They had entered the mouth of the river in the late morning, and though the city was close, they had to stop for the night, for sailing in the sea under the stars was a far safer endeavor than in the narrow confines of the river. So they stopped at a small dock with only two other ships as the sun turned red and orange with early evening light. His druzhina were the first off, and when establishing a safe perimeter, he followed, grinning wide with the feeling of stable ground beneath his feet. Though now he wobbled as he walked as if the world moved under him.

  Some of the braver locals not dissuaded by the armed and armored warriors approached. Silene translated for him, requesting a room fit for a boyar of Vasia, leaving the specificity of his rank and identity unsaid, naturally. They took him and his men to their lord’s manor. Evidently, the lord was absent, and Laczlo had to remind himself of the odd fees for labor services the Armagnians did, where their boyar and druzhina equivalents rarely inhabited their domains, collecting silver and scarcely overseeing the work. Not that he would complain, in this instance, for it meant he had the manor to himself and his men, save for a few appointed village officials who bowed and scraped as they did. He paid them well and made a contribution to the village in thick silver Vasian coins.

  He and his entourage sat in the manor hall on benches along a long table and were served duck and pork with hardy vegetables and thick sauces heavily spiced. Spices traded for, surely, given the odd flavors of them. They were served wine, as was customary, and quickly enough, to the low glow of a hearty fire and a few clean wax candles, the drink made cheeks glow and laughter grow. The day drew to night and the room was alive with laughter and good spirits. And, for once in the last week, Laczlo’s new scar stopped hurting so much.

  Isak was standing, a leg of some large bird in one hand, a pewter cup of wine in another, swinging the former around like a blade while keeping the latter as steady as possible in his state as he told his side of the sea battle. Drunk as he was, the druzhina showed little of his typical restraint. And neither did Laczlo. Indeed, the world was slowly turning, and candle lights burned bright in fuzzy spectacles that constantly distracted him. Everything seemed funny. Even Mikha, usually so serious and focused, was smiling into his cup, standing to Laczlo’s left side. Servants attended to everyone with food and drink. He looked around some more, blinking and squinting. The only one missing was Silene. Where was she?

  “And our voivode,” Isak boomed, grinning down at him, “went right on after them! Here we were in a wall, barely holding our place as they boarded us. But our voivode, well, he was blood-hungry! He boarded them!” He let out a great laugh, as did all the other druzhina, and at first, the sound thrust in Laczlo’s chest like daggers of ice, drying his throat and making his jaw clench tight. And then he realized it was not a sound of mockery and derision but one of approval. Approval!

  “Raise your damn cups you dogs,” Isak commanded, and the druzhina quickly obeyed, wine lifted to the ceiling. “I offer this drink to the only voivode I know who’d join his ugly bastard oath-sworns in a shield press! To our serpent slayer, our voivode, our… ah… hah, our warrior prince!”

  The men shouted their agreements, fists banging the table like blades on shields, and then they drank. And Laczlo stared.

  Warrior prince. Two words that made his heart nearly stop. He was no warrior—he’d survived through luck and the protection of others, not his own blade skill. And prince? Prince! Voivodes were princes once, long before the tsar came around. Voivodes often whispered of those days when they had the power, when all was right. But only whispers. It was rebellious. It was bold beyond bold. And to be called one by his men? His mind span as he drank, eyes squeezed shut, hand shaking. They’re drunk, excited. Isak doesn’t see everything, after all. Just bits. Just pleasing me for his own gain. He set the empty chalice down and shook his head, eyes opening, unfocused. His thoughts weren’t convincing, even to his drunk mind. Perhaps because of his drunk mind?

  He turned around and looked at Mikha. Maybe he’d know?

  His head servant smiled at him and stepped forward, bending down. “They expect words from you, Voivode.”

  “What?” He looked to the table and found the men looking at him, drinks emptied, smiles all around. “Why?”

  “A druzhina practice. It’s—” he hiccuped and excused himself “—er, meant for war leaders. A great honor. You should give words, a speech. Nothing big, Voivode. Something to please them.”

  “Of course,” he replied absently, standing, swaying, trying not to let it show. Inside, he was terrified. He wanted to run away, to hide, anything but this. He set his cup down, which had found itself in his hand again, full, somehow. But he couldn’t run, could he? Not here, not now. He began with a deep, tremoring breath and the most convincing smile he could manage. Deus, he feared he might piss himself then and there.

