God Within Us

In the far distance, beneath the walls of the Tusorano fortress, a dying man screamed in horrible agony all through the bleak morning. When the gates to the fortress rumbled open and drowned out his cries, the siege lines along the northern shores awakened with a cry of “To arms! To arms!”

The Yllahanan watchman’s voice was high and shrill, and was followed by the low blasting of signal horns as the encampment roused from its sleep in a flurry of whoops, curses, and hollered orders. Goran knew just enough of the elven tongue to make sense of the overlapping shouts, but the fear in the elven legionnaires’ voices would have been plain to anyone as they rushed to don their armor and prepare for battle.

High above the Yllahanan siege of Tusorano, the morning sun’s rays barely shone through the dense, gray clouds. To the north where the Yllahanans had landed their forces, Goran could hear the crashing of hull against hull as the Republic’s anchored troop transports were slammed together by the roaring waves of the Shipbreaker’s Tide. To the south lay the fortress itself, a sprawling beast of smooth, white stone - now disfigured by the siege engines the Yllahanans had erected three days prior in a futile attempt to pound the walls to dust.

Gathering outside the fortress, Goran saw the legions of Rondelle forming ranks - rows upon rows of purple tower-shields and tarnished golden helmets arranging themselves into a long battle line as they prepared to drive their besiegers from the field. On his own side to the east, the sound of trumpets and drumming rolled across the open sandy plains as the Yllahanans formed up their own legions in ragtag fashion, flying the red banner of the Republic against Rondelle’s own purple - though both banners still bore the white eagle of the old Republic, whose legacy both nations lay claim to inheriting.

When he was younger, Goran might have found the marshaling of warriors on both sides exhilarating. The green recruits that made up the bulk of the Yllahanan legions would be thinking the same, right up until they would be disemboweled by another elf whose only difference was his choice of banner.

For many of the Yllahanan legionnaires, this would be their first - and for some, their last - battle. It would be Goran’s fortieth.

Seasoned and bloodied, stamped and sealed. A man of the Company, that’s me. He had killed and wounded, and taken his fair share of wounds himself. He had led heavy cavalry, horse archers, and armored shield-bearers into the thick of battle beneath ten different standards. He had heard men screaming his name in fear as he cut them down and in admiration when they stood alongside him in victory.

Yet for all he had done and all he had seen, the prospect of another battle still made Goran’s blood run cold. For all he had done, he had always told himself that he did not care whether he lived or died - except he always found himself caring quite a lot.

What a fool you are, whispered the nasty, sharp-tongued voice in his head. Lying even to yourself.

You still think you can rebuild.

You still think you can be a prince again.

Goran forced down his own treacherous thoughts and hurriedly walked down from the hill his tent sat on as he saw a messenger pounding up towards the Company’s warcamp. The elf rode a golden horse, and was himself clad in golden armor. In a shrill voice, the elf announced to the war camp he had come to speak on behalf of the supreme commander of the Yllahanan expeditionary force, the high and noble Numeria Luonerssa.

“Senator Luonerssa was…perplexed by your request, and has sent me to entreat with your commander on the subject of your contract,” spoke the Yllahanan envoy to the other commanders who greeted him at the warcamp’s entrance - a motley band from half the known world. “Who here holds command?”

“Th’ Captain’s indisposed right now,” responded Commander Heller. The commander of the Company’s heavy infantry was already dressed for battle, wearing a layer of maille and an iron coat of plates with a faded Solarian sunburst on its front. “‘twas was we who wanted t’ speak with th’ Senator.”

The rider scoffed, “You forget your place, mercenary. Did you seriously believe the great Senator Luonerssa would come at the beck and call of some common hired swords?”

Goran spoke up before Heller could spit back a reply. “My apologies, your honor, but we had simply wanted to be sure the terms were the same as we all recall before our men go into battle.”

The messenger rolled his eyes, “Gold and pillage for service, a contract as old as time, boy. What more is there to discuss?”

“Land.” said Goran. “Land for service, as we agreed.”

The messenger gave a thin smile. A smiling Yllahanan was never a good sign. “Ah, yes. Ten acres of fertile land for every common man, a thousand for every officer, and ten thousand for the Captain. Given upon the defeat of the rebel-state of Rondelle.”

