they were prepared to back up their words with their fists or a blade. Among the Wodonni, tradition held that it was death to put your hands on your chieftain, but Vytaus had never been one to hide behind such privilege.
Down into the valley and along the path they went, passing little farmsteads along the way where the chieftain would wave in greeting to any he saw working the fields. These were his people, clan members—some of them likely of his own blood, though no doubt distantly—and each of them produced goods for the community with the sweat of their daily labors. Vytaus cared for each of them in the same way a shepherd cares for his flock.
Finally making their way up the rise and through the gates of the fort, they dismounted and Vytaus and Belios grabbed their packs and allowed their animals to be the lead away by others. The chieftain said to one of them, "Wait here for the rest to arrive, then see the slaves fed and locked away until we can sort them out. Take the children to the crones in the cookhouse. They will know what to do with them."
The warrior nodded his acknowledgment without any inclination of sourness over being given something else to do that would keep him from filling his own belly and washing off the dirt and blood. That was as Vytaus expected. Someone had to do it, and he knew that each of his men were dependable by the simple fact that he would abide no less. Each man sworn to him understood he would allow no foolishness, and if they weren’t willing to fight—and possibly die—for their grievances, then those grievances meant nothing.
Turning from that exchange, Vytaus was greeted by the sight of another of his sons approaching. Brandr was fifteen summers old, only slightly younger than Belios. His mother was a different one of Vytaus’s wives, which accounted for their slight differences, the elder boy’s hair being darker. Each was unmistakably the chieftain’s son in facial features and demeanor, however. Just now, though, Brandr’s features were communicating tension. Something was wrong.
The smile that had sprouted when first catching sight of his younger son quickly faded, and he asked simply, “What’s happened?”
Brandr grimaced, either not comfortable with responding or worrying his father might react poorly and take it out on him. Whichever was the case, it was obvious that he was going to require additional prodding, and so Vytaus added, “Spit it out, boy!”
In response, Brandr simply motioned that his father and brother should follow. “Come. You need to see for yourself,” he said.
The younger boy lead them into the longhouse, the entrance decorated with the skull of a huge ancient elk. It was hung over the doorway and just below the gable, so that those entering must pass beneath the clan’s totem with its dark hollow eyes and sharp antlers. The chieftain expected their destination was the meeting hall in the front portion of the deep rectangular building. Open to all, it was where Vytaus gave his people justice and presided over feasts and the like. If some crime had been committed in his absence or whatever it was that had Brandr behaving so uneasily, that was the logical place people would gather. Surpringly, It was deserted except for a couple of anxious-looking slaves that Brandr quickly shooed outside.
Instead, the younger boy kept walking deeper into the building, and they followed with rising concern. He halted only long enough to slide open the wattle screen that separated the public area from the private rooms of the chieftain’s family, glancing back at his father briefly w
ith that same tense expression.
Once inside, he understood the youngster’s unease.
Vytaus’s own bedchamber lay further back in the rearmost part of the building. First came the large antechamber shared by his wives, littered as usual with clothing and pillows and other women’s things. As it turned out, it was currently also littered with strangers. A gaggle of women—beyond his own gaggle—were there in addition to at least one young boy. The guests all looked harried, and his wives seemed to have taken it upon themselves to comfort them.
“Who are these—“ he began to inquire, but stopped dead, seemingly frozen in place. When he had begun to speak, everyone had turned and he had suddenly realized these were not strangers after all. At least one of them he knew well, and it was her gaze that had halted his speech.
“Mileka,” he began again, bowing his head in respect. “I do not understand... why are you here?”
Everyone seemed to try to answer at once, all but Mileka herself, and Vytaus quieted the room with a sweeping gesture. She had not averted her eyes, obviously trying to maintain some level of poise. This was a woman accustomed to being revered, a chieftain’s wife. Even so, she was filthy with the unmistakable streaks of tears on her face, along with an array of bruises. It was so quiet, you could hear the others breathing rapidly.
After a moment, Mileka stepped toward Vytaus and went suddenly to her knees. The other women—his own wives and apparently her maids—gasped and rushed forward, but she waved them all away. She lowered her eyes, assuming the role of a supplicant. Softly, she said, “We are here to seek your protection, lord.”
Vytaus hesitated for a moment. He was confused and, frankly, appalled. He could not make sense of what he was hearing. Seeing one deserving the same respect afforded his wives on her knees like a common drudge was too much. Stepping forward, he offered her his hand and brought her back to her feet. “I don’t understand,” he began. “Protection? Where is your husband?”
Her man was Uslan, Chieftain of the People of the Hawk. They were another clan in the confederation known as the Kulti Nation, closely allied to Vytaus’s own people. What’s more, he had known him most of his life, since both of them were just boys dogging their father’s heels. Vytaus had just visited with him the preceding autumn and they had flown a couple of Uslan’s prized hunting hawks.
Mileka was on her feet now, but her dark eyes were still downcast. Vytaus was unsure whether or not that was out of respect, since she was asking favors, or if it was the result of embarrassment. “My Lord Uslan... my husband...,” she hesitated, “is not himself.”
Vytaus was now deeply concerned, and the ambiguity of her answer was making him annoyed. Uslan was the closest thing to a friend, outside of familial relations, that was possible for a man in Vytaus’s position, and if something had befallen him he wanted to know straight out what it was. “Speak sense, woman!” he commanded. “What has happened!?”
Perhaps it was the angry tone of his voice that rekindled the fire in her belly, but Mileka raised her eyes suddenly to stare directly into his as though she would not be cowed. Squaring her shoulders, she spoke plainly, but Vytaus could see that she was struggling to hold back tears. “He has shunned us, lord, and would see us dead.”
