#ossiarch

The Ossiarchs advanced silently, their eyes locked on the village just beyond the ruin. Liege-Kavalos Eusibion watched them pass, his mount shifting beneath them. Occassionally, he would glance up at the strange monument, fascinated by the utterly beautiful stonework. He was a soldier of many lifetimes. This did not diminish his appreciation for works of art and architecture worth admiring.

The sphinx was one of the few pieces of the ancient, ruined settlement more or less intact. The pedestal was pitted with age, but remained complete, with an inscription written in a language that Eusibion, to his regret, could not read. That was not particularly unique to Ghur. That much was certain after many decades of service here. A “realm of beasts and untamed savagery” said writers with perhaps more alliteration than skill in constructing prose. (This was not entirely incorrect in the present era. But the touch of ancient deeds by men and others besides could be felt here. Even the Orcs built things, and they still infested the land in places.) Beyond the pedestal were the tumbled remains of a curtain wall and the stone foundations of buildings, whatever they might have been. There were, in fact, eleven such foundations. Eusebion had noted this with interest upon initial reconnaissance of the place.

At last the small army halted, drawn up in a column outside the zariba that marked the outer perimeter of the village. Eusebion eyed Hekatos Laertes. He nodded. The village was silent. The locals had hidden away upon sight of the advancing column. It was quite a sight to behold. And for a primitive villager, no matter howwarlike... “Proceed.”

Laertes saluted and walked toward the zariba. His voice was projected, neutral of tone. “Hetman Undako. Your tribe agreed to the terms of a treaty of vassalage with our Liege Lord, as you well know, in exchange for his protection from the green skin horde. The tithe for this village and its outliers remains unpaid. We are here to collect. One way or another. Give us what we require, show proper deference, and we will forget this oversight. We might even forgive your role in the recent fighting.”

There was no response, initially. Eusebion looked forward into the village. It was a rather large one, as these things went. Several hundred people in huts built from wood, mud, and thatch. A few larger examples were built on old, stone foundations. Perhaps the remains of private homes on the outskirts of the city that had been. He shook his head, sadly. Did human civilization always decline so sharply?

Hekatos Laertes was less reflective, and clearly annoyed. He repeated, “Herman Undako. I remind you that our patience is only because of the restraint imposed upon us by our Liege Lord. He is now -your- Liege Lord, and values your people. If you value them, honor him and tread with me. I will not ask again.” At his gesture, the head of the column began to form into a triple ranked line, spreading out, the bronze shields of the foremost sparking in the mid-day sun.

There was quiet, and then the shuffling sound of footsteps across ground, echoing from beyond the zariba, the formed ranks tensed. Round the corner came an old man, slightly bent. He had clearly been a powerfully built man in his youth, and that his height was not entirely diminished by the stoop of extreme age and frailty made this clear. He moved forward with the aid of an ancient walking stick, his thorny right hand wrapped around it tightly. At last, he appeared near the opposite side of the zariba, alone, and lifted milky white eyes to face Laertes.

“I am Undak’o,” his voice was firm, deep, tinged with age as he corrected - almost gently - the pronunciation of his name. Laertes noted a great scar running across his forehead, the mark of some terrible beast, perhaps. So the old man had been a warrior, or at least a hunter. He raised his right arm, the wrist wrapped in wooden prayer beads... no... not beads. What were they? The claws of yet another beast? Laertes was uncertain. “We welcome the representatives of Nagash to our home. You are?”

“I am Hekaton Laertes. I serve Nagash and my Polemarch, Eusebion.” The old man nodded. “I am sure you do them credit, warrior.” He paused, his eyes staring into the distance, if indeed such a thing was possible with blind eyes. “You say that my tribe made a treaty with great lord Nagash?”

Laertes nodded, “I did.”

Undak’o frowned, and with a tutting noise, shook his head. “Bomt’a was always too eager to negotiate.”

“His warriors knew when they were beaten,” Laertes replied, “they did the honorable thing.”

