God Within Us

The Young Griffon spread his wings and took to the north at the first crack of dawn. Riding atop a swift courser adorndd with golden fetters and the blue-and-white barding of his house colors, and Kassa at his side bearing their new battle standard, Goran felt he cut a suitably lordly figure on his departure from Albina-Suzdal.

Along the northern road - even in the small hours of the morning - a large crowd had gathered to watch their impressive company set out on the march. Their core strength of two thousand Company men went by first, clattering and ringing in polished steel that shone red in the morning sun. Following in their wake were the other troops he had seen fit to swell their ranks: a ragged band of hired swordhands, freed slaves from their Yllahanan galleys, and even some militiamen from Albina-Suzdal’s ranks who sought greater pay and excitement than the drudgery of their day-to-day. The last ones to follow were swollen ranks of the camp-followers whom they had picked up from Albina-Suzdal like lice: washerwomen, cooks, healers, adopted “squires”, and half the city’s whores.

Albina-Suzdal’s magisters will be left pent-up and frustrated, he thought to himself with a smile as he caught sight of the latter passing by. Well, let those filthy dogs mount each other for all I care.

The time for their departure had come sooner than he would have wished - a few more days, and they would have had supplies and porters enough to march all the way to Gatchisk without need for resupply. But the magisters had cut all such plans short when a shipping insurer or some other such coin-pusher was found butchered in his shop. The blame no doubt lay at the door of some disgruntled merchant or ship captain, but the magisters were quick to point their accusations at the “southron savages” infesting their city - and the army to which they belonged. The choice presented was to see a Company man hanged to appease the Suzdalians, or to strike their camp and leave on the morrow in peace. With such a choice, he shed the magisters no tears for their loss if he could deprive them of a few of their militiamen and their whores.

As he rode down the hill to catch up with the rest of the commanders, he called out to Yasaman, whose bronze-decorated helm glimmered resplendently in the dawn. “You will take the bulk of the freedmen, and fifty of your best marksmen,” he declared as they rode. “Once we cross the border woods, strike for Yerekh, and then Balai. Seize what boats you can at the port, then put those oarsmens’ backs to good use and seek for Sviatarsk.”

“Kassa,” he called next. “You will ready Sviatarsk for his arrival. The town has few walls, and none of stone. You will lead the attack there - let our hired swords and the Suzdalians get a taste for plunder and easy victory, then hold and wait for Yasaman to join you. Once you are together, make for the Teplodarsk Ford and await us there.”

Heller trotted forward last, clad in his heavy maille and his polished, re-painted breastplate with its golden sunburst. The Solarian was brought into line for now - even seeming eager to have a sword in hand and an enemy to face once more - but Goran still felt an uncertainty in his heart. In truth, he would have had Heller lead the attacks against the border settlements in the east rather than the overly-cautious Yasaman, who preferred the abacus to the crossbow. But to give Heller sole command meant to loosen his leash and hope he would not take off on his own. No, the Solarian needed to remain by his side - for now.

“You, my friend, will be paying a visit to an old friend of mine,” Goran said with a small smile. “Our baggage train will last us only for a precious while. The boyar of Hlotopol - Radomir, if memory serves - holds a great bounty in grain for men and beasts. We will meet him with the greater part of our strength, and seize a proper hold for ourselves east of the Cherech. Once we are finished, we will cross west into the heartlands at Teplodarsk - whether by words or force.”

The thought of putting Hlotopol and its boyar to the sword - now that the prospect was so near - sparked a kind of dark joy Goran had thought forgotten. He recalled the gnawing, tearing feeling of rage and embarrassment when his father’s boyars had laughed him out of court. Radomir, ever quick with his forked tongue, had been one of those who had distinguished himself in his blurry memories as having laughed the loudest. Cutting his fat head off and mounting it on a pike would make enduring Heller’s sour faces and spitting worthwhile ten times over. He shook his mind free of the thought for now, and turned to the commanders once more.

