God Within Us

TWO days. Two days were all the gods afforded them. Two restless, feverish days of work and hunger - the last barricade of the riverine portcullis, the marshaling of every last man strong enough to hold a spear or wind a crossbow, and of course, the creation of their grand army of wood and straw. Under Austeja’s oversight, the women and children were set to work building as many dummies as they could, dressing them in cloth and iron and putting sharpened sticks in their hands. Atop the walls, men hollered to one another in the company of their scarecrow brethren, two for every living soul upon the battlements.

So much work, so much that it seemed it would never be done in time. The insistent tolling of the morning bell sounded like the maddened mind of the city itself as it prepared for the coming siege. Filling barrels with water to douse any fires. Clearing any debris that would hamper movement between the three southern towers. Scavenging for food - ever more food. Vasilisa caught herself hoping for the usurpers to arrive sooner rather than later - for the fight to come to them at last, so this terrible waiting and work might come to an end.

She wanted- no, she needed the enemy before her. Anything to bring an end to the madness of waiting.

Her blood ran cold all the same however, when Ilya came to her with news of the outriders on the horizon.

“Only a half-dozen, unarmored and on swift horses,” reported the druzhinnik. “They ran off the moment they came within sight of the walls.”

“Do you think they might frighten off the usurpers with news of our great army?” Vasilisa replied with a small smile on her face, but both her smile and mirth fell quickly.

Austeja, ever by her side, helped dress her for battle. Beneath her cloak of pale suns she donned a long-sleeved suit of polished maille that went down to her knees, and beneath that a heavy padded jacket. Over her head she wore an open-faced helmet with a long white plume, and slung across her back the blade of the Kladenets hungered. It sensed the coming slaughter in the air, and the fear of those all around her. Armed and armored, she ascended up the tower of the Golden Pass to see her coming doom.

Nightfires dotted along the battlements, and from a distance she could convince herself the scarecrows standing guard were the vigilant sentinels they had crafted them to seem. Shouts rang high and clear up and down the walls to rouse every last fighter to their post, and down below in the darkness the scramble of men looked like the terrified scuttling of ants. By the light of the fires, the speartips of the militia and the armor of the druzhinniks assembled on the walls glowed orange, as if they were men armored and armed with shimmering flames.

By her side upon the tower of the Golden Pass, Ilya lifted a great horn to his lips and sounded a long, loud blast.

The Night Gate was the first to give reply - its call was deeper, but shorter than Ilya’s. Demyan, Polynkin. May the elder guard the younger.

The Gods’ Gate gave its own call not a moment later - the blast was long and higher-pitched, almost musical in its tone. Stavr. Kirill. Yesugei. Shoot quickly, shoot keenly.

Standing tall with their head raised to the sky, Unukalhai spread out their arms as if to embrace the darkening heavens. “The time has come,” sounded the Apostle’s voice, low and heavy with expectation. “The time has come - and may the Star-Eater’s light shine kindly on us all.”

The voices…the serpent. Vraactan, are you watching me? Do you smell my fear? She wondered. The great clashes of men, so little and small to the stars they must look.

Like ants. All of us, ants…

They came one at a time over the horizon, barely visible in the coming darkness - the usurpers’ banners. Nearly two dozen flapping silk squares came up over the crest of the land - most of them bearing the sigils of petty lords and magisters - but the four that were raised highest and at the heads of the great host were known well to her. She knew the names of the men who marched beneath those banners as well as her own - such was old and patient Mariana’s tutelage. There was Milomir, the boyar of Korlen, with the nine stars of his banner sewn from cloth of gold. Urvan, boyar of Rylsk, with his great hammer to rival Ilya’s mace. Old Vsevolod, boyar of Torch, with his fish-crested helm to guard his wise, spotted head. And Zinoviy, the most dangerous of them all - the boyar of Denev, and the wielder of Hearteater, whose blade Belnopyl's watchmen of the east blessed with fire and blood sacrifice to Perun.