Undak’o considered this. “Did they? I wonder. From a certain point of view, certainly!” He chuckled quietly. “At any rate, my little brother Bom’ta does not speak for all of the Izi-Nyosi, no matter what he may say. He is king but in name. Many of the Hetmen of the Kraals were unconsulted, both in regards to the war with your liege lord, great Nagash, and the peace with him. I am afraid I have nothing to give you but admiration for your fine discipline and my congratulations as to your obvious fighting prowess. My brother is a fine warrior.”

“Your regiment took part in the war against us,” Laertes growled, “and I am unconsumed big curiosity regarding your internal politics. We are owed a tithe.”

“Our regiment faced your brothers,” Undak’o nodded. “This is true. They burned one of our kraals. Honor demanded retribution.”

You had to give it to the old man, Eusebion admitted to himself, brass balls. It would be a shame to kill him.

“And honor demands that you pay your tithe,” Laertes demanded. “We are here to collect, Hetman.”

“And the tithe is not mine to give, Hekatos. Our allegiance is to another liege lord. One who does not allow the sacrifice of our dead for such purposes.”

“There are no more kings among the Izi-Nyosi, Herman. Your liege lord is Nagash. Were it not in my orders, were I not a being of honor, I could strike you down for such insolence. Pay. Your. Tithe. Or I will collect it in a different way.”

Eusebion was fascinated by all this. By rights he could have intervened. But he did not. Not yet.

The old man sighed. “Do you know, young man...”

“I am not young, Hetman. I was a living being before your great grandfather walked the Savannah.”

The old man smiled. “So you say...” he paused, leaned against his staff. “What do you think of our ruins, my friend?”

Eusebion spoke for the first time at this, “Old Man...” he called out, raising his hand to signal that Laertes should hold.

The Herman’s milky eyes turned in the direction of Eusebion, “My Lord Kavalos?”

“These ruins are a sign that your people were once great. Wise. Show wisdom, Hetman. My patience is at an end.”

The Hetman, seemed saddened by this. Genuinely so, “I am told that, in mortal life, you served a great human king. Something of an eccentric, but a great man nonetheless.”

“I did,” Eusebion replied. “Unlike our enemies, we retain our memories.”

“Ahh. This proves that you, too, are a man of wisdom. If you have taken such memories to heart.”

Eusebion liked to think so. “Your regiment has fine warriors, Hetman. Among the finest of the Izi-Nyosi.”

The old man smiled. “They are.”

“My Lord Nagash honors you with his benevolence. Your tithe will be put to good use. The spirits of your fallen warriors will...”

“We made the ruins, you know,” the Hetman interrupted. Perhaps he was less capable than Eusebion had guessed, for now he was rambling. Eusebion sighed, “Laertes, draw up your ranks. This parley has...”

“We did not -build- the ruins, you understand,” the blind eyes were now fixed on Laertes. “You do not seem to be listening. Heed my wisdom, we -made- that place a ruin, young man. We made it.”

“If by decline, you mean,” Laertes snarled, the feeling of the blind eyes fixed on him distinctly unnerving. “I am unsurprised. Lochoi, form up. Archers, knock bows.”

“Such a pity,” Eusebion muttered, “that statue alone.”

The Hetman shook his head. How he heard Eusebion’s mutterings remained unclear. “No. We carved no statues. We are breakers of cities, my people. Not builders of them.”

Eusebion’s eyes widened, “Then all the more reason to preserve it from damage by the likes of you,” he turned his attention to Laertes, drew his xiphos. Laertes did not notice the gesture. His eyes, instead, had locked into the old man’s bracelet. Those were not, he had realized, the claws of an animal. But the teeth of a hominid. His ancient throat went dry.

“Archers,” he said, his words sluggish, “form near the statue. Prepare fire arrows. Lochoi, pikes out.”

“There. Is. No. Statue.” The old man muttered, “and the tithe is not mine to give.” He had already turned his back on the Ossiarchs, returning the way he had come. Eusebion, if he had the means, would have blinked. The damned fool! More mess to clean up, and now this bloody village had cost him a day. He looked to the statue, wondering who could have built such a thing in a place of such profound ignorance, and felt sorrow for their lost civilization.

It was at this point that he realized the old man was as correct. There was no statue. A bell of alarm from ancient times began to clang in his head. “Laertes! Quick! Form a hedge!”

Soon enough, there would be a tithe available. But it was not Undak’os to give.