The Wolf and Adder

[North Timistania]

Chapter 1: Three sisters

'With visions burning in his mind Essalan led us to the great steppe, a paradise where the worthy would endure the harsh land for millennia. This savage land we watered with our spent blood, this proving ground we claimed with the bones of our dead. The clans sang his praises and he became more demi-god then mortal with each new telling. They named this new land Essalanea'

-The stone of Odoacer

Central Essalanea, 2019

Winter has come to the steppe, the sparse grasslands are frozen, the soil hardened until it is like bone. The carcasses of the dead line the wastes, predators peck uncaringly and tear at flesh and entrails that heat has long since abandoned. Death shadows everything with the arrival of the colder months, the beasts of the steppe grow ravenous and turn their hunger upon the children of Essalan or failing at that their own sick and young.

A wolf gnaws with crazed appetite at the guts of an overturned yak, so great is the hunger of the beast it refuses to run or acknowledge the three figures that pass by. These creatures are not wolf, their hairless flesh is wrapped in leather, fur and metal and they ride upon the backs of subservient beasts. These pale spectres wandering through the killing winds are human, the children of Essalan astride the plain their heroic forebear claimed so long ago.

These were no ordinary travellers, their layers of protective clothing concealed the markings and weapons of Kimbri warriors. They had left their heat drenched western holdings and journeyed east, a great gathering was about to occur and these three would add their mighty voices to the assembled clans.

Anegrette, eldest daughter-heir of Saskia* of Kimbri, rode at the front of the group, her brown hair bound up in braids and her face shielded from the elements by a thick bearskin cap. Her grey eyes gazed east, always further east. The winds bit into her flesh like ice lined fangs and the flecks of white frost made it near impossible to know which direction to take.

Upon seeing the wolf one of her party fire a rifle shot into the air, the feral beast tore a length of yak intestine free and fled with its gorey morsel firmly gripped between its jaws. The shooter dropped her hood to reveal a young woman in her early twenties, she was slight in figure and bore the same brown hair as Anegrette, but where Anegrette possessed eyes of deepest steel, this girl possessed warm brown orbs that gazed out at the world with a look that could politely be called mischievous.

'Damn wolves, Gaiseric clearly missed a few when he was entertaining unhorsed kings!' A female voice yelled over the chill winds

'It was one king Vivika and it was a trophy hunt, not a cull' Anegrette corrected

'Doubly useless then!' the woman called Vivika shot back

'If you spent as much time navigating as you did complaining we would have reached the meet by now!' Hilde growled in a low voice

The great winter moot had drawn representatives from every clan to the heart of the steppe, to the sacred city of Vosgotis. Anegrette could have journeyed comfortably using the ancient dirt trails that served as the nations main thoroughfares...but she had places to be before the moot that required secrecy.

It was part of the reason she had chosen to bring only Vivika and Hilde, Essalaneans were communal people by nature, but blood ties still held a certain loyalty that social ones could not match. Thus she had chosen her two surviving blood sisters to accompany her to the meeting that was about to occur.

Saskia, the red adder of the west had been a legend in her own time. She had founded the bustling free port of kimbria, elevated the Kimbri to the status of great clan in a single generation and just to top it all off had taken over 40 male lovers in order to ensure her supply of heirs would not easily run dry. Three remained, the survivors of the necessary rivalries and plots that only the strong could emerge from.

Anegrette had survived to take the throne of her mother through ruthless skill and wicked cunning, her two sisters, by comparison, had been fortunate to be only babes when all the madness of her mother's sudden death had ensued. Vivika was by far the youngest, stubborn and possessed of a free spirit that would make even Essalan unsettled. Hilde, by comparison, was warier, a quiet and stout woman who preferred to observe before she made her presence known.

'Enough!' Anegrette hissed irritably 'Are we close or not?' she asked Vivika bluntly

Vivika did not answer, she pulled a compass from her pouch and held it high scanning the device for direction. She grinned and returned the tool to her pocket with a self-satisfied look on her face.

'Judging by your canary swallowing smirk can I assume we are not lost, sister?' Hilde asked dryly

'We were never lost! I just had some trouble finding the way' Vivika shot back with a wink

Anegrette rolled her eyes 'Children!' she thought exasperated, she did not know where they found the energy to bicker so much

Hilde flashed three fingers* at Vivika who poked her tongue out in reply, the two sisters were as different as night and day. Hilde was like all of Saskia's progeny of the same mother but a different father, in this case, an unnamed Andrennian sailor, her blonde locks and hardy face instantly stood out when paired against Vivika's darker hair and complexion. She was night to Vivika's day and while neither would admit it, the two were inseparable.

'Are we close or not!' Anegrette repeated in an annoyed tone

'Should be right up ahead' Vivika replied with a slight grin

They pressed through the snows at a steady canter, something glittered in the haze and grew brighter the closer they drew. Anegrette was the first to fathom what it was, Fire! the lights of a makeshift camp. They dismounted and tied their horses to a waiting stand, the warmth from the blazing campfire was rejuvenating after so long in the snow.

Anegrette left her two sisters by the fire and walked towards a waiting Yurt, it was perched on a tall cliff overlooking the great towers of Vosgotis. Essalan's city glowed as though made of jewels, every light glittered in the distance. They would be entering the sacred halls soon enough, first though, a meeting.

She entered and found herself in the familiar comforts of an Essalanean Yurt, a tall man with night-black hair sat on a pile of furs face buried in a book with an unusual title. It was a red leather-bound tome whose title read in ornate golden lettering 'Keller's Encylopedia of Great Monarchies' She grinned knowingly.

'Spot of light reading little wolf?' she said in a teasing voice

'Research' Gaiseric replied saving his page and setting the book down gently

they embraced as he rose to greet her, his ever-present wolf cloak brushing against her cheek as she leaned in to kiss him softly.

'That makes braving the snowstorm entirely worthwhile' he said with a wide grin

'I could kill you for making me wander through that mess!' She said in mock irritance

Gaiseric sighed and released her from his embrace 'Im sorry Ana, we have spent so long hiding from prying eyes, I forget sometimes how exhausting it can be' he said with a mournful look upon his face

'This is the last time though, the moot will finally grant you what we have long sought!' Anegrette replied confidently

'Yes' Gaiseric replied solemnly

'A path to kingship, soon we will rule this land together, no more hiding in snowstorms from prying eyes' Gaiseric said his tone suddenly hopeful

Outside the voices of her sisters were joined with those of a man

'I thought you came alone?' Anegrette asked surprised

'I wish I had to be honest, Alric chomped the whole way here' Gaiseric said with a roll of his eyes

'Close enough' she replied with a chuckle

'The moot begins in two days, we need to discuss preparations' Gaiseric said suddenly serious

'Pour me some of that wine you have almost certainly brought and we will speak' She replied with a raised eyebrow

Gaiseric pulled a bottle from his saddlebags and poured two glasses

'To a new Essalanea!' he said clinking her glass

'To a new us' Anegrette replied with a knowing look

They downed their glasses and began to plot, outside the blizzard raged as though knowingly obscuring their voices.

*Saskia of Kimbria, elevated the clan Kimbri to great status in the early 1960's reigned from 1960-1995 when she died suddenly in her sleep

*An Obscene Gesture among the Kimbri

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[North Timistania]

Chapter Two: Plans Hatched

'Crude cell towers lined the otherwise empty plains, more often than not a body would be strung from their highest point, a grim reminder that life on the steppe is spent feuding over resources be they as tangible as water or as ethereal as radio waves'

-The Travels of Count Otto Brandt 'My Essalanean Travels'

The Night drew in as a dark cloak pulled tight across the winter sky, the electric lantern in Gaiseric's yurt rapidly became the only source of illumination. In the near darkness, he and Anegrette plotted in conspiratorial whispers, as though the world outside would burst through the yurt flaps at any moment and lay their schemes bare.

'The kingship movement has been spreading across the steppe-like wildfire' Anagrette said enthusiastically

'I wonder how that happened' Gaiseric replied feigning ignorance

'I may have encouraged the spread a little, an embellished tale here a well-positioned agent there' Anagrette said with a wink

'Will it be enough?' Gaiseric asked his tone uncertain

'It's a strange day when I am struck by the vision and you are the one grounded Gai, You crushed the Karg and then spared them, you brought the world to us, you adjudicated peace between rival clans and you control an army that wields the terrible weapons of modern war...If not now, if not you, then never and no one' She said locking her gaze on him with a look of utter seriousness

Gaiseric sat back moved by her words, there had never been a High King of Essalanea, Essalans untimely death in battle had doomed the clans to millennia of internecine feuding and division. The modern world had filtered in bit by bit over the centuries, machinery, radios, assault rifles, phones and motorcycles had changed the way the clans carried out their daily lives but not the end result. Every Shepard and goatherd now had a cheap skandan assault rifle and the blood feuds exacted ever-higher body counts.

'If we cannot unite the clans under one ruler...then our division will be our undoing' Gaiseric said grimly

'My agents have made sure there will be king movement supporters in the hall, but truly Gaiseric? there will be no great opposition, you control the state army and the clan leaders are all in your debt in some way, the people are enthralled by you' Anagrette said in an assuring voice, the Adder was leaving nothing to chance

'How many leaders have been flattered by such a claim?' Gaiseric said in a sceptical tone

'Have you ever known me to indulge in idle flattery? You walked into Pataliputra, spoke with the Syrixian emperor and did not return a commonwealth puppet, the people adored you for that alone' Anegrette replied surprised by Gaiseric's unusually pessimistic mood

It was said that the clans were like a nest of violent hornets, if you left them alone they would kill on another but as soon as you kicked the nest they would be united as one terrible swarm. Syrixia was but one of many historical invaders that had succeeded in unintentionally uniting the clans. Gaiseric had stoked national pride when he had returned from Pataliputra in triumph.

'You remember my promise?' Gaiseric asked sincerely

'We do everything together' Anegrette replied without hesitation

'Always' he said solemnly

'Always' she replied with equal seriousness

'Now' she said lying down on the furs 'come lie with me, you need to sleep' she said drawing him close

Gaiseric flicked the lantern off and allowed her to draw him close.

**************************************************************************
Dawn arrived with little fanfare, the meagre light that did begin to emerge was little better than the darkness of the night before. Gaiseric pulled the last of his clothing back on and clipped his cloak in place, the wolf fur rested against his skin like a shield against the cold. Anegrette lay beneath the furs still dozing gently, Gaiseric bent to kiss her forehead.

'If you disturb my nap I shall murder you and throw your body in a ravine' Anegrette mumbled grumpily as Gaiseric kissed her once more and then turned to leave

He parted the tent flaps and strode into the early morning gloom, outside a campfire blazed, Hilde throwing dried horse dung onto the flames to keep them high. Alric Volkmann leaned against the horse stand with a mischievous grin across his face as he casually bit into a red apple.

