Ashes

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"I apologize, my lady,” said Stribor’s attendant, placing a pile of folded clothes onto a bench and quickly averting his eyes from Vasilisa’s half-dressed form. “These are the only womens’ clothes we have.”

The only ones you had bothered to steal, you mean, thought Vasilisa darkly as she heard the door to her chambers shut.

The monastery claimed by Stribor’s men was small, with only a handful of rooms for the priests and monks to dwell in. The great painted sun on the inside of its domed roof marked the monastery as belonging to the Solarians - the sun-worshippers from the distant west. But of the priests and their attendants, there was no trace - only Stribor’s druzhina occupied the monastery now.

The warmth and coziness in the small roadside monastery might have offered was replaced by the chill draft of the night, and the clutter of scattered books and holy texts lying forgotten on the ground. Vasilisa tried to read one of the trampled scrolls, but the language of the sun-worshippers was as indecipherable as Khormchak script.

Shivering, she finished changing out of her soiled dress, torn practically to tatters by the road and the last few days. Still, she felt a heavy weight on her heart as she cast the ruined silk aside.

One of mother’s old dresses. Now they’ll just burn it along with everything else in this land.

The new clothes she was expected to wear almost seemed like mockery; a white robe decorated with faded embroidery, and a similarly-faded black mantle decorated with stitchings of a pale sun. When she put them on, it was obvious that the Solarian habits had been made for someone with slimmer arms, a narrower chest, and who was much shorter. All it did was make her look ludicrous.

When she finished changing, she opened the door to see Stribor’s attendant waiting for her just outside. Despite his pleasant demeanor, she noticed that beneath his thick jacket the attendant wore a layer of mail and had a dagger in his belt. Her frustration surged; she imagined seizing the blade and cutting his throat. But she held back. Even if she could kill the attendant, weak as she was, there was nowhere she could run out in the dead of night.

And besides…remember Yesugei, whispered the side of reason in her mind. They’ll kill him. Bide your time. Wait. Watch.

The attendant led her through the drafty prayer hall of the monastery - its stained glass windows shattered and picked clean for gilded fittings. Two spearmen guarded the doors to the outside, looking bored as they watched her slowly walk across the hall. Finally, they entered what had once been the kitchen, now dominated by a roaring hearth. At the end of a long table sat Boyar Stribor, flanked by two druzhinniks with longaxes.

“I am pleased you were able to attend,” said Stribor with a small, false smile. “My lady, please be seated.”

The boyar’s false courtesy brought a sick feeling to her stomach, and Vasilisa balled up her fists as she took a seat at the other end of the table. Stribor gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, roasted meat, and fruits that covered the table - and Vasilisa felt her mouth grow moist at the sight of the food.

“Will you drink some wine?” offered Stribor.

“I would prefer water,” she replied quietly.

Stribor waved to his attendant, and a wooden goblet slid to her side. In her wobbly reflection, Vasilisa saw her face was still swollen from the mace that struck her on the head.

The mace that struck her on the boyar’s orders.

She rubbed her chafed wrists, and felt a shudder run through her body as she remembered the three warriors who had tried to-

No, came the quiet voice in her head. We focus on the here and now. Wait. Watch. Then make them suffer when the time is right. They’ll all suffer when the time is right.

The renegade boyar helped himself to a strawberry and stuffed it whole into his mouth with a pleasant smile. “You should try these, my lady. Very sweet, and freshly harvested.”

“I’ve no stomach for sweetness after these last few nights,” she shot back harshly. “And I am far more interested in your intentions than your strawberries. Why are you doing this?”

“This?” Stribor gestured about the room, a puzzled look on his face. “My lady, we are at war. Such things happen.”

“I was told that during war you kill your enemies, not your own people.”

Stribor shrugged. “It is not like that, my lady. We need to gather supplies if we want to have any hope of standing against the Khormchak tide. Last time they struck us, they were able to sustain themselves all through the winter with their pillage from the borderlands.”

“What about the people?”

“More mouths to feed,” said Stribor, his face empty of emotion. “When the Khormchaks invade, this chaff will crowd behind our walls and eat our stocks down to the rats. And if we leave them to the Khormchaks, they'll gain that many more slaves and guides to traverse our lands.”

