The Grey Ones

THE VASAATH

It pained him to see her leave after they had had their tea that morning. Kasethen was right. The feelings the Vasaath had for the girl was unprecedented, no matter how dangerous they were. He felt calm being close to her, lying next to her, and although he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, he found it easy enough to converse with the girl. She had a way of drawing him out, into the light.

Perhaps they didn’t always speak about things he liked to speak about—he distinctly remembered having to utter his ridiculous boyhood moniker—but at least, they spoke, with passion and dynamics. She argued with him in ways no one else dared to; she mocked him, sweetly, also in ways no one else dared to, and her voice was often sympathetic and understanding.

No Kas woman would ever marvel at his markings, let alone ask about them; they were all well aware of why he had them, and that was all. No one would ever touch them like she did, with such reverence. In Kas culture, once the markings were healed, they were part of the wielder, part of the soul. She, on the other hand, treated them like artwork, or words on a page—as something orchestrated for display and wonder.

She was an oddity in his world, a rare and exotic bird trapped in the cage that was this bigoted world of men and sovereigns. As ohkasenon, she would be free from such shackles. She would have a purpose that was beyond her sex, beyond a tradition of oppression and weak character—her purpose would be her own, from within herself.

But as much as he wanted to set her free, he wanted her for himself. Kasethen was right in that, as well—a person belonged to no one, but he wanted her to belong to him. She would, however, be out of his reach no matter what role she was appointed within the Kas. It would simply be impossible.

Love for a particular person was not for the Vasaath. His love was for his soldiers, his people—not one particular woman. Especially not an ohkas. He had no love left for an ohkas—or, he shouldn’t have any love left for such a woman. But then there was this exotic bird of paradise, just within his reach, soon ready to spread its wings and fly far away from the cage he had opened if he didn’t close it again. But how could he do such a thing?

He tried to keep his thoughts away from the ache he felt within and decided to put his mind into more pressing matters, such as the expansion of their territory. The harbour in Noxborough was quite large; they couldn’t possibly build lasting walls around the harbour in a day.

As he stood on the battlements, overlooking the layout of Winter Harbour, the kaseraad came back from their assignment. They approached him, their faces serious and urgent.

“What news?” he asked.

One of the spies took a step forwards. “They are planning an attack, sir. They are gathering their army and preparing to march this way.”

The Vasaath clenched his jaw. So, it had finally come to this, then. He nodded. “How many?”

“We saw no sign of the Westbridge forces, sir,” said another spy. “The City Guard house at least a thousand soldiers. They think they outnumber us ten to one, but they think we’re fewer than we are.”

“How long?”

“We left as soon as we heard they had issued the orders. With preparation and marching, they must be about two or three hours away.”

The Vasaath nodded and barked for his officers. “Gather the men. We have to secure the harbour, and quickly.”

“Yes, sir! What about the ohkas in the harbour, sir?”

“Drive them out,” said the Vasaath.

“If they refuse, or cause trouble?”

The Vasaath sighed heavily, clenching his jaw tighter. He was tired of compromises, tired of playing games. He looked his officers in the eyes and said, “Then, you kill them.”

The rasaath nodded and left to gather the Saathenaan. The Vasaath needed not to make sure the task was done—it was his best soldiers, after all. But he would lead the defence, as any good leader would.

It didn’t take long until Kasethen had learnt to know what orders the Vasaath had issued, and was quite surprised. “My lord,” he said once he had found the general. “Are you sure this is the right time?”

“We have an army marching towards us,” said the Vasaath. “When is the right time if not now? We’re outnumbered. Perhaps we do have some advantage, seeing as they’ve underestimated our numbers, but they have a thousand men and we are but two hundred. We need the advantage of facing them head-on. If we let ourselves be surrounded, we might as well lay down our weapons.”

“But, my lord, we still won’t have anywhere to run if they overwhelm us.”

“We do not run, Kasethen. We need the harbour so they can’t besiege us. If we control the harbour, we control the seas.”

Kasethen knew the words to be true, and nodded. “Well then, I suppose we can’t prolong it any further.”

