God Within Us

Where did the rest of your warband flee?”

“I don’t know.”

A mailed fist buried itself in Yesugei’s stomach, driving the air from his burning lungs.

The elf crossed his legs as he sat down on a log, flipping the skirt of his filthy red robe to one side. He held a candlestick in one hand, and steadily drew his palm over the flickering flame as he waited for Yesugei to finish drawing breath. Then the elf spoke again.

“How many Khormchaks attacked the capital? How many were mounted?”

“I wasn't there - I don’t know!”

The warrior standing in front of Yesugei struck him again, harder. Yesugei felt himself trembling beneath the man’s fist, which came away speckled with blood. More than anything he wanted to sink to his knees, to curl up into a ball for a reprieve, but the strong arms that held him up on either side kept him barely standing.

The man doing the punching - a tall, stinking Klyazmite dressed in mail and leather - shook his bloodied hand and turned to the elf.

“Let me finish him. I’ll open his belly and make him watch as I pull out his pagan heart to the gods.”

The elf shifted in his seat as though contemplating the prospect. Then with a sigh, he snuffed out the candle and stood up to dust off the rear of his robes. “You can get your fill of disembowelment later, warrior. This one is wearing Qarakesek colors - and he's no simple warrior, which means he is more useful to us alive rather than dead."

The elf gave a sly smile. "For now."

At the elf’s waved command, the two warriors holding him up by the arms dragged him along the forest floor and into a clearing. For a brief moment Yesugei spotted the other warriors preparing to break camp - packing away their bedrolls, snuffing out the campfire, gathering their steeds - and then he was lying face-down on the cold ground.

In the dim morning light he saw someone else lying next to him - Vasilisa, her hands tied behind her back much like his. When she twisted her head around to look in his direction, Yesugei saw the raiders took extra precaution with their captured “blood sorcerer” - her eyes were covered with a strip of cloth, and a filthy rag was stuffed in her mouth. A large bleeding bump had swollen up on her brow, just above her right eye where a mace had cracked her across the face. Yesugei feared she had died again, and caught himself at the absurdity.

Dying again…what a mess!

Still, he felt his spirit wash over with relief on seeing Vasilisa alive. It was more than could be said for Vratislav.

In the chaos of the burning town one of the warriors struck Vratislav on the chest with a spiked mace, even as he yielded for mercy. It proved just enough to finish the boyar. Yesugei saw the warriors pull him from the fires, but Vratislav lingered for only an hour longer before he gave his final, agonized breath. As the boyar passed wordlessly in the night, Yesugei thought of Nesha - and wondered whether he could bring himself to look at her if he ever saw her again.

The raiders buried Vratislav off the side of the road, but not before they stripped him naked and fought like dogs over the boyar’s every possession.

Yesugei saw Pervusha, the one who beat him bloody with his mailed fists, stride past his face wearing Vratislav’s leather boots, while a bowman seated nearby the raiding party’s warchest was busy adjusting the boyar’s golden brooch on his cloak. The other raiders were busy securing the rest of their loot to the small baggage train which was filled to bursting with pilfered grain, cloth, salted meats, jewelry, and clothes - and anything they could not carry, they proudly burned in their wake.

Dogs…all of them. Wild, starving dogs.

Pervusha and a spearman hoisted them up onto a horse, binding them back-to-back, as the rest of the raiding party began to set off. Once they broke free of the woods and back out onto the open road, Yesugei saw the distant plumes from Balai’s burnt carcass trailing into the gray-blue morning skies.

The raiding party moved quickly across the abandoned roads, riding hard and fast in a single column that kicked up a great cloud of dust behind them. As they rode, all Yesugei saw in every direction were the distant, scattered ruins of blackened farmhouses - the land seemed pockmarked with them, and the earth looked as though it were scarred by the scorching flames.

