God Within Us

They should not be taking this long, thought the Young Griffon to himself as he leaned over the company’s documents, a map of the Shipbreaker’s Tide nearby.

The moment the Kororys Company had drawn close to the shores of Albina-Suzdal, that great city which sat at the mouth of the Cherech, the city’s magisters had fallen into a mad panic and launched every warship they had to stop the invaders encroaching on their shores. Even when he had met with one of the city’s commanders and explained the Company’s unfortunate falling out with their Yllahanan employers, the magisters were wary - perhaps wisely so. And so it was that the Company made its landing screened by a force of ten warships to the shore, where a hastily-cobbled militia of three thousand Suzdalians waited to watch them disembark and set their camp five miles north of their city walls.

When he looked out from his commander’s pavilion, he saw the Suzdalian militia still lurking just beyond the horizon, their camp a chaotic mess of cookfires, half-assembled palisades, and tents strewn about in every direction. The Suzdalian militia counted urban merchants, artisans, free peasants, and more in their ranks, but they were only militia - men whose trade was not in war, but in cobbling, carpentry, farming, and smithing.

Opposite the Suzdalians, the Company’s tents were assembled in neat, orderly rows, and the men whose only trade was war and whose mother’s milk was discipline were hard at work digging latrines, transporting water, and setting watchmen for the night. It was a camp that Araldo would have approved of - for all his faults, the old Grand Captain had left the Company a disciplined, well-honed band.

A disciplined band now cut in half, the Young Griffon thought to himself as he studied over the map to his side.

Three thousand men had sailed from the Tusorano shores, along with their weapons, armor, horses, and pack-mules all crammed onto twenty Yllahanan war-galleys. But the terrible storms which earned the Shipbreaker’s Tide its name only permitted half of those ships to make the landing by his side at Albina-Suzdal - the rest, swallowed by the sea, or perhaps lost on one of the many small islands dotted across the waters. Over the week his survivors had spent camped inland, more and more men arrived piecemeal, escorted by the Suzdalians from the northern shores where they washed up, but the number of stragglers arriving grew less and less each day.

Now it had been a week, and any who were not hopelessly lost at sea should have arrived by now.

They should be taking this long, the Young Griffon thought again as he scratched off the Company’s old numbers on the payroll. Four hundred shield-bearers, two hundred bowmen, and half of the cavalry. Worse losses than any battle.

The flap to his pavilion opened with a hushed flutter as Kassa stepped inside to find him scratching new numbers onto the payroll. The Sanurian of their company turned by far the most heads when they had disembarked - the Suzdalians were often used to copper-toned Huwaqis, milk-white Yllahanans, and ruddy Solarians from trade ships, but their mouths could not stop gaping at the Sanurian whose skin was dark as night, and who clad himself in the brightly-patterned silks of the western dune-princes when his armor was set aside.

Today, the commander of the Company's skirmishers wore a flowing blue robe embroidered with silver thread - his colors matching the Young Griffon's own blue-and-gold tunic which he wore under a leather jerkin. The Grand Captain's sapphire cape hung loosely around the Young Griffon's shoulders - the sole artifact he bothered to keep from Araldo's tent while the rest was burned to ward them all from disease.

“Staring at the map won’t make the rest of them crawl out from the parchment, you know,” said Kassa with a smile as he pulled up a chair opposite the Young Griffon. “Just this morning, the Suzdalians brought us another five of Heller’s boys washed up on the shore.”

“Yet you are here, so there must be something more,” sighed the Young Griffon as his quill scraped across the parchment. Nine-hundred and three…now nine hundred and eight. Three silver coins per, six for veterans. And in time, a hundred acres.

“They confirmed what the others said,” spoke Kassa as he shifted in his seat. “The Sweet Sellulia went down with all hands when we made our crossing.”

Sellulia…Fifty men and a lieutenant had been aboard the Sellulia, as well as the bulk of the Company's warhorses - finely-bred coursers and destriers the likes of which would command a heavy price to replace. And in a single fell tide, half my riders are now infantry. Gods, we hadn’t taken such losses even at Roccuno.

