The Chronicles: Notomol Ch. 01

I cannot quite explain what it is that compels me to write about Notomol. There is something about this man that draws me to him, like metal shavings to a lodestone. I hang on his every word, few as they are. Perhaps their scarcity makes them all the more valuable. His bearing, his every gesture - everything about him is a source of endless fascination to me.

Notomol is not a person that one comes to know either easily or intimately. He makes a tremendous impression upon others, yet does not seem to exert himself at all to do so. In fact, he seems entirely unaware of this phenomenon. His actions and his words, so far as I can tell, are guided by impulses I cannot identify, or else by some code of behaviour which I do not recognize.

I should caution my reader at this point: there is nothing sexual in my attraction to Notomol. I have no such interest in my own gender, and a healthy predilection for females. Nor am I the only one among us who is fascinated by him. We have been here less than a month, yet he is already among the acknowledged leaders - and that without any attempt on his part to advance or assert himself.

Notomol is frequently the last to give his opinion on any subject - yet his words weigh heavily in our discussions. When he agrees with the tone and direction of the conversation, then the matter is considered settled; but should he demur from the general consensus, then many will swiftly change their opinions. Even old Tumay, our instructor, seems to pay more attention to Notomol than to anyone else among us.

Some there are who react negatively to Notomol: I believe that they are simply jealous of his influence. Or perhaps they are unsettled by a man who knows his own mind. The only person who seems not to care at all about this question is Notomol himself. This modesty, or lack of self-consciousness is intriguing, especially given all of his other qualities.

Physically, he is signally un-prepossessing: his reddish-blonde hair hangs to his shoulders (Notomol believes that an enemy could take hold of braids or a pony-tail). He is neither particularly tall, nor heavily muscled. His complexion is tanned, his eyes of a cloudy blue. But Notomol's appeal, to me, is centred upon his bearing. There is something about the way he carries himself which suggests confidence. He is apparently comfortable with his surroundings, and with himself.

I have noticed, on more than one occasion, that he seems distracted, as if he were pre-occupied with weightier matters than the trivial debates and petty concerns so dear to our companions. But Notomol is instantly engaged the moment that danger threatens. This ability to be utterly apart, and yet completely alert also fascinates me.

It is precisely by comparison with our comrades that Notomol so conspicuously stands out. Dubek, for instance, thinks of nothing but plump thighs and heaving bosoms. He prattles on about the women he has known as if they were so much cattle. Terasol Nelkan can see no further than the next jug of the Izumyrian wine he so covets. Heras Koymil is a puffed-up braggart, who misses no opportunity to remind us all of his important connections at the Ducal court. Imre never ceases his attempts to ingratiate himself with all and sundry.

It is not my intention to portray my fellow Guardsmen in a negative light, even if I appear to have done so. They are supposed to be the flower of Hvadi youth. If a few fail to meet the most exalted standards, this in no way detracts from the quality of the majority. Notomol, to my mind, exemplifies the qualities we should all be striving to display. But this alone is not the reason I intend to write about him.

We live in trying times. There are few great men among us anymore. The first Borna was a giant among men; his son and namesake had feet of clay, and the present Voivode (our Duke, if you prefer) inspires little confidence.

Notomol believes that we will face a major challenge very soon; the likelihood that the Izumyrians will attempt to invade our lands is always there, but Notomol is almost certain that they will come. If this proves to be true, he will stand revealed as something of a prophet. Yet this is not why I will write about him.

It is, instead, something unique, and almost peculiar in his expression that I find so engrossing. There is some mystery, some unknown quantity about him which I find frustrating, and yet riveting. To say that he piques my curiosity does justice neither to the quality of the man, nor to the depth of my interest.

I will learn more about Notomol. I am no guslar, to embroider and create. I shall simply record his deeds and his words, so that you can decide for yourself if I was fortunate enough to be close to one of the truly exceptional individuals of this era.

Should I be killed, I fear that my record will be lost, for I doubt that any of my comrades will wish to continue it.

And I doubt that Dubek could.

***

There were some among us who were more... vocal. The dominant group - or the loudest, anyway - were mostly from Hvad town. They were the most uninhibited, and the most confident - even if I didn't always understand what they were talking about.

