God Within Us

When the thin shafts of morning’s light shone through the gray clouds above, Rovetshi had become a town of corpses.

The fervor and euphoria of victory lasted all through the night, but when the morning light came to shine upon the slain, all joy turned to bitter ash in the mouths of the victors, if they could even be called such.

Vasilisa watched from the parapets of the Gravemarsh Keep as militiamen worked alongside the townsfolk to stack the dead, piling them beyond the walls of the town. The sucking pits and watery holes made digging proper graves impossible, and there were too few vessels remaining to give the fallen a burial in the old tradition by setting them upon flaming boats into the Cherech. And so the dead were piled in dreadful heaps, and where the marshy plains were once low and level Vasilisa now saw three great mounds, and a fourth being was being raised in the distance.

Below, the town was awash with hundreds, thousands of stories from those who survived - bits and pieces slowly came together of the desperate stand from last night, and already a legend was coming to life of the night the Gravemarsh turned loose its dead. And in the legend that was forming, the defiance of Vasilisa the Fair occupied imaginations and awe the most - when she had walked among the townsfolk in the early hours of the morning to help count the slain, she saw in many eyes a look of great wonder.

The feeling of their awestruck gazes had made her skin crawl in a manner that was new to her - she was used to being held in awe as a noble lady, but there was a difference in how they beheld her now. The folk of Rovetshi looked upon her as though she were more than a princess - they looked upon her as though she were a god.

Vasilisa the Fair made herself scarce in town as the morning wore on, preferring to watch from afar as the folk of Rovetshi worked to rebuild their shattered town. Most of the damage was confined to the outermost reaches of the town, near the gates and the docks where the dead men had crushed many shacks and buildings with their sheer, swelling mass when they surged through the streets. She saw many figures working along the fortified walls of the town, shoveling away debris and pulling the ruins of the great watchtower with dozens of ropes and a call of heave, ho!

The sight of the broken watchtower on its side brought a familiar tingle to her fingers - a memory of her power. Vasilisa flexed her hands, trying to bring to her mind’s eye the memory of that unseen, fell grasp, but no force came to her power.

It felt as though all her strength had fled once the morning had come…and when the slaughter had ceased. She recalled how electrifying the death had felt all around her, how intoxicating the scent and the noise had been as it swirled together into a horrifying dance - yet it had touched a part of her spirit she never knew existed before, and she had loved it. She had felt alive, and the power that flowed from her heart cleansed her spirit, washing away for a time all other woes and fears, and when it left she found herself yearning for it again, even as the other part of her soul felt only revulsion and horror.

A loud crash interrupted her study of her scarred hands - the ruins of the shattered watchtower were heaved from the battlements, and a ragged cheer came up from the laborers. Then the door to the battlements creaked open, and Tikhon's armored footsteps rang behind her.

“We’ve finished preparing your vessel, my lady,” the sergeant murmured. “We can set sail by the evening, if the waters are calm.”

She spared one final glance upon the ruined expanse of the town before turning to descend with Tikhon at her side. The halls of the keep were filled with the groans and feverish murmurs of the wounded, and in the dim light she passed by a druzhinnik nursing a soaked bandage on his brow, where an ax had split through his helm and nearly his head. The boy looked no older than sixteen, green as spring grass, but there was a new hardness in his gaze as he looked at Vasilisa and bowed his head as she passed by. The core of thirty druzhinniks who had bolstered the line against the tide of the undead were now reduced to a mere fifteen, and their ranks were dwindling slowly as some of those who had survived now succumbed to festering wounds dealt by rusted, diseased blades.

Yet there would soon be even fewer druzhinniks remaining to defend the keep, as Tikhon told her of the need for an armed escort.

“None of the militiamen will want to leave their town,” explained Tikhon. “As for druzhinniks, we owe our allegiance to the lord, not the land. And you impressed many into your service last night, if you would have them follow you.”

Vasilisa's brow furrowed in contemplation. "Their place should be defending their lord's people,” she insisted, her voice laced with determination.

“Their place should be defending their Grand Prince’s daughter,” countered Tikhon. His tone became grave as they entered the courtyard, almost empty save for a few stablehands. “I understand your concern for the defense of the town. But consider this - your safe arrival to Belnopyl will serve our people far better than a handful of warriors remaining at their post.”

