The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  “That’s why the Herewardi don’t have arrows sticking out of their heads.” Little Doe turned to Sur Sceaf, and in her soft, singsong voice, said, “I’m afraid your wife will not be able to tend your wounds. She’s been in labor for the past three marks on the medicine wheel, and her pains are coming every quarter of an hour. If you have a mind to dress your wounds Dak and I will treat them.”

  “My wounds be damned, where is my wife that I may go to her?”

  “She’s in your tent and both Redith and Sagwi are tending her like two broody hens.”

  ***

  Sur Sceaf’s mother’s mother, Mo Mo Redith had traveled from her home at Salem to assist her sister, Sagwi, at the birthing. Paloma sat on a birthing stool near the hearth. Even in labor, with her long, curly flaxen hair disheveled and her face dripping with the sweet sweat of childbirth, Paloma was still the most beautiful woman on Ea-Urth in Sur Sceaf’s eyes. As soon as she saw him enter, a smile lit her pained face.

  “At last, my man is here to succor me.”

  “My love, you are lovely enough to take my breath away. I thank the gods they allowed me to escape my duties that I may be here to share this precious moment with you.”

  Redith clucked her tongue. “Yes, you are here in time to see a prince or princess of the realm part the matrix. But there is still time for you to bathe and make yourself presentable for such an important milestone. Get you down to the lake!”

  “But Mo Mo, I want to be here to support Paloma in her labors.”

  His grandmother motioned with her hand toward the open flap. He knew Mo Mo meant business. “Go! Those broad shoulders of yours make it too crowded in here. I’ll call you as soon as the baby comes.”

  After a quick soaping and dip in the lake and a change of clothes, he stationed himself outside the tipi. It was agony outside the tent. He paced back and forth over the peat path, all the while listening to the melancholy coyotes sending up their cacophony of calls and watching the moon take its slow march across the star-speckled sky. By the gods I hate to see sweet Paloma wrestling with the pangs of childbirth, but being outside isn’t much easier.

  Finally, at the seventh medicine mark, he heard Sagwi call out, “Get ye in here Surrey Boy. He’s a comin in’a da world.”

  Sur Sceaf burst through the door in time to see the child’s head crowning. The hair was wet and brown as it emerged between Paloma’s snow white thighs.

  Sagwi got into position and declared, “I’s fixin for a full grown man judgin by the size O’dhat hayed.”

  Soon Sagwi was holding a squirming baby boy. Redith handed a scramasax to the new father and said, “He’s a man child! Do us the honors, Surrey.”

  He took the razor sharp knife into his hand and gently folded the umbilical cord before slicing. Sagwi placed the naked infant in his arms and tears ran down his face. “He’s, he’s perfect!”

  Sagwi said, “Now, I’s got to get the placenta. I’ll make the lil’ traveler a talisman outta it.”

  Redith smiled as the child squeezed her finger in its tiny pink hand. “What are you going to name him?”

  Sur Sceaf didn’t have to give it any thought. He had always admired his Longfather Arundel the Second and had immersed himself in all of the great king’s writings and teachings at the academy.

  “He shall be called Arundel the Third.”

  Wise Old Redith nodded her approval.

  “My precious little boy, Ary,” Paloma said in a husky voice. “Both Surrey and I descend through Arundel’s line. It is befitting a king’s daughter should give her son a king’s name.

  ***

  The hoot of an owl in a nearby ghost tree drew Sur Sceaf’s attention to the open air hole directly above the fire ring. Earlier, as Paloma nursed the baby for the first time, he had fed the fire with pine-scented fat wood. The chill of autumn had taken hold in the mountain camp, but the sturdy tipi remained comfortably warm and cozy inside.

  Now, as it approached the darkest hour of the night, he lay next to his beautiful wife gently stroking her hair. Paloma seemed to have so much more energy than he had. One whole beeswax candle had burned down and he could but smile and stare into the depths of her royal blue eyes. He wiped her fair brow with a warm chamois while fighting off some much needed sleep. He listened to her rattle on about all the great things this child would one day do, from going to the academy to sitting with her in the Council of Women.

