The Chronicles of Hvad Ch. 01

NOTE: If at any point you find the geography confusing, there is a MAP you can consult. It can be found at the very bottom of my author's page, under "Illustration Submissions". It hardly qualifies as 'erotic art', but that was the best option available.

*****

I will tell the truth.

I was with Borna from the very beginning. In fact, he chose me as his very first Hand[1], the day he turned sixteen. We had been friends from birth, you see.

- "Why him?" asked his father, the Hospodar[2]. He screwed up his face as he said it. "There are others who are stronger. Quicker, more agile. Better warriors."

- "Because Ljudevit[3] is bright." said Borna. "He is my friend, and I trust him with my life."

- "You think that will be enough?"

- "There are plenty of strong men, and good warriors. But a man I can trust is a precious commodity." answered his son. "And don't forget his brains: Ljudevit is one of the smartest people I know."

The Hospodar scowled, but let his son's choice stand. Even then, Borna was stubborn.

Is it any wonder that I followed Borna, when he said things like that? Of course, that comment about my brains didn't endear me to the other warriors. I took some abuse for that, I can tell you, and it wasn't just good-natured ribbing. I had to fight, several times - and I took my lumps.

But I knew then that I would follow him until I grew too old to watch his back, or died fighting.

Yes, I will tell you the truth. Even when it is not flattering to me, or to Borna.

*****

- "Something's up." I said, to Borna.

He followed the direction of my gaze, and caught sight of Dirayr, who was examining a horse's shoe. "You're right." he said. "We must be going somewhere."

It was a logical conclusion, if his father's retainer was picking out horses. I say horses, but in Hvad, our mounts are more akin to ponies. Unlike those great beasts the Izumyrians breed, ours aren't very big, and they're not particularly fast. But they're tireless. They can run a long way, carrying a man, even in armour. They'll carry a load of rocks, if that's what you want.

Doesn't pay to treat them as if their endurance is limitless, of course. But you get the point. They're small, sure-footed, and tough.

We don't fight on horseback, anyway. A horse is just to get you there faster. We dismount to fight, with spear and shield, axes and long knives. None of that high and mighty cavalry, like the Izumyrians.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't know anything of cavalry, or Izumyrians, at that point. It was the day our lives changed, and Borna started to become Borna. He was sharpening a knife with his whetstone - Borna was a great one for sharpening things. I sat beside him, scrubbing a stubborn rust spot off his byrnie[4].

A shadow fell across the work I was doing. It was Antras, Borna's older brother, stepping between me and the sun. If you think that it was accidental, then you didn't know Antras. This sort of petty annoyance was one of his favourite ways to pass the day.

Antras was the elder, by almost two years. He was considerably bigger than Borna, and four times as arrogant as anyone I had ever met. He wore his shirt of chain mail every day, pretending to be a great warrior - though everyone knew that his fighting experience was limited to sparring sessions.

Antras also believed himself to be handsome. To be fair, he was - in a rough-hewn sort of way. His looks had been slightly marred, or perhaps improved, by an angry scar near the corner of his left eye. Antras got that when he was 11.

He had been attempting to drown his 9 year old brother in the stream. Borna escaped his grasp long enough to seize a stick, and tried to plunge the jagged end into Antras' eye. He missed - by an inch and a half. When they were children, the wound had looked horrific. Now that he was a man grown, the scar just served to give Antras 'character'.

Since then, the brothers had tread warily around each other. Borna had me, as well, to watch his back. And Antras had chosen his own Hand. Khoren was a brute. A massive brute, to be exact. He kept the hair on his enormous square head close-cropped. His mouth was forever twisted in a permanent scowl. He was also a head taller than me, and outweighed me by thirty pounds. He was built like a bear, with a brain to match.

There were many more differences between the two brothers. Borna was fastidious, almost obsessed with cleanliness. He bathed regularly, and compelled me to do the same. It was an inexplicable habit he got from his mother, I suppose.

Antras, by contrast, was careless, almost slovenly. He left the care of his clothing and armour and weapons to others. The sheepskin cloak he wore looked dull, and a little tattered. He didn't take good care of it, and so it had lost its original lustre, after repeated washing.

