The Tribesman and the Tyrant: Kliran's Return
The Seventeenth Day of the Sixth Moon, 347BD.
Aegos, Aegan Hills, Dathan.
Godwyn sighed as he watched them lay his father to rest. Poor, poor August. The man who should have led them all back home. The man had been so certain that the war would end within his lifetime that its continuation had come as a genuine surprise to him, seemingly at least.
Well, Godwyn was in charge of the Klironomoi now. Godwyn Horaxe was going to lead his people home, and damn the Imperator.
He'd heard a few of his men singing a popular marching song amongst his people, the 'Kliran Bodyguard's Song', and for perhaps the first time he'd actually listened to and taken in the words.
There were better times before this,
One, two, three.
For at least we had a homeland,
One, two, three.
Before we see those good times again,
Our great-grandsons shall long be dead so,
One, two, one, two, three.
That had been the truth for so long, hadn't it? they'd stayed here, serving a foreign ruler for so long, that there wasn't a single one of them whose grandparent could remember a time when they were truly free.
The Tyrant's men, we're paid with bread,
One, two, three.
A loaf to feed a dozen soldiers,
One, two, three.
Thrice a day you'll earn some thin soup,
And you'll live your life on that so,
One, two, one, two, three.
Again, it was the truth. They were paid a pittance, and had lived their lives in shanty-towns and slums if they weren't in a barracks. There was no expectation that they might contribute to any fields of theology or philosophy, only that they work as craftsmen and soldiers. That was to be their lot in Aegos.
Only, was that really all his people could be? Of course not. That was all they were allowed to be. They could be so much more, if only they were given the chance.
If only they would take that chance.
But then he supposed that circumstances hadn't really been conductive for a return home within the lifetimes of the last few generations; the Silence had only just receded from the world after all, and to try and return home with a column of civilians and possessions amidst the chaos and the daemons would have been suicidal and foolhardy.
Now that the Silence was receding it seemed that such constraints were no longer an issue.
Compelling as such thoughts may have been, it had been the last part of the song that had really hammered home for him the fact that he needed to get his people to leave here at last. The rest of the song had been little more than a jovial lament at their living conditions and their history, but the last verse had really solidified in his mind that their poor conditions and hope to go home really had just been a tool used by the Imperators and the Tyrants before them to ensure that the Klironomeans had stayed as their loyal hounds.
Each morning we are drilled by southmen,
One, two, three.
The Tyrant makes us speak in Aegan,
One, Two, Three.
They promise us freedom in Kliran,
That's how they convince us to stay,
One, two, one, two, three!
And that was just it, wasn't it? Drilled by southern men who saw them as disposable and barbaric, having their culture diluted by that of Aegos despite all promises to the contrary because in all honesty there was bound to be some level of cultural pollination after having lived here for so long, and then they would be told that their loyal service would be rewarded with assistance in taking their homeland back if they would only wait a little while longer.
Well, he was done waiting. His people were done with waiting. They were to leave as soon as he gave the order, no matter what anyone said.
----------------------------------------
He'd stayed awake all through that night, as had what seemed to be most of the city. Indeed, perhaps the remaining world was awake all through the night, for all knew that tonight was something special. Different.
When tonight ended, then they would see the sun without shade or ash blocking it for the first time in a very, very long time. Indeed, he was almost certain that the sun had not shone bright and clear since before he was born. He was excited, and perhaps even a little anxious, for what it was to come. For what the setting of the darkened moon and the rising of the cool winds was to mean.
It meant war. Not a war for survival or for the continuation of humanity, but a war for baser things. A war fought for those things that humanity had squabbled amongst themselves for for so long. It meant a war not fought with the unity of mankind against those who dwelled in the darkened and blackened places of this world, but against the unity of mankind for the sole purpose of carving out their own realms in the new world.
The Terraneans had done it with their uniting and expanding across Tildan and Dathan, so why shouldn't the Klironomoi as well?
Of course, there were some that said now was the perfect time for mankind to truly unite as one and let the wars of yesteryear be forgotten. To allow all humans to come together under one roof and heal the scars on the world. They called for greed to be forgotten, and for violence to be a thing of the past.
Indeed, now might have been the perfect time for that. If all the leaders of the world who still remained could be persuaded to set aside ambition, then the coming years would be filled with peace and celebration.
But did humanity care about any of that? Did her leaders? Did Godwyn?
No. He cared about his people, and about going home. He cared about building a kingdom, and empire, in which his people would live freely at their lord's commands. He cared about avenging the First Saint, the son of the carpenter who had led humanity to its victories against the Silence in the northern continent and who was subsequently hanged by the Skraelings for blaspheming against the gods, gods that Godwyn's own people had once held to.