'Where in Ziu's name did you manage to find an apple in the middle of winter!?' Gaiseric said with a look of exasperation

Alric chuckled and took one last bite of the fruit before passing the remainder to his horse which eagerly crunched down the rest. He stroked the horse's mane gently and pointed to the tend with an amused look.

'I see you survived your night in the adders nest' he said with a grin

'If Ana wanted to kill me she would have done it years ago' Gaiseric replied dryly

'She seems to kill you a little every time you two meet' Alric said with a wink

'This is not the time for baudy humour brother, do you have the carcass?' Gaiseric asked

Alric patted something heavy that was slung over the back of his saddle, Gaiseric could make out a furred paw poking out of the sheet that covered the corpse. Alric pulled back the sheet to reveal a slain mountain leopard, it was no mean feat to see one let alone catch one in the height of a steppe winter.

'This should keep the questions to a minimum when we return, just two brothers hunting to pass the time' Alric said with a smug grin

'You've outdone yourself brother' Gaiseric said in awe

'Aye he's not a bad shot...for a Volkmann' Vivika chimed in with a teasing voice

Anegrettes younger sister sat by the fire polishing her rifle, it was an old Skandan model, well suited for the punishing environment it found itself in. She skillfully oiled and cleaned the weapon without hesitation, it gleamed in the winter dawn as though it were new.

'And what great beast did you fell kimbri?' Alric asked defensively

'The one in your stomach when we roasted those hares' Vivika replied with a chuckle

Alric threw up his hands in resignation 'Anyway, the city is a few hours ride, if we leave now we can be there by late morn, just enough to time to head off our guests' he said as he untied his horse from the stand

'Hmmm, good, Hilde, when Ana awakes tell her to wait till afternoon before following' Gaiseric asked in a respectful voice

Hilde simply nodded and continued to fuel the fire without looking up, satisfied Gaiseric shouldered his pack and reached for the reins of his horse. Soon both brothers were mounted and trotting towards the distant city.

'Let's see if you can still ride a horse brother, the iron steeds* haven't spoiled you I hope!' Alric said with jovially as they rode on

They rode down the pass and into the valley below, avoiding steep ravine drops and passing over the bodies of less fortunate travellers. The powdery white snow covered the world like a funeral shroud, but they pressed on and soon the glow of campfires and the sound of thousands of encamped souls began to drown out the noise of the blizzard and drive back the blinding white haze.

Thousands had gathered around the walls of Essalan's city, the winter moot was a sacred event and all the clans great and small alike had sent representatives to witness and take part in the ancient rites that marked the year's end. They passed down improvised streets created by hundreds of rows of yurts, banners of countless steppe clans hung from poles and tent covers. Hochvolk, Karg, Falk, Hureg and even the Hammerart* had come to Vosgotis.

The great stone bridge was awash with traffic as trucks, pedestrians and horsemen all moved in and out of the city in vast crowds that seemed to have no end. Gaiseric halted his steed and took a deep breath, Alric seemed to catch the mood of his brother and patiently waited for him.

'This is it' he thought 'the last time I will enter these gates as High Chief when the moot is done I will either be a king or a corpse' he breathed out and spurred his horse on through the crowds

They rode through the great city gates and onwards to destiny.

*Motorcycles
*A small but infamous clan in the south-central Essalanean steppe, they practice a rite of passage called a 'Gravel Baptism' in which they deliberately fall from horse or motorcycle and sustain gruesome scars on the rocky paths, these they wear as marks of pride and maturity, other clans think them, lunatics.


​

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 3: Revels amongst the stone

Vargen fumbled in the dimly lit room looking for his breeches which he snatched up irritably, he was late and his father was growing less patient in his old age. He pulled them on and turned to find Liuva nonchalantly scrolling through her phone.

'How in Ziu's name did you get a signal?' He asked surprised

'With greater ease then you found your pants, get with the times Varg! Gaiseric's unhorsed friends have been putting up signal towers across the plains for years now' She said tersely as she continued to thumb through the phones news apps

It was true, changes were everywhere, Yurts glittered with solar panels and the once silent steppe was increasingly dotted with the echoes of mining facilities, road construction and wind farms. Essalanea was changing and while it was still possible to shut one's eyes and pretend it wasn't, the beast of modernity was growing louder with each passing day.

The sound of drums, stringed instruments and wild dancing outside were muffled somewhat by the shutters, as Vargen cracked them open the cold wind hit him like a smack to the face. In the streets below thousands milled about and partook of the winter moots delights. stalls passed out fermented mares milk which was downed greedily by passerby's and the aroma of roasting meats wafted up in the night air carried to Vargen's nose by chill winds.

The clans had come from across the steppe for the moot, painted Karg warriors bellowed loud songs and descended into fist fighting with equal frequency, Fur draped Hureg rangers moved through the cobbled streets and appeared more like two-legged bears than men. Priests in black robes would occasionally cause crowds to part in the narrows, they pass by carrying blades and sacrificial animals, the altars to Ziu would be dripping before the moot ended.

There were new faces amongst the old as well, bizarrely dressed Falk* pilots frequented the stalls and bonfires in their alien-looking flight suits, unhorsed tourists and journalists had also arrived in large numbers, probably flown in on hand me down Luftogg's* by the Falk. The foreigners stood out like sore thumbs with their bizarre dress, loud speech and propensity for flash photography.

It wasn't just the new clans and unhorsed faces that hinted at the changing times. Tall speakers blared out announcements and ancient clan music from their tower-like perches, spotlights had been installed whose beams illuminated the city in the normally all encroaching darkness. Modernity was grafting itself onto the ancient stones.

'This will be moot to remember' Vargen muttered before closing the shutters

'On that, we can agree' Liuva muttered barely acknowledging Vargen

'Ziu preserve me! I'm late!' he muttered stumbling through the door and down the stairs

The communal hall was packed with Hureg bondsmen, Magnar had chosen it for his clan's lodgings during the moot. It was a warm mix of fur, wood and stone and the plentiful ale and Stutenmilch* made it an attractive place for the southern clan to rest. Magnar and the rest of his party were slumped around a long stone table deep in their cups, a fire crackled gently behind them.

Magnar Hureg, the great bear of the south sat on a throne draped in sable furs, he was still a giant of a man at 75 and the empty skins and cups in front of him suggesting his prowess as a drinker was undiminished. Still, age had not left him entirely unscathed, his beard was entirely white now and the skin of his face was a collection of craggy lines and marks. He would be 76 in a few days, by clan standards he was ancient.

'Boy! where have you been hiding!' Magnar roared, his breath was raw with the stink of alcohol, Vargen felt himself growing ill standing downwind from it

'Im sorry father, I was being entertained...' Vargen said hesitantly

Magnar brushed off his excuse with a wave of his hand 'No matter! come and sit with us, it is important a chief's son learns to drink with his clan!' Magnar said slamming a cup of ale in front of Vargen as he sat

Magnar had sired many sons by many women, a valued quality in a society where children were always needed. Vargen, now in his late twenties was not the oldest...but he was likely one of the most intelligent, Magnar had insisted on the boy joining him for the moot.

'Do you know what awaits us tomorrow morning?' Magnar asked his tone suddenly thoughtful

'The winter moot father' Vargen replied

'Ha! a good answer but no! tomorrow every clan will meet in the great hall of Essalan, tomorrow arguments and feuding to make a PGU meeting look tame shall occur...and we shall be there to protect Hureg interests! be ready boy, tomorrow will be as challenging as any battle!' Magnar said drawing close and giving Vargen a severe look

'I will make you proud father!' Vargen said in a low, intense voice

'Perhaps you will and perhaps you will make an arse of yourself, that's not what is important, what matters is that you learn how these events work! one day it might be you in my place!'

'One day soon...it will be me in your place...' Vargen thought surprising himself with the resentment he felt

Living in a chief's shadow was seldom easy in Essalanea, living in the shadow of a great chief was even more trying. Magnar would be remembered as one of the greatest men ever to govern Heimstatte*...Would they afford his son the same reverence?

'I will make them respect me!' He thought darkly

The fire crackled on behind them, Vargen sipped his ale in silence and watched the flames dance like incendiary figures.


*A small clan that produces a disproportionately large number of Essalanean pilots thanks to their frequent enlistment in the air force of neighbouring Urgia. The rise of modernity has afforded them greater power than before.

*Radisson 403 Lufttog, a Goyanean Cargo plane popular on the steppe

*Heimstatte is the largest settlement in Southern Essalanea. During Hureg Moots its population can grow to nearly 100,000 before dropping for most of the year to around 10,000.




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[North Timistania]

Chapter 4: Dawn Rites
'The Essalanean Moot is a strange thing, a bizarre mix of the feasting, martial display and sacrificial mania that would make the average outsider rather green about the face'
-Count Otto Brandt 'My Essalanean Travels'


Warmblood steamed on the altars as it made contact with the icy morning air, one-armed priests held livers and entrails aloft in order to divine the future, the stink of burning meat was overpowering as the discarded organs burned and sizzled on the braziers. Gaiseric stood before the altar bare-chested, his face was painted in ashen colours and the high priest of Vosgotis was presently dripping a bowel of blood over his brow.

The morning omens had been good, Ziu clearly pleased with the plentiful offerings the Essalaneans heaped at his shrines. Modern agriculture had ensured a steady supply of healthy animals from the fields of settlements as far away as Neuanfang and Kimbria, but the rituals were still very much those of the old ways, the only creature noticeably absent from the bloodied slab was man.

Now however came a far more involved part of the moot, the annual Ringen* and Gaiseric would have to take centre stage. The Ringen was a tradition that went back all the way to old Gothis, the clans would test their strength against one another and in doing so honour their ancestors with their feats. For Gaiseric this moment presented something of a political challenge, a High chief must prove that they are strong enough to lead and at the winter moot that means competing.

Gaiseric had been High Chieftain since the late '90s but this year would be far more challenging. There would be no token participation for ceremonies sake this year, he intended to show his people that he was blessed by Ziu himself and he would do that by breaking the finest the steppe had to offer in the sacred ring.

The children of Essalan surrounded the ring cheering and yelling insults, the Ringen was possibly the most exciting moment in the moot and years without blood and broken bones were considered a lamentable one. Gaiseric was no pushover, he was a true son of the steppe and well versed in all matters of war and physical combat, but he would not be going into battle without a distinct advantage.

Hungar Volgis, a giant of a man hailing from the eastern plains sauntered about the ring as though he had already won. He grinned like one of the great apes that Gaiseric had seen in foreign books, there was no mirth in that gesture.

