Spider Man

The day dawned dull and red, and despite all of Piitros' education, he couldn't help but see it as a bad omen.  Something curled uneasily in his gut, and spurred him to post a second set of lookouts beyond Dvaghavn.

Gwen rode into the city in the late morning, swords and bow strapped to her saddle, baby strapped to her chest, and a sour expression on her face.

"Have fun?" Gwen snapped, as soon as they were within speaking distance. Piitros rolled his eyes, and gestured towards the soaked and water-damaged ruins of Dvaghavn.

"Only if you count laughing myself sick for five minutes and cleaning up for hours as fun."

Gwen's eyes softened a touch. "No fighting?"  She dismounted smoothly, walking beside Tagspapiig as they navigated the destroyed walls of the ruined city.

"Just some skirmishing with untrained idiots in the lower levels of the castle."  Piitros shrugged. "I did save something for you, though. Up by the docks."

Gwen brightened, and buckled her swords to her waist, shooing Tagspapiig off with a kiss. "A gift?"

"You could say so."  

Handing their newest child over, Gwen took a faster pace, seemingly aware of the entire city's layout.

"Maraaja gave me some maps," Gwen explained absently. "I had to do something while our child was entering the world, so I planned for unlikely situations."  

Stopping, Gwen threw him a smile. "I didn't expect a gift, though. What else could I possibly..."

Trailing off, Gwen stared at the docks. A great deal of their mercenaries had set up camp, there, and three of them were guarding a rather large makeshift stake.

Tied to the stake was Justus Maximus 'Veneda, the source of many troubles.

He had a block of wood in his mouth.

"Sorry," one of the mercenaries spoke up. "He kept screaming and yelling, and insulted certain personages enough that a couple of warriors tried to decapitate him. Since you said we were to leave him for the Vanspag, we had to come up with a makeshift solution."

"And nobody had a spare rag?" Piitros asked amusedly. Gwen had begun to stalk around the stake, drawing the attention of many of the mercenaries, and causing Justus to sweat heavily.

As one, the three mercenaries shrugged. Before there could be any more discussion, Gwen drew a small knife. "Call an assembly," she demanded. "I want every possible person to witness this."

As it turned out, Piitros had to do nothing but wait a few moments. The eavesdroppers and onlookers up and down the docks had done the job for him.

When Gwen deemed the area sufficiently full of people, she raised her knife, gaining instant silence.

"Here," Gwen said sharply, "is the culmination of generations of cruel overlords, thievery, and murder. This coward has perpetuated our oppression, and the oppression of our sisters and brothers. He has allied with oathbreakers, and attacked innocents. He has such a lack of honor, that death by the sword is too good for such as he."  Gwen smiled. "Therefore, he will die, here and now, at the end of my siika."

Piitros was reasonably sure that the collective gasp of surprise could be heard as far off as Kesurga. The siika was the smallest blade a Sarmatian carried, less than four inches long, and blunt on one side. It was borrowed from the Hekassir seax, and was usually used for cleaning under one's nails and slicing fruit.

It was one of the most ignoble ways to be killed, in the eyes of a Sarmatian warrior.

Coolly, Gwen tore the block of wood from Justus' mouth, removing a few teeth in the process.  "Anything to say, in your last moments?"

Justus sputtered, spat blood at Gwen, and began to scream insults and foul language at the top of his lungs.

“I thought not,” Gwen said icily.  

Five incredibly bloody minutes later, Piitros was impressed.  While he had known that Gwen knew enough about the most common type of human body to injure and kill, he had not been aware that Gwen knew enough to calmly cut open a living being and keep them alive while removing vital organs.

When Justus finally died, Gwen sniffed, tossed the siika away, and stalked off the docks.  “Hang him somewhere where people will see him,” she called over her shoulder.

Piitros winced.  Not only would that be messy, but it would smell terrible.

“Don’t worry,” a mercenary said as people began to shift and walk away.  “We’ve got loads of preservation amulets from Maraaja that were supposed to be for food.  A few should hold off the smell for a couple of weeks.”

Piitros nodded, and dashed after Gwen.  They still needed to name the child he held in his arms.

-

The sacred fire had just burned down to the coals when someone dashed out of the growing shadows to whisper into Gwen’s ear.  Nodding, she waved him off. 

“Piitrik, a messenger has come from the south,” she murmured, careful not to disturb their now-sleeping child.  “I’ll come get you if it’s important.”

Piitros looked up from the sleeping face of their youngest, and nodded.  “Lokimei and I will be fine.”

