The Tribesman and the Tyrant: Kliran's Exodus
The Twelfth Day of the Seventh Moon, 1470 BD.
Aedyrn's Hill, Central Licotemos, Klironomea.
So it had all come down to this. They had given the Skraelings a good fight, but they had still lost. Now it seemed that the Kings of the Skraeling Greatmoot wanted to make sure they were eradicated completely, and indoctrinated into Skraeling customs.
They hadn't been willing to accept that.
Now was to be a time of leaving for his people, for Kliran's Folk. They came out of their homes and steads and joined the ever growing column of their people bound south-eastwards, away from the danger of their neighbours, and for each village and hamlet they passed Kliran knew that they'd find the column growing larger and larger as people came to him, to the column, for safety and the promise of a better life.
It only stung that such a course meant abandoning their homeland first.
The walls of his home seemed strong to him, even from here, but he knew they would not be enough. He'd seen the strength of arms that the Skraelings could bring to bear, and though it stung to admit it he knew that there was little chance for his people to defeat them on the field of battle. His people were strong, and were renowned for their skill with the sling, the javelin, and the horse, but they could not stand against the tens of thousands of baying warriors that the Skraeling kings could call upon. Kliran's Folk had not been united enough, and the northern and westernmost tribes had been utterly wiped out before the rest of them had stopped their squabbling. Dragonsgrave and Aenira had both fallen victim to the conquerors in less than a year; two of the largest settlements of Kliran's Folk, gone in a half-score of moons.
They needed to leave. Home wasn't safe for them anymore.
He stood there, staring back at the walls of the once-thriving market town that had been one of many that his people had lived in, back towards Casteldala, Aenira, and Anaria, and then Kliran turned and looked away. He turned from the home his people had always known, and with a weary sigh set his sights east instead; their time of exile had begun.
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Their march was a long one, and fraught with dangers. Even still, the threats that lay ahead of them were as nothing to the threats that remained behind them, and so they marched on. For months they marched, a column of all those who could walk and a few who couldn't, a column of carts and haversacks containing everything people could carry with them, a column of livestock and hawks and hounds brought by those who'd lived amongst the animals and kept them for their own. Their entire culture was on the move, forced from the lands that they called home by jealous and arrogant neighbours.
They'd have their own back on the Skraelings one day. One day.
"Kliran!"
He turned to look at the man who had shouted his name.
"Ingred. What's happening now?"
"Direwolves are tracking the weak again, Kliran. Nesters watching 'em from the trees as well."
He sighed, resigned to this fate. The Umbra were ever the bane of man, and to them a heaving mass of humanity so large and vulnerable as this must have been enticing.
"Make sure the torches are doused; fire carries knowledge to their bestial minds. They'll not be afraid without the fires, but at least we won't need to track them down on a wild chase far from the column. Draw up as many warriors as you can on horseback, slings and spears ready."
The man banged a fist against his chest in a gesture of respect, then moved to go find the warriors required to defend yet another section of the column.
He wasn't surprised that they seemed to be under almost constant attack from the Umbra. Their Skraeling neighbours sought to wipe them out with bronze and fire, mother nature herself sought to wipe them out with the cold and the rain, and the Umbra sought to wipe them out with tooth and claw. Well, all of them had failed so far. Even when survival had meant uprooting their entire culture and abandoning their homelands to find a place to make a new home, they had been unwilling to surrender themselves to oblivion no matter the best efforts of everyone and everything around them.
Kliran's Folk would survive. He swore it.
He dug his heels into the sides of his horse and stirred it onwards, towards the area under threat. He foresaw no real issue coming from the Nesters nearby, since they would do little more than gulp up the human carrion that fell behind the main column, but the Direwolves were indeed a true threat to be dealt with.
He rode his horse down the line and gathered with a few more men who had doubtless managed to understand that there was yet another raid from direwolves on their lines, and linked up with Ingred's boys.
"Kliran. I've got the men together; give the word and we'll charge the monsters head on."
He shook his head and loosened the sling from its place by his side.
"Circle them. Use javelins and slings. Spears are for when they're injured and dying."