They were trampling through a fallow field of barley when Yesugei overheard an argument behind him. From the voices, he recognized it as coming from the three that rode behind them as guards, the worst of the band from the little time Yesugei had been in their company. Pervusha and an archer named Zayats were arguing over who would go first as they galloped, while the lancer Yerch asked when they would get to do the deed.

“At night, once we get back to camp,” huffed Pervusha. “I’ll fuck that sorceress bloody I will, damn whatever the elf says.”

“With your tiny pecker?” laughed Zayats, his voice high and cruel. “You’d best let me have the first go. I’ll be tender and make her love me. Let her get something out of it before you two have your fun.”

Yesugei felt his skin crawl at their words. Vasilisa must have heard as well, for he felt her back stiffen against his, followed by her furious struggle against the ropes that bound them. But all it did was succeed in making the three warriors laugh, and in making both of their wrists bloodier than they already were from the chafing straw.

“I- I won’t let them touch you.” Whispered Yesugei, but his voice must have been too loud. The lancer Yerch rode up to slash his horse whip across Yesugei’s face - and his world exploded with blood and pain as the leather strip opened up a gash over his eyes.

“Save your breath for our questions, Khormchak scum,” snarled Yerch. “The elf only needs your tongue. Talk again, and I’ll cut off a finger and feed it to you.”

Yesugei fell silent for the rest of the ride. But at his back, he could feel Vasilisa shaking as she sobbed. He prayed silently that the warriors could not see her tears.

The light of day had nearly faded by the time the raiding party arrived at its destination. Through blood-crusted eyes Yesugei saw a small stone temple with its windows smashed, surrounded by a messy assortment of tents and lean-to shelters that made up the raiders’ camp. Near the center of it all, he saw a large wooden pen where a dozen filthy men and women languished in the open air like hogs - their necks looped with rope and tied to the railings.

When the camped warriors spotted Stribor at the head of the column - the Apostle’s stone sword slung across his back - their greetings rose up like baying dogs meeting their master. As Stribor and his men made for the cookfire, Pervusha and Zayats pulled Yesugei and Vasilisa down from the saddle and threw looped ropes around their necks as they shoved them into the muddy pen still bound together.

Yesugei tried to rise from the ground, then suddenly felt the rope around his neck tighten and pull him up until he felt his head crash against the pen. Laughter rose up from behind him, and he felt someone hurl a glob of spit on the back of his head as Pervusha bound the rope so tightly to the pen Yesugei thought he meant to strangle him. Beside him, he saw Vasilisa struggling to prop herself up against the pen - her boots scrambling for a solid hold on the stinking mud.

After a while the warriors got bored of prodding their Khormchak prisoner and staggered off to eat their fill at the cookfire with the others, leaving the two of them alone with the others in the pen.

Blinking the stars from his eyes, Yesugei looked up to see the rest of the prisoners were looking at him with a mix of curiosity and fear. Some of the peasants looked old enough to remember the Qarakesek raids, and for that they judged him an enemy even if he sat in the same pen as them. But curiosity soon overcame fear, and eventually one of the peasants - a man with a bloody nose and thinning blond hair - crawled over on all fours and spoke with a whisper.

“Who are you people?”

Vasilisa’s greeting came out muffled and incomprehensible through the gag. Yesugei ran his mind through the ways to answer before he spoke, “I was- I am, a merchant, from Bayan. We were waylaid first by bandits on the road, then by these animals when we tried to take shelter in Balai.”

That seemed to be enough for the peasants, whose demeanor softened as he recounted their travels through the steppe - and the attack on Balai. When he was done speaking, the man pointed at Vasilisa. “Who is she then?”

Yesugei took a moment to think. “A friend…the daughter of another merchant. Her father traded in gemstones and silks.”

“Is her father still alive?”

The question hung in the air. Yesugei felt Vasilisa go still as she herself wondered. Vratislav’s words crept back into his mind.

They say Belnopyl burns.

