Thyself

21 Harvestar 1102

The fleet glided into harbor beneath an overcast sky. The sun rose, a ghostly orb veiled in grey clouds. A weak crimson stripe marked the horizon. Gulls perched on the mast, peered with bobbing heads and bulging eyes. Waves slapped against the hulls.

The newly promoted Nilaete (General) Woesvaen leaned over the rail. He watched the hull slice the sea and carve its path. He understood those that deployed him wished him exiled. Their signatures and seals on scrolls rolled tight and hurried through the halls of Som delivered him to the inconsequential lands of Faeruhn Dolhum (the Faering Lands). With him came another general’s soldiers and a secondus (second in command) he distrusted. He didn’t feel exiled. Even during the months at sea, as he heard the whispers of the soldiers, he only felt the sense of movement: away from the Empire, across seas, to some place new.

Aensal dal Broes, his Secondus (second in command) stood off to his side and remarked, “We have much to do here if we hope to end your banishment.”

Woesvaen, in a distant voice, asked “We?”.

“For their sake,” Aensal added. His head tilted to indicate he spoke for the soldiers in their fleet.

Woesvaen walked to the prow. The coastline of the bay closed in on both sides. Ahead, where the sea ended, the city of D’Lippi cradled the shore. A reception awaited. Crowds thronged the docks. The Rion (Queen) sat atop a palanquin at the end of a long dock. Dignitaries sat in stands to her side. Heads craned, hands shaded their faces, eyes searched the seas for him.

Closer still and he heard the reception at the harbor; it sounded of horns and cheers.

The Rion of the Faeruhn Dolhum fidgeted in her seat, her gaze aimed down her small upturned nose. She bit her lip as she searched for her first glimpse of Nilaete Woesvaen. All around her, a sea of nobles churned, smiles and hushed words, glances and handshakes. The Rel den Uni (Lord of the city of Uni) stood beside her palanquin. His long grey beard fluttered in the wind. The Rion extended her hand for him to help her down from her palanquin and take her position on the throne set atop the stage. When the Rel accepted it, she said to him with an excited smile, “It is said he left his wife to die at the hands of the enemy while he took their city! These imperials are ruthless.”

The Rel den Uni acknowledged her commentary with a slow nod. His expression remained flat. He said nothing. But the Rion knew him well enough to not need words. She was confident that he knew she had backed him into a corner by arranging for an Imperial Nael to be garrisoned in her city. A small smile crossed her face. It took an effort not to laugh.

The clouds parted and revealed a blinding sun. It cast golden glints on the waves. “Look at how the gods trumpet his arrival,” she said. The Rel den Uni pursed his lips.

When the first ship docked, the Rion raised her arms, and a cheer erupted. All eyes watched Woesvaen. He was a bear of a man. He unfastened his belt and sword and let them drop to the deck, then he took a final look at his men. The oarsman slumped over still oars; their heavy breaths sounded hot. His Uenlae Juaerd (Honor Guard), men he’d never known, looked at him like a merchant presented with a suspicious prize. Lastly, he looked at his secondus, Aensal dal Broes. He saw the carefully veiled contempt on his face.

Woesvaen disembarked without a word. Aensal, a hulk of a man in his own right, snatched up Woesvaen’s discarded belt. He flung it over his shoulder, looked back at the Uenlae Juaerd, and ordered them to march. Slowly, he followed Woesvaen.

Woesvaen grunted and surged onto the dock. He waited for Aensal while ahead waited the Rion, her lords, and the raucous crowds.

Aensal’s eyes never left him. He watched how Woesvaen ran his fingers through his beard; he watched as he swallowed a deep, chest-raising breath. He looked unsure. Aensal savored what he saw.

Half-way to the Rion, Woesvaen halted. He looked down the coast at the crowds. Behind him, imperial galleys lulled over gentle waves. Their sails up. Their oars up. Like ants on their back, jostled by the gentle current that had carried them from the other side of Endleland. The sun shone down the pier from behind with rays that erased the chill of the morning. The damp boards reflected black like glass. The cheers roared on. He found the Rion, saw her squint, then open her eyes as their gaze met.

