A Short Story from Esztergom

His name was Kiran. He had been a member of the Black Regiments for as long as he could remember. He was a good soldier. One who could be relied on to do his duty, whether on guard at the keep or holding the line against a charging enemy. His reliability had enabled him to rise to a sergeant-at-arms, in command of half a fournie. His propensity for drinking and gambling kept him at that rank. But he was content, respected amongst his peers, and good at his work. Few could ask for more. Seventeen years into his twenty-year service, he was looking to retire soon, with land to farm and a lifetime pension. He’d find a lovely fat wife, get a loyal dog, and raise the next generation of soldiers for the Ban.

That was his plan. Now he lay in a thicket of thorns, bleeding and bruised. His breath was short, and he felt pain in the right lung when inhaling. His whole right side hurt as well. He knew a rib or two was broken. The worst pain was in his shoulder, and he knew, from experience, he was bleeding beneath his armor and gambeson. He assumed the blow that caused that wound had thrown him from his horse into this thicket. He closed his eyes. The day’s events slowly unfurled in his mind, short flickers of memory that he pieced into a story.

His fournie, the collection of bow and swordsmen supporting a man-of-war, in this case Commander Turul, were heading to the Huntsman’s cottage, for what purpose he was not told, but it must have been important. The Ground Steward, Merek, and Barot, the woman commander, the fierce devil she was, had joined them, along with Dag, the woodrunner lad who was quite good at playing cut-the-pie, the knife-throwing game.

They were attacked, and at this thought, he sat up quickly to reach for his seax. As he did, pain shot through his back shoulder, and he suppressed a cry, for he knew not if the enemy was still about. The men always made jokes about their training motto, to suffer in silence, but now, he was more than grateful for having that instilled in him. The shoulder throbbed with pain. The blow had struck deep, and moving his right arm was impossible.

He sat in the thicket, motionless, worried that his movements would attract attention. He listened, damn his breathing, it was so loud. But he heard no sound other than his own. He waited a bit longer. When he was satisfied he was alone, he pushed himself up with his left arm, gritting his teeth against the pain. He rolled onto his knees and began to crawl from the brush, the thorns and vines holding him back. He tugged, again and again, but they would not yield. The thick vine that caught within his chainmail would not release.

Finally, in a fit of anger and frustration, he used all his strength, not caring if all the world heard him. With a mighty pull, he released himself, falling forward in the process. The injured shoulder drove into the ground, and he could not suppress his cry. His mind went momentarily black. When he opened his eyes again, he was face-first in the snow but free of the thicket. With great effort and much grunting, he rose to one knee and slowly stood.

The sun was setting, leaving enough light for him to see the carnage that was the remains of the fournie. The men lay in disarray, throats sliced on some, heads caved in on others, not a one alive. He found the Ground Steward near the front of what had been the fournie’s defensive row, a huge gaping hole in his chest, half his face crushed. Turul, his commander, lay nearby, intact save a clean hole in the side of his helm from which brain tissue leaked, the result of the pointed end of a warhammer. A dead horse, it must be the Ground Steward’s, for it was larger than any of the others, lay a short distance from their bodies. He walked the battlefield in circles, each one larger than before. He accounted for all the men, save Barot and the boy.

He walked back to the center of the dead, where the fournie, as trained, had split into two rows. It was his fortune, as a sergeant-at-arms, to have ridden out with Tas to cover their rear flank. He most likely would not have survived had he been in the ranks. Instead, he would have stood before Biro, the Judge of the Dead, to have a record of his days recounted and his fate in the afterlife determined.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, the plume billowing away from him in the cold, he thought he should pray for his comrades. He was not overly religious. He honored the gods on their selected days and festivals, but not daily, as some men would. He lowered himself to one knee. He dared not drop to both, lest he not have the strength to rise. He held his arms outward, palms turned up. He would sing the song of the dead, the Krishalder, to Mara, the goddess of death, to afford safe passage to the slain to reach Biro’s Hall and their judgment. He would beseech Perun, the god of war, to give him the strength to carry on and avenge their deaths. He closed his eyes and began to chant softly. Suddenly, he stopped and opened his eyes wide. He staggered to his feet, hand on the hilt of the seax that dangled off his belt, breath coming short and fast. It was Perun that had led the attack on them.

Perun, the god of war. Their war god. Protector of Esztergom’s armies, honored through blood and death. His effigy stood in the regiment’s open court, towering over a dais of armor stripped from vanquished foes. For whom the sacrificial fire burned night and day. It was his warhammer that had felled Turul and Merek.

