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Vilkas Clans, Chapter 2 by Marsonaut (critique requested)

Vilkas Clans, Chapter 2

Old stony forts tell a lot about their builders, as well as their occupiers. They are mans way of telling the world of his own need for protection, the presence of his own insecurities. Such things men have had need to buffer against, and so long as there are men, they always will seek to create such buffers.

And this same thing applies to women as well, the difference in this case, that this particular woman was largely lacking in insecurities, at least arguably. This woman was certainly in an unusual position for her most humans of her gender; being in a caste in which men were supposedly dominant. In the truth of fact, it was a caste that one of deep ambition and (exceptional) ruthlessness could gain entrance to, it was by no means out of reach.

It was just that for Hezardia, the men were good at keeping their wives away from power… and most women were too good of character to desire to be amongst many of the murderers and thieves with which she had competition. Hezardia thought this amusing, and beneficial, as lofty minded notions of feminism would have annoyed her (especially since, God forbid, the rules of such an arrangement applied to those filthy serfs and worst, the heathen and Jew!) and increased the competition in general. Dealing with the men was bad enough, but such was the way of the medieval world.

Today, her competition was with bureaucrats. The stone pall she was under was that of a keep, an impressive renovated citadel housing one of the administrations of the Order and its Holy-Knights-of-something-something. She was not concerned with their name, they just had a role to play in her plans, and she, theirs. The question was whether one would be able to outplay the other. It was a fun game.

Except it was not fun to await the landmeister’s secretary, who seemed to be discussing with the said landmeister over something of their own concern. The concerns which were felt by Hezardia were far less in their minds, mainly though because of the foul blood that existed between her house and theirs. It was not the sort of ill will that came from anything particularly malicious… at least on their part… but it was true that the Order officials typically preferred to not suffer to be in her presence. It was not so much the same likewise… as she had to find some way of expanding her influence, and this was to force them to accept her in their presence. A handful had taken her in with a closer sort of presence, but alas, they did not have as high a rank as the landmeister. Thus, her task at hand.

The Countess Hezardia stood there in the hallway, noting the flickering torches on the wall. It wasn’t as elegant as her own keep, though it was certainly well maintained. She was no engineer, but she appreciated the masonic and architectural effort that had gone into the stone and timber of the place.

A handsomely dressed Order officer walked passed her, his white robe drifting behind him magnificently. She smiled at him, and he nodded back. The Orders knights were supposed to be chaste, but she had known how to manipulate past such walls some misguided and foolish men tried to place in their hearts. She chuckled at that thought. It was like the Bishop, and his own walls leading his heart towards pederasty. Good for him, she thought. At least he wasn’t being self righteous, unlike the Order…

“Countess?” It was the mousy voice of the frail looking secretary, who was peeking at her from a crack in the door.

“The landmeister is ready?” She asked it while eying the man’s pale thin face, jutting cheekbones, and thin neck. It had never been easy to have such a job.

“Yes, come in.”

She entered, it was the office of the local Order chapters landmeister, the highest ruler of the land, at least from within the horizons surrounding the keep. A land he was entrusted to protect against the heathen, the demon, the Jew, and the snooty foreign creditor (the latter two being indistinguishable in her eyes). The Countess had her massive holdings within his lands.

The secretary went to his desk, which was facing perpendicular from the landmeister’s. The landmeister himself, was dressed in a simple tunic, a badge on his breast being the only real formality. His beard was well kept, and his head carried a receded hairline, a shiny exposed scalp that was handsomely tanned. The room was packed with shelves laden with documents, stacks of scrolls, a few books (an expensive luxury, no doubt with critical information worthy of such an investment!). The *landmeister’s *desk had stacks of sheepskin that was up to his shoulder.

Poor man, she thought smugly. “I am glad that you have placed time in your schedule to see me.”

The landmeister didn’t answer immediately. He was writing some sort of addendum. Literacy wasn’t high in that age, but he was lucky to have knowledge of the quill pen, in addition to reading. He looked up from her after he finished. “Yes, I understand that you are here to petition my office for some sort of action.” He placed his feather pen down. Hezardia noticed the ineloquent style of his writing. He would never make a good scribe; most officials dealt with such recording issues with stamps and wax seals (or even grooves on sticks) for a reason.

“Yes, it is regarding you’re responsibilities, specifically those involving the defense of this Chapter.” Hezardia stood halfway between the door and the desk. It was not customary to ‘take a seat’, not until invited at least. If the meeting went as she had hoped, there would no time for any sitting, at least for her part.

“Yes, our Chapter is responsible for the defense of this region, from villains both foreign and domestic. What has been troubling your fief, Countess?” He kept his eyes on her eyes, avoiding the sight of her shapely figure. Her powers were not likely to work in that department, which was saying a lot, since her red, gold lined cloak merely covered a tight black and green dress that had her bosoms rather well represented. The women from the wolf clans made no issue of walking about topless… and surely would have found her costume to be completely immodest. Speaking of the clans…

“The wolf clans have mobilized, for a fuller war, a more ferocious war.”

“So they have launched another petty raid then?”