Is that really all it is?

Vasilisa felt her face grow flushed with anger, and she clenched her fists so tightly she felt her nails draw blood from her palms.

Is that really all it is? So much monstrosity, all in the way of war?

“We all have our part to play, no matter how grisly,” sighed the boyar as if he were bemoaning some chore. He took a slice from the roasted pig set before them before saying, “Even you, my lady, have a part to play in this war.”

“How so?” she bristled.

“Why, marriage of course.” chuckled Stribor, and Vasilisa felt her blood run cold.

“Marriage?”

The word hung in the air for a dreadful moment.

“Your father is dead, my lady,” said Stribor as he ate. “So too is your mother, I’m afraid. The Khormchaks sacked the capital so thoroughly I hear not even the stray dogs were left.”

Stribor stabbed his knife into his cut of roast pig, then pointed a finger directly at her. “That leaves you as the last of Prince Igor’s line. Belnopyl is in chaos, its boyars scattered to the wind. But they still might listen to you.”

“You still have not told me how marriage falls into this.”

Vasilisa quickly darted her eyes about the room, searching for an escape. But all around her stood guards - the attendant, the druzhinniks, and Stribor, who even at the dinner table sat clad in leather and mail.

The boyar gave a small, knowing smile. “You would marry Prince Svetopolk of the north, and bind Belnopyl’s boyars to our cause.”

The air in the room suddenly grew very unbearably heavy.

“Svetopolk?” she eventually said. She kept her tone curious - as if intrigued. “Isn’t the Prince of Pemil already married?”

Stribor lifted the impaled chunk of meat and took a bite out of it - dribbling half the juices onto his chin and scraggly beard. “His Majesty Svetopolk is a wealthy man - he can support a second wife, just as your father’s father was able to support three. And he would give you a marvelous wedding gift - vengeance for your mother and father, and vengeance for your city that was sacked to the ground by the Great Khan.”

Vasilisa carefully took a sip from the offered cup. Even the water tasted off in a way she could not describe.

She had only met Prince Svetopolk once, at the same tournament where Stavr and Pyotr had won places in her father’s druzhina. At twenty years her senior, he was old enough to be her father, with graying hair and a large, bristly beard. She felt her skin crawl at the image of the boisterous, shouting Svetopolk for a husband.

And imagine how he would react when he learns his new wife is not alive, not truly, she wondered. That she has already been claimed by someone- something else. Something far more powerful than boyars and their wars. Maybe he’ll take his renegade boyar’s head for bringing him a poisoned gift.

She smiled into her cup at the image of the clueless Stribor’s head mounted on a spike - his mouth hanging open stupidly like the dog he truly was. Then she caught herself at her own thoughts - she had never known herself to smile at the sight of heads on spikes, nor taken any delight from horrible deaths, even the deaths of vile men such as Stribor.

She felt the same buzzing rush flowing through her as when she wielded the Shargaz - only this time she was acutely aware of how uncomfortable it felt; thinking thoughts that seemed to not be her own.

Gods, what is happening to me?

Stribor studied her carefully as she set the cup down on the table. She knew she had little say in the matter - the boyar might have been a brute, but he was also ambitious. If he brought his new liege prince the heiress of Belnopyl, he would doubtlessly be rewarded with new lands and titles under Pemil’s reign. That was his true aim - and if she refused to go along with his ambitions, he would simply drag her to the distant north in ropes and chains so his prince could claim her by force.

But if I agree…

She cleared her throat, and let the swirling storm of panic slowly settle in her chest as she thought.

My hand for the city…no, not the city. Spears and shields, fodder and food. The boyars are what they need if they want to win this war. The boyars…

Vasilisa crossed her legs as she shifted in her seat, leaning towards Stribor. “My father’s boyars have little love for the cold north, and they see treachery in every corner. If you surprise them with a sudden declaration of my marriage to Svetopolk, half of them would rise up to rescue their late liege’s beloved daughter from your prince - and the other half would simply scoff and keep to their strongholds.”

“An absurdity!” said Stribor, but Vasilisa saw the boyar’s brow furrow in thought as he rested his chin on one hand. Then she saw him fall head-first into the ruse. “What would it take to convince them?”