“No,” muttered the Vasaath. “We shouldn’t have given them time to prepare at all. But I suppose this will be proof of their worth, their bravery. If they stand against us and win, they deserve their victory.”

The advisor narrowed his eyes. “But you don’t expect them to?”

“I am prepared for a fight. It would be foolish of me not to be. But I’m going to win, or I am going to die. I’m ready for it. Are they?” The Vasaath huffed. “That is my question. Will they cower in the face of death, or will they stand tall? That is what separates the wheat from the chaff.”

“You’re right, sir,” Kasethen sighed. “What will you have me do?”

“Keep Juniper away from it,” muttered the Vasaath. “I don’t want her near danger.”

“Or have her see us attack her people?” Kasethen muttered.

The Vasaath glared at his advisor. “Yes. That, too.”

“She will see through it, sir.”

“And I will deal with her later. Just make sure she doesn’t do anything hasty.”

Kasethen nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The Vasaath wasted no time and turned on his heel to join the preparations.

The Saathenaan was always ready for battle, but they had been waiting for more than two moons; their armours needed treating, and their blades needed sharpening. Moreover, they needed to secure the harbour before the Duke’s men surrounded them.

The operation was, however, swift and successful. The mainlanders ran in sheer panic when the armed Kas warriors advanced. There was no resistance. Make-shift barricades were soon in place and even though they would need more work before the harbour would be truly fortified, it had to be enough to hold it for now.

When echoes of drums sounded over the rooftops and cobbled streets, the Vasaath ordered his men to gather. They all lined up in the courtyard, and the general ascended the battlements. He took a deep breath, revelling in the dooming moment of silence as the marching of a thousand men came nearer. He then let his words boom over his soldiers.

“Finally, it has arrived,” he said. “Do you hear it, the boots of our enemies marching? Do you hear their drums beating? War is coming. We know it as an old enemy, and as an old friend, and we will embrace it as such.”

Two hundred pairs of eyes looked at him in earnest.

“Look at your brothers. We fight not for ourselves, but for them. We fight not for our present, but for our future. We fight not because we wish to fight, but because we must fight. To do our duty to our Motherland, we must fight!”

A sounding war cry boomed from his two hundred soldiers, loud enough to roll far over the hills and the waves as they slammed the butts of their spears into the stone floor with a deafening clap.

When the echo had faded, the Vasaath roared, “To bring honour to our people, we must fight!”

Another war cry, another clap.

“We shall cleanse these lands from corruption and bring them order, once and for all!”

“Vas-an lit basran!” The voices sounded in unison—a great calling that rolled like thunder.

The Vasaath looked out over his men. Two hundred of his best soldiers were an awe-striking sight to behold. He knew they could strike fear into the hearts of even the biggest of armies, and yet, he felt the guilt upon his shoulders. He would demand a great feat from them, defeating one thousand men on the battlefield. Some of them would most likely not make it out alive.

He knew, however, that the humans would underestimate them. No mainland warlord in their right mind would ever enter into a battle with such bad odds, but a Kas soldier was trained for worse. They were warriors, and they would fight with the strength of ten men until their dying breaths.

As the marching drums beat louder, the Saathenaan took formation along the barricades. The Vasaath had his shield and his spear at the ready, with swords at both his hips. The swordsmen and spearmen formed double lines of black-clad warriors along the barricades, and archers stood at the ready in the back and on the battlements.

When the enemy approached, drummers and bannermen carrying the Osprey sigil fronted the army, followed by rows upon rows of Noxborough’s City Guard that came marching through the streets.

Civilians could be seen peeking out the windows—some waving colourful fabrics towards their soldiers to show their gratitude and appreciation, and some spitting out the windows and cursing at them.

The guards, although still quite far away, reeked of fear and uncertainty. The Vasaath knew, then and there, that those men did not feel the strength of their own numbers, but felt alone in the crowd.

The Duke was nowhere to be seen and the Vasaath snorted loudly to himself. He wasn’t surprised—disappointed, but not surprised.

