Before you read…
Please do not read Pact of the Phoenix like a history book, for it is above all a fantasy tale like any other. If for some reason the depiction of certain societies or religions offends you, please remember that this tale takes place many centuries ago, and that people happen to change. Moreover, if after reading this you feel biased against anyone or anything, then you have utterly misunderstood the message of this book and it would be better for you to forget it.
My story is set in a period of evolution, and in history, no evolutions go without turmoil. This particular one marked the start of the Middle-Ages and the end of the Ancient Times. The Roman Empire is suffering continuous war with barbarians of all shapes and sizes, and has but very little time left. Yet those who pushed the tribes into the Empire have practically been forgotten: The Huns, once a massive coalition of people that used to roam the steppes of Mongolia and were close to become the masters of Europe, are now divided and scattered. The word Hun probably brings the popular, Western image of the ruthless, bloodthirsty killers into your mind. This leads us to another objective of this book: to get rid of your historical cliches and to show you that the true barbarians aren’t always those you think they are (for instance, look around you, you’ll be surprised at how many you can find in our beautiful, modern society). Anyhow, led by Attila, the ‘Scourge of God,’ the Huns almost put an end to the Roman Empire before the death of their king. His successors quarreled, causing havoc and bloodshed among their nation, and thus putting an end to the Hunnic Empire. Now they must fight to survive, or be crushed. Meanwhile, as the Roman Emperor’s authority falls, another order rises in Rome: the Church. The Pope is doing his best to rally as many factions as he can to his cause, through diplomacy, proselytism, or war, to gain influence and give birth to a new society founded on strict doctrines.
Prologue
The pale goddess of the night cast her soft blue rays on the canopy of the woodland. A cool zephyr blew through the snowy trees that shielded the frozen soil from the night sky. Owls scrutinized the ground, fluttering here and there, desperate to catch prey, be it a country mouse or a camouflaged rabbit. Many would starve in this cruel weather.
An old red deer staggered, his antlers bristling the branches above him and spraying his brown pelt with a thin, white quilt. He knelt down, haggard and glancing at the night birds with what one may call compassion. He lay where every deer in Pannonia lie when deep inside them they feel the call of their ancestors. He majestically raised his muzzle a few inches and cried the last cry, the response to the call of the ancients. More birds fluttered around him, hooting him a song of farewell. The great creature grunted in reply and reposed his chin on the hard earth. He shivered from tail to muzzle for a few, long instants and abruptly relaxed. The hooting ended. One owl flew off his tree, swooped down to the deer and dug its beak in the cold flesh.
All was quiet as the volatiles fed on the animal. They stripped flesh and muscle from bone, too exhausted by hunger to quarrel for the most nutritious pieces. It would have taken them less than an hour to finish their feast.
All of a sudden, they swiftly lifted their beaks, all at the same tempo, at the nearing sound of clumsy shuffling in the undergrowth. They were gone the instant later, the partly devoured body left alone. A tall, shadowy figure staggered from the darkness. It came to a halt under the only thin, blue shaft that had managed to reach through the trees. The light vaguely revealed his long hair, thick traits, and a long, furry coat. Breathing hoarsely, barely able to stand on his two, weary feet, he fell to his knees with a thud. Arms quivering and outstretched, his head swaying back and forth, his muttered prayers turned into loud supplications. He fell silent when he was truly out of breath, panting like never before, awaiting—what else?—a miracle.
His attention shifted to the lifeless deer at his side. He glanced at its maimed body, before looking at his own. The worst gash was on his flank, a wide cut that stretched from his stomach to his armpit, bleeding abundantly. He winced at the throbbing pain, and, desperate, slowly plunged his cold hands into the animal's red flesh. He tore off a piece and brought it to his mouth.
“Why does the leader of the Huns seek the strength of the fallen beast?”
The man shuddered at the sound of the grave voice. At first, he dared not look up. He found it difficult to take the humiliation of being seen in such a deplorable state, wounded and broken, feasting on raw meat.
A bony monk stood before him, bald and clad in a long, brown cloak. The newcomer rested a pale, dry hand on his shoulder. The moment the Hun recognized him, he gasped, stared for several instants, and threw himself at his feet, all pride gone.
“Please,” he begged, “Please save me! They are coming, and they will show no mercy. I have been running for six days without food or rest.”