Each of those men were once kind and courteous to her - they all kissed her father's ring, bowed in her mother's presence, and complimented her beauty. She had thought there to be at least some true affection buried beneath their courtly courtesy. Some of them had seen her grow from a little girl into a proper woman, and re-sworn their oaths a dozen times over to uphold her father's reign and his descendants of the House of Belnopyl. Did they always have daggers hidden behind their smiles, their kindly words, their gifted dresses and jewelry? Did Zinoviy always have hatred in his heart, even when he beamed his sly smile and asked her for a dance at the equinox festival just a few short months ago?

It does not matter, not anymore, she thought to herself as her eyes flicked across the great marching army. Now they bring their swords against their liege. Against me.

The usurpers’ army approached warily. They were two thousand at least - archers, spearmen, heavy druzhinnik lancers and swordsmen atop mean-tempered destriers, and freeriders on swift coursers with javelins and sabres. She did not see any mangonels or catapults rumbling up along the road - not that they would have done any good in battering down Belnopyl’s walls anyways, for even in their ruined state they still would have withstood all but the greatest siege engines. Still, the Latchwood held enough wood for siege towers and great ladders to be built, if they were to be needed.

So many men…what a waste! A great portion of Belnopyl’s own strength will feed the crows, while Pemil would need only watch and wait!

The sound of a horn blared from the ranks of the approaching army, and the long trail of banners and men came to a halt. She wondered what they were thinking - the four figures at the head of the army, no doubt the lords themselves who were studying the force arrayed against them upon the walls. Were they surprised? Afraid? Or were they merely discussing battle plans, and how the city’s corpse might be divided between them when all was said and done? For a long while the four lords stood there atop their horses, like hunched carrion birds looking upon a dying beast of the woods, but then there came some shift - messengers began to ride to and fro, and hoarse sergeants' voices raised in command echoed from their ranks. Then to her surprise, there came forward a rider with a white banner, and behind him trailed the four lords, each of them with their entourage and their own standard-bearers.

“They wish to parlay.” said Ilya, his voice grave and suspicious.

“Then we will meet them,” spoke Vasilisa, resting an armored hand against an embrasure of the tower. Even through her maille and leather gloves, she could feel the cold of the hard stone. “Let them see the face of their liege daughter, and know the shame of their betrayal.”

Ilya bristled at her words. “Lady Vasilisa, these are men who have already forsaken their oaths to knyaz Igor!” he declared. “They have already shown the worth of their honor - let me come with you, at least to bear your banner.”

There was little time to argue the matter - the rider at the head of the dispatch was already close to the falls, and shouting to speak with the garrison’s commander.

She rode to the gatehouse of the Gods’ Gate in her armor, and with Ilya at her side bearing the great banner of the city. The soldiers stood upon the walls shifted to warm their bones in the coming chill of the night, and their heads all turned to peer down and follow her ride down the cobblestone path. They hid their fear behind masked helmets, or faces blank as slate, but she could feel it all the same - and against her own judgment, their fear tasted disturbingly sweet.

When the portcullis was raised, she felt a chill wind sigh as it blew through the open passage. She trembled beneath her heavy suit of armor, and nearly jerked in surprise as the bells of the city tolled thrice once more, as if announcing her departure. As she passed beneath the gatehouse of the Gods’ Gate, she looked up to see Yesugei peering down at her, his face hard and his bow held tight. To bring a Khormchak in her entourage would have only hardened the resolve of the usurpers and given ever more credence to their slander, else she would rather have had Yesugei by her side than Ilya.

They met the usurper lords at the halfway point between their armies and the walls of the city. As she neared, she saw that each of the lords had adorned their helmets with golden circlets - they had not even secured their throne, yet each man already wore half a crown upon his brow.

“My lord,” spoke boyar Vsevolod coldly as she and Ilya reined up. “Ilya. Who is it that we speak with?”

“Certainly it is no lord,” smirked Zinoviy, his fingers tapping idly on the pommel of his sword. “Have your eyes begun to go at last, Vsevolod? That's a woman you're talking to - is the great Ilya so frightened that he would hide behind some wench in armor to treat with us?”

