Prince Kazimir, eager, intelligent, but inexperienced, faces the prospect of a changing world and a grim future for his people, the Rosomai.

PRINCE KAZIMIR- CHAPTER 2

Kazimir stared into the two-inch deep hole as though it were a chasm. He thought about the implications of such a terrible new weapon as this musket. It could take a month for a talented group of smiths to create a single armored tunic like the one he had volunteered as a target. It could take years of practice for a warrior to learn how to bring the sword and bow to their greatest potential. It would take only a moment for such a weapon, fired even by the old, young, or infirm, to utterly destroy the best warriors the Rosomai could muster.

His initial dismay gradually transformed into relief. He had heard much about muskets, but now he had seen for himself the truth. This weapon, though formidable, was simply a device. It was neither magical nor infallible. It was not the product of a great mystical process, but simple, honest toil. Kazimir caught a glimpse of the future through the musket, not simply the end of his people. Even so, that future was far away and anything but certain.

Kazimir started towards the Great Yurt to contemplate what he had seen when Vaturyn caught up with him.

“I’ve read the documents that Hetman Ovaydah gave me,” Vaturyn cast his eyes down. “War is on the horizon, perhaps the last war of the Rosomai.”

Kazimir paused and sneered at the implication. Only one thing could truly stop the Rosomai from fighting, and that was extinction.

“You shouldn’t make such a statement lightly, Vaturyn. When the Rosomai commit themselves to war, they do so unto death. Besides, my father is Hetman. It will be his decision whether or not we go to war.”

“Kazimir. I speak the truth as I’ve seen it. The Sabalazmon have more of these muskets than ever before. The Vucari have helped them create an entire army of warriors with these weapons. The Sabalazmon as a people are stronger than ever before, attacking them would be-“

Kazimir spun on his heel and stepped in front of Vaturyn, standing face to face with the old fox.

“Suicidal, yes? Our simple people are very familiar with this phrase, Vaturyn. Just as our fathers defied suicidal odds and won, so shall we. If the Sabalazmon plan to destroy us, then we shall do everything we can to destroy them, and we will prevail.”

Vaturyn sighed, “You have become more like your father than I suspected. Brave. Stupid.”

“I spent two years learning everything I could about the Sabalazmon. I speak their language and that of their Vucari allies as well as they do. I accomplished this so that I might better understand our enemy, and I am confident that I can lead our soldiers to glory.”

“As long as you put your knowledge to use by needlessly throwing away lives, you will never truly know intelligence. You think that hitting the enemy in his flanks and drawing blood for blood makes you smart?”

Kazimir sneered. He didn’t want to hit his old friend, but he was tempted to. Suddenly, his anger drifted away. Vaturyn was right.

“I’m sorry, Vaturyn. The truth is I simply want to do the right thing for the people. My father is wrong to throw away our lives, but it is what the people think is best. I have to believe the same, in spite of what I’ve seen-”

Vaturyn raised a hand and struck Kazimir across the face. Kazimir gave a bewildered look towards the white fox, who was raising his hand to strike again. Before he did so, Kazimir lashed out and grabbed Vaturyn’s extended arm, then grabbed a fistful of his coat with his left hand, pushing the old fox to the ground.

Vaturyn laughed, “Good! Never let an adversary hit you the same way twice. Maybe your father didn’t brainwash you after all.”

“You did that just to test me? You old fool!” Kazimir reached down and helped Vaturyn to his feet. “You should be more careful. Even a Rosomai such as me could take off your head with a single swipe.”

“While I appreciate that you didn’t kill me, I am pleased that you exhibited such decisiveness amidst confusion. That’s vital in a prospective leader.”

“Any Rosomai would have defended their honor under the circumstances.”

“Yes, and the Sabalazmon would do precisely the same. How do you think they will react when your warriors try to strike them the same way they did last time? One thing is for certain. They will not help you up afterwards.”

Kazimir finally caught the lesson. Vaturyn was right. The Rosomai had fought more or less the same way for centuries. Wasn’t it natural that the Sabalazmon would react effectively at some point?

