The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  Many of the Sharaka women wandered about camp, listless from horrors and violations unmentionable. Those who maintained some level of sanity moaned, keened, and wept bitter tears over their dead.

  A group of young braves approached. Bull Breaker, a brave from the Klamath Tribe said, “May the Nunnehi ever watch over you, Surrey. You have saved us this day. I will always be your man.”

  Sur Sceaf bit back his tears and helped where he could. He whistled for the leechers to bring their wyrt-cunning to heal the wounded. He routed one to tend Segnir. When he noticed a collapsed hide near the blood-drenched pasture where so many sheep had been slain, he rode to it. A campfire had escaped and was fast burning the remains of a nearby tipi.

  Something moved beneath the hide which Muryh had seen as well, for he went toward the hide. Sur Sceaf held his sword to the ready thinking a Pitter was trying to escape detection. He hurriedly dismounted, lifted the hide, and was about to plunge his sword up to the hilt when a whimpering boy looked up at him through soot-covered eyes and a char-blackened face.

  Looking behind him for help, he saw Schmo, vomit still covering his pale face. “Schmo, you do not have a stomach for war. Tend this boy as if he were your son.”

  After the wounded were tended, the women calmed down, and the children taken care of, Sur Sceaf declared, “Schmo you and the leachers will stay here with Snake Horse and his dog soldiers until the wounded have all been tended and can be moved tenderly to Di-Ahman.”

  Schmo puzzled the instructions out for a moment. “Where are you going, my lord?”

  “We must hie to Irminsul. I know now why I was prompted to divide my forces. This attack was but a ruse. The real attack is going to take place at the Woon Stone.”

  ***

  Irminsul was a holy landmark to the Herewardi. The massive column overlooking the Gate of the Umpqua was said in the Folk Mouth to be where many sober men had seen either Father Woon or the golden-haired God, Heimdall, watching over the Herewardi Kingdom. Some even saw the Goddess Freya flying through the sky with her chariot drawn by cats sprinkling the flowers of fertility from its heights during the first days of Albispiene and giving fruit to the wombs of women while bestowing blessings to the land.

  Fortuitously, or perhaps even aided by the mighty Thor, Sur Sceaf had the cover of a thunderstorm as he rode upon Irminsul, the Woon Stone. After all, Sur Sceaf was of the Seed of Odhin and warranted the protection of his Heavenly Father. He halted at Sylph Falls to rest the horses before battle and dispatched Drum Runner as well as his best young blood scout, Leof, to high ground where the far seer would have clear view of the area in order to confirm Sur Sceaf’s suspicions. The last thing he wanted to risk was riding into a trap or giving the enemy a warning that they were approaching on their flanks.

  His men had finished feeding their mounts and were still munching on pemmican and hardtack when Drum Runner and Leof returned. Without taking time to dismount, Drum Runner reported, “Your heart has seen true. A great horde of rat faces have descended on the Thunder Stone. I saw many black flags. The Crooked One and the red coats are holding the enemy back at the narrow pass, preventing passage.”

  Sur Sceaf was relieved the fyrds he left behind had formed a stopgap and prevented any legions from passing into the Umpqua Valley, the soft underbelly of the Herewardi First Kingdom. Most likely the Pitter hell-rats had come from the Pitter Zonga at Eugene where he suspected Walker and Yggep had gone to report the vulnerability of the Frink Glen Clan, the perfect diversion, and worse, the precise location of the strategically important gate leading to the Umpqua.

  “How many legions did you count?”

  Leof looked for approval from Drum Runner before declaring, “My prince, we think they were at least four legions strong.”

  Mendaka lifted his eyebrow, “A good day to die, my lord.”

  “Tis they that shall die.” He turned to the scouts again. “And casualties?”

  “Heavy, my lord. It would not be wise to wait much longer.”

  “Drum Runner, did you see scouts watching their flanks?”

  “None. Foolish rat faces are as arrogant as a bull charging into a thicket full of wolves.”

