A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  They made their way down into the valley toward a large tent they had seen Uslan’s people erecting about midway between their lines. It was a hasty construction, just canvas supported by wooden poles: a roof under which the chieftains could meet and have their little conference. As they rode, Vytaus ordered Horgas and Brandr not to speak without his permission. He felt confident the former was wise enough to understand how delicate such a conversation could be, but he didn’t want to make his son feel singled out by the instructions.

  They arrived before the tent and hobbled their horses. Lifting the canvas and ducking beneath, Vytaus came face to face with Uslan for the first time since all of this strangeness had begun. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

  He had known this man since the two of them were just boys, yet he barely recognized him. In fact, he had guested with him just the year before, finding him in good health, but that was a thing of the past if Vytaus’s eyes were to be believed. He was gaunt and ashen-faced, looking as though he had aged many more years than just the one. His eyes were glazed and his skin sickly.

  Whom he had chosen to accompany him was also a shock. Vytaus expected Uslan to be flanked by warriors of his clan, maybe even men Vytaus himself knew. Instead, these were strangers, but Vytaus believed he did know one of them, even without being acquainted.

  Standing unobtrusively off to Uslan’s left was a tall figure in black armor. He wore a full helm and gloves, not a single part of his body visible. He stood apart from the others, not so much a part of the impending conversation as simply present to protect Uslan and the other man in the tent. The sight of that other man gave Vytaus pause.

  He was not imposing from a physical perspective, standing shorter even than Uslan, but there was definitely something about him that inspired a sense of foreboding. It was that feeling, even more so than the dark garments he wore that told Vytaus he was finally in the presence of the much-talked about man people called simply the Black Robe. He stood close by Uslan, still whispering conspiratorially even as Vytaus and his party entered, holding a staff so white it looked like bone.

  Snapping himself out of his momentary hesitation, Vytaus nodded in greeting and said, “Uslan.”

  “Vytaus,” spoke the other chieftain in greeting. “Would that we were meeting under better circumstances.” Even his voice sounded somehow weaker.

  “Aye,” agreed the other. “Easy enough to set things right. Just pack up your people and go home.” He was wearing a fake smile, but the tension behind Vytaus’s words was palpable. “After you’ve agreed to pay the blood-price to the families of my people you’ve killed and silver to rebuild the homes you’ve burned, that is,” he added almost as if it had been an afterthought.

  Uslan smiled a weak smile, bereft of warmth. “You always enjoyed your japes,” he seemed to observe aloud. Turning to the dark-robed figure, he continued as though Vytaus were not even present, “I told you this is how it would be.”

  In response, the figure whispered something back that was too quiet to hear. Whatever it was, though, clearly had an influence over Uslan for his eyes seemed to well up with tears and he trembled.

  Quickly tiring of niceties—even false ones—Vytaus raised his voice and interrupted, “Was I not brought here because you have things to say to me, Uslan?! Or am I just here to witness you whispering back-and-forth with your new friend like women at the well?!”

  All eyes turned to him again, and before any response could be offered he continued, “Nothing for me then? Good. Then allow me to speak to you: go home, Uslan, before this madness is carried too far. Have you given no thought to what the Kulti Elders will say of all this? You’ve broken a sacred trust; there will be a reckoning. All you can do now is mitigate the seriousness of that reckoning by stopping before it’s too late.”

  Again, the other chieftain smiled his wan smile. “I’ll go,” he said, “when you’ve returned the people you’ve stolen. Do you not think the Elders will frown upon your abduction? Did you not think there would be a reckoning from that?”

  “Abduction?” Vytaus knew well enough the uneven ground he stood upon, but what could it hurt to play the fool? Uslan was correct that his own actions would also be frowned upon. He would be in a better position to answer any such charges if he knew precisely how much Uslan knew, though, so he had decided to draw it out of him as best he could.