Was her father still alive? If he was, then they still had cause to try and reach Belnopyl - where Vasilisa’s name would still command respect and servitude. But if not…

Then her power is lost. A daughter cannot be a prince. And every boyar from here to the northern seas would rush to claim her hand and the city.

Yesugei swallowed. His throat felt raw and sore, and every breath he took sent a dull throb of pain through his stomach where Pervusha had struck him over and over again. Vasilisa could not answer, and so he replied to the peasant, “I don’t know.”

The peasant sniffed. “Then it’s over for her. They’ll take her like they did Galya, the weaver’s wife.”

The man pointed to one corner of the pen, where Yesugei saw a young mother with a scarred face holding her daughter, a girl no older than five. The weaver’s wife stared back, but her eyes didn’t perceive any of them. She just looked on, saying nothing.

Yesugei’s stomach turned. He felt around behind him, and grasped Vasilisa’s hand. She squeezed his fingers so tightly he felt them going numb, but he did not pull them from her grip.

“When it happens, don’t scream.” Spoke one of the younger men who sat near Galya. His eyes were just as empty as those of the weaver’s wife, and his hands were cracked and bleeding from hard labor. “When they beat you, when they make you work, when they do anything - don’t scream or cry. Hide away inside your mind, where they cannot reach you - and let them do what they wish. That’s the only way you can stay alive.”

“It’s not fair…it’s not!” complained another man as he buried his bruised face in his hands. “We gave good service and tithes to Gatchisk. We never did no treason. Why couldn’t they just leave us alone?”

“Because they needed forage,” said an old wrinkled lady, her words dripping with venom. “That’s all they care about. They need food to fight their mad wars - same as every war I’ve lived through - and it’s easier to pay with steel than silver when justice is gone from the land.”

The old lady looked around to make sure no-one was nearby, then spat three times on the ground and made a sign in the air with three fingers. “I curse them all! All the highborn bastards and their warriors! It’s a sin before the heavens for lords to rape their own lands, but they do it all the same. Demons take them, every one.”

“If the Young Griffon were around, he would not have stood for this,” muttered a man with a twisted nose. “He would have turned these filthy northerners and turncoats back to their ships and killed them all.”

But the man with the twisted nose spoke too loudly, and one of the warriors sauntered up to the pen. The man received a black eye, and the pen fell silent for the rest of the evening.

***

The moon shone brightly as night fell upon the camp.

Around the campfire, Yesugei saw the warriors drinking and singing strange songs in the old dialect of the Klyazmites - one completely alien to his ears. Silhouetted against the fires he also saw Stribor and the red-robed elf - called Hecellon by the raiders - carefully studying a map.

Then they came: Pervusha, Zayats, and Yerch. It could have only been them who stomped out from the campfires and crept towards the pen in the darkness like wolves.

Vasilisa had fallen asleep in her bonds, but Yesugei’s shaking woke her as the men approached. He tried to pull at his bonds again, but the ropes only bit deeper and deeper into his neck and wrists as he strained against them. The footsteps drew closer - and with every step, the sound of jingling rings of mail grew louder and louder.

Vasilisa grunted from behind her gag as she tried to work her hands loose. When that did not work, Yesugei saw her try to kick out the pole that her neck was tied to - but that did not work either. Neither of them had eaten since they were captured, and their feeble thrashing only shed more of their own blood.

Weak. I am weak.

If he had his bow, if he even had a small kitchen knife, he would have been able to set himself free. But he had nothing - no weapons, no friends, no hope. If he tried to stand and fight, the warriors would kill him - or perhaps maim him so the elf and Stribor would not be completely displeased with the death of their Khormchak captive.

The elf…Stribor! Stribor!

“You’re one beast of a woman, aren’t you?” said Pervusha as he approached the pen, one hand on his belt buckle. Vasilisa froze against Yesugei’s back as she felt the warrior’s stare upon her. “But don’t think you can fight me like one. One scream out of you, and I’ll knock out every single one of your fucking teeth.”

