The Warlord & The Huntress

Being outside he almost breathed the snowflakes that fell from the night sky. The icy cold burnt his failing lungs, he listened to the sound of himself wheezing, struggling for breath. It had become all too familiar, this broken rhythm of sickness and age, the tightness in his chest, the pain. Slightly off, but echoing the wishing of a comforting regularity, a perfection, a swinging of the pendulum of time. It was an inhale, and then an exhale. Like the swing of a swordsman, the marching onto conquest, the galloping of a war mount, lovemaking, drinking to folk songs. Many things he had once enjoyed, but no longer had the strength.

Even in this fresh outside air, he still could not get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. It was the taste of toxicity, infection and of course, inevitably, death. Fene, the demon of illness, had found him. Nevertheless, he endured the pain and the warnings of his healer, just to enjoy the night sky, when the lights had gone, the day's end, to stare up at those stars, to know serenity. He wanted to enjoy their twinkling beauty, a promise of a blissful afterlife, and to breathe in the sweet smells of the woodland.

Viktor had been a handsome man in his youth, fair of hair, bright of eyes. He had nobility to his features, a commanding strength to his presence and a rare occasion of a smile that could be heartwarming. He was not a big man and not inclined to a hulking stature like many men who took up arms. However, he was a natural leader and fighter. He would have others believe he came from a long line of rulers, a pure and royal bloodline, but in reality, he had been born from a rape, to an abusive, noble father and a serving girl, in the woods. He had progressed to his position of warlord and earned his respect through a clever mind, ruthlessness, courage that bordered on stupidity and pure strength of character. In short, it was not the dog in the fight; it was the fight in the dog, as they would say.

Now Viktor was dying. His body soul, the Hungarian lelek of breath, was tired. His face was pale, his lips white. His face, his body, was sinking and wasting. Often he thought of falling on his sword, to die an honorable death. He longed to go into battle again. He did not want to die a crippled shell of a man, shaking in his own waste, screaming in pain, without dignity. No one would mourn him. His thoughts lately had turned to the morbid; he had moved and passed denial into a bitter, cruel acceptance. When he was not reminiscing, he thought of what would happen when he crossed the veil between the living and his ancestors.

Not being an overly religious man, living by blood and steel, he still wanted to believe there was something after this suffering, this gory mess of a life. He hoped to move on to the Otherworld, Tulvilag: home of the Gods, the Father Sun, the Lady Moon, where all good souls found eternal peace. However, in his heart, he knew he would become part of the Underworld, Alvilag: a place for the souls of people who were undiscernibly cruel and evil in their lives to receive punishment.

Viktor was over proud of his accomplishments, often arrogant, but one thing he regretted was never making time for an heir, never settling with one woman and also a nasty streak he had always possessed, a cruel feeling of superiority, that the world owed him. He had killed many men and bedded many women, but he often felt empty and worthless, without accomplishment, not that he would ever let anyone know the truth of it. Sometimes he would give anything to have a few years of health, to enjoy the pleasures a life of violence had deprived him.

He was stuck daydreaming again, he thought bitterly. He continued to walk like a ghost through the woods, in robes, shawls and furs. Wrapped like a newborn, the full moon led his way. He heard the sound of an arrow let fly and was instantly wary. There was unrest in Old Hungary, and many tales of late of indiscriminate slaughter and disease. The works of evil spirits were the clan's whispers. He wondered if they were here now to take him. Viktor headed towards the sound. Perhaps he could die of an arrow to the heart, protecting his hill fort. The idea was tempting, but still not the death that Viktor wanted.

Viktor finally came in contact of the author of the sound. It was a woman with hair thick, long and braided, the color of the raven, standing in a clearing. She had her back facing him; she was a petite thing under the furs that protected her from the cold. She had many rabbits slung over her back, tied by their feet to each other and a pheasant. She had shot a large wolf between the eyes and Viktor watched silently as she proceeded to pull out the arrow through the wolves' skull. She thanked the animal and showed it respect, and then with her crude hunting knife she skinned the beast. It was a bloody work, but she made it look almost elegant, precise and robotic, and when she was done, she rolled the bloody fur & skin and placed it in a knapsack, which appeared to be jammed full with herbs and other plants.

The woman went to continue to walk on deeper into the forest when Viktor summoned his strained voice to say, "You possess a remarkable aim, Huntress." She turned with a start, holding her knife out towards him. Then, recognizing who he was, she dropped her knife and dropped to her knee in the snow in reverence. Viktor also recognized her as a woman who had come to work at the hill fort: cooking, cleaning, and tending to the warriors, to the stables. He could not remember her name, but remembered her beauty as he had admired it once before. She was very young, lithe of body, a slender, dark beauty with haunting eyes and full sensuous lips.

"Apologies, my Lord." She murmured. Her voice was clear and did not portray the nervousness that her body did. At her discomfort, Viktor smiled, for the first time in a long time, and then quickly banished this expression. He motioned for her to stand. She collected her knife and stood with a grace to her movements.

