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Cry Havok 01 The Ring Valley
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 01:42:33 +0000 UTCChieftain Wilburh was just not the man he used to be. Once he was mighty, effortlessly striding ahead of his people, long legs, strong shoulders and a booming laugh to mark him out as their champion. Years of hard riding, wrestling rams, drawing a bowstring, and fighting off roamers and northerners who wished to rob his people had made him powerful. A great man he was, beloved by his people.
Now his once clear eyes were milky, and he pretended to hear what people said to him as often as not. His surefootedness was gone as he hobbled about with a cane, and he couldn’t carry great weights anymore, not without hurting his back. To ride, someone else would need to lead his horse, lest he ride his beast over a crevice.
The only thing he had left that was still strong was his grip, his iron claws. His withered hands and long calloused fingers that could once hold a bucking ram’s head into the dirt could still make other men wince when he squeezed their hands firmly.
His people didn’t wish to dishonour him, but now they asked less of him than they ever had before. More and more, others looked to Wilburh’s son to lead them. Wilburh the Elder was just too hard to reach, didn’t understand what was said to him, and his commands were nonsensical. Even with him refusing to step down and pass the mantle on to his firstborn, leadership seemed to flow in that direction.
As the chieftain of the tribe, the only thing Wilburh could still do was give blessings to the newborns. Upon their birth, every child of the tribe would be brought to the chieftain, who would beseech the Lord to bless the child. Unless he was away or in battle, then the chief priest would substitute, Wilburh had blessed every child born in the entire tribe.
On this day, a child was born to his tribe, to his only daughter. A grandchild, how wonderful! Wilburh loved his grandchildren, though he struggled to remember their names at times.
“A boy or girl?” He asked, straining to hear the explanation from… Actually, he didn’t recognise the lad. Was this one of his siblings? Oh well, no matter. He heard the name Edwine, so he knew it was a boy. “Yes, Edwine. A strong name for a strong boy. Take me there now.”
Wilburh struggled to move these days, and he was carried along by his… grandchild? Young friend? Or was it his nephew? Yes, that was it. His nephew helped Wilburh find his way to the house. It was often hard to navigate the village these days, he thought.
The smell helped him find the right place, though. The pungent smell of new birth was thick in the air as Wilburh came in, water of the womb and faeces. The young boy was wailing loudly, which helped guide Wilburh to him as his already hazy vision blurred further with tears of joy.
Water dripped down the old man’s face as he held the baby, and he lifted him up in trembling hands. He felt the blessing coming, one that he was sure wasn’t from him. It came from above, a powerful oath that burst forth from his lips.
“Oh Lord, our father above, I beseech thee to bless this child. May thee help him to grow, so that he will stand tall among the great men of this Earth. Help build him up as a warrior, not falling to any traps and snares before him. May he be as mighty as ten men, so that through him our people may be protected, made mighty among all the tribes of the Earth. Amen.”
Lowering the child, he passed him back to the mother and smiled. “I’m sure Our Lord will be with him.”
Then he turned and hobbled out of the tent, feeling weaker than he had in some time.
Only after he was gone, did the shocked mother of the child look to her husband and say, “The blind fool was holding her! He didn’t even bless my boy!”
She looked down to her newborn twins, Wilmur and Eadlin, the boy sleeping peacefully against her breast while the girl was still crying loudly.
“Go get the Priest.” Her husband ordered the nursemaid. “We’ll get him to give proper blessings to our children.”
She looked scandalised. “A blessing can’t be undone-”
“Go!” The husband demanded, and the woman scurried off.
The Priest did finally come, and he did give different blessings to each babe as directed. That didn’t change what had been done, and word quickly spread through the valley.
So it was that Eadlin Twice Blessed grew up among her tribe, alongside her brother Wilmur the Usurped. Among their people, one would simply be known by their father’s name until they had done something to earn one of their own. The children’s own father was known to all as Cuthburt, son of Eckburt.
The story of Eadlin and Wilmur’s strange birth had spread quickly throughout the valley. Before they’d even learned their own names, people spoke of them as Twice Blessed and Usurped. A strange birth, that would create a strange pair, or so it was said.
Their mother was Withburga, known by many as the most beautiful woman in the valley, though they also said she knew it well. Withburga was not blessed with the gentle demeanor of a good woman, but a haughtiness that spoke of her spoiled upbringing. The chieftain Wilburh had never been able to raise a hand to his beautiful daughter, and had always sought her affection with showers of gifts. Spoiled and demanding, people had always expected Withburga to leave the valley one day, seeking a pampered life among the cities of the South, but had all been surprised when she fell hopelessly in love with Cuthbert.