Ingred grumbled a little at the call for restraint, but set his spear across his back and hefted a javelin nonetheless. Ingred was a warrior, forever wanting for glory and the thrill of the fight, but the survival of their people came first at the moment. All of them would fight without honour, without glory, and without pity. It didn't matter who or what they were fighting, for their current exodus had taught them one thing very well: better to keep your people alive than to have them lose their lives 'gloriously'. There was no glory to be found in the death of their entire way of life, not at all. If survival meant that they had to show restraint then they would do that. If it meant that they had to slaughter the meek, then they would do that too.
If they had to become no better than the Skraelings and force another people from their homes to ensure survival then he would see to it without hesitation or pity. He couldn't afford to show remorse, not when it was the lives of all his people on the line.
"Where are they?"
"Northwest, Kliran. Half a mile or so. If we ride now we can arrive before the creatures make their attack and strike first."
Kliran nodded, and gripped at the reins of his mount with his left hand.
"Lead the way, Ingred. How old were they?"
"Couldn't have been more than pups, Kliran. No taller than a man on horseback, no larger in build than a bear. They must be more pups."
He hummed to himself.
"The mother still shadowing us without showing herself, is she?"
Ingred nodded.
"If we were lucky she'd strike forwards herself and give us a shot at killing her. That would make for a fine story and song."
Kliran smiled a little and shook his head. Some men you just couldn't change.
"She'd not be so foolish. There's a reason she's lived so long, and killed so many. Firetouched, she is. She knows that every man she kills either means prey avoid the area going forwards or that more men, prepared and with blades of bronze, will soon be after her. She can afford to wait and let her children kill themselves on our spears. Still, in better times I'd agree with you."
Ingred nodded.
"In better times. Heh, feels like better times might be a long way off for us now. A very long way off."
"No time for that now, Ingred. They're here."
The baying and howling of direwolves came from the treeline, though the column didn't seem panicked by this. If anything the wretches that formed the column were so tired and weary of life that they just continued trudging forwards. Most didn't even turn to look at the howling, save the few dogs that loped alongside the column in a protective manner.
Kliran stirred his horse into a canter and began to move forwards, gradually moving into a gallop. The men around him did the same, javelins and slings in hand. A pair of direwolves burst forwards from the trees perhaps two-hundred metres away, their path putting them in the way of Kliran's men and allowing them to flank the beasts.
As if sensing the danger the direwolves turned, another of their siblings bounding forth from the forest, and made to meet the horsemen head-on.
The men did not allow themselves to be cornered, however. Instead Kliran dropped a sizable polished stone into his sling, swung it around his head with his right hand as his left gripped the reins of his saddle, and slung the projectile towards the first of the monsters at great speed.
His men did the same, throwing and slinging their weapons at the beasts before wheeling their horses around and splitting from each other, ensuring that not one of them was close enough to ever be caught by the beast but that they were always able to cover each other's movements.
There were a few howls of pain or annoyance from the three direwolves, who continued to chase down the men on horseback with seemingly little regard for the defenceless masses not more than an acre from them. Their howls and snarls were only stopped when, calmly, a forth direwolf sibling stepped out into the open and growled out a low challenge.
The three others proverbially fell in line, breaking off their attack and joining with the newcomer. This direwolf had jet-black fur, and was noticeably bigger than the other three. Not big enough to have been an adult, but it was certainly an adolescent.
It mattered not to Kliran. He and his men would just need to cycle their charges towards these beasts a few more times, trust in their horses to keep them out of harms way, and trust in their strength of arms to kill off a few more of the monsters that had harried mankind since time immemorial. Some things, some duties, never changed.
He dropped another stone in the sling and manoeuvred himself and his mount so that they might weave between two of the beasts on their second run through, trusting in his sling to see him to victory. The sling and the javelin had ever been the weapons of his people, their skill at range earning them tolerance if not respect from the more 'professional' and 'civilised' armies of the southern men, and it certainly was still enough to protect them from these whelps born from the shadows of mankind's fears.
Once, twice, three more times did the polished stones find their marks. With two stones he struck the head of the leading member of the pack, a grey-furred mutt that was more bones than muscle. Both times did the impact disorient the beast and cause it to stumble, and as he rode at it head on to release the third stone he struck the creature in its front-right knee.