'In Ziu's immortal name! fight well! honour this sacred ground with victory and struggle!' the priest announced in a booming voice

'Today I will paint these stones with Volkmann blood! VOLGIS!!!' Hungar roared, his clan cheered and beat their chests wildly

'He has a weak jaw, hunting accident a few years back, one good blow and he will topple like a cracked mountain' Anegrette had whispered to him some nights before

A horn sound and the crowd began to chant with barely contained bloodlust 'Schlact! Schlact! Schlact!*' they repeated the chant growing louder with each utterance

Hungar bellowed a deafening war cry and charged towards Gaiseric, his roar abruptly died in his throat as Gaiseric sidestepped him and twisted his arm around violently. Hungar howled in pain as his arm cracked nauseatingly out of its socket, he took Gaiseric in the face with a flailing swing from his undislocated arm. Gaiseric felt blood trickle down his forehead, felt the copper taste in his mouth.

He rose to his feet, careful not to do so too quickly, it had to be a spectacle after all. Hungar was stumbling about in a pain maddened state his face red from bellowing as he forced his arm back into its socket. He turned and locked eyes with Gaiseric, now he was angry.

The Volgis bondsman locked palms with Gaiseric as the two struggled to push the other out of the ring, Gaiseric waited for an opening to strike, Hungar did not disappoint. Hungar broke the shoving match trying to grasp the Gaiseric by the throat, that was the opening, Gaiseric easily sidestepped the raging man and struck him in the jaw with a palm strike. A sickening crunch followed before Hungar crashed to the ground.

Cheers erupted as the dead Volgis was dragged from the ring, a sickly red trail painting the cobbles as they tugged his giant form along the floor. Gaiseric grinned through bloodied teeth and raised his arms in a victorious gesture.

'VOLKMANN!!!' he yelled as the crowds shook excited fists and stamped their feet

'A good start' he thought with a smirk

A total of seven more Ringen matches followed each time Gaiseric utilised Anegrettes deadly advice to brutal effect.

'Botheric is blind in his left eye'

'Vulfilla was drinking last night and is still hungover'

'Wallia has an old wound on his belly'

Anegrette had done her homework, each time Gaiseric would give the baying crowd the spectacle they craved and then when he had milked his opponent for all the physical displays they could provide, he would crush them mercilessly. It was no mean feat to continue fighting for so long, however, Gaiseric sustained bruises, cuts and more than a few agonising strikes to his own war wounds. Still, the mark of a skilled fighter is the ability to press on and by the time the last foe fell to the cobbles in a moaning heap the crowd was in a frenzy.

Gaiseric allowed them to heap their praises upon him, he went through all the expected motions roaring his clan's name and exalting his forebears. Eventually, he moved towards the great hall intending to clean himself up before the evenings coming gathering, the awe in the voices of the crowd was encouraging

'Gaiseric the feller of eight!'

'The man is blessed by Ziu and Essalan!'

'Killed that Volgis giant in one blow!'

'There goes a man who could be a king!'

The doors slammed shut as he stood alone in the emptied chamber of Essalan, the clan banners cast long shadows as the torches burned low in the corners of the room. His skin itched now that the blood and paint had dried, he looked like some crazed wicht* haunting the halls of the living.

'The blood really brings out the blue in your eyes' Anegrette said in a playful tone as she emerged from the shadows

'Your advice was accurate' Gaiseric said with a tired grin

'Benefits of sharing a bed with the queen with a thousand eyes*' She replied with a smirk

'It appeared to have the desired effect' Gaiseric said moving towards a water basin and attempting to wash off the blood.

'What's the word from the king faction?' Gaiseric asked his eyes scanning the room to make sure no one listened in

'They will be here this night and your display will greatly aid their campaign' Anegrette replied in a whisper

'Seems so strange' Gaiseric said suddenly thoughtful

'What does?' Anegrette asked

'Where but here on the steppe would men and women choose a leader through wrestling?' Gaiseric said suddenly struck by the strangeness of his own people

'Unhorsed are odd, they like to overcomplicate things, I do hear the Prydanians like Ringen though' Anegrette replied with a chuckle

'I wonder what Tobias would make of all this?' Gaiseric with amusement

The pieces were falling into place, a mood of awe had been cultivated and soon it would be further exploited. The legend of Gaiseric would carry him to the throne like a set of wings, and the unseen hand of Anegrette would ensure it reached that exalted place without obstacle.

*translates to Fight or battle in Mercanti

*The clans practice traditional wrestling as a means of honouring the ancestors and building physical strength.

*Damned souls in Essalanean Myth, those who displease Ziu through cruel and dishonourable lives are doomed to wander the steppe as lost souls for all eternity.

*Anegrette is known as the 'queen with a thousand eyes' due to her extensive and well-connected network of spies and informants, it is said a pin cannot drop in the steppe without her hearing it.​

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter Five: Red Lessons

Vargen watched as children scrubbed the blood out of the cobblestones and disposed of the shattered teeth that had become lodged in the gaps. The water in the buckets was already crimson, Gaiseric had beaten his seven opponents to a pulp and more then a few would never fight again.

'That was a fight for the ages!' he exclaimed to his father

Magnar gave him an irritable look, the old man was starting to sober up and that always put him in a foul mood. Vargen sighed, he knew a lecture in the making when he saw it.

'Aye a fight, but you haven't asked the most important question' Magnar said sternly before motioning to the streaks of red on the stones

Why indeed? Gaiseric could have stopped at one fight, the high chieftain's role was largely ceremonial he was certainly not expected to fight seven opponents. But Gaiseric had done just that, Magnar was right to ask Vargen why.

'I don't know father, to prove he is strong?' Vargen said in an unsure tone

'He could have done that with the first fight alone' Magnar replied bluntly

Vargen stared at the children as they scrubbed away in futility, he cast his mind back to the raw energy of the earlier fight, to the manic cheers of the amazed crowds. Such a spectacle was hypnotic, Gaiseric could have asked anything of the crowd at that moment and they would have given it to him.

'It was a display, he wanted to achieve something more then just the appearance of strength' Vargen said suddenly confident

'Good, You begin to understand, what you saw was a political display, Gaiseric wasn't just showing off his strength he was using martial feats to win over the clans' Magnar replied pleased by his sons answer

That begged a different question, to what end was Gaiseric engaging in such gore-soaked political theatre? certainly, the Volkmann was unquestionably dominant over the steppe clans. Perhaps he was seeking to be more than a High Chief, perhaps the rumours of kingship were true after all.

Vargen gazed at the bloody pools one more time and took to heart the lesson his father was trying to impart. In a martial culture, bloodletting was as valuable a tool as a thousand speeches, only one who could bend the clans to their will through both word and fist would rule on the steppe.

Vargen felt the stirrings of some greater purpose in his chest, he was of the new generation that straddled both the old and new Essalanea. Vargen swore silently that he would learn all he needed to, he swore that one day it would be his name the clans chanted.

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[North Timistania]

Chapter Six: A Moot for the Ages ​

The hallway was dark save for the flickering light of torches, a chill draft crept across the ancient stones and seeped into Gaiseric’s bones. His shoulder ached with a dull sting that never seemed to leave. He had earned the injury some three years ago fighting Karg on the northern plains, the flesh had long since healed into a grisly scar that covered his entire left shoulder, but the pain had been far more unwilling to depart.
Members of the Ehrengarde surrounded Gaiseric in a protective circle, each man and woman was handpicked and had sworn an ancient death oath to guard the High chief until their last breath. Gaiseric wondered if the madness that waited behind barred doors would cause oaths to be fulfilled prematurely. Two great oaken doors loomed in front of him, the sound of raised voices could be heard albeit in muffled form from behind the entranceway.

Wood was more precious to the clans then gold or precious stones, it was far rarer than either of those things on the steppe. These great oak trophies had been torn free from some Aleman lords hall centuries ago by Thurderic and brought back as a literal symbol of that chieftain's skill in war. Gaiseric wondered if he had done enough to surpass that ancient hero, wondered if he had done enough to earn the lofty title he now sought.

‘We won’t get anything done standing out here in the cold’ Anegrette muttered in an impatient voice

Her dark hair had been braided hours earlier, a long-woven tail flowed down her shoulders, iron clasps held her braids in place. This was no vain display, few on the steppe had time for such impracticality, the clasps were shards of metal taken from the weapons of fallen enemies, each represented a victory under arms. By wearing her hair in victors braid she was announcing to any would-be challengers that she was more than capable of ending their threat.

‘Sounds rowdy in there.... more so than usual’ Gaiseric replied motioning to the din of shouting voices and overturned furniture seeping out of the closed doors

‘Of course, it is, the speaker tonight is especially controversial’ Anegrette replied her grey eyes giving Gaiseric a knowing look

‘Dag of the Sonnenvolk?’ Gaiseric asked already knowing the answer

Anegrette nodded ‘The perfect speaker to throw the room off guard before we enter’ she said with a wicked grin

Who was Dag? Once no more than a lowly bondsman from an eccentric tribe in the south. Her kin were once more famous for greeting each dawn with prayers of thanks and raised swords than anything of political importance, Dag had changed that almost overnight. The Catalyst had been a certain trial in Neuanfang, she had witnessed Gaiseric do the unthinkable, spare two great tribes and punish them at the same time.
Dag had been convinced following the trial that Gaiseric was no mere tribal warlord, she was certain to the point of obsession that this was a man who was worthy of wearing a crown. Her preaching had nearly seen her expelled from her notoriously conservative clan but she had persisted nonetheless, eventually proving her worth by seizing her clan's reins in a duel.

Her message of the would be High king had spread like wildfire, helped in no small part by well-placed whispers from the mouths of Kimbri spies across the steppe. Months of preaching and impassioned speech had paid off, countless souls had flocked to her banner, that they had been nudged along that path by unseen hands was of no great importance. Still, she was controversial, not everyone liked the idea of change to the ancient systems of Clan life, fewer still liked the idea of a Volkmann sitting the throne.

Here now the delicate balance of power once again presented itself, the clans of the north stood beside Gaiseric as always, their lands growing fat off the profits of mining and industry his regime had brought them. But in the poorer south, things were less certain, the Hureg paid lip service but always waited to back the winning horse, and a thousand lesser clans untouched by modernity and stuck in the mire of tradition were proving far from receptive.

To be too assertive was to risk splitting Essalanea in two, to appear weak was to guarantee the collapse of everything Gaiseric had built. Gaiseric and Anegrette now played a game as dangerous and intricate as a great hunt, but the consequences if they failed were far more extreme than a short and gruesome death.
‘Well’ Gaiseric sighed, straightening his cloak ‘Time to go and face them’ he said signalling his guards to open the door

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter Seven: A Moot for the Ages II

'Children of Essalan hear my words! I Dag of Sonnenvolk declare that I have seen our future!
He walks amongst us and his name is Gaiseric Volkmann!
He who humbled the sons of Thurderic!
He who stood in the gilt of Pataliputra and returned home untainted!
He who united the sundered clans!
A new age is dawning! and age in which we shall take our rightful place amongst the nations of Eras!
An age of prosperity in which Ziu's blessings shall make us the envy of lesser nations!
I Pledge my Fealty to Gaiseric Volkmann!
I Beseech you scions of Ziu! Crown this man!'