Though he was a few years younger than her, he was fleet of foot and sharp of eye. He enjoyed time alone, hunting among the woods, where he developed an eye for the natural splendour of the valley. Though he was skilled with the bow and spear, even occasionally winning the village’s quarter-staff competitions, what caught Withburga’s eye was his gift with a brush.
At his fifteenth winter, Cuthbert had run away from his father and the village, to seek fame in the South. He returned, five winters later, a changed man. Gone was the young man consumed by ambition and wanderlust, and in his place was someone quieter, who always advised caution. Though he still engaged in manly conduct with the rest of the village men, hunting for sport and drinking merrily, he brought with him a handful of paint brushes and colours that he used to decorate wood blocks. He painted distant places, soaring peaks, ice swept winter plains, burning deserts and distant cities full of strange people. The colours he brought home with him eventually ran out, and he began to paint with the more limited range of local ochres. Even with his smaller palette, the great foreign vistas he produced were of breathtaking beauty.
The women of the village would pay a handsome price to decorate their house with one of his beautiful wood blocks, and no one fancied them more than Withburga. He caught her eye when she was in her twenty-second winter season, and considered far too old to be unmarried by the rest of the village. Her biting tongue and spoiled demeanor had scared off all other suitors, and her father’s blind love for his daughter ensured he would never marry her to one she didn’t love. In Cuthbert’s arts, she saw a kindred soul, caught up in wanderlust and seeking splendor, and so had spent so much time with him as to set all the village tongues to wagging. The owners of these tongues were soon to feel great satisfaction, when Cuthbert asked the Chieftain for his only daughter’s hand in marriage. The question had to be repeated a few times to make sure he understood, but eventually the old Chieftain happily agreed after he was reminded of their names and promised a place of honour at the wedding.
All this is to say, Cuthbert and Withburga were already known as a strange pair, before the odd circumstances of the twin’s birth became well known.
Eadlin Twice Blessed was an energetic young girl, and even at an early age she displayed none of the shyness one would expect from the very young. If her mother wasn’t watching little Eadlin would happily toddle out the family’s front door to chatter to anyone who passed by outside. Though there were many who thought it was quite charming, others saw it as very strange.
In direct contrast, Wilmur was a much moodier child. By his fifth season, he was known for his sudden and terrible tantrums. He would scream so loudly that his face turned red, and would strike any other child his age who refused to play with him as he wanted.
‘He takes after his mother far too much.’ Or so it was said by many. ‘The time will come when he chooses to leave the village, or he’ll be chased out.’
Another thing about the two that surprised no one at all, was that even at an early age they bickered constantly. Of course they would, with their strange birth setting them at odds with each other.
They were both energetic children, charging about the place to play made up games of heroes and distant princesses, but it was a strange vision of the princess who stole the hero’s improvised sword while he chased after her, red-faced. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without his sister racing him to it first, and the two were never hard to find in the village. One only needed to keep an ear out for the sound of bickering.
The only time the two seemed to quiet was when their father worked at his art. Just like their mother, they were fascinated to see what he could do with wood blocks and ochre. Starting with a stick of ash, he would sketch out something from his memories, before taking up his brush and filling it in with his colours. Though he promised them it was half imagination, for them he crafted breathtaking images of fearsome fighters, magnificent maidens, distant deserts, and soaring cities with great walls and crowded market streets. It seemed that their father had travelled the whole world to the two, though he promised he’d never seen anything but a fraction of it.
Among the many things he painted, one place stood out among the others, The City, the greatest in all the world; Helenople. Traders and goods from every corner under the skies flowed there, and its vast population defied belief. It was said that a million lived inside it, a number that the two children could scarcely comprehend, even by their tenth winter. The village they grew up in had just two hundred and eleven people, including the two of them, and among all of the people of Rindaenu there were maybe a few thousand. A city of a million was unimaginable, but for the crowds their father painted bustling through marketplaces and glorious military parades of soldiers clad in glittering armor. Even among those armies of shining heroes, there were strange men of barbaric countenance, standing taller than the others and carrying cruelly curved axes. There were even a few faces that their mother recognised among them.
Some people from the village did go to Helenopolis and joined the Auxiliary Theme, where they became soldiers fighting for the Emperor himself. The most elite among the Auxiliary Theme could even become his bodyguards, the fearsome Varengians.
Most terrible of all the things their father painted was the eastern barbarians. The devil worshipping madmen from beyond the farthest places Cuthbert had traveled often wore thick white gowns and head dresses to protect themselves from the sun, and carried great curved swords as they smoked foul herbs that rendered their compassion dull to the violence they would bring to innocent people. On only a few occasions did their father paint these wicked invaders, his hand steady as he did it, but he would sit down afterwards and tremble. There was even a night when he awoke everyone, waking up and yelling with fright, blindly stumbling through their small cabin in search for a weapon.