Yerch gave a low giggle as he opened the door to the pen, dagger in hand to cut her free. Vasilisa threw herself against the rope binding her neck and screamed behind the gag.

“STRIBOR!” Yesugei shouted at the top of his aching lungs.

Zayats cursed and threw a sharp kick into Yesugei’s ribs that sent him falling to his side in the piss-soaked mud. He spat the dirt from his mouth, then screamed again.

“HECELLON!”

That was enough - the elf’s name sent the three rapists into a panic. Yerch hurriedly sheathed his knife and slinked out of the pen as Yesugei heard more footsteps approaching. Soon the orange light of a flame filled the pen.

“What are you three doing?” barked Stribor. “And you, Khormchak. Finally found your tongue?”

“My lord…” Yesugei rolled onto his side, and squinted at the blinding light that shone down on him.

Standing over him he counted Stribor, two more guards, and Hecellon, who held the blinding lantern. Then he saw the light did not come from a lantern, but instead from a dancing flame that rested on the elf’s open hand. A petty sorcerer. I should have guessed.

“Your men were planning on having their way with my friend.”

“Men have needs, you know?” laughed Stribor. “Or did your own kin not deflower every maiden from here to Pemil when they attacked? Why should I care what happens to a blood-sorceress who killed my men?”

The boyar spat and turned his back to him. As he made to step away, Yesugei spoke just loud enough for the retreating boyar to hear.

“You should care because this blood-sorceress is Prince Igor’s daughter.”

Stribor froze in his tracks. “What did you say?”

The boyar drew closer to the pen and yanked on Yesugei’s rope, sending him sprawling back into the muck just as he tried to rise his knees. Stribor looped the rope tighter and tighter around his gauntleted hand, pulling Yesugei closer until his face was directly beneath the boyar's armored fist.

He resisted the urge to gag as the boyar's rotting breath washed over him. “What did you say?”

Yesugei pointed his bound hands at Vasilisa as he spoke. “This girl is the daughter of Prince Igor - Vasilisa of Belnopyl.”

“The princess is in the capital city. If she's even still alive.”

“That's where you're mistaken!” Yesugei lowered his tone to a whisper as he leaned in closer to Stribor. “Before the attack on the city, the Great Khan had demanded Vasilisa for his wife - to keep Prince Igor in line, you see…”

“And you know this, how?”

“Because I was the one who took her,” hissed Yesugei. “My name is Dagun, of the Qarakesek. The Great Khan sent me as an envoy to collect the girl and the tribute with a host of riders, but we were attacked on our journey back from Belnopyl.”

“By who?”

His scrambled, feverish mind rushed to piece together a story, anything, to convince the boyar. He remembered how his brother Nariman had once said that half-truths were the best of lies. “Quanli raiders, fifty strong, led by a noyan named Ardager. They ambushed us in the Devil Woods, cut my riders down to a man. I fled to Yerkh and then Balai with the girl hoping to find shelter when your own raiders pillaged it.”

Hecellon whispered something into Stribor's ear. The boyar nodded, then gave a crooked smile. “A nice tale. Let's see how the girl tells it.”

Stribor let go of his rope, and Yesugei sank back down to his knees as the boyar muttered a command to Zayats, “Ungag her. If she tries to cast a spell, cut her throat.”

Vasilisa sputtered and spat the moment the archer took the filthy rag out of her mouth, then took a trembling breath of the cool night air. Stribor leaned in closer to examine her before he spoke.

“You are who the Khormchak says you are?”

She nodded. “Vasilisa. Daughter to Igor and Cirina. Princess of Belnopyl.”

The boyar ran his tongue along his crooked teeth as he thought for a moment. “Belnopyl…when I was there last, your father held a great melee to choose a man to serve in his druzhina. Who won?”