“We will need to move quickly,” he continued, gesturing out to the north, and the distant woods that marked the border between Albina-Suzdal and the Gatchisk plains. “So long as we strike fast and take them unawares, my father’s men and the rebels plaguing them will remain divided against each other. Let them think the attacks hitting them are the work of loyalists, other rebels, a bandit army...or demons, for all I care. We will show our hand and I will give my declaration only once we have the east in our fist - and then, we will take the rest.”

The commanders nodded along, and Goran sensed in each of them the eagerness for battle. What coin and treasures that had survived the crossing of the Shipbreaker’s Tide was almost fully spent buying up supplies, and the Yllahanan galleys had been sold - once they crossed the border, there would be no going back. In a way, it brought a certain sense of closure: the sureness of there being only one direction, one path, and one goal.

But it was also terrifying. The fear had grown more and more in his heart with every passing day as his own plans came to fruition. He was coming home, yet what awaited him there? An unloving, cowardly father with one foot in the grave? Scheming, treacherous boyars and magisters? A broken realm, ripped apart by its own lords?

But the realm will be mine, came the reassuring thought. It will be mine, in the end. And it shall flourish as it had under Father, and then more.

Of Belnopyl and the war against Pemil, he had previously thought little. Yet by the talk of Rudin, a new dimension was added to the sprawling strategy of the conquest Vasilisa, the woman his father had counseled him to take by force, was likely all that was left of the royal blood from Belnopyl. He tried to recall her as he had last seen her, on the day of his exile - black of hair, spirited as a stallion, and strong, for a girl. She was still strong as a woman, and no doubt taught the arts of dark magic by her heathen mother, if Rudin’s story of her strange sword and voice were to be believed. A powerful foe to be sure, but an even more useful ally.

Surely, she still remembers me, he thought. Surely, she still hates me. Ah…but perhaps she might hate Prince Svetopolk even more.

Pemil…in Pemil lay the true enemy, once the rebellious lords were either brought to heel or killed. He had known Prince Svetopolk to be a cold and shrewd man, skilled in politics and war - the spitting image of the man his father had thought himself to be. If the great prince of the north truly intended to give himself a crown and declare himself as Raegnald reborn - a second conqueror from the north to unite the Klyazmite lands again - then the final test of the Griffon's strength would be against the northern wolves. That was a fight whose outcome would be in serious doubt: Pemil would have the better part of a season to raise up its armies, and they would not be struck by the element of surprise as his fathers rebels would be. And what more, the cream of Gatchisk's crop would be exhausted: heavy druzhinniks and household guards could not be easily replaced, and it was on their core strength that all Klyazmite armies relied upon.

We cannot break them with two thousand. Not even with the whole strength of the Company.

He needed allies - the boyars west of the Cherech, to be certain, but he needed more. The magisters of Albina-Suzdal were too meek and divided for them to send him any aid, even if he promised them a mountain of gold which he did not have; the Grand Duke of Merensk to the west would probably crumple up his letter after a laugh…and to ask the Black Khormchaks of the far east for aid would be to alienate half the realm he sought to make his own, and to forsake his crown. His thoughts turned once more back to Vasilisa. The joining of the houses of Belnopyl and Gatchisk was opposed by her father, yet if the rumors that blew in from the north were true, then Igor of Belnopyl, the architect of his exile, was dead. And if a woman could not rule the city alone…

You forget how many boyars there were beneath Igor the Weak, reminded the small, shrewd voice in his mind. No doubt the princess' own lands are just as war-torn as ours. To intervene would be to step into a fog. Let it first be cleared by Svetopolk - he will exhaust all his men trying to take Belnopyl, spread them thin, whilst we can bide our time and crush him.

It seemed perfect. Why play the hero now, whilst the hour was most precarious for himself? Let Pemil and Belnopyl destroy each other, and carve a path for the Griffon's ascent with each others' blood. He could deal with whoever survived the clash, for both principalities would always have need of Gatchisk's bountiful crops, lest they were to fall back into the brutal cycles of famine that punctuated the years before the Khormchaks forced their three nations to become as one.