“They’re through the gate!” He yelled. “Arm yourselves! Flee with the children!”
It wasn’t just the children that gave their family a loud reputation. Though only the neighbours had been awoken by the commotion, before the sun had reached its peak, the entire village had learned about it, and many a joke was made at Cuthbert’s expense.
It was just after the time of the children’s tenth winter that a new priest came to the valley. He trundled into town leading a donkey-drawn buggy. Against all expectations of an educated gentleman of the cloth, the villagers didn’t see someone overweight, soft or elderly riding in the back, but a hearty and hale man walking alongside it. This new priest wore the white collar of the church, but he stood straight with wide shoulders, veiny forearms and calluses on his hands. He’d grown out his long black beard, as was expected for members of the priesthood, but outside of his uniform no one would have expected this man in the prime of life to be anything but a bold adventurer. The only hint of infirmness was a touch of grey hair at his temples.
He waved to greet them unashamedly, striding forward through the slush of spring to shake the hands of what would soon be the whole village.
“Greetings! Greetings all!” His brown eyes glittered with joy, and his proud voice boomed so loudly, that even folk at the other end of town poked their heads out to see what the commotion was. “My name is Domnius, and I was born in the walls of Hagiopolis itself! It’s wonderful to meet you all. I was sent here as a missionary, to help the aging Father Petrus with his good work in bringing the good word to pagans.”
He certainly didn’t speak with the gentle discretion of one trained by the church.
“Pagans?” Old lady Eadgifu croaked. “What pagans? There’s never been a pagan among the Rindaenu, not even before we settled these lands.”
Domnius brows shot up, confused. “Are you sure? Not even one?”
“No, not even one.” Chieftain Wilbur the Younger answered. “And you’ve caused great offense by saying so.”
“Oh.” Domnius looked befuddled. “But where are the pagans, then? I had heard that you were all barbarians.”
Wilbur scoffed at that, shaking his head at this foolish stranger who had such confidence and so few wits. “We are now the Rindaenu, but once we were called Saxxe. We were driven from our ancient home by pagans, and granted these lands by the Emperor himself in Helenopolis.”
“That’s right. We’re loyal servants of Emperor Alexius, you blind fool!” Eadgifu lectured, poking at the stranger with her cane.
Domnius blinked, scratching his head awkwardly. “Emperor Alexius died a decade ago. His old chief bodyguard, Zeno, is the new emperor.”
This news caused a commotion among the assembled people.
Wilbur stared at the stranger for a moment, before reaching out to shake his hand. “It seems you’re not the only one here who needs shed his wrong notions. Come, have a drink and a talk with us, and we’ll learn of you the outside world, and you’ll learn of us the people you’re here to minister to.”
“That sounds like a fine idea!” Domnius laughed. “Please, let's all turn in and get out of this awful cold!”
In the coming days, Domnius learned a lot about the Rindaenu, and as he did, so did the children of the valley. Curious about this dark haired stranger from far away lands, children would often crowd around to gawk at him, struggling to pick the words from his distant accent. They overheard the talk the Chieftain and other men of the village had with him, listening with divided attention to the history and story of their own people. Most surprising of all, was that among the children of the village, the normally loud and restless Eadlin and Wilmur would sit with rapt attention.
“Our people, the Rindaenu, are descended from the Saxxe. Far to the West, sheltered by the endless storms of the Setting Sea is our island home, Saxxeland, or in the tongue of the Emperor, the Land of Painted Men. It’s the largest island in the world, fertile and fair, covered in green from shore to shore with gentle slopes and rich fields. If you go north, deeper into the valley, some of the Rindaenu will only speak Saxxeton, our original tongue. If you wish to be a minister to our people, you will have to learn it.”
“Can I learn it, too?” Eadlin asked, interrupting.
“You can learn it with me!” Domnius barked, laughing out loud. “Though I warn you, lass, it’s not easy to learn a new tongue. You’ll have to stick with it even when its dull.”
“What languages do you speak?” Young Wilmur asked, staring at the foreign man intently.
Again, Domnius chuckled. “Why don’t we just start with Saxxeton, and if the two of you can master that alongside me, I might be able to share with you a few other things I know.” He looked back up to the Chieftain. “Sorry, please have patience for the children.”
Wilburh waved it away, taking another sip from his ale, and wondering why Domnius was the one giving apology. Domnius was a guest, so it should really be up to Cuthbert and Withburga to keep their rambunctious children from making trouble, but here they were a burden to their uncle.
