VI
"Borivoj."
The sound of his father's voice woke Jiri, even if the summons had not been for him. A cold breeze, faint but unmistakable from the chill to his nose and ears, swept into the tent from the partially open flap. Outside the sky remained dark, but inside the tent the faint glow of the fire's embers still clearly silhouetted several forms standing close to the bed. Nearest to the bed, his father leaned close in over Borivoj's form.
"Father?" Borivoj asked sleepily. Jiri rolled towards his younger brother, feigning sleep as he tried to spy on the odd summons.
"Get up, Borivoj," Libor instructed. "Do not wake your brothers."
Another of the forms moved up behind Libor. At first Jiri assumed it was his mother, Kaja, but the shadow's spear and hunched form quickly dispelled that idea. Carefully Jiri peeked past his father, seeing his mother and Neza both well behind the two forms over the bed.
"Father, what is happening?" Borivoj asked quietly. His voice was edged with fear, but he spoke quietly to obey his father's command. The hunched shadow moved forward faintly, allowing Jiri a look at the ancient, scarred face and empty eye socket of the Bloody Fist's high priest.
"You know Predrag," Libor said quietly, identifying the withered orc for the youngster. "Chosen by the One Eye to guide the Bloody Fist. He will be your teacher."
An audible gasp escaped from Kaja, masking any noise Jiri might have made at the simple statement.
"Rise, boy," Predrag said, his raspy voice cutting through Jiri's senses. "Bring your spear. You will need nothing more."
"Husband," Kaja hissed. Libor spared her little more than a cold glance over his shoulder, a clear warning for her to be silent. Next to Jiri, Bela stirred faintly, until he kicked his brother's leg in warning to be silent and still.
"I want to stay here," Borivoj protested, inching away from the ancient priest. Predrag smiled faintly at the child's reluctance.
"You have been chosen," the ancient orc explained. "Chosen to guide the Bloody Fist when I am gone. The One Eye has shown me this."
"But I want to stay here," Borivoj pleaded, turning in desperation to his mother. "Mama, let me stay here."
"You must go," Libor said, kneeling next to his young son. Jiri could barely believe the scene, from the simple surrender of the chieftain's son to the warm, reassuring words that came from Libor rather than angry demands. "It is your destiny, boy. Some day you will help your brother lead the Bloody Fist. You must be ready when that day comes."
Jiri could barely maintain his ruse as he heard his father speak. Would he be the next chieftain? Next to him, Borivoj sniffled, tears rolling down his face. Kaja took a step towards her son, but a harsh glare from the chieftain stopped her.
"You do not understand now," Libor said, turning back to Borivoj. "But some day you will. I do not wish to see you leave, but you will always be my blood. Remember that always, Borivoj. Now get up. Follow your destiny."
Hesitantly Borivoj pushed the blankets away, choking back tears as their father gave him to the old priest. Predrag took the boy by the hand as he stood.
"You will learn, in time," Predrag assured him. Borivoj's face was drenched in tears, a woman's act in the eyes of Jiri, but as Libor knelt in front of the child there was no sign of anger or embarrassment on his face.
"You will make me proud," the chieftain said quietly, wiping the tears away from Borivoj's eyes. "And I will visit you often." Libor stood, and turned to Predrag. "Take care of my son, priest."
"He will grow to great glory as one of the Chosen," Predrag stated. Without another word, or even a chance for Kaja to say goodbye to her son, the priest led Borivoj through the tent flap and into the darkness. For a long moment Jiri watched as Libor simply stood over the bed, his eyes shimmering with the faint beginnings of his own tears as he watched the night through the partially open flap.
"What is this?" Kaja demanded suddenly, her harsh whisper breaking the silence. Across the tent, on the edge of the embers' glow, Jiri could see the furs move where Tereza and Eliska slept. "What have you done?"
"What I have to do," Libor replied, his voice icily calm. The simple answer only seemed to incense Kaja further.
"Is Borivoj not the son of a chieftain?" she pressed. "Are my sons orphans to be cast off to the Chosen?"
"Borivoj will earn great glory as one of the Chosen," Libor said quietly. "One day, Jiri may be chieftain of this tribe. He will need his brother to guide him."
