Redd and the Wyld: Prologue

         The sky grew darker as the remnants of the Wyld wound their way slowly north, across the barren cracked lands of the valley. Clothed in similar brown short tunics and head wraps, man and woman and child alike walked to what they saw as their condemnation. And above the mountains, the black temple stood, an implacable gallows set at the end of a large valley.
         A wagon headed the long train. Allan Chernov, a young man of only twenty-one summers, steered the two gray horses carrying the last of their belongings. Allan had made this trip two other times, bringing spoils from the eastern lands as an offering to Joab, their god, with singing and laughing and glee at the success each victory brought them. A few sacks of food, the barest that they could take before they were pushed back home, would have made the merest pile amongst what they had once brought. Allan feared Joab hungered for human blood, not bread baked while in flight.
         "Stop that rocking," a voice said. Allan turned his head to the right. His father, Adande, was waking. He adjusted his gray head wrap over clumps of hair that stuck out in odd directions. He bumped into Adande, then stood up for a moment. The foul stench of wine oozing through his skin burned Allan's nose. Dried vomit stained the corner of his gray paternas cloak; only Allan's quick thinking the night before had saved most of it from being ruined by another one of his father's drunken celebrations of days gone past. It was an apt metaphor for Adande.
         As always, Allen couldn't help but feel revulsion when he looked upon him. Adande had been a fierce warrior, cutting the westerners down with his spear like a gardener mowing grass. The only way he would cut down an outsider now was if he passed out from Adande's stench.
         "We are almost there, father," he told him. The man nodded, then leaned over and went back to sleep. For the thousandth time Allan wondered what had gone wrong. The enemies of the east had always been easy killing for the Wyld, too fattened by half to have the stomach to fight in an honorable fashion, man to man as intended. Another day, and they would have taken Cibola and avenged themselves of the scourge the priests and wizards had put upon them.
         A wind came from the south, carrying a baby's cry came to his ear.  He shook his head. So many dead, and the outlanders had not cared if it was old man or woman or child that their swords brought down. He looked back, and saw men and women and children dragging their feet and looking down at the cracked desert floor. When one of them occasionally looked up, Allan could not see the fire that marked a Wyld's eyes, but a sad, distant spark that was weakening with each step to the temple.
         Allan wanted to shout, to scream to pull their heads up, that they were not dead yet. He wanted to grab each one of them by the nape of the neck, look into their eyes and ask them if they intended to do the job that Jerochaim Kayan had started. And every time he thought that, a counter point went off in his head, that maybe they were right. But it was not right. Even if they were to be destroyed, they should go with a grin, spitting at the Ferryman when he drew close to take them to the Gods.
         Two men pulled up on horseback. Both heavyset men, one taller than the other by a good half stride. Both of the men had cut their red hair in shame. The taller man wore the gray cloak of a paternas. Many of the Wyld men had shaved in shame at their defeat. Allan had not; he kept his sorrow and rage and shame hidden. As the son of a chief, a drunken chief at that, Allan had the duty to be the hope of his people when they gave up all hope.
         The shorter man pulled along side. "Uln wants to talk." he said.
         "What is there to talk about?" Allan replied. But he knew. Each night it had been the same argument, Uln's clan was the largest of those that remained. Tyr's clan, the Olmovs had been larger before it had been wiped out when they made one last stand for the rest of the Wyld to flee while they stayed and prepared to join their leader in the afterworld. It had only been Allan's strength of will that had kept Uln and his clan moving, even while they had the same argument each night. He feared Uln had enough. The taller man motioned the shorter one to drop back a bit.
         "We need to find shelter," Uln said. "We have marched the length of the Wyldlands, man, and my people need rest!"
         "We need to do what the Sages tell us to do," he replied, with more patience than he felt. "Rest will come soon enough." And longer than you wish, too, I fear. At that, Uln erupted.
         "But our people are tired! They wish to settle down and live peaceful lives, not march onto eternal damnation! Tell me how that is the command of Joab, to march towards an empty temple in the middle of a desert!  I have heard that the mountains to the east hold much treasure, and no outlanders to horde it."
