Chapter 38:
Tales from Zemliharos: Night of The Striga
Peter tossed and turned in his chambers. Despite having a plush mattress on the seas, and little to no waves rocking him to sea sickness, he could not rest. His dreams weren’t like those he had when he first entered Zemliharos, where he would transform into a creature to see what was happening beyond his body, or see into the past that he did not live through with a level of clarity that told him what he needed to know. These were the kind of nightmares he’d have back in his old world, only they seemed more real than ever.
He couldn’t stop repeating the same visions, of Lyana’s body warping and shifting in front of his very eyes, transforming her slowly into one of those monstrosities as Peter could do nothing but watch in horror. Nor could he shake the callous grin of Baba Roga watching over him, imagining seeing Jakov, Priest Dabro and the other men he brought with him to Zemliharos being ripped limb from limb as they fell all around him, until he was made into nothing but a cooked meal for the witch and her striga.
Peter finally had enough and left his bed, seeking the only man he could turn to for guidance in such times. He stepped through the ship’s cabins, their narrow hallways seeming to wobble ever so slightly as he reached the High Priest’s room. He knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again, only to step away. As he turned his back, the door opened.
“Ye of little faith, come in.” A slight grin was on Father Dabro’s face as Peter turned to face the eyeless priest.
He stepped into the room, nearly identical to his own, with a makeshift table and bed with a lantern still burning to help the guest to keep their bearings. “And what does our Vojvoda need on this tumultuous night?”
“How do you know it was me?”
““Many have eyes but do not see. Now-”
“-thhose with none must see for them. Yeah, yeah. That’s the thing. What I’m seeing, it scares me Father.”
The High Priest gingerly dipped his hand into the bucket of fresh water left out for him, carefully gathering his bearings before fully cupping one of his hands for a drink of water. “What you’re seeing are versions of the future, ones that you would rather avoid, correct?”
“Correct.”
The High Priest scooped up the water and brought it to his mouth. “We cannot avoid fate entirely, all meet the same beginning and end. But fate can be fickle. Our actions change that which was once impossible to feasible. We just have to have faith that our preferred vision becomes reality.”
“Sounds easier said than done.”
The priest couldn’t help but laugh a little, “If faith were easy, then everyone would have it. I doubt mine every single day. A blind man leading the blind if you will. But, no one sees it, so no one doubts it.”
“Father, I have to convince an army that I know what I’m doing when I haven’t fought a war in my life. How do I do it?”
The High Priest paused for a moment. “Forget the Anointed, forget the Krsnik within you. When you transform, can you explain what happens to you?”
“...no”
“You just do, correct?”
“I do.”
“Battles are determined by instinct, intuition. While a strategy gives the upperhand, those who trust in themselves when things go awry succeed over those who don’t. Follow your instincts, trust that you know what you know. These men would be dead already if not for your intervention. They trust you. Trust in yourself.”
Peter sat with the High Priest in silence, letting what he knew he had to do in the morning come to him.
…
By the time Peter reached the war room, Sir Bošnjak was already awaiting him. The tall and thin knight sat in the enameled wooden chair at the head of the table, his map of the city already laid out with his figures in place. He looked at Peter with that same smug look he saw over a dozen times at this point, the kind that made him want to punch him, if he were not such an invaluable ally for his cause. “You’re late.”
“I said to meet at sunrise.”
“As your enemy already has, we’re now on the backfoot.”
Peter ignored the gesture, as more and more of his crew arrived, joining the two at the war room, right besides the Captain's Quarters where the knight insisted on staying for the voyage. Peter knew he would end up shattering this man’s ego one way or another today, and he wanted him to feel as comfortable as possible before delivering his simple blows. He brought with him what he knew would eventually become a boomstick, and planned on demonstrating its power into the sea if needed.
Sir Bošnjak prepared his figurines, moving them as he showed his plan, “We have the numbers to overwhelm our enemies. We’ll dock at midday, when they’re weakest. Storm the docks and slaughter those who get in our way. From there, we can siege the main tower and drive the witch out of hiding. We’ll lose around half of our men, but to dispose of the Striga, an acceptable rate.”
