Leading those of the roaming Tribes that would follow him, Nagral of the Coati, once consort to the Ukunfazane, invoked the ancient agreement between his people and the Orders to cross the Claustrine Gates. Pairing with Master Everard of the Order of the Sword, Nagral and his people roamed the lands west of the mountains, only to be turned away with polite words by local nobility.
Passing through the lands of the Russ – and gently but firmly guided that way – Nagral and his W’adrhǔn reached the borders of the province of Riismark. There, taking advantage of the turmoil in the land, while Nords and Dweghom run rampart, and the threat of the Alchemist and the Spire of Nepenthe ever loomed over the land, Nagral decided to change tactics. Despite Everard’s protests, the W’adrhǔn guide ordered his people to carve a place for themselves in the marshes of southern Riismark. To avoid provoking an overwhelming response, he refrained from attacking any cities or towns and instead drove the local population from farmlands. To ensure that Everard’s concerns were addressed – and to force local nobility to think twice before they moved against him – he appointed Everard to lead the operation and carefully remove local population.
The first to take notice was Duke Hemish of Bartenstein; but, despite Everard’s fears, his approach was almost friendly, offering settling rights if Nagral and his people bent the knee and fight to secure his borders against the Russ. Refusing the offer and hoping a King would offer more, Nagral chose instead to send riders and scout the situation North, where King Fredrik was engaging Nords and Dweghom alike. When his riders returned and reported that Fredrik had managed to fend off the Dweghom for now, rather than take Everard’s suggestion to lead his forces north and show he covers Fredrik’s flank, Nagral decided otherwise. Suspecting that the mere presence of the W’adrhǔn would present a challenge to the Dweghom, he decided to take Everard alone and ride to meet the man in person.
After a stealthy trip, Everard met on Nagral’s behalf with the King, who offered Nagral a choice: assist with the assault against the Nords, in person, and he would gain an honest and open audience. Despite his reservations, Nagral chose to join the fight alone, leaving Everard to inform his people of his fate, should things turn sour. During the assault of Angengrad, Nagral proved his worth many times over, by pushing further and deeper into the city than any but the King’s own infiltration force, aiming to kill the Nord Konungyr himself. But just as he was closing in on his target, the forces of Nepenthe struck, with Stryxes spreading mayhem in the city with their noxious gases, while elite forces flanked the human forces. Not without resentment, Nagral chose to abandon his chase of the Konungyr and instead help escort the isolated Fredrik out of the city.
His choice did earn him more than an audience. True to his word, Fredrik acted as a mediator between Nagral and Brand, the ruler of the lands his W’adrhǔn had occupied. In the negotiations, Nagral chose to act as a Vassal to King Brand, offering a number of warriors to protect the King’s lands, while being allowed to properly settle the lands they had already conquered.
Chant’Atl, the Wet Home, would become a stable base for the W’adrhǔn; but not all who followed Nagral would settle there. Too small a land for so many a Wa’drhǔn, the clans would rotate, with some seeking their fortunes elsewhere. Seeing some of his people venture into the unknown, Nagral pondered how the W’adrhǔn would change – and what that meant for the man who had led them there.
The wind’s whisper was busy. It spoke in strange, nervous words and metal sighs, the same metal that burned his nostrils when he sniffed the air. He winced at the noise. He grimaced with the smell. He snorted annoyed and looked down, concentrating on the feel of the sun on his back and the sound of the dirt shifting with each step; a familiar sound, comfortable if not soothing. He kept walking. He had always been walking, he thought.
His tribe had lived like nomads for generations. Where once the Coati had settled on rich soil, now walked rotten feet and the land had died anew. With the Oases long settled, no room was left for his displaced people and the Coati had not been the only ones to have had suffered such a fate. Tuskbow, Peccari, Broken Jaw, Red Hummingbirds, Pale Owls… they all had been forced to abandon the fertile lands left behind by the ashen rain of the Bloody Dawn and roam in the wasteland.
The Speakers said they had been farmers once. Imagine that! To tame beasts is one thing. But to tame the land… not enough songs were sung about such a feat, he thought. Instead they sang of hunts, of scavenges, of raids to the broken Great Turtle, deep within the dead land. They sang of the open skies and the different colors of the horizon. They sang of walking, all your life, without end.
