Young Writers Society

II. Tribulations

A cold breeze blew upon the plains under the bright, cloudless sky. The high, noon sun beamed, beating hard on Balamber the Hun's back as he stood, staring into the empty. He wasn't afraid, yet pearls of sweat rolled down his cheek. He was repelled by what would happen, instants from now, disgusted by what he was about to do.

“It's not too late to turn back,” he stated loudly, and as no answer came, he spoke again. “What will you gain from this? Do you really think they will esteem you, once you carry my body back to the village?” He paused. “How farther down can we dig? Have you lost all honor? At least, dare cross blades with me, instead of shooting me down like game.”

He heard a call from behind. “Spare us your teachings, Balamber! No longer shall the Huns have you as their chief! Why would we give up the chance to bring you down safely?”

“Because if you do not, no one will follow you. You will be banished, hunted down, hanged perhaps. You will try to hide your deed, but Kuldra knows all, and all shall be revealed. If you really are Huns,

kill we with your swords, and perhaps, some will follow you.”

No word was exchanged for a moment, and the leader of the Huns distinctly heard the sound of unsheathed scimitars, and cautious footsteps. By attacking their pride, He knew he had uncovered a dangerous Achilles' Heel. Not arrogance, but pride, pride of their culture, of their ancestors, of their legends. Most of the other peoples had learned not to meddle with this: to insult a Hun’s pride was to make an eternally determined enemy, but Balamber had no other choice but to attempt to blind them with their anger.

“So be it,” he muttered, and with a groan pulled out the arrow that jutted out from his shoulder. At this instant he felt lucky, for if his leg had been struck, all would have been lost. In a graceful movement he pivoted and snatched his sword, turning back to the five, hooded figures, their blades held high, standing in a semi-circle around him. He observed each one of their movements, trying to perceive the instant they would strike. He had learned to anticipate every blow by simply listening to his opponents’ breathing, and paying close attention to every twitch and gesture. Still, the fact that they were masked left Balamber without the knowledge of who he was facing and of how skilled they were, and it made him nervous.

He noticed with ease a quick inhalation from the left murderer and managed to par his high swing, kick him in the gut, and pierce his liver. He had little time to rejoice at the sight of the traitor bringing his head to his knees on the ground, for his three companions lunged to avenge the fallen warrior. They sparred for several minutes, and he failed to escape a gouging in the flank but angrily struck an assailant in the groin and slashed his stomach open while sparring with the two others. The attacker yelled and collapsed. The pair fought surprisingly well, and Balamber’s shoulder stung excruciatingly. Fending off their attacks became increasingly difficult. With a grunt he jabbed toward one of them, but to his shock the blade went flying right into his chest, leaving him weaponless. The last assassin was shorter and seemed younger than the others. The leader ducked several times, slipped and fell. Before the conspirator could nail him to the soil, he rolled to the side and sprang up. He hopped to the right, avoiding a mid-jab, caught his wrist and twisted it until the bone snapped in a terrible crack. Untouched by his blood-curling cries of pain and his pleas for mercy, he tore the hood off. The unlucky attacker was very young, no older than fourteen, and with long, curly hair like most Huns and sharp green eyes.

Balamber's eyes widened. He shook his head, refusing to believe.

“My lord,” he sobbed, feeling crushed by Balamber’s cruelly disappointed eyes, “I— ”

“Silence!” he snapped, “So that’s what all my teachings have led to? I thought better of you, filth! You deserve hell for your shame!”

“Balamber…’

“Silence, I said! Feel very lucky to be still in possession of your unmerited life. Who sent you?”

“I’ve sworn allegiance to our group! He’ll kill me if I denounce him!”

“To hell with your allegiance! Would you rather I kill you now?” he bellowed, seizing him by the back of the neck and pressing the flat of his blade on his throat, “Speak!”

“All right, all right!” he squeaked, “It was Dengiz! He told terrible things.”

“What things?” urged Balamber, a slight change in his tone.

“He said that—that you killed him.”

“Him?”

“I c-c-can’t,” he stuttered.

“Tell me!” His grip strengthened.

“He said that you killed—Ernakh.”

“What?” he cried, “And you believed that?” He stood up and took a few steps away. “I’m dreaming,” he gargled, clasping his hands on his face, “I knew Dengiz never really appreciated me, but to invent these—these slanders!”