“More so than a raid. One of my properties was taken and burnt. I have lost a considerable investment in sweat and treasure this past week.” None of her sweat of course. Her loss was a previous Order possession… which she had repossessed in an auction brought about due to the Order’s ongoing budgetary problems.

The landmeister glanced at one of the other documents on his desk, spinning his feather quill with his fingers. “Taken and burnt then? Perhaps I should find it odd that I have received no word of such a happening. Your lands are not as remote as you think.”

Hezardia snorted, though regretted it when it drew her hosts glare. “Then perhaps your agents need more competent members. No, it was the Varaka Deleurn property. You should know, as it was a mighty fort which you yourselves built generations ago. That which your engineers had placed so much effort into has been rendered unfit for use, and all of the stores are lost, looted by the demon wolves.”

There was a pause. “The wolf clans have scarcely faced the Order at arms lately. It could well be that they decided to strike at something weak. Perhaps they are more desperate than we thought?”

He seemed to be talking to himself, but it was calculated, Hezardia decided. The landmeister didn’t want to help her. It was as simple as that. Deep inside, she smiled at herself and her own cleverness. This was what she was hoping for. “Desperate enough to strike at my humble possessions, slaughter a good many Holy Men of God…”

That caught the landmeister’s attention. He leaned forward. “Did they attack one of the missions?”

“No, but several members were in my property at the time of the attack. They slayed them, as they were pleading for mercy. The wolf men show no such mercy to men appointed by God!” She was becoming emotional now, anger boiling up in her. Such a horrific act of injustice it was, to kill people with a personal connection to the Almighty!

The landmeister squinted. “I will have to have this verified. You have earned some of my office’s attention.” He gestured to the secretary, who no doubt was making a special note… somewhere… about this issue.

“You cannot allow the wolf clans to march through these lands unchecked. Before long they will be striking outside of my fief, and they will not stop until we are driven out!”

“They certainly do not have the strength to challenge us in force of arms… but I will send in one of my men to the property you mentioned.”

Hezardia took a step forward, pointing nastily at the landmeister. “My own tenants and properties should not have to suffer more from your disinterest!”

“Oh this… skirmish you are telling of has my interest Countess, believe me.” He folded his hands on his desk (Hezardia suspected that he enjoyed doing that while giving his lectures). “You must understand that our men at arms cannot be all over the chapter at once, to say nothing of being in force in all the chapters. With the tension with the Poles and that Prince from Novgorod, to say nothing of the Golden Horde being capable of striking to the sea at any moment, I’m sure that you can understand that our men and treasures are being stretched quite thin.”

“So are mine,” Hezardia retorted, and while she did not see a difference in the man’s opinion, she knew she had some room to play in that area. It was a question of creditors, many of whom both Hezardia, and the Order, felt the need to keep out of the lands tended by the chapters. By extension, she was a link to some… friendly foreign creditors whom the Order did not wish to keep out. That particular bunch of creditors was very friendly to the Order indeed, and they were more than friendly to her. More like family, in fact. Surely the Order could at least appreciate this, while its own house was under stress from the storms that were brewing all around it.

Creditors came to mind as Hezardia surveyed the damage to the manor. The fires within the compound were still smoldering only a night ago she had been told, the stonewalls and sub building acting as an open aired oven. Varaka Deleurn was a name that the Order gained from some of the locals from some time now forgotten. Hezardia did not know what it meant, in its original tongue, but now it meant ‘burnt investment.’

Not an investment that she couldn’t recover from, not in the slightest. She snorted, eying her aide off to her side, mounted on the horse next to hers. The aide, his name she had forgotten, could think of plenty of ways to recover from this disaster.

“It is a near total loss, Countess.”

So much for a swift recovery. “How much?” she asked, slowly turning back to the ruins. They were approaching the southern gate, which was a relatively humble entrance (wide enough to barely squeeze two carts through) to a sizeable compound that was arranged as a simple square on the land.

“With this land not being productive, added in with the structural and staff losses, it is significant I’m afraid. This is a full tenth of all of this seasons harvest, not counting the horses they took. The cost there is not clear, since I could not find any information on their breeds, though I do believe at least two were owned by noble blood.” He paused, then added, “my own judgment would lead me to suspect that the loss may well be over ten thousand silver groats.”

Hezardia winced. That was a very large loss. Much higher then she had expected. “I believe that we may have to call those coin wizards to deal with this.” The coin wizards, being her own creditors (praise be the Almighty that they were not Jewish, she thought). “Let us get closer to see the damage.”

They slowly trotted towards the manor, Hezardia scanning the battlements for damage to the structure. The walls would no doubt be the most expensive item to fix; good timber wasn’t particularly scarce in those parts. Straw was cheap as well.

She glanced at one some of her workmen skulking about the manor. Finding replacements was easy. There were plenty of landless vagabonds milling around the lands, looking for something to do.

Several of her guardsmen were dragging a looter out of the gate. The local militia from the nearby village (some pigsty called Osterbeck) had responded to the attack, only to be beaten off by a charge of wolf men on horse. When the wolf men left, the peasants returned, ostensibly, to inspect the damage. Naturally, the inspection included taking whatever that the wolf men hadn’t stolen or burnt.

