The Grey Ones
The Demons of the North: VIII

THE VASAATH

Soon, the red sails of Kasarath would be on that horizon, the Vasaath thought as he glanced out over the clear blue bay. The sun glistened on the waves, the breeze was crisp, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. As soon as the dark fell, he would see the lights of more than two hundred ships as his brothers and sisters came to his aid—but there was dread in him.

Five thousand men had reached the city walls; their stomping had been heard all the way down to the docks and word from the kaseraad had said that their camp was vast. The city was quiet. The people must have hidden inside their houses, knowing a battle was imminent.

The Vasaath had spoken to his men, told them that they might very well die on those streets that day, but for every one of them dying, they would drag at least ten of their enemies with them. That was the way of the Kas.

He thought about the Mud Mire, about how such a plan might actually work, but there was little chance Duke Arlington would agree on facing them there if the rains were to come. The rocks seemed just as unlikely. The streets were their only choice.

He breathed slowly, deeply, searching for the strength and focus he needed inside of him. He prepared himself for pain, for death, as he had done so many times before. Now, however, the girl’s silver eyes appeared to him, and he felt weak. He had never before feared death, but now he did—no, he didn’t fear losing his life, he feared losing her. Not only did he fear losing her, but he feared the nightmare he would leave her in.

He focused harder, knowing that he could not die. He would not die.

“Leader.” A rasaath marched up to the Vasaath and bowed. “A white hawk, sir. It came with a message.”

The Vasaath turned to the soldier and reached for the parchment roll he carried. “An Osprey,” the Vasaath muttered. “It’s an Osprey.”

The Noxborough seal was holding the scroll closed, adorned with the image of the magnificent sea bird. The Vasaath set his jaw tight and broke open the wax. The message was short, but clear: if the Kas didn’t lay down their weapons and leave Noxborough before dawn, the Westbridge army would attack at first light. It was already far into the afternoon—soon, the sun would set.

He looked at the solider. “Gather the council.”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier scurried away, and the Vasaath turned back to gaze out over the horizon.

If only they would come, in the nick of time, there would be no defeat in sight. If they didn’t, they would have to stand and fight, and they would most certainly die in this strange land.

When he arrived at his tent, the officers and spies had already arrived. Kasethen looked worried but hid it well. The Vasaath shared the content of the scroll, and the men all scowled. They had faced many battles together, but none had been this dire. Their mission was too important, and honour prevented them from returning to Kasarath with their tails between their legs. Battle was their only option. Their prospects, however, had never been this bad.

They shouted at one another, tried to outvote each other, but when the grim reality had settled over them, they all went quiet. When the news first arrived that morning, that the army was marching, they all agreed that they would hope for rain and prepare to fight in the dirt and to attack from the streets if the sky stayed clear, but now they realised that nothing would be enough; they couldn’t beat an army of six thousand soldiers by forcing them into the streets, and they couldn’t possibly beat them head-on.

They all faced something they had never faced before—total defeat. They would fight until their last breath, but they would do so with heavy hearts.

When the meeting ended, for the second time that day, the Vasaath and Kasethen walked the battlements together.

The Vasaath grunted. “You were right. I underestimated them.”

“Sir,” said Kasethen, “we always knew it would come to this. Perhaps we didn’t know what odds we would fight against, but we knew this day would come.”

“Look at the sky, Kasethen,” the Vasaath said. “Not a cloud as far as the eye can reach. No rain, no mud, and no slippery stones. We have only the city to rely on, but if Arlington is clever enough, he will attack us on all fronts. They could have us slaughtered within an hour.”

“Yes, the odds seem to be against us, indeed,” Kasethen muttered. “But perhaps we still have one possibility.”

“What?”

“I know you don’t want it—neither do I—but Juniper might be our only salvation.”

“No.”

Kasethen sighed. “She was right, you know. If the truth comes from the lady herself, Duke Cornwall must know he is fighting for nothing.”

The Vasaath glared at his advisor. “If her potential offspring is more important than her, do you really think they would just give up because a woman claims she has joined their enemies? Or would they just destroy the enemies and reclaim the woman? They don’t see her as someone with agency. Her opinions and actions don’t matter to them. They would just keep her in chains.”