“A dead hero is no good hero…” he mused to himself. Peasants and lords from Pemil to Gatchisk - the world over, even - were all the same. Common men cared only for good weather, good harvest, and good entertainment to distract the mind. Lesser lords cared only to be left to their own devices, and to not pay too high a tax to their liege lord. If they would have those things, then men both common and noble alike could care less whether rule came from Pemil, Belnopyl, or Gatchisk. The rest - of blood ties, of marriage alliances - all of it was merely a way to give some glamor to the reality of it all.

I will give them a good story. An exiled prince, a colorful band of companions…how the singers would love such a thing!

He looked at the men riding by his side - his colorful companions, though even at their best and brightest their imperfections shone through up close. No-one stinks of horse and sweat in the songs, no-one has broken teeth or a bad leg, no-one has doubts and fear…

He looked to himself, and for a moment it all seemed so surreal - to have come so far, so quickly. Yes...the return of the promised prince. All that is missing is a damsel in distress - a woman to arm the hero and give him wisdom.

Wisdom…more than anything else, he needed wisdom.

***

The days passed in a rhythm of march and rest, with their army advancing steadily under the guidance of the outriders. Kassa's men remained ever ahead of their host, meticulously mapping out spots for rest, wells and rivers where their draft animals might be watered, and scanning past the horizon for any threats. They crossed verdant fields and rocky outcrops - the Kororys Band keeping a hard, disciplined pace that saw many of their hangers-on left behind. Some caught up to stay on the march - others returned home, or sought their fortunes elsewhere. As dusk fell on the fourth day, they reached the skirts of a small forest nearby a ruined temple, where the ancient trees stood like silent sentinels.

By the time the night was well and truly dark, the field nearby the temple was covered with tents organized in neat rows, and campfires flickered to life as the warriors and followers set in for the night. Goran strode about the camp to observe in the same custom as Araldo had before his illness, and the sapphire-blue captain's cloak billowed softly behind him to the awe of many of the commoners. A minstrel accompanying their band plucked away at a harp as he sang the old soldiers' songs, and around him were warriors of all stripes: Sanurians, Huwaqis, Solarians, and even Yllahanans. There were some Klyazmites in their company, and he wondered whether they shared the same strange feeling as he did. It was a feeling of…emptiness.

They had crossed into the lands of Gatchisk. They had crossed into his lands. His home. Yet why did he feel nothing? Goran found himself disliking the country, the dense forests, the high plains grasses. Had it been so long? No - he had only spent five, six years in the south. But why did everything feel so foreign then? He shook his head, and stepped away from the camp to retreat to his own quarters.

The temple door was made of oak, and reinforced with iron bands, but it did not stop whoever had pillaged it. Goran pushed open the splintered door and entered into the drafty hall, now decorated with colored cloth and a soft cot to rest his head. He did not recall having taken a woman among his baggage - but there stood a figure, a woman in a roughspun dress and a hood, with her back turned to him and facing the crackling fire as if warming her hands.

"Are you a camp-follower?" he asked, his voice rough with suspicion and exhaustion. "I have no need of a bed warmer."

The woman remained silent, her stillness unnerving. Goran's hand had drifted down to his belt, and to the hilt of his sword. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. He had learned to trust his instincts, honed by years of battle and betrayal. Hells, where is Kassa? Where are they all?

"Answer me," he commanded, his voice harder now. When the woman did not respond, he began to draw his sword. But before the blade cleared the scabbard, a whisper of words in a foreign tongue - many whispers, in fact, but speaking as one - slipped through the air, and his body seized up, suddenly paralyzed.

What sorcery is this? Goran's mind raced, panic rising as he realized he could not move. His muscles strained against the invisible bonds, but it was futile. His body moved of its own accord, compelled to step closer to the woman. He had never seen magic of this kind - the Yllahanans employed battle mages, but their arts were in fire and alchemy, not in…this.

"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to mask the fear in his voice with anger. "An assassin? Who sent you - Radomir, perhaps? Or some kin to Senator Luonerssa?"

