Vartigan - Prelude I

Prelude I

Galen felt his legs and heart grow heavy as he approached the high priest's chamber. He could only think of one reason the high priest should summon him for a private audience at a time when the rest of the temple was quiet. It must be that his request to end his aspirance and begin work as a missionary had been denied. Indeed, it might have been decided that Galen was not suitable for the priesthood at all.

Had he wasted his youth?

He knocked at the door, and entered when bidden. The high priest offered him a seat and wine. Galen sank gratefully into the chair, but declined the wine.

On the high priest's desk was a leather tube, such as one found in libraries.

"I have something for you," the high priest told Galen. He picked up the battered leather case and offered it to Galen. "It's a cautionary tale."

He had almost expected something like this. They had had many discussions on the difficulties of being a missionary. Faith in Heimdall aside, the reality was that missionaries died, sometimes quite horribly. "Cautionary against what?" He took the case.

"Oh, many things," said the high priest. "At the very least, against equating the drive to evangelize with the ability to do so, against not keeping things to their proper time."

"I don't understand," said Galen. "When can it not be proper to call out for the glory of Heimdall?"

"Take it back to your cell and read it, but don't read it just as a story. Put yourself in his place. Imagine what would it would be like to see the things he saw."

Galen took the case. It felt heavy. "There is much here."

"There certainly is. The author wrote badly in a small hand, and some of the material is damaged. Concentrate on it -- you are excused from other duties until you finish it."

"And then what?"

"We will speak of that then."

Galen returned to his cell cradling the round leather case. Once there he lit lamps, cleared his writing table, and spread the first of the old scrolls on it carefully, securing its edges with padded clamps. The author had wanted to make the most of his materials, writing closely, the letters tiny. One corner of the scroll was ragged, and some of the writing had been torn away...

#

...know how long I will have to write this. Heimdall forgive me for thieving the parchment, quills, and ink, but it would only find its way into the flames. The savages are burning more than they are stealing. The children are doing much of the looting. Earlier they were hard at the task of putting enemy wounded to death. They each carry a long, curved knife; some of them are still small enough that they have to grip it with both hands. Not that they are troubled by that. They cut throats as easily as other children chase balls. Indeed, I think it must have been children that opened the gate. Who notices children swarming in and out of a busy gate? A half-dozen of them could have gotten in and hidden until nightfall, then let in their barbaric elders. A half-dozen of these little demons would be more than a match for two gate guards.

They have gathered us all in the barns and stables, which have been emptied of cattle and horses. These people are great folk for horses; I saw scores of them standing on the ostler's common, tethered in rows in military fashion. They must have learned a trick or two from civilized armies. Many of them carry curved swords and long bows. There are four of the barbarians standing watch over us. Four to watch what must be a hundred people. Everyone is still with fear.

There are two women sitting near me, saying they will be let go, because they are obviously harmless. I think this is a false hope. Surely the lord's wife presented no more threat than they, and her head is on the pike next to her husband's. In my charge to speak truth I must say that I have seen no signs of rape. Perhaps that is because half the attackers are women themselves. Savages concoct strange tabus. What twist of the fates brought these people forth?

They are doing something with us. Every so often another barbarian comes in, surveys us, and leads three or four of us away. They did not object when a wife wanted to go with her husband, though they do not allow too many to leave at once. People led from here have not returned.

One of them has just pointed at me.

#

Galen paused. He wanted a sip of wine to steady himself. It was all very well to talk of the dangers of missionary work, but to see specifics so starkly presented was another matter. And yet he must have lived -- the parchment was covered with the tiny, crabbed writing.

#

I have taken a leap into destiny.

They brought me before the leader, who was holding court at the gate. As I was led to him I could see they were planning on putting the whole place to the torch. For one fevered moment it seemed like the whole world stank of gore and swarmed with flies. I also noticed, for the first time, that all the savages wore a badge of sorts, a silver lightning bolt on a black field. It decorated themselves and their goods the way a proper lord might employ his coat of arms. It seemed that almost all of them were in the gateyard, looking at me as I passed.

The leader was a tall, lean man who bore a scar that ran from the inner corner of his left eye, across his nose, and down his cheek to the corner of his jaw. Like most of these people, he had dark eyes and hair. His hair had been crudely cut recently; indeed I marked later that they were all similarly shorn.

He stared at me for a few moments, then said, "You are no Githdani," in the local tongue, heavily accented.

I confess I felt relief that at least I would be able to speak and be understood before I was slain. "My name is Brother Oliver. I am a member of the Order of the Perpetual Call."

There were others standing nearby, and the leader spoke with them in what sounded like a corruption of the Daushoan languauge. Then he asked me, "What brings you here?"

"I am here to spread the news of Heimdall."