Balamber’s straight hair quivered and rose as another soft breeze slithered through the plain, and the grass bristled. Kutri trembled violently, staring down.

“You’re right,” he mumbled, “I don’t deserve to live.”

He snatched a dagger from his furry belt with his hand, the one that was still in good shape. As he slowly pointed it toward his heart, a strong, leather boot kicked it out of his grip. Balamber stood there, tall and straight. The breeze had turned into a fierce gale that swept through the landscape, and the leader’s hair now reared like stallions. The gash in the shoulder bled continuously, but he didn’t seem to notice. His terrible eyes glared straight through Kutri’s, and the sight was so impressive that for a second the boy thought that Tengri himself had descended from the heavens. Whatever the case, it still remained frighteningly striking.

“No, Kutri,” he boomed, “You will not die today. Instead you shall go in exile for two moons so you can meditate on the consequences of treason. Return to the camp. You’re lucky Kuldra has decided to leave his forest for a few days and spend some time with us. Ask him to heal you and take all the supplies you need. Make sure you leave before dusk. Be gone, now.”

The boy mounted his horse hastily and set off.

“Be blessed,” he called as he galloped towards the camp

Once he was alone, Balamber took care of burying the corpses. It was a hard task with nothing but a dagger to dig in the ground, but it took him a little more than an hour. The job repulsed him, but as their leader he felt obliged to give them a proper burial.

When he reached the foot of a lonely hillock, where his steed was grazing, he solemnly knelt. Having retrieved his sword, the Hun planted it in the ground before him and shut his eyes. He felt the grass with his fingers, digging into the soil with in his nails.

“Oh, Tengri,” he whispered, “My people’s values are ill. They argue, lie, and grow arrogant. Please bless them, give them back their honor. Please give me the strength to lead them, as my father did before me. Please give us back our lands…”

Ever since Balamber had converted his tribe to Christianity, duels and armed conflict settling of the type had been abolished. Fighting was strictly reserved for warfare or training. Most of his people had gladly accepted the reform, as they were tired of the bloodshed any petty disagreement could lead to. Yet now, he felt all his efforts to change the Huns' demeanor had proved in vain.

He fetched his horse and mounted. He glanced one last time at the five mounds of earth at the foot of the hill. “Tengri have mercy on you,” he breathed, clenching his small, wooden crucifix, and set off.

The vast plains stretched out for dozens of miles. No trees, no bushes, no mountains, nothing but green grass at the mercy of sun and rain. This was his true land. Balamber the Hun rode through the plains, his plains, breathing the air that he once could inhale without feeling a pang of nostalgia. His long hair flew wildly behind him as he raced among the spirits of his predecessors.

Once the Huns roamed the plateau. Once king Attila himself held his court here. Yet when the Hunnic Empire was no more, the tribes fled into hiding, in the mountains or in the woods. Indeed, the plains offered no shelter. Balamber remembered the pain in his father Ernakh's look when he announced they were forced to leave. He was but a child back then, he did not realize what it meant for his people to be separated from the lands of their fathers. Therefore, once a moon—his rank of chief didn’t allow him any more often—he left the tribe and galloped for hours into what he still named home.

The shaman treaded through the camp, unused to the atmosphere after all these moons in the woods yet glad to be amongst his kin. He was easily recognizable and well-known since his visits were very infrequent, and he was occasionally saluted by men and woman, from outside or inside the yurts. Even his stride was familiar: two long steps followed by the short ‘clop’ of his tall staff. Children called to him from the top of a tree or ran up to him to see ask for anecdotes in the forest. Each time he chuckled and sent them off, telling them that they would hear everything at the fireplace tonight. He reached the chief’s hut, which was guarded by two bowmen. He grinned and stepped inside—removing, of course, the antlers from his head—as they respectfully greeted him. The chief’s ‘throne’, no more than a high wooden chair elevated by several twigs, was empty. He had expected that. The shaman took a seat on a comfortable wolf’s pelt to the right of the chair, quietly humming a long-forgotten ballad to himself. He took a tiny bag made out of stoat fur, no bigger than his thumb, and pulled off the string that closed it. The sack was full of white powder. The elder poured some in the palm of his hand and fractioned both of them for several seconds. Next he smeared the powder on his cheeks until they were chalky and as white as snow. Satisfied, he began to design intricate pictograms with his powdered fingers on the black soil. Most were exclusively memorable to him. Indeed, they came from a distant time, centuries before the Huns had left faraway Mongolia to conquer the Western world, a time so ancient that it had been embellished with all sorts of legends over the decades.