The monk sighed deeply before responding. “It has been two years now since I first met you. You certainly have not forgotten what I have done for you. Yet you seem to be at a miss on what I demanded in return.”
The man slowly lifted his head and gazed with watery eyes into those of the monk. “I know. I have been unfaithful, and I have not respected our agreement. If you will only let me live, I shall do anything you ask, I shall...”
The newcomer placed his hand under his chin and stared back, his eyes gleaming. “Time has fled too far away. Alas, I shall not see you in my sanctuary. God have mercy on you.”
The Hun's head dropped, rested against the monk's leg as he wept. “Will you at least lift the pact? Will I at least be alone to suffer your wrath?”
The stranger sighed once again. “Such things do not go with death, but with fulfillment. The child will carry the burden. After all, is he not responsible? Without him, would you have needed me to pull the one you love from the shrouds of death?”
The kneeling man bristled. He gaped at the monk, shaking his head in disbelief. “Maarnakh? No...please, leave him out of this! Choose someone else!”
“Not only will I choose him, but I will make sure he will follow my command. When he is old enough, I will send someone to him. He will not believe, for he will have been brought up as a Roman, but I will show him what it is to go against me. Your people and his will feel the consequences.”
The Hun collapsed and wailed despondently, and the speaker watched him, immobile and expressionless.
“Oh, Ernakh,” he muttered, “Did you really believe there would be no price? That is the problem with great leaders like you. Their power blinds them, and they fail to realize who they really are.”
Ernakh whispered, almost to himself. “Is there no other way?” The loud baying of the hunting hounds resounded in response. He glanced behind his shoulder in fear, and when he looked back, the monk was nowhere to be seen.
He gathered himself, wiping away his streaming tears. He feverishly—yet with a slight remainder of panache—unsheathed a long, rusty scimitar. “Very well, then,” he breathed as he braced himself, “Here I am.”
Curses, and the fairly distant call of “I see something! Be careful!” echoed against the tree trunks. Ernakh shut his eyes, and, serene at last, began to sing softly, an old ballad of his people.
Oh here lies my lord, in the valley of slaughter
Devoid of remorse, for his kin he must bleed
Alone and abandoned, yet not bitter
Who but the stones will remember his deed?
“There! Kill him!” A band of Saxon mercenaries, with their wide round shields, long spears and blonde beards irrupted from the trees. Ernakh lifted his scimitar threateningly.
“Come, dogs!” he bellowed, “Come and show your worth!” With that he lunged his blade forward, and before he knew it, one of the barbarian's forearms went flying. The Saxon yelled horribly and fell backwards. Before he could raise his weapon once again, however, Ernakh felt a spear pierce him through the ribs. Without a sound he fell, holding the shaft with his hands, all attempts to pull it out proving vain. He lay on his flank, coughing and sputtering, and the mercenaries circled him menacingly.
“Well,” said one, “He sure seems down now. We're rich, brethren” He slipped out a sharp butcher's knife and knelt, pulling the Huns' thick hair to expose his throat. His brother in arms took him by the arm. “Easy there,” he snapped, “Remember what he did to Amalric.” He gestured toward the Saxon agonizing against a tree, his forearm gone, while another tended his wound. “Friends,” he continued, “We have been chasing this man for many years, and now that our wealth is guaranteed, I suggest we teach this bastard a lesson he will remember in Hell. Let him pay for all the crimes his people have committed against us, our forefathers, and our children.” They all grinned in approval, and immediately started kicking him brutally. Their slammed their boots against the body with delight, spitting on him and cackling all along. Ernakh clenched his teeth as they struck him on his bleeding wounds, but refused to yelp. One of the snickering mouths drew nearer to his ear, and he could feel the fetid breath against his skin. “I hope you find this treatment to your liking...Hun.”
He then lifted his hand. “Enough. It is time to finish the job. Fetch your crossbows!”
The tormentors obeyed and split up, choosing positions far enough to bring interest in the game.
As they prepared the weapons and aimed carefully, Ernakh uttered the last words of the song.
Who has payed homage to the fallen king,
Who has wept upon his grave?
But the trees of old, who stand mourning
where he was brought down like a knave
He painfully turned his head, and his eyes met with those of the lying deer. They were cold as death, yet seemed to be staring into his soul. Now there was so little that distinguished them, him, a once feared leader of the Huns, and a half-eaten buck.
“My son,” he cried, “Will you ever come to forgive your father?”
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