Gwen sprinted away, the last glimmers of the setting sun reflecting brightly off of her pale hair.  Piitros looked down at Lokimei, who snuffled softly in her sleep.

“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” he breathed, rocking back and forth on his heels.  “You’ll grow up and be as strong and terrifying as your mother, and I’ll likely be utterly incapable of saying no to you.  I only wish…”  Piitros sighed.  If only he could introduce his marvelous children to their Finnish family.  If only…

“Vanapaghavuk!”

Piitros jolted.  There was only one person who called him that.

Maraaja dashed towards him, her normally absent expression replaced by one of determination.  “Vanapaghavuk, your Vanspag needs you!”

Tightening his grip on Lokimei, Piitros took a breath.  “Lead,” he said.  “I’ll follow you.”

Then, they ran.

When they arrived in the center of the camp, Gwen was busily strapping all of her weapons on.  Her eyes were snapping with fury.

“What’s happened?” Piitros demanded, handing Lokimei to Eithan as he drew level with his wife.

Gwen buckled her third spare sword onto Tagspapiig with a snap.  “The citymen have captured the refugee camp.  All of our noncombatants are now in the hands of those dishonorable scum!”

Piitros’ heart began to speed up.  “The citymen?”

“Led by one called Nordmann Ásbjarn, according to our messenger.”  Gwen snapped.  “Our messenger, who died.  May her journeys in the Otherworld be glorious.  This cityman, this Ásbjarn, he will end his life in dishonor and never receive glory, I will disembowel him and cast the ritual of the sorcerer, so that he may never live in this world or the Otherworld, that son of a dog –”

“Nordmann.”  Piitros felt cold.  “Heimrikh was his son.  He was the one who sent Heimrikh and Conochvars to kill me.  It’s his fault that my uncle died!”

Gwen paused, poised to leap into the saddle.  “He killed the Vanspag of Ruirig?” she demanded.

Piitros nodded.  Someone nudged his shoulder – Reino, her large eyes gentle with affection.

Gwen smiled grimly, her re-dyed teeth gleaming dully in the growing moonlight.  “We ride hard south,” she said fiercely.  Around them, people began to hurry in different directions.  “We ride hard south, for one last battle.”  Her voice softened, and she turned to look at Maraaja.  “The children stay here.  Leave some priestesses to guard them, Eithan will remain here as well.”

Maraaja’s eyes glazed over, presumably as she passed on the orders.  Piitros swung up onto Reino, pleased that he hadn’t removed his everyday saddle with the slots for bow and quiver.  As soon as he had his swords, he would be ready to ride.

Gwen and Tagspapiig circled, followed by a slowly growing group of warriors.  Eithan slipped away for a moment, and returned holding Piitros’ spare swords.  Piitros buckled them on, and guided Reino to Gwen and Tagspapiig’s side.

Gwen drew her favorite sword.  “One last battle!” she roared.  “To the south!”

-

Conrad still wasn’t sure how the mercenaries had managed to sneak up on them. Some of it was that the army was away- but the refugee town, it couldn’t be called a ‘camp’ any longer, had their own sentries.

He was unhappily sure that they’d been killed.

Turkish mercenaries, he thought, eyeing them carefully as he and the other doctors and medical staff were herded out of the Christian hospital. He hadn’t thought that Justus was that good at strategy, but hiring mercenaries to take out the town and threaten the children and the elderly and the source of the new and growing Venedan bureaucracy was a good way to make the army abandon the siege to come save them.

Except, when they got out of the hospital and under the cloudy sky, the mercenaries dragged him off to the town hall.

Nordmann Ásbjarn was waiting there for him.

And he wasn’t… scared.

Is it the Sarmatians? Conrad wondered frantically, as Nordmann started to declaim one of his threatening speeches. For most of his life, at this point, he would have been scared stiff- but now. Did I get a new standard for ‘terrifying’ and not realize it?

No, he realized. For a decade, he’d been living where Ásbjarn couldn’t possibly touch him- living when Ásbjarn didn’t even know he wasn’t dead. He’d seen Sarmatians, and war, and refugees, and actually helped people.

Nordmann Ásbjarn was just a rich Byzantine bully who’d been smart enough to keep from getting caught yet.

The slap came suddenly, and rocked him on his feet. One of the mercenaries was still holding him, so he didn’t fall over.

“Listen to me when I’m speaking to you!” Nordmann hissed, and Conrad blinked at him.