- "Alyra? That hog? Are you blind?" said Heras Koymil, with a sneer. "She must be the second ugliest woman in all of Hvad!"

- "Only the second?" asked Dubek. He was a burly fellow, presently propped up against a log that several others were using as a seat.

- "Well... there has to be an uglier wench somewhere in the Duchy." Koymil grinned as his sally was met with a chorus of laughter and jeers.

- "You wouldn't understand." said Terasol Nelkan, a dark-haired dandy. He was from a wealthy family in Adarion, but spent much of his time in Hvad town. He waved a hand, vaguely, in Koymil's direction. "Poetry and Romance are obviously beyond you both."

- "Her father owns the Boatmen tavern." said another of the men from Hvad town.

- "There's her secret!" laughed Koymil.

- "Sure as shit isn't her personality!" laughed Dubek.

Of all the Guardsmen in our company, Dubek was the most physically intimidating. He had powerful shoulders, and long, thick arms. His dark hair was swept back, to reveal a broad forehead, with powerful brow ridges. That feature - along with his habit of leaning forward - tended to leave his eyes partly concealed, as if in shadow.

I wouldn't have dared to test myself in a fight with him, with fists, or with weapons - unless it was a bow, and then preferably at a considerable range.

Terasol Nelkan, seated next to Dubek, had no such fears. He closed his eyes, and slowly raised one hand - and then one finger.

Most of the assembled men seemed to enjoy that gesture more than they had the argument that preceded it. I was confused; Motekin, next to me, was frowning.

I'd been wool-gathering; I'd missed part of the discussion. But now Heras Koymil was holding forth once again.

He liked to strike a poise, did Heras Koymil. He had long blonde hair, and a neatly-trimmed mustache. He also wore more jewelry than any man I'd ever met.

- "No, honestly." he said. "I think that female warriors would be a great idea. Guardswomen. I could really use a Guardswoman, right about now." Koymil accompanied this statement with an unsubtle thrust of his hips.

Several of the others laughed. I waited for someone else to answer him - to correct him. A moment later, though, I realized that no one was going to. Then I heard Notomol's voice, right next to me.

- "I don't think that they would be for your use, Koymil. And they would be women with weapons - you might want to be careful about how you approached them."

There was silence for a moment. Heras Koymil didn't have a clever remark at the ready. I really don't think that he knew what to make of Notomol. None of his friends leapt to his defence, either - until Terasol Nelkan chimed in.

- "It's all academic, in any case." he said, in his slow drawl. "Women warriors are a myth. A tale told by the guslars."

- "Wait - are you suggesting that the guslars lie?"

To my surprise, the speaker this time was right behind me: Motekin.

Terasol Nelkan waved a hand in dismissal.

- "Poetic licence. Embellishment. Exaggeration. Call it what you will."

- "I don't think so." said Motekin. "Is there a man here who hasn't heard the song 'Borna's Bucket'? When the assassins came for Ljudevit - Borna's Hand - the first warriors who came to his aid were Nanaidh, Durra and Siret - all women."

Clearly, he wasn't the only one who knew the song. A few of the others were nodding as they remembered the words to 'Borna's Bucket'.

"Brave Nanaidh, Fiery Durra the NoseBreaker, and Swift Siret." said Notomol. He had the words slightly wrong - or maybe that was the version they sang in Stonje.

- "It's a story, Notomol." said Heras Koymil. "A story."

I don't know why that angered me. I also don't know why I surged to my feet.

- "The guslar's name was Imants." I said. "And Nanaidh was the first woman made a Hospodar. Borna appointed her. Borna the first. I know this for a fact, because, my Hospodar is her grandson."

No one said anything. Was it because it was me? A boy who'd rarely intruded into anyone's conversation before now? The silence stretched on, for a moment. I made another leap, even further into the breach.

"There were female warriors in Borna's army. Berit was the first, and we still honour her memory. Payl was an Uplander chieftain, and she brought her druzhina, her warband, to fight for Borna. They were all women."

I ran out of words - at about the same moment that I seemed to run out of courage. I could see most of the members of our company staring at me. I subsided, a little awkwardly. Then I sat down again.

- "Well said, Kolasovets." said Notomol. He put his hand on my shoulder.