He had kept walking after he met Her. Once one witnessed perfection, it was impossible not to follow it. And what a path she had carved for them! From Tribe to Tribe she went, teaching, guiding, inspiring, demanding and ordering. And he always followed, her Huitzilin, her aide, her messenger, her consort, sharing her glory of shaping the hearts, minds and the very destiny of an entire people. Yes, once he had witnessed Her perfection, it had been impossible not to follow it.
A horn blew from far above and he winced again, shutting it off and remaining focused on his feet as he walked. He had brought the nomad tribes here. He had left Her and the wastelands beyond. It was the path he chose, when she had yet again refused his pleas. And it was their choice to follow him into new lands, a new life, a new destiny. But She had been here before him. It would be Her deal that would allow them to pass and Her offered price they would have to pay when the dead followed. Each step he was taking even now, on this new, unknown ground, he felt as if it was falling on the footsteps of another, walking on a path walked before. The wastelands taught you that walking on the footsteps of others spelled safety. No rattlesnakes, no scorpions, no needlebeaks. All he felt was the bitterness of metal in his mouth, as wheels shrieked, chains rattled and the door before him sighed tired while it opened.
So these were the humans, he thought. He had seen some before but only from a distance. They made patrols and even led missions beyond the dead lands, every now and then. Good. They will know what his gift to them is. They will know what it means. They will know of Her deal with their emperor.
He threw the dead one’s helmet at the human’s feet and waited, his eyes fixed on him. The Tribes were following, he knew. Sure enough, voices screamed in his ear from high above the walls and bells started ringing. He had to fight his every instinct in order to shut them off. The wastelands taught to stay alert when you can’t see the horizon; the greater the cover, the bigger the danger. He was in the presence of mountains.
The human looked at the helmet, then him, frowning. Then he nodded and raised a hand and the true noise begun as orders were shouted, voices raised, yells echoed around the canyon. And the Gates began to open, as the human motioned for him to come through. He did so.
“Will she come?” the human asked in the language he had been taught to expect, once the screams and sighs of the Gate died out.
It is impossible to escape Her, he thought, his eyes looking at the mountains above as he walked. The sky was no longer the limit. She was. But not for long. Even She had not stepped beyond these Mountains. He said nothing, lowering his gaze to look at the human, who was looking at his people as they appeared beyond the Gate.
His beasts were uneasy but to untrained ears they probably sounded threatening. His warriors were excited but to those with soft voices they must have sounded angry. His people’s eyes were hungry for rich lands with bountiful green but to the pampered ones beyond the Mountains they would look bloodthirsty. And there were over three Tribes with him but in the eyes of humans he had an army.
Good.
“I will be meeting with your land-masters” he answered.
Choice
Can you arrange a meeting?: These Orders once held great influence and there is much that is not known about the customs and ways of humans. No doubt the presence of his people will be used but in the end their games matter little. If he is to talk to them, they must not be running and screaming.
From the moment they had passed the gates, the sounds all around them were different and even the birds high above looked weird and plain, compared to the magnificent kinds the oases had. And then there were the mountains… He had never seen anything like it in all his life. No matter how high the path would take them, the mountains all around them reached higher still, as if they touched the very skies above; indeed, even when the path took them among the clouds and the cold crawled under their hardened skins, still the mountains would loom above them. There was a majesty to them, he could not deny, but he could not but feel a little claustrophobic, trapped by the lack of a horizon in any direction. He was in awe but also felt exited and he could see the same on his people’s faces; what other wonders awaited beyond, they wondered.
The human had stayed with him all the time, personally escorting them through the mountain path. It was not really needed, for riders had been sent with word of the W’adrhŭn’s coming but he had many questions for Nagral and seemed ready to answer his in equal measure. He would not be escorting him beyond the Orders’ temples, however. Another escort had been assigned, one that had been found fitting for the task at hand; a veteran Master of another Order.
Choice
The Order of the Sword: Few remained of this fabled Order but, unlike most of the other Orders, they were still considered heroes for their efforts and sacrifice during the Nord Invasion. Their presence would perhaps offer a warmer welcome but not the same support in either numbers or influence, should things go wrong.
“You always wear your metal skin only on your right arm” he asked, eyeing the man walking next to him. “Why?”