That complicated things. It was not all that uncommon for powerful men to sometimes set aside troublesome wives. Of course, a man could have as many as he possessed sufficient wealth to support, but some women just seemed to cause friction. Wanting a wife dead, on the other hand, was another thing entirely. They were their husband’s property, of course, but tradition protected them from many of the worst whims a bad husband might exhibit. There were few things Mileka might have done that would warrant her death, and even then it would be extreme for her husband to want all of her maids dead as well. Whatever had occurred, there was more to it than what he was being told.
His tone laid bare his suspicions and the growing antipathy he was beginning to feel toward her and her problems. Far be it for him to interfere with another chieftain’s justice, much less that of a friend, if this woman had somehow wronged him seriously enough for him to seek to kill her for it. “What did you do?”
The flame he had relit in her now flared in her eyes. With defiance in her voice, she answered, “I did what any mother would do, lord. I protected my child.”
Now he was more confused than ever. Mileka had only one child of whom he was aware and that was a boy, doted on by his father Uslan. He would be chieftain one day and the Uslan Vytaus knew would kill or die to protect him and that legacy. It was then that he suddenly remembered the boy in the room, turning to locate him hiding behind the skirts of one of his mother’s women.
Returning his attention to the mother, he asked, “What kind of fool do you take me for? I’ve known your husband since we were both younger than that boy. He would never stand by and allow him to be harmed.”
She set her jaw in a determined, stubborn expression, then spun on her heels and went for the boy. As she reached for him, he cowered even further into the shadows, all the while staring at Vytaus with the look of a sheep being dragged to the butcher’s block. His mother was relentless, however, soon succeeding in getting control and bodily hauling him right in front of Vytaus. Picking him up off the ground to hold him at her own height between them, she turned his little head with her hand to make sure the chieftain had a proper view.
The boy’s face was mangled with what appeared to be many small tears, hastily bandaged with some fabric that looked to have been torn from someone’s dress. That was now peeling away, leaving weeping skin and scabs that were beginning to bleed again. The lad was terrified.
“Stand by and allow him to be harmed?” the woman began again. Whether she was angry at being challenged or it was simply the stress of the situation, she was openly emotional now with tears brimming in her beautiful dark eyes. “No, lord. Not that. Uslan did this himself.”
Vytaus simply stared for a moment, searching his mind for what he should say or do. He was a confident man, someone accustomed to the decisions that came with a position of authority, so being irresolute was uncomfortable for him. He did not wish to believe what she was saying, yet everything in him was telling him that she was telling the truth.
Slowly, measuredly, and in a much softer tone, he simply asked, “How can this be?”
She must have realized she was winning him over, because the brazenness fled from her as quickly as it had come. It was as though she were deflated before his eyes. Suddenly, all he could see was that she was tired and sorrowful and afraid.
She lowered the boy back to the ground gently, where he promptly hid himself behind the assumed safety of her tattered dress. Despite her obvious fear, she answered, but her voice now sounded unbelievably small. “It was because of him, lord.” She hesitated, then added, “The dark one.”
Vytaus was not a man who acknowledged fear openly. Only a fool failed to understand that it was an instinct that could keep one alive. Simply sensing the approach of danger was a form of fear. Expressing such things openly, however, projected weakness, and weakness could get a man in Vytaus’s position killed. Even after a lifetime of discipline, though, the chieftain had a difficult time suppressing the shiver brought on by her words.
He was quiet for a moment, trying to process what he was hearing, then slowly seated himself on a divan and motioned for Mileka to sit next to him. She did so and, in a measured tone, he said, “Have your women take the boy to the healer for his face. Then they should all go eat while we talk. My wives and sons will go with them. They will be safe.”
Belios appeared ready to object to being sent away, but a stern look from his father and a gentler nudge from his younger brother changed his mind. Her women didn’t move at first, despite Vytaus’s wives rising to lead the way, but Mileka gave a quick nod of agreement and they complied. Everyone filed out the door, and suddenly the room seemed impossibly large with just the two of them resting on the cushioned divan.
Several more moments went by in silence, Vytaus searching for what to say. He needed to know the details of what had occurred so close to his own territory, but at the same time he knew it would be difficult to hear. In the end, he simply turned to her and said, “Tell me everything.”
She looked away, a furtive expression he knew was outside the ordinary for a woman such as she. Her husband would have held all of the real authority in her life; that was simply the way of the world. Be that as it may, the wife of a chieftain was accustomed to having servants and speaking at public gatherings. This one was no shrinking lilly, not normally. Yet, the things he was asking her to talk about were making her behave like one, and that said much in and of itself.
In truth, he was impatient. He did not have time to wait around and be gentle with this woman. He needed to know everything, so he could assess whether or not what was happening in her now-former lands posed a threat to his own people. At the same time, however, he had gotten the impression that strong-arming her would make getting the information even more difficult. Her emotions were frayed and she was on edge. He could not push too hard, lest she fold in on herself, so he tamped down the urge to growl his displeasure and simply waited.
Slowly, quietly, she eventually began to speak. “He came to our gates when the silver moon was last black, a traveler in the night seeking shelter.” Her face contorted in disgust and anger briefly, before settling on despair and she cried as she added, “‘Twas all my fault, lord. Uslan wanted to turn him away, but I feared he was the trickster god testing us.”
The Drua told stories about the gods testing mortals to see if they would observe the customs of hospitality toward strangers in need. They would appear, asking for shelter, and they would reward those who properly observed the custom and visit punishment on those who did not. She had obviously worried she was witnessing such a test and influenced her husband to do an unwise thing. Vytaus could not fault her for that, though. He had entertained the same kinds of thoughts at times when strangers had come begging in advance of storms or cold nights, and he had often allowed them inside for the same reasons as she. Only a fool tempted the gods needlessly.