A small man pushed through the crowd with smiles and elbows, and then hurried across the expanse between the Rion and the Nilaete. He reminded Woesvaen of a mole: rounded shoulders, pointed noise, hairy arms even on the back of his hands, a shaved yet grisly-sandy face. His face was incongruent with the rest, there was something pretty there, something captivating. He wore local clothing -- with its greens and gold threads on cloths that flowed like a gown, but his imperial blood was evident. The square face and dark eyes which pierced whatever they looked upon. When he introduced himself, he spoke in Aen, the imperial tongue. “Auraelus, the ambassador to D’Lippi in service of our emperor. It is my honor to meet the great Nilaete Woesvaen. The songs of your conquests have reached even this tiny corner of the world. And have no worries, I will ensure your every comfort. The barracks for the mighty 18th Nael are in an enviable position within the city. Your quarters are near the embassy. All is ready to mark this vital part of your career with the utmost of luxury and refinement. Should you suffer a need, leave it to me to fill. I have already established your offices. Everything is as it should be. Glory for empire is yours to grasp.”

Woesvaen grunted. He brushed past the ambassador, who was left with a hollow smile. The ambassador and Aensal shared a look with each other, the ambassadors brow raised as if in a query.

Woesvaen approached the stage and the Rion. Then without pause or indication, he turned, skirted past, and went to make his exit. He didn’t know where exactly he was going, other than to head into the city and away from this display.

The delegation atop the stage looked on with plastered smiles and confused eyes. The crowds cheers faltered. The ambassador scrambled at his heels. He spoke through his smile with an angry voice. “That is the Rion, the Queen of this realm waiting for you to present yourself. Nilaete Woesvaen, if you treat your,” and the ambassador paused for a moment, his mouth twitched as it searched for the right word, and when he said it he did so as if the word itself was hot and may burn him, “Punishment like a,” and he paused again, “Punishment, that is what it will be.”

“Punishment?” Woesvaen’s face twisted. Behind the ambassador he saw the soldiers assigned to him arranged in neat rows. Aensal at their head. They looked from one to another. He saw shrugs. He saw heads shake.

Auraelus continued in a hushed tone beneath a false smile, “Do you pretend it is anything otherwise? Even I, festooned out here in the hinder, have heard word of your dilemma. Maybe you convinced yourself this charade works on others, or you hope to pretend away this reality. Or. Or, maybe in the presence of your new soldiers...” The ambassador sighed. “I tire of guessing. You should trust me, as someone who’s career is fighting the battles in the senates and salons of this world. I can tell you that denial coddles the ego and nothing more. Everyone sees the aim of this post. Hide the promising nilaete in useless lands beneath the canopy of scandal. Anchor his rise and watch him fall, fall, fall until he fades from memory.”

Woesvaen eyed the ambassador. His soft, hirsute hands. His oiled skin. He smelled of perfume. “Very well,” he said. He walked past the ambassador, strode up to the Rion. As he ascended the stairs the Rion rose and all those present dropped to a knee like wheat in the presence of a sudden, stiff wind. All save Woesvaen. He stopped and eyed those around him prostate before their Queen. Auraelus, who had followed close behind, was on one knee, face down.

“Great Rion of the Faersch, I am honored to stand before you. As you may know, the Imperial Army kneels only before the Emperor. I do not intend to diminish the crown of these lands.” As he spoke, and he did so in flawless Faerish, Woesvaen hung his head, but he did not so much as bow.

The crowd silenced. Dogs barked some place far off. Ponies pulled creaking carts of fruits as their jaws gnashed and they neighed at the edge of the crowd. A wind came off the water and rustled the Rion’s gown, and flapped her cape. She smiled. Her round face, a wide crescent of teeth under her small upturned nose, she spoke his name with revelry, “Woesvaen! Woesvaen! Behold the Bloody Bear!” Her arms stretched wide to introduce him. A cheer sounded that rang in Woesvaen’s ears. A rolling thunder of soft booted people getting to their feet shook the stage he stood upon.

The first to approach were priests. Their faces painted white and eyes encircled with black. They held aloft clay bowls from which a sweet smoke danced in transfixing swirls. They circled him and chanted in a tongue unknown to Woesvaen. Then several people robed in bright green gowns rushed him with smiles and extended hands. Woesvaen obligingly smiled, nodded to those he could but there were too many; they swam past him quickly, one hand grasped his, other hand gently pressed on his forearm, and then a rustle of cloth and gone, replaced by yet another round faced, green eyed person. They all had soft voices and said in various ways, “The greatness you will bring,” “The banners you will carry.” They smelled of perfumes. The briny air tasted of rotted fish and the people of roses.