Master Everard of the Sword scratched his grey short beard with his left hand. He had proved much less pleasant company than the man that had met him at the Gates. Much less talkative too. In fact, he proved to be less likeable overall, at least to Nagral, and he was considered broody among his people. A misconception of course, he thought. He appreciated silence and did not like to break it unless there was a reason. But he also found stories being exchanged such a good reason and the Sword Master proved very unforthcoming with those. Still, his Braves had taken an instant liking to him, knowing exactly how to behave around him and how to talk to him.
“You wear your feathered helmet whenever we march” Everard retorted. “Why?” He had a rough voice, hoarse and deep, his throat marked by the endless barking of orders. And he did like to bark orders, it was obvious. There was that tone in the way he said the simplest of things, a deep-seated belief that his words were not suggestions or points of view. The man was a leader of warriors through and through, seasoned if his scarred skin was any indication among humans. His grey hair and beard stood out against his dark skin but his eyebrows, low and furrowing over sharp, brown eyes, retained their dark color. Curious, Nagral thought, but if such was the answer he received about a custom, how would the man reply to a personal question?
“The helmet, the Tonaltzi, is a symbol and a mark during marching” he said instead. “It is said by the storytellers that it is meant to resemble the sun, which the people follow. Emena of the Coati was the first to wear it, when…”
He watched as the Master’s eyes kept darting left and right, as he was telling the tale, scanning through the tribes and overlooking preparations. He was listening, as far as Nagral could tell, but half of his attention was fixed on the caravan behind. Half of his attention was always fixed on the caravan behind. Nagral had no doubt that the man already knew exactly how many warriors, beasts, caravans and Bound would march with them.
“Is it something similar with your metal skin?” he asked at the end of his tale.
“No” said Everard and quickly went on. “You have two hunting parties missing.”
“They are not missing” Nagral said calmly. “They are hunting parties. They hunt.” The Master turned sharply.
“Call them back” he said. “There will be no hunting without approval of the local lords.”
“My people need food, Swordmaster” Nagral said flatly. “More food than you do.”
“Your people need land and space” Everard retorted. “And to get those, your people need to remember that these lands have masters. I am here both to help you and to make sure you remember this. Ration the provisions we offered and manage with those until we meet the lords of the land” he said. “I cannot help you if your people don’t follow the rules I set.”
“The matters of this land do not concern me, Everard” he said calmly.
“They should” the response came sharply. “Riismark is about to become the stage to a play, one you and your people will be a part of, whether you want to or not.”
Nagral knew the Swordmaster was right. But he also knew he did not know how to play the games of humans, nor did he care to learn. His tribes had not all gathered from the journey yet and he knew that regardless of games and ploys, if the humans spotted them gathering they would hardly let them pass. But there were ancient enemies to his people in these lands, enemies that Everard did not understand, imagine or take into account. Those were Nagral’s true concerns.
If the Dweghom in the north spotted them, there was no telling how they would react. The two people had met once before in history; and almost the entire pantheon of the W’adrhŭn had died at Dweghom hands. At the imagined promise of such a challenge, those warmongers could turn against his people at a moment’s notice and before the tribes had all gathered, that was an unnecessary risk. On the other hand, there was a Spire here, one active and willing to field forces no less. Whatever atrocious manipulator delved in it, they would hardly miss a chance to experiment on his people. Too many had tried sending forces in the Wastelands for one to ignore them so close to their lair.
Choice
Allow the tribes to gather at the border.
Allow the Tribes to gather.
Food.
Few words in the W’adrhŭn language had more weight. As the tribes were gathering, Nagral was reminded one more time why. These lands had rich, wet soil… but not nearly enough game for the gathering Tribes. Perhaps that was why the humans fed useless animals but his people did not have the luxury to use their beasts for anything else than labor and war.
Everard would not approve but he did not understand. He could not understand. It was not simply necessary, it was the way of his people. He would deal with Everard later if need be. For now, he needed to provide for his people.
He nodded and the hunting parties sounded their horns, raptors growling with eagerness. There were scouts monitoring them, he knew, and while few, patrols still roamed the land. He wondered how strongly the humans defended their farms before he turned to leave.
