The Heart of the World

4. A m******e Of Gumiren

Chapter 4

A m******e Of Gumiren

There was a time when Parfyon Krivoshey of Nebesta would have been exhilarated at seeing an enemy army march straight at him. But no more. All he could think of now was the inevitable outcome: the bodies of pale-faced boys strewn around the field of battle. A sowing that would never reap a harvest.

That enemy army from the city-state of Negoda must have known the outcome as soon as it saw Nebesta’s warriors blocking their way across the valley. The fools. They had come in force down the nearly sheer walls of a natural amphitheater, never stopping for a moment. Down and down they came, an ever-increasing mass of men, until there was a roiling cauldron of spear-tips in the glen. Behind them—a wall of rock. Ahead of them, hidden among the trees—all of Nebesta’s strength in muster, the most disciplined army left in the Three Lands, seasoned by five years of uninterrupted victory. They had no chance.

Parfyon used to feel the deep thrill of that kind of desperate valor, the sense of longing that only men with bared swords in their hands can feel. But what was valorous in this? Two armies, set for slaughter, yet both sides had the same skin, the same pale eyes, the same flaxen hair. Both sides bore the same ancient, tattered banners of the same deities, whose protection was nothing short of a fantasy now. Perhaps there were even brothers on opposite sides. And for what? To satisfy the power-lust of rival princelings? There was no one left who could unite the cities and stop the bloodshed.

“Parfyon, a moment.” The voice was raspy, quiet, but commanded like the crack of a whip.

“Yes, sir,” said Parfyon. “Nothing wrong with my men, I hope?”

Yarpolk Dolgoruk was the most powerful man in Nebesta. The Dolgoruki had done much to keep together what remained of Nebesta’s people after the Gumiren invasion. More importantly, he was father to the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure about your decision to place the spearmen at the front,” Yarpolk said, “but no matter. This is not a seasoned foe we’re facing. Only Negodi would be foolish enough to ignore such an obvious trap.”

Parfyon saw no reason to answer. Yarpolk would make it clear soon enough what he wanted from him.

“Parfyon,” he said, his voice almost gentle, though the broken vulture-nose made any gentleness in the voice a caricature. “You know I have not looked favorably upon your suit for my Alienne. It is not merely that she is my only daughter.” He looked at Parfyon in a way calculated to remind him that the fair Alienne was as far above his kind as an eagle is above a mosquito. “Neither is it your bloodline, though it is hardly as ancient or pure as ours.”

He was mocking Parfyon. All the Dolgoruki knew well enough that the Krivosheys had been no more than drudges for generations. “Sir, you doubt my valor, is that it?”

Yarpolk smiled crookedly and scratched the thick red beard growing in a tuft from under his chin. “Well, since you put it so bluntly, yes, I do.”

“What must I do to change your mind? I tell you now that it will take much more than your disapproval to prevent my marrying your daughter. I intend to have her.”

“Ha! If boldness in words meant prowess in war…” He looked out over the ranks, brows furrowed in concentration. “Very well. I will give you the chance.”

Parfyon had not expected him to agree so readily. It deflated him, knocking him off course like a river-ship whose mainsail drooped for lack of wind. Yarpolk grabbed Parfyon’s arm by the elbow and led him—none too gently—to the cover of a circle of aspens. They stood outside of earshot of anyone in the camp, but he still lowered his voice like a conspirator in a parley.

How I hate the Dolgoruk stink of politics. It was more suited to the Veche than to the battlefield. Still, he would have to learn to stomach it for the sake of the fair Alienne.

“Not many know this yet,” Yarpolk rasped, “but Nebesta’s reconstruction is complete.”

That could not be possible. “Sir, do you take me for a child?”

Yarpolk squinted in irritation. “Parfyon, I speak to you as an equal, though you may consider yourself on probation. There are Powers in the world willing to aid Nebesta. They have done much to earn our trust already. One of their preliminary gifts has been a rebuilt New Nebesta. There is to be a Veche of Choosing very soon. Do you understand? We will be choosing, for the first time in hundreds of years, our own ruler. I intend to be there to see it.”