“Is that any way for a lord to speak of a lady?” Spoke Vasilisa in reply. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs and steel her resolve. With a slow, deliberate movement, she reached up and lifted away her helmet. Her dark braid tumbled down over her shoulder, a few loose locks framing the face that was thought lost to the world.

Silence fell upon the gathered lords.

Milomir’s double chins squashed together as his mouth fell open, his beady eyes widening before he quickly found his composure once more. Urvan’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of utter shock and embarrassment that was writ plain across his face. Vsevolod’s cold demeanor cracked likewise as a flicker of recognition and disbelief flashed in his eyes. Zinoviy maintained his sure and steady facade, but she could see the new tightness in his jaw, the minute narrowing of his eyes.

The boyars exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. Vasilisa observed them closely in their shock, noting every flicker of surprise, every twitch of emotion that they tried to hide. Fear, anger…remorse, even. Perhaps there was still some chance of victory without bloodshed.

“Lady Vasilisa,” spoke Zinoviy at length, his lips parting in a toothy grin. “I should say silk suits you better than steel.”

“I think much the same,” she said in reply, resting her gauntleted hands against the horn of her saddle. “And I should say I preferred it when you were still my father’s loyal men. Or did you always hate him, and hate us?”

The wind picked up again, swirling around them and setting the grasses into low whispers like a watching crowd. Vasilisa felt the heavy weight of their stares, the intensity of their scrutiny.

“It was never about hate,” Vsevolod said, his voice soft and grandfatherly, as she had known him to speak to her in days long past. “Neither do any of us bear you ill, lady Vasilisa. But your father’s reign…surely you must have known, in your heart of hearts.”

Milomir regained his composure, nodding vigorously along to Vsevolod’s words. “The Great Khan’s appetites are insatiable - it was never enough to appease him and his lot. Your father’s tithes have stripped Korlen’s mines bare, and beggared half my people. And in the meanwhile, all Belnopyl did was thrive and grow - at cost to us all.”

Vasilisa’s eyes flicked to each boyar in turn, her gaze sharp and unyielding. “And so that is what guides your hand to draw a blade against your liege? Coin and tribute? You think that breaking from the Horde and Belnopyl will bring you some new prosperity?”

Vsevolod shook his head. “Prosperity, perhaps not - or not immediately. But freedom, my lady, freedom from a life lived under a distant shadow…that would be certain. Our lot even twenty years on has never gone beyond being penny-counters for the khans - I tried to convince your father to play the khans’ games, to take another wife from the nomads to strengthen our voice in court, but he did not listen. He chose subservience over strategy - loyalty to some foreign crown over liberty for his own people.”

Vasilisa felt a terrible pang of conflicting emotions in her soul. Their words were not without merit; she had felt the weight of the Horde’s yoke on their lands as well, even at arm-length from her father’s world. Yet the path they chose was fraught with perils of its own. “My father wanted to protect all of our people, to avoid war and bloodshed. Could you not see that? Has the memory of Ongainur field already faded in your minds?”

“Do not speak of Ongainur, child!” shouted Vsevolod hoarsely, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “To you Ongainur is just a story - you did not see the men hacked apart even after they had fallen! You did not choke on the dust and drown in your own sweat and blood! You did not have to bury your own sons, cut down before they even had a chance to truly live! Ongainur is remembered - and we will deal the Khormchak filth their own slaughter in good time.”

The raw pain in the old boyar’s voice cut through her heart. Her mouth felt dry - her talk of peace felt suddenly hollow and insincere, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself of it. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Then tell me, lords, what would you do if you were to take the city? What is your plan for Belnopyl?”

Vsevolod composed himself, his gaze hard and stern. “We will heal the wounds of the Khormchak yoke. Belnopyl will need to be rebuilt, of course, and by your word we can bring the other holds to our side. Our strength will need to be marshaled in full to make a stand - first we will strike against Svetopolk and his Varyazi savages. Once the north is pacified, we will wait for the Khormchaks to come, and they will not find us such easy prey as last time.”

