Previous Chapter: An Unexpected Turn of Events
Josun of the Roslagen
Josun leaned against a tree trunk, carefully filling a pipe with dried cannabis, the night air heavy with the sounds of boisterous, drunk men. Tenderheart. That’s what Coriver had called him before the raid. The derogative stuck in his throat like an insect. Around the fire they danced in the distance, spilling beer over each other, reeking of urine and the blood of the vanquished. The prisoner, a witch, sat in chains before the flames, body bruised and battered, a victim of the religious fervor that had seized the Roslagen after the successful raid. We slaughtered men who had surrendered. They were weak and did not die in battle; that was the rationale, but it didn't sit well with the dark-haired warrior. There was no honor in killing the helpless, though the forest god demanded blood, and there were plenty who wished to spill it. He does not exist whispered Josun, though no one was around to hear his words. How many of those revelers believed in Prax? It was likely that they had given him little thought but simply used his name to justify their craving for violence. Tradition, tenderheart. That's what they would say. They slaughtered indiscriminately because they had always slaughtered indiscriminately. They raped because they had always raped. They burned ships and set fire to villages because that was the Roslagen way. Their strict adherence to tradition was a method of avoiding thought. Coriver never thinks concluded Josun, pressing the pipe to his lips. He wished to do something, perform an act of rebellion to shock the raiders, but instead he stood mute and solitary, lurking in the woods like a spirit, haunting the fringes of the celebration.
He had felt this way for a long time now and had fought against his feelings, initially believing them to be a sign of weakness. Warriors who did not thoughtlessly murder were weak; any showing of empathy for a person outside the tribe was treated as an act of betrayal and considered disrespectful to Prax. Josun had went to his glade, had prayed beneath the ancient oak tree, had demanded strength, courage, and bloodlust, yet his prayers went unanswered while his doubts grew. Beneath that oak lies thousands of bones. It was true; they buried the skulls of the vanquished around its roots and hung femurs from its branches. A roost for vultures and a home for creatures of carrion. Who knew how old that foul tree was, and what had attracted the Roslagen to it. It was not a holy place, but a living monument to a century of needless killing—they might pray to Prax beneath its boughs, but no one approached the tree alone at night, for they thought it to be haunted by the vengeful spirits of the sacrificed dead. They were always fearing spirits, and so constantly performed gestures to ward them off—spilled wine for the dead during every meal, whispered words of protection when climbing atop a roof or passing under a ladder. It was true that the Roslagen had an excessive number of names for ghosts, and debate was often had on what particular specter had caused what particular domestic disturbance; for instance, poltergeists were blamed for breaking a chair leg, while gremlins stole milk, though not cheese, which was the favorite plunder of faeries, who could change size and crawl into your home through the tiniest of spaces. Josun had never seen a faerie, but he knew rats ate cheese, and chairs broke either because of their faulty craftsmanship or the excessive size of their sitter. He also knew that men killed because they were savage, cruel, and fearful.
A month before, they had raided a village to the far north, located just on the outskirts of the Mawlden Forest. The people were called the Furmise, and the Roslagen traded with them, visited their taverns, shared mead around their fires and called them friend and neighbor. Such infiltration was a tradition; you gained the trust of the people, and then sneaked in during the night and knifed them in the back. There was a boy, fourteen or so, that Josun had befriended. The lad followed the Roslagen around when they entered the tavern, standing a respectable distance away, but eagerly approaching whenever an opportunity presented itself to ask questions and attempt to gain favor. He admired the tall, rugged people, spoke of their “savage honesty” and “noble bearing” while making it clear that he intended to join the tribe someday, seeing the Roslagen life as “a harmonious existence with nature.” Where he had received such ideas, Josun didn't know—perhaps Coriver, who was known to enjoy fabrication and whimsey, was responsible—but the boy proved steadfast in his beliefs and repeatedly asked Josun about how to initiate himself among the Roslagen. There was, of course, no way to join the tribe other than by being enslaved, and women were the preferred gender to take into slavery. So Josun told him that his wish was impossible, and that his idealization of the barbarians was greatly misplaced. “We're murders,” he said to the boy, looking him straight in the eyes, “rapists, thieves, and backstabbers. We glorify violence above all human virtues. When you look at me, you do not look at a human being. You look at a force of nature, a gnawing hunger that eats its brothers and sisters until its children grow old enough to devour it and take on its burden. I am not a noble savage. I am a killer of things. There is no honor in being a killer of things.”