"Borivoj is the son of a chieftain!" Kaja exclaimed, barely keeping from shouting. "And a chieftain's sons are to be warriors!"
"A chieftain's sons can be anything!" Libor snapped, his rage rapidly coming to the surface. For a long moment the two parents fell silent, glancing to their children. Jiri feigned sleep, even rolling away from the two, but his act seemed halfhearted at best. Again, the reference to him as chieftain seized his imagination. However transparent their children's ruse was, however, Libor finally returned his attention to his first wife. "And a chieftain's wives do not question their husbands," he reminded her.
For a long moment, a tense silence held in the tent.
"Yes, Husband," Kaja finally relented, an obvious note of disgust in her voice. Jiri expected to hear a resounding slap as Libor disciplined his wife, but instead there was a simple rustle as the two and Neza returned to bed. Jiri turned his head faintly, but all he could see was his father settling back into bed between the two females.
Jiri turned away from his parents' bed, but before he could even think about what had happened he came face to face with Bela's concerned amber eyes.
"Jiri," the younger brother said.
"Go to sleep, Bela," Jiri instructed simply. Bela remained silent for a moment, but his eyes did not close.
"Will we be taken away, too?" he asked simply. Jiri remained silent, uncertain how to answer. He had never seen, or even heard of, anything remotely like what he had just witnessed. He had never even guessed that a young orc could be taken away in the night by the Chosen. Was that what was meant by the term Chosen?
And would he truly be chieftain?
"Jiri," Bela pressed, growing more anxious. Jiri shook the last thought from his mind, albeit with great difficulty.
"I don't know," he admitted with a shrug. It was only partially true; Jiri did not know what would happen to Bela or Jarek, but he knew that he would never be given away.
After all, he would be chieftain.
"Ondrej."
"Chieftain," Ondrej said, not bothering to turn from his inspection of the young orcs arrayed across the playing field of Bijelo Polje. Down a slight hill, two teams of a dozen young orcs each squared off in a game of conquering territory, marking the small stone cairns they took with crude flags or wrestling each other to the ground to take control of their opponents' territory. Libor made his way slowly up the rise where Ondrej stood, stopping next to him as he watched the prospective young warriors hone their skills in the chilly afternoon. Ondrej remained silent as he waited for the chieftain to begin the conversation, unwilling to begin one himself with the unsteady leader.
"Your son grows strong," Libor finally said, breaking the uneasy silence.
"He does well," the war chief agreed without emotion. "One more year until his Trial. I would have expected Jiri to be here as well."
"He is with Raduz," Libor explained. "He will have time to play tomorrow."
"Learning to fight is best done from those who are not crippled," Ondrej noted, shifting faintly. "And learning to fight alongside one's peers is as important as the finer points of the spear."
"And Jiri will learn both," Libor explained. The faintest defensive note edged into the chieftain's voice. "The spear today, the Contest tomorrow."
"I see," Ondrej said quietly. Again the pair lapsed into silence. Ondrej could feel the chieftain's uncertainty as they stood together, a sure sign of weakness that the war chief was slowly beginning to dislike from the once strong leader.
"I will be leaving for the winter," Libor finally said.
"Then you will lose your tribe," Ondrej said. Only a few months before the conversation would have stunned Ondrej into silence, but after all that had happened the chieftain's blunt statement did not seem nearly so shocking.
"You think me mad," Libor assumed. Ondrej nodded.
"How can I not?" the war chief asked. "You wish to leave as winter settles over the tribe you are supposed to lead. I have defended you on many occasions already from those who would see you destroyed for the good of the tribe, hoping that you would regain your senses. But this… I cannot help you any more, Libor Do you honestly think that you will be welcomed back, if you even survive the winter alone?"
"I would have my war chief rule in my stead while I am gone," Libor explained. Ondrej snorted derisively.
"And then make you chieftain again upon your return?" he concluded. "You are insane, Libor. No orc willingly surrenders the title of chieftain."
For a moment the two stood in silence.