  Sur Sceaf took a deep breath. “Tis well.” He turned to face his men. “Men of Herewardom, bite your shields. I command you to work yourselves into a frenzy. Assume you are going to die this day, for we are greatly outnumbered by these demons, but if the gods be willing, let us go forth killing and to kill. In the name of Tyr may there not be one Pitter left to stand against the wall by sunset of this day.”

  Rather than shout their acclamation, the young bloods bit their shields and shook their spears in agreement, the Herewardi silent ballot.

  “In the name of Odhin, lay on and remember the freedom of our wives and children and we as a race are here at stake” He motioned with his spear and shouted, “Lay on for all Herewardom!”

  ***

  The thunder and the roaring of the swollen Umpqua River made the approach of the fyrds go undetected, allowing them to surprise the enemy from the rear. Sur Sceaf’s men fought until they were bone-weary, and then fought on, slaying and to slay. During the heat of the fray, he caught sight of the black-clad Pitter commander and two others in black leave the fight and ride off toward the Sisters’ Trail. He knew this marked the end of the battle and his sure victory, but there still lay the matter of the slaughter before him.

  Sometime during the battle the storm had dumped its full payload before moving on into the high desert, leaving behind ankle deep mud soon churned into froth by the steel-shod hooves of the war horses.

  As ordered, by sunset not a single Pitter was left alive. The last of the entrapped officers fell on their own swords and cursed the Herewardi with their dying breaths. He marvelled that they could possibly believe such an act would win them a place in the Pitter Heaven.

  Sur Sceaf’s first concern was for his men. Many were wounded, some seriously, some not at all. Even Crooked Jack himself bore a new slash across his already much battle-scarred face. Sur Sceaf dispatched Leof to make a count of the Herewardi dead.

  Upon his return, he stated with tears running down his face, “I counted seventy-eight slain warriors, my lord,” the scout continued, “two were my brothers.”

  Sur Sceaf grieved for those who gave up their lives and their futures, many of whom he had known since boyhood, several of whom had only just married.

  Muryh declared, “I grieve with you, Surrey, but I assure you I have seen more than my share of battles and have witnessed far greater losses among our own. You did very well here.”

  Schmo brought the small red child Sur Sceaf had told him to guard like a son. “What wilt thou have me do with this one, my lord? He sayeth his name is Yellow Horse and that all his family were slain before his eyes.”

  “For Frey’s sake, I didn’t intend for you to bring him along. We’ve got to place him.”

  Muryh volunteered, “It’s alright Surrey. I was a good friend of the boy’s father. I shall take him into my house and raise him. I owe that much to one who once saved me from certain death.”

  “So be it. If I weren’t scheduled to go to Salem, I would have fostered him.”

  “You have a new wife. No sense in burdening a young marriage with a double load.”

  Crooked Jack, who had been corralled by one of the leechers, winced as the man plied his needle and catgut thread to close the gaping wound slashing his cheek. “Never doubted for a moment we would win. I was damn sure when you divided the fyrds you were under the favor of the gods, and would show up when we most needed. Course, just to hedge my bets, I cast a Ravens’ Feet Curse over the enemy host. Ain’t fought a battle where that didn’t work right well.”

  Though all but reeling from exhaustion, Mendaka took a hasty accounting of his dog soldiers and found that twenty-seven braves had given up their lives to the Thunder Beings, while another dozen bore more than cursory wounds.

  Muryh had Schmo take the child to a safe p
lace away from the carnage. He had much experience with the Pitters and identified the Pitter leader who had taken cowardly departure during the battle as none other than the Commissar Sanangrar, the emperor’s most favored of commanders. “Nothing short of a miracle has occurred here today, lad. I doubt even the most seasoned heratoga would have had the foresight to divide their forces. Most would have achieved victory in one minor battle, but lost a far more important one. Your bravery and that of your men will be sung by every silver circuit rider at every sumbel throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Your father will be right proud.”

  Crooked Jack sent green beetles, the first level of warriors and Herewardi camp attendees, to prepare the dead for a proper burial. Silver riders were sent to announce the victories, while the warriors tended to the mass bonfires upon which the Pitter corpses were flung into the consuming flames.