So, you mean to grab the reins of power, leaving your army behind? Foolish. “That is good news, sir.”

Yarpolk scowled, obviously hearing how little Parfyon believed him. “You think you deserve Alienne?” he said. “Prove it. I leave the command of the entire Nebesti army to you. My generals will not mutter too much. After all, it’s only the Negodi we’re fighting.”

Parfyon’s own command. The exhilaration was swift and unexpected, though something intangible left a shadow over the enjoyment. Yarpolk’s smile revealed more than he intended, perhaps. Some insinuation poisoned the space between his words. Did he suggest that fighting the pitiful Negodi would be more difficult than expected, or was there something else?

“You will be expected to minimize our casualties, of course. Considering the advantage we have in ground, they should not be significant in any case. What shall we say? Limit the deaths to a hundred, and the fair Alienne is yours.”

Was this the trading-block? He spoke of his only daughter as one does of horseflesh.

“Sir, you overestimate the Negodi. We will have no more than fifty deaths.” Parfyon hoped Yarpolk wouldn’t sense the bravado behind the words.

Yarpolk smiled, but the smile stopped at the corners of his mouth, not reflecting in the eyes. The skin curdled at the back of Parfyon’s neck.

“Good. Make it so,” he said.

An hour later, all the generals had assembled in Yarpolk’s tent, which was raised on a slight incline, giving a good view of the lines. Parfyon stood outside until such time as he would be presented to them as their new commander. The ranks of soldiers were pristine, barely moving, even though the call to battle would not sound for a while yet. It was a perfect chessboard before Parfyon. The black squares were commoner-spearmen, their spear-tips smaller versions of their peaked helmets. The white squares were either bowmen, their bows taller than their short, squat bodies, or sword-and-shielders, faces hidden behind faceplates wrought in the shapes of monsters from the darkest of legends. The mounted elite, the Sheloma—what few remained after the Gumiren’s ravages—held heavy hammers and maces. Their ragged line formed the rear of the chessboard, but their nonchalance was a ruse—these would be the warriors to strike the death-blow to the enemy.

Though Parfyon had initially regretted the battle, now that the pieces were at his disposal, his mind entered a new awareness. Already in his inner eye he saw every unit in precise moves across the enemy’s side of the board. Bowmen should go here, directing their arrow-fire across at the vulnerable spots of the enemy’s flank—over there. Spears moving ever forward, impassive as pawns, but far deadlier. Sword-and-shielders maneuvering the board in strange patterns, a rook and a knight combined, wreaking havoc wherever the enemy expected them least, their face-guards as much a weapon as their teardrop shields, sharpened at the point, and their double-edged steel. Then the queen—the elite mounted Sheloma—waiting until the board was in seeming chaos, no side the clear winner, to begin picking off the enemy, one square after another. It could all be done in less than two hours.

All the fatigue, all the reticence was gone. Had he felt regret for the coming deaths of the Negodi? Had he seen similarities in their appearance to Nebesti? How foolish of him. No, their features were angled, a clear sign of inbreeding with wandering nomad tribes. Their hair was straw to Nebesti flowing gold. And their banners, he now saw, had images of dark deities of whom it was not fitting to speak: mermaids and vila and changers. It would be a pleasure to see them burn.

“Parfyon, they are at your disposal,” said Yarpolk, as he bent down to exit the tent.

“I will not fail you, or them, sir.”

Yarpolk’s look was queer. There was an inordinate amount of genuine emotion there, completely unfitting to his face or his person. Was it regret?

“See that you do not, Parfyon,” he said. “I need hardly tell you how failure will be rewarded by the new knyaz of Nebesta.” His smile was too smug. Parfyon had a sudden desire to spit in his face, but he contained himself.

Yarpolk’s horse already twitched with the excitement of the coming ride. As he mounted, he turned the horse sharply to face Parfyon, just close enough that Parfyon had to jump back to avoid being struck by bucking hooves. Yarpolk rode off without saying another word, not looking back.

