Everything came to pass as the priestess said it would.
In all the days since Boiorix could remember, no priestess had pronounced such dire prophecies as Hildrix had done. Even in his days as a whelp, when old Betrenae had led the Circle of the Sky, the worst fates pronounced upon the Cimbri were slim harvests and the odd surge of fevers. The powers of the Circle were always a debatable thing. Events couldn’t always be attributed to the gods, after all–maybe a slim harvest was a sign of ill favor, but maybe it was a midnight cold snap. Maybe the cold snap was the work of the gods, but maybe not. There was always an argument to be made, and doubtful warriors would share whispers over the cookfire, though never in the hearing of the women.
Since Hildrix had taken her place at the head of the Circle, the whispering had ceased.
It didn’t help matters that she was young, fertile, and fierce–she turned the heads of many warriors, though she kept her womanhood for the gods. Her voice, husky and powerful, cut over the crowds when the folk were summoned to the Thing. She pronounced her magics with a fire in her tone that the Cimbri hadn’t seen in generations. Betrenae had been shrill in her way, but her words, like her prophecies, were short and to the point.
Hildrix was bold, cutting in her words, and far-reaching with her pronouncements. When she appeared, with her body clad only in the sky and painted runes, she drew every eye in attendance. Whether they gazed with lust or divine fear, they gazed all the same. Even Boiorix was sometimes entranced by her.
Lately, though, she inspired a different feeling altogether.
It had taken her only one season to solidify her hold on the Circle. She’d ascended in spring, and by high summer, she held the love of not only the Circle, but of every woman in the tribe. One could speak no doubt of her powers in their hearing, lest they receive a humiliating tirade and accusations of heresy. A good portion of the warriors lent her their ears, and in time, with the power of her words and the force of her presence, they lent their full hearts as well.
Boiorix had been no king in those days, only another warrior like the rest. He led his warband, as did many others, and tried to be a man of respect. His sons would one day look to his legend, and he wanted to make his ancestors proud, as did anyone. Boiorix kept his mind as sharp as his blade, as his father taught him, and he’d seen the machinations of Hildrix before most of the others.
She used her wiles as much as her mystery to manipulate the warriors of the tribe. Those who cleaved hardest to her side were kept in a type of sexual limbo, each vying to outperform the others in hopes of being chosen to share her wagon. None, of course, were given the honor, but all were given hooded glances or passing touches by the witch-woman. Some of these were true believers in her power from the start. Others would learn soon enough.
The turn of autumn was the first time Hildrix declared one of her prophecies. The great serpent that encircles the world would stir in the deep, she said, and the waters would come in from the sea. Boiorix, like many others, had dismissed her magic. It was outrageous. Unthinkable.
The sea proved them wrong.
The floods, whether caused by the great serpent or not, took the fields and salted the land. The Cimbri had endured many hardships in the past–the songs spoke of great deeds of long-dead kings–but the sea was not a foe one could face with blade in hand.
Hildrix used the flood to curse any and all who called her power into question, and her support only grew. It was blood, she said, that the gods demanded. The sea was just their method of communication. Southward, she said, was where they were meant to point their blades. South was where they would find new land, and south was where they’d find the blood to baptize their blades.
And so the Cimbri, for the first time in generations, took to their wagons. This land claimed by their ancestors no longer welcomed them, and only the sword could carve out their next home. Hildrix, however popular, could not lead the Cimbri in war. For this, as always, a warrior had to be chosen. A bitter drink for the priestess, perhaps, but the ancient laws could not be subverted.
At the Thing, she had to stand, like all the others, and watch as her chosen dog was passed over in the voting. Warriors, despite their fear of the witch, had their own mind about who should lead them in this great undertaking. After several rounds of voting, arguments, fistfights, and even one duel in the circle, only one man remained–Boiorix.
It was Boiorix who got to stand on the highest hill and watch the homes of his people burn. He won the privilege of presiding over the longest caravan of wagons the Cimbri had ever seen. The ire of Hildrix, it seemed, was part of the deal.
The priestess had tried her wiles on Boiorix in the beginning, but his love had always been for Brida, and no other woman could replace her. When flirtation failed, Hildrix demanded a rightful place at his side due to her favor with the gods. The laws, however, were clear, and she had no right to cleave to him. With all paths to his power closed to her, she resorted to manipulation.
Her tricks were the reason for this meeting on the hill. It was the second day of their great journey into the south, their quest for new lands to call home. It was the last time Boiorix could look upon the land that gave him birth. Even now, standing atop the hill overlooking his valley, smoke trails rose into the air like ghostly fingers brushing the darkling sky. Somewhere at the base of those tendrils was his own home. It hadn’t been much, but its walls had warmed Brida and his children for years. Now, all he had was his wagon and the steely, weighing glances of Hildrix.
