God Within Us

THE cheering of Belnopyl's folk ran far and wide, joined by the clatter of spears and swords pounded against shields. Those who fought and bled for the city roared as if to prove to the heavens above that they were not dead, that the fire of life had not deserted the White City. That they were still alive.

Indeed, it had seemed half a miracle that they were. Yesugei felt an itch come to his hoarse throat as he sat against the inner battlements, watching the dead being sorted into a great hill beyond the city as funeral pyres were being lit. Soon, the fields would be ablaze with funeral pyres; despite their great victory, Belnopyl's folk had too few men left to dig graves for all the fallen.

Within the walls, those who were not too exhausted to stand were tending to the wounded, while elsewhere glories and rewards were being distributed. Yesugei heard Ilya's booming voice even from afar, presiding over the ceremony unfolding in the town square. Those who had come to the rescue of the city, and those who had fought most bravely from the start, were given various rewards such that Ilya could grant them: petty noblemen and druzhinniks were given lands and titles from Ilya's own expansive domain, while commonfolk were rewarded with choice arms and armor that had been captured from the usurpers' armory, and promises that their sons would be elevated to the junior ranks of the druzhina, in time.

"You have all fought well," declared Ilya. "You have all fought bravely. It is my honor to bestow these gifts upon you, you who rose to the call in our darkest hour."

Darkest hour indeed, thought Yesugei. He looked to the east and saw the first funeral pyres being lit. So much flesh, so much meat. All of it being sent up to the one whose kisses were of fire, and whose strength was swelling ever more beyond the God-Spine. Were it only so.

Still, the battle had been a nightmare, a terror rivaling the White Pinch. Terror had taken hold in the defenders' hearts when several women came from the keep screaming that the Princess of Belnopyl had abandoned the fight, but before their terror could turn to flight or surrender, chaos struck the ranks of the usurpers below. Even ten warriors, in the wrong place and taking the enemy unawares, could sow the havoc of a thousand - and when Vasilisa and her company began cutting a swath through the ranks of the enemy, they shattered their flagging morale.

But Vasilisa’s company was still only ten against many hundreds. Yesugei remembered how he and Ilya had gathered up what riders remained, and formed an arrowhead of iron-clad druzhinniks and freeriders to ride from the keep. He had saddled up at the side of the great captain himself, and before they set out Ilya had shoved the banner of the city's colors into the nomad princeling's hands.

"I am no lancer!" Yesugei remembered yelling to Ilya, just as the postern gates were about to open. He wished more than ever that Kaveh was with him - his brother would have relished riding out into battle with the silken banner fluttering about in the wind. But for Yesugei, all the banner did was take away one of two precious hands he needed to pull a bow.

"I don't care what you want, Khormchak.” Ilya said, leaning close, his growling voice barely audible over the shouting men and nickering horses. “The men here know you, and they trust you almost as much as they trust me. If I fall in battle, you will drive them the rest of the way, do you understand? And for that, you need a banner - else you're no different from the other hundred bastards that we'll be riding down."

With a shout from Ilya and a cheer from the men, they rode out from the postern gate, headlong into the ranks of the usurpers, most of whom were already in flight. Yesugei rode hard by Ilya's side, slashing down at any heads that he passed by. The rush of the cavalry, packed tightly as they were, was unstoppable - any men before them who did not give way were crushed under a thunder of ironshod hooves, and many met that exact fate as their charge wheeled again and again through the usurpers’ battle line, smashing giant holes and leaving trampled and speared men in their wake. Some of the druzhinniks on the usurpers' side were mounted, but they were too few, and fighting against the retreating ranks of their own comrades.

Eventually, their charge lost its strength and shock. They had torn a bloody swath through the usurpers, but the surviving veterans strengthened the battle line, and soon Yesugei saw their numbers dwindle as men were struck from their horses by raised pikes, or pulled from the saddle by swarms of footmen. But just as the enemy had found his courage once more, there had come the blast of another horn, far beyond the walls of the city. For a moment Yesugei dreaded reinforcements had arrived - perhaps another lord who had chosen to declare against Belnopyl - but then he saw the usurpers' camp aflame, and battle lines clashing with the rearguard.