***

Entry 2, Summer 937

Four days have passed since Notomol's curious remarks and Kolasovets' uncharacteristic outburst. Four days of unrelieved boredom and tedious duties. I have blisters on my blisters.

Tumay is an exacting taskmaster who tolerates no shirking, however trivial or onerous the duties he assigns us. I believe that he bears us some kind of grudge - though for what reason I cannot even begin to imagine. The work he has us performing would be beneath the dignity of the commonest drudges.

In the meantime, the personalities of my comrades have become more distinct. No longer are they merely a medley of faces and voices, a collection of impressions.

Dubek is a greater lout than I could ever have believed possible. Terasol Nelkan conceals a fairly shrewd mind behind the blurry facade of the dilettante which he wears so well. Heras Koymil, I have discovered, is nothing but a pathetic parasite. He feeds on the attention (I am sure that he would call it adulation) of the more susceptible among us - he somehow manages to convince them that they should take upon themselves the duties assigned to him. Imre is one of these fools. His efforts to ingratiate himself with absolutely everyone continue to irk me to no end.

Notomol, for his part, has said very little. My curiosity only grows.

***

It was unusually warm and humid. There was very little wind. The mosquitoes were out in force, but they were merely annoying. It was the horseflies that got our attention. Standard weather and conditions for Adarion in the early summer, I was told. We learned firsthand that it's virtually impossible to ignore a horsefly while it takes a chunk of flesh out of your neck.

After a few painful bites, it's also difficult to stand motionless, or to carry on working while two or three of the little predators fly about your head. Men waved their arms, slapped themselves - and cursed. Most of us sported little trails of blood on our skin.

Every day, Tumay set us all to work, chopping wood, cooking, or some other tasks related to maintaining our camp. At least four men were always on watch, down by the river. The rest were training. Tumay had two experienced bowmen helping him; today they were exercising roughly half of the Guardsmen in archery.

But on this day, instead of having us practice at the butts, Tumay called out our names.

- "Notomol. Kolasovets. Motekin. With me. Bring those axes."

Tumay had black hair streaked with grey, and a grey beard streaked with black. I wondered why he didn't shave it; did he wish to appear older? Or perhaps he believed that we would take him more seriously if he had a beard.

He was our instructor. I would have respected him if he was clean-shaven, or bald, so long as he knew his business - which he most certainly did.

He led us into a stand of trees.

- "Fell those two." he said, to Motekin and me. "Then shear off the branches."

Tumay then led Notomol a little further away. Notomol carried an axe, expecting to chop wood, but it seemed that our instructor had an axe of his own to grind. He stopped a certain distance away from Motekin and me - but not quite out of earshot.

"Do you know why Borna created the Guardsmen?" Tumay asked.

- "Sir?"

- "Do you?"

Motekin stood motionless. I at least pretended to shear off some of the lower branches, as quietly as I could.

- "To watch the river. To create a reserve of trained fighters. And to foster friendships between men from all over Hvad." said Notomol.

- "Yes. All of those are true. But he also wanted his warriors to learn how to use a bow. Borna himself was skilled with a sword, and the long knife. He knew how to use a shield, too. But he was also one of the few in his druzhina who was proficient with a bow. He never had enough archers."

Notomol didn't reply. Tumay wanted to make a point here - and he hadn't reached it yet. My partner was a very good archer. Modesty is commendable, but it doesn't mean that we should pretend to be less than we are.

- "You, though - you're coming at it backwards." said Tumay. "You can shoot a bow. That's good. But you show signs of leadership, Notomol. That means that you might have to stand in the front line of battle one day."

Notomol merely frowned, and remained silent.

"Sword and shield, Notomol. Or axe, or even long knife. You have to master them. You can't rely on a bow alone. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"It might be raining heavily, boy. What can you do with a wet bowstring? Or what if you're fighting in close country? Or if the enemy catch you unawares, and you're at close quarters before you're ready?"

"There might also be a time when you have to lead a company into battle. Will you send them ahead, while you stay back - with your bow?"

That final comment, with the added emphasis on the last three words, told me a great deal. Tumay thought that Notomol could be a leader of men, but he didn't think much of archery. Real leaders, in his opinion, led from the front, with sword and shield.

