A dozen sets of galloping hooves clapped discordantly against the soppy ground as king Heruwulfaz and his royal entourage went flying into the center of the camp. “Look alive!” the heralds cried as they tried to lead the party through the mob of onlookers. “Make way for his lordship the King!” The crowd of warriors instantly complied, practically mangling themselves as they tired to dive out of Heruwulfaz’s path. A train of servants rushed out to meet the honored guests, bearing with them the usual compliment of food and refreshments, but the king was in no mood this morning; he roughly shoved them all aside as he vaulted down from his horse.
Nothing was more frustrating to a ruler than feeling as if events were out of his control. All of the reports Heruwulfaz had been given about the Skandza raid thus far were vague, incomprehensible, and often contradictory; all he could be certain of at this point was that
something had happened, and it had been serious enough that his lieutenants had specifically requested his presence up north. It had taken much longer than he would have liked; affairs back home had required his attention and winter blizzards had blocked much of the roadways, but at long last Heruwulfaz had arrived in Kimbroz. The soldiers, having endured a long and uncertain winter, were overjoyed to have their king with them again, but the king was not prepared to return their excitement.
The grass was soft and yielding from last night’s rainstorm, and the king found himself practically wading the journey between his horse and the commander’s tent. Right at his side, splashing determinedly through each and every puddle, was his young son Harjawulfaz. In appearance, the lad was the spitting image of his father, with the same flowing hair and stern countenance that had made Heruwulfaz so intimidating in combat. When it came to attitude, however, the two could not possibly have been more different; whereas his father was serious and focused, Harjawulfaz was carefree and irresponsible, constantly neglecting his studies and spending all his time on leisure and sport. A few years ago, Heruwulfaz might have blamed it all on youthful ignorance, but Harjawulfaz was going on fourteen now – he needed to start preparing for the demands of manhood.
The commander’s tent looked like it had seen better days; standing in a pit of mud and sludge it was a wonder the wretched thing was still standing at all. With the royal party having finally reached its destination, Heruwulfaz laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and lifted the tent flap. “You wait outside,” he insisted as he stooped down to enter. “I shouldn’t take
too long.”
As soon as the king was inside, all of the mud seemed to vanish, giving way to a single, miraculous patch of solid ground; an island of dryness in the middle of a swampy sea. In the middle of this oasis had been placed a single wooden table, around which a cadre of four men sat in waiting. One of them Heruwulfaz recognized as being Theudanaz, the chief of the Kimbroz; on his left sat the commander of his host, and the other two he could only guess at, for now.
“Ah, my king!” the captain cried, leaping respectfully to his feet. “I am so very glad to see you answered my summons – for a while I was afraid you were not coming!” he added genially.
“There were some delays,” Heruwulfaz said flatly as he found himself a seat, “but I came as soon as I possibly could. Now,” he began with a sigh, “I would very much appreciate a full explanation of what’s happened here.”
“My messengers did not explain it to you?” the captain inquired anxiously, clearly less than thrilled at the prospect of answering for himself.
“Not very well,” the king responded humorlessly, sensing his subordinate’s unease. “I was only told that an incident had occurred and I should come to Kimbroz as soon as possible.”
The captain clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “I see then.” He reclined in his chair and sighed with resignation befitting a condemned criminal. “To be quite blunt, your lordship, we were attacked; raided, to be more specific – by warriors from Skandza, to be even
more specific.”
Heruwulfaz bore into his commander with an icy glare. The other two men, sensing imminent danger, suddenly become incredibly fascinated by the woodwork on the table. The king made an impatient noise in his throat. “Go on.”
“There is a village,” the captain explained, “or there
was a village, anyway, that served as a crossing point for ferries between the lands of Kimbroz and the two islands claimed by the King of Skandza. A few months ago, in the last throes of winter, the village was torched to the ground by mounted raiders from Skandza. Only a handful of villagers survived the attack, and almost all of them were driven mad by what they endured.” The captain turned his eyes apologetically towards the ground. “We’ve been preparing for an invasion from them ever since.”