"Do not apologize; lately there is a call for caution. We live in wild, untamed times," Viktor reassured her, but still in a commanding tone. She nodded her head slightly in acceptance. "What is your name and reasons for hunting, girl?" He questioned.

She replied, still with her head bowed. "My name is Ilona Imre, I am collecting ingredients for the Taltos, the Shaman. I am also collecting food," Viktor decided he enjoyed listening to her voice, unlike the other slaves and servants, she was well spoken, not inclined to Hungarian gutter talk, "And I am hunting for pelts, your leatherworker will take them if they are suitable and to his liking and needs. Our people fear the wolf, my Lord. They say they engage in bloody murder, on our women and the children. I merely think they are animals, my Lord and we have all become accustomed to superstition." She instantly regretted what she had said and quickly added, to keep her head, "My apologies again."

Viktor chuckled at her remark. The restrained laughter triggered a coughing fit. He keeled over as he became dizzy, he could not catch his breath, and his lungs seized up and refused to admit air. Ilona moved to his side in a flash, putting her arm around his waist, she offered him a drink from her water skin. Viktor took a few mouthfuls, realizing it was not water, but something stronger by the taste, a cheap brew of a kind. It soothed his throat, warmed his chest and he was able to catch his breath. He felt weak, dizzy and like he was going to vomit. Was this the night he would die? He looked to the woman Ilona who supported him, her warmth; the pressing of her body against his was reassuring.

"May I please suggest you return to your quarters, my Lord? The air is harsh tonight." Her voice rang with genuine concern, but her eyes reflected a worry of insulting him.

"Come with me and take me there, I deem your quarry worthy for the night. Besides, the wolves might take their revenge on you, Huntress." He grinned at his jest, and she returned to him a nervous smile.

She was not sure what to say in response, so she murmured, "Your will, My Lord," and turned to look towards the direction of the settlement, which the towering hill fort of Viktor the Warlord and his army dominated.

They walked slowly through the snow and spoke not at all. Ilona's hand rested on Viktor's waist, supporting him, his rested on her hipbone. They moved through the settlement, all lights were out, the quietness all-consuming, "Peaceful." murmured Viktor. Ilona found the silence in this small town unnerving, like this situation of aiding the most powerful man, she knew to bed.

The dwellings were quaint, the work of carpentry, not masonry. There were raised platforms, roundhouses, long houses, granary huts and pits for storage. Graves, shrines and offerings were everywhere. There was no order to them, this clan had once been nomadic, but had settled here for some time now under Viktor's rule. They made it up the hill towards the hill fort, where warriors on guard dressed in new steel armor came to attention and saluted in Viktor's presence, murmuring appropriate titles and showing respect. Viktor ignored them as if they were not there. The odd couple continued through the gates as they opened.

The hill fort was elaborate, with guardhouses and defended entrances, accommodation for the people when there were times of conflict. Ilona guided Viktor towards his roundhouse, letting go of him to open the door then helping him inside. The fire in the room was low, as were the candles. Ilona laid her rabbits, bow, quiver and pheasant on the ground. As Viktor collapsed onto his raised wooden bed, Ilona took off his unnecessary, uncomfortable garments, and then covered him in furs, "We must get you warm, silly gyermek." She said, as if he was a sick child. Viktor wanted to ark up about her manner, but could not summon the strength to. Ilona proceeded to add kindling and wood to the fire. She lit the candles that had gone out and lit new ones.

Viktor watched her as intently as he could, his eyes were half closed. "The Taltos is on a journey of the spirit, my Lord. I can call on him for assistance, but he would be that drugged he probably would not aid you all that much." Ilona informed him.

"I do not want him here anyway. He will only treat me like a disobedient child, as you have." Ilona saw the anger that he projected towards her, but also could feel a deep-seated frustration inside him. She knew he could have her killed if he wanted to, but knew he would not.

"I meant no insult, my lord. May I speak honestly with you without fear of punishment?" Ilona sat on the end of his bed, her body language and facial expression one of humility and humbleness.

"What an odd question. Yes, you may, I fear not your words, Huntress." Viktor responded, feeling weak. This whole night to him felt surreal.

"If my words, thoughts and actions tonight have not portrayed anything but respect, I am regretful. When I saw you out in the forest, in the cold, I thought you stupid. These thoughts fear driven. If you were to die now, there would be such unrest. Under your rule, my nephew and I have enjoyed as much peace as we have in a long time. I was selfish in thinking in such a way, I am sure you grow tired of being sick and like the old, revered bear you move away from your family to die with honor."

As Ilona spoke she studied the man before her, she looked beyond his bloodshot eyes and sickly complexion, stared into his soul and felt regret, hatred, hunger for power. What a complexity, she thought. She respected this man as she would any predator. He was a wild thing, now caged by his illness, and it was breaking his spirit. Death would set him free. "You are nothing but a stupid girl. You know nothing of anything." Viktor snapped back, beginning to cough again. Ilona realized she had hit a nerve. She rose from the bed and set a pot of water to boil on the fire. Viktor caught his breath again, "Don't turn your back on me." There were tears of pain in his eyes. Everything in him ached.

