I look at my father again. Old, weakened, he is delirious. Or so volhv Makar claims.
Volhv Makar is, naturally, a part of the conspiracy - along with me and my father, voevoda Viy. Whilst I stay near him to comfort him, he is quietly murmuring - he is explaining the situation to me.
Yes, indeed, he is ill. Dying, in fact. That cursed Scyph is to blame for this - Makar confirmed it. That disease prevented and still prevents him from leading our attacks - and the first one was cancelled altogether, whilst the second one was driven back. Tripolye is a headless chicken.
They say, however, that in the south lands of Hemia, death-mages can use the Water of Death to attach the head back to the chicken and the Water of Life to bring it back to life. What we intend is much simpler, and less dramatic.
My father, voevoda Viy, forged his empire personally. With blood and iron, he united the tribes, he allied with the oborotni - formerly a bane, and now our comrades in arms - and he defeated all rebels, he extended the rule into the southern barrens and he drove back the Scythians, putting an end to their raids for several years. But whilst the tribal chieftains, such as Tiver, were loyal to him as long as he seemed strong, ever since he was confined by black magic to his tent the whispering, which is the one thing he could not destroy, got louder. As long as, with Makar's help, my father could send orders, they are - to a certain extent - carried out, but this is becoming more and more difficult, for two reasons. The objective reason is that my father's life could be extended for only so long. The subjective reason is that the rumors were becoming bolder and more widespread - rumors that Viy is really dead, and is an animated corpse whom Makar uses to lord over Tripolye.
For a moment, a chilly hand grasps my heart - and I look at Makar, the old, trusted volhv. No, ofcourse those are mere rumors. Makar is powerful, but he is loyal. He would not use his strenght in this way! Would he?
I shudder, but cast aside that foolish thought.
My father continues talking. The oborotni are loyal - we turned them from rogues into true warriors whose life depends on him, and after he dies - on me. Most tribes would join the winner. Druzhinnik Akviy already pledged to recognize me as the next voevoda. By now, my father already persuaded me to accept this responsibility - to inherit the tribes as if they were a house. To inherit his empire. My father is a great man, but he is only human, and pride is not foreign to him - he wants the fruits of his labour to survive.
When he promised this to me first, I actually looked forward to it. Back then, I was young, just some fourteen years old, and I always liked to... command. Mostly to order my servants around, objectively-speaking. To be the first of equals - to be ABOVE equality - was worth ambition. But as I grew up, and as my father talked to me more and more often about reign... and after volhv Makar explained to me, in that way of his, what a burden it is... I was genuinely scared. A voevoda had not just to fight and to lead his armies, not just to order around an entire empire... he had to sacrifice his personal life. Get rid of my, to say the truth, careless lifestyle in exchange for some power?! I, indeed, was scared.
My father, when he realized that, was not surprised. He invited me to himself, and talked to me for hours, explaining the great responsibility of this. Of how he could not trust anybody else with this. Of how I would be remembered forever if I were to preserve this empire and lead it to greatness. Of how I would become something... greater then an ordinary mortal, not quite a god, but a voevoda, a ruler, one whose decisions will shape the world, one who could change it... for better or worse. Yes, reign is a burden. But it is also a privelege denied even to the most powerful mages.
I was not swayed. My two brothers were still alive back then - now, however, they are already in the Irius, for they died in battle with the foul Skyphs, or Scythians. After they died, I realized that I was the only one of his children still alive, apart from my third, ******** poor brother. And... by then, I already knew what sort of a person Tiver - the most powerful of chieftains - was...
Here he is, fat and arrogant, and drunken as always. He thinks that I indeed am here to guard my father, and to give him some comfort, so he ignores me - to him, I am just a spoiled brat, and sadly, that's not far from truth... at least, wasn't. With Makar's help, I re-looked many things when I finally accepted to take up the burden of power.
Why did I do that? I could say many high, glorious things - about responsibility, about honour, about obedience to a dead man's last wish. To say the truth, however, the driving emotions were hatred and fear. Hatred - for Katarina left me for that bastard Tiver. Tiver wants power? Very well! In revenge, I will take it for myself and make sure that Tiver - and Katarina as well - are punished. And fear... Makar was an old, wise man who travelled a lot and saw other empires. Though we have no official inheritance laws yet, it was not entirely important. In all empires, when a ruler dies, he is succeeded by whoever acts the fastest, and... imprisons, and kills off all other pretendents. Tiver clearly knew that I was a potential opponent. That would be enough. To be on the safe side, I would be apprehended, dragged down into my father's infamous Pit of Truth, and tortured to death.
That and... I still was young, only 20 years old, and I still had that certain something that makes nearly all humans so defiant, so spiteful. If Tiver - and some others - want me NOT to take power, well, that's reason enough. I might as well rule.
"My son... will you take my empire?" - asks my father in our dialect, quietly. Not sure if Tiver noticed this, or if he noticed me nodding in approval. Father tried to smile, unsuccesfully. Then he fell silent.
Suddenly, for all of the furs here, the tent seemed very cold. Father was dead. Tiver too felt it - he closed my father's eyes, quietly, solemnly - and for a while, there was something... majestic in him. But I told myself to shut up. Tiver was an actor above all, he was just pretending to be a "responsible voevoda".
"He is dead." - he said, finally.
I stood up and nodded, with regret. Then I saw my father's two favourite dogs who too were brought here change into humans... and took out a knife, jumping at the surprised Tiver.
---
It was all well-timed. Tiver was caught, shocked and outraged as he was, and carried away into the Pit. His loyalists throughout the grad were suddenly attacked by oborotni and druzhinniki, and by the mob incited by Makar and I to join our side. Said "Tiverians" were killed or rounded up, and resistance was crushed quickly, the sun scarcely moved since Tiver's capture. By the evening, I, Kiy, was the voevoda of Tripolye.
And I knew not what to do with it.
)
So every time people use magic within 20 miles of each other its going to destroy a city? 
come on someone has to come near me, i want to blow something up!! *cries* its not fair!