Enjoying another sip of the warm ale, Wilburh considered the priest in front of him. He eyed the calluses on Domnius’s palms, and the way his right hand would always return to his side, as if seeking something to rest on.
“When did you seek the cloth?” Wilburh asked, after a moment of thought. “You were a warrior, once.”
For a brief moment, Domnius was stunned into befuddlement, before he burst into laughter. “Yes, I suppose all can see it.” He held out his large hand, clenching and releasing it. “These are not hands known for their penmanship. I was a Templar, you see. I mean not to boast, but as a young man I thought myself the greatest warrior in all the world, and even now I think there are few men who could best me with a sword or lance. I was even famous for a time.” Staring into the fire for a long moment, Domnius eventually sighed. “But I did put away my stirrups, and did take up the cloth.” He touched the white collar around his neck, obviously not quite comfortable with the weight. “Then I requested dangerous work, far away from home. I thought that perhaps the pagans might respect a man of my bearing, listen to the True Religion from the lips of a warrior.”
Wilburh snorted.
“I’ve heard, yes I’ve heard. You say there are no pagans here.” Then Domnius smirked. “But perhaps I’ll get lucky and find one hidden amongst you.”
Domnius did not find any among them. Rather than stop in the village, the first thing he did was journey the length of the entire Rindaenu. He learned that the name meant Ring Valley in Saxxe, as he began putting his mind to mastering the tongue.
For the start of his journey, Domnius traveled North West, guided along the path by Cuthbert, who knew the valley as well as anyone from his lonely wandering and hunting in the forests and hills. Surprising everyone in the village, both Eadlin and Wilmur joined him in his quest, and to be honest they were all grateful to be relieved of the two children for a time.
The Ring Valley itself was vast, circling right around the base of the Hollow Peak mountain. It was shielded from the icy winds of the north by the vastness of the Borda Mountains, which could only be travelled by an experienced guide in Summer and early Autumn. During the winter the mountains would be blanketed in thick snows, and during Spring, the melting would cause the countless rivers and streams to run wild, making crossings impossible. Amidst the low lying foothills and peaks, a handful of the Rindaenu had settled, herding goats and horses, but the further North one went, the fewer people they would find. Eventually, if one didn’t get lost, they could pass the Borda Mountains and come to the Great Steppe, where the Northman practiced their foul false religion.
Occasionally, small bands of Northman tried to raid South across the mountains, but it was a difficult journey to make, and they were met with fierce resistance every time.
“No raider can be allowed to escape.” Cuthbert explained, a distant look in his eye as he eyed the snow capped peaks. “If even one of them makes it back with coins, others will come seeking treasure where their fellow succeeded. We always hunt them down, no matter how far they run.”
“Even if they return to the Steppe?” Domnius asked.
Cuthbert merely nodded, a distant look in his eye.
“The Nomads are fierce warriors, by all accounts.” Domnius said. “To fight them in their homelands sounds impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible for the Lord.”
“Well said!” Domnius barked. “Yes, well said indeed.”
After coming to the northern side of the valley, and stopping at each village along the way, the cart followed the same trail east and South, back to where their journey had begun. The two children bickered and complained much of the way, demanding to know how far they had left to go, and begging to stop whenever possible. It seemed that Domnius didn’t find the twin’s rude behaviour upsetting, and he even seemed to enjoy it. He patiently answered the same question for as many times as it took the twins to remember his answer, and regaled them with stories about his youth.
Domnius had not always been a priest, as was obvious from a glance at him, but had once been a member of a crusading order. Born the son of a westerner from the Kingdom of Lyonne, to a woman of eastern blood in Hagiaopolis, he entered the Order as a Paige. After many years, he became a squire and eventually a Knight Brother. He had fought in battles, some with as many as ten thousand men on each side, but mostly he had raided against the Eastern Devilmen.
“If we plunder their settlements and camps, they will be forced to stay away from our border. If I did not, they would raid against the Holy Kingdom freely. Their kind have no love of peace, and their every thought is one of lust and plunder. We burned all camps we encountered, and kept the Devilmen in the east.”
“Were you a great warrior?” Eadlin demanded.
“Ah, I was among the better in the Order.” Dominus replied.
“The Order are reputed to be among the greatest warriors in all the lands of the True Religion.” Cuthbert murmured.
Both Eadlin and Wilmur looked at Domnius with naked interest, as if expecting to see him take out his sword and fell a dozen pagans on the spot.
“Now, now.” Domnius said, trying to calm the two down. “It’s not as special as your Papa makes it sound.”