The king’s whole body seemed to sag with fatigue as he absorbed the dire news. As usual his worries seemed to come in waves, piling up in heaps whenever they were least welcome. Another war would mean ever more deaths; more deaths would mean fewer farmhands in the spring. Fewer farmers meant stagnation and poverty. “Tell me truly,” Heruwulfaz demanded, his face as solemn as a sheet of stone, “are you
absolutely certain that it was the Skandza who did this?”
The captain quickly threw up his hands in defense. “I can only report as I have been told, your lordship. This man,” he explained with a nod towards the warrior on his left, “is the one who told me that the raiders were Skandzan.”
Heruwulfaz shifted to face the soldier in question, and for a few moments the two merely stared at one another in silence. The king could tell that this man was no excitable greenhorn; he bore on his face the scars of a career well fought, and his hair had clearly been cut many times for many kills. “
You are the man? Tell me, what do they call you?”
The warrior’s pockmarked face shone with the faintest hint of pride as he spoke. “My name is Okaz. I am of the proud and worthy Markamannoz, whose kin sit in your royal hall with you and pay you homage.”
The smile on Heruwulfaz’s face indicated the soldier had answered correctly. “Then explain to me how you know the Skandza are the ones responsible for this atrocity within our borders – speak carefully,” the king added with a look of warning. “Your next words may decide the fate of an entire nation.”
“I have lived long in this world and seen much of it,” Okaz answered calmly. “My travels have taken me to the furthest corners of the Northlands, and farther still. I know well the sacred symbols that the Skanza bear into battle; the icons of the Gods that they plaster onto their shields and paint upon their bodies. There can be no mistaking them,” he insisted darkly.
Heruwulfaz chuckled a little to himself as he stared the old warrior down. “You certainly present me with an interesting dilemma, Okaz. You have no hard facts on your side, nor do you have any physical evidence to support your case. It is simply
your word against the word of King Hlewagastiz, who will almost surely deny any involvement in this attack.”
“I am a man of honor and experience,” Okaz said simply. “I assure you that both are present in my assessment. The raid
was the work of the Skandza – I would swear on it.”
Chief Theudanaz suddenly cleared his throat. “For what it is worth, great king, I am convinced that this man is telling the truth. One of my own warriors, who was present when the raiders were encountered, corroborates the report. The Skandza have been sending messengers to try and intimidate me for months now,” he added darkly. “I am not at all surprised that they attacked.”
The king bent across the table, locking his eyes with Okaz’s as the two engaged in a silent duel of wills. This Okaz certainly
appeared to know what he was talking about; his tongue was sharp and his explanation sounded genuine. More importantly than that, he seemed to have a certain air about him that suggested he was a man of integrity and honor. Logic was on his side, given that there was no other group large or well organized enough to carry out a raid like this, at least not this far north. The fact that the raiders had specifically struck a key crossing point into Skandza also seemed to lend credence to Okaz’s words. Surely wars had been started on flimsier pretenses than
this?
“Okaz,” Heruwulfaz sighed at last, “if you are lying, I can only pray that the Gods are merciless in their torment.” The grin in his eyes betrayed the king’s good humor.
“And if I am wrong,” the other laughed, “I will gladly bear it.”
The fourth man at the table abruptly coughed, eliciting surprised stares from the others, who had quite nearly forgotten his presence. “Pardon me, my king,” the man hissed, “but it would be remiss of me not to deliver my report to you while I have the chance.”
Heruwulfaz regarded the other with a confused stare, squinting as if he were trying to identify an old friend that he could barely remember. A few seconds of intense thought passed, until finally he leaped forward in his seat with an excited smile. “Wilagastiz,” he cried, “it really
is you! You took so long to return – I’d just about forgotten!”
In Heruwulfaz’s defense, there was little about Wilagastiz that looked the same as when he had left. His usually well-kept moustache was gone, replaced by an entangled, dirty mess that might, in some circles, pass as a beard. His hair had been left to grow to freakish length, obscuring his face and neck to the point of comedy. Only his voice remained unchanged, flowing from his mouth in smooth, silky tones.