His next remark was, "I thought Lord Vorak's taste ran more to acrobats that undressed."

I stung with anger at being put in the same bag with vagabond entertainers of loose morals, but there was no denying I had had little success at the lord's court and that the common folk came to hear me more for the excuse to get in a warm place. Was he mocking me before ordering me killed?

"We do not take prisoners, and we do not make ransom demands."

I commended my soul to Heimdall.

A woman came up and whispered in his ear. He nodded, and she went away. "You did not take up arms against us."

I wondered how he could possibly know that, true though it was, then decided he was still styling himself a wit at my expense.

The leader gestured at the gate. "You can go."

"I want my mule." The beast was my only steady companion on my long journey, and I felt responsible for it.

"Stock is forfeit."

"Thief!" I spat.

"You should have listened to the warnings."

"They warned me about bandits, not wild beasts!" I snapped, getting a bit of my own back. I marvel now how easily I forgot how close I stood to death.

One of the others said something in the corrupted language, and the leader answered in kind. This brought a smile to the faces of the others.

"There is a man with a green belt outside the gate. He will give you food and your pick of the goods from the pile so you can leave. The River Ratenna is the border, four days walk toward the setting sun. Krolov is still at peace with us."

Krolov was the neighboring prince. The late Lord Vorak had been the vassal of someone called Prokosk. Truth compels me to admit that I was not the sort of man who could have reached the border in four days on foot. It had taken me six on my mule's back.

When I did not move immediately, he said, "You can stay here, but winter is nigh and Vorak's peasants will not be in the mood to feed strangers."

"They wouldn't fear hunger if you'd not attacked them."

This time he laughed. "If they're wise enough to withhold their taxes, they'll be all right. Prokosk will have other things on his mind besides taxes."

"Ignorant braggart!" I spat. "You'll not crack wise at your comeuppance, I'll warrant."

One of the others, a woman, took offense at my tone. One moment she was standing still, the next there were knives in her hands as if she'd somehow conjured them. I had no doubt she could kill me from across the twenty paces that separated us. The leader said something quietly to her. Then to me he said, "My folk are no longer accustomed to being mocked, and they do not all have a chief's experience of the world."

"If it's wisdom you seek, I can provide it." Even now I do not know how I was moved to be so bold.

The leader looked at me for a long time. Then he spoke sharply, and the woman with the knives looked very displeased for a moment, then sheathed her weapons and came toward me. She gave me a shove to start me walking, and brought me through the gate and across the ostler's common. Many of the barbarians were there, and they pointed at me and spoke to each other as I passed. The woman brought me to a small fire built on the edge of the common and said, "Stay there." I crouched by the fire, wondering what would become of me. Later a boy of about twelve came and brought me a blanket. He had a man's head hanging from his belt.

I have spent the whole day here. Every so often I see another gory pike rear up on the walls. Just before sunset one of the barbarians threw me some bread.

I wonder what they are planning to do with me.

#

Galen predicted it before he went on -- the hapless author would be taken in by the barbarians. Which is just what happened. When the warriors rode off into the night, this priest was clinging to the back of one them. The tale was somewhat predictable for some time thereafter. The priest would be granted audiences with the leaders, including the one called Votiger Kull, the high chief. He was even given permission to lead services. These were largely ignored, and he also had to spend time in menial labor among some other thralls that seemed to be part of the baggage train. There were long descriptions of what he considered barbarity and even depravity -- he was surprised that the description of the celebration some days after the raid had survived censors. Oliver spent some weeks trying to teach them about the sanctity of marriage. He seemed to go unheard. Oliver tried imprecations. That earned him bruises and broken teeth. At reading that, Galen gave up for the night.

Things did not improve quickly the next morning. Nothing is so boring as a tale of sex and violence written by a pacifistic prude, and these people, who called themselves the Lightning Strike Brigade, led lives full of both. Gradually a broader picture emerged. The warriors were at war with the heriditary Daushoan nobility. The reasons for the war were not clear, and Oliver seemed to be too caught up in his fruitless efforts to ask. Galen was wondering if this assignment were merely a test of endurance when at the top of one scroll he came upon a line with some spark...

#

...that children never weep here. Only the very tiniest infants ever cry at all, and since they are almost always with the baggage train, it brings a strange sort of silence to the main camp.

At first I thought this was fear of punishment. These clan folk make brutal parents. They are an army through and through, and there is no tenderness among them. After all, in an army, one sergeant is very like another to the lower ranks. The women pass their children amongst each other much as they do their lovers. Still, the more I thought about it the more it struck me, and when I was next granted an audience with the Kull chief I asked him about it.

"We teach them not to," was all he would say of it at first.

It took me some time to bring the subject up again. "It's a secret I'm sure many mothers and fathers would seek."

