“They don’t like to be tied, especially this one. What creature does, hmm? Normally, I wouldn’t restrain him so, for mine is well accustomed to the smell of blood; and has served well, carrying me into battle under the banners of the so-called slave king. I only tied him on account of your soldiers and their dogs. I don’t want anyone or anything sneaking up on my horses to frighten them. If they are to conquer fear, they need peace. But look at them all.”
Narak al Zull turned his gaze to each of them. His eyes seemed to sparkle with hidden knowledge. “The horse is the most beautiful creature tamed by man… hehe, second only to woman, of course.” He chuckled, and Birus nodded at the jape.
“I myself consider the hawk to be the most beautiful.”
“How so, my lord? The horse carries us on our travels, carries us into war, and even shares in our toil to plow the earth. It’s fast and gracious… a true symbol of freedom.”
“Indeed it is. However, it’s a creature of the earth, whilst the hawk belongs to the sky. With its wings spread in the air... It’s simply an icon of glory, freedom, and might instilled with grace. Its eyes are like ours, true and secret with every stare. Its cry is the sound of heaven itself. When we’ll ride into battle, you’ll see that hawk, my hawk... the one which I’ve given no name.” But the name Friend would suit it well.
“My lord speaks such beautiful words, and I can see the truth of them in his eyes. That’s why we Mounted Arrows, we warriors of Allahr... never stand too much in the life of pleasures. We don’t believe in happiness, but we believe in one’s efforts to attain it. The journey is the reward, not the destination. Huh, besides, a man’s misfortune is another man’s happiness. What a man treasures, another scorns.” Narak al Zull chuckled at that.
“Waging war is all we know; and if I were to choose between pleasure and sorrow, I’d choose them both. For in sorrow, through it, with it… the true warrior sees the truth. Life can be wide as well as narrow, bright as well as dark... In all these things he finds Allahr, and the fire inside him burns evermore pure. Pleasure cannot be separated from a worthy existence either. But in a life only of pleasure, the warrior is made ignorant. He grows weak, and tired, and empty until his true voice – that of his soul – fades… And the ears of god become deaf to his spirit. The same is true for a life of endless struggle and cruelty. Too much of it is poison. Too much and a man grows insane. He becomes nothing more than a beast walking on its heels.”
Birus made no reply to the man’s words. Religion was not his strong suit. Indeed, the Holy Temple offered alms to the poor, and sick, and wounded, and took in orphans. But that was mostly done by the sisters of the Matriarchal order. The priests, however, delighted themselves in the affairs of material life.
The clergy had great lands and on top of that received tithes. During the holy days of the calendar, the clergy expected the peasants to bring in what little they had in exchange for blessings and favor with the gods. Those who failed to do so were counted as impious and prone to misfortune. Those who asked questions, as to the purpose of their contributions or their destination, were scolded and humiliated by priests who were well versed in the litanies of godly wrath.
The faith of Narak al Zull, however, was not rested upon structure or hierarchy. His warrior deity had no use for sacrifices, for special days of celebration or abstinence. The god of fire and struggle had no need of priests or prophets, of gathering of wealth, of statues and icons, or the bones of holy men. It was a free notion, simple, and pure, and beautiful... as a candle’s flame against the endless gloom of night.
“My lord, do you believe that god or gods exist? Be they almighty or not?”
“I don’t know,” Birus replied short and honest.
“Aye. Truth is… we don’t know. Let me ask you another question. Do you believe in the afterlife?”
“Yes. I think I do.” Though his face did not show it, the tone of his voice betrayed the opposite of his words. I never was much of a liar. Birus clenched his teeth behind his lips and sighed. “I’m... not sure.”
“Again,” said Narak al Zull, “the truth is… we don’t know. Do you believe the gods to be just and merciful?”
“No! That I do not believe. If it were true, evil would not be ruling the hearts and minds of men – high or low. If the gods were truly just, we wouldn’t have need of trials, executioners, punishments… for there would be no crime, no injustice. For there would be no weakness in man, no disunity.”