  He had settled on that strategy ahead of time, intending to watch Uslan’s reactions in order to pick up on things that weren’t verbalized. As he was feigning ignorance, however, his attention had strayed from the other chieftain to the figure in the dark robe at his right hand.

  It was his eyes that had been the distraction. Truthfully, there wasn’t anything about him that seemed noteworthy at a glance. He was just another old man in a robe, perhaps seeming a bit out of place by carrying a staff, something usually only seen with Drua priests. Even his face was much like any other old man’s with its wrinkles and sagging cheeks. The eyes, though, stood out starkly.

  There was malice in those eyes. Anger was a word that did not rise to the occasion. Vytaus was no stranger to the battlefield; he had looked into the eyes of many men who wanted him dead and, in fact, intended on making that a reality through their own actions, but what he saw in the eyes glaring at him in that tent went far beyond his experience. There was a cold loathing there, lurking just below the surface.

  Uslan seemed low on patience. “Do not attempt to play the fool, Vytaus. It doesn’t suit you. You know precisely to what I’m referring.”

  That heated rejoinder snapping him out of the captive glare of those hateful eyes, Vytaus blinked. “Pray refresh my memory,” he said, trying to sound innocent.

  “Your people abducted an entire village living under my protection!” he yelled. “Those in neighboring villages report seeing your people traveling through our lands, and suddenly an entire village has been abandoned with no sign of its inhabitants anywhere!”

  He was fuming, clearly losing his composure, and paused for the briefest instant before adding, “Do you expect me to believe these are coincidences?! Am I to believe that it is also a coincidence my wife and son are missing and were last seen heading toward your territory?!”

  “Four of my people,” Vytaus corrected him offhandedly. He was still playing his game, careful to completely ignore the mention of Uslan’s wife and son. It was taking everything in him not to respond to the other chieftain’s anger in kind.

  “What?”

  “Four of my people were seen traveling through your lands,” he reiterated, fighting to keep his voice calm. “That’s all who could have been seen, because that’s all there were: four men, passing through peacefully.”

  Uslan looked confused for a moment. He looked to the old man, who whispered at him again, then yelled, “What does it matter how many there were?! My people were abducted! Murdered for all I know!”

  Vytaus was aghast and made it known what he thought of that. Now it was his turn to be heated. “Abducted?!” he yelled. “You keep using that word as though it makes any sense. Four of my men abducted an entire village?! What beasts we People of the Elk must be!”

  He was shaking his head now, openly laughing at the absurdity of the spurious claim. “If you believe that, you’re a bigger fool even than I thought. No, Uslan, your people begged for our help, coming here to eat from the larder that—by rights—should be feeding only the People of the Elk. They were starving, because you stole from them. Why?!”

  He had raised his voice even more with that last question, real anger beginning to bleed into his tone as he continued, “Why—after all the years that I’ve known you to be a good lord to your people—would you suddenly demand tribute that left them starving?! What changed?!” With that, he turned an angry gaze on the dark-robed figure beside Uslan, pointedly adding, “Only one thing is different that I can see! Him!”

  After Vytaus’s heated remarks, Uslan seemed almost disinterested. “So you admit to having my people?�
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  “I admit to saving your people,” was the stony response.

  “I will have them returned,” said Uslan in a cold tone matching Vytaus’s. “Now.”

  “They are free to leave whenever they wish as they have been from the start.“ He paused, before adding, “If they wish.“

  That shocked Uslan, but to his credit he hesitated only for an instant before saying, “I had not intended to give them the choice, anymore than it is my wife and son’s choice to return where they belong. It is simply my word and, therefore, the law. Tell me, Vytaus, will you then be providing the meat and grain that village owes me in tribute every year? Because I will have what is owed to me from someone.“

  Vytaus stood up straight, stone-faced. “You will have nothing from me, except for the blade of my sword if you persist in this foolishness, Uslan. I say again: go home. There will be blood otherwise.”