-Dag of Sonnenvolk, addressing the winter moot of 2020​

The hall was sweltering, great braziers burned in the center of the room spreading a sticky heat across the vast chamber. Representatives from every clan in Essalanea filled the room, they sat at tables that heaved under the weight of sizzling meat dishes and endless tankards of ale and mares' milk.

Men and women decked in fur, chainmail and even camouflage filled the hallway, there was even an unhorsed journalist nervously scribbling notes in the corner. The little bespectacled man jumped whenever a bondsman approached and offered him a drink in guttural Sudengots, the clans had already made a game of seeing who could scare him the most.

The mood in the hall was tense, so tense the air could have been cut with a knife. The usual moot activities of arm wrestling, drinking bouts and searing insults all had a more serious edge to them tonight.

Vargen could tell something was off, his father had been nursing the same cup of vodka for the last few hours, the old man was keeping himself deliberately sharp. A more casual gathering would have seen the Hureg table overflowing with emptied bottles.

‘Surprised no one's drawn a knife, haven't seen a moot this standoffish since the Karg war’ a Hureg bondsman muttered before downing the last of his vodka

The hall seemed to be a facsimile of the wider situation on the steppe. The great clans occupied huge round tables; their subordinate clans hovered around them in the order of importance. Only tonight their seemed to be a clear division.

The Hureg kept the center of the hall, the Volkmann and their allies occupied the space nearest to the high throne and the Volgis and Rugen were both seated distinctly to the darkened corners. Lines were already being drawn.

‘Why does everyone in this room look like they're about to draw steel?’ Vargen whispered to his father

Magnar furrowed his brow and regarded his son curiously before answering ‘because...a precedent will be set tonight; they don’t know it yet but they can all feel it coming’

‘A precedent? You mean the kingship?’ Vargen asked quizzically

‘Aye, Gaiseric is going to declare his intent and it is splitting the hall down the middle’ Magnar said approving of his sons correct guess

Dag’s speech had only just finished and the roomed was still seething, it had drawn cheers and angered protests in equal measure. Vargen was still struggling to figure out whether the cheers had been any louder than the raging.

‘I take it the Volgis and Rugen disapprove?’ Vargen asked glancing at the figures glaring from the dark

Magnar rubbed his beard thoughtfully ‘The Rugen never like being involved in worldly affairs, the crazy bastards would rather be left alone in their wastelands to bay at the moon, the Volgis though...its personal with them’ Magnar said in a low voice as though he feared the distant clan would hear him

Vargen knew little about the Volgis, they were one of the larger clans, not quite a great one but with the potential to become one. It was all he could do to recognize their sigil, a snarling white fox on a black background.

They lurked at the edge of the hall in murderous silence, glaring at the rest of the clans. They wore heavy furs over their black kaftans, most sported fur caps that lent them an appearance almost more Arrandi then trueborn Essalanean.
There was an air of menace about them, their expressions utterly hostile. Vargen had never seen such resentment in all his years on the steppe. This went beyond the honest rivalries of the clans; this plumbed the very black depths of pure hatred.

‘What could possibly have happened to produce such vile looks?’ Vargen asked in an uncertain voice

‘They were one of the first clans to side with the Karg during the war, they were also one of the last to surrender, Gaiseric sent their neighbors the Niedrigs to crush them’ Magnar answered his tone blunt and to the point

‘And did they succeed?’ Vargen asked in an unsure tone

‘Aye, drove the Volgis from a large swathe of their grazing land, Gaiseric let the Niedrigs keep the land after the Volgis surrendered, the Volgis were humiliated and the Niedrigs later found their new holdings were rich in untapped minerals’ Magnar replied

‘So, the Volgis lost land the Niedrigs got rich?’ Vargen asked

‘More importantly the Volgis were denied something, before the war they were touted as a potential rising great clan, after they found themselves destitute’ Magnar explained

‘And they blame Gaiseric?’ Vargen asked deep down already knowing the answer

‘They have been trying to gain vengeance ever since, that beast of a wrestler in the ringen earlier? The Volgis deliberately picked him hoping he might kill Gaiseric honorably; they are now seething over his death’ Magnar replied matter-factly

Vargen had wondered why Gaiseric had killed Hungar instead of just beating him, evidently Gaiseric had been sending the Volgis a clear message of strength.

‘They want to block the kingship’ Vargen said with grim certainty

‘With every fiber of their being’, Magnar replied in an ominous whisper

The doors to the hall heaved open suddenly, several Ehrengarde in wolf fur cloaks entered with shouldered cudgels and the banner of clan Volkmann. Cheers filled the hall though Vargen wondered which were genuine and which were for show.

Gaiseric entered flanked by Anegrette Kimbri and her sisters, one of whom bore the sigil red adder aloft on a silk banner. Gaiseric was not a tall man, his height was surprisingly average for an Essalanean, but there was something magnetic about his presence, as though the fates spun a web around him.

Gaiseric ascended his throne and reclined there for a moment regarding the now silent clans. His eyes were savoring the mood of the room like an oenophile savors fine wine.

‘What now?’ Vargen whispered nervously

‘Now we watch’ Magnar said grimly

‘Watch for what?’ Vargen hissed in an anxious whisper

‘For the moment that things begin to shift towards a decision,’ Magnar replied calmly

‘Whose side are we on?’ Vargen asked

‘Clan Hureg is on the only side that matters, its own, never forget that Vargen, everything is done for the survival of our clan’ Magnar said sternly as he locked eyes with Vargen

Gaiseric addressed the clans in one voice ‘Sons and Daughters of Essalan, I will be plain, I come before you seeking a crown’ He said with a broad grin

Anegrette mounted the raised steps of the throne and looked upon the assembled clans, she spoke in a cold and utterly determined voice 'And I shall reign beside him' she said simply

Vargen felt his heart rise into his throat, the moment of decision approached and it would change the steppe forever.

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter Seven: A Moot for the Ages III

'One thing about the Essalaneans you must know, they are the most democratic people on this planet, if that fact does not scare and fascinate in equal measure then nothing about them will.'
-Count Otto Brandt 'My Essalanean Travels'

​

The hall was silent, so quiet a pin could drop and everyone in the room would hear, hundreds of men and women searched their souls for an answer to Gaiseric’s announcement. Essalanea had never had a king before, Essalan’s dream of a crown had died with him millennia ago. The sudden and brazen request took everyone by surprise, some seethed wit outrage, many regarded the statement with unsure curiosity.

Otho Volgis was not one of the latter, he slammed his fist on the table and rose from his chair. The chair fell back and clattered against the stone floor with a loud crack that echoed across the hall, all eyes turned to regard the Volgis chieftain. He stepped towards the throne, stopping just before the steps.

‘What need has Essalanea for a King! This man is nothing more than a mouthpiece for foreign interests! He will lead us to our deaths!’ Otho roared as he pointed an accusing finger towards Gaiseric
Gaiseric did not seem at all moved by Otho’s words; a wicked grin crossed the Volkmann's face as he rose from his throne. Gaiseric did not fear Otho, he had already faced his greatest rival and crushed him some three years ago. He regarded the red faced Volgis Chieftain with a look that was half pity and half contempt.

‘It is a humorous thing to be accused of leading men to their deaths by you Otho Volgis! When the Karg war ended you refused to surrender and spare your clan further losses, instead you fought on and sacrificed hundreds pointlessly!’ Gaiseric replied in a searing retort

The cutting remark drew bellowing laughter and jeers from the assembled moot, the clans adored verbal sparring. Gaiseric watched as the rage reached a boiling point in the Volgis chieftain, the mention of the war a calculated move designed to enrage Otho.

‘You dare mock my fallen! I should challenge you and take your head Volkmann swine!’ Otho screamed back, he instinctively reached for a knife that was not at his side

‘Pity you did not have the courage to do so this morning in the Ringen! I know you sent Hungar to do what you feared to yourself, it is a mark of cowardice when a man will waste the lives of his brothers because he fears to lose his own!’ Gaiseric said in a dismissive tone

Otho retreated back to his table, driven off by the sea of mocking voices Gaiseric had summoned with his wit. The Volgis chieftain had underestimated sharpness of Gaiseric’s barbs and now slinked back with many a cut to his ego.

‘Enough of this Arsing about! Why should we crown you Volkmann!?’ Tius Falk bellowed from his corner of the hall

‘An excellent question! Why should we not simply keep to the old ways!?’ another chieftain chimed in

‘As Otho so astutely pointed out, I have opened the borders to foreigners, but I have always demanded our exchanges be upon equal footing! If we continue to present a disparate collection of clans when dealing with the wider world then our division will sow the seeds of our conquest! Let me represent our interests! Give me the power to keep us safe and I promise you that the rewards you have thus far reaped will pale in comparison to what is to come! We can either face the wider world upon our own terms or have the wider world dictate terms to us!’ Gaiseric said his voice carrying loudly across the hall, the clans transfixed by his passionate speaking voice

‘What more must we do to convince you that this is the way things must be!? How many of you have benefited from the arrival of foreign wealth and technology? How can you embrace the new order but deny its architect the ability to shape the construct! Crown Gaiseric! he has earned your trust; he has bled to see a better Essalanea rise from the ashes! The unhorsed named the seas of the west after a great bird that would rise from death in glorious flames, put your trust in Gaiseric and myself and we shall ensure that the clans rise as the phoenix did, we shall ascend into a glorious new age!’ Anegrette said her voice just as loud and passionate as Gaiseric’s

The room lapsed into momentary silence before Badwilla Niedrig worked up the courage to break the oppressive quiet ‘We should put it to a vote! Do things the Proper Essalanean way!’ he said his tone moving from nervous to impassioned

The suggestion spread like wildfire and soon every table in the moot was a sea of whispering voices

************************************************************************************
‘Clan Falk votes in aye!’

‘Clan Rugen Votes nay!’

‘Clan Hammerart abstains!’

One after another the clans declared their choices and the divide in the room became clear, eventually, one final vote remained, that of the great clan of the south, clan Hureg. Vargen watched as the room watched his father with anticipation that was almost suffocating, the old bear’s facial expression gave away nothing. Magnar Hureg downed his vodka in one gulp, a sign to those who knew him that he was about to take action.
Vargen watched as his father rose from his chair, the old man eyed the room with no small measure of sadistic amusement. The Bear had the entire steppe by the balls and he intended to make the most of the moment. He poured another helping of Vodka into his cup and drank deep before setting the cup down and clearing his throat, a speech was imminent.