“Why did you leave?” Wilmur asked, scepticism in his tone. “Why become a priest?” His eyes made it clear he felt a priest was a quite the fall from being a great warrior.
Domnius huffed, thinking of how to answer, while exchanging a look with the two’s father. “Being a warrior is no small thing, many a well deserved song have been sung about a worthy soldier, but... it’s painful work. There are wounds that never quite seem to heal…”
Cuthbert looked over to the man, recognising the far away places in Domnius’ eye. “Want to take the reins?” He offered the man the halter for directing the donkey.
“Oh, yes.” Domnius replied, seizing the leather straps.
It wasn’t too long until the returned home, even stopping to see the remaining villages on the way. In all there were eight villages in the valley, the largest was Saxxby in the valley’s South, where they had started their journey. In all, Dominus reckoned there to be maybe a few thousand in the entire tribe.
Perhaps the thing people of the Ring Valley had least expected was how quickly and firmly Domnius and Cuthbert became friends. The two men could not be more different in demeanor, one was known for his quiet contemplation, and his habit of seeking the lonely places of the valley, while the other was bold and outspoken, seeking the centre of attention and laughing heartily. Even so, the two who had never met before seemed to have an unspoken connection. Domnius became a regular at the family’s table, and as the priest settled into life in the valley, Cuthbert began to seek solitude less and less. It wasn’t long after Domnius settled into the village church, when people got used to calling him Father Domnius, but unlike the rest of the village, the twins always called him Uncle Domnius.
The soon to be retired Father Petrus was grateful for his replacement to come, and despite some initial misgivings, soon felt confident in passing the Shepherd's staff of his office to the newcomer. Though Petrus has been in the valley for years, present for dozens of births and deaths, the people had never quite forgotten his scandalous attempt to overwrite the blessings of Eadlin and Wilmur. Like Domnius he was from outside the valley, and he saw the entire tradition as rural superstition.
Eventually, Father Petrus left, some of the young men from the village agreeing to escort him by cart to the nearest city. The community bid him a fond farewell in the end, and though he grumbled about their backward ways, many thought they saw a wet shine at the corner’s of Father Petrus' eyes when he waved goodbye one final time.
After he was gone, the church and flock were now Domnius to care for her. It was a humble building compared to those of the Capital. No stone went into its walls, but did serve as a firm foundation to raise it above the winter snow. The walls were made from good hardwoods, and the windows were of good quality glass that only had a faint discolouration. Once in control, he began to commission works from Cuthbert, decorating the church hall and yard with beautiful depictions of saints and miracles. Many wondered where he got the silver to pay for it all from, but he simply explained that he left the Order Reliqaue with a good share of plunder.
The final art he commissioned from Cuthbert was by far the largest. Carved from a great cross section from the valley’s oldest tree, so large that it took ten men to wrestle it into place, and they had to take apart one of the walls to do it. Cuthbert painted the piece in place, needing a tall ladder to do so, and constantly climbing down to observe it from a distance. It was slow going work, his normal pieces he could complete in just two days, but this took him all of Spring and well into Summer.
When it was completed it would stand behind Domnius as he preached, raised far over the congregation, twelve feet tall, depicting the Lord as the source of all light near the top, and spilling down to shine forth upon his many humble apostles bowed in reverence and performing miracles in his name. At the foot of the piece an armoured man kneeled, his face covered with a helmet but with the blessings of the Lord alighting a golden chalice in his hands as he placed it on a pedestal.
Of all the things depicted in the art, the Eadlin most wanted to know who that man was.
“The prophesied champion.” Domnius answered. “The Chosen Finger of the Lord’s Hand, who will smite his enemies, crown all the kings of the Earth, and usher in a thousand year reign of the righteous. At the end of it will be the Final Battle, the test that sets those who follow the Lord in their heart and soul apart from those who lie and love him not. There the devil will be defeated, and this world will have served its end.”
He turned his head, changing his gaze from the warrior himself to the cup in his hand. “The World will know who the Champion is when he restores the Sacred Grail to its rightful place.”
Wistfully he reached out, stopping just short of touching the painting itself. After a few moments, he turned away to smile at his audience. “Have you not heard of the Sacred Grail?” He said to the girl.
She shook her head.
He considered her for a moment, before clapping his hands together. “All should learn of the Sacred Grail. I have some honeycomb I can share. Why don’t you go gather up the children of the village for me? Tell them if they come here, they can have some while I tell the story.”
Excited, Eadlin ran off. “I’ll be back soon!”
Domnius watched her run away, before turning to look back at the image. He stared at the warrior and the Grail, before with a final sight he turned away to go find the treat for the children.
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Guntah notarealname
Please let me know if you spot any errors.