“You can’t outsmart Sarmatians,” he said, and found himself surprisingly calm. “They don’t work like that. They respect intelligence, but you’re not the right type of smart. You don’t organize, you don’t lead, you don’t create. You just try to terrify people. The Sarmatians could get behind that, except you don’t do it out and direct.”

Nordmann looked like he was about to explode, and Conrad kept him fixed with a level gaze.

The other man looked away first.

“They have to have cells somewhere,” he snapped at the mercenary who was holding Conrad up. “Find them, and throw him in there. Let’s see how he does without food for a week.”

Which wasn’t even a proper threat. He’d been here for the entire building of the town- it didn’t have cells. Sarmatians- and Christians, and the Haemo- didn’t believe in jails. Troublemakers got shamed into doing better, forced into slavery, exiled, or killed.

But he didn’t tell the mercenaries that. They spent at least half an hour dragging him around the town, looking for cells, and that let Conrad get a good look at they were and weren’t doing.

Everyone was keeping quiet, because Turkish mercenaries were good- but this was also a town, and a large one, made up of war refugees. Just about everyone here could fight, even if it wasn’t well; and they could all run. And they knew these streets, and these mountains.

The Turks didn’t, and Ásbjarn didn’t know anything.

The mercenaries ended up shoving him into one of the trade warehouses with the other adults and teenagers they thought looked threatening, or who had resisted being dragged off. The warehouse had been cleaned out of anything resembling a weapon or anything that could easily become dangerous, which was only smart-

But then the mercenaries just locked the doors and left.

Or, rather, one of the others reported, there were guards outside. But there was no one in here with them- and that was just stupid.

“Do they think that we can’t fight for ourselves?” one of the Haemo women muttered under her breath, sounding deeply offended. “We have mutants and trained fighters enough!”

“Maybe they think that the mutants and fighters are all off with the army, or were in the sentry guard,” an older Hekassir refugee suggested. “I know it’s nothing like what the rest of the world can muster, but ‘the Sarmatian army’ sounds terrifying. And you know what Sarmatians are like. Just because we’ve lived with them, and know that we weren’t left behind here because we can’t fight, doesn’t mean that they know.”

He’d told Nordmann that he wasn’t the right kind of smart because he couldn’t organize. He could run a business, but that was different. That was people working for money, or working for you because you’d intimidated them. Not because they had to, or because you’d talked them around into doing it.

Conrad looked around, taking a mental inventory of who they had. De-weaponed Sarmatians who’d been looking after children, fairly spitting fire at the indignity and ready to start a fight as soon as an acceptable target showed their face. A number of Haemo- not even all of them refugees, just people who’d emigrated- because a town in the midst of Sarmatian mountains was safer than their homes with the clan wars and bandits had been. Refugees, who’d survived a continent torn by war and still had the guts to run to Sarmatia. Christians, who wouldn’t fight or hurt anyone, but who could be convinced to get people out of danger.

“So,” he asked the group. “What can everyone do?”

-

They reached the mountains from Dvaghavn the next day, because Sarmatians rode fast. They hadn’t even tried to bring the infantry. They could hold the city and start rebuilding, and celebrate winning the lands of Gabija’s children back from the arzemniiks.

The Sarmatians had taken the refugee town under their protection, and they couldn’t let Ásbjarn do anything to it.

He and Gwen were riding out front of the group, their horses’ breath clouding in the cold air as the first snow flurry of the season fell in the mountains. The pounding of hooves on stone and packed dirt was deafening, and Piitros was almost glad that the Sarmatians didn’t take naturally to stealth operations, because that’s how he would have tried to approach this situation, but there was no way to make a cavalry army full of enraged warriors into a stealth operation against a mountain town.

They started up the last mile-stretch of road to the town, and a new rumbling overrode the horses- the horrible shrieking grate of rock on rock, the thunder-roll of a landslide- and behind the town, a massive cloud of dust.

Piitros pictured the position of the town in his mind- the road went straight through, and with the Sarmatians coming up this way-

A lone figure appeared on one of the reinforced footpaths on the slopes above the town, and let the wind blow out a shuriig-red blanket like a flag.

The Sarmatians screamed as one, and beside him, Gwen surged ahead, sword drawn, hair flying, the very picture of war. Inside the boundaries of the town, he could see the mercenaries Ásbjárn had hired starting to pull together to face them.

They fell on the town as the river had on Dvaghavn.

-

The mercenaries who had come out to meet them fell almost painfully easily.  Compared to the joint fury and power of the Sarmatian warriors, harassed Turkish mercenaries who had just been caught unawares by an avalanche were simply no match.