Borna sweet-talked the girls. All of the girls. He dallied with quite a few, but he was kind and generous with all of them. Antras, on the other hand, thought that the girls should come to him. He was petty and made cutting remarks about any who didn't treat him the way he expected. What he expected was that they would lie down or bend over so that he could hump them.

Borna was clever and quick-thinking, but he would also listen to others - including me - and then mull over what was said. For example: Borna had grown his hair long, and tied it in a ponytail. One day, Mihran, his father's Hand, grabbed that ponytail and yanked the boy off his feet.

- "An enemy could take hold of that." growled Mihran. "Easily."

Borna was angry, but he wasn't stupid. Mihran was unquestionably the best warrior among us. Advice from him was tantamount to a message from on high. Borna immediately cut off the ponytail, and then shaved the sides of his head, for good measure. He insisted that I do the same.

- "It'll keep the lice out of your hair." he suggested.

- "Your hair, you mean. I got them from you." I replied.

The next day, though, Mihran frowned when he saw Borna's partially-shaven skull. "Thick hair can cushion a blow - especially under a helmet." he remarked.

Borna couldn't instantly grow his hair back, so he devised simple felt caps which we could wear under a helmet, as additional padding. They were itchy, and made us sweat - and we looked stupid - but he was quite proud of the idea. Especially when Mihran noted that the pads might have some merit.

Antras had immediately shaved the sides of his own head, and then claimed that the notion had been his all along. He sneered at Borna, and accused his 'little brother' of copying him. Borna was furious, and claimed that Antras had stolen his idea.

Mihran, of course, could have ended this posturing with a few words. But he didn't. He might not have wanted to intervene in a dispute between the brothers. Or perhaps he just didn't want to antagonize the boy who would one day succeed Gosdan as Hospodar. That struck me as very short-sighted. I didn't tell him so, though - Mihran would not have appreciated advice from me. No doubt he would have cuffed me for my presumption.

My point is this: the brothers were quite unlike, and bitter rivals. Antras was an asshole, and he was in the wrong more often than not. You will say that I am biased. Of course I am. But I will readily admit that Borna was not entirely blameless.

With Antras blocking my light, I had two choices: I could move, or wait for him to leave. I chose the second option. He would give up and go away when he saw that he wasn't irritating me as much as he'd hoped. Eventually.

- "Antras! Borna!" We heard Mihran's deep voice, calling from the steps of the great hall. He waved us over. Borna and I immediately put our work down. Antras strutted off ahead of us.

"Your father wants you." added Mihran, when we drew near.

All through my childhood, I believed that the great hall of Gosdan's steading was a massive building, fit for a great ruler. The central firepit was enormous; above it, there was a large opening in the roof to let the smoke escape.

Trestle tables lined both sides, with enough space for forty warriors. Wooden pegs had been hammered into the walls, to allow men to hang up wet sheepskins and cloaks, or to sling their shields against the wall.

During a feast, servants would remove the spears and axes: sharp weapons and heavy drinking do not mix well. The men would still have knives, of course, for eating - but knife fights are easier to break up than sword fights. Less lethal, too - sometimes.

At the end of the hall, on a raised platform, Gosdan could sit at his own table. Sometimes his sons sat there, or honoured guests. Our Hospodar was renowned for the quality as well as the quantity of meat and drink he provided. Generosity is a good thing, in a leader.

As we entered, Borna saw that Antras was passing to the right of the firepit. Automatically, then, we went to the left.

When we arrived at the head of the hall, it was to find that Antras had seized the central position, directly in front of their father. Borna could have stood beside his brother, but he hated having Antras looking down at him. So he stayed a little further to the left.

- "Come closer, Borna." said our Hospodar.

- "I am well enough here, Father."

Gosdan frowned. He was well aware of these trivial little games his sons played. But he pretended not to see them.

He leaned back in his chair, and struck a pose. Our Hospodar was not physically impressive. Gosdan was of average height, and slim build. He was always wrapped about with furs, which he believed made him look bigger. I suspected that they also kept him warm, because he was susceptible to chills.

He held a spear in one hand, and clutched the pommel of his sword with the other. His thin lips were tightly compressed. Gosdan liked to appear stern, and martial.