One of the lesser chiefs spoke, asking Kull what I had said. I only caught part of the answer; it sounded like he was talking about animal breeding. "Your people keep their children to themselves."

"Of course."

"Here children are bound to everyone, and everyone to them. They have their place as everyone else."

"Yet you pass things on, names and position, from father to son." Or mother to son. Or father to daughter.

"To be someone's child is more than a question of who lay with who."

"You could not continue your savage ways if you did not begin to teach them young," I said. I had learned that I could say such things without fear to the chiefs. Among the more common folk it was a different matter, just one more backwards notion in this collection of tribes.

"You are more perceptive than you appear," was Kull's answer to this.

"This matter of the children?"

Kull snorted. "Or perhaps not. You have just answered the question." The other chiefs murmured.

"What is the value of teaching them such a thing?"

"Weeping is too costly a luxury when one sniffle can be the death of a score."

He often said things like this, allusions to some past even darker than the lives they led now, a thing I could barely conceive. "Has it ever occurred to you your lives would be easier if you ceased making war on your neighbors?"

Kull looked hard at me. "You have been with us for nigh on a moon, and done nothing but talk. It is time you listened. Tomorrow you go back to the baggage train. I do not want to see you again until you have listened to the Memory."

When I made to protest, one of the lesser chiefs rose from his seat and knocked me unconscious. I am now on my way back to the baggage train.

#

The baggage train, Oliver went on to explain, was their name for something that only vaguely resembled the military institution of the same name. This was where these people kept the very young, the very old, the injured, people who could not be in the front line. It was constantly on the move, and stayed in territory where their enemies did not venture, and escorted by a few crack riders, which among these people, made for warriors who were quite remarkable.

Oliver pressed on with his mission again, but found even less interest in what he had to say than he had at the main camp. Then one night, he was brought before the oldest man he had yet seen among these people. He was attended by several younger folk, all of whom seemed to be maimed in some way. This was the one the people of the Lightning Strike called the Memory.

#

"You are the outlander priest," the old one said. His left arm was a stump, and bore the scars of a flame applied to a wound. "I am the Memory of the Lightning Strike Brigade, and these are my seconds.

The younger ones said nothing.

"Votiger Kull sent me to speak to you."

"No. He sent you to hear."

One of the younger ones added fuel to the fire.

"How long have the clans roamed the Ocean of Grass?" he asked sharply.

"Always," answered the young ones.

"How long will they stay there?"

"Always."

"When will they yield?"

"Never."

"What do they want beyond this?"

"Nothing."

"Who are the invaders?"

"Princes."

"Who broke the peace?"

"Princes."

"Who hunted us like game?"

"Princes."

"Who stole our children to debauch?"

"Princes."

Every time they repeated that word, 'Princes' the flames of the fire seemed to leap higher, and yet the air in the tent seemed to grow colder and colder.

"How long will we remember?"

"Always."

"When are they forgiven?"

"Never!" the young ones hissed. I had never heard such venom in the voices of children.

"At first the Princes were no one to us," the Memory said. "Just more people who did not follow the tides on the Ocean of Grass."

I wondered where they got that name for this place, since the nearest ocean was weeks in any direction.

"When they first came we thought nothing. We traded as we had with the other farmers. There was peace for a whole generation. Then greed began to rule them. No matter how much they had, they wanted more."

"More," echoed the young ones.

"Once that took hold, other evils came to roost."

#

Why Oliver felt compelled to begin describing these evils in such graphic detail was beyond Galen. As he went on it certainly began to explain the barbarians hatred of the civilized nobility. So perhaps their violence had some justification. The depravity continued beyond what Galen would have expected, and several times he was tempted to skip beyond what seemed like an unending litany of vile practice, but he persevered, as the author had.

#

"Finally we saw there was no bargaining. They would never leave us alone. So the clan chiefs sat in council, and when they were finished all the people were assembled, and the one who had become leader, Vungstan, the chief of Clan Kull, rose up and spoke. He told them that they would have to retreat to the north, into the wastes. He knew that it was only barely possible to live there, but it was possible, and that was more chance than they had at the hands of the princes.

The people would retreat, he said, but the chiefs would go forth. There was a world beyond that these princes did not rule, and if that were so it must be because someone out there was as good or better at making war than the princes. The chiefs would go forth and seek that knowledge, and bring it home to the people, who must endure until the chiefs returned. But once they did, and once they learned, there would be a reckoning."

The Memory sipped from a skin, and then they began to chant, in their own tongue. Despite my time among them I had not yet mastered the many differences between this language and that spoken in more civilized quarters of the land, so I did not understand much of it. To me it sounded mournful, funereal, not unlike dirges I had heard at home. It seemed to be the story of how the people had gone north, into the wastes where the princes would not trouble to chase them, bereft of their leaders.