“Yes, once we have brought you this victory.” said Commander Kassa eagerly. Over his gilded breastplate, the commander of the Company’s skirmishers wore the spotted pelt of a great savannah cat. "Land for victory.”

“You are mistaken,” said the messenger through his smug smile. “The contract was conditional on the defeat of Rondelle - you are fighting a mere garrison. If Tusorano is taken, will the rebels throw down their arms and surrender the province back to the Republic?”

Goran’s own armor - a coat of plated maille over a leather jerkin - suddenly felt unbearably hot as his anger flared white-hot to his face. “No, but we-”

“Then there is nothing more to say,” interrupted the messenger. The blast of a trumpet sounded through the air as the Yllahanan legions finished arraying themselves against the fortress’ approaching defenders. “Until Rondelle falls and the Republic’s banner flies over the great walls of Valle once more, you will not receive an inch of Yllahanan soil.”

“Valle has never fallen to an army, not in a thousand years,” growled Commander Yasaman, who led the Company’s crossbowmen. “What trickery is this?”

“It is no trickery,” said the messenger. “Your own leader himself read and signed the contract. Do not direct your anger at me, direct it at your fool Captain who bound you all in service.”

There was little else to say. The messenger trampled off atop his golden horse before any of the commanders could continue to argue with him, leaving the four of them standing in the middle of the camp.

“Yllahanan cunt!” roared Heller, his pale face flushed beet red as he raged at the retreating messenger’s back. “Son of an elven whore!”

You still think you can be a prince. Goran’s hands curled into fists as old faces swam before him. No land, no future, no hope. Just another mercenary dog. Just another fool with a sword. Just another nobody.

He wanted to scream, to curse, to draw his sword and pull out the messenger’s bowels from his belly - to let loose the endless, howling rage he felt burning in his chest. But instead, he unclenched his fists and thumbed his nose in the messenger’s direction before turning to the other commanders.

“Enough,” he said to the others. “For now, we still have our contract and our orders. I will mobilize my riders - the rest of you should prepare your own men.”

“Curse their orders and piss on the contract,” hissed Yasaman. “Those Yllahanan bastards fooled us. Fooled Araldo. I say we leave - let’s see how they fare taking the fort without us to save their pale asses.”

“Idiot,” piped up Kassa. “If we break the contract with the Republic, who else do you think will hire us?”

Goran put up his hands. “This is not our business. We command the men. We fight on the front. But we do not decide who we fight, or when. That is for Araldo to say, and he signed the contract. I will take this up with him - the rest of you, do your part.”

The commanders stared one another down, then slowly retreated to their corners of the war camp to rally their troops - each of them strung tight, and none of them happy. Goran watched them stomp off to their men, and then he turned his gaze towards the tent that sat atop the highest hill overlooking all the others in the Company’s camp.

Araldo cannot stand for this, he thought as he marched across the dusty campgrounds towards the Captain’s tent. Even an old fool such as he would see we need to leave, renegotiate, do something.

Time was running short. Another blast from the trumpets sounded, this time from the ranks of the defenders who had formed up into a great shieldwall and prepared to march. As he neared the Captain’s tent, Goran turned and saw the wave of purple shields and golden helms begin to slowly crawl forward.

Something…and soon.

The Captain’s tent was bright blue, with a silver embroidery of a lancer decorating the tent flap. When Goran entered, he felt a wave of sickly-sweet perfume crash over him, but it was not enough to mask the smell that hung in the tent’s air. It was foul, a miasma of disease, piss, and shit - of smoke from the burning incense sticks, and Grand Captain Araldo’s sickness. Goran squinted through the darkness, and shook off a soiled sheet which clung to his boots.

The Grand Captain of the Kororys Company lay beneath a mountain of blankets and pillows - his arms and armor waiting for him on a wooden rack. Sword and mace, plated maille, and an iron greathelm with a large feathered plume - all of it waiting for a master who would not, could not, rise to bear them.

Beneath his blankets, Araldo was naked and feverish - his pale, flabby skin covered in sores that seemed to endlessly weep strange pus and fluids. His long beard was rough and unkept, and sticky with mucus and bile. He lay so still in his bed that for a moment, it seemed as though the Grand Captain was dead. But then Araldo stirred, waking up with a shiver as Goran drew closer.