At that moment, Parfyon swore that he would make them all pay, all the old guard who thought they controlled the strings that pulled the world into action, striding on the backs of better men who died in the field of battle for their sakes. Parfyon bent down to enter the council of war, his thoughts as dark as the inside of the tent.

The men facing Parfyon were, to a man, furious. Most of them were grey-beards, men seasoned in war, bearing scars as proudly as ancient family swords. The only two young men were already famed for their deeds in the last war. Sviatopluk the Bold was a commoner who had killed twenty Gumiren in a skirmish, saving two hundred women and children from certain slaughter. His hatred of all non-Nebesti was legendary. Ulik was Yarpolk’s only surviving son and was already more respected than his father after he endured unspeakable tortures at the hands of a Tiverna princeling. He had managed to kill his torturer and still escape alive. For a reason Parfyon never understood, Ulik hated Parfyon even more than Sviatopluk hated all non-Nebesti.

Parfyon realized the battle against Negoda was nothing—the more serious hurdle must be faced before the battle even began. A particular glint in Ulik’s eye suggested Parfyon might not survive the war council, much less the battle.

They all stood silent, tense, waiting to pounce on the first error in Parfyon’s words or actions. How was he supposed to command the respect of these warriors?

“Well,” said Parfyon, failing miserably to sound older than his mere twenty years, “How like the Nebesti to assign a pup to lead the wolf pack, eh?”

It worked better than Parfyon expected. The atmosphere in the room lifted, like the release of rain on a humid day, though no one laughed yet. Sviatopluk rolled his eyes but held his peace. Reluctantly, Parfyon forced himself to look at Ulik, knowing he would be the deciding factor in this game. Parfyon decided to be bold, hoping to put the much larger man on the defensive.

“Ulik, my soon-to-be brother, you will lead the Sheloma.”

“No. I will lead your proud ass to the nearest pile of cow dung.” He said it without a hint of mockery, as though he were reciting a scouting report to a superior. Parfyon had once been struck in the gut by a kicking horse as a child. This was worse. His face must have reflected his shock, because Sviatopluk grimaced unnaturally, mimicking Parfyon, before spitting at his feet. Parfyon clenched his fists, trying to retain some measure of decorum.

“I think horse dung would be more appropriate for a Sheloma, my friend,” Parfyon said with measured, calm tone, belying his inner desire to rip Ulik’s long braid from above his absurdly shaved temples.

A few of the old men laughed, relaxing more of the tension. Ulik bristled and charged at Parfyon like an enraged bear, stopping a mere foot-span from impact. He was a full head taller than Parfyon. Only by sheer force of will did Parfyon’s hands not go up in self-defense. Ulik still guffawed.

“It makes no difference to me,” he said, baring his teeth. The canines were sharper than Parfyon had ever seen in a man. “Cow or horse—they both smell as foul as your lineage, you low-born son of a b***h. Should make you feel right at home, seeing how your mother birthed you in that filth.”

Everything went silent. Parfyon’s heart beat like a series of thunderclaps. Hatred spread through his body as fast as strong wine. His right hand shot out, almost outside of his control, and grabbed Ulik by the throat, so that Parfyon could feel the sinews twitching underneath. With his left, he grabbed Ulik’s belt and lifted him off the ground. He hurtled Ulik against the tent wall.

The entire tent collapsed under Ulik’s weight, but Parfyon had anticipated that. His knife was in his hand as the canvas came down, and he sliced it open and jumped out. Ulik’s form struggled under the canvas. Jumping on him, Parfyon pummeled him with his fist and the butt end of his knife until the canvas grew red underneath. Someone knocked Parfyon on his back, and a black shape, so fast it was a blur, proceeded to beat the pulp out of him.

Somehow, Parfyon managed to keep hold of his knife and turn it point-down. Just as he thought the world would spin out of control, he jabbed through unimpeded into his attacker’s side. The man grunted, annoyed. It was Sviatopluk. Parfyon rolled out from under Sviatopluk and stabbed at him just as he was about to strike again. Parfyon caught Sviatopluk’s fist with his knife, and he bellowed like a pig being butchered.