  The child was of good breeding, true enough. He was after all the descendant of a long line of Herewardi kings, Sharaka chiefs, and Quailor high priests, for Sur Sceaf was himself of three bloods. Paloma was not-only the daughter of the renowned wizard king, Malcolm of Omala but also a descendant of King Gondulwulf the Elf-Talker of the Third Kingdom.

  Sur Sceaf’s eyes became heavier and heavier. He vaguely remembered Redith oiling and swaddling the child while chanting a sweet Sharaka song.

  When he awoke there was a brave standing at the door requesting his presence outside the tipi.

  It was Snake Horse from the Cherokee Nation, come to prepare the way for his chief, the renowned warrior, Onamingo. His people were to take sanctuary among the Sharaka in the lands of the Thunder Horse.

  “Surrey,” he hissed in a whisper, “my braves have picked up a couple of wagons with refugees fleeing from the East. The queer little guy in charge requested to speak with you personally.”

  “Give me a moment. I’ll get my clothes and meet you. Where are they now?”

  “I put them by the Teal Pond, not too far from the Thunder Horse.”

  ***

  Morning was fast breaking with the last nightjars whirring in the skies on their tiny wings. He guessed he may have gotten three hours sleep in total, and he was bone weary from the war maneuvers the day before at the Beaver Marsh, not to mention the birthing of the young Prince Arundel.

  As he approached Teal Pond, the chief’s decorated tipi was a clear and familiar landmark. About fifty paces beyond it, he saw the grouping of wagons Snake Horse had reported. He wondered who had vetted these strange refugees and sent them in search of him. The policy was to send all refugees to Fort Rock for vetting before allowing them to pass to Redmond or if they were particularly skilled, to the Valley of the Umpqua to settle at Hrusburg or on the coast of the Aurvandilean Deep.

  There was a small campfire burning in the circle of wagons and he saw several strangers preparing for breakfast. They appeared to be from one of the many Rogue Tribes, as they bore no special clothing or insignia that would identify them as ought else. Probably some of the many pioneers who struck out from the Pitter Empire in the East for a better life in the West, only to find the Pitter hell rats were fast on their heels. Some even found themselves in worse peril than what they left.

  There were two people who stood very near the fire. One was a mannish woman with high cheekbones, and a determined carriage who was hacking at some possum meat. The man that accompanied her had legs as bowed as a toad’s, and only came up to his consort’s shoulders. Though both bore the arrogant postures of the Dominiker Class, the man gave the impression he was subservient to her.

  The Dominikers were a class of people who served the Pitters and were thus rewarded with extra perks. They were often given rulership over the very people they derived from. To say the class of Dominikers were hated would be an understatement. It wasn’t likely that they could be traveling with Rogue Nations people and not get killed. Such simply did not add up.

  Snake Horse introduced him. “Here is the Lord Sur Sceaf now.” He motioned with his hand. “My lord, this is Jakob Walker and his wife Yggep.”

  He locked eyes first with the man and then the woman. An unnatural chill jolted through him, followed by a sick feeling he could not account for. Something felt very wrong. To begin with the little man had shifty eyes. The woman was not only repulsively ugly, but she seemed deeply cold-hearted. They were a queer couple indeed.

  Has the exhaustion made me this nauseous? Sur Sceaf wondered. Maybe bad wat
er from having drunk out of the Beaver Marsh yesterday or maybe I got too many hits on the head from the mock combat and somehow all of this adds up to paranoia. I doubt it. This may be the Ur-Fyr, warning me of some unknown possible danger. In which case, I must proceed with caution.

  He studied first one, then the other. Though both were clearly travel-weary, he read apprehension in their demeanor. His mentor, Jacky Doo, had taught him to lean heavily on first impressions, but to suspend final judgment until evidence supported or refuted that first reading.

  “What brings you to our camp, strangers?” He forced himself to be hospitable.

  The man turned. “I am Jakob the Merchant. I hail from as far east as Balmor. I was once a Dominiker in the service of the Emperor’s Central Command in Balmor.”

  Despite the man’s disclosure, Sur Sceaf found himself disturbed by the admission that Walker had once operated within the inner circle of the powerful Pitter elite. Others had defected, of course. It was not unusual. Some truly wished to aid the Herewardi cause, but none too few were later discovered to be Pitter operatives and spies with evilest of designs.