He had told Coriver those same words only to have him laugh and shake his head. “Nobles and dead men have honor. It is not a luxury we can afford,” he responded. “Who has told you that we are an honorable people? When has honor been a concern of the Roslagen? Certainly not when we lie corpses atop the roots of the ancient oak. When blood is spilled for Prax, we do not ask for forgiveness. Every life is available for the taking. The only right one has is the right to die.”
“If we do not care for honor, then are we an evil people?” asked Josun.
“All of mankind is evil, that cannot be argued. We hate each other, we long to better ourselves at the detriment of our brothers. I, as you know, cannot help myself when I see a woman that I want. This scar, here, on my left breast, is the price I paid for one such longing. The man who gave it to me died with an ax in his skull, and I took his wife only minutes afterward, tears of grief still wetting her eyes. Was that an evil deed? Yes, I suppose it was, though I am not half as bad as most, you know. If I am among the best, what does that say about men? What does it say that I hate you at this moment for bringing this argument to me? Why are you so worried with honor and evilness? You cannot change what we do, nor can you change what other evil men do. If you wish to have honor, go ahead, but I will only laugh at you for it, and no one will thank you, and eventually you will die to a less honorable man, who will have decided that he wishes to live and so seeks a dishonorable advantage that your honor prevents you from taking. Talk no more about honor and evil, Josun, for the words mean nothing to me, and they mean nothing to the world.”
Coriver's response only deepened the loathing he felt for his tribe. He felt hatred for them as he looked at the witch, whose head sloped downward, long hair (so black it was almost blue!) obscuring her face. Still, he remembered that face, with its aquiline nose, jutting chin, and green, fiery eyes. She looks the ideal image of a Roslagen queen he thought before catching himself. Those times were long gone, the ancient days when the Barbaroi ruled for hundreds of miles beyond the Mawlden Forest and enjoyed tribute from forty peoples. King Wotan, last of his line, slayer of the dragon Gorgan, father to a thousand children… no, the old stories were fables, cobbled together by oral history and musty artifacts. Everyone in the tribe claimed to be of Wotan's blood, though the valor contained within his ichor must have been diluted years ago. What about you, Tenderheart? There before him by the fire was a maiden fair, like in the old stories. Already a deep calm was settling in, soothing his worries, narrowing his purpose. Damn what they say about witches. What a waste to kill a woman like that, an innocent woman who had harmed none of the Roslagen.
Emptying the ashes from his pipe, Josun left the edge of the forest and moved towards the burning pyre. There were a few revelers remaining, though most had slunk off to their beds or collapsed on the ground. He stepped over one drunken warrior, a lazy-eyed sot whom he particularly loathed, and had to catch himself from kicking the unconscious fool in the ribs. Off to his right in the darkness someone vomited; close to the fire, three men sang a melancholy song to themselves. It was a familiar melody in a minor key, though the men sang it poorly, their words falling out of their mouths, syllables garbled almost beyond the point of recognition. The heat that radiated from the pyre was intense; the witch sat precariously close, so close that her visage wavered in the warmth like a hallucination. The wood crackled and popped—the sounds of spirits fleeing, according to tradition—and Josun paused to listen for their voices, straining his ears. There was a hissing beneath it all, as though a serpent writhed in the pyre's center. It is simply moisture escaping the wood he reasoned, yet part of him would never be content with that answer. What use does Pannotia have for a rational man? The tribe had no use for such men and neither did the peoples that they preyed upon, for Josun had been met with superstition time and time again. Human sacrifice, the burning of entrails, the mad interpretation of celestial events… and soon, the hanging of a witch.
Her face was different, having changed as he approached. Her hair was lighter, auburn almost, and those sharp features that were so intriguing had been replaced with softer, rounder edges. Pretty, yes, but this was not the same woman who had fascinated him from a distance. Am I seeing things? he wondered. Perhaps she had cast a spell to manipulate her visage, though that was impossible, for she wore shackles of adamant. He didn’t know what to think. That other face, the one he’d seen upon approach, looked like a face that could understand him. This woman, wavering in the fire, looked coquettish to the point of deception, not unlike some tavern wench desirous of the coin in his pocket. Still, he walked around her, circling the bound woman like a wary animal, wondering how she had not burst into flame. They had torn her clothes, bruised her flesh, beat her about the face, yet the witch looked peaceful somehow, as though she were simply resting and not smoking before a pyre. The shackles bubbled on her wrists; she breathed a low sigh of exhaustion, sagging towards the heat like a burned blade of grass.