The last two to greet him did not give their names, but they held his hand and eyes longer than the rest. One man was older, with a long grey beard and bright green eyes that seemed like jeweled doorways to a mind that never ceased to calculate. He alone wore grey. Woesvaen would come to learn that is the Rel den Uni. The other, a shorter man with a gloomier look, he narrowed his eyes as if to appraise Woesvaen the way one might a ox. He was the much maligned Rel den Shori.

After the greetings, Woesvaen was once again left standing before the Queen. Another silence fell over the crowd broken only by coos of gulls, barks of dogs and somewhere far off the buzz of locusts. Winds whistled through masts, flapped sails, pushed the seas. While overhead clouds dragged across the skies. It was as if Endleland pushed forward while those there, at the harbor, resisted this progress and stood still before the Rion.

“In my court, all bow before the Rion.”

“Then I will not embarrass the court by attending.” He heard the groan behind him, he suspected it came from his own soldiers.

“The Great Bear of the Vaenaen is said to be proud, and I am distressed to find those rumors true.”

“A great deal is said of me,” said Woesvaen. “You will find much of it true.”

The queen stared at the hulking figure of the man known as the Bloody Bear. Then, she gestured with a dismissive, limp wave of her hand for Woesvaen to take his leave. After which she giggled, a light, self-assured giggle, and then she turned her back on Woesvaen and smiled to the crowd.

Woesvaen took his leave as the crowd cheered. The Rion led the cheers. Soon chants of Faeruhn Dolhum echoed off the city walls and faded away across the sea.

The ambassador extricated himself from the nobles with a bashful smile. He raised a finger to beg their patience and then hurried after Woesvaen. “Are you a fool or simply an indignant!” His crisp Aen was a stark contrast to the rounded sounds of Faerish. He chastised Woesvaen through clenched teeth at a volume near a whisper and a tone near a tempest.

Aensal stepped between them but the ambassador would not be stopped. He stood on his tippy toes, looked over and past Aensal and sneered, “The bear was sent here to sleep, and sleep you will.”

Woesvaen nudged Aensal aside, faced the diplomat and puffed up his chest. His eyes narrowed to a slit, his brow cast a shadow like a visor. He growled, “I am the bear. I am not the sleeping kind. I am the prowling kind.” A snarl on his face, Woesvaen watched the small, inconsequential form before him retreat just a bit, a half-step back. Woesvaen’s expression became a hint of satisfaction. “You best remember orator that when a bear growls, its no use to tell it to hush. Not unless you’re prepared to make it hush.”

The ambassador gathered himself. A smile, smooth as glass, twitched across his face until it took hold. The ambassador left without another word, his shoulders thrown back and held up.

Woesvaen faced Aensal and saw disapproval.

A eunuch escorted Woesvaen to the barracks. After he performed a cordial greeting (in Aen), little more was said. Woesvaen prompted him on a couple of occasions, asked about various buildings they passed, but only received a perfunctory explanation.

Away from the pomp and circumstance of the harbor, Woesvaen and his imperial soldiers (a dozen followed behind him) drew a more quizzical response than the festive one they just left. Parents pulled children close. Passerby’s stopped, watched with a studied look as they passed. None made eye contact, instead they would turn away as soon as Woesvaen, or any of the others, looked their way.

Woesvaen’s assigned quarters were above the barracks, newly and hastily fashioned from a temple complex from a long forgotten, and, according to the eunuch, a useless god.

Woesvaen asked, “Does this god have a name?”

The eunuch considered this for a moment and said in a flippant manner, “I can’t say.”

Woesvaen turned to one of the soldiers, “You, what’s your name?”

“Haethard, sir,” said the soldier. By the looks of him he was older than Woesvaen. He had grey in his dark beard, and tired eyes that looked on with visible contempt.

“Very good, Haethard. Run to the palace and find more of this god. At the very least, I want his name.”

Haethard paused before he dutifully nodded, turned and walked off at unhurried pace.