Goran wrinkled his nose at the sight of the Grand Captain. When he had first arrived to serve with the Kororys Company, they had seemed unbeatable - and the Grand Captain had never seemed more resplendent, riding at the head of the Company's heavy cavalry in his sapphire cape - which now lay atop a musty pile of stained clothes.

According to a Rondellian healer they had captured a month ago, the disease that was eating him alive from the inside out was there even when Goran had joined Araldo as his squire five years ago - yet it had only taken five months for the illness to lay the Grand Captain on death's door once it awakened from its slumber.

First were the headaches, which Araldo had attributed to his love of strong wines. Then it was the weakness, for which Araldo made his squire the commander of the Company's heavy cavalry to replace him. And then it was the weeping sores and shits, and by then Goran could not hide the disease from the other commanders - no matter how much incense and perfume they used. The Grand Captain reeked of disease - he reeked of death. And if they did not act soon, perhaps the rest of the Company would follow him into the grave.

“Who is it?” croaked Araldo, his eyes barely able to open. “Who goes there?”

The dying man who had once been the Captain of the greatest mercenary company in the Shipbreaker Tides was a small man without his splendor. A small, old, confused man. Another face flashed before Goran's eyes, another memory from another life. His own father stared back up at him from beneath the blankets and pillows as Goran drew closer.

Take the girl, his father had said one night, in his private chambers in a far-away land, in a far-away time. He had only been a boy then, even if he did not feel like it. Her father may not have consented to the match, but he will have no choice if you make her yours by force. Take her, make her your bride, and I will protect you from what may come. Your father commands it.

“Captain.” Goran leashed his own runaway mind as he lowered himself to Araldo's side. “The elves have made a mockery of us - they have tricked us, and you.”

Araldo shifted onto his side with a groan. “How so?”

“Their promises of land…they told us we would only receive it when we take all of Rondelle.”

“All of it?”

“Yes!” breathed Goran. “They said we'd only have our rewards once this whole province has been taken, and Valle falls.”

Araldo thought slowly. “No one has ever taken Valle.”

“Exactly!” said Goran. The distant blast of a horn signaled the Yllahanan legions' own march against the Rondellian lines. Battle was almost on them - something had to happen, and soon. “They will never give us our land! They will string us along until they snatch what little territory they truly seek, then they will toss us to the side and laugh at us all!”

“But they will still give us gold,” murmured Araldo. “Mountains of it. No one pays better than the Republic. Gold is such a fine thing…”

“I don't want gold.”

Goran spoke in a whisper, yet his words seemed to fill the whole world. For a moment, he felt like a boy again. An angry, homesick boy who had to leave all he knew and loved to sail to a foreign southern land alone. “I don't want gold, and I don't want the Republic's riches. I want a home.”

Araldo's chest jerked up and down as he coughed violently, but then a small smile crept up to the Grand Captain's face, and Goran realized he was laughing.

“Listen boy…” Araldo managed to croak. “War is your home. Your life is here, in the shieldwall, in the cavalry saddle, in the archer lines. Your brothers here and now are who matter, they are your home.”

The Grand Captain's words rang with a certain truth - after five years, some of the memories had begun to fade. He no longer remembered the names of the boyars’ sons he sparred with in the courtyard. He no longer remembered the face of the old cook in his father’s employ who had given him sweets. He no longer remembered the names of the towns and villages that were promised to be his to rule.

But he did remember some things. Goran never forgot their faces - the boyars who laughed at his back as he left in exile, and the Grand Prince who cast him out. He never forgot the faces of the boyars in his own father's court who smiled when they learned of his banishment, already planning to put forth their own names as heirs to the city. And he never forgot the face of the girl - the girl he was supposed to make his bride.

The Grand Captain's eyes opened, and they gleamed with an affection that made Goran sick to his stomach. They were his father's eyes, filled with their false, cowardly love. “Put aside these thoughts of home, boy. Your Captain commands it.”

“I am not your boy,” said Goran. Then the dagger was in his hand, cold steel glinting in the morning light that streamed through the fluttering tent flap.