“The men have gathered, sire,” said Lugius, his tone as grim as their purpose.
Boiorix turned from the scene in the valley with a deep sigh. Lugius, his most trusted friend and companion, grimaced at the scene below. He cut his eyes away before the grief could show on his face. Lugius was ever a quiet man, and it seemed not even the displacement of their entire people could crack his armor.
“The men are clear to our purpose?” Boiorix said.
Lugius nodded. “Claodicus and Caesorix are with us.”
“And Hulekr?”
Lugius only affected a shrug and tapped the hilt of his sword.
“Good.” Boiorix took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. “Then let us move these dark matters along.”
His men waited in a hollow between three hills. Caesorix and Claodicus stood flanking Hulekr. Caesorix was a wiry, short man who favored a pair of axes and his mustache, which was long in the Gallic style and oiled to keep it stiff. He shared a smirk with Claodicus–a tall warrior with tattooed arms as big around as his head. The two had been like brothers since their youth.
Hulekr stepped forward, holding his cloak against the chill, blowing wind. He was dark-haired and bearded, though his beard was not as thick as that of Claodicus. Hulekr fancied himself a pretty man, and he enjoyed strutting and preening for the women the way that men of early manhood sometimes did.
“Sire.” Hulekr bowed his head with the word, though his eyes never lowered. “We have come as you commanded.”
Boiorix let out a long sigh. “So you have. Claodicus?”
Before Hulekr could even turn in his direction, Claodicus removed his helm and smacked the dark-haired man across the back of his skull with it. A satisfying metallic thunk sang from the steel, but not as satisfying as the surprised yelp coming from Hulekr. Caesorix stepped in and offered a hard kick to the man’s ribs, which took Hulekr’s breath and silenced the painful cries. Boiorix and Lugius crouched to Hulekr’s level as Caesorix and Claodicus tugged Hulekr’s arms wide and planted their knees in his back, baring his chest to the king.
“Why are you doing this?” Hulekr snarled, though his voice was thin from the kicks. “I am a–”
“You,” Boiorix snapped, “are a traitor, Hulekr.”
Hulekr’s eyes widened and his cheeks turned blood red. “Say that again, and I will meet you in the dueling circle!”
“You can’t duel him, you idiot.” Caesorix cuffed Hulekr across the jaw. “He’s king now.”
“And you’re just a snake,” Claodicus rumbled. “Snakes have no rights to the blood of kings.”
“You’ve been reporting to Hildrix,” Boiorix said. Again, the words came out in the same tone he’d use to tell Brida their animals had wandered off. He was too tired lately to muster anything but the kind of irritation one feels after a long day of hard work. “Why?”
“I have reported nothing!” Hulekr growled, spittle running into his beard. “I would never betray–”
“If you don’t tell me, Claodicus will break your arm.” Boiorix kept his tone even–he was speaking truth now, not making threats. “Deny a second time, and Caesorix will break the other.”
“You can’t do anything with two broken arms,” Caesorix said, his teeth gleaming with a smile. “Not even balance yourself to squat for a shit. Imagine spending the season with that problem.”
“Sire, I swear, I would never–”
Boiorix sighed again and gave Claodicus a short nod. The big man put his knee behind Hulekr’s arm and pulled the limb like a tree branch he was preparing for his cookfire. The bone snapped before Hulekr could finish denying his treachery. His sentence ended with a scream of pain. Claodicus silenced it with a meaty hand over Hulekr’s mouth.
“There–you see?” Boiorix said. “Lie again, and the other arm will follow.”
Hulekr’s eyes widened with hatred, but he said nothing as Claodicus released his face. The only thing that escaped his mouth was a pained hiss. Boiorix lifted Hulekr’s bearded chin until the man met Boiorix’s eyes.
“The witch. What is she planning?”
Hulekr grimaced and made to look away, but Caesorix cuffed him across the chin.
“Tell him!” he growled.
Hulekr cringed away from a second blow. “War! She wants… she wants war!”
“War with whom?” Boiorix said, sharing a suspicious glance with Luguis. “Our enemies are across the Cold Sea, not to the south. Why does she wish to go south?”
Hulekr grimaced as Claodicus wrenched his broken arm tighter. “It’s what the gods demanded of her!”
“The gods.” Lugius shook his head and spat to the side. “How does she know this? How does anyone?”