         "Then go!" Allan said. "If you wish to desert your duty, not on my head be it," Uln nodded, and with a curt whistle and a hand motion, he led off about a third of the caravan, moving towards the east. Allan noted that all the men leaving were bald. The few that remained who were bald yet still young were no more than a fifth; most, like Allan, hid their shame.
         Not all of the bald men had left however. The shorter, heavyset man that had accompanied Uln kept pace with Allan's wagon. "And don't you wish to join your tribe, Ohm?" He asked the man bitterly. The man shook his head.
         "Gold won't do you much good if there's no food you can buy with it." He said slowly. His voice reminded Allan of one of those squirrels on the outside, high-pitched and chatty. "I'll not break oath. I'll stay with you, if you'll have me in your tribe. Let us face the judgment of the Gods, and go with a smile on our faces."
         Allan patted him on the back. "Now that's the spirit of the Wyld." he said. "Is that really why you stayed?"
         Ohm shrugged. "I've heard the only thing to eat in the mountains is goat, and goat meat catches in my teeth." Allan threw back his head and laughed.
         "We'll soon have beef, my friend." he told Ohm. The one thing that they had managed to keep was a good herd of cattle from Parsian fields.  It was accidental, in a way; between the Parsians and Kayan, the only way to run involved stealing the cattle or slaughtering them. So they had pushed them in front of them all the way to the border.
         His father shifted and sat up uneasily. "What was that about, my boy?" he slurred. Allan's good spirit faded.
         "I think we solved the problem of the food running low," Allan told him.
         "Don't go thinking that you are the chief just yet," he said. "So long as my hand holds this spear, I am chief!" He shook the spear he picked up in the back of the wagon, as if making a point. Point made, he went back to sleep, his gray cloak covering him.
         The caravan came to large opening inside of a mountain ridge and stopped. At the end of the valley the temple of the Wyld sat, its black stone standing out even among the storm clouds. Allan's eyes spotted a figure among those fluted columns. The time for the judgment was near.
         He got down from the wagon as four other men approached him. They were all clan chiefs, much older than he, but all wore the same gray cape symbolizing their rank that Adande used as his blanket. Three of those four faces were lined; two were gray, but all of them were tough men who still knew the way of a spear or sword.          
         One of the men held up his hand. "Do you mean to go in Allan, or should we wait for your father?" His voice was riddled with scorn. All of them had seen what had happened to Adande. Allan felt shame flood his mind, then stuffed it into a corner, and it disappeared. There was just the duty of the moment.
         "I will go," Allan said. "It is forbidden to approach the shrine while ill."  The lie was cold on his tongue. Some of Chernov tribe had muttered that it had to be a sickness that Adande woke every morning drunker than any other Wyld falling asleep at night.  But they kept their mutters down when Adande was around, and when they thought Allan might not hear. Why did Joab curse him with such good ears?
         The four men nodded, and they dropped their spears into a pile, along with their swords and knives. "Before the god I go, unarmed and accepting his judgment," each man said. Then they started walking in a straight line to the tower. The eldest carried a bundle wrapped in cloth, six foot long. Allan breathed hard, and hoped that the Sages had been right; he was not one to incur being turned to stone because somebody misinterpreted the signs.  But when the eyes of a Sage sparkled, you went.
         Allan felt a hard hand on his shoulder. It was Noah. "None of us think that you are responsible for your father," he said. Allan nodded.
         "Enough of such talk, the gods await," he said.
         At the foot of the tower stood a woman in white. Her hair was as black as the night, and her skin pure and cream colored. No Wyld but the Sages had black hair. She bowed to them. "I am Lilith," she said. "Sage of the God Joab." If asked, she would say she was Lilith Chernov or Lilith Federov or whatever clan asked, and each clan would accept it.
         Allan Chernov named himself, as did Noah Federov, Jochai Yurev and Tyrman Putai, each bowing down on one knee for a second before raising up again, never taking his eyes off the woman. The woman held out her hands.
         "You brought it?" she asked. Tyrman took of the wrappings, revealing a simple spear with a short sword blade attached at the end. It was covered in blood save for the metal blade, which had been painstakingly cleaned. Tyr's spear.  The leader of the Wyld. She grabbed the spear and lowered her head.
         For a moment, they all stood there, transfixed.  Allan then took a step towards her.