‘I've never much cared for unhorsed titles and pomp one way or the other myself, when I studied economics In Syrixia the formalities of the place nearly killed me, that and the heat...but one thing I will tell you is this! Politics is ultimately a game of appearances! A nation that looks divided looks like easy prey, we look divided, Gaiseric has the ear of the world and some of its respect too! We crown him and we keep the would-be jackals out of Essalanea! Show the world our strength! Or are those unhorsed bastards right about us being weak? Clan Hureg votes Aye!’ the room broke into rapturous cheers as Magnar sat down and poured a third glass

Vargen felt the mood in the room shift, the king movement had just won, drunken bondsmen hauled Gaiseric and Anegrette up onto old shields and paraded them around the room. Chants bellowed in the night air as the impromptu procession roared with crazed joy the same phrase over and over

‘LONG LIVE THE KING!!!’ they roared

Vargen turned to regard his father, the old bear sipped his vodka with a thoughtful expression crossing his wrinkled face. The old bear had just changed the course of Essalanean history with one speech, Vargen suspected the old bear knew that all too well.

‘Gaiseric owes you a debt now’ Vargen whispered with a smile

‘No’ Magnar said softly ‘he owes clan Hureg a debt’ he said after a long pause

The favour of the most powerful man on the steppe would elevate the Hureg to even greater levels of prestige. Vargen could not help but fantasize about the potential glories that he could now attain, he could gain postings overseas or positions of power on the steppe, all on the basis of his clan's support of the new order. Vargen’s mind was engrossed by the allure of power and for better and worse the young man gave himself over to the glamour fully.

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter Eight: The Pause before the Plunge

Broken Hills, Western Essalanea

One Month Later
​

The sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky; the plains stretched out endlessly below like a vast desiccated blanket. The winter that had gripped the rest of the steppe held no grip in the coastal west, here desolation thrived as hot winds from across the phoenix sea brought oppressive warmth with them. The broken hills were a sea of dust and scrublands, a valley of cracked rock formations and jagged hills.

Two riders hurtled across the steppe, their passage kicking up clouds of dust as they raced through the parched hill country. Anegrette urged her steed onwards as she struggled to keep up with Gaiseric, the Volkmann King was in an utterly impetuous mood. Gaiseric was laughing wildly as he galloped towards the edge of the valley.

Gaiseric halted his steed and grinned wolfishly, he was in high spirits, the triumph of kingship had left him feeling almost invincible. It was an illusion of course, he knew better than anyone how precarious a ruler's life could be on the steppe, even so he allowed himself to indulge in the mood. Tomorow would bring with it new and terrible trials, Gaiseric intended to enjoy the halcyon period while it lasted.

Anegrette’s horse cantered into view and she brought it to a stop by Gaiseric’s side, they shared a moment of companionable silence. A cool breeze flowed down from the mountains providing a temporary reprieve from the scorching heat. A seeker bird swooped overhead, the sacred birds silver beak and blue plumage vivid in the morning sky.

“A good omen” Gaiseric said with a gentle smile

“Perhaps, though it's easy to see good fortune in every sign when you’ve just been crowned” Anegrette replied thoughtfully

Gaiseric smirked “Ever the grounding influence” he said with a wry chuckle

“Someone has to be” Anegrette replied with a soft smile

The bird swooped high on warm winds as it made its way south, such creatures could travel as far as Iteria given sufficient time. Gaiseric admired the bird for a few moments longer before turning back to Anegrette.

“it won't just be my brow that a crown rests on” Gaiseric said in a determined voice

The wedding was mere days away, the ancient rites drawing all the great clans to Broken hills. Where once Gaiseric had been forced to hide his love of Anegrette behind the façade of a political alliance, soon he would stand at her side openly. Their union would usher in a new political order that would lead Essalanea into a new age, all that remained was to say the vows and tie the knot.

“We need to be careful” Anegrette said her voice taking on a grim tone

She was not wrong, Essalanea was still a land of feuding clans and while crowned heads might potentially steer it towards greater prosperity, they would never truly control it. To be a monarch was to be a visible target.

“We have the support of the Karg and the Hureg, the holdouts will not stop us” Gaiseric said confidently

“It only takes one well-placed blade to the neck to end a dream” Anegrette said tersely

The idea of kingship was a new and vulnerable concept on the Steppe, some of the clans would welcome it as a step forward, others however would react violently against the new order. Gaiseric frowned, she was right, a single assassin could end it all.

“I will have to protect mine then” Gaiseirc said with a mirthless grin

Anegrette nodded “See that you do, I'd rather we spent our married lives on the same side of the Seelewalde*” she said with a smirk

Gaiseric sighed, the feeling of invulnerability was already beginning to fade as hard reality set in. He wondered if he would have to wear armor to is wedding, the thought suddenly seemed rather practical.

*The Forest of Souls, the realm of the dead which Ziu reigns over

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter Nine: The Disgraced

"To be exiled from the clan is a great and terrible shame, death arguably being a lesser punishment, only the vilest crimes are considered worthy of such a sentence and those exiled either die or become something truly menacing. Even with their violent customs Essalaneans have a code, one freed from such a moral ideal represents a truly fearsome individual who will do anything to survive."

-"My Essalanean Travels" by Count Otto Brandt

Central Essalanea
​

Ganzeric sat alone in the stagnant darkness, there was no sound save droplets from the ceiling and the grinding of his blade against the whetstone. It was an ugly thing, a scarred length of steel with a jagged edge, the leather grips on the hilt had long since formed the shaped of Ganzeric’s fingers. Ugly the short sword may have been, but its efficiency was not in doubt, Ganzeric had gutted hundreds with the cruel edge.

Footsteps echoed as Otho Volgis entered the subterranean corridors, he recognized the Volgis chieftain by his moleskin furs and visible limp. Ganzeric didn’t think much of him, he had the look of a man overly fond of scheming, his wiry frame lacked the honest proportions of a warrior. One too many stresses and such a puny looking man would surely snap.

“see you managed to find this place easy enough Volgis!” Ganzeric said his tone almost mocking

Men such as Otho were present all across Eras, weak and conniving souls that lived only to scheme and who were more than happy sacrificing others to get ahead. Life as a clanless had forced Ganzeric to rely on such men for his survival, he had loathed serving such unworthy masters, but a paycheck was a paycheck and clanless had few other options.
“Watch your tone clanless! I know these caves like the back of my hand, I played here as a boy!” Otho snapped defensively

Ganzeric smirked cruelly “With Badwiella Niedring no less, funny how old friendships die,” he said with a mirthless chuckle as he continued to sharpen his blade

“Gaiseric saw to that!” Otho replied his tone full of bitterness

“Aye that’s what he does, turns brother against brother and clan against clan, all of us dance upon his strings to sung promises of modernity,” Ganzeric said spitting at the utterance of the last word

Modernity, the wretched creed that had torn the steppe apart mere years earlier. Those that had followed the Volkmann king now grew fat as farms, mines and factories raked the mountains and plains ever hungry for resources. Those that had gone against Gaiseric had been less fortunate.

“And if those strings were to be cut?” Otho said curiously

“Well if by strings you mean the Volkmann swine's neck, well it would plunge the steppe back into the chaos and feuding of the old ways” Ganzeric muttered as he cleaned his newly sharpened blade with a rag
Gaiseric's armies and courts held a tenuous peace over the steppe, though not the comfortable stagnancy the unhorsed enjoyed. Rather an enforced end to the great blood feuds that had burned from one end of Essalanea to the other now reigned, smaller feuds were inevitable but the wider steppe was ruled with the threat of gun and tank. Removing Gaiseric would cause the entire façade to collapse as the old squabbles between the great clans tore the steppe asunder once more.

“He has to die clanless, he is mad with power!” Otho said in a theatrical tone

Ganzeric snorted in disgust “don’t flatter yourself Volgis, you are just as hungry for titles as he is if you want him dead so be it, but spare me the justifications” he said tersely

Otho frowned but did not take offence, it was hard to get a rise out of an Essalanean, a culture of free speaking bluntness saw to that. Instead, he pulled up his sleeve to reveal a fox tattooed across his forearm. Every bondsman in every clan bore a similar marking, a sign of their acceptance by the wider community. Ganzeric stared involuntarily at his own arm, the place where such a mark should have been was home to nought but scarred flesh.

“Tell me how did they come to remove your mark? Couldn’t have been pleasant” Otho said his tone like poison

Ganzeric grit his teeth as the memory burned anew in his mind's eye, the image of the cutting knife filling his heart with rage and shame. The bloodied scrap of wolfen marked flesh had been unceremoniously hurled into the flames. He felt his hand tighten around the hilt of the blade.

“I was unjustly banished! I served clan Volkmann for decades and they cast me out for doing what they could not!” he snarled in red-faced anger

He didn’t notice Otho grinning, he was too pre-occupied with the memory of his disgrace. The Volgis chieftain had deliberately brought to bear the memories of Ganzeric’s exile, hatred was an excellent motivator for an assassin.

“Yes, I do remember hearing of your exile, Gaiseric cast you out for continuing to raid Karg settlements, all those years of service and he simply banished you without a second thought,” Otho said matter-factly
Years of shame had followed, fighting unhorsed wars and living far from the steppe and even farther from Essalan’s code. Ganzeric despised what he had become, death would have been better than to be rendered clanless. And yet such was his fate, driven from the Volkmann and stripped of their name. Only one thing kept Ganzeric going.

“I will kill Gaiseric” He said his voice filled with hate

“And when you do, I shall see that your name is restored Ganzeric” Otho said grinning

“He will be drunk and complacent, my men will easily overwhelm any security” Ganzeric replied already strategizing

“remember, Anegrette and Gaiseric both have to die, if one lives, they will rally their allies and our efforts will be undone,” Otho said in a cautioning tone

Ganzeric nodded, it would be an ugly thing, everyone would need to be killed regardless of age or culpability. Such distasteful work was beneath a trueborn son of Essalan, but that was why Ganzeric had been hired, he had long since been ostracized from the laws of the steppe. Such a deed, however, would require a worthy payment.

“If I do this for you Volgis, I expect you to give me a prize of my choosing?” Ganzeric said in a coldly

“And what would that be?” Otho asked with a smirk

“I want my name back and I want Neuanfang!” He said ominously

"Done," Otho said after a pause, his smile was a thing of pure malice

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter ten: The Cub also rises

Heimstatte, the Southern Steppe, many years ago​

“The Boy needs discipline Adelais! How can he succeed me if he cannot hunt!” Magnar’s voice echoed loudly in the hallway

Vargen hid under the bed, he could hear his mother protest in a placating tone as his father continued to rant. He wanted to burrow deep into the ground and never surface again, each angry word made his heart beat frantically as the two argued. He only relaxed when he heard his father storm away, distinctive stomping footfalls on the timber floor signalling his departure.