“It is simple,” Vasilisa replied. Her thoughts fell into place as if in a game of chess. “On our way north, we seek out the boyars under my father’s service - and let them hear of the coming union from me, rather than some southern boyar they scarcely know and trust even less.”

Stribor snorted. “If I recall, your father had dozens of boyars in his service. By the time we reach them all, the Khormchaks would be on us in droves.”

“We needn’t speak to all of them,” she said. “Only those who are the wealthiest, those who can field the largest armies. Hrabr of Rovetshi, lord of the Gravemarsh; Zinoviy of Denev; Zdislava, widow of Konihrad. If we bring those three with us to Pemil and let them behold our union, then the others will fall into line when your prince marches south.”

Stribor huffed. “Rovetshi and Konihrad are far away. It will cost us time to reach them.”

“It will cost you more than time if your prince must bring Belnopyl’s boyars in line by force,” Vasilisa replied. “And how can you hope to fight the Khormchaks, if you must first fight my father’s men? At Ongainur Field, all three princely domains stood as one - only together can you have any hope of winning.”

She had the boyar trapped - and without even needing to lie. Her father’s men would naturally reject any sudden declarations of marriage between her and Svetopolk - most of the boyars only needed to look back to their fathers’ and grandfathers’ years of skirmishes against the north as reason to distrust any declarations from Pemil.

And out on the open road, while we gallivant around Belnopyl…he will make a mistake. He will loosen his grip, and then we can run.

She had counted scarcely more than three dozen troops in Stribor’s warband - a sizable force for raiding and pillaging defenseless villages, but a pathetic match against any one of the boyars’ retinues. If they could slip loose and seek shelter with any one of her father's men, they would have more than enough men to turn away Stribor’s band.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

But we had thought similarly with Balai, insisted the small voice in her head. Who knows how many towns these Apostles have disappeared?

It’s worth a try. She clenched her fists under the table. Better than going along like a whipped dog.

Eventually, Stribor gave a nod of assent.

“You are plenty wise, my lady.” said Stribor as he took another bite from the meat on his knife.

Faint praise, coming from the likes of you.

“You flatter me, boyar.” she said, sitting back in her chair with a sigh of relief. “You flatter me.”

***

The bleeding cut on Yesugei’s face stung as Hecellon prodded at it with his finger, wrinkling his nose at the pus that seeped out.

“The wound is not infected, at least not yet,” the Yllahanan muttered as he set about rummaging through his satchel. “But if you’ll be sitting in that pen for much longer, I had best take precautions. The common folk of this land are riddled with illnesses…”

As Hecellon laid out several dark vials and bandages on the table to his side, Yesugei shifted in his chair and took a painful, wheezing breath. By the dim light of a candle, he could barely make out the interior of the Yllahanan’s tent - a few shelves here, an old cot…and a large wooden table upon which lay a pale, emaciated corpse.

“Of course…far be it for me to die and spoil all your fun,” Yesugei spoke with a rasping laugh. As he watched the sorcerer set more of his tools out, his eyes fell upon the gleaming tip of a long, curved hook of iron. “That looks like no physician’s tool I’ve ever seen before.”

“It isn’t a tool of healing,” replied Hecellon as he took the hook into his hands. “It’s a tool of artistry - of a kind most find…difficult to understand. How much do you know about my order?”

“Blood-sorcerers?”

The sorcerer gave a sharp tut, wagging the hook. “Ah, the title of laymen. We call ourselves the Order of Haruspices - our order has been a respected power in Yllahana since before the Republic, when Thyl Thalas was ruled by a king, rather than a senate. And our chief canvas is not blood, no-”

Hecellon stepped around the table, and with a swift, sickening motion, buried the hook deep into the gut of the body on the table. For a moment, nothing happened. The corpse lay still, its skin waxy under the flickering candlelight. But then, it began to convulse.

The dead man’s eyes shot open, clouded, but alive enough to widen in terror - in realization at the moment of death. He gurgled, and his limbs thrashed violently as if against invisible restraints - a body struggling in panic in its final breaths. And then, as quickly as it began, the man’s body slackened. His head lolled to look at Yesugei, as if pleading to him for help, and then he was dead.

