A Lord's Duty (The Chronicles of Galennor Book 1)

by J. S. Crews

  Chapter Six

  “The Warchief”

  The woman’s scream rose above the clamor of the frightened livestock and the buildings being torn down.

  "Why do the fools build here?" asked Belios. "How many steads do we have to burn before they understand this isn’t a good place for their lot?"

  But it was a good place, just not for these folk. It was a valley of rich brown earth surrounded by gentle rolling hills. Belios was not wrong, though. They should know better than to settle so close to the border. "Men want land," was the only reply Vytaus gave as though the rest should be obvious. In response, his son only grunted.

  Crossing the Long River in the black of night as both blue and silver moons were waning, they had gone slowly and carefully, allowing their horses to feel their way in the half-light. Vytaus had insisted no torches be lit until it was absolutely necessary, which was when it was time to cross the river itself. The ford along this stretch of water was nothing more than an area where the depth was passable, the riverbed rising and causing the swiftness of the current to ebb over a hidden bridge of packed earth and stone beneath the water. It was difficult to locate without prior knowledge and was no wider than the breadth of a man’s arms.

  It was a treacherous crossing, despite the slowing of the current. This was especially true at night, becoming entirely unmanageable when snowmelt and heavy rains raised the flood. Vytaus had judged his men should be able to cross, since the rainiest season was well past, but it was still too perilous to be attempted in the night’s blackness. The men had carried unlit torches to have them ready, even as they traveled through the dark.

  Vytaus had ordered those torches lit once reaching the northern bank, so that his warband of fifty-five raiders could cross more safely. Even so, the narrowness of the ford necessitated going single-file, and the swift waters rose almost to the bent knees of the riders, so they had to struggle with frightened mounts. This took time, which frustrated Vytaus both because he was not a patient man by nature and because the torchlight—he worried—could serve as a beacon for any kingdom patrol venturing within miles of their position.

  He was not afraid to fight. In fact, part of him welcomed the opportunity to meet a foe blade to blade. Facing opposition so early, however, would mean having to turn back home with only what plunder could be stripped from the bodies of the slain. A single patrol of the greenlander soldiers was not a real threat, but news of his warband having crossed the river would cause their forces to swarm, and he had not strapped on his sword to go home with nothing but captured weapons, a few paltry horses, and whatever hack silver might have been in the dead men’s pouches. They would also take heads, of course, because doing so meant slaves in the next life and increased reputation in this one; but, what they had come south to take was more substantial than simple plunder.

  The chieftain’s scouts, sent across the border on a regular basis to spy on the greenlanders in their wooden fortresses, had brought word recently of a bumper winter wheat crop coming in from the fields surrounding this settlement. It was a large farmstead that was essentially a small village, a grouping of several families living within a stout wooden palisade. The scouts had reported harvest wagons thick with sheafs and the construction of new granaries in anticipation of needing to store produce before transporting it to market.

  The temptation to wait until more of that crop was brought in before conducting this raid had proven difficult, but Vytaus worried another clan would discover that such a tempting target was within striking distance and take it before he had the chance. Since learning that the Kulti Nation would be going to war, the chieftain had set about the effort of procuring enough food to see that the wives, babes, and elders left behind did not starve. These efforts saw early success through barter with other clans whose rulers were not as forward-thinking as well as Galenni smugglers violating the border to bring contraband north, but the supply had dried up recently as other chieftains began having the same kinds of precautionary thoughts.

  He had received no word yet as to when the armies would march, and in fact the question of who would lead the warriors had not yet been decided. Whether it occurred in the following weeks or with the coming of the next spring thaw, though, he intended to have used that interim wisely. When his scouts had carried news into his hall of a ripe target, newly flush with a fat harvest, it seemed the gods had smiled upon his people. Such an opportunity could not be allowed to slip through his fingers.

  In the end, the fools living here were destined for the butcher’s block eventually anyway. It was simply a matter of who would benefit. Most greenlanders foolish enough to settle so far north were spread out, but here they had congregated in a settlement that dwarfed the others, virtually guaranteeing more plunder for anyone taking it. In addition, they had a palisade built from stout oak logs that even featured two watch platforms, one on either side of the stronghold; yet it seemed that living within such security had made them lazy.

  When Vytaus had brought his warriors to the valley, they had discovered no lookouts stationed on the platforms or walls. In fact, no one was even awake when the first five men were sent climbing over the stockade to scout. The entire compound had been fast asleep, the cookfires burned down to dull red embers. These people were living as though the only reason they had built a stockade at all was to keep their sheep and chickens in and the wolves out, despite living barely five miles from Wodonni clan territory. It was only a matter of time before such people lost their property, their freedom, and perhaps their lives.

  It had taken only moments for the Wodonni warriors to kill or subdue every greenlander in residence, the survivors now on their knees in the center of the compound. There were six adults and five children of varying ages, crying or else staring at the Wodonni with naked anger on their faces. Meanwhile, Vytaus’s men were tearing the compound’s buildings apart, punching and kicking holes in the wattle walls and tearing through the roof thatch, searching for likely places where any wealth might be hidden.