He buried the honed steel blade up to the hilt through Araldo's flabby neck before the old man had a chance to cry out. When his lips did part, whether to curse or scream, all that spilled out was dark, diseased blood which dribbled down his chin and beard.

I am not your boy.

And this is not my home.

Goran ripped the dagger free from Araldo's throat and watched the Grand Captain sink onto his back. A queer whistling noise escaped from the Captain's punctured throat as he struggled for breath that would never come, and then he fell still. An awful stench quickly filled the room, the stink of death overpowering all else.

Goran felt his eyes begin to water from the smell, and left the Captain's tent in a hurry. The air outside was cool and salty, and he breathed it in greedily until he felt his lungs would burst.

The commanders were beneath a great tent near the center of the war camp - tensely awaiting what was to come from the Grand Captain. As he approached the commanders their eyes fell upon him, and then the knife that was still in his hand - soaked to the hilt in the Grand Captain’s blood.

“Araldo is dead,” he announced loudly. He took a step forward, then slammed the tip of the bloody dagger into the table that sat between the three commanders, causing their cups of wine to jump. “And our contract is void. As of now, we are free men once more.”

For a moment, there was only silence - and more than that, nothing. No hissing of drawn blades, no rush to pull Goran to the ground. If there was any loyalty or love left for the Grand Captain, the commanders would have seized him and cut his head off the moment they saw the knife in his hands, still dripping with their Captain’s life essence. But no-one moved. No-one spoke. The commanders only stood in silence, their eyes flitting from one to another as Goran’s words hung in the air.

Good riddance, he knew was the thought among them all. If he had not killed the Grand Captain, he was certain one of the commanders would have eventually risen to the task. But Araldo’s death was not important, not anymore. Now there was a far more important question that was on everyone’s minds.

“So…what now?” spoke Kassa. “What do we do now?”

“Do we side with the Rondellians?” asked Heller.

“Curse that,” spat Yasaman. “We need to leave and wash our hands of this whole mess. Find another contract.”

“The Yllahanans will try to stop us.” piped up Kassa.

“The Yllahanans are welcome to try,” laughed Heller. “They’ve got a Rondellian legion bearing down upon them. They can’t stop us.”

“But where do we go?”

“I don’t know…anywhere but here.”

“What about Albina-Suzdal?”

“I hear the king of Sanu is looking for hired blades…”

The commanders’ voices all swirled together in the Goran’s mind - becoming just so much noise alongside the blaring horns and thundering marching of the Yllahanan legions. He closed his eyes, and dreamed of an old land, far away from the blood and sweat and dust of the south. The memories seemed so clear now…as though the land were calling to him, calling him back home.

But more than the memories, there was now opportunity.

“I have an idea.” The commanders’ eyes all fell upon him as he spoke. He felt his mouth go dry as paper, and swallowed his fear before he spoke again.

“Why must we always swear our swords and lances to some other man’s cause?” Goran continued. “The Yllahanans, the Suzdalians, the Sanu - none of them care for us. None of them have bled alongside us - none of them are Company men. To them, we’ll always be nothing more than dogs to do their bidding. They will keep us fed and watered and dressed in gold, but because they fear us, they will never let us rise above what we are now.

“I curse all of that!” he shouted, feeling his chest lighten just a little. “I ask all of you - who here wants to be more than a dog? Who wants more than this - this endless wandering, this endless jumping from contract to contract?”

“What are you saying?” spoke Kassa sharply.

“I say you come with me,” Goran replied. “If you follow me…I would lead you north, to the lands that should have been mine. I would lead you to Gatchisk.“

Heller scoffed, as did Yasaman. “Gatchisk? The north is cold - and there is little gold or silver there. Do you plan to pay us in turnips and leeks?”

“It might be so. Mercenaries fight for gold, and nowhere is there more gold than here, on the Shipbreaker Coast. But I would not have you fighting as mercenaries.”

Goran’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the steel awakened from its sheath with a hiss. He raised the sword high into the air, then laid it down on the table between the three men. “If you come with me, I would have you all as my druzhina - my sworn brothers of sword and lance. And I would not pay you with just gold.

