[h1]Misrugłaz[/h1]

Strong smells of burning nettle and wild herbs wafted in the cool wet snap of spring among a grove of trees. Echoing among the pillars of old and ancient oaks, hardened and weathered all to some degree by the harshness of winter and the stones of the soil a solemn, long drum beat sounded in low steady beats on the hill top. Somewhere even more distant came calling the high whine of large horns as if answering and transmitting further the funerary march of elk-skin, pine-framed drums. From under his hood the former grand prince turned to the nearest drummer, an old man hunched over with pox-pocked hands rapping against the tight skin of his painted drum as a long salted beard hid his mouth and chin. Covering the rest of his face and veil of bone beads on lengths of wounded uncured leather dangled like vines from a black hood, crowned in a small deer skull, ornately painted in jagged patterns and a fading mark of thunder.

A younger assistant stood further away, plucking from a bowl the burning wild incense he threw atop the unlit pyre where a body wrapped in scrapped birch bark lay in solemn state. The former grand-prince could hardly give the hidden body a guilt-free look, and every time he looked up at it he turned his head away in shame and discomfort, hiding the solemn fact behind a facade of almost resigned disinterest as he watched some other part of the funerary proceedings.

Just several days prior, Perciv of the Ilmeshk and the Crooked Tree had killed his father in ceremonial combat.

He still felt in his hands the sensation of running the old man through the stomach in a failed charge against his own son. The soft resistance of the belly first flexing against the point of the blade before the skin finally gave out totally and it descended down the long broad blade of the sword freely with a wet slop as the gut was punctured and blood released. It had not been the first man Perciv had slain that day, but it felt like it had been again. And somehow it felt dirtier and less clean than it had been even then. 

It overshadowed that day. The gurgling cough of his father's last breaths escaping from a mouth hidden behind a forest of winter-white hair whispered in his ear at each soft  rattle of the tree branches in the King's Grove over Misrugłaz. And with it the phantom image of the droplets of blood that first stained his white beard before he slipped and fell to the ground like a tired elk that had ran for too long, his beard becoming for once nearly all red as it had been in his storied youth.

Perciv, son of Astonov of Milugłaz was by his reckoning a tall man who stood far above most. A freakish man who now walked as a king. Where by his stature his father Astonov inspired people to bow very low per his height, Perciv at times by his height and his bright, sharp green eyes he seemed to inspire only courtesy from others. It was as if by his build, his sharp green eyes that he didn't have to try hard to inspire people to see him as if he was a god incarnate on earth, where others tried to pretend for the image.

Incantations and ritual was finished at the pyre. The assistant stepped back from the stack of pine logs and set aside the wood bowl of smoldering incense and retrieved a torch from a nearby fire crackling in an iron brazier.  He passed it on to the drumming priest, who dropped his music and inspected the flames. Muttering under his breath he offered a prayer to the fire to impart on the departing spirit, and passed it to Perciv. The ritual needed no further pomp, and stepping forward he touched the torch to the base of the stack of logs.

Quickly, with a spark of energy the dried tinder lit and flared to light. Within moments the bonfire was lit and the body of Astonov was engulfed in orange fires that lashed up and shot up into the still dark mid-morning sky.

A hint of sunlight brimmed over the south-western sky, but it came mostly behind clouds which choked the sky overhead threatening to storm. As the funerary fire burned and crackled a strong wind turned the breeze around and tore south from the north, bringing with it a biting cold that seeped in underneath the coat of wolf and fox pelts Perciv wore over his shoulders.

“The birds were silent in their branches.” the old priest said in a cold graven voice next to the king, “They predicted a spring snowfall to come. They were right.”

Perciv did not respond to the old man. Sensing his coldness he bowed gently to the tall king and stepped aside, taking with him the menagerie of shamans and augurs that had accompanied them to the funeral, their jobs completed so far. Later, the men would come to collect the ashes, pick the bones from the pile and inter them in a stone vessel. The ashes would be gathered in baskets, and taken to grow an oak. A stone-worker somewhere was no doubt working on a statue of the former king, the vessel that held his bones would rest in the statue's chest, and he would be formally interred on the hill.

But this was not part of Perciv's world. He did not want it to be part of his world. Neither did he not yet want to climb down the hill and find the throne that was his father's. The grief was still heavy in his heart, as it had been with many kings before him. He now entered that solemn few days of morning and cleansing of the deed from himself. He would return eventually, but not now.

Even still there was not a mechanization that would not stop for anything A figure stepped out of the shadows of the young oaks on this side of the hill and approached the new king, his hand resting on the hilt of a heavy sword at his hip. His thick cured armor absorbed the orange light and the heat of the fire as he came close and stood at the side of Perciv, watching the licking flames with a gaunt and dry expression.

“The queen stole a horse last evening as we were heading out.” he told the king. The warrior had to look up at his new king as he stood at his side, “Under the cover of darkness she left us. She returns home. We found out just now.” his tone was heavy and solemn, but trembled in anger for the subject in question, but a  distinct fear for what might happen to him.

Perciv held his silence.

“I ordered some of the guard to follow. But she went light and well ahead. She I assume does not feel intent on offering you her fealty.”

“She poisoned him.” Perciv said suddenly, “I saw it the night before we fought. He knew he was dying then. I saw the coldness and the cruelty in her eyes, the bottle of crushed beetles. She never wanted to, she wanted to get out.”

“If you say so.”  the guard sighed, dryly.

“Połan,” Perciv turned. His voice hallowed and rough. Like rocks rolling down a mountains or an old tree cracking as it was about to come crashing down. He spoke soft, having long lost his voice. It was said that it left him during a long shouting match at open sea, “I speak the truth, and I wish you would take this seriously.”

“I do your honor, but I do not think now is the time.” Połan pointed out.

“Then why do you inform me?” Perciv asked coldly.

“Because it is news and developments of your home. It was important, so I came forth-with. There is no wrong in telling the master of the house what has transpired.

“Though I admit, I do find it fishy.”

“By the agreement of my father and step-mother, her family's lands would pass under our purview with his passing as all land secession. That much we were assured. But if she is willing to break contract and run back to her dying family: so be it. We will come for it.”

Połan nodded gravely, “I am not to argue with you.” he nodded, “If what you think is yours by right. Then I shall not stop you.” He turned to go to leave. Perciv joined him, having had enough of the fire.

Połan was a stout man with a wide build, his pudgy arms swung at his side as he walked with an almost skipping gait down the soft grade of the kill. They passed from the far-side to the other city-side, moving passed the graves of the former kings whose statues either had yet to be swallowed by the trees they were planted with, or whose stone statues were in the process of being eaten and broken by the slow growth of the trees they were paired with. The earth here in the middle of this cemetery of the prominent chiefs and kings of the realm was broken with the roots of trees and both men had to look down as they walked over broken clay and through remaining banks of snow with roots sticking out of the solid ground waiting to trip would-be travelers.

“If she wishes to break the contract of marriage, then who with do you think she plotted with?” Połan asked.

“I don't know.” said Perciv, “But we will find out. Give me a courier and I will send a message along. Whatever reply we get, we will know.”