Choice
W’adrhŭn Attacking
“I will not allow the lands of my people to be-“
“What would you have me do, Everard?” Nagral said. He knew the human had most likely missed the anger and threat in his tone, his near-deaf ears incapable of truly listening.
“Send emissaries to their lords, negotiate for lands to settle and-“
“We have tried this, Everard. We have tried your way; we were urged along, dismissed with polite words, ignored with many smiles. We tried it with a host of your lords and ladies from the Mountains to these lands. It was them that sent us here – was it not? – and if you think I do not understand why, you are mistaken. I simply do not care. We were sent here, hoping we would bring violence to their enemy. Well, we will. Not because they wanted us to, but because that way the lords and ladies of these lands will learn to listen a little better when we negotiate.”
“Then fight their enemies! Prove to them that-“
“The W’adrhŭn have been fighting the enemies of humans for too long. You remember, Everard, and your Orders remember, and for that I honor your advice and I truly have considered it. But the rest of the humans seem to have forgotten their debt, while the counsel of your Orders seems to have lost its weight among them. It is no scorn, this, Everard. It is simply a truth observed. This time, I will make sure your people will listen.”
The Swordmaster looked at him coldly, his expression frozen as if sculpted on a rock, and for a moment Nagral thought he saw a glitter in his eyes. Much as he’d like to deny it, he felt uneasy under that gaze. Then, as if the sculpt was broken, the human nodded, his face relaxed.
“Do not attack a city, Nagral of the Coati” he said. “I cannot guarantee what will happen if you do” he added and, with a sharp nod, he departed.
Choice
Carve a land for the W’adrhŭn – Claim the southern fields
Fields of South Riismark
Everard stared unflinching at the Brave before him.
“Your leader, Nagral, appointed me-“
“I am Ungel of the Pale Owl” the Brave snorted, towering over the Swordmaster. “Nagral of the Coati does not command me, human.”
“Be that as it may, you will-“
“My tribe needs lands” the Ungel interrupted once more. “I will do as I must for my tribe, I will do as a Brave must.”
It was neither the first nor, he suspected, the last time that this argument would be made. Everard did not exactly blame them. He did not fully understand them either, however. Still, as frustrating as it had been, he could not but admire Nagral’s choice; since Everard was so concerned with how the W’adrhŭn ousted the humans from their lands, he could oversee the operation himself. For an “ignorant barbaric tribesman”, as most of his people saw the W’adrhŭn, Nagral had proved time and again how shrewd a politician he could be.
He understood the motive and thinking behind it. Sooner or later, the W’adrhŭn would need to make a statement: they were here to stay and they would not be pushed around. But when weapons were drawn and lands were claimed, the line between statement and provocation was a fine one indeed. And judging by the previous reactions of the local nobility, Everard doubted that any statement would be seen as such. Have a Master of the Order of the Sword make it for him, however, and the nobility would be forced to think twice before being provoked. At the same time, all the concerns he had raised before Nagral were answered; Everard himself would have little to complain about, as the responsibility for the operation fell on him.
He had agreed to do it of course. He had little choice, as far as he could see. Relocating a population peacefully was an impossible task, much more so when the ones enforcing it were W’adrhŭn warriors. But he had thought that perhaps it would be better if he regulated it, than if the W’adrhŭn had done it themselves. He had agreed to do it and he would do his darndest to keep things as smooth as possible.
Ignorant barbaric tribesman indeed, he thought annoyed, as he starred down the Brave before him unflinching.
Choice
Operation success.
“You command the W’adrhŭn better than I expected, Everard.” The Master of the Sword barely nodded in response, so Nagral went on. “I believe the transition was as smooth and as bloodless as it could for your people and my people have a made a claim in this land.”
“And yet,” Everard cut in, “you have still received no word from King Fredrik?”
“I have not,” Nagral replied. “One Duke Hemish of Barteinstein sent word, asking to negotiate but he clarified that he speaks not for his King, only for Bartenstein. King Fredrik has amassed an army in the North to fight Nords or the Dweghom, which run unchecked in the eastern shore of this land. The Duke’s concern, however, is the south. He reports movement from the people of the Russ at his borders and he offered rights, if we help defend his city in case of an attack.”
“The Russ?” Everard asked, surprised, taking the missive offered by Nagral.