The force from Chernogorsk had arrived, and with them rode another band whose leader's name Ilya had roared with delight, like a father meeting a lost son.

"Pyotr!" The old druzhinnik hailed with a wave of his blood-splattered mace. "Pyotr of Belnopyl! He lives!"

The crow Kargasha and the dead man Pyotr plunged their forces like a knife through the backs of the usurpers' ranks, and then none could have said the battle was in question. The enemy was crushed by two great hammers from either side, hemmed into the town square. Still however, many of the pressed men stood firm, fighting as cornered animals were wont to in their final moments. But when the princess of the city emerged from the chaos bearing the head of their lord, what fight the survivors had in their bellies fled quickly enough. Most of those who had not already surrendered threw down their weapons, while others turned against their own fellows who refused to surrender, joining in the slaughter of the forlorn.

And so it was that the army of the usurpers, the army that was to have crowned four, bled itself dry up on the cobblestones of the city they sought to claim as their own.

A great victory indeed, but there was one who was still missing.

Kargasha slid up to Yesugei’s side, his dark hair plastered to his sweat-soaked forehead. The wanderer from Chernogorsk had exchanged his black rags for a full suit of maille that made him seem twice as wide and imposing than he had been on the road, and on his head was a bright helm in the likeness of a bird whose wings covered the warrior's temple and cheeks. “I couldn’t find any sign of the princess,” he said quietly. “Not among the living, nor the dead.”

Despite the heavy, humid heat, Yesugei felt a chill run through him. “None at all? Did you search where the men had last seen her?”

Kargasha’s eyes flicked to Yesugei, and there lay something unreadable in their depths. “Indeed. You’ll want to come with me.”

They made their way down from the battlements of the keep, stepping over and past the bodies of the fallen. Broken weapons and hewn shields littered the cobblestone, and the air was thick with the biting smell of smoke and the metallic scent of blood which hung over the entire city like a death shroud. ,Amidst the devastation, the common folk moved like ghosts, their faces drawn and weary. They scavenged among the dead, searching for anything of value or use, while others worked methodically, loading the bodies onto wagons to be carted out of the city. The murmur of their labors was punctuated by the occasional cry of anguish as someone recognized a fallen loved one.

Yesugei barely registered the scent of death anymore, so pervasive and unrelenting it had become. He wondered with a hint of amusement whether it was because he himself felt half-dead from exhaustion. Every step felt heavy, each breath a reminder of the fierce battle they had endured.

As they approached the small alcove, the environment grew more claustrophobic. Rubble and debris narrowed the path, forcing Yesugei to navigate carefully. The shadows here were deeper, the light dimmer, creating an oppressive sense of unease.

“There,” Kargasha said, pointing to a shadowed corner. “Look closely.”

Yesugei knelt beside the half-hidden body crumpled against the stones, the dim light casting eerie shadows on the bloodied form of Austeja. Her once vibrant silver scales were dulled with blood and grime, her body bearing the brutal marks of her struggle.

Crouched over Austeja’s body, the shaman Tuyaara was a solitary figure in the gloom. Her beaded veil shimmered faintly as she moved, her eyes meeting Yesugei’s with a mix of sorrow and concern - when the shaman shifted Austeja's neck, he saw why. Circling the marsh-dweller's neck was the cruel black imprint of a chain and the tiny burn marks, the burning holes of the stars trapped within black iron.

Unukalhai, he thought to himself, the name echoing like a curse in his mind. Unukalhai, what have you done?

Kargasha looked to him, his dark eyes glistening. “What do we do?”

Yesugei cast his gaze over the body of Austeja - the marsh-dweller who knew so much, yet did not say enough. Do you love her enough to let her go, when the time comes?

