Blood Begets Blood [A Thrakian Original Tale] [Updated: 20/08/14]

[McScottish]

Blood Begets Blood - An Original Thrakian Tale



The Thracians are the biggest nation in the world, next to the Indians. If they were under one ruler, or united, they would, in my judgment, be invincible and the strongest nation on earth. Since, however, there is no way or means to bring this about, they are weak. The Thracians have many names, each tribe according to its region, but they are very similar in all their customs, save the Getae, the Trausi, and those who dwell above the Crestonaeans. - Herodotus, 5.3

I can say, in all honesty, that my obsession with so-called 'tribal' peoples beyond the borders of so-called 'civilised' life borders on near fanatacism. This is perhaps matched only by my love for the Greco-Roman peoples and that very civilisation that they apparently bought to the world. In this tale, however, I shall be concentrating on the former and distancing myself from the latter as much as possible.

So, allow me to set the scene, if I may...

It is the 5th century BC/BCE, and within Thrake the style of warfare and life have barely changed from that of the archaic, interrupted only briefly by the prescence of the Persians during the Greco-Persian War(s). Now another war is threatening on the horizon, one that will bring misery to the Hellenes but potential glory and spoils to the sons of Ares that are called Thrakians.

The Dii of the Rhodope Mountains are known in particular, even during this time, as fierce warriors and swordsmen of great skill, yet there is also misery among their own- a succession crisis and a potential civil war brewing that could split their tribe asunder.

In all this, with the Odrysae rising in the south-east all the while, is a young boy who may be nothing now but shall become something...

Thrake is always tearing at itself, making itself bleed and howl, and soon the Greeks will march against their own.

If there was ever a time for great warriors and great deeds, then that time is now!

[Lugotorix]

Count me in as a reader, for semi-obvious reasons.

[McScottish]

Count me in as a reader, for semi-obvious reasons.

So you can plagarise all my writing for your AAR?

Nah, I'm glad to have you reading Lugo, and honoured.

[Tigellinus]

You can count me a as reader, also!

[McScottish]

Thunder rumbled across the ink-black sky like some growling beast, hungry for the flesh of its prey, somewhere off to the north, from whence the war band of warriors had just come, from the land of those that are known to all as the Dii. So as thunder booms, lightning struck next, a flesh illuminating the glen in which the Thrakians knelt, squatted or lay, their stern and fierce countenances illuminated in the near-blinding light for but a second and then were enclosed in the shroud of the moonless night once more.

One of those faces, the face of a young adolescent, swaddled in the wrapping of his patterned cloak for warmth, showed more consternation than anything akin to bloodlust or what some call 'the face of battle'. If anything his face had grown decidedly pale, no markings of dye yet staining his skin to mark him out to his tribe, his loose black hair sprouting from beneath his fox-skin cap, and his bowels turning to water even as wisps of warm breath curled in the cold evening air before him.

Yet, for all that, it was because of him that this group were even here. Miles way from home, armed and straining for a fight, they were mostly young boys with some older warriors as guides, and to stiffen their backbones against any notions of mercy, surrender or rout.

In the tribe of the Dii there was a ritual, one that had lasted centuries and was not to be shrugged aside, that would make one a man in the eyes of the tribe; the youths were gathered, armed, and then required to enter the territory of a neighbouring tribe. Once within their borders they were to locate a suitable target- a raiding party, an encampment, or even a ill-defended settlement - before attacking and returning with the heads of those they had slain. All would be honoured, even for slaying a woman, but only those that could prove they had defeated an enemy warrior in combat could receive the markings of the tribe and the blessings of the Gods.

Each year many tried, and each year many failed, and this year it was required of the five-and-ten year old Nivazenis- he who was born in snow. This was a rather poetic way of saying that he had been born during the harsh Thrakian winter, possibly even out in the middle of it, for the biting northern winds were known to cause avalanches and blockages. It was just as possible that his pale complexion, in stark contrast to his dark hair and slate grey eyes, were the origins of his name.

Now, enough talk of names...

For two weeks the party of Dii, twelve unmarked boys and seven experienced warriors, had made their way south-west and into the lands of those that the Hellenes knew as the Satrai; they were a rather unaggressive tribe, by Thrakian standards, more used to mining their gold and silver than fighting, yet were positioned by nature and by design close enough to the Dii and their own homeland that during such rituals they were not required to travel too far.

Within a number of days they had managed to find the trail of a group of some twenty or so foemen, not all of them warrior and not all of them even male, along with at least two wagons carrying the Gods knew what. Since then they had followed and watched, waiting for the correct time to strike, a time that now seemed to have presented itself; down in the glen below were the Satrai, encamped in a number of tents and not close enough to Dii lands to be worried for their safety...but that would soon change.

"Nivazenis," called out a voice in a hushed whisper, one of the older warriors grinning at him in the darkness, "you look nervous boy, what would your father say?"

The younger man snorted, twisting only enough to speak to this veteran, yet not enough to let in the cold, "I do not care what he would say. He is not here, and he is a snake of a man."

"You know he only does what is best for the people." Muttered the warrior, his greying hair tied in a Skythian-styled topknot and his hard eyes glaring at the untried son of their clans chieftain.