The drums silenced and shouts from their captains ordered the men to halt. The army stopped just on the edge of the big, now completely abandoned, market square that was the coming battlefield between them. Crows cawed around them, fighting a war of their own with the seagulls in the sky. A bark was heard from afar as galloping hooves echoed between the houses.

Soon, the guards let through three horsemen that rode into the middle of the market square. It was a wish for parley, and even though the Vasaath had no interest in discussing a truce, he understood that this was only a show—the Duke had no intention of actually fighting. He only wanted to flaunt his strength.

The Vasaath called for two of his highest-ranking officers and entered the square. He was on his guard, keeping keen eyes on the surroundings. He didn’t trust these mainlanders, and if someone tried to shoot him dead while speaking with the emissaries, he would be ready.

They reached the horsemen, but none of them dismounted—they wanted to maintain their status. Ironically, their heights didn’t differ that drastically from the Kas warriors’, even though they were on horsebacks.

“Bow to Lord Sebastian of House Arlington, son of the Duke of Noxborough, first in line to the Northern Dukedom and the Lonely Islands!” barked one of the guards.

The Vasaath glared at the three horsemen. The one in the middle, straddling a white stallion, was just a boy with rosy cheeks and innocent, silver eyes. The general beheld Lady Juniper’s brother, but did not bow. “You haven’t come to submit, so why should I?”

The boy had some troubles keeping the agitated equine under control. “We have come to bargain.”

The general couldn’t suppress a sneer. If the Duke thought the Vasaath would agree to another truce, he was delusional. “And what do you wish to bargain for?”

“You hold my sister as your prisoner,” said the boy as the horse snorted vigorously. “Lady Juniper. I demand that you return her to our father.”

The Vasaath frowned. At first, he wanted to laugh at the boy and tell him that the lady had come to him by her own free will. She was no prisoner. But then, of course, they would never believe that a woman had such agency. “And what if I refuse?”

The boy was baffled. Surely, he had not expected the Vasaath to turn down such a demand seeing as there were one thousand men against him. “She is of no value to you!” said the young lord. “She is barely of value to us!”

“And yet you—or rather, your father—has marched here with your entire military force.” The Vasaath gestured towards the City Guard. “It’s impressive, indeed. But I’d be more impressed if this wasn’t just for show.”

The boy on the unruly horse huffed. “Just for show? Are you mad? Damn this horse!” He led the stallion in a circle before continuing. “I have a thousand men just waiting for my orders. We will wipe you out in minutes, and still, you defy me?”

The Vasaath did not take kindly to empty threats. He tightened his jaw, straightened, and seared his eyes into the boy. “We are ready to fight, and we are ready to die. Are you?”

Uncertainty shadowed the boy’s face and he leaned in to one of the guards that accompanied him. After a few exchanged words, he straightened in the saddle. “I see little use in staining this square red—or whatever colour your blood is—but I see you are determined. How you believe you could win a battle when you’re outnumbered ten to one, is beyond me. Frankly, the mere thought of how easily we would crush you is tiresome. Just give us my sister, and we will be on our way.”

“Well, isn’t that unnecessary?” the Vasaath asked. “Marching all this way, just to turn back again? We Grey Ones will still be here—the invaders will still be at large. Now is your chance to get rid of us, once and for all. Unless, of course, you aren’t really ready to fight?”

The boy still struggled with his unruly horse and the Vasaath sighed and tipped his head to the side.

“Have you ever seen a real battle, Lord Sebastian?” he asked. “Has anyone of your men? I remember my first. The stale smell of blood filling my nostrils, the sound of dying men across the battlefield as they cry for their mothers, the sight of dismembered bodies in piles and piles—glorious.” He looked at the boy, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the rosy cheeks were pale, ashy even. “I will not hand over the lady.”

The boy shifted in his saddle and seemed to ponder his next move. Then, he said, “Your pigheadedness astounds me, Warlord. Your recollection of war sickens me. It seems as though your disillusion has you believe you can win this fight. To prove that you cannot, I suggest a duel. One of my soldiers, against one of yours. I know you underestimate the skill and strength of humans, and that will be your downfall. Let everyone see what they’re up against—man as well as beast. Let them all see that a thousand men are indeed nine hundred more than one hundred men.”

