The Followers of Balance
From Spiritwood Wiki
== Dihn - The Followers of Balance - A Tale. == 27 February 2000
Even soaked in the rain, the warlord was warmed by his pride. Who other could of laid claim to so much land in so short a time. No one of weak heart, that was for sure. One settlement after another fell to his brutal attacks. All resistance he slaughtered. He knew that keeping prisoners was much too expensive in rations and manpower. He did let some live. The young woman make good slaves and offered some entertainment for his men. Happy troops are obedient troops. Each woman would eventually become the possession of someone in his army and they would propagate the people of his new kingdom. He had time to wait. The wizard would make sure of it.
He looked through the downpour to the rider to his right. Droplets of rain ran down the treated material of the rider's robes and hood of infinitely dark black. The figure hunched over the horse seemed to be having his own private thoughts. Then the being rolled a gnarled staff in his equally gnarled hands, so that it's skull shaped carving faced the warlord. The dark orbs of the skull glowed briefly and startled the heavily armored and well build warlord. Before turning his head from the sight, the warrior thought he saw the figure's shoulders shake while emitting a choking sound. If it was a cough from the moist air or a chuckle, he could not tell. For all his warrior strength and skill, the fragile figure still scared him. For the chance of enternal life, he could ignore a little discomfort.
Peals of thunder over came the sound of rain. The warlord smiled behind his horned skull helm, as he was sure this was a sign the was on his side. His smile turned to concern in short order when he sensed that something was wrong around him.
In the short periods of lightning he took in his surroundings. On both sides of the well trodden, mud path was a wall of slick dark green. The thick trees and dense under growth prevented seeing into the dark woods very far. To his front and to his rear the path ended in a wall of white, his vision blocked by the shear number of rain drops falling to the ground. The warlord swallowed the feeling of claustrophobia, but it left a pit of uneasiness in his stomach. He could not see his column of men before or behind him. Only the cloaked figure remained, and to his shock, even it seemed to be concerned.
The hooded head rose from it's almost dozing state and looked around. The warrior got a glimpse of the face. Between the bushy greyed eyebrows and dark piercing eyes, and above the long crooked nose, deeper lines of concern, then the normal wrinkles of the ancient creature, appeared. The mouth narrowed almost disappearing in the great cascade of grey whiskers. In the abyss of the ancient's eyes, the warlord saw a fire develop. A kind of fire he's seen before. One fueled by hatred.
Just as the warlord prepared to speak to the wizard, a scream from the wall of rain before them filled the void between thunder claps. And then another, and the cries of ambush and battle followed from both ahead and behind the pair. Somehow in the mass of sounds, the warlord's trained ears caught a soft twang. In the speed of a lightning strike the old one reached out in front of the warrior and closed his fingers on a shaft. Just as quick, the mage let go and jerked his hand back as if being burned by candle flame. The shaft tumbled harmlessly off the warlord's plated leg and into the mud below. It was adorned with a barbed head and a feathered tail and in the darkness between lightning strikes, a soft glow was noticable.
The wizard held his pained hand but it showed no mark to the warrior's eyes. The ancient stared at the arrow as if it was a poisoned serpent and with a nudge of his bony legs turned the horse toward to the the rear of the warlord. A quick smirk to the warrior, as if he knew what was to come, and he urged his horse into a gallop into the mist.
Once again the large man opened his mouth to inquire the ancient, but all that came was a scream. The force of the next arrow sent the man to the ground. His helm rolled off into a muddy puddle revealing a man with a thick black mass of curly hair and beard, and grey eyes that reflected intense pain. He was unsure how long he laid there until his vision began to blur. Before the darkness came, he spotted a well-curved figure in tight fitting, silver mail surrounded by a dark green cloak. Despising himself for being stuck down by a woman was his final coherent thought.
The warlord awoke to an extreme headache. He also found to his dismay he was too weak to rise so that he might clear his head. His arms shoke violently as he made his attempt from the bed of furs he laid on. His legs felt like lead weights. He grunted his frustration and resorted to staring at the hide roof of the small tent around him.