Gwen, who had been seriously irritated with the lack of bloodshed in the past few weeks, gleefully disemboweled those soldiers who didn’t immediately die.

Alongside them, shouting angrily, many of the people who had been left in the town were now snatching weapons and joining the battle.  Piitros caught as many as five different languages shouting variations on the Sarmatian battlecry.

And then it was over, the moaning cries of those few dying who had not yet passed on filling the air with the haunting sounds of a former battlefield.  Nearby buildings were splattered with gore and gouged in several places, but Piitros was pleased to see that almost none of their warriors or the refugees had died in the fight.  Buildings could be mended – lives could not be replaced.

Gwen rode up to him, her helm glinting in the setting sun.  “Have you seen Curt?” she asked, stabbing a moaning Turk as she rode past.  “The refugees say that he helped them fight off the Turks before we got here, and that he organized the Christians and the children.”

Piitros breathed in a mouthful of dust, coughed, and shook his head.  “I haven’t seen him, not even –” He froze, pulling Reino to a stop.  “Gwen, did we get Ásbjarn?”

Gwen’s eyes sharpened.  “Hold – WARRIORS!” she roared, standing in the saddle.  “WHERE IS THE ÁSBJARN?”

From their normal post-battle movements, everyone turned to face Gwen. 

“He’s not on the battlefield,” someone spat in anger and disgust.  “That cowardly dog, worse than the false king –”

“Pardon, Vanspag.”

Gwen slipped off of Tagspapiig.  The speaker was a small child, probably between the ages of six and nine.  The child had dirty shoulder-length hair, sun-tanned skin, and was of indeterminate gender beneath a grimy smock.

Moments before, the child hadn’t been there.

“Vanspag,” the child said, “I stayed to watch because I can turn invisible so the dirty Turks couldn’t see me, and the horrible foreign man with the funny accent had a whole squad of Turks drag Doctor Conochvars away.  They went that way,” the child pointed south.  “Into the mountains.”

Gwen scowled fiercely.  “Conrad Conochvars is blood-bound to me, and any who transgress that must face my blade.  I am honor-bound –”

“We are honor-bound,” Piitros cut in.  “I am bound to you, and through you to Conochvars.  Besides,” and at this moment, Piitros knew exactly how Gwen felt when she bared her teeth to the world in a dangerous grin.  “I owe Ásbjarn a death.”

-

The terrain was terrible – when they had come south, they had cut through one of the northern passes between the Carpates and the Sarmatian Mountains.  Ásbjarn had clearly headed further south into the Southern Sarmatian Mountains, heedlessly barreling his way through everything.

On the one hand, it meant that they had a tremendously obvious path to follow.  On the other hand, dark had quickly fallen over the treacherous mountains, and the footing had already been terrible.  By the time the air had become cold enough to cut through their furs and armor, it had begun to snow over the unsteady paths through the mountains.

Piitros could see his own breath as he murmured to Gwen.  “Can we make it through the night?”  Benhaag was whuffling little white breaths of her own, carefully testing each step before placing her full weight upon it.  “Benhaag is fresh to keep moving, but the cold is no good for any of us.”

Gwen tilted her head towards the sky.  “Maraaja seems fine, and she’s walking.”  They both threw uncertain looks at the priestess, who still seemed underdressed while cloaked in fur and wearing a thick tunic and trousers.  She had run for as long as Benhaag and Tagshuriig had, and had been fighting alongside Gwen and Piitros with Reino and Tagspapiig earlier that day.

Piitros rather suspected that one of the gods was supporting her, but he couldn’t figure out quite why this particular mission – to rescue a slave – would be important enough for a god to support it.

“Besides,” Gwen said, a tight smile twisting across her face.  “We’re close.  Can’t you smell smoke?”

As soon as Gwen had said it, Piitros smelled it.  Not just smoke, but the slightly-unpleasant smell of men attempting to make travel-meat into something edible.

The snow thickened, and Benhaag abruptly stopped, planting her feet and refusing to budge.  Moments later, Tagshuriig did the exact same thing.

Grimacing, Gwen jumped from Tagshuriig’s back.  “The footing is too bad.  They won’t walk from here.”

Piitros followed Gwen’s lead, dismounting as Benhaag and Tagshuriig began clearing a section of ground from snow.  He and Gwen joined in, helping clear a section of ground.  Both horses sat side-to-side to share body heat.  Gwen turned to Maraaja.