“I only just returned to Sweboz lands,” the spy explained, idly twisting a finger through the longs strands of hair on his chin. “I assure you my time in Skanza was well spent.”
“Tell me quickly, then,” the king insisted. “I have a lot of matters to attend to, it would seem.”
“As you wish. King Ulfilaz’s sickness was not natural, it was poison,” Wilagastiz blurted casually. “Hlewagastiz had one of the kitchen servants slip quicksilver into the nightly meals. It is amazing he survived as long as he did.”
Heruwulfaz kept an impassive visage, but inside he was reeling. This revelation, although entirely unexpected, could be used to his significant advantage if he played it correctly. Blackmail probably wouldn’t work, but there were more practical uses as well. “Did Ulfilaz know, do you think?”
“It’s possible,” the spy conceded, “but I doubt it. I believe Ulfilaz would have ousted his son if he seriously thought he was being betrayed.”
“He never was one to be sentimental,” Heruwulfaz agreed. With some amount of groaning, the king pushed himself to his feet. “I thank you for your loyalty, Wilagastiz. You are dismissed until I have need of your services again.”
Heruwulfaz waited as the spy made his way out of the tent, mumbling and grumbling all the while. A sharp blast of wind carried through the enclosure as he left, sending the king’s skin crawling; whatever happened, it was going to be a
cold spring.
“You said that you’ve been preparing to counter an invasion,” Heruwulfaz resumed with a sign, “how prepared are you to
launch an invasion?”
“I should think there wouldn’t be any problems,” the captain shrugged. “Our stores are full, the men are eager for some action, and we can easily requisition some ferry boats from the nearby villages.”
“I am prepared to furnish additional supplies on your orders,” Theudanaz interjected. “Toppling the rule of this Hlewagastiz would be a great service for the people of Kimbroz.”
Heruwulfaz nodded his appreciation. “Then we must get to work. There are a lot of tiny details that still need to be hammered out.”
“I’ll take a full inventory of all our assets,” the captain promised, “and send it right along to Swebotraustasamnoz as soon as I have it.”
“No need,” the king retorted, standing restlessly from his chair. “It is my intention to lead this invasion in person.”
The captain sat frozen in stupefaction for a second, before quickly bowing his head in humility. “It is an honor, my king. I will carry out your every order.”
Heruwulfaz turned to go, trailing his words loudly behind him. “Then let fall the wrath of Sweboz.”
***
“You have damned yourself and your entire
nation with this fool’s errand!” the nobleman shouted, pacing feverishly back and forth across the hall. “Your idiotic war games will be the death of us all!”
Hlewagastiz raised an impatient hand, but the man continued his rant unabated. Incensed by this defiance, the king smashed his fist against the side of his throne with a bang. “That is
enough!”
All noise in the room fell dead in an instant, leaving Hlewagastiz’s furious scream to echo ominously against the high walls. Every man turned his eyes toward the enraged king, watching his every move with a strange mixture of fear and wonderment. A few brave lords began to inch towards the door, but soon thought better of it. They were resolved to try and prevail through reason.
Hlewagastiz looked at each man with a glare of utter contempt, his whole body heaving with the force of his furious breaths. He looked quite ill standing there, his face flushed and his eyes jerking aimlessly in his head like those of a maniac. The king’s hand shot to the hilt of his dagger, and the crowd released an astonished cry as Hlewagastiz tore the implement from its sheath and tossed it harmlessly to the floor.
“Do
not call me a madman,” he panted, leering at his guests as if to dare them to speak. “It is
you who are the madmen, not
I!”
“Your lordship,” one of the men protested, his voice stuttering meekly from his throat, “we do not think that you are
mad…we simply question the necessity of this war with the Sweboz-“
Hlewagastiz was in the man’s face before anyone knew what had happened. “What’s there to question?” he hissed, advancing on the hapless lord until he was practically pinned to the wall. “This is not some petty contest I engaged in for my amusement – this is
not,” he bellowed as he rounded on the others, “a
fool’s errand! This is a war for our
survival!”