“Truth is… we don’t know,” Narak al Zull said again the same thing, this time with a smile. “That’s the truth, lord. We don’t know. For justice and mercy are still part of the human spirit, and they are the desires of any village, town, kingdom, family – of any world. Man is free to choose right from wrong, but while he may think himself free – if he’s ignorant, then he’s the most enslaved of all. And ignorance can never truly be defeated. Even the wisest of scholars, and the most pious. Ignorant one and all. And if we look to nature, we find neither absolute cruelty, nor absolute bliss.”
Al Zull smiled a knowing smile; and continued. “Mankind is ignorant. Though it pursues the precepts of so-called morality, there is no absolute law. With absolute laws there can be no justice. For no two leaves are alike. Concerning the unknowable, there is only the contemplation of possibilities. And this realm is called the realm of politics. There’s a fine line between man and beast... But we shouldn’t be so morose. We can’t ask the world from a weak and finite being such as man.”
His black eyes seemed so far away... Nevertheless, Narak continued. “Everyone has his destiny. And mine is to live and fight with faith in the warrior god. With his fire in my soul to give me warmth in the cold days and nights. With his light to shine over my path, to lead me away from the darkness and through it.” Al Zull squatted near the fireplace, and began to whisper a song.
“What tongue is that in which you are singing?” Birus asked with a thoughtful frown. “I’ve also heard some of your men around the camps… singing with many a strange word.”
“It’s no true tongue, my lord. I am just murmuring things from the heart, with words empty of common meanings. You see – when I was a child, I used to love a song I heard once in a tavern. It was performed by a minstrel from the lower parts of Golgotha. Of course, I didn’t know what those words in the music meant, but I loved how they sounded. Years later, I heard it again from the throat of one of mine own men; and he told me the meaning of those words.” Al Zull sighed at the reminiscence.
“I can’t remember now what they were, but I was greatly disenchanted. The song was about trifles; and I always thought it was about deeper meanings. Then I realized… sound, and thought, and sentiment – those are the things I truly love when hearing words of song. Thus, when I sing… I do not use the worldly meanings of the common words, nor their form. But my words, however I utter them, they are always true in mine own heart. And anyone hearing my songs will know I am not lying.”
Birus replied only with a solemn stare. He gazed at the campfires; while Narak al Zull continued to murmur things without meaning; random sounds joined together in different words, but filled with sentiment and thought. Truth has no real form. Form is appearance, and appearances deceive. Truth is truth; the essence naked in the eye of its beholder. The eye of reason. With such reflections, Birus felt a sense of renewed vigor, of renewed hope; as the mercenary’s song of queer words melted in his mind. The calm before the war.
Chapter XX: Kalafar
The northern lords had arrived to hold their council near Devil Mound. Some had traveled more leagues than others. Kalafar Sodomis was one of them. On the road he had been tried by many notions; but he refused to share them with his lord uncle and steward. He had learned that Erasmus Verwick poisoned his lord father, Jorghel, in order to claim his office as imperial chancellor. And he had learned from Holton Brax that Arfaij went missing in the Black Forest, while on his wolf hunt. The lord of Herron’s Keep had organized a search party, but didn’t
manage to find anything – at least not yet.
With this occasion, Kalafar told lord Holton to stay the whips of his minions from the backs of honest smallfolk, especially women and children. Brax had snorted at that particular proposition; but agreed to it in the end. In the meaningful cold of this place, Kalafar felt himself quite free. The notion that his brother could be dead, surprisingly, didn’t affect his mood all that much. He did his best to keep that indifference to himself.
The camps of the lords had been raised near a frozen bog. In the distance, all one could see was frost and wood. To the north of their gathering, less than a quarter of a league away stood the frozen grounds on which a lasting peace between two bitter rival houses should have been reached. Instead, those grounds had witnessed a massacre… all of it in the great shadow of the dreadful mound.
Kalafar was inside his tent, in the company of his master at arms. Helga Brigadale was taller than your average woman, and she was taller than him. She wasn’t skinny, but she wasn’t fat either. The woman was all muscle and bone. Her pink cheeks seemed more alive in the hearth’s warm glow, more so than they did against the cold of daylight; and in the gloom her blue eyes had turned green.