"Look around you, Ondrej," Libor finally began again. "Look at our tribe. We are the greatest of all the orcs, and yet each year even we lose ground to the unscarred. If we fall, who will be left? Kazatimiru? At least he is an orc. The half breed? Is that what we wish to see? If we fall, Ondrej, so do all orcs. The humans and the goblins will kill us or bred us out of existence."
"Each one of us is worth ten unscarred in battle," Ondrej stated, his eyes locked on the young orcs below."
"And yet we give up more ground each year," Libor countered. Ondrej hesitated.
"And somehow, your leaving will strengthen us," the war chief scoffed, turning away. Libor grabbed him by the arm, turning him back.
"I will find Krvavi Puet," the chieftain said. Ondrej stared for a long moment, disbelieving.
"You are mad," he reiterated.
"I am not mad!" Libor countered, his anger and frustration rising. The chieftain paused, bringing his turbulent emotions under control. "Predrag has seen it! His vision will guide me, guide our tribe, to new glory!"
"Predrag," Ondrej repeated. "He is ancient, Libor. He was old when we were only in our Year of Trial. How much longer will we have to suffer his dementia?"
"Dementia?" Libor repeated. "He is the Chosen, Ondrej! He is favored by the One Eye above all others!"
"He is ancient and withered, Libor!" Ondrej retorted. "Look at him! He can barely lift the spear he carries! How much longer before his mind fails, if it has not already?"
"He is the One Eye's favored!" Libor pressed. "If not for his vision, we would have perished long ago, either to the winter or to the half breed!"
Ondrej paused a long moment, his eyes locked on the defensive chieftain. Finally, he nodded.
"He is the one," the war chief guessed. Libor paused, confused. "He is the one who has put these thoughts into your head," Ondrej continued. "The farms, the bogalj laboring like the unscarred, and now this. He will destroy our tribe with his mad visions, Libor. Once, he may have been favored by the One Eye, but now he is only favored by insanity. He will destroy himself and anyone who listens to him, Libor. Stop now. Stop while there is still time!"
"Enough!" Libor snapped. The two orcs remained locked in cold glares. "If we do not change, Ondrej, we will be destroyed! Or are you too blind to see that?"
"Are you too blind to see the madness of this?" Ondrej countered. "Leaving your tribe? You will lose everything!"
Libor seemed ready to strike, his massive hands balled into fists, but the chieftain brought his rage under control.
"I would sacrifice all for the glory of my tribe," Libor stated evenly. "That is why I am the Bloody Fist."
"If you leave, you lose your tribe," Ondrej said again. "If you return, you may challenge, just like any other orc. But do not think to walk back into Bijelo Polje and reclaim all that you gave up."
"I took you as war chief over Stribog," Libor growled. "And this is how you repay me?"
"There are many others who would have seen me strike you down already," Ondrej pointed out. "They would have me challenge now, and destroy you for the good of the tribe."
"Miran, I assume," Libor reasoned.
"It does not matter," Ondrej stated. "Whether it is you or the priest, your mad ideas have turned the tribe against you. It is not just one or two orcs that would have me challenge." Ondrej paused, but his words seemed to have no effect on the chieftain. "Go," he said, his voice cold. "Look for your mythical spear. Take the old priest with you, even. Perhaps it would be better for you both to leave this tribe. And if you do return, you may challenge for leadership, just like any other orc."
Libor growled faintly, his tusks locked in a hateful snarl.
"Then enjoy your time as chieftain, Ondrej," he spat. "Call the gathering. I will tell the tribe."
"Pay attention, boy! Do you think you'll have time to daydream as a true orc?"
Jiri snarled as he regained his feet, trying to put aside his teacher's verbal jabs as he reset himself to spar once more. Crippled and barely able to move, Raduz nonetheless soundly thrashed the younger, healthier orc with every round they fought. Once again Jiri looked to the other orcs of his age, ones who would face their Year of Trial with the chieftain's son, playing the Contest on one of Bijelo Polje's many small fields.
"You will have time to play tomorrow, boy," Raduz pointed out, slapping the younger orc with the butt of his spear. "Pay attention to the foe at hand before you look to your next. Have I taught you nothing?"