Vaturyn continued, “At tonight’s meeting your father and some of the tribal leaders will almost undoubtedly choose war with the Sabalazmon. There is another option, however.”

Vaturyn snuck a peek in either direction, then pulled open the front of his jacket. He quickly withdrew a folded parchment, handing it to Kazimir.

“Read this document thoroughly. Every one of the tribal chieftains will have access to this, but they will likely make the wrong choice given this information. It will be up to you to tell your people that they have a choice.”

Kazimir slipped the parchment into his jacket, “What if the clansfolk don’t listen to me?”

Vaturyn smiled his iconic smile and patted Kazimir on the shoulder, “If they have ears, they will listen. Your people have a proud heritage of defying their orders and relying on their instincts. Use that to your advantage.”

“Alright, I’ll give it a thorough read. Kalman told me to keep quiet, but that’s never stopped me before.”

Kazimir started to make his way home when Vaturyn called out.

“Kazimir! Whatever happens, destiny awaits you in that meeting. I wish you well.”

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The Great Yurt always buzzed with festivities and excitement whenever a council of war was underway. Although logic would dictate that raucous pleasures of the flesh and other distractions would cloud the judgment of the Hetman and his chieftains, the leaders seldom convened in such a way and expected to celebrate the event accordingly. As such, the pavilion was filled with clansfolk, music piping and dancers gyrating through the smoke-filled interior. The nights were always cold and timber was too scarce to burn, so the various cooking fires and braziers were fueled by dried animal dung. The distinct aroma of burning feces mixed with roasted meat, scented oils, and incense to create a strange, musky potpourri that saturated the air and seemed to bring warmth and relaxation deep into one’s lungs. Families feasted on game and livestock while warriors from other tribes drank and enjoyed the quite adult company of females to either side. Truly a council of war was an energetic and free-spirited affair.

There was another reason behind the lack of inhibition at a war council, however, and that was the fact that it generally was considered a last chance to meet as a clan, tribe, or family before the Druzhina rode to battle. Behind the celebratory atmosphere was the sobering truth that these warriors, all husbands and sons, would soon be gone for months. There was also a complete understanding that some would never return. Kazimir sensed this anxiety more than ever as he made his way through the crowd to take his seat with his father and the visiting chieftains. He didn’t dare mention it, perhaps even to himself, but the atmosphere seemed beyond mere anxiety. The people celebrated as though this could be the last council of war, the last meeting, the last feast before the Rosomai as a people began their death march towards oblivion.

Kazimir absorbed the adulations and encouragements of his people, but took them with a grain of salt. Were they cheering his virtues and his intelligence, or were they merely cheering him because of his father’s legacy? Kalman was a powerful and popular leader, and indeed more intelligent than Vaturyn gave him credit for. Kazimir, on the other hand, had no songs of glory to accompany his name. He had never led the Rosomai to victory, nor had he made great strides to unite the people. In fact, his two year sojourn had been more disappointing than anything, and while he felt that the experience was cerebral and greatly beneficial on a personal level he carried some shame for the fact that he had brought little back to his people. A question nagged in his mind: Would the clan listen?

“The information on these documents is fantastic beyond all reckoning!” one of the chieftains gruffly called out. “The Sabalazmon and all of their musketeers will be hundreds of miles outside their territory. The only question that remains is do we annihilate their army in the field or strike their lands directly?”

“Hah! The answer is easy. Musketeers have to eat, don’t they? We’ll sweep into the lands of the Sabalazmon and catch the enemy off guard. They’ve fattened the herds in preparation for winter, so we should all have plenty to eat. We’ll burn every settlement along the way. Their army will starve and freeze in the field.”

“That’s not sufficient. Destroying their food sources and townships will hurt them, true, but we must disorganize the enemy as well. We must set them back. I suggest we attack the Khan himself and all of his subordinates. The leaders and all of their children must be slaughtered if we are to have peace. Let the enemy descend into famine and civil war.”

“What about the Opelchenie?”

