Chapter I
Of Salves and Salvation
The 11th hour of night,
8th October, 473 - AVC
After the Weekly Tribal Convene
The sun had long since left the coast of the Black Sea dark, and few people remained awake at this time in the small city of Tyle. A lone and weary figure trudged through an empty city street, though a regal air surrounded him. To any from outside this tribe, they would see him as merely another citizen of the fragile state, but any from within would be able to recognize the powerful stride and handsome features of their current Chieftain, Cerethrius Sinatid. He was getting on in his years. At the age of thirty three, he was by no means an old man, but he was regularly reminded of his own mortality, the aches that started to bear upon his body and the doubts that tugged at the edge of his mind. The men who did not come back from the raids. The dangerous barbarians from the surrounding lands.
Cerethrius Sinatid
He had never been a brilliant man, but had always been a good leader. He did everything in his power to better the lot of his people. Leading the tribal city-state of Tyle had its ups and downs, especially in the Tribal Court. They had adopted much of their construction works and architecture from the Greeks, but with a unique Celtic twist that left the city with a strange and almost alien look to outsiders.
Cerethrius came to the end of the street, reaching his private quarters; not extravagant but clearly of better make than the homes around it. It was a warm and comfortable home, and he hoped one day to fill it with a wife and children. In the meanwhile, managing the tribe had taken all his time and energy. But for now, the home lay empty, even of bodyguards; Cerethrius insisted he could defend himself adequately.
He longed only to rest after yet another unproductive evening arguing with the other Clan Chiefs. The history of Tylis was steeped in blood. The incursions of Greek & Roman settlers into Celtic lands in Aquitania, Iberia and the northern reaches of Italy had prompted vengeance amongst the various tribes of the Gauls, and so a great march had been called; the divided greek city-states had seemed like easy game; to march upon Macedonia and Epirus, remnants of a mighty empire, and then all of Greece. Gold, fertile lands and the knowledge their kin in Gaul would be safe from further invasion.
It was the greatest plunder the Celts could consider.
But it was not meant to be. Some of their brothers had turned into Asia Minor to the east, Galatia, their fates now unknown. And though the Celts fought long and hard, Macedonia and her allies pushed them back, shattering their forces.
The Dying Gaul
They could not return home; once a horde has been mobilized it is difficult to convince them to turn back. So Cerethrius had assumed control and this new tribe, Tylis, settled on the Crimean coast. It was an uneasy existence. The Celts were a long way from home, and the smaller tribes they had absorbed were not eager to take druidism or the celtic culture to heart. Six regiments of a thousand soldiers each was all they had, a small trickle of loyal citizens and the rare converted tribal would join the army when losses were sustained, but Cerethrius knew damn well that if the army suffered any severe casualties, they were doomed.
A Convene had been called, and the six tribes of Tylis had bickered long into the night. Cerethrius winced as he thought to that pack of imbeciles and half-wits who would gladly throw what shreds of a nation they possessed to the winds if it meant a few minutes of power. He had asked for a week to secure a plan, and to wait for the men to return from their latest raid, before they made a final decision.
It was looking like they'd migrate west, for friendlier climates...Cerethrius knew it would be the death of them. And the army largely supported him alone. But the tribe would buckle and tear itself to pieces if he did not offer some kind of solution to their dwindling numbers. They could not even support the military without constant raiding to keep them from starving or possibly deserting; the Chieftain personally paid for the wages of each as best he could, but he knew it was a stalling tactic. And upon his death, it was likely the tribe would die, too, with control passed on to the unworthy Ptolemy Nios, leader of the Agothoclid. The smallest, and yet arguably most influential of the tribes that dwelled within Tylis. They had claims to Alexander's empire, however remote, and they sought to somehow foster a return to glory.
Nios.
That was no legacy.
He entered his home, removing his thick cloak, moving towards the fireplace wherein a dim flame struggled to breathe. The Chief stoked the fires, hoping to revive the inferno much in the same way he hoped to somehow allow this broken nation to rise from the ashes. His musings were interrupted by a cold voice a short distance behind him; "Chieftain."
In one motion Cerethrius drew his blade and swung to strike at this intruder, but the hooded individual was quicker. The Chief felt a cold fire leap through his arm as his blade clattered uselessly to the ground, dimly aware of his new bleeding wound. A strike to his gut from a clenched fist winded him, and he felt his knees buckle before striking the floor. The cold sliver of a blade was against his throat, a thin sheen of red coating it. His attempt at yelling for aid was quickly muffled by a powerful yet delicate hand clamping over his mouth.
"Chieftain Sinatid, I would like to have a peaceful discussion with you." murmured the would-be assassin, her voice seeming amused and predatory. "But I wanted to prove a point to you before we had that discussion: I am capable of killing you when I want, at any time. And so I need you to listen to me, carefully. But know I am a friend...and I'll bandage that cut while we speak."