“Strange,” mused the sorcerer. “The fumes should have carried him blissfully into death. But no matter - I’ve plenty more to refine my doses.”

Without a moment to spare, the Yllahanan plunged his fist into the dead man’s opened stomach with a nauseating squelch. In another trained motion, he ripped free a dripping, glistening mass that he held to the light of the candle. A long strand of blood hung from the severed liver, dripping onto the floor as Hecellon turned it over in his hands. For a while the Yllahanan remained still, muttering to himself, but eventually he set aside the dripping liver into a glass jar.

“Yes, the signs are still here. Do you see, nomad? This is my order’s canvas - the organs. In the olden days, our scholars used to sacrifice sheep, poultry, even - reading superstition from the organs of lesser beasts. But the highest minds of our order now know: only in human blood is there a certain power. And so - only in humanity can we find true signs.”

Yesugei’s breath felt deafening to his own ears. The horrid smell of piss and shit rose up from the slaughtered man, but the Yllahanan did not seem to care. “Then what is such a respectable, kindly student of the arts doing traveling with a Klyazmite warband?” he managed through gasps of the tainted air. “Don’t your people have enough slaves in the west?”

Hecellon sighed as he placed the jar inside one of the shelves, where it joined a dozen others. For a moment Yesugei felt the rush to leap out at the sorcerer and bring him down. But the three silent guardsmen that stood a mere five feet away would skewer him before he could twist the Yllahanan's head from his shoulders. No, not yet…

“Astute, for a Khormchak.” said Hecellon as he sealed away the jars. “Yes, we have enough slaves to perform our readings…and it is our readings that have brought me here.”

The Yllahanan drew close to Yesugei - so close he could smell the heavy perfumes that hung about the blood-sorcerer to mask the scent of death. Between them was the iron hook, which the elf placed carefully against Yesugei’s chest. “Our readings all say one thing: soon, there will be doom, and it will come to us from the east. The constellation of the Serpent has shifted in the sky, and then there was that curious comet…”

Yesugei did not know whether to laugh or cry. How little, and how much you know. “You are traveling with a Klyazmite warband because you are worried about stars?”

The elf's mouth hardened into a thin line as he tapped the hook against Yesugei's chest. “We observed such things once before. Master Armentarius, the first of our order to study human viscera, recorded similar readings five centuries ago - do you know what happened then? The stars disappeared - early frosts destroyed crops even in the south, and the sun was in eclipse for a year.

“Those hardships destroyed the Kingdom of Thyl Thalas, and nearly destroyed my order in its cradle.” Hecellon absent-mindedly dragged the hook down along Yesugei’s chest, drawing the tiniest droplet of blood. “And even if such dark times did give way to the enlightenment of the Republic…well, who’s to say our order will survive again?”

“You are afraid.”

“Afraid?” Hecellon chuckled, setting aside the dripping hook before grabbing a cloth and a dark vial. “No, if I was afraid, I would have shut myself inside my tower, like the other Masters of the Order. No - I intend to find the source of this doom myself, and I intend to stop it.”

The image of the bleak, jutting crystal consuming all light from the sky floated back into his memory. Targyn, Kenes, Sergen, and Kaveh’s faces as they perished one by one. The terrible grasp on his chest that choked all life from his lungs. The inhuman abomination with its voice of scraping glass and screeching metal. Yesugei allowed himself a brave smile.

“You will stop nothing with your butchery,” Yesugei hissed. “All you’re doing is bringing it faster to this wretched world.”

Yesugei bit back a hiss as the Yllahanan pressed a foul-smelling cloth to his forehead - the tonic soaked into the cloth felt cold to the touch, yet his wound burned furiously. When he closed his eyes, he saw the sorcerer was looking at him with newfound curiosity. “You speak as if you know.”

“What if I do?” he managed through gritted teeth. “What if I told you that others foresaw much the same doom without pulling out mens’ guts?”

Long, pale fingers wrapped around Yesugei's throat as the Yllahanan's purple-tinged eyes met his. “Do not play with me, Khormchak. I could gut you in half a breath. Tell me what you know, if you are not playing the fool.”