The woman's laugh was a cold, hollow sound. "You are bold, but still foolish, Goran of Gatchisk. If I wished you dead, you would be cutting your own throat by now."

She's toying with me, he thought, a mixture of rage and helplessness boiling within him. As he drew closer, the stench of decay reached his nostrils - the woman smelled thickly of rot, and as she half-turned to face him, her visage shrouded by shadow, he noticed her mouth and chin were a sickly gray, the color of death.

He gave a defiant grin, trying to will into being a confidence he did not have. Ah, so it is not a wielder of magic, but a being of magic itself. "A dead woman speaks to me. Are you some ghost, then? Whose spirit inhabits this body?"

"Who I am is of no consequence," she replied, her voice unnervingly calm. "I am here to teach you, to show you that for all your armor and swords, your mind remains unguarded."

He fought against the compulsion, his will like iron, but it was as if his mind was ensnared in a vice, each attempt to break free tightening its grip. "Speak plainly, or release me," he snarled, frustration and fear intertwining. “My father’s tutors always said I was an impatient learner.”

"Your conquest in Gatchisk will fail," she said, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “Your true destiny lies in Belnopyl, if you wish a crown upon your head. Your true destiny lies with Vasilisa of Belnopyl.”

Vasilisa. The name sent a jolt through him, memories of his failed abduction and her piercing eyes flooding his mind. "Let her and the prince of Pemil destroy each other," he retorted, but even as he spoke, a searing pain exploded in his head, like an iron spike driven through his skull.

"Foolishness," the woman snapped. "Vasilisa is destined for greatness - it must be seized by her, for the other hand that grasps for it will doom all your kind. To save her is to save yourself."

"Save myself?" Goran's voice was strained, his vision blurring from the pain. "From what?"

"There are greater enemies than petty lords. They will turn all you love into ash if you do not aid Vasilisa."

His mind churned, wrestling with her words. Greater enemies? What could be worse than the political vipers he had known all his life, and those who would deny him his crown?

As if sensing his thoughts, there came another sickening push of willpower from the woman’s mind, which was crossed with his own like two blades in a duel. He sensed every tiny movement, every betrayal of thought, though to glimpse into her own mind was like trying to fathom the depths of a muddy pool. There was a terrible, inhuman strength to her - and beyond his terror, he found himself enraptured by it, the possibilities of such power. In the wake of the woman’s push, the darkness of his quarters erupted into a flash of blinding lights as his mind was pried open - and into his open mind poured visions, almost too fast to comprehend.

He saw a mountain in the east, smoking and ruined, flooded by liquid fire. The starry night skies in the east were shrinking, growing dim as the lights winked out one by one…and with every light snuffed out, there arose another figure from the sea of flames. An army…an army was being gathered - beneath the floating embers and the licking tongues of flame, banners were being raised, and men were being joined with shadow, turning into beasts. Already, he saw the sea of flames flooding further east, burning everything and everyone to ash and smoke, choking the light from the sky.

It will come to Gatchisk, he knew. It will come for all of us. It will consume all of the east, but it will not be enough.

Then the vision cleared, and he was sucked back into the realm of the living, though he did not realize he had left it. It was like awakening from a terrible dream after a long, troubled sleep - he gasped back into consciousness, his legs weak and his mind reeling from the drowning visions. The woman remained, standing impassively and watching him as he recovered. His mouth burned - he realized he had bitten his tongue, and the metallic taste of blood helped anchor him to reality as he stood back up, swaying slightly.

He moved of his own accord - the woman’s enchantment had worn off. Goran sensed it was only a permission on her part that he moved - to go for his blade again would simply invite his being turned into a puppet once more. Not that his strings were any less obvious at present.

“You’ve given me little choice in the matter,” he managed, straining to keep his voice strong and level. “This destiny…you would have me turn my men from Gatchisk, and travel further north? I promised them lands and homes in the south, not in Belnopyl.”