“Not much has been salvaged milady.” So said the shabbily dressed, shabbily bearded, filthy looking foreman in front of the gate. He was the first of her agents to have reached the manor after the attack (his body odor played a role, Hezardia didn’t want him within her private manor longer than necessary).

Hezardia nodded to the foreman, scanning the inside of the manor that could be seen from beneath the arching tops of the gate. Charred wooden beams, smoldered blackish muck spread across the throughway. Figures that looked to be skeletons amidst the ashes. She couldn’t even see the northern gate due to the collapsed walls that had fallen outward onto the throughway in spots, even though the throughway ran straight as a measuring rod through the manor.

“Have you found any bodies of the wolf men?”

“We found a pile of burnt bones off along the edge of the forest on the other side.”

“Ah, they burned all of their dead.” Hezardia dismounted, her aide following suit. Several of her servants went to work tending the horses over to a makeshift camp that was being set up off the side of the main road. Off in the distance, a company’s worth of her mounted men at arms were out scouring the fields towards the forest out of their sight. They were not as good as Order troops, but at least she would have plenty of warning if the wolf men returned.

“They burned ours as well,” the foreman added grimly. He then led her inside, not sure what it was that his Lady wanted, though getting the hint with her stare.

They entered the compound. It was all gray and black, whitish ashes falling still. The stench of acidic, roasted pine filled their nostrils. A few men at arms and servants were checking through the rubble. There were bound to be a few stashes of silver grouts and less valuable pfennings. All was to be taken and accounted for before the day was over (if they thought they could be as the peasant looters earlier, they would find themselves missing a hand).

At Hezardia’s direction, they were led up the steps of a stairway leading to the battlements. At the top, which was only around 8 meters from sand to walkway, they could see the entire interior. Which was part of the problem, since one of the interior buildings, the managing lordships (who was now dead apparently) residency and office, was over 10 meters high… and it was mostly made of stone brick and mortar… had largely collapsed.

“How do the walls look to you?” she asked her aide.

The aide looked about, his mental gears turning as he eyed the brick and mortar which they walked on. “Certainly will need touching up milady, at the least… I would recommend repaving the walkways and crenellations. Intense flame for long stretches of time is no good for the mortar.”

“Note that, and note the collapsed lords house and the barracks…”

She paused when she saw it. It was the manors main guardhouse embedded with the walls not far from the northern gate.

The foreman spoke up as he noticed her attention to that feature. “We think that the wolf men gathered kindling into the lordships office and the barracks. They are the largest of the stone buildings here, so they rightly saw them as good places to cause heavy damage.”

“Let us investigate this, I need to see the barracks.”

“Yes milady.”

They walked along the battlements. Thankfully there was little damage to the walls in most locations, though there were some turret houses and interior passages that had had enough heat in them to cause some concern, especially since some of the interior support beams were bound to be badly damaged. If they were reduced to charcoal, their integrity in the architecture would be rendered to something akin to an unstable mine (not unlike the mine that so many of her slaves had perished in…).

This and other advisories streamed out of the aides mouth as they approached the barracks. It too was embedded with the main wall structure, and was big enough to take up a sizeable segment of the compound, almost reaching the lordships house. The wolf men probably did not understand their functions, but just saw them as nice potential ovens to bellow. On the other side of the manor lay the large warehouse that Hezardia knew from the beginning would draw the wolfmen’s attention the most. That was not of her concern.

The barracks superstructure was intact, all to its 15 meter high roof (which doubled as a crenellated turret) but a segment of its housing and fallen away, opposite the main wall. It could be seen from any other person walking the battlements. The gaping hole extended all the way to the ground below, bricks and masonry mixing in with a charred adjacent structure with which they had collapsed upon. Additionally, some of the windows (if you can entitle that to a slit as wide as ones hand) had blacker than black scorch marks straining out of them, some of the surrounding ceramics having been burnt off to expose more of the interior.

Hezardia kicked a corpse off the battlements. They were standing in front of the barracks upper wall doorway.

“Milady, surely everything in there has been burnt to ashes and coal. There should be nothing of interest.”

Hezardia shook her head at the foreman. “I need to see inside for myself.”

The foreman looked at her puzzlingly. “We have already checked, there is nothing in there. The floors too may not be…”

She held sprang a hand at his face. “It is to your blessings that you fear for my life, now understand that I do not need it. This I must see, fetch me a torch.”

“… As you wish milady.”

A servant arrived a minute or so later with the requested item, burning with pitch that had been hauled in at the new work camp outside the manor. The aide and foreman stood aside as she entered. They knew not what she was really seeking, but her face told them not to ask. The smell was overwhelming, but it was all of the woody stuffs that had been inside. No smell of flesh it seemed.

That was good.

She walked down a hall, with piles of charcoal, a floor of ash. The hallway led to a narrow passage with a stairway. As she advanced (minding her steps… the floor was not guaranteed to be stable) Hezardia glanced off to her side to see the other burnt out buildings in within the walls. The huge gash in the wall was huge indeed.

Carefully minding her steps, she travelled down the steps. The long dress she wore was easily held up by one hand, and she had carried it around long enough for it be an extension of her skin. She somewhat liked it, and knew how to carry herself much as someone in more practical costume (damn the social protocols…). The glow from the torch revealed blackened walls. The flame in her hand had been nothing compared to the sample of perdition that had been blasting through the passage a few days earlier.