Parfyon’s left eye could see nothing, and he could put no weight on his right foot. He pushed himself up with his left hand, still tense in anticipation of the next attack. The old men encircled him, half of them with swords bared, the other half still trying to pull themselves out of the ripped canvas. Ulik staggered up, a bloody hunk of meat on two legs. He pulled out his greatsword and lifted it to come at Parfyon, but he had little control over his body. Parfyon deflected the blow with a knife alone, held in his left, and pushed him aside. Ulik landed on a pile of dung next to his own horse.

Turning around, ready to take on the entire armed old guard, Parfyon stopped dead in his tracks. They were laughing. Two of them stood over Sviatopluk, pinning him down and taking away his weapons. Parfyon had won.

“I am Nebesti. I lead the Nebesti way,” Parfyon said, spitting. Blood came out, mingled with the phlegm. As his fury subsided, the pain came rolling in like a fresh tide. Dark spots danced before his eyes, and he felt sick to his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his right shoulder and shoved it back in place, hearing a loud pop. Relief flooded him, just enough to gather his wits.

“Tie up these brawlers,” he waved at the two bloody warriors. “We’ll let the Veche deal with them.”

Eyes widened all around Parfyon. They had not known about the calling of the Veche of Choosing. Good.

Two or three of the old guard immediately responded to Parfyon’s command. He had done it; they were following his lead. The exhilaration was almost enough to soften the pain, but it kept coming over him in fiercer and fiercer waves. His left eye seemed sewed shut, and now his right leg was having difficulty supporting his full weight. Something crunched in his ankle, shooting knives of pain upward toward his back. He almost retched.

The humming in his head pounded more loudly. Not now, he thought, not when I have won everything. At all costs, I must stay alert.

But the humming was not in his head. It was coming from the lines. To Parfyon’s horror, Nebesta’s perfect lines were wavering. The front was already rushing ahead blindly, engaging the Negodi head-on.

“What in all the Heights,” he cried. “Baryan!” he pointed at a thin voyevoda. “Find out what is happening! Go, all of you! Reform the lines. We can’t attack blindly like this, not even if they’re Negodi.”

Before they could respond, ox-horns blared, but not from the field before Parfyon. It was behind the army. All the old guard cried out in dismay.

He could hardly see anything, even with his one good eye, but it seemed that behind the lines, appearing out of thin air, another army was rushing straight at the Nebesti flank. They were hemmed in, as were the pitiful Negodi.

“Who is that?” Parfyon yelled above the commotion. “By all that is holy in this world! Do we not have lookouts covering our flank? What is this madness?”

No one answered, though many would not look Parfyon in the eye. He shook his head and sighed.

“I cannot make out their banners. Taverni? Bskavi? Someone, tell me what is going on!”

“You fool,” muttered Ulik, still on the ground. “You have no understanding of what is about to happen to you. Run. If you have any sense left, run away!” He laughed like a madman. Gooseflesh crept up the back of Parfyon’s neck.

“They’re Gumiren,” said one of the generals. “Powers help and keep us. Gumiren!”

The news was no less incredible than the dead walking among the living. Vasyllia, once Mother of all Cities, had closed itself off from the rest of the cities after the Gumiren invasion. No one had seen so much as a Vasylli scout or a Gumir bowman in the last five years. In that span, rumor transformed Vasyllia into the walking nightmare, an abyss of every possible human depravity and evil. Could Yarpolk have made a pact with the denizens of hell?

“To me!” Parfyon shouted, trying to throw back the waves of pain buffeting him. “Hear me, Nebesta, for I have news wondrous to your ears! Our city is rebuilt, and a Veche of Choosing has been announced. If you win today, you will live to see a Nebesti knyaz chosen! Who knows? Maybe it will be one of you dogs!”

Everyone laughed.

At that balm of a sound, Parfyon turned to look at the unexpected charge of Gumiren. He only had a few minutes to make his plans, for they were all mounted and bearing down on the Nebesti with frantic speed. But it didn’t take an expert eye to see that these were not the disciplined troops that had destroyed Nebesta and ravaged the Three Lands twenty years ago. These were ragged refugees, their banners no more than fluttering shreds, and even from this distance, he saw emptiness in their eyes.