  The old hag was screaming again, her volume almost matched by the angry screeching of the Drua priest who had accompanied the warband. This was normal as the Wodonni were fearful of the spirits of this foreign land and would rarely travel south without one of the holy men. The commotion drew the chieftain’s attention, and he saw the tumult was over the priest attempting to drag one of the men away from the others, likely the hag’s son or brother since he was younger.

  The Drua were a caste of holy men, wise ones, and teachers among the northern peoples. They served as a link between all of the disparate tribes and clans of the Wodonni, speaking for the gods and spirits shared throughout the loose cultural heritage. They were chosen from among every tribe, children snatched away from their parents whenever evidence arose of them being somehow favored by one of the gods or goddesses. They were priests as well as keepers of the people’s oral histories, and their places were the sacred groves and hilltops where ancestral bones were washed in the blood of sacrifices and mortal men spoke to the Otherworld.

  The priest was bedraggled in appearance, dressed in a dirty gray robe decorated here and there with arcane symbols. His hair hung loose about his shoulders as a wild and stringy mess, and the nails of his fingers were yellowed and so long that they were beginning to curl back on themselves. Noticing the extra attention having been drawn by the dispute, the priest ignored the old woman completely and turned to Vytaus, one hand still grasping the hair of the man he wanted to drag away and a wicked-looking scythe in his other. "The gods demand a sacrifice, lord!" was the explanation that poured from between his yellowed teeth.

  Vytaus had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, not at the need to make sacrifices but from the exasperation he always seemed to feel toward the Drua. The man he had chosen had likely seen less than thirty summers by the look of him, and he appeared to be stout and healthy. "Why not give the old shrew to the gods? That one will make a better slave and her wailing grows tiresome."

&nbs
p; The priest sneered at the woman, who no doubt had no inclination about what was being said since their tongue was different. "This one?" he asked. "She is old and dry, lord, with few winters remaining. Your men hardly even bothered raping her. The gods only smile on sacrifices of value."

  In truth, Vytaus could hardly abide the presence of these holy men. There were times, many times in fact, that he thought them mad, forever muttering charms and spitting and making signs that supposedly warded off evil spirits or else called upon the protection of the gods. The Drua stalked through the lives of the Wodonni, wearing this apparent madness and the bones woven into their scraggly hair as talismans marking them as touched by the gods, and Vytaus did not doubt that they were so touched.

  His disdain for them was not something a chieftain spoke of aloud, though, if he wanted to retain his rule. It was true that the power of a man like himself came from the strength in his swordarm and his willingness to use it, but no chieftain could lead if people would not follow, and the Wodonni feared the displeasure of their capricious gods too much to support anyone the Drua had marked as an enemy. So they spit, and muttered their spells and ravings in the old tongues, and sacrificed perfectly good slaves, and the people shuddered and kept their eyes downcast as they strode past. It was the way of things.

  Vytaus shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. The priest was staring at him with that insolent snarl and the men were all watching. Few things were more difficult for a man accustomed to authority than finding himself with little alternative but to bend to the wishes of another, and the Drua could afford such insolence because they were wholly outside the reach of both law and authority.

  He would be well within his rights to disallow the sacrifice, of course, but to what end? He would only be making another enemy, one with the power to complicate his rule from within while remaining safe from him striking back with sword and flame. These bastard priests could be defiant in a fashion that would get other men separated from their heads or worse—hung without honor—because their caste was untouchable. Individual Drua might serve this chieftain or that, but they came and went as they pleased and their true masters were the gods alone. How was a man—even a chieftain—supposed to challenge the gods?

  Vytaus said nothing, simply looking away as if no longer interested. He would not interfere, but he also wasn’t going to give the mad bastard the satisfaction of watching him capitulate. True to his expectation, the next thing he heard was a return to the uproar that had drawn his attention in the first place, followed by a sudden change in the nature of the clamor from fearful protest to profound grief.

  No doubt that meant the deed was done. Vytaus simply gritted his teeth and refused to look, making a show of lending his interest instead to the efforts of his men searching for whatever meager treasure these people might have hidden away. Watching others die was not something over which he was squeamish, but there was a big difference between violence and needless butchery. Suddenly, though, the sounds of lamentation changed abruptly again to a panicked pleading that did draw the chieftain back into what was occurring.

  The body of the perfectly healthy slave lay in the dirt at the Drua’s feet as expected, his head remaining attached only by a small sliver of flesh and his blood staining the earth dark for several feet in every direction. Despite that, the priest apparently was not satisfied with wasting one perfectly good slave and was in the process of dragging another away to butcher. This one was a boy of perhaps eleven summers, his people holding fast to him and begging for mercy as tears streamed down their faces.

  The boy himself, though obviously afraid, was begging no one. In fact, his face held a look of defiance that surprised the chieftain. It took only a glance to see that, in that moment, he understood the value of strength and fortitude even as his people wept and pleaded.

  Vytaus was not heartless, but neither would he allow emotional outcries to influence his rule. After all, every man he had ever killed likely had someone shed tears over them. It did not change the fact that death was a part of life. Still, the boy had a fire to him, and this madness of massacring children needlessly was a step too far. "Not that one," he commanded, raising his voice to be heard above the frantic screaming.