"He does what is best for himself!" Retorted Nivazenis, his eyes dropping to the grassy floor as he took a deep breath and looked back at the man who was only trying to prepare him not to get himself killed, "he has bought war to our people, blood against blood, you do realise that?"

Kirikersas gave a small shake of his head, a hand running through his beard for a moment, "my brother is a complicated man, and one day you shall take his place. To do that though, you must consider those down there to be your enemies, and concentrate on only them. Do you understand?"

"Well enough..."

It had been a rhetorical question, and Kirikersas had already moved off into the undergrowth to confer with his peers. The dawn would not wait forever, and soon they must attack, crawling, jogging, or sprinting down a steep slope in order to get to the floor of the glen- the flattest part of the entire place -where they would either make or break their own reputations within the tribe.

At long last Nivazenis removed his cloak, unravelling himself and squinting his eyes to peer into the midnight gloom. He could see no movement, but could make out shadowy figures hunched about the crackling fires below, the weight of the curved sika feeling almost immovable in his hand, and the crescent pelte of light wood and hide like carrying a rock with him.

Before he had any more time to think a sudden whoop erupted from nearby, followed by further yells and shrill cries, his own voice involuntarily raising itself into an inhuman screech as he too rose up from the undergrowth and clashed his weapon against the wooden frame of his shield.

Soon the edge of the glen was full of noise, Nivazenis now able to make out ant-like people running this way and that down below as he and his blood-kin moved forward and down into what end he could not forsee.

"Hero be with me," he said so quietly that no other would have been able to hear him, "bless my blade and make firm my hand...death to the Satrai. Death to the Satrai!"

The war-cry went through the youths and their mentors like wildfire, voices raised to the Heavens, and soon the whole group were encircling their prey. Closer and closer they got, most running with all the speed that had been gifted to them. In a manner of moments it would be time, and it would be war to the knife.

[McScottish]

You can count me a as reader, also!

My thanks, Tigellinus. May the ancestors smile upon you!

[Merchant of Venice]

Seems interesting but will only follow this, if I'm assured of updates. I don't think my heart can go through another stopped story by you.

[McScottish]

Seems interesting but will only follow this, if I'm assured of updates. I don't think my heart can go through another stopped story by you.

Just wait til I get home...

Have no fear, my dear Merchant, I shall finish this one or my name isn't Hamish Stewart Alastair Johnathon Richards Zeus the Third!

[Merchant of Venice]

Interesting start you have here. Can't wait to see how the fight goes.

[McScottish]

Their first mistake was in believing that the Satrai were any less skilled as warriors, for even the Greeks know that even the most 'peaceful' of Thrakians- if that word could ever be applied to a race that will massacre an enter village for the right amount of gold and prestige -are warriors born-and-bred, and that underestimating even a fellow tribe was a foolish action.

Their next mistake was thinking that they were the hunters in this instant, when in actuality they were none other than the prey, a situation and truth that would become readily more apparent to the whole warband as they got closer and closer to the huge fire burning at the centre of the camp.

No-one could have foreseen it, and they might not even have been able to stop it even if they had!

As the Dii were drawn closer to the encampment, the two wagons looking like tempting prizes once the slaughter was done, shadows began to encircle their own tightening noose. These circles came in the form of patiently waiting and concealed watchers that had now emerged to make their presence known, their own cries splitting the night-time air as they swooped in on the group of slowed- and now shaken -youths and their mentors.

Nivazenis had just ceased his headlong charge into the Satrai camp, the shadows that had been visible earlier now vacant and hidden in concealed places, known only to those that lived among the mountains and snow-capped ridges of this neighbouring ground. Sensing that something was wrong, the sika raised to his midriff in preparation of combat, his heart pounding in his ears, and the adrenaline filling his veins, he stared wide-eyed about the place in the hope of noticing Kirikersas or another of his clan...

He was instead greeted by the sight of two Satrai warriors, seemingly spat out by the darkness itself, their markings- patterns of reds, greens and blues punctured into their very flesh -showing them to be both initiated killers and at least competent foes; each one wielded a sika of their own, the curved blade known even by outsiders as the prime weapon of the Thrakian people, along with the javelin and the sling, the blades gleaming menacingly in the glowing light of the nearby fire.

It was then that Nivazenis discovered that he could no longer move, as if some spell had been cast upon him, his legs stuck firmly in place and the noise of his blood rushing through his ears only becoming louder and louder, sweat covering his oddly aching muscles and even his jaw beginning to a chattering that was far from wanted.

Great Gods below, my time has come to die, he thought to himself, raising his pelte in some vain hope that it would act as a repellent and drive the encircling scavengers away. Nonetheless he felt himself beginning to become calmer, even accepting of that fate, his body starting to feel lighter than he could have imagined, and the ending of having his head removed from his corpse seeming not so bad after all.

[Merchant of Venice]

Our protagonist can't die this early can he?

Good stuff, hope we aren't left on a cliffhanger for too long.

[McScottish]

Our protagonist can't die this early can he?

Good stuff, hope we aren't left on a cliffhanger for too long.

Yea...he dead.

Well, maybe, but we'll see.

[Lugotorix]

This is a reliable plot vehicle in good fiction. Gives the reader a sense of scale. Song of Ice and Fire used something a bit similar with the intro characters. But we'll see....