- "My sons," he began, "I have called you here today because I have news. Important news."

There was nothing odd about me hearing this exchange between father and son. There are no secrets between a man and his Hand. You can't keep your Lord safe if you aren't present. I went everywhere Borna did. That was why I stood two paces behind him now, listening to his conversation with his father. Likewise, Mihran stood beside Gosdan. Mihran had been the Hospodar's Hand for many years. He had mastered the skill of seeing everything, and hearing everything - but pretending that he did not. I was still working on that.

As a Hand, my main occupation was to watch Borna's back. I followed wherever he went. If he had to move his bowels, I waited nearby and kept watch while he did it. His armour and weapons were my concern, too. And his horse. Borna paid attention to those things, on his own, but essentially they were my responsibility.

- "Tomorrow," said Gosdan, "we leave on an important journey." He paused to let his words sink in.

- "Where?" asked Antras. "You haven't told us anything."

Their father did love his little secrets. "We are going ... to Asrava's steading."

Asrava was another Hospodar, though not quite as wealthy or as powerful. We did not have many dealings with him, except for the usual sheep and cattle raids, or settling debts when blood was spilled between the warriors on either side.

- "It is high time," continued Gosdan, "that you were married."

- "Who?' asked Antras.

- "Why?" said Borna, at almost the same time.

- "I have offered Asrava an alliance. A marriage offer. He has accepted - in principle. We will meet in person, to hammer out the details."

- "So who's getting married?" asked Antras, a little louder.

Gosdan had two sons, and two daughters - but the girls were only 11 and 8 years old. He had fathered nine children, with two wives, but only four of his offspring had survived. Asrava, for his part, had a son, named Mushtal, and two daughters.

- "That is what we are going to work out." said Gosdan. He seemed slightly annoyed. He probably had some sort of speech prepared, but his sons were spoiling it with their questions. "It all depends on Asrava. I made the original offer, which he has accepted. But we do not know yet, if he wants you, Antras, for his eldest - or Borna for the younger girl. Or both."

- "You're leaving the choice to him?" asked Borna. "Why?"

- "This is diplomacy, my son. Asrava's choice will tell me a great deal about how serious he is."

- "I don't understand. Why would you leave the choice to Asrava? And why are you seeking a marriage alliance at all?"

Gosdan touched his nose - a signal that what he was about to say was a secret. "I need Asrava's support. Manahir is failing."

Manahir was the Ban of Yeseriya, the Overlord of our province. He acted as Hospodar in his own area, but he had two more Hospodars subject to his authority - Gosdan and Asrava. Manahir had almost 100 warriors in his druzhina[5], plus a son and three strong grandsons to follow him.

But while the post of Hospodar was hereditary, the Banate was not. On the death of the incumbent, the province's warriors and land-holders would gather to elect a new man. It would not necessarily be Manahir's son, or one of his grandsons.

Borna's father could call on 50 fighting men, and the third Hospodar, Asrava, another 30. An alliance between the two, cemented by a marriage, could be decisive. They could swing a large number of the uncommitted to their side.

- "Manahir is always failing." said Borna.

- "I have it on good authority, this time." replied Gosdan. "He is not expected to last the winter. Do you see, now, why I need Asrava? And why you, Antras, must be on your best behavior? The man who cannot control himself is not worthy of having mastery over others. The same holds true for you, Borna."

- "I can behave." said Borna.

- "And hold your peace? Remember: Many perils come from talking too much."

I tried to control it, but the corner of my lip curled - as if of its own volition. Gosdan was full of these pithy sayings. In two years as Borna's hirdman, I had heard them over and over. 'Knowing how to hold one's tongue is a great virtue' was another of his favourites[6].

In other words: shut up.

- "I need you to be on your best behaviour, the day after tomorrow." said their father. "Both of you."

***

Asrava's steading was not that far away - less than two days' ride. A day and a half, really. We were in no great hurry.

Three things of note happened on our journey.

First, I counted our party. There were seventeen of us. Gosdan, his two sons, and the three Hands. Ten warriors. And the guslar.

A gusle, or gusla, is a long-necked, single stringed musical instrument, that looks like a lute. The sound box comes out of a single piece of maple, or chestnut, and is then covered with animal skin. The neck is long, and the head often intricately carved.

