by J. S. Crews
In response, the young man swallowed hard. Whatever was coming, it was enough to make him look fearful, but it was also immediately obvious he lacked the frantic edge one would expect if Uslan’s forces were finally advancing. Rather than press for the reluctant answer, Vytaus went to see for himself.
What he saw left him shaking his head. “Come with me,” he said to Belios, who had been waiting for him when he reached the lookout position. “It is time I put an end to this tomfoolery.” He was lost in his own thoughts, and so his son simply followed as ordered.
This time, he ordered the gates opened so he and his eldest could walk out and meet the old fool on more even ground. Honestly, he wasn’t sure his voice could take another evening of yelling down his refusals from atop the walls, and he hoped meeting more intimately might finally put an end to the pointless visits. Worst case, he thought, I could always ring his wrinkled neck from this close, though he knew actual violence would be valueless. Still, the old man was frustrating him to his wits end.
Vytaus spoke not a word as they waited, and Belios took his father’s cue and did not force the conversation. He knew his sire well enough to sense his aggravation, understanding pointless chatter would only add to it. As if being under siege was not stressful enough, the absurdity of being entreated to give up their defense over and over was grating. It was a mystery what the old man believed he was accomplishing.
After a time, he approached. He moved slowly—as expected of an oldster climbing the steep switchback on foot—yet there was something about the way in which he moved. One would expect fatigue and faltering steps, but there was none of that. Rather, Vytaus again had to silently chide himself for thinking the old man appeared to be floating above the ground. It is all this talk of witchery and dark magic that has my mind fuddled, he thought.
And yet, despite convincing himself of his own foolishness, the Black Robe did appear for all the world to be gliding slowly above the earth with his dark garment trailing in the mist. Just like the staff he always carried tricked the eyes into believing it was made of bone, rather than the salt-whitened driftwood that was far more likely. Vytaus was beginning to believe perhaps all of this was a calculated attempt to further the man’s fearsome reputation.
When he drew close enough that yelling would not be needed, Vytaus said, “Out for another evening stroll? Truly, you needn’t have bothered with the climb. I’m sure the air down there in the valley would have served well enough.” He paused, then added, “Even better going the other way back to Uslan’s country. Where you belong. Is that where you belong?”
As was typical, the chieftain kept his tone mocking, so as not to give his adversary the satisfaction of knowing of his worries. He has learned long ago to keep his emotions held close within. The response to his japing was likewise customary; the old man ignored it completely, refusing to engage.
“I am come a third and final time to ask thee to peaceably open thy gates, Chieftain.” His speech was formal, almost ritualistic, and the strangeness of it was not lost on Vytaus. Just now, however, he was experiencing a shortage of patience for such philosophical musings.
He shook his head, trying to hold back his gushing well of frustration. He smiled and even chuckled a little, but these were the expressions of a man who could not believe he was being asked yet again to do what he had twice refused to do already.
“I do not mean to offend,” he said, struggling to remain calm, “but I’m afraid you might have outlived your hearing, friend. Or perhaps your memory? We have already had this discussion. Twice, in fact. My answer is no, the same as it was last evening and the one before.
“Now, go and scurry back to Uslan before you catch your death of chill, and do not return here again. I tire of repeating myself. Next time you will be talking to the closed gate, and that’s if I’m feeling charitable and don’t have my warriors throw stones to run you off like a worrisome hound.”
He turned to leave, finished with such nonsense, but he was stopped dead in his tracks by what he heard next.
“Your answer is false, Vytaus of the People of the Elk. Thou will do as I have asked.”
He took a deep breath, his back still facing the annoying old bastard, but it wouldn’t be enough to calm him this time. He could feel that, instinctively, even as he attempted to exert his will over the bubbling, boiling cauldron of rage rising within his breast. Belios simply watched his father, not sure what would happen next, as Vytaus clinched his fists so tightly that his fingernails threatened to draw blood from the palms of his own hands.
He turned and stalked purposefully toward the source of his annoyance, not sure even himself of his intensions. He was going to either break the old man in half with his bare hands or simply scream sense into his face, and he hadn’t even decided for himself which it would be when he was brought to a sudden and surprising halt.
As he approached, the Black Robe raised that bone-white staff into the air as if thinking it would hinder the much larger man. It did not, though falter Vytaus did. What had stopped him instead was the sudden report of an alien-sounding horn in the distance.
The sound of a warhorn being blown was nothing new to him, yet this one sounded like no other he had heard. It was a signal that made the forest come alive. The valley below was dominated by Uslan’s camp, but the woods beyond had been comparatively quiet, other than the invaders foraging for firewood and game. That was no longer the case.
As the Black Robe raised his staff, the horn was blown. Immediately, lights began appearing in the dark woods, just pinpricks of illumination from this distance, but they multiplied quickly... and almost endlessly. Vytaus watched in awe as what must have been tens of thousands of torches were lit, appearing as a rippling wave of color against the backdrop of the gloaming hour. Then, the very forest seemed to be moving as these previously hidden forces marched forward.