The sergeant rummaged through a satchel slung across his chest, and retrieved a crumpled roll of parchment, hastily sealed with a smear of green-tinted wax. “You will carry word of the attack on Rovetshi. Your father has many more loyal men under his banner, and they might send us some of their own guards to bolster our numbers here. That is why you must live, and that is why I insist, my lady, that you take some seasoned men with you.”

He offered the letter to Vasilisa, waiting for a reply. After a moment of consideration, she accepted the letter. “Very well,” she spoke, her voice resolute. “Choose five druzhinniks, no more. If the rest would follow my command, then tell them they hold this keep in my name, and will answer to Lady Nesha of Yerkh in their Grand Princess’ stead.”

The widow of Yerkh had chosen to remain in the Gravemarsh Keep, exchanging the burden of leading peasants to safety for the burden of her grief. She would go no further - that much Vasilisa knew - and one part of her felt relieved at the prospect. The air between them had grown heavy with their weight of loss, and of words unspoken - what could she say to comfort Nesha? She could not think of anything to say, and whenever she passed by the boyar’s wife in the courtyard or in the halls of the keep she felt like a ghost, hoping to pass by unseen.

“The southern boyar’s wife?” questioned Tikhon with a raise of his eyebrow. “She is mad with grief, I would say.”

“She is still an able leader, able enough to shepard some twenty-odd peasants all the way from Balai to Rovetshi through a storm of ash without quarrel,” replied Vasilisa. After a pause, she added with a smile, “And of course, she has an able captain and magister to call upon for advice.”

Tikhon gave an uncertain smile, and beckoned her to follow him down to the docks. When they arrived, she saw the riverboat bobbed gently in the murky waters of the Cherech, its flat-bottomed hull laden with supplies for the journey north. Marmun stood by the edge of the water, directing the work of Khavel and Valishin as they loaded the last of the provisions neatly in the hold, while coils of rope and bundles of oars were secured on deck.

As she awaited the final preparations for her departure in the company of the Yerkh freeholders, Tikhon withdrew to the keep. When he returned, it was at the head of a small band of druzhinniks. Five - she knew them to be.

“Your escort, my lady,” began Tikhon with a step forward. “Among the finest sword-hands of the Gravemarsh Keep - or of those that remain.”

The first warrior to step forward lifted his veiled helmet to reveal a thin, narrow face marked on one side with a six-spoked wheel - the symbol of the Lightning-Lord. “Demyan, my lady. My sword is in your service, from now until the end of days - and may the crows take me for their sport if I fail.”

The druzhinnik gave her a bow of his head, and the others followed his example. Of the four behind him, Vasilisa saw they all appeared more junior than Demyan, touched lightly by age unlike their leader, whose hair was thin upon his head, and whose beard was more gray than brown.

“Our swords are yours, by Heaven and the Mother Earth,” they all intoned in unison, and then those behind Demyan gave their names.

“Oleg of Vodubruisk,” spoke one, his voice muffled behind a metal visor, but through the eye slits Vasilisa saw his blue eyes shone with awe. “Yours to command, always.”

The next druzhinnik to speak was the youngest - younger than herself, she guessed. “P-puh…Polynkin, my lady,” he stammered. “Of Rostonich.”

A rough slap across his back knocked the young druzhinnik’s half-helm askew, and all but one of the warriors chortled as the third druzhinnik strode forth, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Kirill of Denev, my lady,” he said with an easy smile. “I was fighting beneath the walls when you stopped the tower from crushing me to pulp. Pledging my sword would be an honor - even if I half-wonder you don’t need our lot…”

The last druzhinnik was lithe and short, and in the company of the other warriors looked almost a dwarf. Instead of heavy lamellar, Vasilisa saw the warrior wore a light shirt of green-tinged iron scales, and an open-faced helm that revealed a boyish face. When the warrior removed their helm however, a long, brown braid fell loose around their shoulders, and Vasilisa realized the last of her druzhinniks was a young woman.

“Austeja of the Vorodzhi people, my lady,” the warrior spoke lightly. “It is an honor to serve the She-Bear of the Pale City.”