But what had the Corvid gods given the Klironomeans? Had they helped the ancient Kliran tribes defeat the Skraeling invaders, or protected them as they fled to Aegos in their exodus? Had they granted them strength enough to turn away from the bosom of the Imperators and head home, or honour enough to free those slaves that raised their arms against the Tyrants? Had the Raven heard their calls for war, the Owl their cries for mercy and for wisdom, the Crow their pleas for salvation?
No. No, they had not. But the First Saint had struck down the Silence as it seemed unstoppable, had turned back the tide of foulness and death that had rampaged across the continent.
The First Saint had been a man whom the Klironomeans could follow. His cult had spread like wildfire across the Klironomean populations of Aegos, and when the blessed Saint's mother had preached the words of his divinity, the Klironomoi had listened. When the blessed Saint had been hanged in the streets of Aegos by Skraeling forces invited in for the victory parade by the Imperator, they had been incensed. When she was crucified afterwards, they had wished for nothing more than to intervene. The Imperator had kept them tethered, and called their beliefs foolish.
Well, that was the end of it. That was what had made him march his way to the Imperator, and demand an audience. Not request one, as every Maestro was supposed to do. He demanded one.
The Imperator had been a man grown when Godwyn's father had first led their people. A young man, but a man nonetheless. Given the fact that the Terranean armies were marching from the Tildan Peninsula and across Dathan, it seemed as though he might be the last Imperator of the Aegan Empire.
The Klironomoi had led the Aegan Legions to victory over the first of the Terranean forces arrayed against Aegos already, but there would undoubtedly be many more to come. The ancient powers of antiquity were melting away, and younger powers were taking their place. The Terraneans were one, and it was his duty as the leader of his people to ensure that the Kliran were another.
He stormed into the grand halls of the Aegan Imperator, a certainty set across his face and in his mind that he had not felt since long before his father had died.
"Maestro," the smarmy man said as a servant pressed a goblet of wine into his hands, "it seems you have forgotten your sense of propriety."
Godwyn pushed the goblet back into the hands of the servant. He didn't drink anything stronger than small beer, since he always found that it tended to impede on his decision making. That wasn't something he was going to allow to happen to him, not with how he'd seen some of his men end up after drinking too much for far too long.
Instead he simply continued walking forwards, towards the Imperator, ignoring all the unspoken rules around such a convention. You were not supposed to approach the Imperator unless you were summoned to him.
"You seem to lack your father's sense of understanding for traditions, boy. Be thankful I am not as cruel as my own father was in the face of such insults."
Godwyn stilled his hands, which at some point had balled into fists and begun shaking, as he spoke in as level a tone as he could manage to the man who was supposed to be his Imperator.
"You invited the hated enemies of my people into the city. You allow them to hang the divine. For a thousand years our people have been your loyal subjects, have kept your family in power. For a thousand years we have weathered the demands and whims of the Tyrants and an indifference that has bordered on criminal from the Imperators. We have served loyally.
"But we can't. Not anymore. Not since you invited those barbarians into our homes and bid us break bread with them whilst they mocked and derided our misfortunes. Not since we were made to stand by and watch whilst the most revered Saint was hanged. We will not stand for this anymore, Imperator. Not any more."
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The Imperator, for his part, stood there with that same smile on his face. Even though Godwyn had closed the distance across the room and was now mere inches from the man's face, he still wore the same smarmy, condescending smile as he always did.
"Well, never let it be said that I am not magnanimous. Your people are free to leave, if they so choose. They can return to a land almost completely razed and salted by war, and try to eke out a miserable existence between famines and diseases. They can go home to a land that has not known them for more than a thousand years, a land in which their enemies have ruled with a millennia in which to entrench themselves and their culture, and see how they fare.
"Or they can stay here, in Aegos. In the cities of the Aegan Empire. They can stay here, where their districts and towns shall be rebuilt with modern amenities and a greater standard of living, free from famine, where they will be able to assist the Aegan Empire in launching an invasion of their homelands in the future with the security of knowing that they will have other homes to return back to if needs be and the wars go ill.
"It's your choice, Maestro Horaxe. It's your people who will perish for this damnable crusade of your fathers."
Godwyn turned away a little, but then steeled himself. He couldn't let the man convince him to stay, not when all of the promises from the mouths of all of the Imperators were and always had been empty.
"Your forefathers have talked for a thousand years of conquering Klironomea and allowing us to resettle in our homelands. One thousand years have passed, and to date only the lands surrounding Tyranopolis were claimed. Your kind have had their time to act on their end of the deal, just as my kind have always upheld ours; we were the loyal hounds to be let loose on your enemies, and nothing more. We are done being the middlemen of empires, Imperator Aegead Agamemnax. The Klironomoi are yours to command no longer."
