God Within Us

Garbed and looking a sight more lordly, Goran made his rounds about the citadel, and bid his two squires to send word to Heller and the other lieutenants. Five gathered in the citadel’s solarium - Heller, Salar, Fynn, the quartermaster Branimir, and Kassa’s rider, a Sanurian by the name of Musa. There, he relayed to them Kassa’s message of the previous day.

“No ships means our timetables must change,” he announced plainly, motioning for his squire to unfold a map of the land. “I had hoped we would hold the advantage of surprise and speed, but we will have to do with just one. So long as we hold this town, we will always have some place to fall back for supplies, and a chokepoint to hold against anyone coming from the west.”

He jabbed a finger at the scattered settlements that lay across from Hlotopol - a dozen small towns, and then Teplodarsk, a likely ally, but on the wrong side of the river and twenty miles south. “Across the Cherech, allegiances will be more murky. Messages from Radomir’s study claim more boyars are declaring against my father every day, even proven loyalists and cadet houses. They all sense he is at death’s door, and without an heir - so all that is left is strength. Some seek to crown themselves or their sons - others have declared for the prince of Pemil, Svetopolk, as their new overlord.”

“Seems like they’re all getting along fine without their fabled prince-in-exile” smirked Heller. “What assurances do we have that other houses will just up and abandon their fellow rebels once we raise our flag?”

“None,” Goran admitted. “Save for our own strength. If we continue taking towns and villages and seem the victor, soon many will question the wisdom of their alliances, and boyars are a fickle type - they'll follow the winds of opportunity and survival, wherever they might blow.”

Quartermaster Branimir leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he peered at the map. “But it will not be so easy, as you said, Grand Captain. I see fortified town after town, stone holdfast after holdfast, some of them within less than a day’s march of one another. It’s a bloody mire. And without ships to bring up the grain…it’ll be a nightmare just keeping our boys and horses fed in the field, ‘less we pillage every crumb of food from here ‘till the capital.”

“And why not?” asked Salar with a sniff. “Armies pillage all the time - hells, both the rebels and loyalists are doubtless picking the countryside clean even as we sit here. The longer we pick our navels over this, the more time both have to entrench against us.”

“Do you intend to be a lord over torched fields and angry, starving peasants?” interjected Heller. “I do not. And the more we pillage and burn, the more houses we’ll drive to dig in against us for fear we’ll do the same unto them.”

Goran crossed his arms. Now comes the time. Be careful with your words. “Heller is right - which is why we must do more than just march and fight if we want to take this land. We need legitimacy.”

A smile had some to Heller’s face, and it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. “Legitimacy? You think there’s any law to be had out here? You yourself just said about all the boyars of the land scarce give a damn about fealty and oaths.”

“Perhaps,” Goran allowed. “But a royal decree is still a powerful symbol. The Grand Princes of the city have the sole right to confirm the ruler of Gatchisk - and I have heard that it is no longer Igor the Weak who rules from there, but his daughter.”

Heller’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Yes, that daughter,” Goran shot back. He felt the scar on his forehead throb with the memory. “If she wishes for her own rule to last, she will need the allegiance of Gatchisk - else her people will starve. I propose sending word to the north for an alliance - Belnopyl legitimizes our conquest and us as new lords, and when the time comes, Gatchisk will return to the royal fold under its new boyars. If Belnopyl backs us, it puts us above the squabbling bitches tearing apart the realm. A piece of paper, yes - but a damn strong one if we pair it with victory on the field.”

The Solarian shook his head. “And how exactly do we get this decree? Last I saw the maps, Belnopyl’s so far we might as well be on another continent. Without a ship or a bird, by the time any word returns we could conquer half the realm - or be buried in it.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the hearth. The objections were valid, Goran knew as much. But there was more at play here, beyond simple logistics and warfare. Cirina’s cryptic words still whispered in his mind, urging him toward Belnopyl. Perhaps it was madness, but there was a feeling deep in his gut that he couldn’t shake - a sense that his fate, and the fate of this campaign, hinged on reaching that distant city.

“We send the message regardless,” Goran said, his voice firm. “Even if it’s a gamble. For now, your marching orders are unchanged. Start planning for resupply, reinforce our defenses here, and see if we can press anyone in town to scrape together barges in the meantime. Every option must be on the table.”