No, he thought. No - now is not the time. Gods true and false, I will find you.

Yesugei felt the flaming furrows in his arm tighten, like a reassuring squeeze of long, invisible fingers. He felt the warmth snake through the bones of his arm, then spread and unfurl like a blossom in his silent heart. The feeling of completeness - it was a feeling he did not realize he had lacked, a feeling beyond imagining, yet even in the fleeting moment of the kiss, it still lingered on like an imprint on his soul.

He focused on the feeling, drowning out everything else in the world until all he could feel was that electrifying sensation. He closed his eyes…and then he saw it, felt it, in truth, more than anything else. The crystal in his heart sensed the others - it yearned to be returned to the heart of the Vessel. He seized on that yearning, then cast it out beyond his senses.

A path. A trail. A guide.

He felt it in the cobblestones. He felt it in the air. He felt it in the whispers of the wind that blew through the piles of rubble, and the story they told. He sensed the Vessel in everything, and all of it pointed him downwards, deeper into the unknowable darkness that was below. Austeja’s warning echoed in his mind, but he did not care. Let this place burn. Let the Hollows Unukalhai loves so much be turned to ash, if it means she will be returned.

“Yesugei,” came Kargasha’s voice again, the urgency clearer now. Yesugei opened his eyes, and he realized what had felt like the passage of days had only been a brief, awkward moment of silence amidst the ruins. The Klyazmite crow gave him a pointed look. “What do we do now? They will begin to ask questions, and soon. The others will want to see the princess whose city they shed blood for.”

“What do we do now?” Yesugei replied. He placed one hand in his belt, and felt the cold iron of the shattered sword hilt. His bow was still strung, his quiver full…and the trail of the Vessel was in everything he touched and saw.

“We go hunting.”

***

Vasilisa startled awake to the rustle of the wind.

A hanging curtain of silk fluttered in the breeze, so fine she could see through it. The whole world was golden and warm beyond the curtain, and splendor as she had seen only once before in her life was on display. Hundreds of colored canopies of cloth were raised over a great stadium that ran along the bank of the Cherech, and beneath them clamored thousands of commonfolk, clustering beneath the shade and cheering. Splendor as she had only seen once before - it was the tournament of the city, when all the chivalry and might of Klyazma had come to prove its worth before the realm.

Only this time, it was she who sat upon the Grand Prince’s throne in the lists.

She heard voices, indistinct and murmuring all about her. When she looked, their faces were a blur, her mind still hazy from the trailing fingers of sleep.

“Are you well, my lady?” spoke the first voice, a woman seated below her and to the side. The lady of Yerkh - a beauty clad in a dress of blue and thread-of-gold brocade whose collar was studded with small sapphires - was speaking to her. Nesha’s face was drawn with concern, but there was a softness in her look that Vasilisa had not known before - as well as crow’s feet and smile lines.

The man who held her hand looked much the same. Older. Vratislav of Yerkh wore a white and blue coat that was fastened with a silver belt inlaid with old runes. He too had new lines upon his face, and those that were there before had deepened.

A queer feeling stirred in her heart, but Vasilisa did not know what to say. She gave a small wave of the hand, and an uneasy smile. Learned courtesy came flooding back to her mind in an instant. “Thank you, lady Nesha, but it is nothing.”

Nothing…nothing…nothing at all.

A servant came by her side bearing a flagon of iced wine, and filled a cup she did not realize she had been holding until now. There was a familiarity in the servant’s face - and when he excused himself she realized she had scarcely recognized Rudin as he was, clean, shaved, and stoop-shouldered with age.

I know you, she wanted to say to him, but by the time the words came to the tip of her tongue he had left, disappearing into the ranks of the seated nobility in the lists.

