The Spear of Destiny

by Slawomir Rapala

chapter 2 of 5

The Wolf and the Sheep

Fires were lit deep in the forests of Nekrya as the thugs gathered in the evening, drinking, gambling, and sharing out the loot. Some were already drunk on the heavy Nekryan wine and had dressed themselves in the rich garments that they had found in the merchant wagons.

Heavy gold chains adorned their muscular, bull-like necks, making them look awkward and out of place. Jewels glittered on their thick-boned fingers as they toasted their commander long into the night. Their loud, hoarse voices carried through the forest as they sang in his honor, as they drank and gambled their shares, betting and losing fortunes on a careless toss of dice, secure in the knowledge that within another few days they would gather the gold again, either by gambling it back from their comrades or by ravaging the countryside and the rich caravans that traveled through.

Hidden from the eyes of the civilized world, these ruthless men, outcasts and rejects not one of whom was destined to lead a peaceful and law-abiding existence, lived amidst merry songs, amidst fun and games, and with no responsibilities except to themselves and their leader, and with no honor to keep. They quenched their thirst with wine and steadied their crazed minds with the crimson color of the blood they spilled.

Aezubah watched his comrades from beneath a distant tree, where he rested away from the fires, hidden in the shadows of the night. A jug of wine lay beside him and he reached for it from time to time, but was careful not to drink so much so as to slip into a false sense of security and fall asleep before the others did.

Though he had commanded them for almost a year now and was respected and feared for his strong arm, keen intellect, cruelty, and ability to wield a sword, Aezubah had never forgotten that he kept company with thieves, rapists, and murderers. They were dangerous men whose base instincts took over often enough. They believed in nothing, not even the gods and they were easily prompted to act out the most terrifying deeds, the thought of which curdled the blood of most men. They were men whose lost souls were blackened by senseless indulgence and whose hands were stained with the blood of the innocent.

Aezubah was not like them. He was a warrior amidst thugs, a wolf amidst sheep, a vengeful demon amidst common cutthroats. They lived for the day and worried not about tomorrow, least of all the afterlife in which they did not believe. Since their sins were confined to this life, they were free to commit the most horrible acts without fear of punishment other than the executioner’s sword.

Aezubah believed in the gods, because he had seen their faces and had heard their voices often enough amidst his travels through distant and half-forgotten lands.

He had glimpsed their solemn faces chiseled into the suffering features of fellow men.

He had heard their voices in the cries of soldiers dying on battlefields while yet another senseless campaign raged on.

He heard the gods in the cries of orphaned children who scrambled over piles of bloodied corpses in search of their parents.

He had met their cruel eyes in the twisted and pained features of women defiled and left for dead.

Aezubah believed in the gods just as he believed in the earth, the sky, the cool afternoon breeze, the scorching sun, the rustling of the leaves, and the roar of the lion.

He hated them.

He wished with all his heart that once, only once, he might meet them face to face and look into their immortal eyes, which had never reflected anything but contempt for mankind. And after gazing into their eyes, he wished to sink his blade into their immortal hearts and watch their features change for the first time.

He wanted their eyes to glaze over with fear and their faces to twist in pain, that same pain that they brought to millions around the earth. Let them experience death, let them experience pain and suffering. Let the prayers be silenced, let the gods pay homage to all those who died. Let them cower back in fear. Let them be human.

Aezubah shook his head, feeling the wine rushing through his veins and quickening the pace of his heart. His comrades’ voices became distant, as if coming from behind a thick wall.

He rubbed his eyes. Shadows danced before him, twisting and turning, taking on the most incredible shapes as he looked on, dazed and drunk. In an effort to regain some composure, Aezubah reached for the trunk of the tree against which he leaned and helped himself to his feet.

He tossed the empty jug into the darkness and stumbled forward, entering the circle of light. “Comrades!” his voice thundered over the laughter and the songs. The thugs greeted their leader with a loud cheer and raised their cups, toasting him once again. They drank to his health and his prosperity, and bowed before the strength and the quickness of his stealthy blade.

“Comrades!” Aezubah struggled to find his voice. He spread his arms in a fatherly gesture. “Let me speak, comrades!”

The voices slowly grew quiet and the rowdiness ceased as the thugs settled to hear their leader’s words. Jugs of wine were passed around, cups were filled. The wild boar that thus far roasted over the fire was taken down, meat was cut and passed around as well.

Aezubah looked on and smiled, feeling the wine racing along with his blood. He stood proud and tall in the middle of a circle of Nekryan cutthroats, a foreigner, a soldier, a Captain. They looked at him with awe.

”Comrades!” he repeated once more.

“Hear, hear!” some answered.

“We have much to celebrate tonight,” Aezubah raised the cup that someone had handed him and looked over the rugged faces of the Nekryans. “The loot was plentiful, we have more gold than ever before, more gold to spend on good food, strong wine, and beautiful women!”

