Chapter 4 - Bann
Bann was exhausted and sore, but mostly he was disappointed. It had been a difficult day, despite a promising start. The first competition he had participated in was archery and he had managed to achieve a fair result, but the centaurs with their powerful longbows were in high demand and his mediocre result at the butts had resulted in none of the warband leaders choosing him. After the archery came the sparring matches and a brutish Kolgannis barbarian had hewn his shield three times without Bann managing to break even one. A three to two score against a large centaur and a tie against a centaur colt resulted once more in no war-leaders selecting him for their raiding parties. Finally, in the scrimmage, he'd let his frustration get the better of him and had charged too early, ending up ahead of his team and in the midst of the opposing team's shield wall alone. A vicious rapp to the back his helmet from one of the 'enemy' warriors had both knocked him out of the running for a position in a summer raid and knocked him out. His ears were still ringing. Now the forlorn young barbarian sat on the grassy slope at the base of the palisades nursing his pride and a sympathetic clay mug of mead.
Spread across the field in front of him were the gathered warriors of the two human clans of Kolgannis and Koltar and the two centaur clans of Running Grass and Rolling Rock. On the far side of the crowd a small wooden dais had been constructed, for the use of the clan chiefs and the warband leaders. Amid the gathered mass of warriors immense bonfires and smaller cooking fires blazed. Whole cattle were broiling on spits and kegs of mead and ale had been broached and were in the process of being emptied. Drunken human barbarians and inebriated centaur raiders celebrated by dancing, eating, drinking and fucking in equal measure. Years previous, when he was too young to compete for selection but old enough to join the celebrations, Bann had been all too happy to stumble wide eyed through the partying soldiers, gawking at the imposing forms of veteran warriors and the strutting young first-chosen. Young warriors generally spent their first two summers after reaching adulthood as part of the village militia, guarding the homesteads and training for the selection games. As a young militia member, Bann had always dreamed of being counted as first-chosen, as the warriors selected for their first raiding party were known. Now that he hadn't been selected, Bann felt his dreams die. He would just be another old militia man, unfit for the honour of the the warbands. Oh sure, old One-Eye and Jarl Dantig tried to claim there was still honour to be had in guarding the village, but, though both his parents were dead, Bann felt like his mother and father, both clan housecarls in their time, would have been disappointed.
As he moped into his mug, Bann watched Gunnar Long Arm, Chief of the Kolgannis, mount the dais. There had been a few rousing speeches so far as the war-leaders from the various raiding units stood to declare how formidable their band was and how much plunder they would return north with, but Gunnar was the first of the clan leaders to address the crowd of over two thousand armed soldiers. As he stepped to the front of the stage a deafening roar arose from the massed ranks.
The iron-grey haired barbarian spread his arms, palms facing down, for silence. As the rumble died down, he began to speak.
"Fellow warriors! Fellow battle-kin! It truly is an honour to stand before such a gathering of skill and strength!"
The crowd roared again.
"We of the Northern Alliance of Clans have always been the fiercest, greatest warriors to raid the steppe! In ages past, when the host of hosts gathered and overthrew the Empire, who led the charge south to smash the border lords?"
"WE DID!" bellowed the crowd.
"And when the mighty host reached the gates of the Imperial capital, who was the vanguard that first breached the walls of Drasich?"
"WE WERE!" came the shouted reply.
Bann sighed. Gunnar was speaking of the overthrow of the Empire of Thae. Everyone knew the story of the great army that was formed when the tribes and clans united under one banner to overthrow the human and elven rulers of the Empire. One hundred years ago the orcs, goblins, trolls and giants of the mountains had united with barbarians, centaurs and minotaurs from the plains and forests of the east to march against the Imperial armies, defeating them in the field and sacking the capital city, Drasich. The Empire hadn't survived the incursion and had fractured into the smaller kingdoms and city states of the west. Drasich was still a major metropolis, but the former imperial capital was now just a city state run by the merchant's guild.
"I stand before you, brave fighters, to tell you there will be no warbands this summer. No raiding, no skirmishes," continued Gunnar, "Instead, a new host is gathering!"
This was different, thought Bann, brow knitting as he looked up from his mug. Just in time to make the day worse, it seems Bann would be missing out on a warhost. The throng of warriors crowding the field before him was a frenzy of cheering and weapons were being drawn and raised skywards.
"Once again the clans muster to conquer!" shouted Gunnar over the roar. "Once again we march south! For long we have let the cities of the south and west grow fat, and once again the tribes will gather to reap the harvest!"
Bann spat in disgust at his failure and hauled himself to his feet to drag himself off around the palisade and away from the celebration he felt excluded from. Taking his mug of booze, he stumbled toward the quiet spot where the orchards grew close to the wall, seeking a secluded place where he could nestle down and get properly acquainted with his self-pity. Nothing like a good wallow in misery, he thought as he slouched underneath the arching apple trees.
Once the cheering of the crowd had faded to a faint rumble, the dejected barbarian found a suitable tree and slumped against it. Just as he was taking a deep pull from his tankard, the sound of hushed voices wandered through the evenly spaced trees and into his ears. He was about to dismiss them and find a new, quieter place to drown his sorrows, thinking he was overhearing a couple who had slipped off to have their own, private celebration, when he recognized one of the voices as that of Lisbet, the beautiful centaur queen who'd dallied with him that morning.
"I suppose you have to go with them," said Liz.
"I am a war-leader, after all," replied a deeper voice.
"I know that. It's just that I don't think this war is a good idea," said the queen, a note of exasperation in her voice.
Curiosity piqued, Bann rose to his hands and knees and crawled towards the voices. He figured the lower voice was that of Brakis, a huge, sable centaur stallion; one of Clan Running Grass' most capable war-leaders and one of Lisbet's consorts. Sure enough, a few orchard rows over from his chosen wallowing location, Bann spied the pretty centaur queen standing next to the dark black bulk of War-Leader Brakis. The conversing pair were lit by the dully glowing moonlight that trickled through the spring leaves of the apple trees.
"Why do we ally with the other tribes once more, Brakis? Why do we want to attack the southern cities?" continued Liz.
"The plunder, the honour-" Brakis started to explain.
"You know I have nothing against a good fight and a proper haul of loot, love, but this just doesn't seem right. And who's that shaman that follows Gunnar like a dog these days, whispering in his ear?" The queen sounded angry.