At the bottom of the stairs was another one of the manors smaller storerooms, with a few adjacent chambers. The room was full of blackened timbers and coal stumps, ashes all over the floor. Creaking noises told her that there were some issues that she would have to mention to the engineers before the day was out. She walked over to one of the chambers, a small one that little bigger than a closet. It was one that doubled as a stockade when needed. Charred scraps of wood nearby suggested stacks of barrels and crates that had been around, some of which had perhaps been moved out of that said stockade.

Befitting its usage for holding prisoners, this ‘closet’ had a somewhat reinforced door with metal framing, framing which now had bits of charcoal stuck in it, like fibrous chunks stuck in the teeth of some infernal monster. They also exposed the interior of the stockade.

She paused, then smiled. The gate wasn’t fully shut. It had been forced open, the doors locking bar (which she could recognized even as a burnt stub of charcoal) was snapped by a furious set of slams, which slightly bent the metal frame in the doors midsection.

Hezardia gently budged the gate open, to see inside the tiny room. There was a layer of ash, but otherwise mostly only large cooled embers on the floor. Attached to the brick wall were manacles.

She crouched on the floor in front of the manacles, eying the floor, running her hands through the ash. It was already evident, from the confused light of a torch no less, but she wanted to be sure.

Not a sign of bone anywhere. She looked closer at the manacles. The heat was so intense that there were signs of slight warping and perhaps melting. The iron clasps though, had been dislodged prior to the fire. With a key which was laying in the ash in front of her.

She held the key up before her eyes, and looked back at the manacles attached to the masonry.

It had worked.

Events many leagues away involved scarcely the breaking of iron clasps, or the burning of stone forts. Instead, they involved the clanking of pots, the shuffling sounds of skins being handled, the crackle of fire. The grunts from nervous debates between souls with shattered nerves, confused stares. The uncertainties of life brought to a jarring contrast to the total certainty of displacement.

Such was the camp of the survivors. Those that had not fallen into the grasp of the humans. The Belshavai Clan had seen foul days in its history, and at this moment, it was inarguably at its foulest. The Clan had over the past year alone, lost over three quarters of those calling themselves by that name, and had lost their home. The home, being that place they called, ‘Prieglas’, the village that was their refuge.

As fate would have had it, the Belshavai had taken the brunt of the human armies. Standing amidst an open, yet rich and fertile plain, the village was wonderfully situated to be a center for the collection of the lands bounty… but alas, its chosen geography could not be defended. The wooden walls could not withstand the pitiless attackers, who thereupon stole most of the survivors who did not escape.

And for those that did escape, a few, such as one young man, felt the need to spirit away the despair in song.

At the worst hour of the storm

In that tempest that bears the awful call

When the gales tear our roof away

When the floods wash out grains and hay

My people will stand proud and tall

And you my loves, will sound the horn

For our peoples name, will remain

Vyranic finished with a slow, drawn out emphasis on the last stanza. It was not intentional; as someone with experience in the art of song, it was exceptional. Such a bitter thing to laurel over; a stanza bringing to the mind visions of sunrise… amidst what his eyes told him was really twilight.

He felt a hand touching an ear.

“Let it be so.”

He smiled. “If only the stars would listen to our pleas.” Vyranic reached his left arm around Elena, the one soul in the world that he would surely stand proud and tall with.

That and the little one named Mossid, sitting on his lap. The little girl was fast asleep, tired out from an exhausting day. Just as well as it should have been, they were all exhausted, and needed the rest and planning… and a child crying in the night was the last thing anyone in the party needed.

The fire they sat before was one of many burning in that deeper section of the forest. There were some four hundred souls, little more than a band, trying to sleep out the cold night after a week on the run. Elena, Vyranic, and Mossid, lay under a simple ‘tent’ of a folded skin held up by improvised sticks. They were wearing most of their remaining possession (ragged tunics that had flannel patterns that were now largely invisible, pants that were turning the color of the dry woods around them, wrapped with blankets that were much the same) besides which was a pair of bags and a backpack with a few useful items and foodstuffs. Otherwise, they were impoverished, along with everyone else in the clan.

“Will we stay as a clan?” He asked Elena. “To think there were thousands of us a year ago.”

“Before that, over ten thousand. Yes, we will be a clan still.” Elena said it was a certain level of pride, which was just as well. Her clan had gone through much indeed.

Vyranic stared into the fire, not noticing a pair of figures moving far past the flames. A few sentries were milling about. If a group of human scouts found them, they would not be far ahead of any large column of knights. “A few hundred is not enough for us to hold our own in these dangerous lands.” He sighed, looking at her weary lined face… to think that they were both young, her face once was full of youth. The past year had changed that. “Pride can only carry us so far.”

“Pride is what will keep us together,” she said grimly.

“What of this? Running for several days at a time without rest. Starving and parched with thirst for months on end? And all for running around in circles in this wilderness.” He snorted. “We can do better for ourselves.”

She eyed him. “Better for our family, or for the people?”

“Both… I do not think you are wrong, but I worry about this little one. We already lost two other little ones to those hairless apes. I cannot stomach the thought of losing another child.”