“You can't burn a sorceress, you know,” she said sleepily, eyes closed, sweat evaporating on her face. “Not with heat this timid. She must be placed in the middle of a huge fire and doused with oil and be made to swallow charcoal and lard. Even then, some won't burn, especially those who have the gift of fire. You barbarians must have never burned a real witch if you think this will harm me.”
“They don’t plan for you to burn,” replied Josun. “They wish you to hang upon the ancient oak and give your life to Prax. The flames are to make sure you are not a nattmara, huldra, or vampyre.”
“What if I am a werewolf? Do you know the proper way of killing one?” asked the sorceress.
“You must skin it and strangle the person inside,” said Josun.
“That sounds right. I really don't know. I was asking you.” She straightened, pulling her head back, eyes still closed. Her right cheek was swollen and purple, and a large gash oozed above her right eyebrow. “Well, what are you here for? To gawk? I am beaten, noble warrior. My only hope is the mercy of the gods, and your god seems to have no mercy.”
“He does not exist. Something may dwell in that oak, but it is not Prax.”
“Are you having a crisis of faith, barbarian? Do you doubt your purpose in this life? Were you not made to rape and pillage?” She laughed and shook the sweat from her face. “I myself have but one reason for being, and that is to have my revenge on Pliny the Black. Have you heard of him? He is an immortal sorcerer, or so they say, who exists solely to cause carnage and suffering. He killed a great wizard whom I loved and tossed me aside like a beaten cur, to gnaw and gnash in my rage, thinking I could do nothing to him. Well, if you need a purpose, I’ll give you one: break these chains and lead me from this land. My quest will be your own. Think of yourself as a mercenary or even a knight errant if it suits you. I am a maiden fair, am I not? Just find the key to these shackles.”
Josun smiled and shook his head. He reached behind the sorceress and took the chain of metal between his hands and snapped it in one swift motion. Cassilda stared at her separated hands, still bound with adamant. Suddenly she thrust them into the flames, where they bubbled in the heat. Josun saw her flesh do the same; the sorceress wore a grimace on her face that told of terrible pain.
“Tenderheart,” said a voice behind them. Coriver and his warriors stood behind them, watching Cassilda with fascination and horror. The burly red-haired chief stepped up to Josun and placed his great hand on his shoulder.
“Have you tried to free this witch? We come to take her to the ancient oak. The stars have aligned; the time is ripe for a sacrifice which will bring us even greater luck on our raids. We have the favor of Prax, for how else would we have captured the steamship? Surely you do not wish to squander his favor by dallying with this creature? To lay with such a thing would bring you impotency and bad luck for several generations. By rights she is mine, anyways, so I ask you again, Tenderheart, what are you doing?” said Coriver.
“She is making an offering of herself to the flames,” said Josun. “The impurities of the flesh have been removed by the fire and the pain of suffering. She has a crusade to which I have pledged myself, and like Wotan of old I shall follow her till the quest is completed. I do not care for raiding, for what is raiding but theft, and what are the Roslagen but thieves? I have spilt the blood of innocents, and I wish to atone for my sins, and I cannot do that here, with you and your warriors.”
Josun took his knife and cut a circle around his right forearm and then squeezed blood into the fire.
“I hereby sunder myself from the tribe and consider its laws to bind me no longer. Thou art not my lord, Coriver, and as an independent man I shall go my own way.”
Coriver looked taken aback, but he soon recovered, his face set in a stony grimace.
“It is your right to leave the tribe, but you shall not take that witch from us,” he said. His men murmured in affirmation, their eyes eager and wild. Josun saw that they wore the faces of hungry wolves and would not be satisfied until the witch swayed from the oak’s branches.
“No one is taking the witch anywhere,” said Cassilda. She held up her hands for all to see; they were blistered and raw, yet the shackles had slid from her wrists. Coriver’s knife flew from his belt and stuck in the forehead of the man at his side. The barbarians let out a roar and rushed forward, intending to push the sorceress into the flames, but the fire grew into the shape of a giant winged beast, and then tendrils of flame licked out and ignited the clothes of the closest barbarians, including Coriver. They screamed in unison, wailing like animals, and some fled into the woods while others threw themselves upon the ground and flailed about, trying to put out the flames. The chief, however, maintained his composure and removed his jacket and put it aside. He took an ax from his belt and stalked towards Cassilda, who had fallen to her knees from the effort of her sorcery. Josun stepped between them, his own ax in hand, and with the flames towering behind him, he looked the image of Wotan, his face terrible with wrath, his shoulders glistening with sweat, tensed like the muscles of a jungle cat. Coriver paused and pointed at him, shaking his head with disbelief.