Whilst waiting for the wind’s biting breath to die down, the ram entertained his singular company with wine and words. “You must have known my father quite well, Helga. What sort of man was Jorghel Sodomis to your mind?”
She stood a long moment glaring into the hearth before she answered. “Your lord father was a great man, a just man, and temperate. I remember the day his lordship named me, a woman… his master at arms – after I saved lord Alghernon’s life. And I remember the days when I fought alongside him during the Inquisition’s war against the worshiper of blood gods, Zygar Ferus.”
Helga Brigadale told her tale, and the ram listened with interest.
“An enemy knight caught your lord uncle at a disadvantage, and I rushed to his aid as quickly as I could. I swung my mace in the hope that the enemy’s greatsword would fly away from his grip; but all I managed was to steer away his thrust. Instead of it going through lord Alghernon’s mouth, the greatsword’s tip fell between the lord’s legs… slicing off his manly parts. In my next stroke, I managed to kill the enemy with a blow to the head. And between the sounds of the battle and the cries of pain from the mutilated lord, I discerned your father staring at me… He took note of my deed.”
She sighed deeply. “After the civil war ended, many fastholds and castles were left with fewer lords and knights, and many positions remained vacant. Weiyenor lacked a master at arms, and your lord father chose me for that purpose. He said that I was a great fighter, and that he was in my debt for saving his brother’s life. But lord Alghernon, having been left a eunuch, he had no gratitude nor kindness towards me.”
“Anger and sadness, my lady,” Kalafar said in warm voice. “You’ve obtained your position by merit. The north is not the south. My father had a saying... Some men can do the labors of women, and some women can do the labors of men. Both are to be honored, not scorned.” With that remembrance, Kalafar chuckled; then took a sip from his wine-cup and wet his lips with the red liquid. It was Sweet Sun. He had saved some of it. There had been no need for the wedding guests to drink it all. And the cold outside was sour enough. No reason for my wine to be sour, as well.
“My lord warden,” Axelrod Florint, his household knight entered the tent. “The harsh wind has abated. Your vassals are gathered outside, and they await your presence.”
“Easy conduct, good sir. Have you forgotten to salute?”
“No, my lord,” the man replied at once; and clanged his mailed fist to his chest.
“I will be there shortly.”
“Aye, sire.” Sir Florint turned on his heel, dismissed by the ram.
The young lord of Weiyenor emptied his wine-cup, and inclined his head to the woman. In turn, Helga Brigadale bowed with all due reverence she owed to her liege lord. Kalafar donned grand burgher Osseldorf’s gift – the fine breastplate with the ram’s snout and horns. At the left hip, he harbored dagger and longsword. The former blade was required for the ritual deed; the later for protection and status. Outside, the warden of the Winterlands took the attention of his vassals. Though it was the middle of the day, the sky – heavy with grey clouds – seemed like in the hours of dusk.
“My lords,” Kalafar said to them in a stern voice, “now that we’ve gathered our thoughts and have filled our bellies with meat and wine; it’s time for the ritual of honoring those before us. Leave your bodyguards, leave your squires. We walk towards the mound alone. And there shall we have our council.”
And so they did. The gathering wasn’t one of silence, but one of murmurs. Some of the men were quiet, like lord Alghernon – who was trying to appear as stern as he could; as well as inscrutable. Lord Joaken Oakhard of Greyford had a small cross with the moons and sun in his right hand, which he dangled between his fingers in what seemed like a ritual rhythm. His lips moved without sound; no doubt, intoning a faint prayer of sorts. And as they walked, the lord found the strength to voice his protests.
“What are we doing at this godsforsaken place? We should be off south. Fighting alongside the streamlanders against the usurper!”
“Calm yourself, good man. The problems of the south are far away from us. And we are in the first month of autumn. Remember that, lord Oakhard. The men need to be home for the harvest. And as for the usurper; he has powerful allies.”