“Your men show such enthusiasm,” remarked the eunuch with such a neutral practiced tone that Woesvaen almost missed the sarcasm.

The eunuch hurried Woesvaen through the complex with no explanation other than to point out where Woesvaen’s apartment was located. He then bowed and left.

Woesvaen’s quarters consisted of three rooms, an audience room with a table and several chairs, a room with a pool and his private quarters behind double doors of a dark wood. A mural on a wall in the audience room caught the afternoon sun. It depicted an army of dog-like people defeated beneath a setting sun by soldiers under the Faeruhn Dolhum banner and led by general with an imperial shield. Woesvaen touched the mural: the paint was still sticky.

A balcony connected the two rooms. It overlooked a courtyard with a blank pedestal where at some time past, he imagined, stood a statue to the forgotten god abandoned by his own worshipers. The courtyard clanked and murmured with locals who labored to outfit the grounds for the soldiers who would live there. Hay targets, battle dummies, weapon racks were feverishly being assembled in a haphazard manner without any regard for Imperial norms.

Woesvaen spent the first part of his morning unpacking his belongings. Mostly scrolls. He hesitated before he chose a shadowed corner of the room. He removed a skull from a chest and placed it on a shelf over a window. He spent the rest of his morning on the balcony that overlooked the courtyard. He observed how the Nael settled into the barracks. He looked for certain things to happen, the proper manner to garrison a barracks. He didn’t see what he wanted to see.

The soldiers watched him too, short glances up, to the big Nilaete they had heard so much about. Woesvaen sat shirtless, in breeches. The sun cast him pink. In his hand he held a chalice. They assumed it was wine. Some waited for him to bark orders, but he remained silent, impassive. They had ideas as to what he was thinking, they shared them in whispers, most were not favorable.

Haethard returned. “Brezool, sir.”

The name meant nothing to Woesvaen. He thought maybe one of the old gods, maybe one of the Others, or some obscure local god. Haethard remained in the doorway, his back straight, his face flush from the afternoon heat. Woesvaen shouted for a Forsaken. He was answered, “Who calls for one of ours?”

Haethard smiled from the doorway.

“Nilaete Woesvaen,” answered Woesvaen.

A few moments later a man in a long black tunic, with billowy black pants and wearing a green metallic mask that depicted the upper half of some dark and twisted fiend appeared, stepped past Haethard.

“You are?” asked Woesvaen.

“The mage you ... summoned?” Replied the man in the mask in a slow, tentative manner.

“Your name?” Woesvaen’s patience left his voice.

“Uethaen, sir” said the mage.

“Scour the Imperium Legendarium for mention of a god named Brezool. If it’s in there, it will be one of the old gods. Maybe one of the Others. Then report back to me. Gods don’t vanish without leaving a smell behind. Haethard, you see to it a bath is drawn for me.”

A pool in an adjacent room served as his bath. Woesvaen soaked, then napped. While he slept, Aensal arrived. He sat at the table and waited for Woesvaen to emerge from the bath. After an hour a suspicion grew. He imagined Woesvaen in a pool stained red. He pushed the door with a fingertip, it slid noiselessly. Woesvaen slept in a corner of the pool filled with crystal blue water, a slick of dirt and oil floated about him like a halo, his arms stretched out along the edge, his chin tucked; when he snored, ripples were cast across the surface. Aensal felt a mild disappointment.

The ambassador Auraelus arrived a time later. He poked his head into the door and cast about to see who was there. Aensal heard the movement and looked back, when he saw him, the ambassador smiled and let himself in.

The two men exchanged small courtesies. Aensal explained, “He sleeps in the bath.” Auraelus took soft steps around the room, ran his finger along the scrolls, poked his head into Woesvaen’s sleeping chamber. When he came to the skull, he stopped.

“Does he mourn his wife?”

Aensal’s eyes scanned the ambassador from head to foot. “Not as I have seen.”

“Hmmm.” Replied the ambassador. “You mourn her, understandably. She was an admirable woman.” He paused for Aensal to speak, to confirm the rumors, but to his surprise, he didn’t. Auraelus picked up the skull and looked through the eye holes. “It’s said when he captured Ashak the Red he just handed him over. Not even a ransom.” He paused again for Aensal to speak. When Aensal didn’t Auraelus continued, “I can’t imagine facing the man responsible for my wife’s death and not driving steel into his heart.”