  As though perceiving his doubts, Walker reached under the seat of his wagon and brought out a round leather dispatch tube sealed with a yew frond, the sigil of his cousin, Ilker the Irregular.

  “I have here a letter of recommendation from the Lord Ilker of the Monastery at Leakey in the Taxus Hilly Country. He said you would know of him.”

  “A kinsman of mine, indeed, well-known, and of good report. His recommend will carry you far in these parts.”

  Sur Sceaf broke the seal, unfolded the vellum and silently read:

  To the current Commander of the Herewardi stationed among the Sharaka at Di-Ahman. Hail and Os-Frith:

  I, Ilker, king of the Fourth Kingdom, came upon merchant Walker and his wife on the road from Banderas to the Omala. My intent was to slay him as a Dominiker, which is done unto all Dominikers in these parts, but the Rogues from the shores of the Mys-Isis Waters plead for their lives and assured me Walker and his wife had smuggled them out of a prison camp in the Piney Barrens and were somehow able to set them free.

  Being ex-Dominikers and escaped prisoners, they needed sanctuary. My people are all engaged in active war, and have not the resources to house them. I send them to you for approval and further vetting. As you will know the Roufytrof has not yet officially sanctioned my actions, and our forces operate entirely without the resources the other kingdoms have, as we are pronounced Irregulars.

  Please show them the hospitality all strangers enjoy among the Herewardi.

  Your Ever Faithful Compatriot,

  Ilker of Leakey

  ***

  On the third day at Di-Ahman, Crooked Jack brought the fyrds back from the high desert maneuvers and Rus returned to the side of his beloved queen, Va-Eyra where he once again took up the Throne of the Sixth Kingdom at Fort Rock.

  Sur Sceaf broke into a smile when he saw Jacky Doo riding into camp. The man looked as cross and mean as a wildcat with a cactus on his ass, but Sur Sceaf had grown up under this man’s tutelage and he knew well the warm heart and care this man had for his people. Loyal to the end, Crooked Jack had never failed him.

  “Hail and well met, my lord,” he said in his gravelly voice. “Heard tell, that beautiful wife of your’n birthed a half-grown man-child. Does she fare well after birthing such a big boy?”

  “The truth be said, hearing her cry out in pain was more torturous than anything I’ve ever experienced. I don’t even know if I can go through such again.”

  “Won’t be up to you, Son. The gods have already written your fate on their trestle board. Just a word of advice. Keep a close eye on her, cause I lost my wife two weeks after birthing Kelvin. ‘Course, I was livin’ in the White Mountains in them days and we didn’t have no Redith nor Sagwi with their wyrt-cunning and leechcraft to keep her from dyin’ from the likes of child-bed fever. Between you and me, Roana was the best thing that ever happened to me. Ain’t nothin’ I tried could rid me of the pain of losin’ that good woman.”

  Sur Sceaf glanced toward the tipi where his wife recuperated. “I couldn’t live without Paloma.”

  “Like I said, be best if you keep a close eye on her for at least a moonth.”

  “A team of mules couldn’t pull me away from her, Jacky Doo.”

  Jacky nodded with that same usual be cautious look he had when he wasn’t fully satisfied with the answer, then as if to change the mood, said, “So, my boy, I’m guessing you got all cozy and well-fed whilst you left me to suffer all the hardships of the desert with these young heathens and those damn relentless marsh flies. I swear by the gods there were some in my tent pert near as big as crows!”

  “Don’t cry on my shoulder, Old Man. It’s not my fault you can’t keep up with my young bloods.”

  “Keep up with? Why, half of them were drunk on the second round of drinks. But I got my share of that high desert ale and thar ain’t a drop left for you n’ Dak. No thar ain’t. Drank a toast or two to ya though, my boy. And you done me proud out there. I mean beatin’ the pants off all them seasoned warriors. Done me proud!” He hesitated while studying Sur Sceaf’s disappointed look. “Truth is, my boy, I fetched a keg of that golden brew specially for ya. I take care of my own.”

  Sur Sceaf laughed as Jacky moaned from aches while climbing down from his horse, Clodhopper and smacked the wooden keg behind his saddle. The two men embraced with a bear hug and much back slapping joy.

  “Who’s them there waggoneers over yonder?”

  “Some refugees from the Taxus fleeing the wrath of Sanangrar’s camp.”