The Vasaath raised a brow. He looked at his men, and then he looked at the City Guard. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, he knew that even though the boy did not. But perhaps it was the best way to make the young lord understand that war was ghastly, brutal, and irreparable.

“Very well,” said he. “A soldier for a soldier. I will be gracious enough to pick a regular solider—not an officer, nor myself—but you may choose whomever you’d like.” He turned to one of his offices and ordered him to fetch a kasaath. He turned back to the boy. “Now, you pick your champion.”

“It will be I,” said one of the horsemen. He was a large man, with heavy metal armour and the face of someone who had indeed seen his fair share of fighting—he was no ordinary City Guard, he was a knight.

The Vasaath was impressed—perhaps the fight would be interesting, after all. When his officer returned, he brought with him a kasaath that was just as skilled as any other soldier of the Saathenaan. Not better, nor worse. He would be a splendid representative to show the skill of the elite warriors of Kasarath, and to show that he was not the one to underestimate his opponents.

The knight dismounted his horse and the two soldiers took place on the square. The human was tall and broad, but next to the Kas, he seemed unimpressive, mediocre. The knight drew his sword and the kasaath readied his spear.

When the fighting commenced, the knight proved to be quite fierce. He hit hard, knew his techniques well, and was firmly grounded—but he had only a very restrictive set of moves, and his armour slowed him down considerably. This, every Kas warrior knew. They all traded the protection of metal for the agility of leather.

The kasaath had to be creative, yes, and his blood was spilt, but his excellent skill with the spear and his speed and agility together with his brute strength and relentlessness finally had the knight on his knees. The killing blow was swift, precise. The armoured knight fell lifeless to the ground, landing on the stone with a loud rustle.

The silence that followed was thick and looming. The kasaath returned to his brothers, and the boy on the white stallion stared with enormous eyes on the dead champion that lay in his own blood on the market square.

“I take it that was your best warrior,” said the Vasaath, and his voice seemed to echo ominously over the silent square.

The boy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dead man, and said nothing in reply.

The Vasaath dared to take a step towards the horses and the two men now remaining. “Now you know what you are up against, Lord Sebastian. As do I. If you still want to take the risk, then by all means, attack us. Your sister isn’t mine to give up, anyway. I hold her in no chains, she is free to leave whenever she’d like. That is known to her, and yet, she would rather stay with foreigners than join the man your father has chosen for her. Do with that what you will. The choice is all yours.”

The boy was bewildered. He seemed unable to express his feelings, and the guard on the last horse had a greenish hue on his face.

Finally, the young lord spoke, his voice strained, “You will regret this, beast. We may not fight today, but know this: five thousand men are on their way from Westbridge, and then it wouldn’t matter how skilled your soldiers are.”

The Vasaath blinked slowly. If the boy only knew that more than two hundred ships from Kasarath had been called for, he would run back home in tears.

But the little lord turned his wild horse around and returned to his men. The other horseman brought the knight’s brown mare with him and followed the boy. Soon, orders were barked, and the City Guard army turned on their heels and marched back. A few stayed behind to retrieve the dead knight from the square on a stretcher, and once they had disappeared between the houses, the silence held once again dominion.

Turning to look at his men, the Vasaath exclaimed, “There will be no more fighting today. We will save our strength for another day. Keep fortifying the harbour.”

His men responded with a single war cry before they, too, abandoned their lines and returned to the fort, only to exchange their spears for hammers and nails.

Translation:

Kasaath – warrior; “strength of the people”

Kaseraad – spies; “the shadow of the people”

Ohkas – stranger; “not of Kas”; “not of the people”

Ohkasenon – foreign follower of the Kasenon; “follower of the faith of the people but not of the people”

Rasaath – officer; dutiful soldier; true soldier

Saathenaan – elite warriors; “deepest strength”

Vas-an lit basran – “order through submission”