  All eyes had turned his way at the authoritative sound of his voice, and a hush fell over those nearby. The chieftain locked eyes with the Drua, who had a look of insolence plastered across his visage. He obviously was not accustomed to being questioned and certainly not for the second time by the same person, but Vytaus held his gaze without wavering. The Drua seemed ready to protest, no doubt with more justifications about needing worthy sacrifices, but Vytaus beat him to the point. "I claim these young ones for the clan. They will not be harmed."

  That was something the mad priest had not expected, made obvious by the look on his face. Vytaus struggled not to smile in triumph. The priestly caste might be powerful, but even they could not defy ancient custom. It was age-old tradition among the Wodonni that children of defeated enemies could be claimed to replace clan members who had perished. Some of the youngest might even grow to be inseparable from his people, but whether they would be clanspeople or slaves ultimately mattered not; what mattered was they were now under his authority alone and protected in observance of the old ways.

  Some time later, the warband was traveling north again. The going was slower with the slaves in tow, but Vytaus had ordered the adults bound and led by ropes held by some of his trusted warriors, a statement that made it plain they could either keep up with the horses or be dragged behind. That put some urgency in their steps.

  The children he had claimed were left to follow on their own. There was, of course, a chance that some may run off, but frankly that was none of Vytaus’s concern. If they were brave or stupid enough to chance the wilds all on their own, then so be it and he wished them good fortune. Boldness of spirit was to be respected. For their part, they all seemed to be following, some still crying and others eyeing the Wodi with naked hatred. The chieftain silently hoped those more audacious ones would live to accept new lives as clanspeople, while the others would make perfectly fine slaves.

  Better than a butcher’s blade, little sheep, he thought to himself as he turned to find the Drua watching him. He could not read that face, unfortunately. At best, it held a sort of cold interest as though the grimy holy man was trying to figure out what it was that made Vytaus who he was. That was as much time as he could spare on search thoughts for the nonce.

  He was mostly concentrating on watching for signs of trouble. They were making decent time, even with the hindrance of the slaves, but he knew that the smoke from the burning of the homestead would rise high, likely alerting the greenlanders of their incursion. There would no doubt be patrols out looking for them. Since they enjoyed the advantage of having started home before the smoke rose high enough to betray them, he did not truly expect an attack, but only a fool moved through enemy territory without being cautious.

  The attack never came and soon they were again crossing the hidden ford back into Wodonni territory. Despite being so close to safety, however, Vytaus remained watchful, ordering those leading slaves to cross first. He would keep the bulk of his fighters with him on the kingdom side of the river, having them follow the others a few at a time until all were safe.

  He had no sooner given that order when the Drua snorted in derision and crossed without his leave. Belios bristled at that show of disrespect, but his father held him fast with a hand on his chest. "Let it be," Vytaus said. "If his need to reassert his power in such a petty way is all that comes of me standing in the way of his wishes back there, then so be it." Then he added, "He stinks anyway. Better he stays downwind."

  The younger Wodi attempted to maintain his posture, but the joke had done it’s job. Almost as if it were against his will, he began to smile and his father returned it, happy to have avoided another pointless confrontation. He understood, of course, why the boy had been angered; the kind of contempt exhibited by the Dru
a would normally have put a blade in Vytaus’s hand, and Belios knew that his own honor was tied closely to that of his father. There was simply nothing to gain from allowing the hot-headed boy to get into a quarrel with someone beyond his reach to strike.

  "What troubles you, Father?"

  The unexpected question snapped Vytaus out of a reverie he had not even realized he had fallen into, thinking to himself and watching the surrounding forest warily as his men crossed the Long River. In truth, he was caught completely off his guard. "Do I look troubled?" he asked by way of a poor attempt at deflection.

  His son just smiled and shook his head. After a moment, he offered, "I see more than you think I see. I’m not a child any longer; I’m your son and heir. You should share your burdens with me."

  Bold. Wonderfully bold, he thought as he took a deeper, appraising look at this son of his. But when he spoke aloud, his words were masked behind an incredulous tone. "Who said you were my heir? Maybe I’m planning to upjump your brother instead."

  That proverbial arrow hit the mark, made evident by the boy’s face suddenly flushing with anger. Having had his fun, though, Vytaus shushed the indignant response before it could pass Belios’s lips, and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Calm yourself. I was only trying to get a rise out of you... which worked. That is something you must control if you are to be chieftain after me. Guard your feelings, my son. Never let others know what you are thinking, until you choose for them to know."

  The boy nodded solemnly as his father looked on in pride, all the while also silently congratulating himself for turning his japery into a lesson of value. Belios would not be dissuaded so easily, however. He took a moment to process his thoughts, then offered, "It’s the rumors you’re worrying over, I think."

  Vytaus was taken aback for a moment, but he hid his reaction in the same way he had just instructed the boy. "Which rumors?" was his comeback. He quickly followed that with, "You’ve spent too much time with your mothers. You’re picking up their bad habit for gossip." The truth was that he knew all too well of what his son was speaking.