         "Sage, I..." The woman's head snapped up, revealing a scowl that hideously twisted her face. Her eyes were two golden stars amid creamy skin. Allan backed up, and landed rear first on the hard ground.
         "Impertinent fools!" The voice that came out of that mouth was deeper, stronger, than the one before. "You have violated the law! Because of you, half the Wyld lay on the field of battle, slain by filthy outlander scum!" They all knew that voice. Joab, god of the Wyld, the one who had commanded them to go forth and avenge themselves.
         Noah cowered. "My lord, Jerochaim Kayan..."
         "Did not beat you half as bad as you deserve, drunkards!" Joab cut him off. She raised her arms, both hands grabbing the spear. Lightning snapped at both ends, enveloping the weapon in flame. Allan uncovered his eyes for a second, and realized that the fire was flaring around the entire length of the staff, except where her hands held it. Ohm was right, he thought, we are doomed.
         "For years, I held my hand over your army, and you destroyed and burned villages to the ground.  Seven of their men would flee from but one of yours, and the wails of their women lashed out as your battle song. All this, and do you not take the temple city as commanded! No, you spend your time looting and plundering the wine houses, growing as fat as the people you oppose!"
         Here it comes, Allan thought. He tried to smile. It hadn't been that bad of a life. He only regretted that he had not married Sarah, and given her children to remember him. Then again, Sarah might not be around either. The Sage turned to him, and smiled.
         "Great heavens of the Gods, what is going on here?" Allan recognized that slurred voice. He did not even turn around. Adande stumbled towards the temple; Ohm was trying to convince him to go back, dragging on his tunic.  He looked at the woman with her eyes ablaze. "Do I know you? Whoever you are, do you by chance happen to have a flask of wine?"
         That was it! The Wyld were about to be destroyed, the race wiped off the face of the earth, and this drunkard demanded more wine! Allan didn't feel himself move until he had grabbed the spear out of the woman's hands, in spite of the flashing eyes. In one swift motion he turned and tossed the spear. The blade went straight through Adande, and he collapsed to the ground. Ohm released his grip on Adande.  He went back a few steps, then looked at Allan with the strangest look.
         The oddness of that look brought Allan to his senses. I have killed on temple grounds, and my own father besides! He bowed to the woman on both knees, head hitting the ground. He expected to feel the flesh torn from his bones. When he looked at Sage, however, she had tilted her head slightly.
         "That is better," Joab said. Allan took a second for moisture to return to his mouth.
         "I have killed, Holy Joab, I have slain my own kin..." Joab/Lilith cut him off.
         "You have erased a blemish from your line that would have cost you your life," Joab replied.  The woman turned her head the other men, still cowering on the ground. "Learn from him! While you beg for mercy like dog's fleeing your master's whip, he has removed the diseased branch from his line. He has shown his zeal for me."
         "Holy of Holies, we wait your orders," Noah said.
         "You have sinned, but perhaps you may still be redeemed," the voice responded. The woman marched back and forth in front of them, a commander reviewing his troops, or was it her troops? The whole effect was rather ludicrous; a Sage would not raise hand or fist to defend her life, a peaceful vessel for an angry god. "Three hundred years work of training you, preparing you, destroyed, but there is time. Let the death of the drunkard who soiled the gray cloak of leadership be but the first.  You will spill the blood of any Wyld who take but a sip of wine. Let nothing but water touch your lips, the only fitting drink for a warrior!"
         "Yes," they all said. Allan's mind ran, however. Every third man in the Wyld was hostage to the bottle, drinking themselves to sleep. Forget the Wyld destroying themselves with their depression; Joab would do it for them with his rage.
         "Retrieve the spear," Joab said directly to Allan. Allan ran over to his father's body.  Adande's eyes were still fixed with that same drunken ignorance. Allan wrenched the blade free and brought it back to the woman, with the blood still on it. Her eyes were still glowing.
         "Second, you must spend your days wandering the land as nomads, going from place to place, never staying anywhere beyond the time needed to gather food and hunt," Joab told them, absently cleaning the blood on the woman's own robes. "Clan shall divide from clan, and you will spend your time in the wilderness atoning for your sin."