Branimir grunted in acknowledgement, already lost in calculations.

“Musa, I want you to return to Kassa and Yasaman with our plans,” he spoke to the Sanurian. “Take with you five horsemen, and I’ll have a letter for you by noon. We shall-”

His voice trailed off. Muffled shouts sounded from outside. Then, the long blast of a lone signaling horn, whose call was swiftly taken up by half a dozen others. Warning. War.

The clatter of wooden chairs and armor filled the solar as the commanders stood to their feet. No orders needed to be given - they filed out the door in good order, with Goran out last, gripping the hilt of his sword as his eyes danced wildly about the citadel grounds. All around, men were rushing out from tents and barracks to arms - crossbows being strung, spears handed out, maille shirts pulled on overhead with the help of camp followers.

He hollered out for his own squires and found them already waiting for him on the battlements with his helm and armor in hand. “Where are they coming from?” he shouted out to any who were listening as the straps of his breastplate were being fastened.

He received no answer by the time he strode to the merlons - but none was needed.

A green sail came creeping up over the horizon of the black Cherech, followed by five others. Then twenty. Then a hundred. A great fleet of galleys and barges cut along the Cherech, headed straight for Hlotopol’s shores. And on their sails - the bow and fish sigil of Teplodarsk.

Teplodarsk?

“Folly. What folly!” he muttered to himself. Then, turning to his squire, he said, “Fetch me Musa, now!”

As the boy ran off, Goran’s mind raced. The fleet had come take Hlotopol from Radomir, but then where did their allegiances lie? To his father? To Svetopolk? To themselves?

The Sanurian came up from the yard with a grim look on his face. “Orders, Grand Captain?”

“Musa,” Goran spoke, keeping his voice measured over the shouts and clangor of the citadel. “You’ll ride out with a squad under the banner of peace. Go to the riverbank, greet our new friends, and tell them who holds Hlotopol now.”

“Understood.” Musa’s eyes flicked to the horizon where the fleet drew ever closer, then back to Goran. “And what if they refuse?”

Goran didn’t answer immediately. He stared out at the oncoming ships, feeling their weight crushing down around his shoulders. “Then we do what must be done,” he finally said, voice hard as iron. “But let’s hope they have enough sense to listen. Go, quickly now. Take five riders, the boldest of them.”

Musa bowed swiftly and hurried down to the yard. Goran watched him go, then turned back to the fleet. The ships were closer now, the water churning beneath their hulls. He could almost see the armored men on the decks, the archers standing ready near the prows. The bow and fish of Teplodarsk gleamed on every sail.

“Folly or fortune,” he muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the approaching sails. “Soon, we’ll find out which.”

***

“A fine vintage, my lord.”

“Have some more - it's hardly on my account you drink.”

Boyar Velimir chortled as he swirled the dark wine in his goblet. The heir to Teplodarsk wore a long green kaftan of silk bearing the colors of his house - silk which did well to, if not hide, then at least downplay how fat he had become since they had last met.

“Has it been five, six years?” The boyar wondered aloud. “Gods above, now look at us. You’ve become hard, not fun, Gora.”

“And you’ve become soft,” Goran shot back, giving Velimir a knowing nod. “What happened to the man who once beat me in a horse race down Kirody Way?”

“Hah!” Velimir slapped his heavy belly, his cheeks reddening. “But it isn’t horses you need, and it isn’t with horses I smashed the rebel scum up and down the Cherech! And mind, do you think all those rats could float half as well as I?”

“Hardly.” Goran paused for a moment. If his old friend’s words could be believed, the Teplodarsk had smashed apart a rebel host just outside Gatchisk, and sent its boyars running in a hundred directions with their tails between their legs - leaving only those boyars declaring for Svetopolk still in the field as rebels against the crown, though the latter was always the greater threat. Velimir’s laughter quickly drained from the boyar’s red face as Goran leaned forward. “It’s with ship and bow you smashed them. And it’s ships and bows I need.”

“Everybody needs us now, it seems,” Velimir said with a shrug. “With Crahask up and gone, we’re the only fleet that’s left. And my sails come at a high price.”

“What is it you need, then?” Goran asked. He cast a look out the window, where the army of Teplodarsk in all its glory floated just off the shore - a moving warcamp, like a Khormchak ulus of the waters.