He felt as if he could not breathe. The Vallas were fickle and petty at times. There was no doubting this, it was told in their tales. But the Esztergomians were their people. Unlike the god-cursed Anartes, who worshipped them in fear, or the god-touched Tuden, who supplicated to retain their gifts, Esztergom worshipped out of duty, honor, and love. Of all supplicants, to attack members of the Black Regiment, who served and protected the Ban, divine ruler of Esztergom, emissary to the Vallas. There was darkness behind this attack.

He spun, scanning the tree line surrounding the meadow. He looked towards where the men had been facing. There, the small buttress at the meadow's edge, Perun sat on a horse as black as spilled ink. Not just Perun, there was another, a goddess, in white deerskin and powdered face, on a white horse, pure as snow. She had come down off the buttress, singing in a strange tongue. She stopped before the Ground Steward and spoke to him. She said a name. Curse his fogged brain, he could not remember. He did remember as she spoke, Merek let out a small laugh. What did he say, "you’ll kill us anyway"…or something alike. Lada, that’s who the other was. Lada, goddess of spring and renewal. What had they done to anger the gods?

He turned to where he had fallen in the thorns. The memories flitted into his mind like autumn’s first snow, bright, fleeting, melting before they touched the ground. Another rider had appeared at the far edge of the meadow, holding a long spear, a round shield, and riding a black horse. For some reason, they wanted the boy, Dagmar. That is why Merek had laughed. They offered safe passage in exchange for him. Merek knew the gods would not honor their word. One could sense their lust for blood in their attire, in their tone. Then it had been quick. The other rider was also a god, but Kiran knew not which. In the blink of an eye, the god's spear had left his hand and buried itself in Tas' chest, sending him spiraling off his mount. The soldier was dead before he hit the ground. He had charged the god, or at least thought he had. What transpired escaped him. Why had he not been slain like the others? Where were Barot and Dagmar? Had they escaped, or were they captured?

A neigh and snort from one of the horses broke him from his thought. Several stood in the meadow, eating and banding against the incoming cold. He walked over and gathered them by the reins. His horse was not amongst them. He took Turul's and tied the other horses to its saddle.

He gazed out at the dead. Already, a grouping of crows had gathered in a nearby white oak, eyeing the feast before them. Their caws and cackles and the blood scent would draw more scavengers. He could not move the slain with only one arm, let alone lift them on a horse. He grabbed a shield to protect his weakened side and gathered a weapon or identifying item from each. He took the Ground Steward’s warhammer as his weapon. He was awful with his left hand in combat, but it was better than nothing. It had taken him precious time to gather the weapons, mementos, and horses, but he knew the wolves and other scavengers would descend on the bodies by nightfall. The weapons would honor and account for the fournie until their remains could be retrieved.

With difficulty, he mounted Turul's horse and began the ride back to Esztergom, pulling his cloak tight about him. Exhausted from the effort, he squeezed his knees on the horse's side. As it began to move, he turned it toward Esztergom. The other horses tethered to the pommel obediently followed. He could feel his strength weakening, the loss of blood and exhaustion taking their toll. The cold air would take more, and he knew from experience that his chances of safely returning to the castle were slim. Satisfied that the horses would make their way to the castle, he gave in to his weariness, lowered his head onto his chest, and let the horse's motion lull him to sleep.

Kiran opened his eyes. He had slumped over, his head resting on the horse's neck. His breathing came in short, labored efforts, the broken ribs and damaged lung on his right side screaming in pain with each gasp. With each step the horse took, the weapons laced onto the saddle made a rhythmic clatter, wood and metal banging against each other. He scanned the surrounding forest warily, fearful the sound would draw attention, but he sensed no danger. The shoulder wound no longer hurt, but he felt this was probably more from the cold and blood loss rather than any sign of healing.

He was unsure of where he was, having lost track of distance and time. Left without directions, the horse had decided which path to take home. He guessed he was on a seldom-used trail higher on the mountain shoulder than the main track. This was fine. The two would soon merge.

He gazed skyward. The sun had set some time ago, the stars were out, and the temperature had dropped. He looked down at the ground. He was leaving a blood trail in the snow. This realization produced a hollow pang in his stomach. There was little time to make the castle before a wolf pack picked up his scent. The horse plodded on, and Kiran flickered between conscious and unconscious. After one such cycle, something woke him. His natural sense, honed from being a soldier for a long time, had alerted him to a change even while in slumber. He turned his head to the side. It took all his strength to do so. But he could smell smoke, the wood fires of Low Town. He gave a weak smile. With effort and some pain, he squeezed the mount in the flanks. The horse began to canter. Each hoof strike on the ground felt like spikes were thrust into his side. He gripped the pommel tightly, fearing he would pass out again.