Zinoviy trotted his horse forward slightly, his voice carrying a hard edge. “We will also bring justice for all those who were wronged by your father. The rats and filth will be scoured out from every corner and every hold in due time, but it will begin with those closest to your father.” His gaze turned pointedly to Ilya. “It will begin with him, and the rest of your father’s druzhina. We want them - all of them.

“It was their swords your father turned against his own boyars - my brother, though I loved him little, in truth, was hanged by your father’s men when he could not pay the tithe asked of him. How many other lesser folk had their harvests seized, their animals driven from their pastures, their husbands and wives taken as chattel - all to satisfy the khans’ greed, and all done by Belnopyl’s steel?”

Ilya bristled at Zinoviy’s words, and his grip clenched tightly about the haft of the banner lance as if he meant to strike down the boyar at their parlay. Vasilisa gave him a sidelong glance, but her gaze snapped back to Zinoviy as the stag lord continued, “We have also heard rumors, my lady, that there is a Khormchak prince in your company. We want him as well. We could bargain from a position of strength with one of the khan’s own blood - or if his father is unwilling to listen, then at least we might have his head. Perun would look kindly on us if we were to give him a sacrifice of princely blood, to be sure.”

Milomir nodded in agreement. “And let us not forget, lady Vasilisa, the folk cowering behind those walls yonder have also benefited from your father’s tithes. They will need to repay that debt, and we will need labor.”

A wave of revulsion swept over her. “You would enslave them?”

“Enslave them, or give them purpose?” smirked Milomir. “They will work, or they will be cast out. This wretched storm has ruined all of our harvests - we have no need for useless, hungry mouths.”

So those are your demands, came the thought. Slavery for my people, death for my friends, and my crown split among four heads.

It was unthinkable - but the lords’ expressions brooked no intention of negotiation. Complete and utter surrender. No. No longer.

“And what if we should refuse?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What then?”

Zinoviy snarled. “Then we will scale your walls, and everyone you love will die. Do not think it will be so hard - we might need a day or two to put together ladders, tie climbing hooks to our ropes, but we have five times your number, and many more on the way from other holds. How many of your men do you think will stand and fight once my axemen are over the walls? Half of them are like to go over to our side the moment we breach the city, and as for those who stand firm…”

Zinoviy gave a signal, and from the great hedge of pikes and shields behind them a porter came forth bearing some heavy thing covered by a black cloth. She noticed only too late that the porter left behind a trail of red droplets in his wake.

The black cloth was torn away, and then the trophy was raised high for all to see - a collection of severed heads, grey and dripping. The grisly bundle was bound tightly by ropes, threaded through shattered jaws and gouged eyes, and the heads were disfigured - noseless, eyeless, some with jaws and ears ripped entirely away, as if by wild dogs. A low gasp escaped her, and she saw the rest of the usurpers looked grimly upon the trophy as well - only Zinoviy was smiling a wolfish grin. "These men died fighting in your name. Do you recognize them? Perhaps not. Pyotr of Belnopyl and his men fought bravely - my cavalry charged them thrice before their ranks were broken, and even then that boy fought to the last. Do you know what his last words were, before I took his head? He told me that you would return, and that Belnopyl would be saved.

“Such loyalty…like that of a dog,” mused Zinoviy, motioning to the porter who cast the severed heads in Vasilisa’s direction. The bloody bundle rolled across the field, smearing the rotted faces with mud and dirt. “If you love your people, you would spare them this fate. That is what a good ruler would do - a wise ruler. You speak of how your father avoided further bloodshed when he surrendered to the Khormchaks? Then do the same - live up to your father’s wishes, and have your men open the gates up by dawn and lay down their weapons. Or else we will destroy you.”