Kasethen frowned. “I don’t claim to know much about mainland politics, sir, but I know they believe sins are inherited. She would be a traitor, no? Well, then Christopher Cornwall would marry a traitor. His son would be a traitor. That means that the future heir of Westbridge would be a traitor. Arlington might still want to fight, but are you sure Cornwall is willing to do the same?”

The Vasaath listened carefully. Although he found their ridiculous notions of inheritance and sin to be irksome, there was still some sense in Kasethen’s words. But it would mean that he had to send Juniper—his Juniper—into danger.

“We will not use her.” It was final. He could not live with himself if he did something like that to her.

Kasethen sighed deeply, defeated.

The Vasaath looked back upon the sea. The truth was harsh, dark, and sour. “If we don’t see red sails on that horizon before sundown, we will die at first light.”

Kasethen snorted bitterly. “Once, they feared us. Now, they will crush us in less than one hour. So much for the Demons of the North.”

The Vasaath snorted, as well, but then it dawned on him; all his life, he had strived to be better and greater than other civilisations, despite the fear and the taunts he had received from others. He had tried to show that the Kasenon was fair and beautiful; it had saved millions of lost souls through the ages and brought them purpose and community.

He had strived to prove that he was no savage, no demon, but an intelligent man with ambition and empathy. He had strived to prove that he did not want to pillage and rape and murder—only to save and redeem. He wanted to bring justice and equality for all, not just the rich, and he wanted to create a better world. Humans, however, would never see it like that.

To them, he was a Demon. To them, he was Darkness, and Death—and mainlanders were superstitious people.

He looked at Kasethen and said, “We are the Demons of the North. Let it be known.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They think they are facing real demons, Kasethen,” said Vasaath. “It won’t matter how diplomatic and good we try to be, they will never see us as anything but monsters, and I am tired of trying to convince them otherwise.”

Kasethen stared at him, perplexed. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying,” the Vasaath said and turned to him, “that if it is demons they believe they’ll face, then let it be demons they face. Gather the men.”

“But sir, I don’t—”

“I said,” the Vasaath growled, “gather the men.”

Kasethen did as told and when they were all gathered in the courtyard, the Vasaath set his jaw tight. This was a leap, he knew that—what he was about to propose was against everything he stood for, but he would not let the humans win. He would not die on that battlefield.

“I know you all think this might very well be your last night in this life,” he said to his men. “I thought so too before I realised that we have a weapon that can bring down empires without a single fighting man—fear.”

He saw the confusion in his men’s faces, but he pressed on.

“Mainlanders are fearful of us. We are the monsters in all the stories they tell their children. We are the Demons of the North that devour them in their beds. The men outside those walls,” he said as he pointed towards the city, “they fear us. They’ve always feared us. But if they defeat us now, they will never fear us again. We cannot have that.”

He tightened his jaw and looked out over the soldiers: fine men with good and brave hearts stood in that courtyard, and what he was asking them to do was not fair—but there was no other choice.

“I will ask a great deal from you, not only military wise but also morally. I know we have strived to be better than them, to be proper and correct and play by the rules, but they don’t care about that. So why should we? We came to conquer, not to fold. They call us murderous monsters, so let’s be murderous monsters. Violence runs in our blood, and I say, let it boil. Let them know that we are the Demons of the North!”

Now, he saw the spark he had been looking for, the fire in his men’s eyes.

“Saathenaan, are you with me?”

The call was unified, decisive. The Saathenaan was with him.

Kasethen, however, was clearly not, but he said nothing.

“I will need fifty men,” the Vasaath continued. “You need to be swift, strong, and stealthy. But most importantly—you need to be willing to do what it takes to strike fear into the hearts of men. What we will do tonight will echo for centuries to come.” He tightened his fists. “The council will meet in my quarters, and at sundown, I need fifty men ready for departure.”

“Aamon-at an Vasaath!” the men called in unison, and the Vasaath nodded respectfully and left for his tent, followed by his council once more.

There was much to be prepared and very little time to do so, but it needed to be done or this gambit would be fruitless.

Translation:

Aamon-at an Vasaath – “honour to our Leader of Strength and Protection”

Kaseraad – spies; “the shadow of the people”

Rasaath – officer; dutiful soldier; true soldier

Saathenaan – elite warriors; “deepest strength”

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