“Can you make our cloaks warm for them?” she asked, sweeping her cloak over Tagshuriig’s back.  Piitros put his own cloak over Benhaag’s back.  Maraaja nodded, her eyes burning silver.  They had been silver, Piitros suddenly realized, since Maraaja had decided to join them on their trip to catch Ásbjarn.

Golden mist flowed from Maraaja’s fingers, making the cloaks glow briefly.  Piitros could feel the warmth emanating from the cloth.

Satisfied, Gwen turned away, swinging her spare sword over her shoulder and leaving her bow and arrows with the horses.  “Come.  I can smell their idiotic campfire.”

-

Surprising the Turks that Ásbjarn had dragged with him was depressingly easy.  They had been preoccupied with the cold, lack of food, their own exhaustion, and had barely even posted sentries.

As it was, the sentries died soundlessly, and most of the mercenaries soon followed.

“NORDMANN ÁSBJARN!” Gwen shouted, her face already spattered with blood spray.  “WHERE IS CONRAD CONOCHVARS?”

“Right here,” Ásbjarn said, seemingly stepping out of nowhere.  Piitros scowled – where had Ásbjarn gotten a spelled-camouflage tent?  Those things were expensive.

Ásbjarn stepped fully out of the tent, dragging an unconscious and bound Conochvars beside him on the ground.  The whole time, he held a knife to Curt’s throat.  His eyes flashed.  “Hello, Piitros.  So good to see you, after so long.”

Piitros tightened his grip on his sword and knife.  “Ásbjarn,” he spat.  “You owe me a life.”

Ásbjarn laughed, the notes wild and nearly hysterical.  “As if, little duke,” he sneered.  “No, what’s going to happen is that the two of you are going to leave, or else my men are going to kill your darling little selves.”

Gwen snorted.  “We killed all of your men, Coward-from-the-North.”

Ásbjarn’s laugh transformed into a cackle.  “Oh, really?” he gasped.  “Really?”

Ten Turks, looking nearly dead with exhaustion and shaking as they walked, stepped out of the invisible tent.

They died almost instantly, arrow-bolts sprouting from their eyes.

Maraaja slid out of the darkness, her silvery eyes burning.  “Try again, oathbreaker,” she sang.  There was something distinctly wrong with her voice.

At that moment, just as Ásbjarn shifted to snarl at them, Conrad opened his eyes and tore himself from Ásbjarn’s arms, rolling to the side and –

Transforming into a lizard.

Gwen hissed through her teeth, but none were more surprised than Ásbjarn, who jumped away in fear.

“Get away!” Ásbjarn shouted.  “Get away!”

Lizard-Conrad dashed towards him, and raked his claws along Ásbjarn’s chest.  Ásbjarn screamed in pain, and pulled something out of his jacket.  It made a nasty little blasting noise, and spat out a ball of fire.

A ball of fire that burned a hole directly through Lizard-Conrad’s chest.

“No!” Piitros shouted, darting forward.  “How dare you!”

Ásbjarn pointed the blasting weapon at him.  “Step away, little duke, or I’ll shoot your little whore as well.”

“I doubt it,” Gwen said, waving her sword threateningly.  “You killed the Vanspag of Ruirig, Ásbjarn, the man who was Piitros’ mother-sister-husband.  He owns your blood.”

“And the gods own your life.”  Maraaja stepped forward, her entire body shedding enough silvery light to light the whole clearing.  “Conrad Conochvars, child of Odinsmen, belongs to Gwenig Vanspag Stasig, and it was decreed: he will pay in sweat and not in blood, and those who transgress will answer to Oitosyrig and Argimpasa and Agin.  As a vessel of Argimpasa, I stand forth.  You have transgressed.”

Ásbjarn stumbled backwards.  “No!”

“In the name of the Death-Lord, you have transgressed.”

Piitros threw his knife, unthinking, and watched as it seemed to be enveloped in the silvery light from Maraaja.

“In the name of the Star-Lord, you have transgressed.”

The knife blurred.

“In the name of the Trickster who has all names and none, whose son you have harmed, you are condemned, and at his hand –”

The knife, blazing with silver light, buried itself in Ásbjarn’s eye.  The man screamed, and convulsed on the ground.

“You will die.”

Ásbjarn stopped screaming, choked, and lay still.  The light faded from the knife.  Maraaja turned to Piitros and Gwen.

“Worry not,” she said, the light fading from her body and centering in her eyes.  “You are blessed, son of the Trickster, Vanspag of the People.”

The light vanished from her eyes, and Maraaja gracelessly fell to the ground.