The gusle player, called a guslar, holds the instrument vertically, between his knees. The fingers of his left hand are held against the string - but he never presses the string to the neck of the instrument. A horsehair bow is pulled across it.

It produces a sharp, dramatic sound. They say that a gusle is extremely difficult to master. Apparently, people around Stonje use two strings, but I've never seen it.

While he plays, the guslar can sing, but most often, he recites an epic poem. We love heroic tales, and the old legends. Some of them are even true.

A guslar is an honoured guest in a Hospodar's steading, especially over the long winter months. Treat them generously, and they will sing of your largesse for years afterwards. But they never forget a bad turn, either. It's unwise to insult a guslar, unless you want your misdeeds immortalized in song.

Gosdan had taken on a young guslar, named Ansis. Borna and I referred to him as 'Teeth'. He had a mouthful of large, white teeth, which he showed off at every opportunity. He was always smiling, especially at the young women of our steading - which did not particularly endear him to the young men.

Teeth also liked to inject a note of humour into some of the tales he sang. It's true: not everything has to be deadly serious. But then again, there isn't always a funny side.

Ansis was young. After two months, we had heard every song and poem he knew. But still, Gosdan kept him on. Now we understood why. Our Hospodar was ambitious. If he was aiming at the Banate, having a guslar to sing his praises could only help.

- "Why bring the guslar?" I asked Borna. "Is it to show how generous he is? Does he think that Asrava's men will be impressed by his wealth?"

- "I don't know, Ljudevit. I wasn't even aware of this marriage plan until yesterday."

- "Or does your father expect the guslar to compose a song? The love song of Antras and Asrava's daughter?"

- "Ha! I can hear it already!"

- "I can, too." I said. "That's the problem!"

We passed several herders, with their flocks of sheep, or goats. Some of the more prosperous had cattle. Yeseriya is a land of forests, and gently rolling plains. The land is not particularly fertile. But the flocks and herds looked healthy. It had been a good year, so far.

Later that day, I asked Borna a more serious question. My parents were tremendously proud when Borna chose me to be his hand. My father, especially, gave me mountains of unsolicited advice.

- "You're there to listen." he told me. "Not to criticize. If he wants to bounce ideas off you, you shut up and let him. Don't be a smartass."

Good advice, I suppose, even if it sounded a lot like my father's frequent criticisms of me. I was more than ready to listen to Borna. Unfortunately, Gosdan's younger son was often close-mouthed. If it was a problem, he wouldn't tell me anything until he'd solved it himself.

Or, if he had a plan which involved me, he wouldn't say a word until it was too late to talk him out of it. That was why I'd taken to raising ideas with him - stringing the bow, if you like, rather than waiting for him.

- "Why only seventeen men?" I asked. "Why so few?"

- "You think we should make a greater show of force?" asked Borna.

- "Asrava has thirty warriors. Why wouldn't your father bring the same number? Or more?"

Borna didn't say anything. Some time later, though, he went over to ride alongside Gosdan. He came back almost immediately.

- "He says it's because Asrava's hall isn't big enough for so many. And because if we brought thirty men and thirty horses, we would empty Asrava's larder."

I didn't have to say anything more. We both knew that these were excuses. Gosdan's entire druzhina didn't have to fit into Asrava's hall. And if our host couldn't afford to feed us all for a day - which was unlikely - then Gosdan could have brought food and drink. What better way to display your wealth and generosity?

No, Gosdan was bending over backwards to accommodate Asrava's wishes. He really wanted this alliance.

The second thing of note about our journey was the weather. We departed in a morning mist, cold and damp. By mid-morning, the rain began.

At first, it was just an autumnal shower. But the rain gradually increased in intensity, until it became a steady downpour. And then a storm. A torrential downpour. We were lashed with sheets of water. There was no cover, no escaping it. Every bit of clothing we wore was thoroughly drenched.

My armpits were still mostly dry, I suppose. But the water ran down my face, and trickled in little rivulets under my wet clothing, down my back, and along the crack of my ass. The leather of my saddle was sodden, and the damp was spreading underneath me.