Chapter 1
Author: Fran Saleški Finžgar
From the east, north, and west, soldiers flocked to the castle. Day after day, they returned on their sweaty horses, announcing to the aged Svarun that their missions had been successful. They gathered in the courtyard, building circles of fires. Boys cut pieces of roasted chestnut from the spit, and Ljubinica, the beautiful daughter of Svarun, poured them honey and handed each a white lambskin. His son, Iztok, followed each commander as they left the castle, eagerly greeting the approaching warriors.
“The saints guided you, elder, and the fairies protected you, brave warriors, as you crossed swamps, scaled mountain passes, and arrived at the castle of my father Svarun, who thanks you and salutes you!”
Thus spoke young Iztok, son of Svarun, as he welcomed the armies of Slavs and Antes who had gathered in the valley around the castle. Spears glimmered from the oak woods, and as dusk settled, torches flared to life. Iztok, untiring, greeted each troop in his father’s name, leading their chieftains into the castle, where food, rest, and warm words awaited them.
The valley was filled with tents, and at night, a sea of fires flickered across the plain. Battle songs echoed through the air; rams and sheep bleated, oxen groaned as they were led to slaughter. Horses neighed, and mules munched dry grass. Autumn had arrived in the land.
Svarun, the grey-headed elder of the Slavs, moved slowly around the castle. Ljubinica had woven him a soft robe of white linen, fastening lambskins around his waist and draping his old shoulders in the finest ram’s skin.
As he gazed into the sea of flames, his shoulders—hunched by age—suddenly straightened. He raised his fist and swung it southward.
“Hilbudij, Hilbudij—thief of our freedom! The power of Byzantium and our tormentor—this fire will consume you! It will burn your eagles—Hilbudius, servant of dark rage! Svarun, though old and grey, will fasten his buffalo-hide belt, take up his heaviest sword, and march to war. The sun of freedom shall shine again on the Slavs and Antes!”
The old man raised both fists, his arms bulging with sinew, his eyes reflecting the flames below.
Slowly, his fists unclenched, his open hands lifted higher. Turning eastward, ashen-faced, he sighed, his voice trembling:
“Svarog1, have mercy on us! Perun2, strike him down! Morana3, spare me, spare the warriors! My sons’ bones lie scattered, prey for vultures in the land where Hilbudij walks. Morana, you have claimed enough victims!”
Tears welled in Svarun’s eyes, trickling into the white of his beard—one tear for his first son, a second, a third, until nine tears had fallen for his nine sons, slain by the swords of Hilbudij’s men. His body shook, his knees gave way, and he collapsed, consumed by grief.
“Father, do not weep! Look at the fire! The young warriors have returned. They carry bows that shoot lightning like the mighty bolts of Perun. We are victorious! Perun is with us!”
Iztok lifted his father to his feet, and together they walked silently away from the trenches. The fires in the valley dimmed, the noises of the camp faded, and the bleating of the rams ceased as the stars filled the sky.
The morning was beautiful, like a spring dawn, though it was autumn. Svarun rose from his bed, which was covered in soft furs. Something of the morning light touched his face, as though a joyful brightness had fallen upon the grey rocks. He greeted the day with hope stirring in his heart.
“Such a morning in autumn! The dawn is painted with red joy, as if Devana4 herself walks across the fields and through the budding grain. A morning like this heralds good fortune—a day meant for sacrifice.”
The old man struck a small stick against the wooden wall. Immediately, a young man appeared—strong, bare-chested, bronze-skinned, with long reddish hair. A goat’s horn hung at his waist, tied with a flaxen cord.
“Sound the horns, blow the trumpets, and call the warriors to the sacrificial bier. The gods have smiled upon us with this dawn. Let us hasten to the sacred site!”
The horns blared, and their calls echoed through the valley, bouncing off the oak and beech forests. The valley itself stirred like an anthill in the sun. Soldiers swarmed from their tents, fastening swords to their thick belts, slinging quivers full of arrows over their shoulders, and readying their bows. Warriors, as tall and strong as oaks, pulled their spears from the earth, the weapons gleaming in the sun.
Elders called to their kinsmen, and clusters of half-naked warriors gathered around their leaders. Each group was adorned in various furs—white lambskins, black rams, brown bears, foxes, lynxes, and even roasted pigs—all mingling and shifting in a colorful wave.
Once again, the horns sounded from the trenches, and a hundred voices of the elders answered from the valley. The warriors gathered as if a great storm had swept them toward the altar beneath the linden tree, where the flames burned high.
Iztok and Ljubinica stood by the altar, their faces solemn, arms crossed over their chests. When the valley thundered with the movement of the troops, Iztok looked up from the fire, his eyes gleaming with joy.
Elder Svarun emerged from the trenches, dressed in his flowing white robe, tall and proud. His back unbent, he approached the altar of sacrifice, surrounded by the oldest elders—priests, swordless, standing in reverence.
The murmurs of the soldiers quieted into deep silence as Svarun neared the fire.
He cast fine wheat into the flames, poured oil from the Black Sea onto the coals, and the servants slaughtered a white lamb, laying it upon the pyre. The flames roared higher, and the scent of burning offerings filled the air. The elders, along with Svarun, stepped back from the fire.
With his grey head bowed, Svarun spread his arms wide and lifted them high. The soldiers lowered their heads in respect.
“O mighty God, who opens your hand to sow seeds and fill our homes, who brings forth flocks and feeds our herds, have mercy on us. Do not leave our altars empty when the enemy tramples our fields, takes our cattle, and steals our sheep. Have mercy! Perun, strike our enemies with thunder and lightning! Morana, spare us! You have already claimed enough of our sons! Holy one-eyed God, show us the enemy so our arrows may find him, our spears strike him, and our axes split his skull. Have mercy!”
Svarun’s voice faded, and his hands trembled. His eyes drifted toward the sun in a silent plea.
The murmurs of the linden tree echoed, as if the valley itself wished to shout. A faint cry rose from the assembled soldiers, and Svarun turned toward them, a smile spreading across his weathered face.
“The gods have heard us!”
Faces brightened, hands gripped swords and spears, and the valley echoed with a roar of approval.
“The gods have heard us! They walk with us to face the one who blocks the path of the Slavs, who has darkened our free sun. For three years, Hilbudij has feasted on our blood, but he will do so no more. He marches across the Danube, taking our cattle and sheep, enslaving our sons. But we, the Slavs and the Antes, are not used to giving up land. We take it. So let us avenge our sons, our land, and the gods whom Byzantium scorns. As long as the sun shines, as long as spears and arrows remain, Sloven shall not yield! Death to Hilbudij!”
The old man fell silent, as if anger had choked his throat. The army was silent – but only for a moment. Then it thundered, as if a volcano had erupted from the heart of the earth. The forests of spears rose, the full quivers roared, the bowstrings of the bows flashed; the swords flashed high above their heads. If he had winked, this army would have been like an avalanche. The bare breasts would have stood like a wall, the Byzantine armour would have shrieked under the gusts of spears thrust by those terrible muscles. The shout reached to the sky, everything moved as if the beast were tearing the chain and longing to burn and crush everything it meets. And the cheek of the raven was smiling, and the rays of the sun were gleefully dancing in his white curls.