“It is
now!” one of the guests dared to interject. “All the tribes of the Sweboz gather to annihilate us because of
your impetuousness!”
The king spun around in a flash, affixing the man who had spoken with a murderous glare. “
My impetuousness?
My impetuousness!” The crowd looked on in horror as Hlewagastiz was consumed by a fit of hysterical laughter. “This Heruwulfaz claims to speak for all the tribes of the Northlands – has the
gall,” he shouted as he was suddenly consumed by rage once again, “to invade and brutalize his neighbors as he pleases, and you presume to criticize
my impetuousness?”
“What the Sweboz do is their own
business,” another lord protested, finding strength in numbers. “This unprovoked raid of yours has merely given them pretense to annex
us!”
“
Unprovoked!?” Hlewgastiz shouted in exasperation. “What did the Rugoz and the Kimbroz ever do to
provoke their assimilation! What more justification do I need than the defense of the old ways!?”
“The Rugoz spent
years raiding and tormenting the Sweboz!” one man objected. “The Kimbroz were
willingly added to the Confederacy at the behest of their Chief and their Thing!”
Hlewgastiz snorted and cast a dismissive hand. “Are we really so foolish as to believe that pathetic lie?”
“Are we really so foolish as to believe
yours?”
The king lumbered around like a wounded animal, trying to identify and intimidate each of his challengers. He was beginning to feel the first pangs of helplessness as the mood in the crowd slowly began to turn against his favor. His chance of winning their support back with another lofty and rhetorical speech was slim – so be it! If they would not cooperate with his court, he would push them out of it!
“You have the courage of old, feeble women,” Hlewagastix spat, “and the brains to match. Your tongues are as black and as dull as lead.” He struggled for further oaths, but none came; he settled for a final disgusted sneer. “Be gone from my home,” he commanded, “and do not return unless I bid you.”
The king made for his private chamber in long, confidant strides; despite minor setbacks and annoyances, he had never felt more secure than he did now. It was only a matter of time before his subjects recognized his greatness; the nobility of what he was trying to accomplish. Heruwulfaz only knew how to destroy; his empire was built through force of arms and held together only by the weight of his personality. Hlewgastiz knew he actually
stood for something. He was a paragon of the old ways of doing things, the same ways that had made the Northlands great to begin with.
He was certain history would judge him kindly.
***
“Okay, good! Now try this one:
allos.”
Hagaradaz listened to the new word, curiously rolling it around on his tongue. “
Allos,” he slowly parroted back. “You said that ‘allos’ means ‘two’, right?”
Berdic smiled at his master’s success. “Indeed it does; and the word for ‘three’ is ‘tritios’,” he explained slowly.
The diplomat nodded and ran the word through his head a couple of times, willing himself to commit it to memory. He found he had something of a talent for learning new languages, which was fortunate because he would be needing them sooner rather than later. Already his scout reported that the mighty western river was less than an hour’s journey away; on the other side of its raging banks was the land of the city-dwelling Walhoz, men who did not make use of the Northland language, among other things.
The Sweboz had a murky and contentious relationship with the tribes of the Walhoz, and even the oldest and wisest men could scarcely remember a time when peace had existed between them. Both peoples accused the other of raiding and harassing their lands; both groups looked upon the ways and customs of the other with disdain, insisting that they way
they did things was right. King Heruwulfaz, in his wisdom, had resolved that this relationship must change; and Hagaradaz was instructed to make it happen.
As they beat their way down the rural trail, the envoy chanced a sidelong glance at the translator-slave he had been given; the young man named Berdic. It was still very early in what Hagardaz knew would be a very
long journey, but he had already found the foreigner to be polite, personable, and intelligent. He would doubtless do well in his official role as interpreter, but Hagaradaz had a sneaking suspicion that he would find ways to be useful in other matters as well.