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There was the splintering of bone as the stone found its mark, causing the pup to yelp in pain and crumble to the floor mid-run, almost inadvertently sweeping the legs out from under Kliran's horse as he rode on.
With a few moments to react he veered to the left, having focused on the leading pup for so long he'd neglected to look for its brethren. One of the other grey-haired curs was approaching rapidly from his right, staved off at the last moment only by the three javelins launched at him from his hunting compatriots. One missed, embedding itself in the soil beneath the creature, but the other two struck it in the shoulder and neck respectively.
Kliran barely caught the laughter of Ingred as the man rode past, the man having thrown the javelin that struck the neck of the second wolf, but he didn't catch whoever it was that had thrown the other two javelins. Ah well, it wasn't like he was actually missing anything. A shame he didn't know who to congratulate, that was all.
He rode on for the rest of the fight, circling the remaining direwolves and staying out of their reach the entire time. His men did the same, and none had yet found themselves falling prey to the creature.
He didn't see when the third grey direwolf pup went down, but at some point a few of the fifty-or-so men fighting with him had been able to take it down and leave it immobile. It could have been dead actually, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't close enough to tell.
After that it had just been the black-pelted adolescent. The beast had been fearsome, yes, but not insurmountable. It hadn't been able to handle having its attention split, for despite being fearsome pack hunters direwolves didn't do too well being put on the other end of a pack-hunting species. A few javelins, a few sling-stones, ten minutes of running around in circles, and the fucker was down.
He trotted his horse over to the creature, still snarling with spittle around its mouth, almost lazily. The creature wasn't going anywhere, not with the amount of blood it had lost.
Kliran dismounted his horse and handed the reigns over to Ingred, who had ridden back alongside him, and pulled thespear from its holder across his back. With one last thrust Kliran brought the head of the spear down atop the skull of the final remaining beast, which writhed for a moment and then went still. The fighting was over, for today at least.
He let go of the weapon, leaving it lodged in the creature's head, and stretched his back and arms. Gods, he still enjoyed this. He gave a quick prayer to the Jackdaw, god of hunting amongst other things, for his success today.
It seemed odd that the Jackdaw should be coming to the fore of the pantheon for them again. Once, before their tribe had settled in villages and tended to farms and livestock, their people had relied upon the Jackdaw more than any of the other gods. As time wore on and civilisation established itself the Jackdaw had become less prominent when compared to the other gods, but now Kliran's Folk called on him again.
Indeed, it seemed that everyone, even those who did not fight Umbra or Skraelings, called upon the Jackdaw. They did not call on the Jackdaw as a god of the hunt as the warriors did though, for the Jackdaw was the god of not one but three things: the hunt, murder, and survival. There were few who would call upon the aspect of the murder-god, but he would not have been surprised to learn that some had given the Jackdaw prayers in that aspect so that hated rivals or Skraeling heroes might find themselves meeting an ignoble end sooner rather than later.
As for the aspect of survival, well, that felt pretty obvious.
"Get the butchers over," Kliran shouted over his shoulder, "furriers as well. There's plenty of meat and fur to be had here."
"Keep the bones as well," Old Konner shouted from next to him, "we'll need to feed as many as we can with this hunt."
Kliran nodded at the man. What little they all didn't eat would be gnawed on by the dogs, but right now they needed as much food as possible. That was the trouble with moving so many people at once; there was no way you could just live off of the land with that many people moving through the same area. By the time the middle of the column reached a spot the front of it would have already taken the best of the food, and by the time the stragglers made it the land would have been stripped bare.
No, they needed to ensure that they used anything they could to feed and clothe their people, even if it meant hunting the very monsters that haunted the dreams of the southmen and had once been the bane of his people as well. It was said by the druids that to consume the flesh of the Umbra was to invite daemons into one's mind, to become a monster yourself, but there was no choice here at the moment.
Kliran's folk were well versed in fighting monsters, but he hoped they were just as capable of staving off the monsters of the mind lest they corrupt his people to become true monsters themselves.