Jakov looked in disbelief at the idea. Peter then grabbed onto the figurines, repositioning them on the board. “No one’s dying unnecessarily on our behalf, it’s a fool’s game to strike this striga up close, that’s where we lose. Their illusions will keep the moonlight in place any time of day. They’re faster and stronger than mere men. We need to fight them from all angles, catch them while they’re unalert, before they even know what hit them.”
Sir Bošnjak’s face grew red. “We’re not using men under the Kraji’s banner for dishonorable tactics.”
“There’s no dishonor against beasts, only survival. We’ll send our first ship to the docks, loaded with the barrels of what we made here.” Peter held up the black powder he had the alchemist created. “One man lights the fuse, then abandons the ship. As the Striga fly out to pick off our crew-” Peter made an exploding motion with his hands, “-they’ll be dead in the water before they even knew what hit them.”
“Nonsense, the cost of losing a ship is astronomical! And I’m not entrusting it to some alchemist’s trick.”
“I assure you it’s no trick.” Peter stepped outside, in front of the crew, by where the helmsman stood. He held up the boomstick and threw in a piece of metal, “Behold, the power of the boomstick. We’ll blast the striga back to their hell before they even know what hits them”
Peter took one of their lamps and held the flame down to the makeshift barrel as he aimed it towards a test barrel. He heard the sizzle before the explosive boom rang true to its name. The shot rang through the barrel as smoke bellowed every which way. The barrel flew into the ocean as it rag dolled through the air. Peter watched in awe as the men around him cheered and gasped at the display of power. He then stepped back into the war room while passing Sir Bošnjak. “Looks like we’re using the boomsticks.”
As Peter reached back into the war room, he took Sir Bošnjak’s spot at the head of the table, the knight closed the door before his fuming head boiled until his words exploded out, “Cute trick. Too bad war isn’t won by gimmicks. It’s won through grit and determination, something your ilk has no concept of. You haven’t been starved for weeks on end, facing down famine as your men look to you for answers. Enjoy your cheap parlor trick while it last.”
Jakov then stood up, “Then let’s do it your way too. You shall lead a charge straight through the gates of the city, sword in hand, ready to strike down the remaining in the city. We come through the catacombs and flank them as they focus on you, then we unite our forces towards the tower.”
Peter nodded along. Tinnie then jumped in, “We also set up bowmen from the cathedral rafters, picking off the remaining forces around the tower, where they won’t see us coming, then laying siege.”
Peter looked to his advisors, “All in favor say aye.”
Jakov and Tinnie nodded, “Aye.”
“Aye”, Father Dabro smiled a little
Sir Bošnjak winced, “Assuming we all make it out alive from your hair brained scheme, I’ll let the Kraji himself know why we suffered so many casualties.” He then left the room, leaving the rest of them to their vices.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll reach the outskirts of Zemihaors by nightfall. May the Anointed shine in our favor.”
Tinnie pulled at Peter’s side, “Your Grace, a word? It’s of vast strategic importance,”
“Tinnie, why not share what you’re going to share with everyone then?”
“It’s something only a Krsnik will understand.”
Peter felt an annoyance radiate through him, but he knew trying to get Tinnie to share his thoughts otherwise would prove pointless. He nodded to his advisors, until it was just him and Tinnie left.
“Your Grace, in order to defeat Baba Roga for good, I need to lay in her coffin for the evening.”
“You what?”
“Her coffin, I need to lay in it for the evening.”
“I heard you the first time, why?”
“That’s her curse. She's a Dalmatia, they were the first to be accused of this curse. The only way to break it is for me to do it.”
“And why haven’t you already?”
Tinnie laughed, “That’s the irony isn’t it. As part of my own curse, I am not allowed to lift the coffin. Only a krsnik can. This is my favor, as you reenter the catacombs, you must let me enter it. Fight off Baba Roga until day break, and the curse shall be lifted.”
Peter felt his mind rushing, “Will it undo what’s been done to the striga?”
“I don’t know, curses are complex forms of magic, Baba Roga’s own marks may have different terms entirely.”
Peter stopped, trying not to get his hope up that Lyana might be saved yet. “Thank you for your insight, you’ll accompany me as we reenter the catacombs.”
Tinnie’s eyes lit up with a cool splendor, “Your Grace, you never disappoint.” He then left Peter alone, to look at his map. He looked over the plan, over and over again. He hoped it’d be enough to save his people for good…
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