“That is why I called you, Everard,” Nagral said. “You understand your people better.”
“The Russ have not invaded a Conclave city for over a century,” Everard muttered absentmindedly, as his eyes scanned through the Duke’s letter. “They could be preparing to defend their borders from Nords and Dweghom, even your W’adrhŭn; make sure this chaos is contained in Riismark. But if Fredrik is ignoring you, this means the situation in the north is far worse than I thought. It could be the Russ will use this as an excuse to take Bartenstein.”
“You are here to advise my people,” Nagral reminded him “not play the games of your ladies and lords.” Everard nodded.
“The Duke’s offer could secure some land for the W’adrhŭn,” he admitted in the end. “What he suggests is to award you a fief from his personal lands and name you a Vassal. He gives you a piece of land to rule, but you must defend it in his name. It would not be much, enough for one Tribe, perhaps.”
“He offers nothing that I have not already,” Nagral scoffed. “He simply asks that I fight for him.”
“True,” Everard conceded. “But with this you would not have to worry about tomorrow. You would no longer be a conqueror. As long as you make sure the Duke’s house holds on to this land, your W’adrhŭn will keep it.” Nagral nodded thoughtfully at this.
“On the other hand, a King could offer more than a Duke,” Everard went on. “You could take this deal. Make a show of force at the borders. It is not what you hoped for but it is a solid start for your people in the Kingdoms. But if the situation is as bad as I suspect, showing support to the King in an hour of need could prove more rewarding. Send riders, find out where the King could use support. He enough land, perhaps, for two or three Tribes in the end. You could forge a new oasis for your people here.”
“Or,” Nagral retorted, “I could remain free. Be no one’s… Vassal, no one’s pet. Secure my borders and secure this land for the W’adrhŭn alone,” he added, almost growling.
“It is your call, Nagral of the Coati,” Everard admitted coldly. “But regardless of your choice, I must ask for your fastest rider.”
Choice
Prepare a force – Send riders to the North.
He watched the Raptor Riders fade in the horizon, six small dots among the foliage growing ever smaller before they disappeared among the trees. He sighed deeply, frowning deeper still.
It was a gamble. These lands had been claimed by the W’adrhŭn but their borders were being watched and the lands beyond would not be friendly. This Riismark was much smaller than the Wastelands but it was richer and riches hid dangers. What manner of beasts lurked in their rivers? What manner of predators stalked their forests? And what manner of humans would his riders meet? Without directions, the riders would simply have to rely on their scouting skills and luck. He had sent his riders blind, deaf and mute in a land they knew nothing about, among men that feared them
Everard had urged for haste but haste meant danger too and six riders meant six raptors and raptors were not a commodity the gathered tribes had in abundance. This gamble would better pay off. This King of theirs would better deliver.
Choice
Operation success.
“The greatest weapon the Dweghom wield, Nagral, is the threat of their past.”
Everard spoke slowly, his mind obviously racing, even as he spoke.
“If your scouts are correct and Fredrik was winning the battle,” he went on after a moment “then that could simply mean he has won the first battle of a war. Things always seem to… escalate, when the Dweghom get involved and what your people saw was not a Dweghom Host; not like the ones my Order’s archives describe. Destructive, yes, and agile but smaller. Much, much smaller. There are no reports of a proper Host marching; not that I know of anyway and they are very hard to miss. Win or lose, however, if you engage them alongside Fredrik… I won’t pretend I understand the Dweghom and I have studied all there is to study about them. But I am confident that if your W’adrhǔn engage them alongside humans, then more would answer. If not this season, then the next or the one after that.”
“Are you talking to me, Everard,” asked Nagral “or thinking about the future of your people?”
“I am doing both,” the Swordmaster replied. “Your people are strangers here. How many allies do you think you will have if the Dweghom turn their attention on you?”
“We do not fear the Dweghom” Nagral answered flatly.
“This is not about bravery, honor or cowardice,” Everard retorted. “This is about strategy. Offer a truce to Fredrik and suggest you can guard his flank. With the Nords behind him, the Russ to the south, Imperials to the west and Nepenthe near his capital, your mere presence could be an assistance. Send your forces north; without engaging his subjects along the way.”