“All of us have a choice,” spoke the woman. “I would not force you down this path, just as one cannot force a wolf to be as a human. Will you take the path of a starving wolf, or will you take the path of the prince your father was not?”

There was something in her tone that was familiar…Goran knew he had heard her voice somewhere before, in a different life. The name was on the tip of his tongue, the face on the edge of recollection…but he could not manage it.

She raised one hand into the air, and with a single, fluid motion the woman traced a symbol through the air with her finger - the sign of a circle, with a line through its middle. Then she pressed a cold, dead hand to Goran’s chest, and he felt a strange, numbing feeling spread across his chest like a frost. His breath caught in his lungs as the cold traced along every fiber of his being, but then it passed, and he felt only the mildness of the mid-summer evening once again. His mind felt lighter, sharper, yet also stronger - fortified by unknowable courage that made him wish to dare the woman to try her tricks of the mind on him again, just to test the limits of her imparted strength.

A gift…armor of the mind.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the remaining fuzziness from the vision forced upon him. As he cleared his head, the hooded woman stepped silently past him, treading for the door. The sound of shouts and cheers for the minstrel's song flooded into his quarters as she opened the door, and then Goran remembered her face.

“Cirina?” He said quietly. “Lady Cirina?”

Death had taken much of her beauty in life - the flesh of her face had begun to peel and slough away in places, and he saw yellowed bone peeking out from the crown of her head where the hem of her hood shifted in the breeze. And her eyes…her eyes were bright and yellow, like polished gold coins that were laid over the eyes of the dead. Her gaze held his, commanding his attention.

“What is it you seek, Goran of Gatchisk?” she asked. “A home, or a crown?”

He thought for a while - a home, or a crown? In truth, he wished for both - yet if both were out of reach, which would he strive harder for? A crown could be won in many places - with his men he could have easily taken over a number of smaller islands in the Shipbreaker’s Tide and crowned himself a corsair king with his ships and troops. That would have brought power and prestige as well, but it would not have filled the gnawing emptiness in his soul. What he wanted more than anything else was to see the spires of the city again, the narrow cobblestone streets and the orchards, and to awaken not to the roof of a tent, but the tapestries and worked stone ceilings of his old room, where he could lie in the comfiest bed in the world - his own, in his home.

Home…home…demons tear me, it has been too long…

“Home,” he replied, matching the dead woman’s golden stare. “More than anything else - home.”

“Then defend it. Smoke drifts from the east now - soon there will come the fire in its wake. If you wish to save your home, then seek for Vasilisa. Save yourself by saving others. That is your destiny, and there is much work to be done.”

The heavy door swung shut, and then she was gone, like a terrible dream.

Goran felt all the tension in his body melt away, and he could suddenly stand no longer. He sank into the soft embrace of his cushioned armchair, and for a while he sat there, staring at the crackling hearth. He waited for the dream to end, for him to suddenly burst wide awake to an empty fireplace and sharp chastising from Kassa that he had overslept, but no such relief came.

That is your destiny.

Saving himself by saving others…such was his purpose. A terrible one, it seemed. He had been unable to parse the visions to see where his own end lay, if indeed they could be believed - else they were just the manipulations of a ghost, puppeting the flesh of the mother of the woman he had tried to make his. But her power could not be doubted, that was certain. There was a terrible purpose in her words…a terrible purpose she had marked him with, and the matter of his own murky end was most terrible of all.

He unclasped his cape from his shoulders, letting it pool at the foot of his chair. His gauntlets followed soon after, and he raised his bare hand before his face, watching the orange light dance and flicker over the polished surface of the one ring he bore on his right hand: an old signet ring, one of the few traces of his nobility he was able to smuggle out before his exile. One of the few reminders of the greatness that never came to be.

No, he would not let it pass him by this time. He would rather die than return to his shame.

He clenched his hand into a fist, and the griffon upon his finger glowed orange in the light of the hearth.

Let me be a prince over field, river, and forest.

Let me be a prince over subjects prosperous and contented.

Let me be a prince with a home.