Vasilisa tried to recall all she could of the Vorodzhi, who were among the last of the Wilders - folk that still lived the tribal ways of old, with chieftains and shamans paying tribute to the Klyazmite princes in exchange for peace. She remembered Mariana’s stories of how the bog-dwellers’ shamans had flooded the old Rovetshi woods and plains in the days of yore, and the rumors they dwelt in the darkest reaches of the marshes and feasted upon the flesh of drowned Klyazmites. There seemed nothing strange about the girl who knelt before her, save perhaps the strange title she foisted upon Vasilisa.

Demyan scowled. “Enough of the She-Bear nonsense, bolotnitsa. Speak in the way of civilized folk, or do not speak at all.”

Austeja rose and bowed her head apologetically, though Vasilisa saw a thin smile upon her face. “None know the tricks of the waters as well as I, my lady. I would be your shield and your guide along Cherech the Mighty, if you would have me.”

“I would,” Vasilisa replied, and she turned to the other warriors of her new band. “I accept you all into my service, war-brothers and sister. See me to Belnopyl’s walls, and I will be forever in your debt. It has been a long journey so far…too long, perhaps.”

“It will be all the swifter with good sword-hands at your side,” spoke Tikhon. He cast his eyes over to the riverboat, and saw it sat ready to depart with Marmun, Gastya, and the masons Khavel and Doru sitting by the oars. “And solid oarsmen, if those four should suffice.”

“We’ve come too far from home to sit back now, the way I see it,” quipped Marmun as he ran his hand across the back of his sweaty bald head. “I’ve nothing and no one waiting for me in the south - not anymore, at least.”

“And cousin and I are out of work,” said Doru with a pained wince as he puffed out his chest, scarred by the blade of a longaxe at Balai. “If Belnopyl was sacked, my lady, then you would need some masons, wouldn’t you?”

Vasilisa gave the freeholders an appreciative nod, and a smile. “We have all come far, and I farthest of all, even if it is on a journey home. If you will, then I shall take you as well, and you shall behold the Pale Walls and the Thousand Canals…if they remain unspoiled.”

Tikhon nodded. The day was growing longer. Already, the shafts of light streaming from the clouds marked that noon would soon be upon them. Already, there was a small crowd gathering about the docks, some hundred pairs of eyes watching - folk were whispering among themselves, their voices hushed with uncertainty as they saw her preparing to depart. But not all the whispers were kind, she sensed - there were those who feared that their princess meant to abandon them to whatever uncertain fate loomed over Rovetshi, and doubt would spread as a spark through kindling.

Before they departed, Vasilisa stood up to call to the crowd that had gathered by the riverbank. “Folk of Rovetshi!” rang her voice over the lapping of the waters and the creaking of the deck. “These bleak days which have come upon us have brought much ill to us all, but do not count my departure among those terrible misfortunes, for this is not a final farewell!”

A murmur of reassurance rippled through the crowd, the tension in the air easing slightly at her words.

“I vow to you all, by the honor of my line, I will carry word of the bravery of Rovetshi’s folk to the boyars of the north, and I will return with the might of the White City to guard your lands!” she proclaimed, her voice ringing out with conviction even she believed. “Just as Rovetshi has guarded the northern realms for many a year, so shall the north guard shield the folk of the Gravemarsh in these dark days! Mark this, I shall return, and Rovetshi will not fall!”

The crowd erupted into scattered cheers and applause, their fears momentarily forgotten in the face of their princess’ resolve. A cry of “Vasilisa! Vasilisa! Vasilisa the Fair!” came up from the crowd, and it swelled into a long, loud call that echoed after them as the riverboat was thrust by long poles and began to glide away from the shore.

Soon the town of Rovetshi seemed to be slipping backward, slowly disappearing into the low-hanging mists and high marsh grasses. One by one, the druzhinniks turned their faces away from the city and looked out towards the journey that lay before them - waters black and deep, and silver mists as far as the eye could see.

Vasilisa’s gaze lingered for a moment longer on the town, for silhouetted in the window of the highest tower of the Gravemarsh Keep, Vasilisa could just barely make out a woman’s figure. She felt she was being watched by a cold, broken spirit, but at the last before she turned her gaze away, it seemed Nesha had raised her arms in farewell. Vasilisa did not know whether the noblewoman of the south had given a cry of farewell, or a curse - the growing distance and the mist now swallowed any noise from the town.

At length, when the final silhouettes of the Gravemarsh Keep’s towers were fully faded from sight, Vasilisa turned her gaze forward to the north. To her home.