The fatigue had brought out his bluntness of the facts. In a world where life was always short, the loss of a loved one brought grief and sadness, but alas, in desperate times there was no point in carrying the mourning past the time it was needed.

Elena had already past that mourning, looking down at sleeping little Mossid. “I know that at least they are in a better realm than this one.” The toddler stirred slightly, Elena whispered with a gentle voice. “Little Mossid, you will need to be the bravest girl in the world to survive what is coming.”

“She may well not grow up as a Belshavai.”

Elena didn’t react, except to run a hand over Mossids forehead.

“My people will take us in, but I don’t know how well your teachings will mix with theirs.”

“It is not like clay and iron Vyranic.”

“The Keraglyx clan is of the forest, the Belshavai of the plain and farm. Much is going to have to change.”

She sighed, looking into the flames, laying her head on his chest. The blanket was a blessing, in that Vyranics ribs were becoming visible and feeling. They hadn’t had each other in weeks, no thanks to the lack of privacy with all of the clan being next to one another. Additionally, the meager results of foraging and hunting (the Belshavai were not particularly skilled at it, their meatstuffs originally from hogs) had stilled the young couples libidos. Their child would have the most of their servings, the thought of her turning to bone was to horrific to consider.

At least they were merely losing weight at this point. There had been weeks when starvation was on the horizon. Only desperate foraging actions had allowed them to escape that grim fate.

The plan now was to abandon their old lands in entirety, and go and live with the neighboring Keraglyx to the east. These had been a people whom Vyranic had been raised, but due to a violent upbringing (war being what it is) his family was forced to flee into the lands of the Belshavai. This having been almost twenty years earlier, the other Keraglyx peoples who hadn’t settled with the Belshavai had gone further east and settled around the vast forested hills at the base of what were called the Cursed Ranges.

Needless to say, this was an awkward situation for the Belshavai and the Keraglyx; a generation earlier the Keraglyx had been on the run from their older lands out to the west and many settled with the Belshavai… who had always lived where they lived… simply to cease running. Now the role was reversed; the Belshavai had to settle somewhere, but now it was with the peoples who had rejected their way of life. The Keraglyx were indeed peoples of the forest; a people who hunted, foraged, and raised some plots of food on a temporary basis. The Belshavai had taken the ways of humans and grew crops on fixed plots, raised hogs, milked (a few) cows, and lived in permanent houses from generation to generation (as far back as anyone could remember in fact). It was not going to be an easy fit.

Fitting through the trees, the band made its way to what it hoped would be its new refuge from the storm.

The Keraglyx warriors and their chieftain were gathered in a clearing amidst the forest, known as Tethys, for the rugged landscape which the creator had (presumably) planted its trees. It was here that the Keraglyx messenger had insisted upon meeting the band of Belshavai. The messenger had told Vyranic himself.

“I also will ask,” Vyranic spoke, “that you will see if you can find a Korman among your brethren.”

“Oh, and who is this Korman?” The messenger looked at him suspiciously.

“I am a Keraglyx, don’t presume that I am ignorant of all of my peoples ways.”

The messenger snorted. “Don’t be an arrogant hog, to ask more than you already have. You may be of blood, but for most of your life you have been amongst those who are strangers to us.”

Vyranic’s anger started to show. “How dare you! Many of the Belshavai were once Keraglyx…”

“And…” the messenger interrupted “… they left the clan to join another. Why? You realize that many see this as a betrayal? And all to be lazy and sit in their nice houses while the rest of us must roam the forest in search of food. Also, think of the families that were torn asunder by those making these choices?”

Vyranic walked up to the insolent animal, his nose almost touching his. “My own parents were ones who made such a choice. Would you like to speak to them about it?”

“No, but I know many who would.”

“Well you can’t.” Vyranic raised a finger and pointed straight between the messengers eyes. “My parents are dead. Their choice of a ‘lazy house’ to lay around in allowed them to become trapped and to perish. My wife’s parents suffered all the same. Don’t think that running a farm is any easier than having to live off the woods.”

The messenger snarled, but backed off without another word. He spoke briefly to an elder (who was far more diplomatic than Vyranic), and then mounted his horse and went back off to the east.

That was in the morning just before dawn. Such an arrival at breakfast no doubt contributed to some of Vyranics irritation. He was all the more irritated, in that his connections to some relatively powerful persons in the Keraglyx clan had hoisted a responsibility upon him. He was one of several Keraglyx refugees living amongst the Belshavai, who would be ensuring that the two peoples would fit together, perhaps not as a child’s glove to a child’s hand, but more of a child’s glove to an adolescents hand.

Then, it was something that as tense as it was, Elena found herself deeply interested in the exchange of words. Now Elena saw her now repatriate husband’s people as they were in their element. The Belshavai wore scraps that they had been improvising, were disheveled and filthy, the warriors with broken weapons and (despite their sedentary living) had little in the way of maille. They were all wearing bandages for shoes. For being nomads, the Keragylx wore colorful, clean tunics and skirts, were cleanly and well kempt, and wore leather boots. Their warriors proudly wore their warpaint (the Belshavai hadn’t had the time to gather the roots and oker pigments, but their patterns were simpler) and many wore impressive maille shirts, while others were bare-chested to show well fed bodies. A few had metal armor shoulder plates, some leather armor, and most had short swords that were in excellent condition.