“Any news from the others?” The Young Griffon looked up from his papers. His head was beginning to swim from the numbers - but at least within the ink and arithmetic of the payroll there was comfort in certainty. On the other hand, the men who called him their Grand Captain had their morale and optimism bled away by the storm, and grew less and less certain of their course with each passing day.

“The usual grumbling,” replied Kassa. The Sanurian poured himself a cup of wine from a silver flagon, and savored the taste of the Albinan vintage for a moment. “Yasaman says the merchants are charging us double-price for old grain.”

“It is to be expected,” the Young Griffon sighed. “They sense our desperation, and they’ve three thousand militia to pounce on us if we so much as raise our voices. Let the merchants grift us while they can…but have Yasaman remember the names of those who are dishonest with us.”

He pushed his own empty cup forward, and broke off a nibble of the blue-veined cheese that sat untouched on the table as Kassa filled his cup to the brim. “What of our favorite Solarian?”

“Healthier by the day,” muttered Kassa. “And the healthier he gets, the more he ruins my day with his whinging. I’ve half a mind to-”

The sound of armored footsteps crushed Kassa’s complaint underfoot, and then the tentflap fluttered once more, followed by a long, angry shadow that stretched across the war table. Silhouetted by the late-afternoon sun, the Company’s infantry commander looked a man with one foot in the grave - his face pale as milk from the sea-sickness which committed him to bed since their landing. Still, he was of sound enough health to come bristling with rage - so sickness’ grasp on the bullish Solarian was already not for much longer.

“What have you done of my company, boy?” The Solarian’s voice was hoarse, but carried a hint of that familiar, deadly steel. “Where are my lieutenants, Kai, Ansgar?”

“I saw Kai swept overboard with my own eyes, commander,” the Young Griffon replied coldly. “And if your own men speak the truth, then Ansgar lies at the bottom of the Shipbreaker’s Tide, along with the Sweet Sellulia and fifty troops. There was a gap in the command, and it had to be replaced, quickly.”

“And you were…unavailable,” added Kassa with a nod and a swirl of his wine. “The Grand Captain was well within his rights to replace your lieutenants while you…convalesced.”

The men of the Company were free to elect their own leaders and lieutenants from their ranks - as was the case for Heller's own ascent to command - but the Grand Captain always held an ultimate veto on the matter of his commanders. Such was the tradition since the Company's humble origins in Kororys, yet it was a tradition that was rarely exercised - over twenty years and a dozen changes of command, Araldo had never bothered to dip his own hands into the politics of the common soldiery. And the Grand Captain before Araldo - Trahan Coalbiter - had his own command cut short when he mysteriously disappeared after trying to place his own brother in charge of the Company's cavalry, at least according to the Company's chronicle.

Yet these were not ordinary times - and he was neither Araldo nor the Coalbiter. Whomever the heavy footmen elected - no doubt with influence from the Solarian - they were sure to share their commander's misgivings about their march north. The heavy foot were the armored anvil upon which the entire rest of the Company struck their foes - if they were to be fractured by dissenting commanders, then the Company would disintegrate along the miles-long march north before their first battle.

“Within his…?” Heller barked with laughter, then fixed the Young Griffon with a withering glare. “You think you can undermine me, boy? We are not at Tusorano anymore, and I will not have my command stolen out from under me. Dismiss your dogs, or I'll-”

“Do what, commander?” the Young Griffon replied. He met Heller's stare as he hardened his soul. I will not be doubted. I cannot. Give me your best, Solarian. Give me an excuse.

Heller stepped forward, and leaned over the table - drawing so close the Young Griffon could smell the sour scent of sickness that lingered over the Solarian.

“If you do not rid me of your two outsiders…” Heller paused, then smiled as if savoring the taste of the words in his mouth. “Then I will take my men, and we will leave.”

The world within the commander’s pavilion fell deathly silent, save the terrible pounding of the Young Griffon’s heart in his chest. Heat and rage rushed to his face at the Solarian’s words and his crooked smile, which exposed a mouth full of crooked teeth, half of them broken and capped with gold. Company gold - melted and hammered on Araldo's order to replace the Solarian's grin which had shattered from an Yllahanan's mace some years ago. But it was not a gift - it was still company gold.

“You are free to retire from the Company, commander,” the Young Griffon smiled. “But how long will a man who took part in the killing an of Yllahanan general survive, I wonder? What kind of employer would take on a man with such a black mark on his name?”