"Some of the chiefs never returned," the Memory continued once the chant was finished. "But Vungstan did, and so did seven others. Some came with arts of war. Others had learned the secrets of crafting weapons and armor. When the chiefs returned, the work began. Men, women, children, anyone old enough worked and learned. There were not enough left for any who were able to be spared. Some who were too old returned south and spied in the lands of the princes. Those that returned brought good news. The princes believed they had won. Others who were now suffering under them were gathered into the clans. Vungstan Kull did not live to see the Lightning Strike; it was left to his son Valdan to finish what he had begun."

#

These princes, Galen mused, did not know what they had wrought.

The tale of events collectively referred to as the Lightning Strike covered years. The princes had allowed themselves to grow soft while these tribesmen tempered and honed themselves as if they dwelled in in the very forge of Vulcan. When they were ready, they began to exact swift, merciless retribution. The only deliverance from their vengeance was to offer whatever tribute they demanded in recompense, and to swear to a treaty granting the tribes rights of trade and access. They stopped short of conquest, though it was plain if the writing were accurate these tribes could have overrun the whole country.

Interesting. Conquerors uninterested in conquest.

It occurred to Galen that this might be the only written history of these events from this point of view, and he wondered if it had been seen outside the temple, or how someone from the Githdani might have recorded the history.

Over the course of a generation, the Princes and the Lightning Strike came to an understanding. According to Oliver's reckoning, all of this had taken place long before his arrival. Valdan Kull was the grandsire of Votiger, the chief that ruled when Oliver began to follow them.

Oliver's tale had begun in some distant autumn. He began to acquire bits of their spoken language, though they also had a system of signs that completely eluded him. He gleaned enough clues to discern that the war that had snared him was coming to an end, and once it had he was told he could leave any time he chose.

He stayed. For a long time there was a lot more boring writing lamenting being stranded with the baggage and not making any headway at conversion. Then very suddenly, at the edge of winter, he was summoned back to the presence of Votiger Kull.

#

As I came into the camp I could see that something was afoot. The people were crouched around small fires, readying armor and weapons, cutting each other's hair, tending to horses. When I came to Kull's tent he was sitting inside speaking to a lad of about ten. This was his son, Vanaxas. When the boy was dismissed, Kull turned to me.

"I have a use for you," he said.

"I am at your service, so long as it does not violate my vows."

"We have been asked to settle a dispute," said Kull.

He paused to see what I made of that. I thought it one of the strangest turns of events I'd ever heard. These people were not without their virtues, but they were not diplomats.

"You remember Prince Krolov stayed out of the war?" When I nodded he continued. "That was because he had other things on his mind. Specifically, he was busy chasing the daughter of a rich merchant from the south and west. Someplace near where you come from. Or at least they've heard of your god. He finally bagged the girl or convinced her father or whatever it is they do, and she was on her way to be wed. Herself, attendants, dowry, a wedding party the size of a caravan and with all the riches."

"I'll not aid you in banditry."

"You'll not have to. Prokosk sent raiders over the Ratenna. They made off with the whole bundle. You recall Prokosk?"

I did recall.

"It was Prokosk's revenge for Krolov not lending aid during the war."

"So he's sending you to negotiate?"

Kull laughed. "No. He's sending us to get her back."

Kull explained that the raiders were a mercenary band Prokosk had hired for the war, but as soon as their pay went into arrears they stopped fighting. They were busy being a nuisance and hazard in Prokosk's demense when news of this caravan had come. Prokosk had said they could have whatever they could carry away -- all he wanted was the girl as hostage.

"The trouble is, they weren't willing to settle for that," said Kull, his voice growing lower and more menacing. "They've dragged the whole lot of them, bride, attendants, riches, into a ravine and now they want Prokosk to set them up in their own little principality. Just what the place needs, another Prince."

I could imagine what Kull was thinking -- my time with the Memory had taught me how these people loathed hostage taking.

"One can see Prokosk not going after her, but why not Krolov?"

"Two reasons. First, he has a spy problem and he's not sure whether word of any move he made wouldn't get back to Prokosk and maybe even these mercenaries. Second, these hired swords have chosen well. They could hold an army off at the mouth of that ravine, certainly long enough to put all the captives to the sword. There are probably some politics he didn't bother to bore me with."

"If they can hold off an army, how will you reach her?"

"That is not your worry. Your worry is to find her."

"Me?" I gulped.

"You go and say you've heard about the woman and have come to offer her the comfort of religion."

"They'll never let me."

"You had better convince them. Do whatever you have to, but get brought to her presence and stay in it till dusk."

"Then what?"

"Then we will do the rest."

#

So Oliver was enlisted in the enterprise. He apparently had time to write at length about his preparations. Before they set out, one of the warriors trimmed his hair. He was offered weapons, but declined them. Then they set out to where the captives were being held, a journey of more than a day.