“They came to her in a dream,” Hulekr said, his tone hoarse with the pain. “They… they issued a prophecy through her!”
Lugius shook his head again. “Horse shit.”
“It’s true!” Hulekr growled, his eyes full of blind fervor. “You’ve seen her power! You’ve all seen it! Yet still you deny!”
“Why southward?” Boiorix said. “Where does she want to go? The forests? The tribes there are just as large as ours. She harries us to our graves if she wants a war with them.”
Hulekr shook his head. “She has power. You don’t understand. None of you understand!”
“Then make us understand.” Boiorix grimaced at Hulekr’s damaged arm. Killing a man on the field of battle was one thing, but using pain to elicit information felt dirtier, somehow. Hulekr deserved his fate for his treachery, but only the most sadistic would take pleasure in it. “What was this prophecy?”
“It was a war prophecy.” Hulekr hung his head, and his shoulders relaxed in defeat. “Tyr came to her in a dream. He bade her walk, skyclad, into the forest, and she didn’t return for three days.”
Boiorix narrowed his eyes. “This was weeks ago, yes? Before her pronouncements.”
“Yes!” Hulekr growled with pain as Claodicus tightened his grip on the broken arm. “She returned with an ancient staff.”
Caesorix scoffed. “Ancient staff, indeed. What, she just found it in the woods?”
“It was buried in a sacred glade!” Hulekr snarled. “She had to dig to find it!”
“How do you know the witch didn’t just craft this staff herself?” Claodicus said. “Three days is plenty of time to carve a simple staff from wood.”
“It has a bronze spear-head, you great fool!” Hulekr said. “Ancient runes of power are carved into its surface, and it’s adorned with the antlers and teeth of great beasts! When you look upon it… you can feel the power of the gods like heat from a cookfire!”
“Horseshit,” Boiorix said, though his confidence bled away with the word. Hildrix had been right about the sea, much as it galled him. Was this story credible, or was it another trick to gain power? Were both things likely to be true?
Gods, things would be so much simpler if he could set down his kingship.
“Deny it if you wish,” Hulekr continued, spittle falling from his lips in his fervor, “but her power will overwhelm you all!”
Boiorix grabbed Hulekr’s head between his hands, resisting the urge to squeeze until his treacherous skull popped like a melon. He pulled the man’s head close until they were staring one another in the eyes. It took him a moment to get his sudden anger under control, but control it he did.
“Why,” he growled, “does the witch want to go south?”
“A great nation lies there.” Hulekr’s words weren’t as strong now–perhaps the anger in Boiorix’s eyes had quelled the fire in his tone. “Rich and fat, she said. Lands as fertile as a young maiden! Those were her words!”
Boiorix released Hulekr’s head with a disgusted push of his hands. He traded a glance with Caesorix–they had all they needed. Boiorix rose to his feet and turned away, his gaze falling once again to the homes burning in the valley.
“Your doubts will bury you all!” Hulekr spat. “Her power is real! The gods are real! All will perish under our blades! You’ll see! You’ll fucking see!”
Boiorix shook his head, turning back to the traitor. “Maybe you’re right, Hulekr. Maybe we will see something. You, however, will see nothing.”
Caesorix took his cue from the words, and his knife came out in a flash. Hulekr continued to spew his nonsense even as Caesorix jerked his head backwards. The knife flashed across Hulekr’s throat, and blood blossomed in its wake.
“You will see!” Hulekr gurgled through the blood coming out of his throat. “You… will see!”
He collapsed onto his face, hands going toward the cut. His heels kicked–strong at first, then weaker as his blood spilled onto the grass of the hill. Boiorix and his men stood over the body, watching as Hulekr’s life bled away.
Lugius stepped to Boiorix’s side and crossed his arms. “What do we do about this, sire?”
“There is little we can do.” Boiorix spat on the ground beside Hulekr’s body. “Hildrix has too many warriors behind her. Resisting her now… it would only result in a fight.”
“We fight the others,” Claodicus said, “or we fight this empire to the south. What is the better choice?”
“Such are the questions that plague me, Claodicus.” Boiorix gave another long sigh and shook his head, turning away from Hulekr’s body. “The only thing we can do is try to weather the storm as best we can.”
“And the body?” Caesorix gestured down at Hulekr’s limp form. “What shall we do with him?”
“Leave him to rot.” Boiorix started down the hill, waving for his men to follow. “It’s the living who need our attention now.”
Claodicus shrugged, trading a glance with Caesorix, and followed. Lugius took another moment to stare over the burning valley, but Boiorix couldn’t stomach another glance. It was best to leave the past behind.
The future, it seemed, would be full of blood.