The Imperator's face flushed a bright red for a moment, but then it was gone and the man's mask was back on. The Imperator turned to walk away and waved dismissively at him.
"On your way then, 'Son of Kliran'. I hope your people have more sense than you do and reject your rank madness for what it is, but I don't hold out much hope. Your people always have given too much weight to ancient hatreds. Leave Aegos, and attempt to reclaim your homeland. Abandon Aegos when it needs you the most. Abandon us when the Terraneans are baying at our doors. See how long your people last in the wilderness.
"And when it all comes crashing down, Godwyn, know that the shades of my forefathers will be laughing at you. Know that all the Imperators and all the Tyrants who took pity on your folk will curse you for abandoning the fruits of their kindness.
"Most of all, know that your own ancestors will disdain you for ruining their only chance at going home.
"Goodbye, Maestro Godwyn Horaxe. I relieve 'Kliran's Folk' of their service."
----------------------------------------
He stalked out of the palace and back towards the gathering of his Lieutenants. He knew that he had been lucky not to be shortened by a head for so brazenly defying the authority of the Imperator, but he was not willing to stick around and see whether or not the man would stick to his decision of allowing them to leave. He knew well that the Imperator was an arbitrary man at the best of times, and he had no desire to be on the receiving end of the man's arbitrary nature.
His Lieutenants, chief amongst them Melita, snapped to attention and hammered a fist to their chest by way of greeting.
"Melita," he started, "have you recieved word of the attitude of the rest of the city yet?"
The dependable veteran nodded.
"I do. The people of this city are scared, Maestro. The Silence may be gone, but they know that the wars against the Terraneans is only just beginning. They know that it is a war they cannot win. The Terraneans are marching again, Ser. The Aegan people are worried that these newcomers will supplant them."
He pressed his lips into a thin line, but did not budge from his convictions.
"Well then, perhaps it's time to allow the newcomers to end their reign. Come on, get the boys together, their families too; it's nearing time for our people to return home. We'll seize the lands north of the Tylana river and use Tyranopolis as a staging post. Keep that part quiet for now, but make sure the people are ready for a fight if needs be. Not that I think we'll need to do too much fighting; we'll just supplant the local garrisons and tell them that we've been sent by the Imperator. With any luck we'll arrive before the news of our freedom does, and we'll be able to effectively seize control of the northern reaches of the Aegan Empire."
His Lieutenants gave each other a variety of looks that ranged from worried to excited, but all of them were clearly trying to run through the logistics of so monumental an endeavour in their head. The Klironomoi had been sedentary for so long; would it even be possible to mimic the grand exodus of their distant ancestors?
It would have to be. It needed to be. They would take all they could and reclaim their homelands, no matter the cost.
Melita hammered a fist to her chest, the motion quickly followed by the rest of the Lieutenants and commanders amongst his personal council.
"We'll have it all ready before the week is over. The skies are showing signs of starting to clear, and at times the light seems almost blinding compared to what we're used to during the day. If ever there was a time to go home, then the first day under fully clear skies would surely be the time to do so. Our people will take it as an omen, Maestro."
"Not Maestro," he replied, "for that office has been stripped from me by the Imperator. If you would will it so, I would call myself king. The first king of all the Klironomoi, the first of any of our kind to be known as royalty since we left our homes and our ancestral lands behind. I would call myself king, and my child after me, but only should you all will it. Only if our people will it. I await only your decision."
Melita and the others looked around at each other, grinning more than a little.
"Godwyn, 'twas your forefathers that saw us to safety. Once, long ago, your ancestor was chosen by the leaders of our people to get us to safety. He succeeded. Since then it has been the charge of those descendants who came after your legendary ancestor to ensure that we remained safe and, if nothing else, capable of weathering the storm. By the Saint, your father led us to victory against the Silence; I fucking watched the possessed corpse of the great dragon Arthenax go down over the walls of this fucking city, and I was there when he organised the rearguard that salvaged as much as we could after the disaster that was Talana.
"If there was anyone that I would follow home, it would be him. With his death, there can be none alive who calls themselves a child of Klironomea and thinks that August's son would not be the right man for us to follow.
"Your father was tested in the waning of the Silence, Godwyn. Your test will be to see us home. Lead us, King Godwyn Horaxe, First of your Name, and see us home!"
He smiled a large and true smile. He had the backing of his Lieutenants, and through them he would have the backing of his people. Not that he had ever truly doubted that he would be willingly followed of course, for at the end of the day his people were only focused on their vengeance. Knowing that he was the best person to deliver it to them, there was never really any doubt as to the fact that it would be left up to him to bring his people home. Still, it was nice for the confirmation.