Before Oliver was dispatched on his mission, he took part in a ceremony.

#

We were all gathered together around Kull. There was no fire, for fear of giving ourselves away, but a single candle was lit. I was not put off to the side as I had been at other times like this. Then they began to sing, and while I could not understand everything, and of course did not know the songs, I paid attention and took part at the few places where I could.

At one point Kull was singing:

Bring my spear, invested with my youth

Bring the children near, they must now be told the truth

Old, and young, and those of foreign tongue

Are you ready to fight?

Not loudly, but his voice had power, and the murmured reply seemed to be as fierce and certain as any cheer or war cry. The song went on:

Now simple men of simple cause

Have turned to force as a last resort

He told me later that it was an old song, made up by Valdan Kull. Even in those early years there were clan folk not born to the land, but made so by sworn loyalty.

"I am already sworn," I told him.

"Yes." Then he said, "You have to leave some clothing with me."

"Clothing?"

He gave a sharp whistle, and one of the great hounds these people have tamed came to him. I took a few steps back at his approach, but the dog came, sniffed at me, then went to Kull's side.

"Something you've been wearing for a while. If you get offered a bath while you're there don't accept it."

I was hardly well-arrayed with clothes, and we finally settled on a piece of my loincloth.

"You will be close to the girl. The dog will find you by your scent," Kull explained. He offered the rag to the dog, then he put the piece of rag away in a waxed bag. "We can get right to her and they'll not have any chance to do her harm."

"You still haven't said how you'll reach her."

"It's still not your problem. At first light you make for the sunrise. They'll find you."

So I am going. This might be my last entry.

#

Galen had to stop for new candles; the ones he had were guttered. Oliver's fears were unfounded, since there was certainly plenty more to be read. He was tempted to skip ahead, since Oliver seemed to be a poor chronicler of exciting events, but the high priest was specific.

#

I live! Indeed, I wonder if I am not newly born this night!

I did as Kull bade me, walking into the east. Before I could see the entrance to the ravine I was discovered by riders and brought into the camp. I am not much of a military thinker, but even I could see that these outlander mercenaries held a formidable position. And I immediately perceived something Kull did not seem to know; that Prokosk had screwed his courage to the sticking point and come to visit the raiders. As I was brought to the tent of the commander I took a look at the surroundings. Save for the entrance, the camp was surrounded by steep walls covered in loose rock. It would be worth your life to try and move on such ground, or so I thought.

They did not let me see her immediately. At first I was questioned by some subcommander at length about how I came to be here and what I was up to. Kull had advised me to stick to a very simple lie; that I was a mendicant missionary wandering the terrain trying to offer comfort in a war-torn country. I even offered the story of my being trapped at the raided village in detail, though I lied about the aftermath, of course.

I had a tense moment when they brought me to the commander, because Prince Prokosk was with him, and the Prince recognized me.

"You're that little priest who was at my court at the end of spring." Prokosk was reclining on a few dozen cushions and drinking wine from a silver cup. "Finding many converts?"

"No, Highness."

Prokosk laughed. "You were lucky you didn't try that peasant's preaching on the barbarians. How did you escape?"

"I did not, Highness. They let me go."

"Didn't think you were worth eating when they were laden with my property, did they?"

"I know not, Highness. I could not speak their language."

"Do you know I have scribes who think we once spoke the same tongue?" Prokosk seemed to find this amusing. "Well, I've shown that a well-born man worth his blood doesn't have to kow-tow to a gang of overgrown herd boys."

"And girls, Highness," I foolishly put in. Prokosk glared at me.

"We ought to just get rid of him," the mercenary commander offered.

"What made you think I'd let you see Rosanna?" Prokosk snarled.

"I was not sure you would, Highness. Duty comes with few guarantees."

"Send him to her," Prokosk said. "It'll stop her sniveling."

"You don't command here," said the mercenary.

"And you're not yet your own master," answered Prokosk.

So it was they brought me to a tent. She was in there alone. Far from sniveling, too, and it was obvious why a foreign lord might see her as an attractive bride even if she did not come mightily dowered. She knew the name of Heimdall, but she was not interested in the comfort of religion, and she knew enough about intrigue to see through me in a moment.

"What are you really doing here?"

I was afraid to speak above a whisper, for fear of who might be listening, and afraid to try any falsehood, lest it make her an enemy. "Your intended has arranged for your rescue."

"His idea of rescue is sending you?"

"No, lady. I am an agent of the rescuers."

"Who are they?"

"I will say if you insist, but I think it is dangerous to say too much."

She nodded, but could not resist one more question. "Do you think they can do it?"

"If sinew and steel can do it, they can," I told her.

This satisfied her. "If you're here to bring me succor, we had best at least pretend you're doing it."