Heller’s smile turned to a dark frown, but he dared not to strike the Grand Captain whilst Kassa sat nearby, one hand on the scimitar tucked into his belt. The commander gave a scoff as he stood up to his full height. “I’d survive longer than you, boy. And worse men have found work fighting for the Suzdalians. But you...well, I'm sure I'll hear in due time how far you get without the Company’s shieldwalls.”

The Solarian turned on his heel like the lockstep footman he was, and strode the length of the Grand Captain’s pavilion. He flung open the tentflap…and came face-to-face with two men clad in armor. Pinned with fresh golden wax seals to their breastplates were lieutenants’ honors.

“Commander,” said the Huwaqi with a nod, his dark eyes glinting beneath thick eyebrows and a messy shock of black hair. The bearded Klyazmite next to him gave only a grunt of acknowledgement, and stepped to the side to allow four more armored men to move quietly into the pavilion as Heller backed away. Not all of the Solarian's men shared their commander's doubts, or his willingness to trade lands and titles for gold which they already were without lack.

“Salar, Fynn,” the Young Griffon called out to the lieutenants as they stepped into the tent. “Commander Heller wishes to retire from the Company. He is an honorable man who has given the Company good years of service, and I would not have him leave the Company as a thief.”

“What are you- what?” sputtered Heller, his hand drifting to the longsword at his belt.

“Your armor and weapons you may keep, for those were yours when you joined our ranks,” the Young Griffon sniffed as he took a sip of the Albinan wine, sweet and dark. “But I realize, your teeth…that is Company gold you’d be taking with you. If you retire, I’d need you to surrender it back to our coffers - Fynn can assist you. With a hammer.”

“Curse all of you!” roared Heller as he clenched the hilt of his sword.

Then the pavilion was filled with the hissing of awakening iron as the men all drew their blades - six swords for Heller’s one, pointed for the hulking commander’s throat.

For all his pride and rage, the Solarian stood bravely against them all, his soldier’s eyes quickly darting about the tent to keep every man in his vision as he brought his sword into a defensive stance.

For all his pride and rage, he was ready to die with a sword in hand, rather than buckle to his knees and beg. Heller's eyes flicked to the Young Griffon, but the distance between then was too far for the Solarian to cut down the Grand Captain.

For all his pride and rage…it was still a shame, for even with six swords to Heller's one, the men shrank from their old commander's gaze, dripping with burning contempt. Neither Fynn nor Salar could hope to inspire such fear in the men - neither had spent the years to cultivate and nurture such a reputation as the Black Sun, as men were wont to whisper of Heller.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” the Young Griffon allowed after a moment had passed. With a raise of his fingers, the swordsmen drew back a touch. Heller bent his head the Captain's way, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Surely the commander only spoke in jest - in such beautiful country, what man wouldn’t entertain the idea of trading his arms in for a small plot and a young, dark-haired maiden?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” chuckled Kassa. “But it was only a joke, surely?”

Silence. A chance to return from the precipice, an open hand over one with a sword. Heller examined the Young Griffon carefully, weighing his life and pride - and then there was the clinking of maille as the Solarian lowered his sword cautiously.

“Indeed, a jest…but you got one thing wrong, my Captain," spoke Heller cautiously as he sheathed his sword. Submission, at last. “I prefer my maidens blonde.”

Then the Solarian laughed, and it was only when the Young Griffon and Kassa joined him did the swordsmen laugh as well, though their laughter died quickly, and soon only a strange silence remained hanging over the pavilion. The feeling of relief was palpable, as was the confusion that followed. The Young Griffon gave the two lieutenants a nod, and with a glance between them Fynn and Salar left with a bow, followed by their men - though their shadows lingered across the tent’s walls. It had only been fortune's favor that they had come by with their original task, though all the better that they had to cow the Solarian into submission.

Heller seemed to have aged by a decade as he took the seat offered to him by Kassa, and the cup of wine the Young Griffon filled. The Solarian peered into the deep crimson as though searching for his own reflection, or perhaps for the loyalty of his men that was now the Young Griffon's - stolen by promises of land and titles over gold. After a while, Heller spoke with a mutter, his bravado fled, “You cannot take the north. Not with what men we have. Discipline can only take us so far when the enemy has five times our numbers."