  “You must forgive my presentation, for I am as drunk as Isak looks,” he said, then immediately regretted it, almost wincing at the bluntness of it. But the men laughed, Isak loudest of them all. He smiled at that, a wavering one that grew in confidence. “Your words honor me a great deal. You fought and bled for me, and for that, I am in your debt as well. As druzhina, as sworn warriors, you’ve made a proud voivode. A fortunate one. I couldn’t ask for better men. And for that, I thank you.” He swallowed, licking his lips. The laughs and chuckles had melted, giving way to something more somber, something more respected. They are listening to me. As a voivode, as a man. They are listening! Laczlo took a deep breath and kept his hands from fidgeting with his clothes or hair. If there was a time to admit things, it was now. To be honest, it was now. In the drunken haze of his mind, he’d never been so sure of something until just then. “I, uh, I wasn’t the man you claimed me to be. I’m not now. I felt fear every day. I felt shame every day. I know you saw it in me; I know you felt it yourself serving, ah, a voivode like me… That weakness haunts me more than anything. It’s what drove me here. Trying to best it, finally. And, well, I don’t—I can’t say I have, but on that ship, standing beside you all. Men I respected for your strength, feared you for it. Well, fighting there with you all, things felt different. I felt different.” He coughed and took another drink, confidence fading fast, yet the need to open up, to be honest, was as overpowering as it was when he began.

  “My point in this is that for whatever honor you feel serving me, I feel ten times more. We should not have survived the serpents, and yet we did. We should not have escaped Goroden, and yet, through your awareness and subtlety, we did. And now, here, far from home, I know that we’ll succeed again. And I don’t need to remind you how many rely on our success, do I? No. No, you all know. We’ll return as heroes. We will. And I will continue to earn your respect, to deserve it.” He wanted to say more, to finish off with something grander, but the words were lost, floating off somewhere without him, so he found his chalice and raised it. “This is my drink in thanks to all of you.” He took a deep swig from it and set it down, then sat himself, legs almost giving out. From the adrenaline and fear of the moment or the wine, he wasn’t sure.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The room was silent, and he could scarcely glance around at the faces to note their true reactions. As always, part of him wanted to believe it was embarrassment, pity, and disgust that brought about the lingering silence. But that’s not what the expressions told him. No, in their faces, he saw a frozen shock of surprise and wonder. He didn’t know what to make of that. Not one bit.

  “Voivode Vilsky,” Oiir said, his voice husky with drink, grizzled as he, the veteran amongst even experienced warriors, “I fought for your father. I fought for him against raiders from the sea and mountains, against Agonians, men of the free cities, the Dead outside of Hazek’s Fields, and even in Merkenia.” A few of the other men who’d served his father spit at the mention of the cursed place. “I bled for him. I did it proudly. But he didn’t have my loyalty because he was strongest. Not because he was the most powerful. I did it because he had honor. An old thing, something many have forgotten.” He scowled at his plate, fists on the table squeezed tight. “I don’t pick my voivodes like fighting hounds and race horses. I don’t betray when the going’s tough. I stay. But you, Voivode, you make me proud to serve, like he did. And though you’ve got few reasons to trust us, after the shit they did to your family, we’re here sharing a drink with you.” He nodded to himself and stood, raising his gaze to hold Laczlos. In it, there was the fire of certainty. And perhaps, even, dedication. “I’d like to renew my oath. The one I gave to your father. We should have resworn when your mother passed on. I’d like to give it now, if it pleases you, Voivode.”

  Laczlo’s mouth was dry, his mind blank, and yet he still managed out, “It would.”

  Oiir climbed over the bench and strode around the table, looking almost sober in his walk, and kneeled before Laczlo. “I give you my sword arm to battle your enemies. I give you my Low Soul to secure the realm. I give you my High Soul as a loyal druzhina of Vasia and sworn man of Vilsi. By Rotaal, I shall fight for you until Voiya against your enemies.”

  “I swear upon my High and Low to give you fair treatment and due justice, to guard your lands, and to bring your riches.” Laczlo drew his sword and held it, blade extended, glad he’d worn it off the ship. “I offer you my blade, my right of power, and extend the oath of ancients.”

  Oiir kissed the blade and leaned back, solemn, sincere. “You have my oath, Voivode.”

  “And you, mine, Druzhina.”

  Silence stilled the air. Even the local servants were quiet, watching on with wide eyes. And then, one by one, starting with Isak, the other druzhinas approached and reswore their oaths.

  …

  The night passed. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two. He didn’t really know, lost in the feast as he was. A blur of jubilance and pride, of laughter and ease. Clapped backs and wide grins. Men grappled to the roaring amusement of others. Some drank till they collapsed. Women joined at some point, their presence incentivized by Laczlo’s generous coin. Not many, as it wasn’t a city, but more than he expected for a river-side village. Maybe because they often had visitors. Maybe… He didn’t really know, staring at them, looking around the spinning room as they sat in men’s laps and laughed and flirted, were shadows and vague forms in the corners of the room in other places, grunting and animalistic. Isak had taken one away to such a corner. Vaguely, Laczlo tried to remember if the druzhina had a wife and children back near Vilsi. Did it matter? He was a druzhina, after all. They did as they wished, no consequences or worries, really.