“Nothing that you do not have, brother,” replied the boyar. “Heh, and perhaps nothing that you will miss. Gold? We’ve enough to match any one of the Suzdalian banks - I’ve no need for gold. Arms? Hardly - I’ve three hundred in my druzhina, and ten times that number in freeholders, and those are just the lads I could call up on the quick.”

Velimir leaned in, a greedy gleam playing across his beady eyes. “What I want is blood, Gora - yours, sealed in union to the line of Teplodarsk.”

Goran felt as if a heavy rock had suddenly formed in his stomach - it pulled down at his guts, pinning him to his chair. “Marriage?”

“I see those years of fighting in the east haven’t dulled that sharp wit of yours,” smiled Velimir. “Yes, my man, marriage. Do you remember my sister, Dobrava? She certainly remembers you, and she has only become fairer with age - she was supposed to marry Iziaslav of Sverkine, but he’s lying dead in some field after Yaropolk’s boys stormed his town and cut him and his brothers to pieces. Her virtue is still intact, and the priests had said that she would give her husband many strong boys - and you aren’t getting any younger, brother.”

Somehow, Goran had seen this moment coming from a mile away. Indeed, how else could it have been? The House of Teplodarsk had always been among his father’s most powerful bannermen, but they always remained outside the closest circles of the court. For as long as he remembered, Teplodarsk had ever been kept in check by older and more prestigious houses, who feared being overshadowed by men who traced their line not from any of Raegnald’s northern companions, but from merchants, and river-pirates.

Velimir’s eyes shone with delight when Goran nodded. “It’s the wisest choice, Gora. Think of it - our houses united, our strengths combined. No rebels or foreign princes could stand against us.”

Goran nodded slowly, weighing his options. He let the silence between them hang for a moment longer just enough to make Velimir lean in eagerly once more for confirmation. “And where do you see yourself in this union of our houses, then?” Goran asked at length. “What role would you play in the reign of Goran of Gatchisk?”

Velimir smiled. “Oh, I’ve no desire for grand titles or the burdens of statecraft. Let a braver man be your voivode, let a more charismatic man be your diplomat and web-weaver. All I ask is a humble role, one that suits my talents - make me your seneschal, my lord. Let me manage the court’s affairs, the tithes, the trade. My house has thrived because we and our ancestors understand the flow of coin, the balancing of ledgers, better than anyone is Gatchisk. Let me bring that knowledge into your house, and together we will fill your coffers to bursting.”

Goran’s stomach tightened further. Unspoken was the other power, the power to take any rivals out by their knees, striking with tithes and tariffs, for money was the grease that turned the wheels of war and state. Money, and blood.

“Very well,” Goran said at last. “I agree then, damn it. Your fleet, your arms, and the wealth of Teplodarsk, and once the war is over…well, at least the list of those boyars we’d need to feast for the wedding will be shortened.”

Velimir’s face split into a wide grin, and he raised his goblet in a toast. “Then to our union, and to the future of Goran of Gatchisk! May his reign be long and prosperous, and free of traitors!”

Goran forced a smile, clinking his goblet against Velimir’s. “To our union,” he echoed, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

The rest was a matter of parchment and ink, witnessed by Heller from his side, and a stern-faced galley captain from Velimir’s. The first decree passed under the reign of Goran the First was the decree of his own marriage, lettered with fine blue. But when the time came for their signatures and seals, Velimir reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, ornate dagger. Heller’s hand instinctively leapt to the hilt of his sword, but Velimir merely smiled, holding up the dagger as he pricked his thumb.

“Let’s not forget the old oaths, Gora,” Velimir said, his grim tone belying the grin on his face. “Not just ink, but blood.”

Goran watched as Velimir squeezed a heavy droplet of crimson into his inkwell, staining the ink a deep violet hue. The boyar motioned for Goran to do the same, and when it was all done, Velimir said, “It’s done, then. Welcome back, Gora…my lord. It has been too long.”

Before the final signature was even dried, Goran's mind was already furiously racing with possibility. Ships, supplies, arms and gold…all of it, his. And yet still…

“There is one order of business I need done,” he said to Velimir as they stood up from the table. “I need one of your boats to sail for Belnopyl.”