He nodded stiffly at his Lieutenants, his voice thick with emotion as he spoke.
"Thank you, my friends. We need to start putting the word out amongst our people immediately. When the skies turn blue and grey, when the ash is gone and the blackness fled, we move home. We give the Skraelings no time to recover, no chance at preparation.
"We set up a temporary mobile administration, a mobile capital so to speak, to act as our court until we reach as far west as west goes. Until we reach Anaria."
A few of his Lieutenants exchanged looks.
"You mean... we're not just taking back our own lands the Skraelings forced us from, but-"
"But all the lands we once laid claim to. We sweep them back north of the Aenir, into their ancient homelands that have now been ravaged by the horse-lords. We see them kneel to us, or we sound their death-knell. We take it all back, and Anaria will be the greatest city of Kliran's Folk once more. This I swear to you, as an oath. Should I be found wanting then may the divine strike me down!"
There was a smattering of good-natured grumbled support at his statement, and Godwyn knew in that moment that he had to deliver victory to his people.
The Kingdom of Klironomea would be forged, even if he had to wade through blood knee-high to see it made so. His people had suffered enough.
----------------------------------------
The last week passed by in a frenzied blur of preparations made in half-secret. Everyone knew that his people were more active than normal, more active even than during the last siege of Aegos, but none of them were entirely certain of what was to come.
Well, until the night before they were to leave. He had spoken, as had his Lieutenants, in every city square and local hotspot about their leaving. They called not only on the remaining Klironomeans, who had already known of the plan, to come home, but for the people of Aegos to join them. The Imperators had not always been gracious hosts, submitting them to cruel living conditions and borderline squalor, but the people of Aegos had treated them well enough. Besides, a few merchants and skilled workers travelling with them might have some solid economic benefits once the Skraelings were torn down and cast aside.
When the sun rose the next day, it was to a changed world. It was to a world free from ash and fire. It was, by all accounts, a world freed from the daemons that had tormented them.
For the first time in his life, he saw a sky undimmed by ash and darkness. For the first time in his life he bore witness to unfettered sunlight, to blue skies and the singing of the larks. His banners billowed against the clear sky, charcoal black axeman against a dark-yellow field all the more striking for its contrast with the true natural world. For the first time he knew that the world was at peace, and that things were getting better.
The world was healing from the gaping wounds that the silence had inflicted upon it, and most of the world would simply begin the long and arduous process of picking up the remains of what once had been and piecing together a new world with whatever scraps they could find of the old.
But the Klironomoi were not like most of the world. Godwyn stared out over clear skies and glittering waters, and he snarled. The Klironomeans cared not for the needs of the Tyrants and Imperators they had served, nor did they care to mate the uprisings that had been fomenting in this society for so long. They had fulfilled their purpose here, had done their duty and suffered in bleak conditions.
No longer. The sons and daughters of Kliran were going home.
"The war against the Silence is over," he said to Melita and his other Lieutenants as they gathered in front of the assembled crowd by the gates, "and as such so is our service to the Imperator. We defended his cities, forced a stalemate with the Terraneans, and have done as his ancestors bid for a thousand years. But the Imperator is weak, and he pays us dismally. What need have we for a leader who will not uphold his ancestral contracts?
"Our time of exile is over," he continued, "for peace is as nothing without a homeland. Gather all our folk and tell them to bring everything they own. The Klironomoi are going home!"
Yes, to the rest of the world this was to be a time of healing. Of rebirth. Of peace.
But to Kliran's Folk there was nothing that could possibly be as bitter as the sting of exile, nor as sweet as the taste of vengeance.
----------------------------------------
In the north, there is word of a legend. It is a legend so old that it was only a half-remembered thing when the mighty river Aenir was young, and when all men of the north lived together under one roof.
Once, long ago, the lands of the northmen were united as one under the Great King.
The Great King reigned over an age of gold for a thousand years of plenty and freedom, and mankind was happy.
The Great King had two sons, Skraella and Kliran.
The two boys loved their father at first, but as time wore on and his reign showed no sign of coming to an end, they grew embittered and jealous of the man's position of power.
Skraella, the eldest of the two, challenged their father for the throne. At the height of their duel when their grief-stricken father seemed likely to strike down his wayward eldest son, Kliran's knife found its way into the Great King's back.
Their father dead, the boys celebrated that their own reign might finally begin.
But of course, they did not want to share power with each other. They did not want to share their reign.
Skraella struck down his brother and forced him to flee, no matter that Kliran had won him the throne. No matter that his younger brother had saved his life.
Yes, Kliran fled. But Kliran remembered. Kliran remembered all. And his followers, Kliran's Folk?
Well, they remembered as well.
They would be the youngest sibling no longer. Their revenge would be total.
The rest was history.