“Or” Nagral replied, flatly, coldly “I could wait. You and I ride north, find this man but with no forces to offer yet. We meet with him faster, but we offer assistance slower. If he did win this battle, then perhaps his ears would be more open. When he needs me more, he will be willing to offer more.”
Everard’s silence was the only response he received or needed.
Choice
Nagral and Everard ride north to meet Fredrik.
“Do you enjoy music?”
Everard paused, taken aback by the question. He stopped his movement – a dry log in his hand ready to feed the fire – and turned to look at the W’adrhǔn with obvious surprise.
“The music of your people,” Nagral went on, laying with his back against a tree, one knee bent and his left hand resting on it. “I did not care for most of the songs we heard at your lords’ assemblies. Some, two or three, were brilliant, composed by women or men who really could Listen. But the rest? Repetitive, unimaginative, noise not music. Do you enjoy it?”
“What difference does it make?” the man replied, throwing the log in the campfire at last. “We should have taken an escort” he went on, changing the subject. “I mean, you should have. An escort would have conveyed strength and numbers. It would have made your proposal more appealing, your offer more promising.”
“And my threats more ominous,” Nagral completed the thought. “I do not wish to propose, offer or threaten, Everard. I wish to meet the man. If he needs reminders about our capabilities, he can read the reports of his southern lands being overrun by the Tribes. Besides, he would then feel the need to feed all of us. That would be a threat.” He laughed heartily at his joke for some time. Everard simply starred at him blankly before turning his attention to the fire once more.
“Individuals meet” he said in the end. “Leaders decide the future. And leaders have escorts.”
“Are you not a leader of your Order then?” Nagral asked and Everard paused his movement for a moment once more but never replied.
“Two men travelling, no matter how different looking, draw less attention than a W’adrhǔn escort,” Nagral said in the end. “I do not want the Dweghom alerted to us, not yet at least. I do not want eyes to catch us before we reach this King.
“You mentioned,” Everard retorted, annoyed.
“Then this is it,” Nagral said. “We will remain unseen until we reach this King. Before that, we are just two men travelling, if a little different looking. So, tell me now, one man travelling with another, resting around a campfire. Do you enjoy music?”
Choice
Operation success.
“I have… an ally with me, King of Brandengrad.”
Everard eyed the young king. He was not what he had expected. He looked tired, exhausted even, although he succeeded in maintaining his composure.
“If I am an honest, Master Everard, I would much rather you had an army of your Order rather than what I think your ally is,” Fredrik replied. “Barring that, I would welcome your Order’s fabled knowledge of the Nords’… bestiary.”
“I have sent for reinforcements however they have encountered difficulties in crossing into Riismark. I am sure you understand.”
“Of course” Fredrik smiled and nodded. “I understand. I have not exactly made many friends with my campaign in Riismark. I simply hoped the Orders would stand above the games of the Conclave.”
“This is hardly an invasion force strong enough to risk confrontation with the entire Conclave,” Everard retorted. “With respect, good King,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Your respect be damned, good Swordmaster,” Fredrick replied with a cold smile. “I need Swords. Or Shields or Crismons or Templars. Fall, if those blasted Ashen Dawn are real, I want those too. Riismark has become the unwilling shelter for Nords, Dweghom, a Spire with confirmed hostile activity and an army of barbaric tribesmen from the East. If ever there was need of the Orders, this is it.”
“The W’adrhŭn are not your enemy.”
“Ah!” Fredrik exclaimed angrily. “All the reports about them settling in my land and raiding my people must have confused me.”
“They do not have to be,” Everard replied, annoyed with the lip of the king. “I will gladly share any knowledge I have that could help with the Nords. And as I said, I have informed my Order about the situation as I know it.”
“Well, then it will have to do, I suppose.”
“But I could offer more… if you are willing to offer something in turn,” the Swordmaster added.
* * *
“You were supposed to arrange a meeting.”
“Well… you wanted to get to know the man. Now you can.”
“I will not fight for the human,” Nagral said annoyed but not angry. “You knew this.”
“Then I will go myself,” Everard retorted.
“What did he offer for the assistance?” Nagral asked, cautiously. Everard grimaced.
“A guarantee for a meeting and an honest discussion. Nothing more.”