And unlike the Belshavai, all of the Keraglyx they saw had horses for a man and woman. In the forest, it would be presumptive that there would be scarce room for husbandry. Ironically, Elena knew horses better than Vyranic, as she had tended to a few draft animals for all of her life… and she had always thought of horses as being creatures of open lands… such as those around her peoples home. Here, the Keraglyx had horses aplenty, and they were in excellent condition.

They approached the chieftain, Vyranic and several other ‘chosen’ Belshavai at the lead. It was an anxious walk, even though the Keraglyx weapons were all in their scabbards, and a few were waving back to those in the band.

The chieftain seemed friendly enough, though was visibly cautious. The mailed elder, wearing a red cape wrapped around his shoulder, had his hands outstretched to embrace the chieftain of the Belshavai, Donager.

“Fellow wolf brethren, we welcome you to our lands, come, we have so much to discuss, I have many questions about these humans.”

Donager, who was wearing almost exactly the same sort of costume Vyranic was (shirtless, with torn pants, his ‘shoes’ being worn by his son who was somewhere back in the column) was too weary to smile back. Vyranic and the others said nothing, and were expecting some sort of formality. To their surprise, it was an informal gathering of friendly strangers. Elena, carrying the confused looking Mossid, found herself amongst total strangers… whom she had plenty of reason not to trust at the moment.

“I am Lypoxis, elected chief of the Kergalyx,” the chieftain said, loudly enough for all to hear. Donager was next to him, but had moved aside so all could see them together. “You all must know that in times such as this, we have barely enough food for ourselves to make it through the winter season, but thankfully, you arrived well before the times should become dire. I will confer with your chieftain and his elders and speak to you all shortly. For now, I ask that you rest. We have some food and water allotted for you, but use it sparingly.”

Lypoxis and Donager, along with the elders of both clans, walked off into a denser thicket of woods. The Keraglyx warriors started giving them provisions, while the Belshavai wondered what was to become of this meeting.

“Strange, that they could be so generous,” Vyranic whispered to Elena, as they sat with a group of refugees under a tree near the forests edge, nibbling on scraps of salty meat they had been given from a barrel.

“Oh, they’re just trying to earn our goodwill,” Elena answered. “For good or ill, we will see.” She gave a finger-sized bit of meat to Mossid.

“Momma, want more!” Mossid squeed.

“No no, you’ve had enough. This is on top of your regular serving.”

Vyranic smiled. Things just got a little bit brighter. “Well its better than that waxy tree bark and those caps we gathered up.”

“I like squirrel… want squirrel” Mossid said with the sort of pleading eyes a child would know best to present. Little devil.

“Just be glad to the spirits that you’re getting something with goodly amounts of fat,” Elena scolded. “When we have a chance, I’ll get some for you, but… Vyranic…”

Vyranic, busily chewing on a bit of the meat, saw her eyes dart to space behind him. He turned to see the familiar face of the well dressed messenger, who was standing with a familiar face.

“Korman! You ugly dog!” Vyranic would’ve let bits of meat fly out of his mouth had he not been in dire need of sustenance (it wouldn’t have been impolite or anything). He stood up and embraced his old friend.

“Forest gods, you lazy man! How have you been all these seasons?”

“Gah, I’d say not as well as you, looking at how you dress. Sure as the sun rises from the east, you look like a shifty human noble.”

Korman didn’t really resemble a human of such blood… though his flannel tunic of greens and reds was rich, an orange cloak off his back, a belt with scabbard adorning shorts that were clearly new as well. Then again, all of the Kergalyx seemed to dress in such a manner.

“Did you dress this way to impress us?” Elena asked, half serious, half teasingly. Mossid looked up at the stranger, caution in her little eyes.

Korman wasn’t bothered at all. Hands on his friends shoulder, he promptly gave out a laugh to the question. “Maybe, maybe not. I guess you can say that we thought this was an occasion worth dressing well over.”

“Just admit you did it you dog!” Vyranic chuckled.

“Maybe, and…” he snapped to look at Elena. “Is she…”

“My sister.”

Elena’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, is there somebody I didn’t know in the family…”

Vyranic looked skyward. “Well…”

“This clumsy liar is my husband.” Elena went with the joke. Vyranic’s humor didn’t always resonate with her, but he seemed to appreciate the need for it more than she did. She found herself smiling nonetheless.

“Ah, forgive this dog, my name is Korman, you’re husband and I were friends back when his family was still with the clan.”

“Elena, I was about half my current size when we were separated from the clan.” Vyranic laughed, though Elena didn’t like how he used the word ‘we.’

“Well, last time we saw each other it was in that little brushing off along the river, that was like eight years ago.”

“I think,” Vyranic tried to remember. How much time had passed all these seasons! “The damned little trading venture I got myself into, it was to trade those hogs for the deerskins.”

“Well, because you idiots settled onto land that no wolf man is supposed to settle in.” Korman’s features softened, there was little else that was good to say on that front. He turned to Elena. “You said you’re name is Elena?”