         The woman held out the spear to them. "The return of this spear to your hands will be the sign that it is time to conquer again," she told the men.  "But know this: none of you may take of the spear, or even enter the temple before that moment. Those that try will suffer a fate worse than death itself."
         "But, Great Lord," Allan said, "if we are not to take it—"
         "It will be returned to you by one not of your blood and handed over to the one he chooses," Joab's voice cut him off. "You must learn humility, and discipline, before I can do anything useful with you. Now go, and take this piece of offal with you." Joab said, pointing at the body. The men turned around, but Joab's voice stopped Allan.
         "Not you, Allan, not yet. I have something for you to do."
         He stopped, and the others went along. Jochai and Tyrman grabbed Adande's corpse and carried it back to the wagons; Ohm followed them, giving Allan looks over his back. Allan turned back to the sage.
         "My lord," he began. "Uln's tribe..."
         "Violated my command to come to my temple, yes son, I know," Joab responded. "For that sin, you are to ride against his people, destroying and pillaging from amongst them."
         "We are to slay them? I shall have my people ready and...," Joab cut him off with an upraised hand.
         "You are not to slay them on the desert," he said. "Wait until they have settled into the mountain valley and become rich by the gold they shall find. Then you may kill, and take from them what they so coveted and bring offerings to me."
         "Yes, my lord. Is that all you wish me to hear?"
         "No." the priestess turned her face south. "Even as we speak, Jerochaim Kayan leads his men towards through a gap with the intention of finishing what he started. Do not be alarmed, my child," she patted him on one shoulder. "He rides only with a hundred men, the rest of the westerners being too frightened to do anything but cower behind walls they think will protect them. I have chosen him to lead the Wyld. You are to go with your own clan and kill every one of his party except for him. You shall not harm a hair on his body, even though he will suffer a wound that will not permit him to enter this temple. In spite of this I will favor him and extend his lifetime beyond any man could see. Then you will tell him about the curse; show him it, if need be. I have need of him, and the fire in his belly against you will be a fire in his belly for you when the time comes. You and your line will serve him, and he shall raise you high."
         Allan nodded slowly. Thoughts raced through his mind like tornadoes on the desert. Jerochaim is to lead the Wyld, impossible! The man never met a Wyld he liked except dead and rotting impaled. And serve him? I would as soon serve the demons in hell. But you did not quarrel with Joab if you valued your life. "As you say, so shall I obey."
         "So you shall," Joab said. "Finally, one last thing. When you lead your men to kill the drunkards, you shall do this, as well as anyone who picks up a flask amongst you from here on..." Allan listened, his mind focusing. Had he not been so afraid he might have laughed.



         As the caravan headed south, the young woman watched them go until they were but specks on the far side of the desert, then turned back and entered the large circular building behind her. Treasure lay in heaps on the floor all around, the tenth from what the Wyld had taken from their lands. She was a Sage, one who had been especially chosen by Joab to serve as his voice amongst the people. As always, she could not remember what happened when Joab required her lips and body, only that a strange spear now rested in her hands.
         "Have I done what you wish?" she asked.
         You have, my child. But there is one thing I require of you, that will pain you terribly.
         A single skylight focused a beam on a concrete slab. This place was old; Sages had once worshiped here and sought the wisdom of Joab, at the base of the mountain, before they returned to their red-headed kin. 
         Quickly she put the spear on the slab upright. Almost as soon as it left her hands a blue nimbus surrounded it, then disappeared. She stepped back a few steps, then bowed.  The rumbling of the earth told her it was not done by far. She felt a changing inside of her, limbs stretching, muscles growing. There was pain, so much pain. She raised her head and screamed, and a beam of light crashed through the window and struck her.
         When the dust cleared, the temple was bare as it was before. The spear still stood on the slab, upright and unmoved, as it would for centuries to come. But a new addition. Behind the spear, stretching nearly to the top of the temple, a stone beast, half bull, half female, stood roaring silently, it's head thrown back up to the now uncovered opening at the top.
         Outside the temple the mountain became a volcano again, boulders slowly descending to, then breaking upon the ground. And two boulders, four times as tall as any man, slammed shut in front of the canyon opening faster than any man could move.