“We needn’t face the entirety of the north,” the Young Griffon replied. He pushed forward a map of the Klyazmite lands, jabbing a finger at Gatchisk. “Aye, my father’s boyars can raise some ten-thousand men to their banners, but it will take them months to clench such numbers into a fist against us.

"The only men they can raise at once are their household guards and some freeriders, whose numbers are equal to ours…but from what a good friend has told me, the boyars are far more concerned with killing each other rather than any invaders that might darken their doors. Their ranks will be drained, their shields splintered, and their men run ragged by the time we take to the field. And with you at my side, they will snap like rotten twigs before your shieldwall and my cavalry charge, even as few as we are.”

The Solarian studied him carefully, swirling but not tasting the wine in hand before he reluctantly looked over the map, and the marching-paths the Grand Captain had traced. Yerkh, Balai, and Sviatarsk were the first targets, for they were plentiful in supplies and without great walls - settlements an army seasoned in the siege of great Yllahanan fortress-cities could take in a day. Once their east was secure, then a plunge deep into the lands west of the Cherech - Hlotopol for its grain, Sverkine for its cattle, Vyshkiv for its pastures and stables...and then at last, Gatchisk, his city, his crown, his throne.

The Solarian regarded the plan cautiously, but in his eyes the Young Griffon saw a glimmer of approval - this was not the plan of an impatient youth he saw, but a methodical dismantling of the principality, piece by piece. The Solarian's doubts grew less, and the Young Griffon saw his will for treachery and defiance bleed away as the commander of the Company's heavy foot realized he sat before an equal, not an usurping fool who stole away command in the heat of looming battle.

"And we will not fight this whole war alone...for not all of the boyars have forgotten their liege's heir," spoke the Young Griffon. "If we strike hard and fast, the lords, magisters, and common folk whose lands burn at the hands of their rebelling kin will see us arriving with victory and salvation in hand, and the freeholders will flock to our banners if we show them strength. By the time we bring what rebels trouble my feeble father into line and march on Gatchisk for my throne, we will not be two-thousand, but five, perhaps six."

He jabbed at each of the settlements in turn, those he had known well. "I would have axes from the woodsmen of Mykoshad, whose boyar's son was willing to enter into exile with me had it not been for his father. I would have bowmen from the river-town of Teplodarsk, where they were once willing to go to war with Belnopyl over my banishment. Pikes from Rzhychach, where men speak of the Old Griffon's weakness, and bemoan the loss of their prince who would have made Gatchisk strong...perhaps I could even bind the horsemen from the Baskords to our cause, if their khan's ears prove open."

The Solarian drank from his cup, and looked to the Grand Captain with probing curiosity in his eyes. “And who is this friend of yours who speaks of these lands and these folk, waiting for their prince?”

“Whilst you were sick, I had my outriders scouting the borders,” explained Kassa with a grin. “They saw nothing but fire and ash - but from the plains they snatched a fellow riding a Khormchak steed hard for the south, and with a fascinating tale to tell. The Captain was to speak with him more with Fynn and Salar before…well…you."

“Send him in.” The Young Griffon let his voice carry beyond the pavilion. Fynn held the tent flap aloft as his ragged charge limped inside, still wearing ill-fitted clothes covered in blood and ash. Beneath his rags he was deathly thin, covered with bruises and small cuts left unattended - and the stench of sweat and blood that rose off of him made him seem more a corpse than a man. Still, the medics of the Company had pulled him from the brink of death, and the wretch from Gatchisk went to one knee before the Young Griffon with a pained grimace.

“M’lord, I’m at your service, now and always," he spoke with a mumble. "I served the Old Griffon's father once in battle, and I would serve you the same, m'lord. Whatever you ask of me, I am in your debt."

“Then rise,” said the Young Griffon. “Introduce yourself to my Solarian friend, kinsman, and tell him what you told me. He might well be your lord in time."

The northerner kept his eyes low to the ground as he rose up shakily to face Heller, his nose wrinkled at the man’s stench.

“My name’s Rudin, m’lord. Rudin of Yerkh.”