So we said prayers together, and had conversations that no one walking by the tent would think anything remarkable. At eventide the woman was summoned to dine with the visiting Prince and the mercenary officers. I stayed in the tent, and was given bread and cheese. After the meal the woman returned. She remained calm and composed, but she had to be wondering what the fates had in store for her, whether she could be liberated, what would become of her if she were not. She would say nothing of what had passed at dinner.

Dusk descended in earnest, and there was no sign of anything untoward taking place. The woman and I were sitting quietly, engaged in a game of tiles, when all of a sudden she said, "Do you hear that?"

I listened -- at first I heard nothing but camp sounds. Then there was a noise, something like very distant thunder.

"I have to stay in here, but no one will say anything if you step outside the tent. Go and look, see if you can see anything."

"Surely if the pickets see --"

"If the pickets give any warning, we will stroll to hell together."

I went outside. The woman's tent was at the edge of the camp furthest from the entrance to the ravine. There was light inside the camp, but the walls of the ravine were lost in darkness.

The guards took no notice of me.

I shivered in the evening chill. I could not help thinking that winter must be a very harsh season on the Ocean of Grass -- the wind would begin at the edge of the steppes and not meet a barrier until the hills at the western border. I had heard some stories of how snow transformed the landscape. They spoke of the land possessing a terrible beauty.

I noticed that the noise had changed, grown more steady.

No one seemed to suspect anything.

All of a sudden, the sky began to rain fire. No, it was arrows. Flaming arrows, arcing from the walls of the ravine. One or two of them landed in tents near the center of camp, but most of them fell far off the mark, or at least so I thought at first. Then I saw a fire flare up near the back of the ravine and I heard a crunch under my foot, and I realized. The ravine was littered with rocks, but the rocks sat on tall grass. Grass beaten down by the comings and goings of the mercenaries. Grass left dead and bone dry to greet the winter.

Grass that would burn, and give light. And in the light, I saw them.

When I was an acolyte, I was once brought to a tournament. That shaped my notion of horsemanship. What I saw in the light of that burning grass reshaped it for all time.

All the defenses, of course, were concentrated at the mouth of the ravine. Military logic dictated this -- the walls of the ravine were impassable along most of their length, and in the few places that seemed climbable it would have been a hazardous undertaking for an agile man. In the dark I would have thought it impossible. Certainly in no place did I imagine that anyone could induce a horse, no matter how nimble and warlike, to descend that slope. In the dark of the night I would have thought it suicide.

The thunder had been the barbarians. They could ride horses down. They claim to practice no magic, but to descend into that ravine on horseback was nothing short of sorcery. In the rapidly rising blazes I could see what turned out to be the stragglers coming down the slopes in a dozen places. It looked almost as if they had taught the horses to sidestep, to descend the steep slope and uncertain footing as a man would do, and at a pace faster than a man would do it. Few of the horses had one rider. I had observed that it was their habit to have a large warrior riding the horse, accompanied by someone smaller, often an archer. Some of them rode with an older child slung to either side. The horses would leap off the slope and launch into a full gallop as if it were something they were born to do.

Foolish though I knew it was, I stared, amazed.

Another sort of light was moving across the ravine floor. This one was very dim, and flickering, and it bobbed up and down. When it drew close I recognized the hound that had taken my scent. It was wearing a collar from which dangled a number of small glass spheres. There were fireflies in the spheres. I had been assured the dog would not hurt me, but nevertheless my nerve failed and I turned, making to flee back toward the tent.

The mercenaries had reacted quickly. The pickets at the mouth of the ravine had nonetheless perceived what was happening and were racing to meet the threat. I saw the subcommander that had questioned me on my arrival throwing a coat of mail over his head and shouting for someone to get hold of the girl. Two men near him quickly moved to take up this order.

I glanced back. There seemed to be none of the barbarians near enough to reach the tent before the mercenaries would take hold of her.

I can only think that what happened next was a boon from Heimdall.

It seemed things began to move very slowly. The girl came out of her tent and ran into me full force. We tumbled to the ground. By the time we disentangled ourselves the mercenaries were coming on fast, brandishing weapons. They meant to capture the girl, but I knew for certain they meant to slay me.

In the seeming slowness, I saw everything with perfectly clarity. There are moments in the devotion to Heimdall that are meant to be remembered, never to be forgotten. My gyrations to try and regain my feet turned me around. And I saw one of the barbarians, a woman. I recognized her. I did not know her real name -- everyone in the camp seemed to call her Aunt Sarya. Age could be difficult to tell, but I knew for certain she was old enough to be Votiger Kull's mother, and he was a man in his prime. Her hair, now close cropped, was the color of new snow in moonlight. She had one of the long bows the barbarians used. She was on horseback. The horse was running for all it was worth, but I knew for certain it could not reach us before the mercenaries.