"You're brooding again, Kliran."
He snapped out of his thoughts and turned to face Ingred, the larger man's truly impressive facial hair rustling a little as his lip upturned in a slight smile.
"Caught me again, Ingred. I was thinking, that's all."
Ingred scoffed.
"You do too much of that. Always 'thinking', you are."
"Somebody has to." His response was sharp, but not clipped or terse. "These are my people now, Ingred. You're a warrior, not a leader. You don't need to think, you need to act. That's a valuable role to play, and I'm glad that you're there to play it, but I can't just be the warrior you are. I need to lead my people to safety, and that means planning. It means mapping routes, scouting ahead, keeping an eye on the Skraelings who are doubtless trying to catch us, working out where the next source of food or fresh water is going to come from.
"I need to understand how to stop sickness and disease from spreading through the column like wildfire, I need to understand and plan a place for us to stay at the end of all of this, and most of all I need to understand how to keep our people alive.
"I need to think, Ingred. I don't have a choice in the matter."
The warrior patted him on the shoulder in a gesture of consolation and understanding.
"Better you than me, friend. Better you than anyone else I know. You were destined to bring together Kliran's Folk under one banner in order to keep our way of life alive. We will not be Skraelings, brother. We will not become yet more of Skraella's Folk. No, we are Kliran's Folk, and Kliran's Folk we will remain for a thousand years thanks to your actions."
He nodded, appreciative of the words but not quite mollified by them.
"A shame the cost was so high for us to get here."
"None enjoy leaving their homes behind, Kliran."
"That's not what I meant. Dragonsgrave. Aenira. Haestingha. The lands of our westernmost cousins, those now fled or butchered, before we'd even stopped fighting amongst ourselves."
"The follies of our fathers haunt us still, that is true, but you aren't giving our people enough credit for the here and now. Every Kliran chieftain, every self-proclaimed king, all have seen the way the winds were blowing and bowed down to you. I mean, look at the two of us! Our fathers and our father's-fathers fought each other for decades, and yet here we are now. You lead us, all of us, because we know that to continue fighting amongst each other is folly.
"You lead us because we know that you're the best of us. Because we know that, no matter how much me and the others might joke otherwise, we need a thinker at the helm. We need a man who can actually plan for the future, can look at all the difficulties and issues with every course, and tell us what to do. Tell us why we need to do it. We need men like you in charge, not people like me or Old Konner or Wulfhelm. We're all fighters, and good ones at that, but we wouldn't have been able to get us this far. We'd have stayed and fought, and we'd all have died.
"Kliran's Folk would have died with us, even if we'd united between ourselves. But because you united us, we actually stand a chance of survival. We will survive, because of you. Think on that, brother of my kin. You got us this far, and you'll get us further yet."
He smiled, and turned back to face the column. To one side he watched as a team of hunters, butchers, and furriers carefully took the corpses of the four beasts apart, and raised his voice down to them.
"I'll have a new set of furs out of that one. The adolescent. Black furs and the head for me, black furs for the rest of the former chiefs."
A man down by the corpses made a gesture that suggested he'd heard, and Kliran couldn't stop an almost wolfish grin of his own from forming. He had an idea of where he was going to lead his people now, a place he knew from traders had always been in need of soldiers and workers. It might not have been a place where his people would live without a yoke about their necks, but it was at least somewhere that they could bide their time and keep their traditions and culture alive.
It was time to head to the city of the gods. It was time to make for Aegos.
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Well, here they were. Aegos. Well, they weren't actually in Aegos yet, but they were in the Aegan Empire at least. He'd treated with a few envoys of the Tyrant, Aegaed Arcander, and they had brought his people rudimentary shelter to keep the worst of the elements off of them as they waited some fifty miles from Aegos itself for the Tyrant to meet with him and pass his judgement.
The Tyrant was here now, and Kliran prayed to all the gods that he would convince the man to let them in. They'd lost their homelands and many thousands of good folk to get here, and if they were turned away they'd lose thousands more. They needed to be accepted here.
There were tents as far as the eye could see, tents to house hundreds of thousands of people. Their provisions were running low, their coin even lower, and their shelter was ragged. It didn't matter. If they could just succeed here, if they could just be accepted, then this would all have been worth it.