Yesugei grinned. “I know that you will not stop it. I know that when the Harvest comes, it will eat you alive like everyone else. Master or slave, sorcerer or layman…it won’t make any difference.”

Hecellon’s grip loosened slightly, but that was all he needed. Yesugei lurched forward and drove the top of his skull into the Yllahanan’s nose. The sorcerer fell to the ground with blood gushing from his face, and his flailing arms sent the satchel flying. Glass vials shattered, and the hook fell a ways away from them both.

Hecellon rushed to retrieve his iron claw, but Yesugei moved faster. He drove his heel into the back of the elf's outstretched hand, then slammed his fist across the sorcerer's face as he cried out in pain. Then Yesugei felt himself struck bodily as the guards took both him and Hecellon to the ground with a loud clatter of armored plate.

He flailed his arms desperately to escape the hold of the armored man pinning him to the ground, and felt his fingers wrap around the handle of the warrior's dagger. But then a hand grabbed him by the back of the head, and his vision erupted in a shower of stars and pain as his forehead was slammed to the ground. When he looked up through his squinted eyes, he saw Hecellon was lying next to him - his perfect Yllahanan nose now twisted and red.

“The Khormchak is our property, mage!” barked the warrior pinning Hecellon to the ground.

“Take them both to the pen,” commanded the guard who watched over the other two. “You've overplayed your hand, Hecellon. But for your sake, I'll bring you to his lordship in the morning - he's of a far more lenient temperament then.”

Hecellon spat out a glob of bloody mucus at the guard's boots, but the man only sniffed and ordered them to be raised to their feet. Yesugei hid his smile at the Yllahanan's indignity as he hollered and yelled at his arrest - but then he began to think on the sorcerer’s words, and his fear.

Unlike the Ormanli who had seemed resigned to their deaths in service, the Yllahanan was proud and terrified of the coming harvest. He considered proposing an alliance to the sorcerer - much the same as Vasilisa had to himself - but dismissed the idea as quickly as it came to him. No…even if he knows much, neither of us would be able to sleep soundly with him around. He’d rip the crystals from our chests and run off to save himself the moment we are weak.

To that, Yesugei smiled. The Yllahanan was more Khormchak than he might have imagined.

When the guards hauled them both into the pen, the sorcerer continued to shout curses in the Common and Yllahanan tongue at their backs as they retreated. Eventually however, he fell into a sullen silence - broken only by the occasional sniff as he tried to stop the dripping blood from his nose. In the darkness, none of the commoners dared to approach the Yllahanan - though Yesugei saw several of the men in the crowd looking on at the sorcerer with temptation in their eyes.

“All of you,” Yesugei called out to the peasants, who looked at him with surprise. “I’m sure you know our friend here, Hecellon. Tell me, have any of you or yours had the delight of his questioning?”

No-one spoke back. In the midnight darkness, it might have almost seemed like he was simply speaking into the void, were it not for the peasants’ silhouettes and the few rays of moonlight that illuminated them.

Eventually, the old woman who had laid her folk curse spoke up. Yesugei recognized her by her ancient, haggard-sounding voice. “He put my grandsons to the question, when they were looting our village for gold - as if we were not struggling to even feed our own. Do you remember them, Yllahanan?”

Hecellon did not reply. He kept his back to the rest of the peasants, but Yesugei saw his growing unease in the way he straightened his spine.

The old woman continued, “I offered myself in their place - but all he said was that I was too old - that it would not be fun to torment a hag such as myself. Do you remember that, elf? Do you remember a grandmother’s screams when you ripped them to pieces with your hook - two men with wives and sons?”

“So what if I do?” Hecellon sneered, though he did not look back at the woman. “Do you think making me remember is going to bring your stinking whelps back?”

“No - you left my grandsons to rot in a ditch once you rummaged through them,” the old woman responded. Her voice was even and resolute - absent of any venom or great malice. “You made sure they would not reach the heavens. I’m telling you about them so you know exactly who awaits you when your black soul reaches the underworld.”