As far as I knew, Notomol had never handled a sword or a shield until he'd come to the Guardsmen's camp. Did Tumay know that? Or did he think that this was some sort of failing on my partner's part? He had finished talking, though; he's said his piece. Now he was waiting for Notomol to answer.

- "I think I understand, Master Tumay." said the redhead. "I'll work harder with sword and shield."

The old warrior took a good long look at him. Then he nodded.

- "See that you do."

***

We trained hard. The practice swords were heavy, but I worked with them until my wrists ached. The training shield was even heavier, and very awkward. Tumay had taught us that the shield was more than our primary defence - it could also be used as a weapon. I understood the point he was making, but it would take a lot more work - and a lot more strength in my arms - before these things became second nature for me.

Tumay saw us at it every day, whenever we weren't on guard duty. He never said anything, and he glanced in my direction only once. But he did nod when he thought that Notomol was making progress.

We suffered through three straight days of rain after that. Enormous blue-black clouds took up residence over the river. Everyone was soaked through, and foul moods seemed to be the order of the day. Dry wood became increasingly difficult to find. I wore both of my bowstrings under my clothes, trying to keep them dry.

At the end of that third day, Notomol and I were assigned guard duty at the river. It would be a long, cold, uncomfortable night for us. We wrapped ourselves in our cloaks, and trudged down to the riverside.

Two men from Yelsa, Imre and Gadas, shared the duty with us. They would be posted a few hundred yards downstream, while Notomol and I watched the dock where the ferry landed.

There had always been an inn where the ferry came in, we were told. The ferryman, Kortas, crewed the boat with his two sons. Meanwhile, his wife, their daughter and daughter-in-law ran the inn.

Legend had it that this inn was the most over-priced in all of Hvad, that the ale they served was largely sheep-piss, and that their homemade brandy was composed of snake venom and crushed toadstools.

Captain Tumay had let us know, in no uncertain terms, that the inn and its taproom were off-limits to Guardsmen. I don't know if he meant to protect us from the adulterated liquors, or to protect the ferryman's womenfolk from us.

I wasn't even remotely tempted. Having no money made it all the easier. But several of the Hvad townsmen claimed that they'd tried out the beverages. They bragged about it - and suggested that they had flirted with the women. If Tumay heard any of these tales, he gave no sign.

The rain let up before we reached the river. The dock was unoccupied: Kortas and his sons, with the ferry, were on the far side of the river. They had a small house there, apparently, where they could hunker down for the night, rather than making the return journey without paying passengers.

We nodded to Imre and Gadas, as they went off towards their position. They'd be largely exposed to the elements. Notomol and I, though, would be able to find partial shelter from the rain if we stuck to the southern or western edge of the inn building.

It was our duty to relieve the pair on guard. Except that we couldn't find them.

They were inside the inn.

It was Dubek and Heras Koymil, two of the men from Hvad town. They were seated at a table, with four empty (or half-empty) tankards in front of them. The ferryman's daughter-in-law was smiling at something one of them had just said.

- "Ha! Our relief is here!" said Heras Koymil. "And none too soon!"

Notomol didn't answer immediately. I just looked at them: Koymil, with his long blonde hair and excessive jewelry, Dubek and his narrowed eyes, under that massive forehead and those beetling brows.

- "We'll be outside." said Notomol. "On guard."

He turned on his heel, and left the inn. I followed. I didn't say a word, because he seemed to be in no mood to talk.

A few moments later, Dubek and Heras Koymil stepped outside. Koymil began to explain himself.

- "Look, it was pouring rain. We couldn't see three feet in front of our faces - there was no point standing outside, getting soaked, when we couldn't see a thing anyway."

- "Your duty is over, as far as I'm concerned." said Notomol. "You can return to camp."

Dubek stepped closer. I could smell the ale on him from three feet away.

- "You disapprove?" he growled.

Notomol looked him in the eye. "Doesn't really matter what we think, does it?"

- "That's right. It doesn't."

He glared at Notomol a little longer; he didn't even bother acknowledging me. My partner didn't blink. Once you start to back away from people like Dubek, it's hard to stop. It was the same with my father; better to face him at once than to postpone the punishment. It was always worse that way.