"You have taught me how to stand still," Jiri retorted, his eyes on the rise above the field. There stood his father, the Bloody Fist himself, once more in heated conversation with the war chief of the tribe. His inattention and his remark cost him dearly; Raduz clubbed the chieftain's son with the shaft of his spear and swept the dazed orc's legs out from under him. Jiri landed painfully on his back, finding Raduz' spear once more at his throat.
"You mock my injuries, yet for some reason I best you every time," the mentor stated coldly. "Before you open your mouth, unscarred, you should understand the consequences of what you wish to say."
"I will best you," Jiri promised, pushing Raduz's spear aside and slowly regaining his feet. The teacher rested for a moment, glancing over his shoulder. Finally, he turned back to the young orc.
"You are concerned," he assumed. Jiri looked past him.
"I will play the Contest tomorrow, and win," he decided.
"That is not what I meant," Raduz pointed out. Jiri looked to the rise again, but Ondrej stood alone. For a long moment Jiri searched for his father, but the chieftain had disappeared.
"He gave Borivoj away," the youngster finally stated, turning back to his teacher. Raduz' thick eyebrows rose in surprise. "To the ancient one, Predrag."
"It explains your lack of concentration," Raduz stated. "Why did he do such a thing?"
"He said it was Borivoj's destiny," Jiri explained. He paused for a long moment. "He said I would be chieftain, and that Borivoj would guide me."
Raduz pondered the boy's words for a long moment. Jiri shifted uncomfortably; although the thought of becoming chieftain some day made him heady with pride, he knew the jealousy that would accompany making such a statement. Older warriors would challenge him ceaselessly to shame him for such a thing.
"Borivoj will become one of the Chosen," Raduz finally said, snapping the boy's attention back to the present. Jiri nodded. "Your father is a strange orc," the teacher remarked.
"He shames us," Jiri said. He stopped, considering his words. "At least, mother says he does."
"A female's opinion is not to be valued highly," Raduz noted, leaning on his spear as he considered the matter. Jiri thought he would add something more, but the bogalj remained silent.
"But a chieftain's sons are to be warriors," the youngster said. Raduz smiled at the statement.
"And a bogalj should search for a last battle to enter the Feast Halls of the One Eye whole again," the teacher stated. He shook his head. "I have had much time to think," Raduz said. "Your father has done many odd things, the farms most obvious among them. He has asked me to remain here, to teach your brother and others the spear."
Raduz hesitated a long moment, lost in thought.
"Will you?" Jiri finally asked. Raduz's eyes snapped up, surprised by the question.
"I… don't know," the bogalj replied. "Is it right to remain like this, crippled, unable to fight, dependent on other orcs to even hunt for me?"
Jiri shrugged helplessly, unable to answer the question.
"When your father asked me to teach Bela, I could not bring myself to think such a way," Raduz continued. "But I have seen you grow, seen you become a true warrior. You are talented, and will one day be a great warrior. I can only hope that your time with me will reflect well during your Year of Trial."
"I would not dishonor you with my actions," Jiri stated. "I will be the greatest of the warriors to face their Trial in the spring. And if someone should ask where I learned to wield the spear, I will tell them that it was Raduz, the great warrior and slayer of ogres, that taught me."
Raduz paused for a moment, but finally his face lit with a warm smile.
"Slayer of ogres," the cripple repeated. "Not Raduz the bogalj?"
"If you were bogalj, you would not be able to best me so easily," Jiri said with a smile. Raduz could barely contain his elation at the statement, but finally he managed to force out a snarl to cover his broad grin.
"Enough of this, boy," the bogalj snorted. "I won't be taken in by the compliments of an unscarred female. Fight me!"
Jiri raised his spear and growled in readiness, but he felt no true anger as his mentor tried unsuccessfully to hide the joy behind his tusks.
"I have seen this before. He will use it to curry favor."
"A well fed tribe is a complacent tribe," Javor agreed, looking over the preparations as he and Miran walked the perimeter of the feast. At midday, Libor had unexpectedly announced a feast to be held upon the great field where young orcs played the Contest, sending the tribe into a whirlwind of preparation and speculation alike. Rumors had swirled among the females as they roasted great spits of elk, their conversations dying away rapidly as the males passed them by or inspected their work. Among the warriors, little was different; Miran had been stopped by a half dozen warriors or more, ranging from young Stannes to the old, crippled Stribog, to discern the nature of the feast. "Still," the berserker said, considering his conversations throughout the day, "many assume he will apologize for his actions at the Autumn Feast."