From the woods behind came a howl. Then another. And another. A pack had found his scent and was hunting him. They were not far behind. The horses heard the wolves as well and snorted and whinnied. They wanted, as their instinct told them, to run. But Kiran would not let them. He held the mare back, fearful that if they went any faster, he would succumb to the pain and lose consciousness again. Time seemed to stand still. Then he heard a twig snap behind him.

He could not turn but heard the pack trotting through the brush on either side, growling and snapping at the air. The horses, the four lashed to the pommel and his, were in a panic. They pulled and tugged at the ropes holding them. So much that Kiran feared they would drag the saddle sideways and dismount him.

The wolves were cautious. They slithered through the underbrush on either side of this small herd. But they also smelled the fires from Low Town, the large den where men lived, the beast that killed wolf and deer alike. They were content to play a waiting game. They could sense the herd’s fear and smell the blood. One was wounded. They growled and snapped as they tightened the noose from each side. The closer the pack came, the more fear coursed through the horses. Soon, it would be unbearable, and the fear would turn to panic. The herd would bolt. When it did, the wounded one would be easily separated and taken down.

Kiran did not feel fear or panic, only anger. He did not want to go out this way, scavenged by wolves. He untied the reins of the other horses from the pommel and let them go, holding his mount back. They bolted in the direction of Esztergom. Kiran’s horse, trained for battle, was fearful of the wolves but waited for a command from its rider. It snorted and neighed but did not follow the others. The pack did not take the bait. Here was the wounded herd member, the easy prey, and here they stayed. One wolf calmly walked onto the trail behind Kiran and kept pace with his mare. The rest continued to slither and leap through the underbrush. None broke ranks. Their pack was disciplined. They patiently waited for their leader, the one on the trail, to signal the attack.

At this point, the woodland trail merged with the track that led to the barbican, the reinforced gatehouse entrance to Low Town. He could see the torches on the wall, perhaps eight hundred paces away. Here, the woods had been cleared back twenty paces on each side to prevent bandits and other things from having an easy ambush. Sensing the familiar way that led to home and receiving no command from its rider, Kiran's horse finally panicked and, with a loud whinny, broke into a gallop.

Kiran cried out, white heat seared into his brain as the wounded shoulder and broken ribs were jostled about. He jammed his good arm under the pommel to remain in the saddle and, with a cry, passed out. The horse came rushing out of the woods and into the open glade, racing for the gates of Low Town.

The wolf pack stopped at the edge of the woods. An open field would have been perfect for their coordinated hunt, but they, too, could see the walls of Esztergom and knew it meant danger. Kiran jostled in the saddle for a few paces past the cleared woods and, despite his efforts to wedge himself into the pommel, fell from the back of the horse with a thud, rolling into some tall grass by the path's edge.

The other horses had already made the gate and were whinnying and crying. There was confusion within, with yells of ‘Open the gate! Open the damn gate!’ only to be countered by ‘No, we don’t know whose out there!’

A torch was thrust over the side of the barbican, and heads peered down, ‘Those are Black Regiment horses!’ Followed by more cries of confusion, then 'I saw a rider fall, let me go, close the gate behind me!'

The last request was approved, and the gate slowly opened. A small group of soldiers stepped out with spears and shields at the ready. Two others came and gathered the horses, driving them into the barbican. A lone rider came out, torch in one hand and spear in the other.

The small group formed a shield wall as the gate closed behind them, making way for the rider to pass through. Someone said, 'I saw him fall as well, two hundred paces down the path yonder!'

The wolf pack's leader was not the largest wolf in the pack. But he was the fastest and most cunning. Each spring, a challenger always rose from the ranks, a fight for dominance. He did not have the brawn to win a one-on-one battle. What he had was speed and endurance. Each challenger suffered the same fate, worn down from his constant movement and running circles around them. When they were tired and breathless, he would drive in and attack their flanks, drawing blood in the thighs and back, weakening his opponent until he could go for the neck. Submission or death always followed.

The human had fallen, and the pack was near frenzy, anticipating meat in their empty stomachs. It had been six moons since they last killed any big game. The scent of the blood, the thrill of the hunt, reached into the ancient beginnings from which all wolves descended. First one, then another let out long, mournful howls, answered by others from the pack. A defiance to nature’s cruelty, hunger, cold, heat. The daily fight for survival. This was their forest. No unseen force could keep them from their dominion.

When he saw the human fall from the horse, he knew it would be an easy kill. It was already half dead. Human meat was foul, but the pack needed to eat. Food was survival. Still, the humans in the stone den warranted caution. He yipped instructions to the others. Remain hidden. They acknowledged in the wolves' barking and snarling language. Crouching low in the grass, he slowly made his way towards the fallen man. He was halfway to his prey when he stopped. The humans were coming out of their stone burrow, one on a horse. The wolf lowered himself into the grass as much as possible and stared intently at the human pack. The rider held a long, pointed stick, which scared the wolf. The man began to ride towards his fallen pack member.