Drunken cheers rose up to the dark sky again as the thugs toasted their leader and each other. Fries blazed and sparks shot up, almost touching the branches that formed a low roof over their heads.

Aezubah silenced the men by raising his arm. “Today we celebrate,” he repeated. “But tomorrow we return to serious matters.” He stopped to see the effect his words had on the thugs. They quieted down and shifted uneasily.

“Diovinius, King of Nekrya, has declared war on us. He wants the merchants to grow rich and fat; he wants his cities to be flooded with Northern goods. He wants to spoil his subjects with gold chains and satin garments!”

Aezubah’s slightly slurred words were aimed to stir his men, and that they did. The thugs shifted uncomfortably, they reached for their weapons upon hearing the name of the hated King, they wolfed the wine down and threw the cups into the fire.

Yes, the Nekryan Lion was a thorn in their sides, much as they were in his.

He declared them enemies of state and placed high rewards on their heads.

Because of him they were hunted like savage beasts. It was his fault that they hid in the forests, that they were forced to roam Nekrya with no place to call home.

His gold and his hatred for them and their kind resulted in every Nekryan, merchant, peasant, or soldier hating and fearing them.

They were forced to beware all people, for fear of being struck with a treacherous blow when they turned their backs.

They lived in the forests, they suffered heat and cold, rain and drought, hunger and thirst, while the King grew rich by taxing of merchants, while he grew fat with the foreign and exotic plates that they brought.

The bandits snarled and bared their teeth in a drunken frenzy of hatred and thirst for blood as Aezubah painted the picture of the King before their eyes. Himself, he cared little for the man and used his image only to stir the passions of his cutthroats and give them a reason other than greed to follow him into battle.

Aezubah cared little for kings and rulers, monarchs and warlords as long as they stayed out of his path. He held them in no greater esteem than he would a wretched peasant and would just as easily cut their throats if they wronged him.

In his cold and manipulative mind, however, Aezubah saw Diovinius as an opportunity, a chance for him to stir his thugs and urge them to commit the most terrible deeds, acts unimaginable to common folk.

“The King hates us,” he thundered, peering into the bloodshot and frantic eyes of his comrades who rose to their feet, snarling and beating their chests in agitation, unsheathing their swords and raising naked blades to the sky. They pushed and shoved one another in an attempt to stifle the passions stirred by the image of the hated ruler of Nekrya. “He hates us and wants us dead! But we will not be led to death like sheep to a slaughter-house!”

“No!” dozens of drunk voices responded.

“We will show him that we are soldiers! That we are free men who live not by his laws, but by our own! That we are not subject to his whims, that we will not be governed by a tyrant!”

The wine they had drunk blinded the men, and they roared and thundered hateful and obscene shouts into the darkness. Their shadows danced against the silent wall of the trees that circled them. Their passions were ignited, and they would not hesitate now before anything that their leader would command them to do.

“But comrades, but...” his voice broke through the rowdy and drunken cheers. “If we are to defeat the King, we must show discipline!”

Aezubah slowly began to pace around the fire, taking time to gaze into the eyes of his men. “We must show discipline like that of the King’s army!” he continued, his hand now resting on the hilt of his long, double-edged sword that hung low on his belt in a simple leather sheath. “We must show restraint if we are to match his army’s strength and skill!”

Aezubah halted behind one of the cutthroats and studied him for a moment. In one hand the man held a full jug of wine and in the other a long hunting knife with a large portion of meat dangling from its end. Fat dripped down his chin as he sank his strong teeth in it. Wine poured down the sides of his mouth and down his beard, as he put the jug to his lips. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and bellowed with pleasure, echoing the crazed shouts of his comrades.

Aezubah stared at the thug with disgust. A drunken pig, he thought, unable to control himself, a slave to excess and senseless indulgence. Quicker than thought, Aezubah’s hand unsheathed the sword and raised it over the thug’s exposed head. The blade fell quicker still and tore into the skull of the poor wretch. Blood, brains and bits of bone splattered over the faces of those nearest to him. They jumped to their feet shouting in surprise and frustration, while the man slowly sank to the ground, bowing his mutilated head and resting his torn forehead against his murderer’s feet.

Aezubah calmly pulled the blade out of the corpse and looked at the suddenly quiet band of thieves, rapists, and murderers. He could never allow them to forget that he was the wolf and that they were the sheep. “Disciplined soldiers win wars, not drunken and gluttonous fools,” he proclaimed as he pushed the blade back into the sheath.

He looked over the faces of men in search of any threatening or menacing signs, but found none. The wretches were slaves to excess and could not muster the strength to stand against the ruthlessness of one man. They could not withstand his might or the icy currents of his blood.

“Celebrate tonight, but remember: tomorrow you will be soldiers again,” Aezubah added as he turned and stepped back into the shadows.

Proceed to chapter 3...