He looked back to the old man, whom he had thought perhap a doddering fool, to find a triumphant smile beaming back at him. This had all been a stratagem, he realized. The seemingly endless delay with no attack had been but a cover, perhaps to wait for the arrival of this huge army, and his raising of the staff was a prearranged signal. Vytaus had been outmaneuvered.
He was not the only one noticing this new danger, the yelling of the lookouts reaching his ears as he looked at the old man before him. “I could kill you now!” he threatened. “There’s no one down there who could reach us in time to save you!“
The Black Robe only laughed at that, and the sound of his mirth was almost enough to turn Vytaus’s stomach. “Do what thy will, Chieftain,” he goaded, yelling both to be heard above the increasing sounds of alarm and perhaps in triumph. “If thou believeth your worldly weapon may touch me, then strike! Do I look afraid?!”
Whatever this man was, he was much more than Vytaus had given him credit for and seemingly deserved his fearful reputation. Whether a practitioner of dark magics or simply a madman, he had outfoxed Vytaus. Even as he held him in his power, he hesitated to cut him down, unsure if what he was feeling was simple indecision or genuine fear that his blade truly would have no effect.
“Dost thou see now? It is just as I saw it,” the old man was capering, still held fast in the larger man’s grasp. He obviously had no fear, whether that was from madness or true power. Vytaus was struggling to process it all. Belios was yelling in alarm, entreating his father to kill the old man and retreat back behind the walls of the fort with him. The lookouts were yelling to alert the warriors within of the threat just presenting itself. Vytaus was himself frantically trying to think of his next move, now that he seemed cornered. And, over all of that, the old man was still laughing maniacally.
“It is not as you saw it!” he somehow found the presence of mind to proclaim. “You said you saw me open my gates freely, and I will never do that! We will fight!” He was doing his best to project strength and confidence, all the while feeling none of it in his heart, and hoping that fact remained hidden.
&
nbsp; “Nay, Chieftain,” the mad laughter abruptly stopped as he responded, almost taking on an air of empathy as he continued. “It is a chieftain’s duty to look to the safety of his people. Is that not what thy hath always told thy pups?”
That confused Vytaus, until he realized that those were his own words being repeated back to him. Only this man had not been present when he said them. That was, in fact, a lesson he had often tried to teach both of his sons, but how things said in private between a father and his boys could be known by an outsider was a thing beyond his reckoning.
“What? How?” He was shaking his head, trying to make sense of things impossible for a mortal man to fathom. His mind was racing, trying to think of a way clear of the danger just presenting itself as well as quarreling with his own innate sense of what was and wasn’t possible. And all the while, he held that which he had believed impossible in his own two hands with it staring him in the face.
All of that would need to wait, however. What was pressing just now was the hostile army standing against his people. “Whose men are those? Uslan does not command so many!”
At that, the old man seemed to take even more pleasure, though he feigned a softer stance. All false pleasantry, he corrected Vytaus, “Oh, Chieftain, thou art mistaken.” Then, his face twisted, revealing the viciousness within as he yelled, “Those are not men!”
He shook his head yet again, trying to make sense of what was being said, when suddenly the realization struck him as though he were doused with cold water. He looked again at those distant figures coming out of the woods—at their disorganized movements and lack of discipline—then back into the face of the old man, who was smiling that triumphant smile again. The look on his face told the truth of it, once and for all.
“The Vile Ones,” he muttered, lost again in frantic thought. His focus was no longer on the Black Robe, despite still holding him fast. All he was thinking of was the new enemy quickly filling the valley below, moving more like a herd of vicious animals than soldiers.
His attention snapped back quickly, though, as the old bastard cackled again. “That is what thy kind calls them, aye, but I simply call them mine!”
It was in that instant that Vytaus realized he was lost. There was no chance of his people actually standing against such a huge force, nor even likely surviving the night. That would be true, even were it men coming against them as opposed to little better than animals—orcs and goblins of the northern wastes. At least with men, there was the possibility of an honorable death or even negotiation; but with these, there would be only slaughter.
Suddenly, his mind was flooded with old stories handed down. First, tales told from parent to child to keep them in line. Then, later, warnings never to travel in the hills alone. Stories of villages sacked, the inhabitants murdered or carried off. Everything destroyed. Whole clans wiped out. Rumors of bloody sacrifices to dark gods, unknown to man.
“They do my bidding,” the Black Robe was saying, “and to thee they can be thy allies or thy ruin. It is for thou to choose, but I have already seen thy choice. Open thy gates, Vytaus of the People of the Elk, and welcome me and mine. Elsewise, thy people will die in agony, their memory scattered on the wind with the ashes from their stinking bodies! Choose!”
For the first time in his life, Vytaus did not know what to do. He had always been strong and decisive; where other men waffled, he simply moved forward, instinctively understanding that ambivalence engenders doubt and a strong leader must always be resolute. He simply could not see a path forward that allowed for both strength as well as fulfilling his sacred duty to safeguard his people, and that uncertainty held his heart like a vice.