They are fleeing Vasyllia, Parfyon realized with wonder. Why?

“Baryan, Tarmund, take your divisions and wheel them out and about those Gumiren. Engage carefully but seek to outflank. They’ll charge the center, hoping to break through. Look at them. They’re not angling for a fight. They’re running away from Vasyllia.”

Baryan smiled, and his eyes seemed tinged with red. “It’ll be like culling salmon against a waterfall.”

“I’ll take the brunt of their attack here in the center,” said Parfyon, baring his sword. “Go.”

The mass of Gumiren fell on the center of the Nebesti lines like a swarm of ants escaping a house on fire. Many of the Gumiren had no shields, and some were even bereft of swords. For a moment, Parfyon even felt pity for them. But only for a moment.

A quiet calm descended on him. No pain, no chaotic rush of warriors, no thoughts of strategy, only a thin, high scream—the sound of his sisters burning alive on the fateful day that Nebesta the Old had been burned to the ground by these same Gumiren twenty years ago. Parfyon looked up beyond the line of attackers and saw, far above them in the valley wall, a circle of fire-tipped cherry trees growing on what seemed to be the bare cliff-side of the valley. But that was impossible. Above the pink blossoms, suspended in mid-air as though nailed to the sky, an eagle hovered, waiting to plunge to earth. Parfyon’s pain receded, his mind cleared, and his foot held his weight again. He was surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears.

Then—chaos. Utter, brilliant chaos, like the music of a thousand ox-horns without a hand to direct them. It was glorious for a few minutes, then a kind of under-consciousness took over—the mind of sword and shield. Sounds faded. Still images replaced smoothly-flowing reality—a splash of red, the empty stare of death in a fallen soldier. In the rare respite, when the mind stilled, Parfyon saw that his men were cutting through the Gumiren lines like fresh butter. If butter could bleed, that is. Parfyon was drenched in red. The pincer movement of the Nebesti Sheloma had reached the far end of the Gumiren lines, ready to encircle them in a grip of sure death. Parfyon lost himself again in the chaos as he hurled a spear, pinning two Gumiren to the ground in a single throw.

When Parfyon’s mind stilled, he stood in the midst of fallen Gumiren. The battle raged around him, but it was silent where he stood: the eye of the storm. Parfyon turned to see the front attacking the Negodi. His men had nearly reached the wall of the amphitheater of stone. They were slaughtering the Negodi like lambs.

He turned back to see three men surrounded him. They were neither Negodi nor Gumiren.

Ulik rushed at Parfyon, his greatsword raised in a killing stroke. Behind Parfyon, Sviatopluk rushed in to stab him in the back. A third warrior hung back to finish the job. Parfyon choked back the anger but had no time for anything but the parry and counter-thrust. All three were wounded, but the war-wind made gods of them all. Exhilaration filled Parfyon as he rained blows backward and forward like fire-tipped hailstones. He retreated step by step until he slipped on a fallen Gumir. As he slipped, one of his attackers’ swords caught at his hand. When he looked to find it, there was nothing but a spray of blood. Both of his attackers jumped on him like famished lynxes, and the third was not far behind. Parfyon feinted, and Ulik overextended. With a vicious backhand of the shortsword in his left hand, he hacked at the man’s neck. The sword lodged between his neck and shoulder. Ulik’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell. Sviatopluk stopped, disgust plain in his face. The third warrior ran away.

Parfyon pushed himself up, trying to ignore the pain. He looked at Sviatopluk. “Are you a dog or a man, Sviatopluk? Choose for yourself. Don’t let those noble sons of whores dictate anything to you.”

Sviatopluk took a step back, still looking at Ulik. Parfyon quickly glanced down and wished he hadn’t.

“You’re an animal,” hissed Sviatopluk. He had tears in his eyes. Before Parfyon realized what he was doing, Sviatopluk turned the blade of his own sword upward and leaned it down against the earth. With a final look of despair at the body of Ulik, he fell on his own sword.

Then the pain in his hand reared itself up like a wyrm breathing fire, and Parfyon collapsed. The darkness took him.