The blade vanished from his throat, and he was free, his assailaint standing before him. He looked up into the eyes of the girl that nearly killed him; she was young, and looked as if she had not seen twenty winters yet. A glimpse of pure white hair could be seen beneath the grey and dirtied cloak she wore tightly wrappped about her. She was brilliantly pale. By all means she seemed beautiful, if underfed, but any charm or attractiveness she held was dispelled immediately by her eyes. No iris, no pupil, just pure white orbs staring from beyond malnourished sockets.
Pure White Orbs
She offered a hand to Cerethrius, and he couldn't help but let out an exasperated laugh as she pulled him to his feet with a steady grip, and he spoke to her for the first time, a voice the consistency of dark stone and power.
"Forgive me, but I think you're going to have to answer a few of my questions before I answer any of yours."
-----
The two strangers sat by the fireplace, the fire within burned brightly now, though without fuel it would soon die again. Cerethrius drunk heavily from a tankard full of a substance capable of getting one drunk off the fumes alone in an attempt to drown his nerves. This young witch was a pretty thing, but when he looked at her he felt his courage melt back to that of a boy. In absence of his regular courage, he supposed the liquid form would do.
The girl carefully worked with the cut on his forearm she herself had placed, spreading a bitter smelling salve onto the wound. It numbed the pain as the drink numbed his fear. Cerethrius placed the tankard down on the fine wooden table that served often as a place for discussion between him and his men, and more often than not, an operating table for those wounded on hunts or in sparring matches.
"So..." Cerethrius spoke slowly, breaking the silence. His voice betrayed him not, showing only a bemused and powerful warrior versed in diplomacy.
"...your name" he continued "was...well, what is your name? You know mine, but you've yet to tell me yours."
"Zinnerva. Call me Zinn." she spoke in staccato, clear and crisp.
"Seems to be a fitting name" Cerethrius attempted to lighten the mood somewhat "I have seen lambs with darker fleece than your skin."
Her eyes shot up at him with their blank knowing, and the Chieftain saw more wolf than lamb.
"Names tend to be fitting. That is their intention, yes?"
A slight pause.
"And you claim to be an Oracle." he drawled, hoping to draw some more useful conversation from her before the night was done.
"There are no claims to be made. I am a Druid of Andarta."
The Chieftain blinked.
"I know Andarta, I know her well. She is the center of much worship amongst our people, and we pray to her daily. Claiming to be her mouthpiece would be an act of heresy amongst the Druids-"
"Then it is a good thing it is no idle claim. My Mistress knows more if you wish to speak to her directly."
"Andarta?"
"No, Matugena. She is the Head Oracle amongst the Sisters of Arcene. We are the Silver Hand, and your key to salvation."
Cerethrius smiled, hoping not to offend his 'guest'.
"I'm afraid I, and my people, don't need salvation. What we need is a miracle."
"Andarta provides, my Chief."
Andarta
Silence set in once more, and Zinn had finished tending to Cerethrius' arm. He held it up to the light, admiring her work.
"So, are you always as good at fixing the wounds you cause, Zinn?"
"I tend to avoid wounding friends and allies. This was an exception."the corner of her mouth twitched, a hint of a smile.
"Assuming that we are either friends or allies, I'm not sure exactly what I'd get out of this relationship."
"You must not flee, Cerethrius. You must make the others see reason."
"And how would we do that?"
"Tomorrow your Oracle will declare a mission, handed down by the gods themselves. He will order you to to attack the Milesian Colonies to secure the province of Tomis. Your people will grow restless, but you will have holy claims to the land. Odrysae's child king will refuse to pay any more tribute, and your men will clamour for retribution, but you will not strike. Your "oracle", Comyn, will not support any endeavour to attack them. And you know you cannot risk spreading to a land with no promise of manpower to bolster your dwindling army. In addition, you have not the forces to deal with the inevitable rebellions."
Cerethrius laughed his laugh of gravel.
"And how do you know any of this?"
"I am an Oracle. A true Oracle, not a fool that guts rabbits to glean false prophesy."
"Alright. Assuming any of this comes true...what does it mean? For me or my people?"
"It means you must listen to my advice."
"And that is?"
"Do not flee. Grow. The key to your survival lies in taking Ardiaei. Their relatively developed capital of Scodra, and when they soon colonize it, the province of Moesi. From there you can Celticize the surrounding tribes...and maybe survive. I must leave now."
The girl rose swiftly and moved to the door to leave, Cerethrius jumped to his feet.
"Wait. Why are you doing any of this? Why exactly are you and your 'Sisterhood' trying to help me? Or my people?"
She paused, but gave no response. Cerethrius continued.
"And how can you possibly expect me to follow this advice without some kind of proof?"
"I don't. But you'll have no choice soon. Nios will give you an ultimatum...and you know you'd sooner die than let him seize power."
Cerethrius' eyes narrowed at the mention of Nios' name, and Zinn briskly exited the door. Though Cerethrius followed her outside just as quick, she was nowhere to be seen, gone with the biting wind. He could have almost imagined the entire encounter, but a gentle throbbing in his forearm let him know otherwise. He turned to his fireplace, the flames dying once more, and decided that he would have to accept the soldiers' insistence of bodyguards after all.
The coming days would be rough, he could taste it.
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