In a matter of minutes, voices were heard outside the tent flaps. Listening to the conversation gave no clues as it was in a tongue he didn't understand. Before his frustration grew to a breaking point, light flooded the dark tent and a shadow entered. After the flaps closed behind it and returning the light level to something comfortable, he finally could make out his visitor. The fine silver links covering thin padded cloth that hugged a curved athelitic form was unmistakable.
"You should of killed me, bitch," smiled the warlord.
Her fine face, framed by long pale golden strands of hair, expressed amusement, "I would of barbarian, if not for thy dark friend. My shot was aimed to kill. It t'was the shot of one of my brethern that wounded you."
She spoke his own tongue clearly enough, but it carried with it a strong unfamilar accent.
"It was just as well as you made it alive. You are to be our guest of honor. Now, let me check thy wound," she said kneely beside him and reaching out to him.
"Leave me be," he spit. He then realized he could speak strongly enough, even with the weakness of his body. "What have ye done to me?!"
Ignoring his protests and weak attempts to move, she lifted a bandage on his left breast. The wound that felt so horrid was now a light scar.
"How long have ye held me?," he scowled at the woman.
"There is more to magic then the dark arts your friend practiced. It has only been a few days," she said as if was common knowledge.
"Enternal life! You have given it to me?!," said the warlord surprised.
The beautiful warrior chuckled with the pleasantness of a song bird and then gave him a cold smile. "Oh no, you will die. The reason you yet live is that you are still useful. Fear not, barbarian. When you die, it shall be the most honored death of all."
The man's demeaner grew dark again. "I don't understand these riddles. Release me! My army will come and destroy this pathetic resistance. Only I can spare you."
"I doubt that, barbarian. Those that survived our surprise ran off to the four winds. And you think we are the remains of those who you conquered? Don't you recall how you butched all those that could defend possibly themselves. What starved slave you had could have forged this armor?," she said heatedly as she pointed to her breast. "Forged the arrow that struck you down, barbarian? Your vileness has upset the great balance and we have taken you to repair it."
The woman whistled and in came a man in red robes and bearing a bowl. "Feed him, change his diapers and wash him once again. He smells of filth," she barked and left the tent.
For the first time he noticed he did indeed wear only a cloth wrapped around his waist. He could not feel the cloth or the bed he lied on. He could not resist the food shoved down his throat that was surely drugged to keep him here. He could not resist the humilating treatment as he was carefully changed and washed like a helpless infant.
The red-robed man entered once more that day and changed him but this time he was not fed the broth from earlier. His care-taker poked the warlord's growling stomach and nodded with satisfaction.
He was not disturbed again until well into the night. Two men dressed in silver armor and green cloaks, like the woman, entered and pulled the former warlord to his feet. He was surprised to find that some of his strength did return, but yet too little to fend off his captors. It was just enough that he did not have to be dragged from the tent. Trying to hold on to any dignity he had, he did not attempt to resist, but tried his best to hold himself up and walk on his own.
He was lead to the base of a great tree trunk. The tree itself had long been cut down, leaving a flat stage upon the cutting, thirty paces across. He could not fanthom the method needed to cut such a massive tree. A set of stairs was carved into trunk to provide easy access to the cut surface. The once mighty conquerer stopped before the stairs, fighting the chill of the night in his loin cloth, and took everything in. The only light was a great bonfire in a hole centered on the wooden stage. From the ground, he could not see what it burned, or why it did not spread to the great trunk. Surrounding the trunk on the edge of the fire light was an audience of those in the silver armor and green cloaks, and of those in the red robes. A group of red-robes awaited him on the near side of the stage, by what appeared to be a carved stone table.
A small nudge was enough to knock him down unto the wooden stairs. He heard what he knew was a curse in the foreign tongue from behind. An old white-bearded red-robe stepped toward him from above and offered his hand, dismissing the two warriors with mild annoyance. The warrior accepted the helping hand and was impressed with the lack of effort the old white beard took in pulling up his bulky form. The warlord managed to climb to the top of the stairs with the aid of the old man.