"He owes a particular apology to Vratislav," Dobroslav grumbled, following a step or two behind the two warriors.
"An apology he would not be able to give if Vratislav were dead," Javor pointed out. Miran snorted faintly.
"No chieftain has ever apologized," the Single Tusk stated. "It would be weakness. I would not do such a thing as chieftain."
"Great and generous Miran," Javor said with a faint chuckle. Below them, on the Contest field, the females brought out the last of the long tables for the feast. Most of the food had already been prepared, and now the females were setting the tables for their proud warriors. Miran smiled at Javor's joke, but his mirth died away as he saw Ondrej stalking through the females.
"The war chief still broods," the Single Tusk noted. Javor's mood darkened as well with the statement.
"He will speak to no one," the berserker observed, watching Ondrej make his way among the females. "He has brooded all day, but will give no reason why."
"Do you think his anger comes from our chieftain's desire to apologize for the Autumn Feast?" Miran inquired, a tone of sarcasm in his voice. "Do you think he rages because Libor has finally come to his senses?"
"Perhaps it is Ondrej's mood that had forced Libor to see reason," Javor suggested, though his tone betrayed his lack of optimism. Another derisive snort escaped Miran's lips.
"Convince yourself before trying to convince me," the Single Tusk advised his ally. Javor scowled at the condescending remark.
"There is our chieftain," Dobroslav remarked, ending the conversation as he nodded to the far end of the field. As the last of the tables were dressed with elk and crude bronze goblets of wine, Libor himself appeared, his spear in hand as he made his way to the head table. With him came Zdeno, bearing his great axe easily on one shoulder as he eyed the food hungrily.
"A new war chief?" Javor questioned, noting Zdeno's presence with Libor. Miran's eyes narrowed.
"He would not do such a thing," the Single Tusk said quietly. "To throw a tribe into such chaos…"
"He has already thrown us into chaos," Dobroslav pointed out. Javor nodded in agreement.
"They have not seen eye to eye," the berserker observed. "Zdeno, as you have said, is Libor's orc."
"He is a fat, lazy fool," Dobroslav snarled.
"Yes, a fat, lazy fool that could defeat you," Miran stated. Dobroslav's lips curled into a snarl, but Javor stepped between the two.
"Fight each other later," the berserker stated sternly. "Fighting now will only cost the tribe. Let us find seats and eat."
Javor did not wait for the others before heading down through the Contest field. Miran turned to Dobroslav as the scout leader glared at him.
"I should remember my allies," the Single Tusk stated, as close to an apology as he was willing to come. Dobroslav hesitated slightly, but finally accepted the unspoken apology with a nod. Reconciled, the two started down through the Contest field after their friend. The younger warriors parted quickly for the leaders of the tribe, flashing smiles or quick greetings as they found their way to the seats afforded them by their rank. The greatest of the warriors would sit closest to Libor's table, falling back to the newest warriors, then the boys that awaited their Year of Trial, and finally to the females and the young. Behind them, the few bogalj that remained took their positions beyond the tribe, listening quietly. As Miran made his way through the crowds, he noted that the conversations of the assembled orcs pointedly avoided the reason for the gathering.
"Here, Miran," Javor called out, waving the Single Tusk over. Just behind him, Ondrej was taking a seat among the first table of warriors, further proof that something was seriously amiss.
"Ondrej?" the Single Tusk asked, too shocked by the war chief's seat among the common warriors. Ondrej snarled faintly, an expression of barely contained rage.
"He will explain," Ondrej forced out between locked tusks. Miran looked back to the head table, where Vratislav of all orcs had joined Libor and Zdeno. The young warrior's appearance, so soon after he had challenged and been defeated by the Bloody Fist, immediately ended the conversations of the orcs as they turned their attention to their leader.