  And, with that, he turned and stalked out of the tent, his son and Horgas on his heels. Wasting no time, they retrieved their horses and started the short ride home, but as soon as they were beyond any hope of being overheard, Vytaus had words for Brandr. “You did well, boy. Now, I have another job for you.”

  “Anything, Father.”

  “That bastard knows we have Mileka and her people, whether I admit it or not. You must ride to the village where they are hiding and tell them to flee. If the hillfort should fall, they will not be safe, and they may not be anyway. Who knows how many lurkers he has in the hills and woods that we haven’t seen? They could be looking for them, even as they keep us bottled up here.”

  “But where could they possibly go, Father? No other clan would risk taking them in. And what of all those villagers?“

  Vytaus shook his head. “Don’t worry about the villagers. He cannot possibly know each of them by their faces. They will be fine, regardless of what happens. Just make sure they know, if things go badly, they should scatter to the deep woods until things calm down.” He continued, “As for the other—“ he paused, thinking, then made a decision— “tell them to go west. To the Dwaragein. Tell Mileka to tell Odek I sent them. They will be protected there.”

  Brandr nodded his understanding. The Dwaragein—the dwarves of the west—were neutral, existing completely outside the clan structure of the Wodonni. They dealt in open fairness with everyone, including the Galenni, as they worked the salt mines situated around the great western inland sea known as the Bolor Deep. Uslan would not look for his family there and would be hesitant to act even if he did. Either way, it would buy time.

  Nothing else was said during the short ride back to the hillfort, and that suited Vytaus fine. He had enough to keep him busy with his own thoughts. He was not a learned man, so he would not have been able to count high enough to put a number to the things running through his mind. Chief among them, however, was the need to prepare his people for the fight he was sure was now inevitable. His one chance to defuse the situation had failed, if there had ever truly been a chance at all, so now there was no reason for the expected assault not to occur.

  Yet still the attack did not come.

  * * * * *

  In place of the expected violence now that the parley had gone nowhere, the defenders were again approached by a lone figure. Vytaus could not understand their reasoning, but he was glad of it. It was just before darkfall, and anything that made the next few minutes pass uneventfully would give his people another night unblooded.

  Brandr was still out there somewhere, having exited the hillfort in secret on his father’s errand. He had gone by way of an escape tunnel dug long ago and known to few. It was paramount his mission remain clandestine, so that none of the besieging forces followed him. Or worse. Also, Vytaus knew enough of war to understand no army could remain in one place in the field indefinitely. Disease would set in, and even before that they ran the risk of people sneaking away in the night to return to their homes. Therefore, every single day they could steal before the fighting began was a victory.

  Once he came near enough to be seen clearly from the walls, the identity of the approaching figure was yet another surprise. The Black Robe came alone, negotiating the craggy switchback with an almost painful slowness. Vytaus offered him no assistance, however. For all he knew, this could be some ruse to get them to open their gates, and this man—oldster or not—was a source of discord. He was on his own.

  After a while, he arrived before the gates of the hillfort, seeming none too worse for wear. He leaned heavily upon that bone-white staff of his, but something told Vytaus it was an act. As he walked, his feet were hidden from view by his robe that trailed the ground. He certainly did not seem to be moving like a man fatigued, though. If anything, he seemed to be gliding above the dirt and stones as if levitating, but that was impossible.

  Putting aside such fantastical thoughts, Vytaus cleared his throat and spoke, “So, are you to speak openly for Uslan now in place of whispering the words he is to say from the shadows? Is that the way of it now?”

  To his credit, the old man did not rise to the bait. In fact, he seemed almost as though he were chuckling, before he answered, “Rest assured, Chieftain, I come on my own business. Uslan’s is a secondary concern.”

  “What business is that?”

  “That is for me alone to know,” he shot back.

  “Well then,” Vytaus began, turning as if he meant to climb down from the walls and was speaking his parting words. “If you aren’t feeling conversational, I’ll leave you to hobble your way back down to your own camp, but it looks like you would have saved yourself the trouble. Just felt like going for a walk?”