Vargen struggled to hold back tears but they came unbidden all the same, red-faced he felt trails of warm shame roll down his cheeks. If his father or any of the clan elders had seen him in such a state he would have been beaten, it was not becoming of a son of Essalan, let alone the son of a chief, to disgrace himself with tears.

The days failure replayed in his head endlessly, a moment of hesitation that had caused him to miss his mark. He had seen the eyes of the beast, intelligent and possessed of such pride, and he had in that moment softened his hold on the rifle. The beast had bolted, and he had fired a shot that had flown far from the target, thudding harmlessly in the side of an oak. The look on his father's face, rage and disgust all at once had burned into his memory, he did not think he would ever forget it.

His sorrowful thoughts were interrupted as he heard fresh footsteps, softer than his fathers, he held his breath, terrified it was one of his uncles come to scold and cuff. The door opened slowly, barely a creak could be heard as it flowed open and light streamed in. He beheld the face of his mother, the sight of her sharp blue eyes and tattooed chin causing him to relax slightly.
“Vargen Come out from under the bed” she said softly

He crawled out and stood before his mother, he must have looked pathetic with his red face and snotty nose, she regarded him with a look of pity. She was a hard woman, her face though beautiful bore the marks of war and hunt upon it, snaking cuts marked her left cheek and a proud honour tattoo, three blue lines, snaked down her chin. She wore her golden hair in braids held together by iron rings forged from the weapons of defeated foes, she was every bit the daughter of Essalan, and yet she did not scold or beat him.

She reached down and took him in her arms, he wept softly into her shoulder overcome by the shame of his failure. Adelais comforted him with gentle shushing before lowering him onto the bed, they sat there in uneasy silence as she handed him a rag to wipe his face. Of all his family, only his mother truly seemed to care, his uncles met failure with disciplining fists and his father never seemed remotely pleased.

“Father hates me” he said in a fearful voice

“No Kleinen*, your father believes you will do great things,” Adelais said in a soothing voice

“He is never happy with anything I do!” Vargen yelled angrily

“He has high expectations” Adelais replied gently

“He calls me Last-Born!!!” he said almost wailing at the utterance of the hated word

Last-Born, he despised that word with every fibre of his being, his father’s delivery always a mix of contempt and disappointment as he addressed Vargen with it. He was Magnar’s youngest child, born sickly and small, his father seemed determined to remind him of his pitiful origins whenever Vargen disappointed him.

“Men do not always know how to speak with their sons, and when their son is also their heir, things become even more difficult”

Heir? Vargen would have laughed if he wasn’t so weary from weeping, Magnar had never so much as uttered a kind word to him, every day was drills, yelling and tests.

“Father wants me to succeed him?” Vargen asked curiously

“You are the only one of his children to inherit his intelligence, Chintilla is a bully with no understanding of real leadership and your half-brother Tulga? The boy has a good heart but is as thick as bear shit!” Adelais said her tone laced with contempt

That made Vargen laugh, Chintilla’s daily insults had made Vargen loathe the elder boy's approach, Tulga was nicer but did indeed lack greatly in cunning. His mother smiled warmly for a brief moment, then her face became serious again.

“Now go and wash your face, a future chieftain cannot be seen to weep, tomorrow you will go into the forest with your uncles and this time Vargen, you will come back bearing the hide of a bear!” his mother said prodding his chest for emphasis

Vargen did as he was told, he felt a strange feeling replace fear, the pull of destiny perhaps, though he was too young to know it. He felt determined, his mother’s demand would be met with success, he would not fail a second time.

Present Day, Heimstatte, The Hureg Confederacy ​

Vargen strode down the dirt path towards his father's hall, the winter snows were melting, and watery slush had replaced the crisp layer of white that had blanketed the ground. He passed great halls of stone and timber, smoke billowed from chimneys and horses and bikes were tethered outside their walls. the capital of the Hureg in winters height could accommodate over one hundred thousand souls, the end of winter heralded the seasonal scattering of the Hureg as thousands of sub-clans dispersed back onto the steppe to hunt and harvest the great timber forests.

Only the ruler of clan Hureg and his immediate family occupied the halls all year long but soon they too would head out onto the wider steppe. The wedding of the newly declared king was imminent, all Essalanea was awash with talk and excitement. The tales had long told of Essalan’s desire to unite his people beneath a single throne, the founder's untimely death had dashed those hopes millennia ago. But now a trueborn son, Gaiseric Volkmann, had succeeded in doing precisely that, Essalanea at long last had a king.

Soon it would have a queen to, and both would be crowned by a Hureg no less, Magnar had been the deciding vote and that had earned him the honour of cementing Gaiseric’s place as ruler of all the clans. Soon the sons of Hurg would journey to the west, to the broken hills where a great gathering was taking place. Gaiseric would be joined to Anegrette as both husband and co-ruler and the steppes would never be the same again.
Of course, not everyone was pleased with the rise of the Volkmann king, the traditional clans were appalled, and their protests grew louder by the day. And then there were the countless poorer clans that had lost out during the war, many now nursed grudges and hateful feuds with the richer clans of the north. The situation on the steppe was as vibrant and combustible as it had ever been.

Vargen slowed his pace as he came upon the great hall, a soft breeze flowed past and caressed his face with chill air, he pulled his bearskin closer around his middle and pressed on. He was greeted at the halls entrance pats on the back and warm smiles as his fellow bondsmen saw him, he relished the warmth as he entered the great hall and was greeted by a roaring hearth.

The hall of Heimstatte was a curious mix of old and new, great bladed weapons and shields now shared the walls alongside all manner of firearm. A radio played softly on the fireplace mantel and the glow of electric light, aided by the generator outside, had long since replaced torches. The Hureg had grown wealthy from the embrace of Gaiseric’s new order, their lands now swelled with modern trappings as capital poured in from foreign trade.

One thing that had not changed however was who sat in the great fur-lined chair at the centre of the hall. Magnar Hureg, hair now white as the fading snows outside, still directed the clan's affairs with strength and wisdom. Despite being in his mid-seventies the elderly chieftain was still strong as the bear that was his totem, some whispered that the old man would govern Heimstatte until the end times.
He was presently attended by Vargens uncles, Recimer and Audo, the two men now in their late fifties continued to act as valued counsel to their elder sibling. Vargen’s half-brothers were also present, Chintilla had a shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he stood hanging on their fathers every utterance. Tulga meanwhile sat to the side, his eternal smile had taken on a dazed aspect thanks to the copious ale he had downed.

Chintilla did not move to accommodate his younger brothers' arrival, a mocking look filled the elder's eyes as he beheld the younger. He was a tall man, his black beard well-oiled and his hair bound up neatly in a leather thong. Chintilla had never liked Vargen and for his part, Vargen despised his brother with equal intensity. Chintilla’s angular face contorted into a mock joy as he greeted Vargen.

“Brother, so glad you could join us, we feared you had forgotten the way,” Chintilla said practically sneering

“No brother, unlike you I can find my way back after pissing in the woods” Vargen countered bluntly

Chintilla’s expression ceased to be mocking as he raised a finger ready to begin one of his arrogant tirades, a fist slammed against wood before Chintilla could speak. The brothers turned to see their father sporting a distinctly unimpressed look upon his face.

“Enough! I gathered you hear for important business, not to talk nonsense like a collection of unhorsed diplomats!” Magnar growled

The two men muttered halfhearted apologies and regarded their father in silence, the old bear scratched his beard thoughtfully as uncle Recimer pointed to an unfurled map of the steppe. They had been planning the route to broken hills all day, a vital act given the dangers of the steppe.

“As I was saying, brother, we can cut through the pale pass and be at broken hills in three days” Recimer said resuming his briefing

“What about bandits? The open plain will be awash now that the cold has started to wane” Audo pointed out between swigs of Vodka

The two older men were as carbon copies of Magnar, all white-haired and with prominent beards that flowed down to the waist. Audo was instantly recognizable by the long scar that ran down his face, a token of his many years of raiding. Recimer was more like his elder brother Magnar but slighter in frame and possessed of green eyes rather than Magnar’s icy blue. The three were some of the oldest men in Essalanea, and some of its most powerful.

“Gaiseric’s patrols have been reducing the number of clanless raiders for years, the bandits are an endangered species,” Recimer said with a dismissive wave of his hand

“We should still be cautious; the pale pass is not well policed, and it would not be the first-time complacency has led to a proud clan's downfall”

“Fine! Recimer! See that we take an extra hundred bondsmen, any bandit that still cares to meet their death after that is more than welcome” Magnar said patting his axe Kopfteiler*

The older men nodded in agreement, Magnar turned to regard his sons, it was clear from the look on the old bears face that he was deliberating something important.

“Someone must be sent ahead of the main party, an envoy to deliver my congratulations to Gaiseric and to assure him of our presence,” Magnar said scratching his beard thoughtfully

Chintilla straightened already anticipating the honour he believed he was about to receive, Magnar raised a hand to his chin and paused before speaking.

“Last-Born!” he said pointing to Vargen, Vargen burned inwardly at the sound of his hated nickname

“Yes father!” he replied obediently

“You will ride ahead of the main party and deliver my greetings to the king,” Magnar said in a commanding tone

The chieftain reached for a long parcel wrapped in fur that had been sitting at his side and held it outstretched.

“Take this with you, could come in handy” Magnar said as Vargen reached for the parcel and took it in his hands, it had a decent weight to it

“now go, we shall follow you at dawn, show me that you are not still a babe clutching at your mothers' leg, show me you are a true son of Essalan!” Magnar said locking eyes with Vargen, he bid his son leave
As Vargen left the hall he could hear Chintilla begin to protest, that was at least amusing.

*************************************************************************************
Vargen mounted the bike, it was loaded with provisions for the journey and his father had ensured that a skandan rifle was waiting for him with enough ammo to protect himself. Being chosen to go ahead of the main party was an unusual honour, it was both a test and an affirmation. On the one hand, it was a highly dangerous task to traverse the steppe, a test given only to one who had something to prove, but on the other, it was a task that indicated a high degree of trust, the chieftain would not send just anyone out onto the wild steppe.

Vargen regarded the mysterious parcel with intense curiosity, he pulled back the fur wrapping and was greeted by the glitter of polished steel. A longsword of masterful forging lay in his hands, it was engraved with a single inscription. Marked in ancient gotic script the blade read

“To my son and heir”​

Vargen suppressed the tears and held the blade in silence for a moment before drawing it from its parcel. It was long and possessed of a deadly edge, the blade curved at the end in the manner of a cavalry sabre. Nothing on the blade was lacking in function, only the inscription hinted that this was anything other than a masterfully forged tool of war. He sighed and placed the blade back in its wrapping. He strapped the sword to his back and keyed the bike's ignition.