Zinoviy snorted and galloped away, disdainful. With a great clatter of arms and armor, the rest of the boyars followed with their entourages. Vasilisa wheeled her own horse around and rode for the gates. She went slowly at first, but the thought of an errant bolt or arrow being loosed at her back caused her to spur her steed into a canter. By her side, Ilya glowered, but did not say anything still.

Once they were behind the walls, she dismounted and handed the reins to Austeja. Even in the freezing cold of the evening, she realized she was sweating like a sow beneath her layers of maille and wool. The others had gathered in the yard as well - Stavr, her druzhina from Rovetshi, Yesugei and Unukalhai. The soldiers atop the walls watched her as well. It seemed the whole world was waiting patiently for her to speak.

"The lords have given their demands," she spoke. Her voice came out barely louder than a mouse's squeak - she was afraid. Afraid for everyone that stood around her. No, if she showed them fear, then they would all know fear - such were her father's words. She cleared her throat, and spoke again with the voice of a princess.

“The lords have given their demands,” she repeated, her voice carrying loud and clear over the gathered watchers from the walls, the towers, the yard. “They demand our surrender - to lay down our arms, and to open our gates to their warriors. They will spare you all, but you will be their slaves - you will work their fields, build their walls, and forge their swords, and you will never know freedom again.”

Whispers and murmurs ran through the crowd. Faces twisted in anger, in fear, in confusion at her words. Doubt was in their eyes. She took a deep breath, feeling her chest buzz with new courage.

“If we do not accept their demands, the lords have said they will scale our walls and kill us all. But what is death, when to surrender brings such a life? Does anyone here wish to live on his knees? Does anyone here wish to give up their home to their warriors? Does anyone here want to give up their wife or daughters to their lords’ pleasure?”

A heavy silence fell over the yard. Then, a single voice, indignant and proud, shouted, “No!”

Another voice joined in, then another, and then the crowd atop the walls, the towers, and in the yard all took up the shout until it was a great, defiant chorus. “No! No! No!”

The hiss of metal cut through the shouting of the crowd, and Stavr stepped forward, his sword glinting in the dying light of day. “Belnopyl will never bow to any other! We are yours to command, lady Vasilisa! Belnopyl will not fall!”

The roar of approval that followed the druzhinnik’s words was deafening. Her heart soared with pride, with new strength and love.

“Then we will fight,” she declared, her voice resolute. “When the sun rises with the new day, Belnopyl will stand! Stand with me, stand for your homes, and most of all, stand and fight! Do not let these lords rule you, and do not let fear rule your hearts!”

The cheers erupted once more, warriors and townsfolk alike taking up the cry of Vasilisa the Fair. She looked over their faces, seeing tired determination, seeing the fire of defiance within them. All were ready to die with their city, but now they were ready to fight for it, to die with sword and bow, spear and crossbow in hand for their city.

She turned to those closest to her who were gathered in the yard - druzhinniks from Rovetshi, a marsh-dweller, nomads from the steppes and woods, and a dreamer from the stars. Men and women from lands near and far, known and unknown, and now they all stood by her side and her word. Yesugei strode up to her, and curled his fingers into a fist over his heart.

“We are yours, Vasilisa. I am yours. Always.”

She sensed he wished to say more, but Yesugei turned away, a grimace on his face. She could feel his mind, his thoughts, his ire - and she sensed it was directed to Unukalhai, who stood stoic and inscrutable next to her. But the clarity of his mind lasted only for a moment before the warriors and townsfolk began to disperse back to their posts, their commanders and retainers following. Yesugei went with a band of archers to the tower of the Gods’ Gate, though she sensed in his departure the promise of unspoken words.

He loves you, came the voice in her mind. He is yours, bound to you since the day you shared strength and blood.

She watched Yesugei retreat to the Gods' Gate, and suddenly felt as though she had made a terrible mistake. The waves of time betrayed much in their rise and fall - futures yet to come, and some which might never come to be.

In all of them the Question grasped for her, drawing her towards itself irrespective of the path taken.

In all of them, she saw death. Hers, or Yesugei's - the princess, or the prince.