The rest of the night passed in eerie quiet. When Yesugei eventually closed his eyes and tried to rest his head as comfortably as he could, he saw Hecellon still lay wide awake, his back against the pen.

***

The skies of the next day remained bleak and gray, and Yesugei shivered awake as he felt the cold clawing away at his core.

It is the middle of summer…Yesugei wondered as he wrapped his arms around himself. Then why is it so damn cold?

He wondered whether the old woman's curse upon the boyars had indeed worked, and only then thought to check on Hecellon. The Yllahanan must have remained awake all through the night - his eyes were puffy and red from lack of sleep, and he too shivered in his thin robe which was now wet and slick with mud and piss. But even with his hands tied behind his back, none of the peasants had taken their chances in the night - for that, he wondered whether it was cleverness, or simply still the fear of their tormentor.

The only one who looked upon the Yllahanan with no fear was the old wise woman, who now huddled in a crowd with the others in the pen - shivering for some warmth in a morning with no sun.

Throughout the camp, Yesugei saw the rest of the warriors who emerged from their tents were just as bitterly cold - several spearmen began working to start a large bonfire in the middle of camp, while others crowded around the remains of yesterday's cookfire to warm their hands over the embers. He looked out to the Solarian temple, and saw its damaged chimney belching out a great cloud of smoke.

“The punishment has begun,” whispered the old woman. “The sun has hidden its face from the cruelty of the world, and we will all suffer.”

“Not in equal measure, it seems,” hissed Hecellon, though he too was afraid. Early frosts, no sun. Your blood-magic tells it true. “The strong will always find a way, while you peasants will die in droves - and among them you will die first, hag witch.”

Yesugei tuned out the Yllahanan’s bitter malevolence, and pressed one hand to the grassy ground just outside the pen. He tried to listen and see the way he did in the shrine, searching for signs and whispers from the black earth - but all he felt was the cold, and the dread loneliness of a land which was absent of all spirits.

All the animals have fled, he thought as he took a fistful of the cold earth into his palm. All except the wolves and crows, who will feast on each other when their Harvest comes.

A shout woke him from his reverie, and Yesugei looked out from the pen to see the doors to the temple opening. Stribor emerged first, clad in his shining armor and a heavy cloak to ward off the cold. Behind him walked Vasilisa, wearing a white Solarian robe and wrapped in heavy furs - her expression calm.

The boyar stood tall and proud as he surveyed the camp, the shivering soldiers huddled around their meagre fires. With a grin, he spoke: “This land has been bled dry, my brothers! And now comes the time for us to move - pack up your camp, and prepare to march! We ride for Pemil!”

The warriors before the boyar exchanged uneasy glances, but they knew the order was final. With sluggish reluctance they began shuffling about the camp, taking apart tents and readying their horses for the long ride north. Yesugei looked to Vasilisa and saw her speaking quietly with Stribor - not as an equal…but also no longer as a prisoner. Not like the rest of them, at least.

He caught a quick, sidelong glance from her in his direction. Within that peek he sensed a plan - she had no intention of passing Belnopyl by for Pemil. Not when so many questions remained unanswered. And definitely not in tow with a dog like Stribor. But what then was her plan?

He shook his head - no, it would do little good to think of things he could not change. His charge was to wait, watch - and stay alive long enough to break free when the time was right. But such a prospect seemed daunting - when he looked to the warriors preparing for the ride north, he saw no wagons being readied to carry the slave-laborers, and what spare horses they had were being laden with supplies. No, while the warriors rode, the prisoners would walk the journey to Pemil - a slave column to the north in the warband’s wake.

As Yesugei looked to the others in the pen, he felt something soft land on his head - lighter than a feather. He looked up to see tiny pale flecks falling from the sky, sticking to his face and clothes.

Snow…? In the summer?

When he looked down at the falling flakes, he saw they were too fine, too dark to be bits of snow. Snow did not paste to skin - and snow did not cause men to choke violently, as several of the peasants and Stribor’s men began to violently hack and cough as the flakes found their way into their lungs.

Yesugei looked up at the gray skies, and then he realized what he was seeing, why the morning had been so dark and cold.

Ashes…he thought, as he beheld the heavens. Ashes to turn away the sun’s gaze from the madness of the earth.