Blasphemy at the Holy Isle

"We can't keep sending men in there. They will outnumber us soon."

Boleslav grumbled. It was difficult not to view the comment as a personal slight, but neither was it blatant enough to justify cracking some heads. His face was already on the line; he could afford no more slip-ups.

He resented the situation. He resented facing a problem he could not crush. He resented having to judge whether or not the circumstances allowed him to drive his fist into Chestimir's face. He resented being stuck on an island so holy he couldn't relieve himself without offending the gods. But he recognised that a third sally into the temple would achieve nothing. And if he were to give the upstart the thrashing he deserved, he would be obliged to make that sally. And it would achieve nothing. And what then?

So he grumbled. So did his stomach.

They were here for the spring rites. An annual festival to farewell the winter and welcome the new year, ending the Great Fast and ushering in the Week of Feasting. All the tribes of the coast sent a delegation to the Holy Isle. It was a momentous event in a young warrior's life, and increasingly tiresome as the years rolled by.

A great council was held, and the two greatest chieftains were chosen to join the High Priest in the ceremony. It surprised no one that the honour fell on Boleslav, for the fifth year running. He didn't want the honour, not for a long time now, but to cede the position would be a concession of weakness, and to lose the election a cause for war. So he was moderately displeased with the outcome, in the manner a seasoned man is displeased with all that happens as it should.

The election of Chestimir, however, raised some eyebrows. The position ought to have gone to Masco, or Cieslav, or perhaps even Dalimir. One of the old dogs, who fought with and against Boleslav on many battlefields. A man there was glory in besting, and no shame in being bested by.

That a youth without a grey hair in his beard should share the highest of honours was unprecedented. That he should share the honours with Boleslav, could not be seen as other than a personal insult.

Uncharacteristically for Boleslav, he chose to take it quietly. Perhaps it was the weariness of years, or the languor of the season, but rather than spitting fire and lightning and leading a war party to Chestimir's camp, he chose to avenge the petty slight with an equally petty retort. The day's incidents soon convinced him of the folly of non-violence.

The High Priest, Mieszko, was to lead the procession, flanked by the elected chieftains. Behind them came two champions, bearing the sacrifice. Chestimir chose Dombor, a courageous warrior, but of undistinguished stature. As a calculated jab, Boleslav chose Yaromil -- the tallest man in his entourage. Boleslav smiled to himself when the champions lined up, and his choice towered a full head above his rival's. The fact that Yaromil had to stoop to even hold the sacrifice evenly only increased his delight.

The Temple of Sventovit was no ordinary temple. It was said the god himself sanctified the land and raised the structure. The ground was so holy that to even breathe inside would be to defile the temple, and bring down the wrath of the god. The procession filed in, Mieszko mouthing the holy words without giving them voice. Only their measured footsteps broke the silence. Then a sudden crash and a curse as the sacrifice fell to the ground. Then a sharp, painfully audible inhalation as the culprit realised what he had done.

The men turned in horror to see a guilty-faced Yaromil scampering to his feet. After a moment of silence Boleslav pointed to the entrance. Yaromil hesitated. Boleslav repeated the gesture, adding a neck-slitting motion for good measure. Face blanching, Yaromil shook his head and backed into an alcove. Breathing.