“For my crown, I would give you the lands of the sniveling, pathetic men who call themselves boyars - and their lands are vast. Ten acres for every foot soldier? I would give a hundred. A thousand acres for every officer? I would give ten thousand, and a stone keep to each one of you. Gatchisk's earth is fertile and rich - you could grow whatever your hearts desire, and you would have your own peasants to do the growing for you. They'd even bow their heads and pay you tithes for the honor of using your land, if you can believe it. You would not need to worry about living to fight another day...you would not need to worry about whether you could find another contract before you starve. You could be lords."

Something stirred in the commanders’ eyes as they studied one another, weighing his words. He recognized what lay in their eyes even as they stood trying to appear aloof and thoughtful. Hope. They want it as badly as me. A lordship. A home. A life without marching and hunger and scraping by.

Kassa opened his mouth to speak when a crossbowman poked his head inside the tent. “Sorry to disturb. Another elf’s come - a girl-commander. Says she has our orders.”

The commanders looked to Goran.

They waited for him to speak.

They waited for his command.

He felt his heart race, and in that moment the sound of its pounding was more beautiful than any song or hymn he could dream of. He had won them over...for now. But there was still the matter of the battle that was soon to be upon them - his first trial as their new Captain.

The Young Griffon turned to the crossbowman. “Send her inside.”

The soldier withdrew. When he returned, he propped open the tent flap for an Yllahanan officer in a cloak of red and gold and a plumed iron helm which did little to conceal the scowl on her face. On the officer's breastplate was a beautiful engraving of twisting vines and roses, their petals gleaming with small rubies.

“The Rondellians seek to push our center,” the officer announced. “The Fifth Legion stands against them. While the rebels draw near, you will take your mounted archers and make them pay dearly for every inch they advance from their walls. Then once our spears pin their battle line, take your heavy horse and strike them from the rear and flanks. This is the command of Senator Luonerssa - now move!”

“A fine plan,” said Goran. Indeed it is…now if only you were so smart about keeping your hired blades happy. “But things have changed. Our commander’s up and died, you see.”

“My condolences,” replied the officer in an icy tone. “But that does not change your orders - or your masters. Destroy the Rondellians, and you may elect your new commander after the battle is over.”

“We won’t be destroying anyone,” muttered Heller. “Not for you, anyhow.”

The officer glowered at the Solarian. “You dare to-”

Her insult withered in her throat as the situation finally dawned upon her. “You are breaking your contract?”

“There’s no contract to be broken,” said Goran. “Our Grand Captain signed your papers, not us. With him dead…we’re free to fight for whomever we please. And we will not be fighting for the likes of you any longer."

The officer’s hand went to her sword. Stupid woman.

Before she could lay a finger on her blade, Goran’s sword was already back in his hand. His longsword scraped along the uneven surface of the table as he grabbed it, and it rang beautifully as he slashed across the officer's head - the helmet stopped the blade, but the blow stunned its wearer and sent her staggering backwards as she clumsily drew her weapon.

The officer caught her footing, bringing her sword up to ward off another strike. Her movements were sluggish - she was unaccustomed to actually fighting in armor, as were many Yllahanan officers. Goran leapt forward and to the side, letting his blade cross against the officer's own as he thrust past her guard and planted his longsword through the Yllahanan’s eye.

The point of the longsword caught against the back of the officer’s helmet, and the girl-commander's weapon clattered to the ground as she gave a strangled gasp. Her mouth fell open as Goran pulled his sword free, and then she collapsed against the commanders' table, spilling red wine onto herself as she tumbled to the ground. The elf twitched a few more times on the floor, feebly reaching for the edge of the table, and then she died - her breastplate's iron roses watered with blood and wine.

Heller gave the dead officer a shove with his boot, then turned to look at Goran.

“So…what’s next?”

In the far distance, the Shipbreaker’s Tide roared, its waves rising high to crash down onto the Yllahanan ships which sat anchored by the shore. Across the great sea lay his claim, and only a skeleton crew of soldiers remained to stop him. The Yllahanans had left behind just enough guards to ensure their slave oarsmen would not bolt for freedom, but no more.

The Young Griffon smiled as he wiped his blade clean on the dead officer’s cloak. “We take the ships. Then we sail north.”

Father…I’m coming home.