  “Ah! Poor devils. Be damn lucky if they ever get their spirits back. Seen enough of them goblin-robbed minds to fill a horror tale. T’ain’t a nice sight. Women and kids a walkin’ around like they ain’t got no soul left. Damned foul!”

  “These seem to have gotten away before they ate much of the whips or had bones broke thanks to some fiendish Pitter labor boss. Rest of them likely weren’t pretty enough to bother with.”

  “Praise the gods. Norn Sisters must have something special in store for them, then.” He paused for a moment. “Freya have mercy. I thought that crop-haired ugly one was a man.” He let out a bombastic laugh as he shot a darting glance at Yggep.

  “Careful. Remember the code of hospitality. Since you’ve returned, you’ll take my place escorting them as far as Irminsul and from thence, I’ll have a scout lead them down to Glide Garth. My father will have to deal with their settlement. Somewhere on the coast near Urford or Abandon, I suspect.”

  ***

  The young bloods had done so well in the desert maneuvers that Sur Sceaf allowed them to drink more of the high desert ale that Jacky Doo had tried to hide. In fact, Sur Sceaf made it a point to join them in their merriment that evening after Paloma had urged him to enjoy himself. Sagwi and Redith were tending to her and the baby. Though he was reluctant to leave her side, she insisted that she was in good hands.

  “For no man should desert their wolf pack when they are drinking sumbel.” She said.

  Even though he had enjoyed himself with the lads of his wolf pack, he had been tormented by worry about Paloma. Jacky’s words haunted him. What if he lost his tender bride? When he returned to the tipi and found her sleeping peacefully, he was greatly reassured she would heal up fine.

  The next morning he rose before the break of dawn, kissed her and then availed himself of prayer for Paloma and his firstborn. He finished in time to bid Crooked Jack and the wagoneers a jolly good journey.

  Some of the refugees seemed half-asleep as they piled into their wagons. Little did they know, but he strongly suspected they would soon choose to walk alongside the wagons rather than endure the violent jostling caused by the rutted trail. According to the long range plans of his father the king, Master Builder Muryh was to design and construct a series of roads linking the various communities situated along the Umpqua Trail, facilitating trade in the West withou
t having to venture through the Kalifornias with their robber tariffs on all goods.

  Jacky leaned down from his massive white steed with its full complement of battle scars. “Truth be told, Surrey, them two Dominikers impress me as bad seed. They say all the right things, I s’pose, but how come they ain’t got no children taggin’ along behind ‘em. Don’t seem right. Gotta say, been my experience a woman who don’t like children has got a bad breast for mankind.”

  Sur Sceaf glanced toward the odd couple. “I hear you and I mark you well. If it hadn’t been for Ilker’s vouching, I would not have let them pass, but even so, keep a close eye on them.”

  “Think I should take more than one Twelver?”

  Sur Sceaf considered, then shook his head. “The young bloods need rest. Besides, you’re as good as a twelver all by yourself.”

  The old warrior grinned. “Damn right, lad. In my humble opinion, ain’t nobody better than me. After all, I fought under your daddy and your granddaddy. T’weren ‘t never a disappointment to either.”

  Sur Sceaf laughed before slapping Clodhopper on the rump. “Be sure you’re back here for the baby’s behoodment ceremony. Fa is sending your old comrade-in-arms, Muryh, to do the honors and give the blessing. Paloma and I want you to seal the anointing as only you can do.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. T’weren’t too long ago I did the same for you,” Jacky shouted as he rode off toward the head of the column.

  ***

  Since arriving in Irminsul three days ago, Sur Sceaf had gone every dawn to pray and meditate beneath the enormous column of basalt jutting up through the towering firs like a bridge into the lavender skies above. Lore masters claimed that this stone had been placed by the hand of Odhin himself during the formation of the Ea-Urth, and thus, it was called the Woon Stone.

  The visitors from Witan Jewell came to participate in the Anointing Ceremony of Protection known amongst the Herewardi as the behoodment, and had arrived at midday the day before. Among them were Sur Sceaf’s mother, Queen Mahallah, who was also representing the Council of Women, and his brother, Long Swan, who, as the youngest initiate ever chosen to be a member of the Roufytrof, was also representing the supreme ruling body of the Herewardi Kingdoms.