“Woesvaen blames the one that made the killing blow. A blue-masked forsaken named Aldraec Silverhem.”

“Oh.” Auraelus set the skull on the table then sat down opposite to Aensal. He spun the skull around slowly, studied it. “There are those here excited by his ruthlessness. You know, the sort that equate sacrifice and the ability to make difficult decisions. Then there are others who think he isn’t a man, but a monster. Not just for the sacrifice he made of his wife, but to force others to make the same sacrifice.”

“He didn’t force anyone. He gave every soldier a choice. Press on with the assault or return to the wagon train.”

“And they all chose to go with him?”

“No. Some went back to the wagon train, but failed to prevent the attack.”

“I was told you stayed by his side.” Auraelus looked up with his eyes only and watched for Aensal’s reaction.

Aensal loosed a long breath from somewhere deep in his chest. “No, I went back.”

“Ah, so that’s how’s he know who killed her.”

“It is. I saw it happen.” Aensal stared at the table with unfocused eyes. He bit his top lip; his mustache curled into his mouth. “Powerless to stop it. I’ve heard screams. I once thought I’d remember them all. But after a while, the memories combine like a choir of sorts. Except for the screams that day.”

Auraelus reached across the table, laid his hand over Aensal’s. “I am sorry to evoke such memories.”

Aensal stuck his lower lip out and shook his head. “That memory sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear whether or not you call it by name.”

They sat in silence for some time. Aensal’s eyes, distant, they looked back to a place far behind him. Auraelus sat comfortably in the silence. He toyed with the skull. His face was a mask that betrayed nothing of his thoughts. A serene, blank expression of patience and understanding.

“Aldraec Silverhem ...” Auraelus said softly, as if he made a mental note of the name and the thought escaped from his lips. He looked up at Aensal. With a single finger he pointed down at the top of the skull. “No one here will understand this skull.”

A long moment passed before Aensal responded, “No?”

“No,” Auraelus shook his head. “The Faerish don’t believe the gods care for the body after death. They don’t bury their own whole. Strange gods they worship.” He tilted the skull so it looked back into him. “They are a frivolous people. They think when Death comes to take you, your body is something separate. That you pass with Death without concern for your body. How curious is that? To think that we are something apart even from ourselves. When they see this skull, they will think it some trophy kept by a savage man. They won’t see the cruelty of breaking a man and not letting his soul rest.” Then Auraelus paused, his brow knit together, a dark smile crossed his face. “Who does the Bloody Bear punish like this?” A disgusted, yet curious smile spread across his face.

“It’s his father’s.”

Auraelus looked taken aback. “He’s done this to his father?”

Aensal slid further in his chair. He lightly drummed the table with his fingertips. He looked present, fully returned from his thoughts. He looked at the skull with a grin of his own. “Yeah. He is that sort of man. Cruel, caring. Thoughtful and reckless. You ask him a simple question and he probes your soul with his response. You ask him for meaning, and he will speak of trivialities. These people here, they will learn him like everyone else before has. They will see what they want in him until they can no longer lie to themselves. Then they will admit, they do not know him. But,” Aensal tapped the table three times. “They will all see, he is a genius.”

Auraelus returned the skull to its place overtop the window and brushed his hands clean. “Such a cruel man. Much is made of him in Som. A single campaign in Murkuul and he was catapulted from obscurity to legend. You were in line to advance yourself. Cruel men seem to know how to seize the moment. When you name him a genius, I have to trust your judgement. For what I’ve seen thus far ... You and I should talk, Aensal. Later. After the parade. After the banquet.”

Nilaete Woesvaen emerged from his bath naked. He asked why they were gathered in his room. Auraelus explained there is a parade in his honor and he came to fetch him. Woesvaen dressed in a worn pair of breeches, long open tunic that was missing the clasp to close it, and a stained imperial long coat. Auraelus asked him, “General, there are those here for whom much depends upon your intentions in Faeruhn Dolhum. It would behoove us for you to share your intentions. So that we can ensure we are striving towards the same goal.”

“My intentions?” Woesvaen looked confused.

“Yes, your intentions.” Auraelus felt the need to repeat himself.

“Well firstly, I’d intend to get a warm meal. After that, we shall all see.”