“Vyranic did, but yes, my name is Elena. This is Mossid.” Mossid just stared at Korman, who gave a goofy face. He ended up doing a surprisingly good impression of a duck. How the heck could he do that, Elena wondered.

Donager, the recently elected chieftain of the Belshavai, saw little reason to be cheerful from his newfound host words. It was bad enough that the clan had lost almost all of its elders in the fighting and skirmishing around the flat lands they called ‘Refuge Plain.’ Most were trapped in Prieglas, the fortified village which was the nexus of his farming people. Prieglas was taken, fewer than a thousand all told escaped from the Order attack.

Lypoxis had already implied that the Belshavai name was liable to disappear within a couple of generations.

“And what happened to those who were not with your group?” Lypoxis asked. They were both smoking a pipe borne weed, one of the things that Belshavai had always been good at growing and exporting to the other clans (and to humans across the western river as well… though Donager left that unsaid).

“A few hundred fled to the Altai I believe, fleeing to the river and northward. We of course, went east, seeking refuge in these hills. You can say, that we went with that old song, Among the trees will we find our salvation, the dens of dew and greens.”

Lypoxis grunted, leaning on a pine trunk. It was a hot, humid day, perfect time to relax… and contemplate the struggles of the age. “As much as you need my people for shelter, I cannot say that this shelter will be of stone. It is more of straw thatch, as your farmers should know. We need you as well.”

“We did not come here to become indentured Lypoxis.” Donager shot him a warning glacne, even if the weed was speaking to his mind of more relaxing expressions. It was a much needed drug, considering the tension he felt in his aged, but still formidable body.

“The wolf will never enslave his fellow wolf, Donager. My people were once living in lands, far, far off to the west and south. Many of them settled with you over the generations as the humans slowly pushed us east. My children do not know how we once lived on the west side of the river… neither did my parents either.”

“The river you speak of? The Chocalbavro?” Donager thought that perhaps he was mistaken in his assumption; there was a stream that ran next to the village Prieglas that the Belshavai simple called, ‘the river.’ THE river, the Chocalbavro off to the west… which ‘the river’ drained into some 20 kilometers away, was a wide stream that was navigable by boats with a keel of up to a meter in depth. Lypoxis nodded.

“I’ve been to the west side,” Donager continued. “It is being transferred by the humans into a large feed lot.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that they reduce the forests without giving them time to regrow from lumbering.” Lypoxis blew some of the acrid smoke bellowing in his mouth.

“Those fools will soon find that the land erodes so quickly in the spring and summer storms that their lands will become cankerous sores within a generation. I’ve seen it. They even untree the hills within their realm. I don’t want to think of what would happen if they do the same to the hills here.”

“None the least, we would find ourselves without a vast place to forage, or hide frankly.”

Donager snarled. “I do not desire to run or hide anymore, these hairless apes will keep on coming at us until we have to scale the Cursed Ranges and face the horrible monsters that live on the other side.”

“That is why we need each other Donager. The clans have to confederate if we desire to hold back this tide for good.” He held out his pipe, gesturing to the land around them. “The trees can only make so good a shelter for so long.”

“We should gather our warriors then and strike back!” Donager’s pipe was not quite affecting him enough to constrain his anger. Too many goddamn deaths that needed avenging, and here he was smoking! “As you told me earlier, it seems that it is do that, or slowly watch my peoples name go extinct!”

Lypoxis gave a dark smile. “Let’s think bigger then… how about if we could gather all the clans together, and then get back at them?”

Another day, another march through rugged forest. Only this time, the spirits of the marchers had been raised. What had been a miserable, hopeless trudge had turned into a purposeful, hopeful, stride towards a future that was uncertain, but less darkened by the smoke rising from their homeland.

At least it wasn’t literal smoke that was darkening the land, more so a rain storm. The rain was a wild card for the Belshavai in their old land of Refuge. Too much, and there was a flood that washed out the crops (and forced them to eat up their precious hogs), too little, and the corns wilted into dust.

Now, the variables had changed, but now the shift was less troubling and more cleansing. The dust came off their ragged clothes, their canteens and kegs filled to the brim. As they made their way, walking on sandy, rocky ground to avoid the muddy downflows, Elena, Vyranic, taking turns carrying the tired Mossid, found themselves exchanging stories with Korman and his family.

Evidently, the Kergalyx had been living far more interesting lives than they had. Never staying in one place more than a few months, constantly raiding human settlements, and eking out a desperate (but never boring) existence in the land.

Korman, Vyranic’s old friend, also taught Elena a few things about her husband that she hadn’t known.

“Once, Vyranic ran up to a stag, surprised it, and was about to take it with a knife, when it turned attacked him with his antlers. Vyranic came back later saying how he had killed his first deer. All he had was a broken antler. He said that he needed help in bringing it back. So we went to get the kill, but there was none to be found. Vyranic said that his find must’ve been dragged off. Of course, he had only broken the antler, but so badly wanted to impress this girl that he was desperate to…”

“Yeah, and you insisted that you saw me fight it.” Vyranic laughed.

Elena laughed as well. “I wonder what happened with that girl?” She wasn’t concerned if they run into her or anything, mere curiosity. This was a different people, and she wanted to know them.