The sun was beginning to set in the distance and Vargen would have a long ride ahead to reach broken hills. Vargen slid the bikes stand back with his boot and then pulled the accelerator, the bike sped off into the evening horizon as he did so.

*Kleinen translates to "little one" in Mercanti
* Head Splitter, Magnar's famed axe

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 11:Badwilla​

Niedhalla, Broken Hills, Western Essalanea

Badwilla had every reason to be proud, from the broken hills of western Essalanea to the fertile grazelands of the central plain's clan Niedrig’s territory swelled. The years since the war had firmly divided the clans into two camps, those who embraced modernity and those who opposed it. Badwilla’s leadership had ensured the Niedrigs had been amongst the former and his people had loved him for it. In these days of abundance, few remembered the immense gamble that Badwilla had taken.

When the karg war had burned across the steppe lines had been drawn, Badwilla had supported the Volkmann and their charismatic high chieftain. This loyalty had now been rewarded many times over when the Volgis clan had refused to surrender it was the Niedrigs who had been given the honour of crushing them. The Volgis had been driven from their fertile grazing lands and in their place, Badwilla’s cattle now grew fat.

Badwilla surveyed his domain with an approving eye, broken hills was a sea of yurts and campfires, but at the Centre sat a cluster of permanent new structures. Badwilla had always been fascinated by the architecture of the unhorsed, flush with wealth from sales of beef to the Epiphanes he had chosen to build a villa in the style of the old imperium. His men saw it as little more than a fancy hall to gather for feasts and Moots, badwilla saw the beginnings of a great city.

He could never admit to his love of the unhorsed culture, of course, his bondsmen would have laughed him out of house and home, but he could begin to subtly advance his vision. Niedhalla marked the first step on the road to an empire, an empire that Badwilla would not live to see. He was no fool, like Gaiseric he knew that modernity would be a project generation in the making, even more reason to cement alliances and build strong foundations.

He watched as a cargo plane descended from the skies and landed on a roughhewn dirt path near the main camp. The Falke had been ferrying guests and supplies to Niedhalla for the past week, everyone of importance was coming to witness the coming marriage. Herds of Oxen and cattle filled broken hills pens awaiting slaughter before the coming feast and trucks brought ale and wine by the barrel full of Kimbria. It was going to be a feast for the ages, and all would know that it was the Niedrigs that hosted.

He smiled as his horse trotted at a leisurely pace through the narrow rows of tents and stalls. Elderly women and untested youth wove garlands of wildflowers that soon would adorn every free surface, hunters filled the communal kitchens with freshly killed marmot and wild dog, the entire clan threw itself wholeheartedly into the preparations. Bards and wrestlers from every corner of the steppe had arrived seeking audiences and one-handed priests with their distinctive brown robes moved through the crowds offering blessings and curses.

Badwilla breathed in the pungent aromas, horse dung, blood, sweat, petrol and wildflowers, to be witness to such events was more intoxicating than any wine. In all the days that were to come, men would say Gaiseric wed and was crowned but they would also say that it was at Niedhalla that he did it. He could barely contain his excitement, history and glory beckoned.

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 12: The Wizard
​

Faygar Falke watched his king with a mix of amusement and incredulity, the king of Essalanea and high steward of all the clans of the steppe was locked in an arm wrestle with his fiancée and he was losing, badly. Unlike other cultures that kept the would-be bride and groom apart the clans took a far more relaxed approach to marriage, they were going to be spending the rest of their lives together so the folk of Essalan saw no reason to delay the inevitable with ceremonial separations.

“Submit little wolf I'd hate to break you before the wedding night!” she roared with glee as Gaiseric struggled to keep his wrist above the table
Niedhalla followed the Epiphanean style, a square courtyard in the villa’s Centre surrounded on three sides by high columns that led into the various rooms and halls of the palace. Gaiseric and Anegrette were seated in the yards Centre beneath an open sky, their bondsmen cheered and placed bets as the two struggled. Faygar had missed this, other cultures measured power by distance from the rank and file but in Essalanea a leader that did not drink with their men was worthless.

“If your arm wrestling is as poor as your riding I think not!” Gaiseric said growling as he brought his arm forward and pushed back against Anegrette’s assault
Bondsmen milled about at the edges of the courtyard, bets were placed, and cheers made as the assembled men and women watched their ruler's bout. The scene was like nothing that could be found anywhere else on Eras, Faygar smiled at the notion of Marten or Rajesh arm-wrestling their spouses. Essalanea could not boast vast cities of glass or overflowing coffers of gold, but its people could proudly boast of their egalitarian system, life was seldom easy and frequently short but the folk of Essalan were free.

And yet Faygar felt a sense of foreboding creeping in, change was sweeping across the steppe and even the most isolated tribe would not escape its arrival. There was talk of great bridges that would stretch across the phoenix straits, of trains that would cross the scalp of the world all the way to Kimbria, Essalanea had opened itself and the modern world had poured in. Faygar wondered gloomily if the proud scenes in front of him would be the last roar of a proud culture about to be extinguished.

And It wasn’t just the foreign ventures that portended change, the divisions on the steppe were growing more marked with each passing year. When Faygar had agreed to aid Gaiseric in spreading modernity to the steppe he had quickly realized that such an endeavour was going to be messy and uneven. Net cafes and televisions sets buzzed with activity in Kimbria and Neuanfang, but on the steppe, clans lived and died clinging to the ancient patterns of grazing and raiding.

“There are two Essalanea’s and modernizing will only make their divide ever starker,” Faygar thought grimly

Faygar struggled to see how a balance could be found, to embrace all modernity's trappings was to lose everything worthwhile that the old ways offered. However, to swim against the tide and stubbornly refuse change offered only stagnation and death for the clans. He thought of his own origins, a child of the steppe that had been spirited away to Maloria, he had lived in the world of the unhorsed and the world of the clans, synthesis was possible but it was a precarious balancing act.

“Faygar stop thinking so loudly! You'll suck all the joy out of the room!” Gaiseric said jovially, breaking Faygar’s gloomy meditations as a tankard was pressed into his hands

“Forgive me, lord, events weigh heavily on the mind,” he said embarrassed to be caught out by the king himself

“Nonsense! That brain is the whole reason you’re here! But come let us drink and be gloomy no more, it’s the eve of my wedding” he said raising his cup in a toast

The entire hall roared in approval and raised their own vessels before drinking deep. A bondsman pulled a four-string from her pack and began to strum a tune, Faygar watched the older woman's fingers dance nimbly across the stringed instrument. It was an old song, the ballad of Thurderic, the hall began to cheer and stamp their feet as the woman broke into song.

“So, did you win?” Faygar asked Gaiseric breaking the companionable silence

Gaiseric smirked “I barely managed a draw” he admitted before shrugging his shoulders and sipping from his cup

“It's good to be home, even if everyone keeps calling me a wizard” Faygar muttered with a chuckle

Wizard, that was what the folk of the plains had called him when he had journeyed to them with talk of solar panels and personal computers. The patterns of life on the wider steppe were stubborn and remained utterly divorced from those in the cities. He could not blame them; he must have seemed gloriously impractical to them. A rifle and a spindly horse were of greater use to the average bondsman then computers or flashy phones.

“Give them time Faygar, our people will come to an understanding of modernity by their own will alone, we can merely give them the tools to do so,” Gaiseric said with a pat on Faygar’s back

“Do you think we can embrace new ways without losing ourselves?” Faygar replied unable to resist voicing the thoughts in his head any longer

“You’re still a Falke are you not?” Gaiseric asked with a raised eyebrow

“of course, "he replied

The way of Essalan had never left Faygar, he had not stopped being a son of the steppe simply because he had lived elsewhere. His clothes, home and wealth were external, it was the culture within that had shaped his life and worldview. Yes, he was still Falke, still true to Essalan.

“Good, change is inevitable Faygar but better we do it for ourselves rather than have it imposed by another” Gaiseric said with a reassuring smile

The two returned to companionable silence, Faygar sipped his beer and suddenly felt far less grim. The four string was strumming a different tune now, an old tune of spring and new beginnings.

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 13: Ruminations ​

The cloak of night blanketed the steppe, darkness covered the land, only occasionally broken by the pinpricks of distant campfires. From his vantage upon the hill Alric could see the entire plain outstretched before him, the lights of the Niedring camp glittered like uncut gems in the blackness. The celebrations in Niedhalla were only just beginning, the entire night would be marked by a thousand drunken toasts to the new king. By right and obligation, Alric should have been down there with his brother celebrating the latter's success, but the commotion of such an occasion made thinking near impossible and Alric had a great deal to consider.

The silence of the steppe had a soothing quality to it, far removed from the temporary din of humanity the steppe greeted all with the same yawning absence. The steppe offered mortal men nothing, its utter hostility to life instead acted as the ultimate test, like a sculptor chisel the harsh land served to chip away at weakness. The strong were shaped into something greater by the steppe and the weak were shattered utterly by its unending trials.

It was with this eternal shaper that Alric now communed, the silence allowing him to gather his thoughts. As he gazed down at the glittering lights of Niedhalla Alric realized that his life had arrived at a fork in the rod. Years of fighting in service to his brother's cause had given Alric a sense of purpose but now the guns had ceased to fire, the peace Alric had won had made him a victim of his own successes. Alric believed in his brothers' vision of a strong and united Essalanea but he struggled to envision what place he might hold in the new world.

What would become of the warriors that had won this peace? As the clarion call of change grew impossible to ignore what role would men of war serve in a time of unity? Gaiseric's new world called for labourer's, diplomats and doctors and Alric had no interest in any of those pastimes. For a man like Alric peace offered nothing save obsolescence, it represented a slow and agonizing death as his purpose evaporated like smoke.

Already the changes were there if you cared enough to look, the foreign language schools in Kimbria and Neuanfang, the factories and prefab towns that had been growing in number since the early 90’s, the slow but unceasing creep of infrastructure as rail and road alike began to erode the once impenetrable nature of the steppe. These changes were inevitable, there was no rolling back what had been invited into Essalanea, modernity would not be denied any longer.

For a man who had championed the new order, modernity offered Alric little in the way of certainty. His brother had elevated him to the rank of general and tasked him with building the nation's first army. However, this army was a far cry from the great roving bands that Alric was used to, he hated the rigid formalities and despised that stiff blue uniform he was required to wear. The more they advanced down the path of development, the less visible their identity became, or at least that was how it felt.