Then she saw the others in the crowd. Pyotr, her castellan, was sitting next to a fat druzhinnik from Chernogorsk, and he himself had become soft and comfortable in his elder years, while next to him were two boys, black of hair like their father, yet with green eyes. Oleg’s scarred face stuck out like a sore thumb in the lower lists, and beside him was Polynkin, whose hair had begun to turn gray even at thirty. Yet the younger druzhinnik remained ever the target of his fellow warriors’ ribbing it seemed, with how he cringed and reddened at some jest from Oleg.

Hmmmm? You two…but…

“My lady?” came another voice, this time from behind her.

No, no, that is not right. Vasilisa turned, and saw the new chieftess of the Vorodzhi, dressed in the colors of the marshes - a dark-green tunic, and a thin, brown leather belt around her waist.

“No, this does not feel right, Austeja,” she spoke to the chieftess, her voice wavering. “This is not-”

Suddenly, the colors were too much. The world was too much. There was a building pressure like an iron spike being pressed against her skull, and she closed her eyes to shut out the pain of the voices, the colors, the teeming humanity all about her.

Ah…yes…

I remember.

She opened her eyes. You are all dead. I killed you.

She was alone, and in a world without color. The city was bled white, and the tall, proud houses and merchant halls of yesteryear were once more broken and shattered, and shrouded in a sea of mist. In the flood of pale light, the colorless rubble and ruined husks seemed like bones, bleached by a dead sun whose light was cold and cruel. Black crows filled the sky with the sound of their beating wings, and their screams were like knives to her ears. “Gods! Gods! Gods!”

None of this would have happened if you had been stronger.

No, came the other voice in her head. I did all I could - I just wasn’t-

Strong enough? The first voice was mocking and cruel, a needling bitterness turned inward. You still think you can go back - you still think you can return to how things were. You still think you can go home.

You can never go home. You will never be one of them again. So why fight it? Embrace it, embrace what’s to come.

Vasilisa stood shakily up from her throne, and felt the ancient, rotting wood creak beneath her. It smelled foul of mold and mildew - and when she looked back she saw her seat was peppered with great holes through which ran hundreds of ants.

She shuddered, and looked back out to the tourney grounds. There, standing in the middle of the field as if it had been there all along, was a mare grazing lazily. Its coat seemed to shimmer in the light of the colorless day, and when it stood still, the beast nearly blended in with the mists that trailed just above the ground. She remembered the mare - her first horse, gifted to her by the lord of Tosont, for white horses were the symbol of royalty, and the Grand Prince’s favor was always a boon to have. But that had been a lifetime past, and both the horse and the man who trained her had died long ago.

She called out to the steed, “Zephyr! Zephyr, hear me!”. She saw the mare lift her head lazily in her direction, then continue chewing on the unseen tufts of grass beneath the mist.

Lazy as ever…how did you ever become so swift? Vasilisa thought to herself with a smile as she drew nearer. She patted the mare gently on her side, and was surprised to feel warmth, life, when the rest of the world seemed to have become cold and dead.

“You were spoiled by me, you know?” she murmured into the mare’s ears. “Now look at you - too good to listen to the Grand Princess of Belnopyl, are you?”

Suddenly, Zephyr’s ears perked up. A moment later, Vasilisa heard the distant, howling call of a horn echoing through the mists. She looked past the tourney grounds, and saw movement beyond the hanging pale veil. She heard the gentle clop of hooves upon the cobblestone, and then there emerged three wraiths, each of them mounted, and each of them a splash of color upon the canvas of the lifeless world.

They drew closer, their forms growing more solid and familiar. She tightened her fists, ready for a fight, but then they passed her by without so much as a glance in her direction, and she allowed herself to breathe once more.

The first who went by her was a youth in whose face she felt a stirring of dark, forgotten memories. In his face she saw the echoes of the Young Griffon, only now he had grown older, harder. Atop a horse as white as the morning light he rode, and his armor - a suit of gilded plate covered with scrollwork - clinked gently as he passed her.

The man that followed the Young Griffon was the steppe khan she had seen in the distant east, his heart bearing a blossom of red flame. The khan’s horse was a monstrous, evil-tempered courser as large as a destrier, and it too was wreathed in red, lashing tongues. Zephyr shrank slightly away, but when horse and rider passed them by, she felt no heat from the beating flames.