“Then he is as impudent as he is sure to be disappointed,” Nagral said flatly. “Victory has made him vain. Defeat will teach humility.”
“And if he is not defeated?” Everard asked. “What happens then? What will he be thinking? You were here, you could have helped, but did nothing. How grateful do you think he will be? How open to offering settling rights?”
The W’adrhŭn snorted, annoyed and Everard could not help but be taken aback. His snort had the strength of a horse’s. He had grown accustomed to the imposing physique of the W’adrhŭn but now and then such simple things reminded him of the sheer strength they possessed.
“We cannot both fight,” he said in the end. “My people must know.”
“This is why we should have brought an esc-“
“Enough, Everard!” Nagral interrupted, annoyed. “It is what it is. If we help, only one of us will.”
Choice
Nagral will join the attack against the city.
Something was stirring in him. Something he had not felt for years.
He barely remembered how he had come to push so deep with only humans at his side. At one point, he had fought next to the burly human lord with the metal boar on the shoulder, the two of them establishing a foothold on the ramparts. Next thing he knew, he had caught himself in the midst of battle, pushing along the ramparts towards the North, with a bunch of humans at his side, growling like madmen as they fought. The south, he remembered hearing, was doing well, but the north was holding. Now, he was a good fifty paces northwards and away from Otto when the Stryx fell and while he did not remember how he had gotten here, he remembered vividly the trill. Each and every of those fifty paces had been won with blood and killing, and a longing inside him urged him on, demanded more; an urge he had not felt for years.
The drive for conquest.
He growled as he fought and the humans with him imitated him the best they could. He smiled at the thought of them but the smile never made it to his growling lips, as he lowered his greatsword again again, keeping the enemies at a distance, carving a bloody path on the battlements as he created openings for more to climb the walls with ladders from outside. It was not easy and he got frustrated more than once; he would whistle and hum and signal, but the humans neither heard nor understood. Baffled at first by his humming, they turned to song themselves, singing and killing and dying by his side.
Eventually, he was forced to seethe his sword and draw his sickles, the enemies too numerous to keep them at the necessary distance. Cornered, he and the humans at his side were forced to fight harder, their muscles going only from the adrenaline of the fear of death. They were nearly pushed back but eventually more humans came from ladders, forging an opening for him and those with him to rest.
He sighed, catching his breath as the humans fought around him and scanning the battlefield, trying to see why the resistance was heavier here, why the northern front of the Nords had held. And the urge returned, demanding conquest. On the northern tower stood an enemy worthy of him, tall, with wide shoulders, his skin carved with battlescars and a golden diadem around his head, holding a great sword which he wielded with ease and skill.
“The King!” a human next to him yelled and he nodded, grunting.
“No, look!” the human said again, patting him on the arm. “In the city, below. The King!” Annoyed, Nagral turned and looked.
Leading the front, pushing into the city while explosions of green gas dotted the battlefield and gusts of wind from Aelomancers tried to control their spread, Fredrik was carving a path through a square below and into an alley. He too, Nagral figured, was heading north, trying to reach the Nord king, while seeking refuge from the Stryx between the city’s buildings. Taking a moment to catch his breath as the humans held the front line, he examined Fredrik and his knights. Weak, he realized quickly, but by no means helpless. What the humans lacked in physical strength, they made up for with training, with exercise, with schooling, with obvious experience in the ways of war. Their metal skins were carving a crimson path through the streets below, constantly changing techniques and tactics depending on their environment. The King’s retinue’s superiority over their enemies was obvious; as was their lack in numbers so far deep, as Spirethings crawled on rooftops and through alleys, searching for their prey.
He looked at the Konungyr, then Fredrik, growling with frustration as he fell upon the Nord warriors once more.
Choice
Protect Fredrik.
“You fight well, lord Nagral,” Fredrik said. He had a throne prepared and elevated and he was sitting comfortably. The tribesman had rejected the invitation to be seated. “My men admired your strength and bravery in combat, as did I.”
“I am no lord. I am Nagral of the Coati,” he answered simply. “And you fight well as well. Your training is obvious, even if your people’s strength is …different to ours.”
“Why thank you,” Fredrik replied, smiling pleasantly, ignoring his retinue’s reaction to the lack of proper address. “Right then, Nagral of the Coati. How about we make sure we keep admiring each other’s combat prowess from afar?”