“Um, well... he she saw it right away… as did her father and everyone else. My word wasn’t exactly going for me either.”

“We were only 6 or 7 winters old I think,” Vyranic added. “I think she ended up with someone else.” He coughed.

“Yes, she did.” So said Rutea, the childhood crush that wound up with a good friend of Vyranic’s. At least they were getting along well, the amusing awkwardness making Elena giggle instead of worrying so much or feeling jealous. Korman and Ruta spent too much attention on each other… and they were there not to be a part of their clan (or was it clan within a clan now? Vyranic and Elena wondered). They were there as part of a welcoming party.

The welcome was all about getting them used to the fact that they were now going to be subordinates to a good extent. Donager was still in charge, but numbers and land ownership naturally placed them in that lower position. As Korman explained it, “you are now on our land, so you can only use it like we will let you.”

That was it. Many Belshavai had grumbled over the arrangement, but Donager to his credit calmed their anger. What other choice did they have anyway?

“Korman, how does my being of Kergalyx blood affect this?” Vyranic asked it as neutrally as he could. His friend would only be honest, he knew.

“It means much you would think; I’d wager that the others of my clan would listen to you more than the others.”

“Just don’t think that you can make everyone become Kergalyx like that,” Ruta warningly snapped a finger to emphasize. She did not seem to be terribly pleased to see a bunch of refugees coming onto her people’s lands. To some extent, Vyranic could understand. Elena would have none of it.

“Since when have we asked to become Kergalyx? I will always be Belshavai, perhaps both clan titles can be used someday, but we are who we are.”

“Sooo…” Korman paused to let his thoughts come in… “you will let your pride dictate more of your welfare? Think carefully with what you’re saying there.”

Vyranic shook his head. “Why should we have to worry about titles being thrown around?”

“Titles?” Korman shot a stare at him, as though Vyranic had suddenly turned green and grown a pair of chicken wings. “Since when did we become like the humans and start giving ourselves gloating positions over one another?”

“In Prieglas, we had our chieftain, a bailiff, a constable…” Vyranic realized he had a point.

Elena interjected. “Being on a farm, with many in one small place, we had to do things differently when you people have to spread around to put food on the… I don’t know if you Keraglyx even have tables…”

“We do, just ones that are light enough to carry around.”

Elena almost rolled her eyes, but merely looked annoyed. “Well Korman, at least our ways worked for us while they could, don’t judge us because they were different from yours. And please, don’t compare us to those oafish apes. No matter where we go, there is always a chieftain.”

Korman sighed. The rain was light, but liable to get heavier in a matter of minutes. They would stop for lunch in an hour. Then he would bring up something that he wanted to discuss.

“The chieftain, Lypoxis, I am closer to his ear than you are. Let me tell you this; he doesn’t like your old ways, and he doesn’t think that you will make good Keraglyx, at least not for many years.” He paused, stepping over a log on the path, then having to leap to dodge another one that he didn’t see Korman then turned to help Rutea over just as Vyranic and Elena followed suit. “He wants you to act as the vanguards for my people.”

They weren’t able to look at each as he said it, eying for snags in the wettish ground. “Vanguard…” Vyranic thought aloud. “You intend us to be the first to fight them, if the humans come?” He glanced at Elena, who fixing a flap covering Mossids head.

Korman nodded. “We said that we needed your help, and we intend to get it.”

“We won’t be a shield for you Korman.” Vyranic was surprised at how hostile his tongue was becoming. It was tasting a bit bitter all of a sudden.

“The Belshavai have been facing the humans in battle for a year, we can use a break from all of this!” Elena spat.

Korman stopped, then turned to fact the Belshavai woman and the Kergalyx/Belshavai hybrid. “We are going to take the fight right back at the humans, don’t think that we haven’t suffered from the humans as well.”

“I don’t see much evidence of it,” Elena replied, noting the fine shape the Kergalyx people were in.

“We’re just lucky to have had these vast forests to live in Elena,” Rutea said. “We still have had plenty of loss and pain of our own.”

“You haven’t lost children to them I bet,” Elena was clutching Mossid tightly, the toddler looked out around the tense looking adults, knowing well to keep its mouth shut, not grasping the complexity of what was occurring (which is mercifully the case with lives her age).

Korman looked at her woefully. “My dear cousin, Jeffress. Taken. All my uncles. Dead. My two brothers, slain somewhere in a gorge to the south. And my beloved sister, Kare, taken, along with many of those among your people I might add. How could you dare say that you’re the ones with a monopoly on loss?”

Vyranic was not sure what to say. Elena looked at Mossid, wondering of just how capricious their blessings could be.

Korman walked up to Vyranic, eyes ablaze. “I want to see my sister again, Vyranic.”

Vilkas Clans, Chapter 2 (critique requested)

Marsonaut

I'm very pleased with how this chapter turned out. A big, obvious change is that I put in more spacing between the paragraphs to avoid the mistake in the first upload (hard for me to read, especially when I've been on the machine for 8 hours, and I'd imagine it would scare off a lot of people as well XD)... though this bad boy was almost 20 pages at 12 point single space... and I couldn't find any formulas for inserting/doubling paragraph spacing. So, I had to do it manually for each one. Some fun. XD

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