"Tribal leader, the Tyrant Aegead Arcander asks you to present yourself before him outside of the camp. Alone."
Kliran swallowed hard and prayed once more. He felt Ingred's hand pat him on the back, saw the looks of sadness and hope that Old Konner and Wulfstan sent him, and left to meet with the tyrant. He wore a band of bronze around his head and the cloak made from the pelt and head of the black direwolf he had slain on his way here about his shoulders and back. He was, in effect, wearing the finest he could wear. Broaches and rings of bronze too, all of it. He needed to look impressive for the Tyrant.
When he arrived before the man he knelt, as he had been told to, and awaited the command to speak.
"The tribal leader my advisors have told me about. Normally when a horde of barbaroi come this far inland they are dispersed by my legions before now, but your people showed great restraint on their way here. They purchased their food with coin, they did not raid, they did not cause harm. Indeed, the arrival of your people has given me a great deal of cash already.
"However I sense that you come here to ask something of me. To request that you can stay here. Yes, there's no need to look so surprised; Aegos has eyes everywhere, tribal leader. I know what has happened to your people. Come now, speak, tell me what you would ask of the most vaunted and magnanimous Tyrant of the Aegan Empire."
Kliran swallowed hard once again, and rose to his feet at a languid gesture of the man's hand.
"I come here to ask for my people's safety, mighty Tyrant. We flee the destruction of our people at the hands of Skraella's Folk, and I would give anything to you if you would accept us in as a free people."
The Tyrant's eyebrow raised upwards, suggesting mild incredulity.
"It is customary for barbaroi to be enslaved in Aegos, tribal leader. And yet, I think we may be able to come to an agreement here.
"Your people are renowned for their skill at range, striking down foes from afar. Similarly your best warriors are renowned for their not inconsiderable skill on horseback. Supposing your people were to be taken in as soldiers of the Aegan Empire, to fight in its wars under a leader of their own kind who would in turn answer only to me, it might be possible to forgo enslavement."
Kliran bowed his head deeply in a gesture of supplication.
"My people would be honoured to fight alongside the legions of Aegos as free men, Tyrant. All that we would ask is the freedom to continue practicing our own culture as an equal to the people of this city whilst loyally serving you and your sons, and a place to live together.
The Tyrant grinned his wicked grin, nodding himself in turn.
"Yes, I think we can draw up an expansion of the city beyond the walls for your kind to inhabit. You know my terms however, tribal leader. Military service for your people in exchange for being allowed to keep to your own customs and gods. Absolute loyalty in exchange for freedom from the chains."
Kliran nodded, and the man proffered a hand which held a gold ring atop the finger. Without a word Kliran knelt and, without making eye contact with the man, pressed a kiss to the ruby-set golden band.
"Then it is done. Your oaths will be taken before the day is over, and your people will find themselves a new home here as the guards of the empire. And if one day your service should find you set against those who pushed you from your homelands... well, I'm certain you wouldn't object, would you?"
Kliran remained where he knelt.
"We would be honoured to serve, Tyrant."
"That is what I thought you'd say." The man's smile was audible in his voice, and Kliran didn't need to look up to picture the smug grin he was wearing. "You need a new title I think, tribal leader. Your kind know little of the intricate governmental positions we civilised people utilise, however I did hear them generalising a great many titles down into one word: 'Maestro'. If that is the word that your people believe should fit a leader that governs under the banner of Aegos then it seems fitting that their own leader should be granted such a title, no?"
Kliran swallowed hard.
"You honour me, Tyrant Aegead."
"I know," came the reply, "now rise, Maestro Kliran. Rise, and take your place as the loyal watchdog of the Aegan Empire. There are many things to be done before your people can be said to live here truly, after all."
He rose to his feet and nodded stiffly.
"Yes, Tyrant. My people will start their work immediately."
He bit down his distaste at the knowledge that his people would now serve in the armies of another. If this was the only way forwards for Kliran's Folk, the only way to ensure their safety and continued existence, then it was what they would do.
Their pride was as nothing compared to the threat of oblivion.