The one who trailed last behind the others was the sorcerer. The one who had brought ruin to her doorstep. Chirlan passed her by without a sound, his golden claws clenched tightly around the reins of a black horse whose form seemed one with the sorcerer’s amorphous, inky robes. In the eyes of horse and rider, she saw the same molten gold gaze pointed onwards, ever onwards. What did you see? She wondered to herself as Chirlan went by. Unukalhai had said you could see the future - then was it your death you saw?

The thought gave her pause. Then we are two, aren’t we? You went on to your death, as I go now…did you also love someone, once? Was it for their sake you died?

But the sorcerer gave no reply, and then he was far, far away, his form slowly swallowing into the depths of the mists beyond.

You don’t get to run, she thought to herself. Not now! Answer me! Where are you going? Where am I going? Where does it end?

Zephyr had no saddle, no stirrup, but she was able to coax the pale mare to kneel long enough for her to slip onto her gently-curved back. Vasilisa wrapped her arms tightly about the mare’s long hair, and then she gave her a gentle nudge in the side. For once her steed listened, and she trotted after the fading silhouettes of the three riders, her gait smooth and silken as she remembered in life. Zephyr’s hooves fell without so much as a sound, and when Vasilisa looked down she saw no earth or stone, just the mist.

The riders’ forms began to fade ever faster into the embrace of the mists. Vasilisa spurred Zephyr into a hasty trot, then a canter, but the colors continued to fade.

“Faster!” she whispered to the mare. “Faster! I cannot let this end now!”

Zephyr snorted, then hastened into a gallop. For a moment Vasilisa feared she would be tossed from the mare’s back, but she held on, and they sailed ever on through the mists like a swan upon water. No horse in the world could have outpaced the pale steed of Tosont, the western wind, but still it was not enough. The colors of the riders faded, and then she was all alone, galloping in silence through a lifeless world. She had lost sight of everything - the tourney grounds, the city, the whole world - all of it was gone, and all that remained was the endless, pressing pale.

Suddenly, Zephyr gave a loud neigh. The mists began to creep up higher, snaking up along the mare’s legs with thin, billowing tendrils. Or perhaps they were sinking. Vasilisa held on for dear life as her steed began to thrash her head as the mists crawled up to her belly, and then up to her tail. She tried to trace Unukalhai’s sigils through the air - union, destruction, but the golden traces failed her.

The mist crawled up to her saddle, and then it claimed her before she could give out a cry.

Cold and darkness became her world.

Cold and darkness was what she woke up to.

She awakened again with a start - was this another dream? Was this another nightmare? Her limbs felt stiff, as though they were being held in place by binds. Cold sweat ran down her face, which felt three times larger and unbearably heavy. When the rivulets dripped down from her brow, her whole face lit up with sharp needles of agony.

How…where…She tried to remember, and through the ceaseless pounding and the stinging pain the battle came to her in fits and pieces.

Unukalhai. She thought to herself. The name went to the tip of her tongue, but there is withered and died when she remembered the black chain wrapped around Austeja’s throat. The sickening crunch. No…no. Someone else. Yesugei, Ilya, Stavr, someone…Mother…

None of them replied. None of them came to save her. None of them…and then someone. Something.

Something stirred in the darkness. Something huge. She heard the sound of grinding stone, and realized she was in the tunnels beneath the city. The princes of old were all buried in the crypts beneath the keep. Had it been her turn? No…I didn’t even get to bury you. Father…

The sound of grinding stone and shifting earth came to a halt, and she was aware that whatever it was, it was right in front of her. She heard the sound of a long, sharp breath being taken - and then its eye opened. Deep black and purple was the eye that stared at her, with twisted veins of gold - the serpent’s iris was slitted, and as long as she was tall.

Her voice came out as a croak. “Vraactan. You’ve grown yet again.”