Alric wondered if it was time to seek a future beyond the steppe, to take his sword to bloodier pastures as it were. The thought was repellent and yet it didn’t entirely lack appeal, others had sought their fortunes beyond the confines of the homeland but fighting the wars of the unhorsed always carried risk. How many had lost their souls fighting and living amongst the unhorsed? Could a trueborn son of the clans truly go out into the wider world and return unchanged?

Alric’s troubled musings were interrupted by the sound of an approaching motorcycle, he watched as a cloud of dust drew closer, the lights of a solitary bike glittering in the dark. The vehicle stopped a short distance from where Alric was sitting, his hand shifted toward the sheathed blade at his hip, footsteps crunched in the dust as someone drew close.

Alric watched as a young man strode into view, he couldn’t have been more than twenty summers, he walked with an uncertain stride as though he was navigating a minefield. The man was dressed in the manner of a steppe traveller a brown tunic and breeches were covered by a green duster and thigh-high riding boots. The stranger kept his auburn hair restrained by a neat collection of braids and a thin and well-groomed moustache rested on his youthful face. There was something familiar about the boy's feature, Alric couldn’t quite put his finger on it though.

Alric noted the sheathed longsword resting on the strangers back and wondered silently whether to go for the newcomer's throat or gut if a fight were to occur. The stranger eyed him with a curious expression, two deep green orbs that bore a thoughtful expression about them. The feeling of familiarity did not disappear, he had seen that look before, the hard-set stare of a man analyzing the world around him with a frowning, curious expression.

“Who goes there!” Alric called out his hand still hovering near the hilt of his blade

“I am Vargen, son of Magnar of the clan Hureg! I come seeking an audience with king Gaiseric!” the boy yelled back, his voice echoing across the darkened valley

Vargen held up a sheathed blade, the ancient symbol of peaceful intent, Alric relaxed his hand and instead scratched his chin thoughtfully. Of course! That expression the boy held was the same as his father, the old bear had indeed sired many cubs even if Alric had seen little of them. Magnar had promised he would arrive to crown Gaiseric, clearly, the old man had intended his son to go ahead and bring the southern clans regards.

“So, it would seem, you have the look of your father, though less grey” Alric replied rising from his seat

“And may I know your name?” Vargen asked his tone formal

“Alric, son of Hunneric of the clan Volkmann” He replied flashing the crowned wolf tattoo on his wrist

Vargen raised an eyebrow his expression half curious and half confused “you are up here in the darkness instead of down there celebrating, why?” he said in a surprised voice

“Well when you put it like that it does sound strange, I come up here to think, evidently also to welcome my brother's unexpected guests!” Alric chuckled as he kicked dust over the fire and grabbed his pack

“I take it you will lead me to your brother?” Vargen asked

“Aye, seems like it's high time to face the revels below, come and bring your bike” he replied motioning for the Hureg boy to follow

“so, this is Magnars heir.... not what I expected,” Alric thought as he led them down the hill toward Niedhalla

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 14: The Dispossessed

Broken Hills, Western Essalanea
​

A chill wind howled across the steppe kicking up dust and scattering it over the surrounding plain like a forceful hand laying down a cloak. The sound of shrieking winds roused Ganzeric from his meagre sleep, he sat upon the stretcher bed and gazed out at the dust storm. In all the time he had lived in exile Ganzeric had never found a nation whose environment could match the bare savagery and grim beauty that existed on the steppe.

He strode to the entrance to his tent and watched as the storm began to ebb away revealing the now dust-coated structures of his camp. They had been travelling across the steppe for days, keeping to the badlands to avoid detection by Gaiseric’s nascent armies and their sporadic patrols. Finally, they had arrived here in the parched lands of the western steppe, within striking distance of their target. For Ganzeric the twin goals of vengeance and redemption were finally within reach.

The Volgis chieftain had given Ganzeric 200 men, a collection of disgraced and desperate souls all without the scruples of the loyal and the honourable. Armed with high powered weaponry and living outside the stringent laws of Essalan that forbade bloodshed on neutral ground, the dispossessed company Ganzeric commanded were the perfect weapon. In normal times 200 warriors would have been too few to get the job done, but Gaiseric and his allies were counting on ancient law protecting their ceremony and the dispossessed care nothing for those strictures.

None of them had anything to lose, the grim force Ganzeric lead had all been banished and stripped of any status that might have engendered honour. They would gleefully enter the wedding hall and cut down every one within, the only thing they could lose now was their lives. For Ganzeric the opportunity to run his blade across the Volkmann kings' neck was more than enough incentive to risk his life. The fact that Otho had promised him land and titles merely sweetened the deal.

But first, they had to reach Niedhalla, the halls of the Niedrig would be guarded of course but they were not expecting an assault and with so many thousands of guests arriving from across the steppe, they would not be able to spot the attackers until they were already striking. It was going to be butchers work, no elegant tactics or drawn-out engagements, they would storm the hall and kill everything that moved. The element of surprise would be vital, the shock of an unexpected attack would paralyze the wedding for a time, and it was that window that Ganzeric needed to work within.

Lothar, Ganzerics second, shuffled into view as the storm finally abated. He was a scruffy looking man with skin that had darkened and taken on a leather-like texture after many years fighting under the harsh sun. Like Ganzeric Lothar was another exile seeking a chance to reclaim his lost status, unlike Ganzeric Lothar had been banished for decades rather than years. The once-proud Karg warrior wore the marks of his miserable life on his wrinkled face and in the tired expression of his sombre green eyes.

“The company is ready Ganz, trucks are all loaded and we’ve enough ammo for a small army, just say the word and we can get underway,” Lothar said in a voice that was oddly cheerful
Ganzeric nodded approvingly, Lothar knew what he was doing, the former Karg had been moving from one unhorsed war to another over the last decade. Lothar had fought in over a dozen wars from Iteria to Meterra, trading his ever-growing skillset for the only things that made sense to an exile, money and the temporary pleasures it could buy. Lothar had managed logistics in every outfit from ragtag militias to full-blown armies, an experience which made him invaluable to Ganzeric’s company.

“I want the men ready to move in three hours, we will strike at Niedhalla while their little ceremony is keeping them occupied,” Ganzeric said in a commanding voice

Lothar smirked “it's going to be messy win or lose,” he said his tone amused

“Once we are inside those halls there will be no quarter, we are going to kill everything that moves before they have a chance to do the same to us” Ganzeric replied in a firm voice

"And while we're fighting and in all likelihood dying for a shot at redemption, what will our employer be doing?" Lothar asked in a sceptical tone that surprised Ganzeric

Ganzeric knew Otho's type, such men existed in every corner of Eras, the Volgis chieftain was the sort of man that preferred to let others do his dirty work. While the desperate souls in Ganzeric's company risked their lives to eliminate Otho's rivals, the scheming coward would most likely be off plotting some other scheme, in all likelihood somewhere distant enough that if the assassins failed he would have an alibi.

"He said something about going to deal with the Hureg, but who knows, the schemes of the powerful are not our concern, only survival" Ganzeric replied bluntly

Lothar seemed to accept his answer and soon stalked off to make final preparations, leaving Ganzeric alone to contemplate the coming action. He turned his gaze back to the now clear horizon, Niedhalla lay on the other side of the broken hills and with it either a swift death or a shot at redemption. There was no turning back now, the gamble had been made and all that was left to do was to see where the dice fell.

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 15: Outfoxed

Broken Hills, Western Essalanea

The message filled the phones cracked surface as Lothar typed

“They are preparing to move, make ready” the message read

“Understood” the reply came back instantly “Make good on your escape, we will handle the clanless”

Lothar nodded at the message, then he unceremoniously dropped the phone to the dusty ground and smashed it with a stomp from his boot. As the plastic and glass crunched underfoot, he felt a strange sense of loss. There was no Lothar, just a fabricated identity that Anegrette’s agent had occupied for a time, still, he had come to enjoy the act. The Kimbri agent took a deep breath and then began to descend the hill toward the waiting motorcycle concealed in the rocks below. By the time the conspirators noticed he was absent he would be halfway to Kimbria.

As he walked through the dust the agent couldn’t help but smirk, he took one final look back at the camp, they made their preparations oblivious to the doom that waited for them. The Volgis had attempted win by subterfuge, a game the Kimbri were far more experienced in playing, now it would be that misstep which ended their plans and possibly their existence. The agent allowed himself to enjoy a small amount of pride in his work, Kimbri men seldom rose as high as their sisters in the clan but they served their part regardless.

The agent came at last to the rocks, a concealed bike lay in wait beneath a sandy coloured tarpaulin. Throwing back the cover the agent climbed onto the saddle and engaged the engine which burned into life with the soft rumble. Moments later the bike was purring loudly as the engine carried the Kimbri spy far into the distance.

*************************************************************************************​

 

[North Timistania]

Chapter 16: Outfoxed Part II

Broken Hills, Western Essalanea

If the western steppe had been summed up in one word it would have been dust. It was a greater adversary than the most violent of predators as it went about choking engines and blinding eyes with endless storms. However, the adversary did not pick sides and as Vivika watched from her vantage point the billowing clouds of dust revealed the approach of the clanless.

She would grant the Volgis clan one thing, using clan exiles as assassins was a clever scheme, Otho had revealed himself to be capable of subterfuge. But where the Volgis toyed with the shadows and thought themselves adept, the Kimbri had mastered the arts of espionage and murder long ago and the competition was woefully one-sided. Otho had overplayed his hand, been too confident that others were not watching.

The truth was that the Kimbri had never stopped watching, the Volgis had been eyed with suspicion since their defiance in the Karg war. Gaiseric's alliance and by extension power base was utterly reliant upon the Kimbri and their ability to keep tabs upon his enemies, without them he would likely have perished long ago. The Volkmann might rule but it was the Kimbri who guarded the throne.

And that unenviable duty was the reason that Vivika now struggled against an endless sea of dust, loose ends had to be tied up. She clutched her skandan rifle, the weight of the cold metal reassuring in her hands, it was time. She turned and signalled to the woman next to her, a burly looking Snake-sister hauling an rpg on her shoulder.

“Aim for the lead vehicle, that should slow them down long enough for us to close the trap,” she said pointing to the barely visible truck at the head of the clanless convoy

The woman nodded and without a word in reply raised the weapon, took aim and fired. The warhead screeched across the valley, its passage barely audible over the roar of the dust storms, Vivika watched as it impacted with its target. The truck at the convoys head exploded in a burst of fire and twisted metal, Vivika could just make out the burning silhouette of a man flailing on the ground on fire. As expected, the rest of the convoy ground to a halt as chaos engulfed it.

Vivika rose and signalled to her outriders, Bikes roared into life as Kimbri warriors leapt onto their saddles and raced down the hills toward their prey in the valley below. Vivika mounted her own bike and raced toward the sounds of gunfire and the scent of smoke and blood.