  Laczlo stood, pushing away from the table, stumbling, nearly falling over, catching himself on the hall’s thick wooden beam with a chuckle. Mikha. Where was he? Laczlo frowned around and found the old man laid down before the fire, asleep with a cup still close at hand. Sleeping or coupling for the night, he thought to himself with a smile. Everyone was taking to the women or drunken sleep. I should do the same. He swayed as he walked from the hall toward his room for the night. It was strange the people opened up the hall for him. Or the steward did. Whoever. Must be an Armagnian custom. Or they really despise their lord. He chuckled and caught himself on the wall before continuing.

  A few rooms were attached to the hall, but he knew them to be for food, so he swiveled and found the small stairwell going up. A wonder such a village had a two-story manor of the sort. He climbed the stairs and found himself quickly thrust into darkness. There was a small shuttered wind hole that lit the narrow walkway with thin rays of moonlight but that was all. He squinted ahead. There was more light. An ajar door with the warm glow of candles within. He wandered towards it, not quite remembering if that was his room, but nevertheless intrigued. Whose else could it be?

  Laczlo pushed open the door and stood in the entrance, staring in. A small solar with a great space where a bed should be. There were some chairs, two of Laczlo’s locked chests, one of the local lord’s that was open, and a few hung paintings of men and women he didn’t recognize. In one of the chairs, facing a collection of candles, reading a large tome, was Silene.

  She looked at him as he entered, shutting the door behind. Her eyes seemed large as the flames danced in them, her face warm and slightly flushed from the heat. How could her hair be so dark and smooth, illustrious with its sheen? Let down and unadorned. Something from a dream.

  She didn’t say anything to him, nor he to her, as he came closer.

  Laczlo stopped an arm’s length away from the chair. He looked down at her, taking her beauty in. Rarely had he seen anything like it.

  “You’re drunk,” Silene said, raising her chin.

  “Somewhat. It’s, uh, fading now.”

  “Is it?”

  He focused on not slurring. “What are you doing up here? This is my room, isn’t it?”

  “Pilfering their chest for late-night entertainment. A wonder they left it here.” She put the book aside and adjusted, crossing her legs under her skirts. “It can be dull when you don’t partake in the celebrations.”

  Wasn’t it locked? How’d she even open it? “Why weren’t you there? I was looking for you.”

  “Were you now?” She smiled, something coy in it, he was sure. “Why is that?”

  “I wanted to see you there,” Laczlo said, dropping to one knee, supporting himself on the chair’s sturdy arm. Just then, he realized the context of the situation. She was in his room, waiting for him, wasn’t she? And here he was, coming closer. “I wanted to see you laugh and enjoy yourself.” Should he be… I’m a voivode. My druzhina called me a warrior prince. How could he hesitate now, after everything? “You have a beautiful smile. Er, and, well, the journey’s been a harsh one. You needed a respite.”

  She cocked her head, then leaned forward slightly, closing distance. “Charmer now, are you? Does wine always have this effect? If so, perhaps we should sneak some aboard. All your men brought was ale and beer.”

  “I thought you despised me.”

  “Despised you? Frustrated at the situation, at myself, perhaps, I never despised you.”

  “I find that difficult to accept.”

  She sighed. It was a delicate sound. “You have far too much self-doubt for how capable you are. For a voivode, let alone one with such convictions and ability, you should have a prouder bearing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Silene put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “If you were any other way, I might have fled some time ago.”

  He nodded, looking her in the eyes. Her gaze, so powerful and deep, so rich and dark, he felt himself slipping. As if the ground had suddenly opened up and below, a pool deep underground, warm and thick against his flesh. “Thank you.”

  She smiled softly. “Of course. You deserve it.” She paused, and her smile widened. “You deserve to be proud of what you’ve done. Of where you’ve come.” Her hand slid up his arm. Shivers through his whole body. “You deserve celebration. You deserve to relax, to let go.” Both hands were on him now. His eyelids fluttered, the image of her seductive confidence flickering in and out. “You deserve this.” She took his hands and placed them on her thighs. They were soft, yet strong, smooth even over her clothes. Her squeezed them and ran his hands up her legs. Silene let out a small gasp. His breath hitched, stuck in his throat, head swimming with lust, sick with need.

  “Don’t you stop there,” she whispered.

  He didn’t.