  Sur Sceaf lifted off his helm, pulled out the raven hair claws and let his sweating braids catch the cooling breeze rising from the swollen banks of the Umpqua Stream. “The gods rode with us this day, but I fear this is but the start of a long and protracted war and we are spread way too far apart to defend all the Seven Kingdoms properly.”

  Muryh nodded his agreement. “It is true. But be it known that the Roufytrof is working on a master plan for the war road that will carry us all the way to Gettisbuhr and, we pray, victory. This will take much time, the forging of many alliances, the stockpiling of resources, and above all, the cultivation of tolerance among the scattered tribes. The price of freedom is eternal struggle. Let us all press on until we see the end of the Pitter Empire.”

  “So mote it be.” Sur Sceaf declared.

  Chapter 1: The Commission

  Long Swan’s Log: It is the Moonth of Albispiene, the Good Goddess, in the year 583 HSO as reckoned from the year of the slaughter of the ancient High Lord Hrus-Syr-Os. I write from the Stronghold of Witan Jewell in the Umpqua Wilderness.

  I am Long Swan, Rune Singer and Lore Master of the Herewardi Tribe, youngest son of the High Lord Sur Spear, born of Ethelwynn’s hearth, and brother to the Lord Prince Sur Sceaf of Mahallah’s hearth. Sur Sceaf is the high lord of Namen Jewell and high heretoga commander of the Witan Jewell fyrds. I, having been appointed official scribe by the Roufytrof, do now set my hand here to chronicle the commission given to the Lord Sur Sceaf by the Roufytrof. To wit:

  ‘We the forty-four members of the Roufytrof, hereby grant commission to Lord Prince Sur Sceaf to undertake to unite and lead the three tribes consisting of the Herewardi, Quailor, and Sharaka into one solid confederation, powerful enough to arrest the progress of the Pitters with the ultimate goal of eventually defeating them. We, hereby, bestow upon him all rights, authority, and privileges granted by the Roufytrof and under the authority and approval of the high lord and king of all Herewardi, Sur Spear.’

  The granting of the commission came about as a result of the offensive expansion of the Imperial Pitter attacks on scattered Herewardi settlements in the Taxus Hilly Country and the massacre of the Frink Glen Band from the Steens Mountains of the high desert. In response to that battle, the Roufytrof, under order of Sur Spear, conducted preliminary talks with the leaders of the two most established Tribes of the West; Onamingo, the chief of the Sharaka Tribe at Di-Ahman, and Elijah von Hollar, the high priest of the peaceable sect known as the Quailor in Salem. The initial goal is to facilitate the forming of the Council of Three Tribes. The ultimate goal is to find a stratagem of common defense and build a counteroffensive against the dark forces of the Pitters ever pressing in on us with their numerous legions and relentless rat packs.

  The three leaders are in agreement that unless this confederation of tribes succeeds in establishing a fortified stronghold for freedom-loving people within the security of the Herewardi Lands on the coasts of the Great Deep at Ur Ford all will be lost and humanity shall become extinct. The Roufytrof considered the monumental importance of choosing the appropriate leader to overcome the resistance that was already being expressed against forming a confederation under one supreme leader. Since the Herewardi are, by and large, the most prepared with the number of population (who are almost all warriors in one way or another), military readiness, and existing strongholds, the three leaders decided that the Herewardi should choose the man they were all to follow.

  Many war lords were reviewed for this commission – men of high reputation and renown, with long records of success in battle—proven men of the bloodline and of king’s blood. After deep consideration and a thorough vetting by the powerful Council of Women led by the Lady Paloma, it was determined that Lord Prince Sur Sceaf is the proven fyrd heretoga whose sword always holds the enemy in battle.

  Also, he has a long history of productive inter-tribal diplomacy unequalled by the other princes. Yet of most import is the fact that he has the seed code of all three bloods – Herewardi, Sharaka, and Quailor. Thus was he chosen to be the lord over the three tribes. Under his direction the settlers are to form a three tribe sovereign city-state on the West Coast by the Great Deep of Aurvandil. There is hope that this city will attract even more like-minded tribes and peoples to eventually join the confederation.