The wolf knew he was fast, as fast as the deer of the forest and the rabbits of the field. He calculated that he could close the distance, grab the human, and drag it back, barking for the others to come and attack the man on the horse until they had their prey in the woods. He rose and charged towards the body with a snap and a growl. The rider saw him, and he kicked the horse into a gallop. The pack leaped from the woods, and cries of 'Wolves!' arose from the gate. When the rider charged, others shouted, 'Lanker no, you’ll be killed!'

But Lanker was young, strong, and a warrior who would not let a fellow soldier die because of his cowardice. He ignored the cries from his comrades and charged the wolf. It was of a medium size but quick. Lanker’s destrier was fast as well. Wolf and rider reached the body at the same time.

The wolf changed plans as the human did not seem to have one. He would use the same tactic he used with challengers: use his speed and keep distance until the rest of the pack arrived. Some could keep the horse and human at bay, while others helped drag the fallen one into the safety of the forest.

He circled the rider, darting to nip at the horse’s hooves. But this rider was equally good and kept the horse circling away from the wolf’s snapping jaws. He jabbed with his pointed stick to keep the wolf at bay. This was going on for too long. Where was the pack?

He quickly glanced over his shoulder to see where the pack was. He saw only empty fields. Then he heard the whizzing sound overhead. The small, pointed sticks humans could send through the air. He knew the pack had turned and left him. That glance was all Lanker needed. He leaped from his horse and thrust the spear at the wolf in the same motion. The wolf saw the attack at the last second and leapt out of the way of the spear point. The quickest wolf in the pack was not quick enough, though. The spear caught him on the flank. He let out a pained howl while he rolled away from the attacker and came up lame.

Snapping his teeth at the man on the ground, he could see more humans approaching on foot from the corner of his eye. He knew the end was near. Courage was always his trademark, and he would not go out without taking at least one with him. He growled and leapt at the man, who had recovered from his own leap and awaited the wolf’s attack on one knee.

When the wolf reached the high point of its leap, Lanker thrust the spear into the exposed underbelly, driving the point through the wolf’s chest and heart.

The beast landed on him, and they crashed into the snow and tall grass. Lanker fumbled for his seax as he lay beneath the wolf, but the wolf did not move. It made hard, labored breathing sounds, life slowly leaving it. The breath was hot on Lanker’s face.

The other soldiers descended upon it. As their pack would do to a wounded prey, they finished him. A spear was thrust into the neck, and the wolf’s story ended. Lanker sat up, turned his head, and looked at the limp wolf's body lying in the snow. He said a silent prayer, hoping the wolves had a Biro to judge them and a Tenth Kingdom to go to.

Men were pulling Lanker up. Others had rushed over to Kiran. Someone exclaimed they knew him. An order was shouted, 'Ring the bell!', and it was passed back to the barbican. A low, dull ringing spread out over Low Town. An answering peal came from the Old Town gate further up the mountain, and another from the barbican at the castle, high on the mountain pass. Torches and lanterns were lit as people rushed from their homes to see what danger was threatening them.

Sleds were rushed out, and Kiran was lashed on one. The sled was tied to a horse, and a heavy fur blanket thrown over him. The rider took off at a trot for the castle. The wolf’s body was placed on another sled. They tied it to Lanker’s horse.

The captain of the guard walked over to Lanker and looked at the wolf’s carcass, "It's yours, Lanker, you madman, you should be dead.” Lanker nodded, “What of the soldier?”

The captain sighed and shook his head. “Hard to say. He looked like he had lost a lot of blood and probably had some frostbite as well. We didn’t check his injuries, just rushed him up to the castle. The barber will examine him, if whoever attacked him couldn’t kill him, that sarde probably will. But those Black Regiment sots are tough bastards, so you never know.”

Lanker nodded and turned his gaze toward the castle where Kiran was taken. Lanker silently prayed to Mara, the goddess of the dead, to spare the soldier this evening.

The captain followed his gaze, then said, “You go up, head to the barracks. Let the commander know what happened. Clean yourself, you’ve got blood on your face and surcoat. Grab a hot bite, go to the tanner, and leave the wolf. He’ll gut and skin it for you. Then come back down.”

“Yes sire,” said Lanker, as the adrenaline left his body and weariness overcame him.

The captain turned to the rest of the men, “Now you sots, back inside, close the gate and bar it, archers on the hoarding, build up the fires in the braziers, if someone is coming to yank on Esztergom's cock they’ll find themselves getting shit on instead." The men let out a roar of laughter and headed back into the barbican. The bells pealed on into the night.