He tilted his head and listened. He instantly distinguished these remarkable footfalls approaching the yurt. He managed to intercept a few words from outside: Kuldra… inside…wants to see you…

“You’ve come,” said Balamber joyfully as he penetrated the dwelling. Kuldra clumsily stood up and the chief knelt down in respect. The shaman smiled and gestured him to rise back up. The two friends hugged, Kuldra not feeling crushed despite his old age.

“It’s so good to see you,” whispered Balamber, “a scout told me you would arrive.”

“That donkey ruined the surprise,” he joked as they sat back down, face to face.

The close friendship between the two men was explained by the fact that the leader, as a child, rarely ever saw his father. Ernakh seemed to have too many preoccupations to take care of his son, and his first wife, Karna, died right after Balamber opened his eyes for the first time. The former leader chose Kuldra to take charge of his education. As a young boy, he spent many years in the forest with the shaman to learn the ways of nature, how to live with it and how to use it without harming it in any way. He also taught him the way of the blade and the bow, battle tactics, and enriched his imagination with countless stories. When it was Balamber’s turn to rule the Huns, Ernakh’s son knew it meant the end of wandering in the woods with his preceptor, yet he was rejoiced to show the result of all his patience.

“Did you tend to Kutri’s wounds?” asked the leader.

“Yes. And I see a shoulder that needs attention as well before it gets infected,” he chortled at the sight of his blood-stained clothes.

“I’ve had a few…troubles,” he wavered.

“I know. Kutri said it all.”

“He has?” He sighed. “The brave boy. But I believe I’ve made the right choice in punishing him. May I ask you a favor?”

He nodded with a smile. “Speak.”

“Can you go see him from time to time? I mean…just make sure he’s fine?”

“You can count on me. Don’t worry about it.” He frowned. “Tell me, what does Dengiz have against you?”

“An old story. As children, we always had arguments that ended in violent blows. He kept saying that my father was a foolish tyrant, that he enslaved us all. Always spreading his anarchic ideas. But, at adulthood, we both fell in love with the same woman. When she chose me, Dengiz’ little dislike turned to hatred. I must say, I’m quite surprised though. I didn’t think he’d actually conspire against me. I’ve been too naïve.”

“Unfortunately, even the least naïve are starting to realize something,” frowned Kuldra, “The Huns are changing. Time covers their honor as our weapons are covered in rust. Their hearts are stained, their values are fading. Can you feel it too?”

“Aye,” he spoke softly, remembering his prayer at the hill, “Yet this problem seems out of my reach. Everyday, I helplessly watch the spirits of my own people rotting to the bone. And all I can do is to pester Tengri to help me put things the way they were before.”

Kuldra shook his head“Tengri isn’t responsible for this…”

“I never said that!” he exclaimed.

“…And neither are the Huns. Balamber, my friend, this is all the Phoenix’s doing” He peered outside, and back at the leader with a grave countenance. Have you forgotten your father? His debt?”

He darkened. He never liked to hear Ernakh’s story, and was at a miss at explaining why. That too seemed far out of reach. “His debt? You told of me of this many years ago. We alone know of this, I believe ” He paused and nervously laid his hand on the old shaman's. “Has the time come?” he uttered.

Kuldra exhaled deeply. “I believe it has. The Phoenix has shown signs of his impatience. He promised he would curse your father's people, and we both know he keeps his words. For the moment, the Huns know nothing but rumors and tall tales. I will have to tell them the truth, and I will start with the Council of Elders, this night.”

“If what you say is true,” muttered the leader, “Then I should be off, now.”

“Oh no, Balamber,” grinned Kuldra, “You’re not going anywhere. You’re a strong chief, and the Huns have many enemies. Your place is here, among the Huns. Let me take care of this.”

“But his blood…”

“Trust me,” he said calmly, “Trust your old friend. Well, well, I guess I’ll go see these children out there. I promised them a good story.”

“As for me,” said Balamber sternly, “There’s somebody I ought to see now.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” warned Kuldra, “Be cautious. He’s a treacherous beast.”