From the higher perspective, the warlord could see the concentric circles of the wood were densely packed and may of numbered many thousands. They all centered on the hole where the tall fire burned. He could now see around the hole a glistening coating of some sort. He had heard that certain plant oils that could resist the heat of fire.
Something else blemished the perfect grain of the wood. There were dark stains on the wood, that seemed most heaviest at the red-robes feet near the large stone table. Blood!
As soon as the realization hit, he knew he had to get away, yet his muscles gave the opposite effect and gave way to his body weight. He was soon surrounded by druids and lifted to the great stone table. He cursed and pleaded, yet his calls were unheard. Leather straps pulled through holes in the stone were wrapped and tied around his arms, legs and head. In his disperation, the will and the strength came to him to resist, yet the leather-straps held him tight.
A familar face looked down at him. It was the golden-haired woman, yet this time wearing the robes of red. "You've been given the luxury of a translator for the ritual. You should be aware of the honor you have been bestowed."
"HONOR! Being butchered like a pig is honor?," roared the warlord.
The woman nodded, loosened the head strap and gently turned his head toward the otherside of the stage beyond the fire. A rounded puffing young woman in a white robe was being helped up an opposite set of stairs by two women in the red robes. A large white fur blanket was laid down on the wooden floor, just out of the extreme heat of the fire. The young woman, who was obviously in the stages of labour, and was laid upon the fur. One robed woman supported her head, gently stroking it and smiling. The other sat at the woman's feet with a clay bowl of water at hand.
"I do not understand," he said looking to the warrior woman. "I can't... I don't want to die." They man felt his courage fail, and he could not fight back the tears.
The woman's face softened at his display, and she she began to stroke the curly dark hair of the warlord. "I'm sorry, but you must pay for your crimes. You butched so many for your own power. Now you must give it all back. The child in that girl's belly is the future. He is a chosen one, but to have power we must give a strong soul. Your soul," she finished with a whisper. "The Great Mother bids it."
One of the robed mid-wifes yelled something to the old bearded druid. With a nod from the old man, the other druids circled the fire. Other druids from the crowd approached and handed up small drums to the circled druids on the stump. The golden haired woman attempted to retighten the leather head strap. "No, please, I wish to see the birth. Grant me this last wish," said the warlord looking into her ice blue eyes. Giving a quick nod, she let the strap be.
The drums began to beat, first a quiet sound like the sound of a steady rain, then louder, until perhaps those in the heavens could hear. In response, thunder rolled across the sky. The old beard, the lead druid, faced the fire, raised his arms to the sky and bellowed words in a stranger tongue then the warrior lord ever heard. The golden hair beauty continued to stroke his head and whispered the translation of the words. He could not hear her. His attention was to the drums, the thunder and the roar of the fire. The fire had grown into a towering infernal without the attention of any of the druids. The fire fed on the drum beats, rising higher with the booms. The lead druid spoke louder the words of the ritual, to the point of a screaming fanatic.
He heard a woman's cry from across the fire. The birth had begone. He could not see the woman past the great flames, but even with the thundering and screaming of the druids, he could hear the midwifes' coachings and the mother's cries.
The druid turned to the bounded warrior and looked at him with wild eyes. The face of the old one shook violently and his skin was as pale as his beard. The sight of him scared the warrior more then the dark wizard ever had. The druid drew his hands together above his head, clenching a dagger that seemed to appear from no where.
Two soft hands grasped the warrrior's head and turned it so his eyes looked into the face of the woman. The golden-haired, blue eyed woman, seemed suddenly beyond beauty. He screamed. His eyes shut as he felt the pain in his belly and he felt his life ebbing away, dripping unto the corpse of the great tree, further staining the wood. Thunder crashed high above him and rain began to fall. A downpour like two days prior. He opened his eyes and saw the woman still watching him. "Eternal Life," she said.
She turned his head to the scene past the fire. The fire had dwindled in the pouring rain. The druid's drums suddenly stopped, and was replaced with the weaker sound of a crying infant. A midwife rose to her feet and raised a small babe over the fire and into the rain. This rain washed the child clean while the fire kept the chill off it's tiny form. Simultaneously, this rain washed away the warrior's pain before he passed on.