“Liege lord Sodomis is right,” said lord Dagincourt. “It’s the easterners and those southern turncloaks. That betrothal between prince Yoffis and the Aharo girl… that sealed Hagyai’s future as emperor, as far as I’m concerned. Without doubt, he made new enemies that day and strengthened old ones – made them bolder. It’s not wise to enter a war when we don’t know which side is which.”
“Bah!” Oakhard exclaimed. “We’re acting like cravens. What happens to us, good lords? What happens when Hagyai Rovines defeats his brother and wins the war?”
The ram was blunt in his answer. “Most likely he’ll want to execute us for treason.”
“And is that your desire, my liege? The punishment of death for all of us?”
“No, lord Oakhard. I very much intend to stay alive and prolong our entering the war, until the traitors are exposed. If Rogfort won’t betray Rivermark, then after autumn’s harvest we’ll march south and lend them our aid. I trust Castle Spire has ample stock of food to withstand quite a lengthy siege.” Kalafar looked at the others. They appeared bewildered; all save for lord Brax. “Lord Holton,” he asked warily, “what is your council?”
The master of Herron’s Keep raised an eyebrow; his features betraying a cold reason at the root of his argument. “I have only one amendment to bring. I too think we should wait and see how the conflict plays out. But we should consider carefully on which side the northern realm enters the struggle. After all, times of war are times of great opportunity.”
“That’s treason!” Oakhard shouted. “You’re considering siding with the usurper!?”
“One Mero or the other… it’s of no concern to me.”
“Then what are your concerns!?”
“My dear Oakhard,” lord Holton hissed. “My concerns are the same as yours. Bread, manpower, coin, peace, and winter. I’ve also heard rumors that Soronius Mero is quite indebted to the harpoolian slavers. One could repay such debts by… let’s say… approving of the practice of slavery, which is a most profitable trade. We would be able to populate the north and work the lands with much ease for such a cheap price – ”
“I will approve of no such thing in my realm!” Kalafar cut him off. “I won’t get into the moral argument here; I’ll leave that for the clergy. And besides, outlanders from the continents of south and east are no northmen. Such slaves know only summer. They wouldn’t last a year in this cold weather. And before you men start speaking to me of my zjialaan heritage as argument to the contrary; remember that my house did not toil
within the earth for riches, nor in the fields for food against the elements.”
Kalafar made sure to keep his words in balance; to keep reason above emotion. “However,” he continued, “lord Brax is correct on one thing… We barely have enough grain reserves as it is. We cannot afford a war right now in this condition.”
The ram turned to his other vassals. “How many levies can all of us muster? Hmm? Roughly around sixteen thousand men. They say the usurper landed with almost twice that number – harpoolian troops, hired swords from the Lowlands and the Traitor Kingdoms of the east. And Soronius Mero has also faithful lords who have schemed all these years for his return to overthrow Rovines.”
The lord of Icerock was in agreement with his sire. “We must look to our first interest. We cannot go to war with winter looming over the shortness of our granaries.”
“Winter?” Said Oakhard. “It’s bloody autumn! My liege, the sooner the usurper is done away with, the sooner things will return as they were.”
“Things will never be as they were, my lord. And that’s the end of it.” Kalafar showed him his back, then went toward the place of slaughter. His vassals followed suit.
It was all strange. No winds blew, but the air was cold enough; and in its shadow it was ever more stronger. Enclosed by outcroppings of black stone, there it lay – Devil Mound... A great swelling of the earth, rock armored in ice and buried under thick layers of snow. The mound’s features were worthy of the name. They truly were devilish. The stone had everything which resembled claws, spiked skin, fangs, eyes, and frown.
“It looks like a gargoyle,” breathed lord Dagincourt. “The thing’s smiling.”
“No, it’s not,” replied Oakhard. “It’s… frowning at us. Look at those deformed eyes… Ahh, I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut.” He rubbed his hands nervously, and between them, the cross of the Three. “My father told me about this place, about the legend. Of how the demon inside the rock came to life, smashed their bones and flesh and devoured their souls. It’s bad luck to stand on the grounds of the dead; where they’ve not been given a proper burial and proper words so that they may rest.”
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 24