"Members of the Bloody fist," Libor began, his voice carrying across the thousand or more orcs gathered on the Contest field. What few murmurs had persisted died away with the chieftain's address. "My brothers and sisters. I offer this feast for you, to honor all that you have done. My great warriors, who have won so many victories. My females, who have borne proud, strong young orcs for the glory of the tribe. For the boys who will become true orcs in due time. And even to the bogalj, who have offered all that they were to the tribe. They have given up the feast halls of the One Eye to return their wisdom to the tribe."
"What does this mean?" Dobroslav asked quietly, listening to the odd opening.
"Silence," Miran hissed. His eyes were still locked on Libor; his only conclusion was that madness had truly taken hold of the once great chieftain.
"For ten years, I have led the Bloody Fist," Libor continued, looking over his tribe. "I have led you to many victories over that time. We have defeated the bastard half breed and won glorious battles against, humans, goblins, ogres, and even the trolls that haunt the snows to the south. I have brought to us all the glory that I can.
"But now, there is something more I must do," the chieftain continued. Miran glanced to Javor, but the berserker could only shrug in confusion. Next he looked to Ondrej, but the war chief's cold, furious eyes remained locked on Libor. "I have given all that I am to the Bloody Fist. Now I must give my fury and my strength to all orcs."
Libor paused for a long moment, but not a sound escaped the gathered orcs.
"I will leave the Bloody Fist," the chieftain announced. The bluntness of his statement stunned the orcs into quiet murmurs of shock. "If I do not do this, we will some day fall to the unscarred around us."
"He is mad," Dobroslav breathed out. Miran looked back to Ondrej, but the war chief had finally turned away with a snarl of rage on his face.
"He… leave?" the Single Tusk managed, too stunned by the revelation to find his fury.
"You give up the Bloody fist?" Javor called out, the first one to stand. His question led to a flurry of questions from the tribe, both to Libor and to each other.
"Enough!" Libor shouted, bringing the assembled orcs back to silence. "I do not give up the Bloody Fist!" the chieftain explained. "I leave to find greater glory for the Bloody Fist! I leave to find greater glory for all orcs!"
"We care nothing for all orcs!" one warrior exclaimed. "Glory to the Bloody Fist!"
"Glory to the Bloody Fist!" several others shouted.
"Enough!" Libor bellowed again. Once more the tribe died down to quiet rumblings. "I will unite all tribes under one banner!" the chieftain shouted. "All will follow the Bloody Fist!"
"Into madness?" Miran shouted in derision. A chorus of agreement rose up around him.
"I will find Krvavi Puet!" Libor yelled over the racket. The name of the mythical relic silenced the crowd instantly. Libor looked around for a long moment. "I will find the One Eye's spear. If I do, then all that I propose, all that will elevate us to the conquerors that we should be, will be done. I will unite the tribes, or I will die trying!"
Miran and Javor exchanged glances. Krvavi Puet was a legend, something many orcs did not even believe in past their formative years. What would happen if such a legendary weapon existed?
"I will leave, and when I come back it will be with Krvavi Puet," Libor reiterated, his harsh glare sweeping over the warriors. "While I am gone, Ondrej will lead the Bloody Fist. When I return, I will lead the Bloody Fist to undreamed of glory!"
Quiet murmurs swept through the crowd a second time. Libor, his face flushed with rage, practically dared the assembled feast to challenge him. After along moment, he nodded.
"I will return with the One Eye's very spear," he said. "Zdeno and Vratislav will accompany me. Until then, I leave you with Ondrej."
With that, Libor turned and stalked away from the head table. After a short hesitation, Zdeno and Vratislav followed their chieftain. Slowly, with the tribe still silent, Ondrej stood from his place and approached the head table.
"I am chieftain of the Bloody Fist," Ondrej declared, barely holding his fur in check. "I am the Bloody Fist. Who among you will challenge me?"
Miran glanced around the assembled tribe, but no one wished to challenge the slayer of Dainis. With no rival to the new chieftain, Miran stood, his goblet in hand.
"To the Bloody Fist!" he exclaimed, raising his drink above his head. For a long moment, the tribe remained silent.
When it finally did erupt, it was in cheers of joy for their new chieftain.
