The Scene Two. Old Man

  He could not shield himself from the wind that tousled his silver mane.

  His long beard, the color of aged steel, brushed against the strap of his sword before disappearing beneath the edge of his chainmail.

  A face etched with wrinkles—marks left by nightly nightmares and daily worries—yet reborn anew.

  The Old Man’s gaze remained fixed on the approaching, yet still unseen, shore.

  A sudden gust of wind and the roar of the waves pulled him from the whirlpool of his thoughts. Instinctively, his hands moved, donning his helmet, dragging the iron edges down over his nose and eyes, leaving his cheeks at the mercy of the biting wind and the spray of waves, eager to soak, freeze, and weather his skin.

  The ship heaved upon the waves, revealing a gray strip on the horizon, darkening against the pale blue waters. This was their goal—the end of their voyage across the sea and, for many aboard, the end of their journey in life.

  Most of those surrounding the Old Man were beardless youths. Boys of yesterday, who today must fight. Must become men. And must die. Most of them, if not all, unless Svarog granted them mercy. Victory was a gift given only to the bold.

  But how many among these young warriors, eighteen summers old—half the age of the Old Man’s beard—could truly claim such boldness?

  The approaching silhouette of land left no room for doubt—each of them knew what was to come, and each battled fear in their own way, whether they knew how or not.

  The Old Man turned.

  Ratmir, a young warrior, wore a blue belt—a woolen scarf peeking through his chainmail. He bent forward, gripping the ropes of the shrouds behind him. The boy swayed back and forth, pumping blood through his arms and back, yawning occasionally in a feigned display of composure.

  The scarf, barely visible beneath his chainmail, was a gift to the Old Man from his daughter, Svyatoslavna, whom the Herald had taken to the Black Sorcerer as part of a bloody tribute sixteen years ago. The memory stirred old wounds. The Old Man slipped past Ratmir without lifting his gaze—useless, foolish tears could not be seen. He took a step closer to the boy, then suddenly turned away.

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  The movement brought him shoulder to shoulder with the Strange One—a warrior who had arrived at the village only four days ago and who, just yesterday, had lost his daughter to the flames. And now, the host—gathering every warrior from the settlement, young and old—pursued the Herald, who had taken the Strange One’s son to the Soothsayer of Chernobog. His son—a tribute to a foreign god.

  The Strange One examined the burns on his arms, pressing the cold iron of his sword against them. He mouthed curses in silence, refusing to let the pain subside, though it was a mere whisper compared to the storm of grief in his chest.

  His resolve instantly dried the Old Man’s tears. Neither would pity themselves in the battle ahead. Reflexes and experience would guide them when the fighting began. They would endure. Mokosh had sent the Strange One’s family to them for a reason. It was a sign. They would face the enemy, even without Koloyar.

  Koloyar—the Smith. The only one who remained seated at the edge of the ship. His powerful torso, broad and sturdy like a great oak, rested atop thick, trunk-like arms. His bull-like neck, unprotected by a helmet, bore his head with an unshakable stillness. Clad in chainmail and belted with a sword, he observed his apprentices with stony calm.

  His eyes, usually brimming with mischief, now held a rare sternness, filling the young warriors with a fragile hope of victory.

  They stood before him in tight ranks. The Ceremony of Meeting Yaromir was much like every morning, yet today, a veil of clouds obscured the sun, and the warriors stood packed even closer together, leaving no empty space aboard the ship.

  The apprentices, clad in armor and wielding weapons forged by the Smith himself, raised their swords high. The blades caught the faint light of Yaromir, while the sheaths jingled softly against their leather belts. They gripped medium and large shields, their movements precise as they practiced combat maneuvers, stepping sideways in measured strides, guarding the space enclosed by the ship’s high bulwarks.

  The ceremony would prepare them, would not let fear paralyze their bodies as the battle loomed ever closer.

  The tricks Koloyar had drilled into the youths since the age of five, driving them through the mandatory course of Spear and Sword, now played out in their minds. They used the final moments of calm, channeling the raging fire in their chests into raw physical energy. With sheer will, they crushed the vast, sticky fear clawing at their souls, compressing it into a small, nervous lump. They tamped down their anxiety under the weight of their weapons, burying it deep within—enough to prepare themselves and not be paralyzed by terror in their first battle. And if the Expedition was fortunate, it would not be their last—not for the warriors on the ship, nor for the families left behind in the village.

  The Smith stepped forward, turning his face toward the rising Yaromir over the waters. With deliberate gestures, he guided the warriors' breaths into a rhythm of self-control, allowing the streams of Force to fill their bodies and spirits with Svarog’s blessing.

  He did not yet know that he would not take part in the battle to come.