His mind was flooded by images of chaos and violence, fire and blood and screams. Faces of people he had known most of his life—some of them children he had known since birth—flashed before his mind’s eye, invariably contorting into agonized death masks. How could he allow such atrocities to occur? Would his ancestors welcome him in the next life or turn their faces away from him in shame for his failure? As those thoughts were still running through his mind, he heard himself give the command: “Open the gates.”
His voice sounded strange in his own ears, much weaker and much more unsure. In truth, he hadn’t even realized what he was going to say until after the words left his lips, hearing it almost like a bystander himself. He immediately understood, though, that it was what he must do. It was not the right choice; it was simply the only choice available.
There was a moment of confused silence as Vytaus released his hold on the old man. It was not truly silent, of course, because the warriors atop the walls were still making ready for battle, but Belios had abruptly ceased his own yelling. He stood dumbfounded, doubting his own ears.
“What?”
“You heard me, boy. Tell them to open the gates.”
Still not sure what was happening, Belios asked, “Are we taking him prisoner?“
“No,“ answered his father. “We are making peace.“
Again, Belios hesitated. “But, Father,” he began haltingly, “surely you cannot mean…”
Vytaus interrupted by suddenly rounding on the boy. They stood there, face-to-face, a father looking down at his eldest son. He was still taller than the stout man-boy, and for that he was grateful. He needed to intimidate him into keeping quiet and doing as he was told, if they were to survive.
“You heard my command,” he said with as much menace as he could muster. “It is not for you to question but to obey! Now, go and carry out my will!”
And so it was that, an hour later, they stood before the longhouse of their people, preparing to receive those whom they would never have chosen as guests. Every warrior within the fort lined the approach from the main gates, forming a human corridor. Vytaus had ordered this as both a display of fearlessness as well as to shield the women and children from having to look upon the Vile Ones. He knew it was an empty gesture, since they would surely become a presence within the community from here on, but he was at the point of grasping for whatever power he might still exert in a moment of powerlessness that felt so alien to him.
Another reason the gesture was mostly futile was that it was toothless; none of his warriors were armed. Convincing such proud men to put aside their blades and drink the bitter ale of surrender had taken some doing, but luckily his authority over them held even in such shameful circumstances. He simply could not run the risk of someone being hotheaded in such a tense moment and getting them all killed.
Vytaus squinted to make out details from where the party they must suffer to welcome gathered just outside the open gates. “Looks like just a few,” he said. He could not see much, but he could make out several tall figures wearing their hair in tribal topknots, marking them as leaders or shamans.
That they would only be forced to suffer the company of a limited number was a blessing, even if only a small one. Vytaus knew that fortune would not hold. If the stories were to be believed, communities falling under the sway of the Black Robe were occupied territories in all but name. That was how he maintained his power: invasion under the guise of protection.
His eldest son stood at his right hand, having said not a word since the gates were opened. His youngest still had not returned from his errand, and Vytaus could only hope he was safe. He looked at his son thoughtfully for a moment, at the stiffness in his posture and the way he seemed unwilling to look at his father, then said, “I know you’re angry, but there was no choice.”
In response, Belios surprised him by almost laughing, but it was all bitterness. “Aye, I’m angry. And ashamed. Ashamed of you.”
Vytaus could not fault him for feeling that way, and so he chose to ignore the slight that would normally require the back of his hand as correction. The Wodonni rarely took prisoners in battle, because a prisoner must needs be fed, and so the idea of surrender was anathema. It was a dishonor, to be sure, but one he would have to bear in order to save his people. So, instead of knocking the boy flat o
n his arse, Vytaus tried to reason with him: “Son—“
“Don’t waste your wind, Father,” the boy interrupted, “No words will change anything now. Your words have already made slaves of us all.”
There would be no reasoning with the youngster until he cooled down, and frankly Vytaus was already angry enough himself that he was tiring of the additional abuse. Fighting to control his own temper, he rounded on Belios and spoke in a low, harsh tone, “If that is how you feel, then go to your own lodge. I will handle this ceremony myself.”
Despite the bitterness already between them, he could tell that stung the boy. As the eldest son of the chieftain, Belios’s place was at his side during official functions like this. Being dismissed in such a way was a slap in the face, and it had not been expected.
Good, his father thought to himself. Maybe that shock will set his mind right. Either way, there would be plenty of time to repair that relationship later, seeing as how they would be alive. That was what he would ultimately have to make the boy—and all of the others—understand; being alive meant there would be time to set all things right. That was what he had purchased with his surrender, and so he straightened his tunic and stood up straight to go and make a good show of being conquered.
Chapter Seventeen
“The Common Man”
The night sky hid the smoke and distance muffled the screams of the dying, but Ansel Wood could still taste the burning on the night air.
Normally, the plume of gray smoke rising from the burning village would be visible at least as a section of the sky where the stars were blotted out. This night was overcast, however, and to Ansel that felt like a blessing. Temple teachings told of how the stars were the souls of those who had died and gone on to a great reward in the heavens, their spirits returning to the primordial womb to decorate the night sky and watch over their loved ones, but Ansel was thankful his ancestors weren’t able to see this night. He knew they would only be disappointed in him.