It must have all happened in an eyeblink, but as I say, I was meant to see this.

The mercenaries were almost upon us, stepping into a pool of light from a flaming arrow that landed not far from the tent. In three strides they would have us. One of them had a double-bitted battle axe rising to the ready -- he obviously meant to separate me from my head.

The woman perceived this -- the distance between us did not seem to interfere with my sight. She seemed to be moving so slowly. I could see her face. She had a strange expression -- like a nanny observing the play of children she is prone to indulge.

She reached for the quiver hanging from her saddle, and came out with two arrows. She rose up in the stirrups, and brought the shafts to the string. I know nothing of archery, though even a man lacking military lore as I do knows that loosing two shafts at once with any effect is a prodigious feat. To do it standing up in stirrups on a horse at full gallop would seem to transcend the abilities of mortals, and throughout this the horse never broke stride. All I knew for sure was that I was looking squarely at that bow, and it seemed to be the instrument of my impending death. She could certainly shoot me before the mercenaries reached me. I admit, without shame, I could not stand to face it, so I made to turn around. Or perhaps that, too, was all part of this moment being something I was meant to witness.

She drew back, and fired the arrows. I saw them leave the bow and come toward me. They seemed to shatter the light from the fires as they passed through them. Despite the noise and confusion, I heard them split the air as they passed to either side of my head.

The old woman had shot the mercenaries. One took a shaft through the left eye. The other, the one with the axe, had been screaming some battle cry. The arrow stuck out of his open mouth.

Aunt Sarya reined in and put herself between the mercenaries and the tent. In the time it took me to recover the wit to speak she shot several more. Before the mercenaries could gather the force to mount a serious attack against her, her compatriots were among them in earnest, and they had to abandon thoughts of recapturing their prisoner and concentrate on trying save their skins.

They failed. The battle at the village had been viscious. This was a slaughter beyond my experience. This was what the barbarians meant when they said they did not take prisoners. Those of the mercenaries who broke and ran were hunted down. When it was all over there was no effort to gather the bodies -- they stayed as they laid, for the most part. The leaders were the exception. They were slain, strung up, and the corpses branded with hot blades, the words "Hostage Taker" were crudely carved into their flesh.

Aunt Sarya and several of her subordinates kept watch over the girl and myself. The girl, for her part, seemed not to be overly troubled by the carnage. She did not gloat, but neither did she give herself over to hysterics. Eventually, we were brought before Votiger.

"Rejoice, Oliver," Votiger said on seeing me. "A man with such trouble following the simplest orders should consider every dawn a gift."

"The dog found us," I pointed out. Then it struck me that Votiger had called me by name. None of them had ever called me by name, though they all knew it.

"And a good thing too," Aunt Sarya said soberly. "Otherwise we'd have had that money-grubbing outlander making free with your head."

"That shot," I said, "was the most amazing display of arms I have ever seen."

"War was smiling," Aunt Sarya replied.

Votiger turned his gaze on the woman. She met it without flinching, which was a rare thing, among people first coming into his presence.

"Krolov sent us to fetch you back," he said in what was called High Daushoan.

"It comes to me," she replied in kind, "that if he was worthy of my hand, he would have come for it himself."

"This cost him dear," Kull pointed out. "Five hundred measures of gold and the pick of the new-thrown from all his herds for the next ten springs."

"Which is safer?" she asked. "To be among the securers, or the secured?"

"If you no longer wish to marry Krolov you work that out with him," snapped Kull. "After we bring you to him. Try to leave before that and you'll arrive at the palace in a sack."

At this point a runner came to make a report. "There's a man claiming to be Prokosk."

"He's lying," Kull snapped.

"I pray you, chieftain, perhaps not," I said. "Prokosk was here."

Kull's eyes narrowed. "Bring him."

They did.

Prokosk was dirty and disheveled, but otherwise unharmed.

Kull wasted no breath on imprecations. "What were you doing here?"

Prokosk opened his mouth, and was about to speak, but closed it again.

Kull smiled. "You were about to tell me to address you as 'Highness.'"

Prokosk nodded.

"He was here to bargain for me," the girl said. "At dinner he kept tring to convince the commander that he wanted money more than land."

"I have enough trouble paying one set of bandits without inviting a second to set up housekeeping," Prokosk spat.

"We have solved that particular problem for you," Kull said pleasantly. "Though another remains."

"If you are going to slay me, get on with it. I'm aware you people don't have the cunning to demand the ransom I would bring."

"Send for Vlada of Kaynar," said Kull.

The runner came, and came back with him. I knew nothing about this man, and indeed when he came in he seemed unremarkable, at least so far as that went among the clan folk. He was tall, lean, scarred, and at the moment, spattered with the gore of his foes.