“The Opelchenie are militia. We don’t know how they are organized or equipped, but they will be the primary resistance we face, as well as some of the enemy’s house guard. Still, even though we do not know the strength of the Opelchenie, such an opportunity to catch the Sabalazmon off guard may never arise again. We must strike now, it is imperative!”

Someone took notice that Kazimir had arrived, and one of the chieftains waved him in.

“My prince! Come, join us. This is relevant to all Rosomai.”

Kalman gave his son a stern frown and a steely gaze, pulling Kazimir’s eyes into his. Almost telepathically he issued a simple warning to his son: Remember, keep quiet. He took a seat next to his father, choosing to occupy his mouth with a pipe while the chieftains passed their plans back and forth. His father relaxed somewhat, injecting more of his attention into the discussion.

Kazimir had already read the parchment, which he knew was not a secret document at all but a public notice announcing a grand campaign to rid Azek of a hated, ancient enemy: the Holischiky. The seal people were vicious, large, and called the northern coastline their home, preventing both the Rosomai and the Sabalazmon from large-scale fishing. The Sabalazmon were confident that the firepower and discipline of their newly formed musketeers would help drive the Holischiky out from their permanent colonies. What was strange, however, was the fact that the Vucari had publically endorsed the entire effort and had carefully left the Rosomai out of the equation. Kazimir wanted to ask aloud why the Vucari chose not to add the Rosomai to their list of enemies, but chose instead to stay quiet for the time being. It came as no surprise to him that none of his personal concerns had come up in the conversation.

“Why are the Sabalazmon attacking the Holischiky?” Kalman asked the chieftains.

“The Sabalazmon wish to control all of Azek. Their allies, the Vucari, want to control the entire continent. The Holischiky, though a disgusting people, are simply in the way of this goal so they must be removed.”

“The Vucari chose their allies poorly. I have seen the Holischiky fight. They will snap the Sabalazmon like reeds.”

Kazimir chose to break his silence. He had been anxious moments before, but having planned his words long in advance he spoke clearly and calmly.

“Why don’t we join the fight against the Holischiky?”

The chieftains went silent. Whether they were surprised at Kazimir’s words or the mere fact that he had spoken, the idea clearly struck a nerve. Kazimir probed further.

“Why don’t we join the fight against the Holischiky?” Kazimir raised his voice upon repeating himself, trying to cut through the murmuring of the clansmen and warriors all around. “The Holischiky are our enemies just as much as the Sabalazmon. If the Sabalazmon launch an attack, they may only damage the Holischiky’s numbers, but if we launch an attack of our own we might be able to drive the devils into the sea once and for all!”

Kalman snarled, “Kazimir! What has gotten into you! Sit down!”

“Prince, we simply do not have the strength in numbers to fight a war on two fronts. The Holischiky are no immediate threat to us. We have to focus on the Sabalazmon!”

Kazimir turned to the chieftains, “What has this ancient war been about? Can any of you tell me why we fight the Sabalazmon?”

He then rose to his feet, “We may have our grudges, but it all comes down to land and food. For centuries we have fought each other because we have been afraid to face the larger foe! The Holischiky occupy rich lands and coasts that are rightfully ours! I say we wage total war on them, and… and…”

Kazimir gulped and gasped. He had been a fool. He had stepped into a pavilion filled with smoke and incense and taken to puffing a pipe, all the while lost in his own thoughts, but his curse had caught up with him. Again an invisible hand squeezed at his throat, his lungs burning, his breathing labored. He was determined to continue, however, gulping down a breath.

“Please, think! We… we’ve been fighting the Sabalazmon for hundreds of generations, always the same way, but… the… Sabalazmon are… changing!” He wheezed, barely able to squeeze more than a word at a time from his throat.

His father was against him. The Gods were against him. The people were silent. A few nervous chuckles emerged from the crowd. You great fool, Kazimir thought to himself. You great fool.

“The Sabalazmon know us…” He gasped, “They’ll be ready for us! We have… to take… this risk… Or we may not survive.”

Kazimir wasn’t quite sure what hit him, whether it was the fist of his father or simply the ground beneath his feet. His world exploded into a twinkle of lights and a ringing in his ears, then the world seemed to spin blithely into oblivion.