“You are an enemy of the Roslagen, Josun Tenderheart, and your bones shall bleach one day beneath the ancient oak. I will not forget your betrayal, and you shall feel my ax between your shoulder blades. I denounce you, and curse your children, whose flesh shall feed the maw of Prax. Your fate…”
He never finished his sentence, for Cassilda rose to her feet and cast the fire once more in his direction, lighting his beard and his clothing. Coriver dropped his ax and fled towards the woods with the rest of his people, screaming as loudly as any of them, his bravado lingering in the air with the stench of burning flesh. Josun watched as he ran, satisfied with the chief’s dismissal and in awe of the powers of the sorceress. He felt her lean hand grasp his shoulder, and as her eyes looked into his he saw someone different, a tired girl with a crooked nose and busted lips. In his arms she felt as light as a feather, and he asked her where they would go now, for he had no place anymore.
“Carry me to the oak,” she said, and although he did not want to do so, he walked down the rough path, through the Mawlden Forest, the trees blocking out the moonlight, forming a darkness that was nearly absolute. Josun’s feet walked the path through memory rather than by sense, and soon they were in the clearing, the oak at the other end, standing like an ogre with arms outstretched.
“For what purpose do you wish to go to the tree?” he asked, as she climbed out of his arms.
Cassilda did not respond but continued to walk towards the tree, chanting in a strange tongue. He saw her wobble several times, though he did not follow, for he wished to never again trod upon the blood-stained earth. When she was next to the oak’s trunk, the sorceress ceased to speak and placed her hands upon the gnarled wood. A cry rose up out of the tree, a mournful sound that caused the hairs on Josun’s neck to rise. Soon the wailing was joined by more voices, and a chorus of shrieks filled the night’s air, echoing throughout the Mawlden Forest. The barbarians who had fled to the woods heard the unearthly song and ran back to their village, for they would have rather been burned by the sorceress than encounter the source of the wailing. Suddenly the song ceased, and the ancient oak shook as though it were being torn out of the ground, and its leaves died and fell to the earth. When Cassilda returned, she was still bruised and battered, but her spirit seemed lightened, and she walked easily under her own power.
“They made a totem of the oak by their years of sacrifice,” she said quietly. “I have taken its power away and released the dead so that they may fade and not linger, souring this place. Now when the Roslagen kill, they will feel the guilt as you feel it, and perhaps that will prevent them from causing further bloodshed and ruin.”
“I doubt it,” said Josun. “I know the Roslagen too well. Raiding is their life, and they know no other way to live.”
Cassilda shrugged and began to walk towards the woods.
“The Mawlden Forest is dark and fearsome, full of wild beasts and strange things,” said Josun, trotting after her. “You are heading into its heart, and what you will find there, I do not know.”
“A thief, mostly likely. Who knows what condition he is in or how he survived. His image, however, is locked in here,” she tapped her head, “and I shall use it to find him.”
Josun saw a green ball of light floating before her, a will-o’-wisp. She waved her hand and it sped off into the woods.
“Let us go, barbarian. Or should I not call you that? It is a derogative, no? And you no longer belong to the Roslagen. Josun it is. A nice name. Nothing vicious about it. I am a Galvanian, Josun, and we are much more civilized than your former folk. Why, when we invaded Valice, we only left a smoldering abyss that descends into the very depths of the earth. The people, however, were not raped, and there was no wanton loss of life, other than the poor souls that happened to be living at the sight of the Calamity.”
She tripped over a log, and he reached out to steady her. Her hand was cold, and when she looked at him, the bruises and cuts had all disappeared. Cassilda’s face was smooth again, nose straight, hair loose and reddish-brown in the faint moonlight. He wondered how she wore so many faces and whether it was sorcery or part of her being that enabled her appearance to change so, but he did not ask, feeling that it was rude and unwise to question a woman, especially a witch, about her looks. As they trudged on through the Mawlden Forest, Josun felt the bond between them grow, increased, perhaps, by magic, or just the realization that he had gambled everything on this woman and had no more coin with which to play.
Next Chapter: The Aiv and the Thief
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