"What is your command, my chief?" Vlada said after saluting.

"This is Prokosk," said Kull.

The man called Vlada turned, and faced Prokosk. For a long time he just stared. Then he said, "I am Vlada of Kaynar, sired of Ilina by Arkad." He paused, as if expecting Prokosk to say something in response to this. When he did not, Vlada continued. "Ilina who was sired of Anya by Theodar. Anya who was sired of Arna by Kosygar. Arna whose sister was Elena."

Prokosk looked puzzled.

"Elena who your grandsire took as slave."

There was a blur of movement. Then Vlada stepped back. He had a curved knife in his hand. Dark blood ran off the point. Prokosk gurgled, clutching his loins, and sank to the floor.

"Your line is cut," said Vlada, his voice full of loathing.

"Take him elsewhere," said Kull. "I've other things to do besides watch him bleed."

Vlada and the runner dragged Prokosk away.

The girl was staring, pale. I thought it odd that one relatively swift act of violence should affect her so, when she was standing in the midst of an abbatoir.

"That was vengeance," she said softly.

Kull nodded.

"For an act three generations gone."

"He was going to die anyway," said Kull. "It is less of a waste if someone gains a little vengeance by it."

For all their other virtues, they were barbarians. The girl did not seem to mind. They brought her to Krolov, but she ran away as soon as Krolov took his eyes off her, and found her way back to the Lightning Strike before the year turned. She had a son by Votiger, and twin daughters by one of Aunt Sarya's sons.

#

After this the writing became more of a simple journal of a man who found his place. Oliver's lamentations about his state grew less and less frequent, and he seemed even to forget that he had come from a world beyond the steppes, on a mission. He seemed to see his new mission as chronicling the life of these people. And he did grow closer to them. He marked with great joy the return of Votiger's son from his Walk of Chiefs, and the birth of grandchildren. He marked Votiger's passing very simply, noting that the most his people would bring themselves to do was call him a good chief. Oliver never quite went native; he took no wife (though apparently there were offers) and never took up arms. He seemed to find a place as a sounding board for the chiefs.

But it is the lot of men to be mortal. The last few pages of the scroll were filled with Oliver's speculation on his coming death, on wondering if his temple or family ever wondered what became of him, but he seemed to be at peace.

The last writing was in a different hand:

Know that I, Davros Stahaelin, scribe to the court of Prince Istvan Czerny, was given this document by Jensa Three-Shafts of Clan Ctaria of the Lightning Strike, on the first market day in the sixth year of the Prince's reign. Her tale is that the author, one Oliver, a priest of Heimdall, succumbed to a fever two winters past. Not having the means or knowledge to give him a funeral of his faith, they burned his body and kept silence until a north wind came for his ashes. She said that his wish was that the writings should somehow be returned to the father temple in his homeland, and attributed the delay to the war. The Prince Istvan only signed the treaty two months ago. To that end, I am entrusting it to the care of Kimbar Kenaison, a salt merchant of Mardin, who says he will pass through there.

#

This meeting with the high priest was much as the last one. Galen was surprised at first that the summons should come so quickly on his finishing the reading, but after thinking he realized it could not have been otherwise. What sort of high priest of Heimdall would he be, not to know the small tides of such events?

Once again he was offered a chair and refreshment, and this time he accepted it gladly.

"What did you think?" the high priest asked after they had both enjoyed sips of wine.

"It was not as I expected," said Galen.

"What did you expect?"

"The journal of a missionary who came to a bad end. I thought you were trying to warn me off taking up evangelism."

"And instead it is?" The high priest's eyes sparkled, the way they always did when he had asked an important question.

"A lesson," Galen offered.

"And the lesson is?"

"Things are not always what they seem," said Galen. "Heimdall sees all and knows all and sees everything for exactly what it is. We mortals must grapple with guises."

The high priest seemed pleased. "There are two great pitfalls to the missionary's call. The first is to venture forth into the world thinking that Heimdall is bound by our buildings and symbols and rituals and to think he cannot make manifest his power in any other way. The second is to think that only people consumed by evil are worth one's effort. Missionaries are like wandering gardeners -- they need to work where the seeds they have to plant will grow."

"These people are not followers of Heimdall."

"Not yet."

"It seems in the end they converted him, rather than he them."

"I think in the end he decided it was more important to write about them then his efforts to convert them. I've little doubt he kept holding his services, and that they never drew more than curiosity. Their history was a very high rampart to scale."

"Are you planning to send me to them?" Galen ventured.

The high priest shook his head. "They're having another war up there just now, one that makes the ones in these writings look like a birthday pageant. A more fitting beginning would be in some of our own rural districts. There've been difficulties there, and one needs to walk before one runs."

In spite of himself, Galen smiled.