  Again, the Black Robe ignored the jape. Instead, he simply said, “I am come to offer thee the chance to open thy gates and welcome me inside.”

  The ludicrous nature of such a request nearly caused the chieftain to guffaw out loud. “And why, pray tell me, would I do such a thing? I know nothing of you, besides that you come here with an invading army to besiege my people. Such behavior does not put me in a welcoming mood.”

  “Nevertheless,” the old man answered, his voice calm, “thou will welcome me. I have seen it, the same as if remembering what is past instead of what will be.”

  That sent a shiver down Vytaus’s spine that he did his best to hide. He, of course, did know things about this man beyond what had happened over the past few days, but he had no way of knowing how much of those stories were real and how much were fantasy. That was why he had chosen to pretend he knew none of it. What he was speaking of now was witchery, however, and it fit perfectly with some of the more outlandish things he had heard.

  Vytaus unconsciously made a sign meant to ward off evil spirits, and seeing this the old man seemed to chuckle again. He did not comment, though, simply pushing ahead to ask, “Will thou welcome me?”

  Swallowing hard to cover his uneasiness, Vytaus stood up straight and answered, “I will not.”

  The Black Robe looked hard at Vytaus, perhaps squinting as though his eyes had trouble seeing figures high up on the walls, but the chieftain had the distinct feeling that was more of his act. He could feel those eyes boring a hole nearly through him. After a moment, though, the dark figure simply turned to start his trek back down into the valley, absentmindedly tossing over his shoulder, “I will return near sundown tomorrow, and thou will rethink thy folly.”

  Vytaus said again, “I will not,” but the one to whom he was speaking was already out of earshot. Instead, he was left listening to his own uneasiness echoing in his ears, hoping it wasn’t so plain for others to hear. As he looked at the other faces upon the wall, he needn’t have worried. Each of them—from the fiercest warrior to the greenest boy—were obviously consumed by their own misgivings over what they’d just heard.

  * * * * *

  As promised, he did return the following evening after yet another uneventful day. The only difference was that he was much more insistent on his second visit. Still, other than that, the conversation between he and Vytaus had go
ne much the same. Realistically, it was a blessing that lengthened the siege, making things harder on Uslan, but Vytaus could not seem to shake the worry creeping into his soul, regardless of how many times he repeated that to himself.

  He was not alone. A warrior had only one thing that followed him beyond the grave, and that was his reputation. As a result, none would openly speak of their fears, any more than the chieftain himself. Men’s thoughts had ways of making themselves known, however, whether intending to share them or not. Vytaus had also prided himself on possessing keen instincts about those around him. How else could a chieftain hope to retain power? Those instincts were telling him that fear had infected his forces, and fear could kill a warrior as quickly as any blade.

  This delay could not go on forever, he knew. Even war stopped for the harvest, so there was only so long Uslan could keep his people here. Food was never plentiful in the Northlands, so a missed—or even delayed—harvest could cost lives come the inevitable winter. Normally, warriors would bring in their own crop before ranging about to plunder someone else’s, not sit idle in a siege camp as the reaping time grew nearer and nearer by the day.

  Vytaus also knew that his early success securing grain for his people was not something of which many chieftain’s could boast. He had been more forward thinking than most, getting the jump on things, and it suddenly occurred to him for the first time that his ingenuity might have made him enemies. Maybe that’s what’s truly gotten up Uslan’s arse, he thought. If all of this turned out to be a farce to give him an excuse to demand a share of our winter stores as reparations, at least it would make some damn sense.

  “Someone’s coming, lord!” cried the lookout from the walls.

  Vytaus, tired of the endless waiting and reasonably sure there would again be no assault, had gone down into the clearing to help repair the broken spoke of a handcart. Something in the voice of the young man assigned as lookout spoke of alarm, however, and so he tensed. “Attack?” In addition to worry, he heard in his own voice a hint of incredulity at the possibility of something actually happening after so long.