His status as a slave gave Hagaradaz a degree of pause, and complicated matters somewhat. It was in the diplomat’s nature to treat Berdic as well as he would any other man; as far as he was concerned, slaves were a thing to be pitied, not exploited. Even so, he wondered what the man must have thought about the prospect of a worldwide journey – a journey from which he might never return, depending on how large the world of men turned out to be. Certainly Hagaradaz had chosen to make the trek by his own free will and his respect for the king, but what about slaves like Berdic? Having already been dragged from his home once, did the boy feel anything
now?
“We have traveled together for some days now,” Hagaradaz began suddenly, “and I still know as little about you now as I did when we began.” He paused for a moment, deciding if he ought to ask or not. “Tell me – how did you wind up here, consigned to travel to the ends of the earth with a windbag like me?”
Berdic laughed, blushing a little at the question – or perhaps it was simply the heat. “It’s nothing exciting, if that’s what you were hoping. No heroic last stands or anything like that.”
The diplomat smiled warmly. “Well go ahead, then. I’m sure it must be a
little bit interesting.”
“My tribe,” the slave began, “the Arverni, have been at war with a group of tribes called the Aedui for many years now. My parents were farmers, working the countryside outside of an oppida called Vesontio – they barely every scraped together enough food to keep us all fed.”
Berdic shrugged moodily as he continued. “One day, an Aedui war-party came through our land – on their way to the city, probably, I don’t know. I was out playing in a field with my brother; we used to pretend we were warriors. I had pretended to kill my brother,” he explained, “so he dropped down into the grass and just sort of lay there. When the Aedui came through, they only saw
me.”
“I walked forward a little bit,” he explained as he walked his fingers though the air, “so that they wouldn’t get close enough to my brother to notice him. There were a couple of them – just grunts, paupers with spears really. I think some of them wanted to kill me, but there was this one man who suggested they just bring me back to their camp.”
“You didn’t do anything?” Hagaradaz asked in shock.
Berdic shrugged defensively. “What was I supposed to do against half a dozen men with weapons? They were either going to kill me or they weren’t – nothing I could do about it.”
Hagaradaz nodded gently and tried to smile. “I’m sorry – go ahead.”
“They took me back to their camp,” Berdic explained, “where they showed me to their commander.” The slave chuckled to himself, “he was
furious!”
“Why would he be mad?”
Still laughing, the slave shrugged and threw up his hands. “I think he was trying to cultivate the good favor of my people – he wanted to walk into the city without any unrest; kidnapping kids doesn’t exactly help with that. He also probably thought I was useless – too small to carry equipment or do camp work.”
“So what happened, then?”
“One of the war-chiefs retainers – one of the
brinhetin – said he would look after me during the campaign. I guess he was just a nice guy, or maybe he saw potential in me, I don’t know.”
Berdic sighed, finding his own life to be exceptionally tedious. “His name was Tancogeistla, and he was the greatest man I’ve ever met. He made me everything I am, and taught me everything I know.” The slave’s eyes could be seen to glisten as he recounted memories of his patron. “Over the next few months, he taught me how to read and write – the most valuable thing I think I’ve ever been given. He talked to me about philosophy, theology, and politics. He even tried to teach me how to fight, although I was never very good at it. Eventually, the Arverni blocked the Aedui advance, and we turned around and traveled back into the land of my master.”
The slave suddenly paused, sitting on the back of his horse with unnatural rigidity. Hagaradaz sensed the story reaching its inevitable turning point. “And then what happened?” the diplomat prodded.
“He died,” Berdic spat, his voice bitter and resentful. “And his
son, a man named Meriadoc, inherited me as his property. Things happened quickly after that; Meriadoc couldn’t find any practical use for me, so he sold me to the first buyer he could find: a group of traders from Habukoz. After a brief stint as a servant, I was gifted to King Heruwulfaz,” he explained, “who used me as a translator.”
The party had since reached the famous western river, which seemed to sparkle and shine in the intense light of sunset. Some of the servants grabbed tools and set off to find wood for a barge, though there was no chance of fording the river before nightfall. Hagardaz laid a sympathetic hand on his companion’s back. “Perhaps you will find our adventure to be a little more exciting,” he teased.
“Yes,” Berdic sighed as he unrolled the tent. “Perhaps.”