"I was putting on the water for hot steam, my Lord, to soothe your lungs and to boil some water to brew some tea to ease your pain." Ilona kneeled on the hard wood floor before his bed. "Do you not wish for this?" Viktor did not reply, but nodded, closing his eyes, breathing shallow. Ilona rose and removed some dry infusions of herbs and plants the Taltos had stored in a pouch on the table. She placed some chamomile and lavender in a cup, also adding a sedative root powder to the mix. She hoped this would help him sleep, also perhaps hinder some of his pain. The water had boiled & she added some to the tea, mixing it. She came to his side, offering it to his lips. Viktor drank slowly first, but as it cooled he took it in his own hands and drank it. Ilona watched him shake as he placed the cup down.

"Do not pity me; I do not need the pity of one such as you." He murmured.

"I do not; you have lived a full life. You are blessed. It is a rare day that one will live to your age. Be grateful, Old Bear." Ilona responded and she meant it. She had lost her brother almost two years ago, as a soldier in Viktor's army. He was only 20 but he had played the role of her father, mother and best friend. Now all the family she had left was her nephew, Elek. Distracted by her grief, Ilona collected her things and began to blow the candles out to leave.

"Don't leave." Viktor slurred, the tea taking an affect. He meant to command her, but it came out as a small and sad statement. Lonely, bitter old man, Ilona thought. She had the right to leave him here and never come back. Take Elek and go somewhere safe. He was going to die anyway and Ilona did not want to be here for the chaos that would follow, as the men would fight to have power and control over the armies and people.

Not certain if it was pity or compassion, Ilona dropped her things and climbed up to sit next to him in bed. He lent his head into her side and Ilona awkwardly put her arm around him. "Shall I talk to you, read to you, sing to you or just sit here, my Lord?" Ilona said, trying to portray her annoyance, but the words came out emotionless and sterile.

"You can read?" Viktor was still awake, slurring his words, amused by his jibe.

"Yes, I can read most Latin, and some Hungarian," Ilona retorted back, proudly. "I do live with the Shaman anyway, he needs someone to read his scripts when he is hanging from the ceiling upside down or slaughtering goats." Ilona said with a giggle. A small smile graced Viktor's features at the jest, he enjoyed the way her ribcage vibrated with her amusement most of all.

Ilona looked down at him smiling, and continued to smile herself. "Shall I sing a lullaby, my Lord?" Viktor held her hand. His hands were so cold. Ilona was tempted to recoil, but stayed still and frowned instead.

"I suppose that will do." He sighed.

Ilona smiled once more, "Okay, I will sing the Other World." It was one of Elek's favorites and she knew it well.

"King of the Wind, King of the Wind, who is it swinging you to and fro? With a long low swing and a sweet low croon, loving words of a mother's rune. King of the Sun, King of the Sun, who is it swinging you to and fro? I think it is the Dawn Mother, the Dawn Mother. The woman that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair. And swings the green world upward by her leagues of moonlight hair. Lord of War, Lord of War, who swing you and the Dawn Mother to and fro?

It is he whose faintest thought is a world afar. It is he whose wish is a pure white stag. It is he, the Golden Father, to whom you and I and all things flow. The Golden Father, the Golden Father. It is only a little child that you are, but as this blossom has roots in the depths of the sky, so you are one with the Other World. Tiny was the child that you are, my morning star, from the Other World, the Other World."

Ilona looked down to see that Viktor had already fallen asleep. He would have looked peaceful for once, if his breathing were not so loud and haggard. She knew the signs. She knew death would be on him. "I'll meet you in the forest again, War Lord, when it is time for you to die. When your soul comes to judgment, may Hadur plead your case, bless you." Ilona murmured quietly, invoking the War God for his trial. With that, she stoked the fire, blew the candles out and collected her things, leaving Viktor's dwelling quietly.

As she moved through the fort grounds, one soldier spoke to her, "Come to my bed, Illy."

Ilona recognized him as one of her late brother's friends, so instead of giving him an appropriate insult in response, or a death stare, she merely said. "My nephew needs me, Andras." She did not even turn to look at him. The rest of the walk through the fort, through the gates and back home to the Shaman's hut was bitterly cold and tiring, but Ilona's mind wandered other places.

She opened the door to the crude hut. The Shaman Janos lay on his bedroll in the corner, his eyelids flickering rapidly; every so often he twitched and would mutter words with no meaning. Ilona was used to this strange behavior. She dropped her things, stripped off to her underclothes, and went straight to the fire to lay down on her bedroll with her eight-year-old nephew Elek who slept soundly. She pulled a blanket over them both and cuddled him, giving him a kiss on the forehead, "Precious thing." Elek looked up at her sleepily, smiling dreamily and then soon was fast asleep. Ilona realized how truly exhausted she was and not long after she had closed her eyes, and settled her mind, she was asleep.