The ruler didn’t answer. His eyes stared right in front of him, ferociously determined.

****

“Balamber!”

He had been striding through the village (rare were those who didn’t stop whatever they were doing to watch their leader) when a quite familiar voice shook him out of his dark thoughts. Before he realized what was happening, he felt like he had been knocked into by a ram. He felt arms around his neck and a head laid upon his chest. He beamed.

“I’m so glad to see you.” whispered the woman who so strongly held him.

The leader chuckled. He too was delighted to see his wife, but she acted as though they hadn’t seen each other for decades.

“Not so tight, Velna,” he uttered, “My shoulder hurts. And you already saw me this morning, don’t you remember? And you could be more discreet, everyone is looking at us!”

She stepped back with a stern expression, “Is that all you have to say? I heard you nearly got killed! Everyone is talking about it!”

Balamber slapped his forehead. Of course, that's what it was. He had already forgotten.

“Velna, I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed, “It slipped out of my mind…”

She hugged him again, less strongly this time. “I was so afraid…”

Hr raised his chin with a grin. “Afraid? Why, they were no match for me.”

“Of course they weren’t.” She smiled and hurried off. Balamber stared in her direction dreamily. What would I do without you? he thought. Just then, he remembered what had brought him here, and the anger took over his mind once again.

****

“Dengiz!”

The rider stood there ten meters from the entrance of the yurt. Balamber’s horse reared menacingly as his master unsheathed his scimitar. Saliva fell from the steed’s lip and his mane and his hooves brutally stomped the earth.

“Dengiz!”

Balamber held the weapon high in the air, reflecting the red light of the setting sun, making it look more like a torch from far-off. His cheeks were red, his whole body was stiff, his blood kept dripping down from his shoulder, forming a small, red pool.

“Dengiz!”

The horse reared again, neighing terrifyingly. Balamber’s bloodshot eyes showed a spark of impatience. He repeatedly raised and lowered his blade in excitement and his legs hammered against the stallion’s haunches.

“DENGIZ!”

This time, a figure appeared behind the entrance. He had a long black moustache and small, evil eyes. His neck and arms were crushed with jewels and bracelets. Dengiz was the wealthiest Hun—if not, the wealthiest barbarian—in Pannonia.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, falsely surprised, and then, with exaggerated reverence, “What do you wish from me, most divine leader of the tribe?”

“Put an end to your boot-licking and listen closely,” he snarled, “You’ve sent murderers to kill me. Worse, you’ve told them lies about my father’s death. This time, you go too far!”

“I don’t understand!” cried Dengiz, seemingly shocked.

“Silence when I speak! Tomorrow morning I will go visit my uncle, leader of the tribe near the lake. By the time I come back, pack up, bring everything you need, and leave!”

“Never!” he snapped, suddenly aggressive, “Only a sheep could desire to obey your orders. I have despised your family of tyrants since the day I was born.”

“You’re right. You wish to live with nothing but your money as leader, so be it! If you refuse my dominion, leave!”

“Not in your dreams!” he spat, “This is my home.”

“And I am your Chief. If you’re still there by the time I return, I’ll make sure you are gone for good.”

With that he pulled an arrow from his quiver and flung it so it landed right between the rich Hun’s legs.

“Think about it,” he growled as he swiftly cantered away from his most hated enemy.

Night had fallen. The Council of Elders was gathered around the fire, the tall flames dancing to the chorus of crickets. They were a dozen elderly, highly respected men and women chattering amongst each other, under the stars, once a moon as demanded by tradition. Only this time, an unusual member assisted the conference. The newcomer was none other than the tribe shaman, a man they hadn’t seen for a very long time. When it was his turn, he spoke, attentively listened to by all present. Whatever he said greatly consternated them.

“This can’t be,” grunted an elder, “He cannot be appointed to this task. He is no Hun; these things do not concern him. There is too much Roman in his blood.”

Kuldra cocked an eyebrow. “He bears more Hunnic blood than you, Gedric. Both your parents were German.”

“Perhaps, but he has not been educated our way. He is not familiar with our principles. In his heart, he is a Roman.”

“Then we have no choice but to teach him.”

“But how will we make him understand? Never will he listen to us,” argued a woman.

“If the Phoenix is involved, he will have no other option. I will speak to him, and if he refuses, which he certainly will, it won’t take him too long to realize he is wrong.”