Vasilisa answered immediately. “Not one man, two. Stavr won the melee, and Pyotr was raised to the ranks when he stopped one of the warriors from Pemil from attacking the champion when his back was turned.”

Stribor nodded, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. “I forgot about the other boy. The time before then, I was in the city with the rest of the Gatchisk boyars - that was when your father exiled the Young Griffon-”

“He exiled him for good reason,” said Vasilisa confidently, rising slightly to her feet before she was set back down by the archer who hovered behind her, dagger in hand. “Goran had tried to kidnap me for his bride.”

“A youthful folly,” said Stribor bitterly. “For which you scarred the boy’s face with a dagger.”

“Is that what your prince had told you?” Vasilisa gave a light, mocking smile, but Yesugei saw the corners of her lips twitch with fear. “Goran didn’t get that scar from any dagger - he gave it to himself, when he tripped and hit his head against my dresser.”

To that, the boyar gave a loud hoot of laughter. Yesugei felt the tension in the air slowly melt away and sink into the mud as Stribor slapped Hecellon’s shoulder in his chortling.

Then suddenly, the boyar cut his laughter short and fixed Pervusha with a deadly stare that made the warrior look very, very small.

“Pervusha, was it?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Take your friends and go find someplace else to stick your cocks,” Stribor spoke. “I am taking the girl into my own custody.”

The lancer Yerch opened his mouth to speak, but then thought the better of it as Hecellon allowed the dancing flame in his palm to flare momentarily.

“Good. Now, no more of this,” sighed Stribor as he waved off the three warriors. He then motioned to one of his own guards, a sour-faced man in lamellar. “Unbind the princess’s hands. Leave the Khormchak.”

As the ropes binding Vasilisa’s neck and hands were sliced apart, Stribor said, “I beg a thousand times for your forgiveness, my lady. I had no idea Prince Igor’s daughter had escaped the sacking. That your father had schooled you in blood magic was…unexpected.”

Vasilisa rubbed her raw and bleeding wrists, then threw her blindfold off to the side. “Your men tried to rape me. They also raped the weaver’s wife - one of your prisoners.”

“And they will be punished for that,” said Stribor dismissively. “But now you are under my protection.”

And some protection it is, thought Yesugei darkly. Your man would have split her skull open just last night.

As Stribor led Vasilisa out of the pen with all the courtesy of a noble boyar guiding his liege lady, the same guard who cut Vasilisa loose asked, “Sire, what about the Khormchak?”

Stribor was about to give his reply when Vasilisa spoke up, “This man helped protect me along the roads even when he could have abandoned me.”

She looked at Yesugei, and gave him an appreciative nod. “I would ask you to free him as well, boyar.”

To that, Stribor only gave a laugh. “And risk having my men mutiny? My lady, we are fighting a war against the Qarakesek and all their Khormchak ilk. Half of my men want him hanged, and the other half want him flayed first, and then hanged. The Khormchak stays.”

Yesugei saw Vasilisa bite back a scathing reply. No - don’t press your luck. We are still his prisoners, bound or not.

“At least have someone treat his wounds.”

Stribor shrugged, then turned to Hecellon. “Elf - they trained you in the healing arts in your towers, didn’t they?”

Hecellon bowed his head. “Of course, my lord. Every acolyte is taught the basics of caring for the sick and injured."

“Then see to that gash on the Khormchak's face." Stribor grumbled. "Then put him to the question - softly, for the sake of my lady."

“Of course, my lord.”

Vasilisa’s concerned gaze lingered on Yesugei as she was marched off towards the sacked temple - flanked by the boyar’s guards. Yesugei suddenly felt his relief shift to dread as he saw Vasilisa trailing further and further away, leaving him alone with the elf.

Putting me to the question softly? We'll see about that, Yllahanan bastard.

Hecellon stood dutifully by the pen until he saw Vasilisa enter behind the temple doors. Then he closed his flaming hand - drowning the Yesugei's world in darkness once more.