Nagral simply grunted approvingly with a nod, sending another wave of reactions through those present. Fredrik, on the other hand, actually smiled and not just politely. He thought he saw a glitter of amusement in the barbarian’s eyes, even as Everard next to him shifted uncomfortably and annoyed.
“I agree,” the W’adrhŭn said finally.
“The lands your people have – shall we say – shown an interest in are ruled by King Brand of Rottdorf,” Fredrik motioned to Brand who nodded ever so slightly. “It is with him you must agree. I will simply observe and advise my ally.”
* * *
It was hard to negotiate with humans. They liked to complicate things, use words with little meaning but which brought a heavy burden. Fiefdoms, vassals, bannermen, gentry; so many ways to put chains to one without ever crafting iron. In the end, he understood, or he thought he did. The humans would allow them to settle and even teach them how to tame the land again. But in return… Well, everything had a price. The Wastelands taught that and it was no different where the grass was green and the land rich.
He could choose to be Bound to this Brand – twenty four of his best, himself included if he so chose. This he found interesting. Brand, not Fredrik. This would allow for a proper settlement, an Oasis in the swamps. Two, maybe even three Tribes could stay then rotate with others that wished to learn the ways of settled life. The Tribe Chieftains would embrace this; they would see their say gain weight in their Councils.
Or he could pay; every year, metal or food, depending on what they had; but none would call them to fight, save to defend their own lands. One, maybe two Tribes could be sustained like this, for offering provisions would mean the Tribes would lack them. This would empower the Mistresses of those tribes whose Bound worked the fields.
He did not like this but it did offer a home for the W’adrhŭn; an Oasis in the swamps. It was more than the other lords and ladies had offered. He did not think it would last. The old ways would be changed by necessity and far from the wisdom of the Ukunfazane, the Tribes would perhaps change.
It was a beginning.
Choice
Vassalage – The W’adrhŭn will offer warriors to fight for Rottdorf in exchange for the land. Two to three Tribes will be able to permanently settle. This will empower the Chieftains in the Tribal Councils.
EPILOGUE
Nagral of the Coati was singing in melancholy.
He rarely allowed for such things to take hold of him –for all her oppressing perfections, the Ukunfazane had offered much to him and to all the W’adrhŭn and mastering passions was one of them. But his days with the Cult had cultivated a love for song and tale and he realized he was in the middle of a sad one now.
The sun was rising behind him, showering the caravans with a golden light. They were marching south, forming a river of beasts and people – thick and slow at first, different tribes together – only to break into smaller streams, each carving a new path to different direction. Behind him, the sounds of the Bound building the new Oasis could be heard, as well as the Braves training with Brand’s officers; the builders’ bangs and the Braves’ yells a stark contrast to the gentle sounds of a swamp morning. Three tribes would help build it and live in it for a year after. Visiting caravans could come and trade but never stay beyond two weeks. Then each year, a Tribe would leave and make way for another to rest and to enjoy a home and to learn how to tame the land. With that knowledge, Nagral hoped, they would be able to carve more Oases in the lands of humans. And when that knowledge did not prove enough, the W’adrhŭn already knew how to fight. What had been achieved in Riismark could perhaps be done elsewhere.
Chant’Atl they were calling it, the Wet Home. A long, palisaded area was being forged on solid land to house visiting caravans. The oasis proper was to be made of mud mounts and elevated platforms and huts, resting on wooden stilts above the slow waters and reeds. The lands Brand had given them were not the easiest nor the most welcoming but they were rich in game and nourishment; what the humans had failed to conquer, the W’adrhŭn would tame. Chant’Atl was a thing of hope.
A passing Tribe’s Brave hailed Nagral. He nodded in response, still humming the tune softly but then a Speaker caught it and she smiled. It was a fitting song, a pacing melody, meant for the slow, long marches on the Wastelands and the promised home awaiting. Later she would catch herself humming as well, until her fellows did the same. One sang the lyrics and others joined him.
And so a new day dawned and a river of marching Tribes left the lands of Riismark, singing about their home awaiting. Beyond that hill it rested; beyond that mount; beyond that cliff – ever close, ever waiting, ever beyond.