  On the last day of the Feast of Yster in the Moonth of the Skipping Lambs, the day that honors the Goddess Walpurga, Sur Sceaf formally accepted the commission as lord of the three tribes. His initial task is the finalization of the alliance by assisting Chief of Chiefs Onamingo of the Sharaka and Chief High Priest Elijah Von Hollar of the Quailor in gaining the sustaining votes of their governing bodies and then leading the exodus from their lands. It is a formidable undertaking, given the wide disparity of beliefs and cultures. Many people find the idea of a royal bloodline unacceptable.

  He determined to set off in the Moonth of Three Milks or Albispiene as it is now called, so that he might travel at a time when the foul weather is sure to clear and when the favor of the gods is often at its highest.

  It is now that time. Tomorrow, on the first bloom of Albespiene, my brother, the Lord Prince Sur Sceaf, designated lord of the three tribes, will leave for the wilderness in the Umpqua. I conclude this entry to attend the protection ritual and farewell being held in his honor in the Shepherd Hall at Witan Jewell, the seat of Herewardi government under King Sur Spear.

  Addendum: At the conclusion of the protection ritual, King Sur Spear uttered these words of warning to Sur Sceaf:”From this point on the Black Wolf will pursue and seek to devour you until the end of your days.”

  * * *

  Even as a child, Sur Sceaf had considered Albispiene, the Moonth of the Good Goddess, as the most beautiful moonth of the year.

  His stallion, White Fire, was feeling his oats with the flush of new grasses and the warming spring sun that drew out the blow of May. The warhorse had just been taken from the breeding stud where he had settled up to seventy two mares.

  Sur Spear’s See of Witan Jewell was now one day behind Sur Sceaf. The entrance to the mountainous forests at Glide Garth spread out its grassy savannahs before him. Making his way toward the towering dark forests still ahead, White Fire picked his way through the grasslands paralleling the road on the west bank of the North Umpqua River. Sur Sceaf was hoping to locate his son, who had been tasked with shepherding the family’s sheep in the flush of new grasses. It was his last farewell before he entered his commission.

  Just as the stallion paused to drink, a maiden’s high-pitched scream pierced the early morning serenity, sending a covey of quail hidden in the grasses into explosive flight. Sur Sceaf glanced around and determined the scream had come from his right. He shouted, “Yeoh Wah,” the customary call of the Herewardi. Answered only by another scream, he whirled his muscled stallion to the right and urged him into a full battle gait.

  Stretched low over White Fire’s wind-whipped mane, he followed the sound of the screams through a thick oak grove, dodging low lying branches and briars, only to belatedly realize the girl’s cry for help came from the opposite direction, over the hill and to his
left.

  As he crested the last of the three hillocks before him, he caught sight of sheep scattering below in the meadow. Still at full gallop, he beheld the ripped and torn carcasses of other sheep strewn along a jagged bloody gash in the green sward, betokening a great slaughter had just taken place. The flock had been ravished.

  After a tortuous silence, another frantic scream shattered the quiet. It was a haunting scream, one he was almost certain he had heard before. So chilling was it that it gave him an eerie tingling running up his spine. Even so, he slowed White Fire’s pace in order to scan every thicket, every rock outcropping, yet was unable to pinpoint the exact source of the screams.

  He was beginning to despair. A thunderous roar shook the grove. It seemed to come from the south. “Go White Fire, find it! Yeoh Wah!” He felt the stallion’s surge of power followed by lightning speed that made it difficult to see through the thick vegetation.

  Spade-like hooves hurled turf through the air and sent the loose stones rocketing ahead of him. Madrone and oak trees were a blur as wind whistled past his ears and leaves swatted him across his face. As he broke into a clearing, he caught a glimpse of a young maid atop a large boulder in front of an enraged grizzly, its huge paw clawing through the air at her. To his utter horror, he realized the maid was his own red-headed daughter, Brekka, who was frantically jabbing a spear at the mouth and eyes of the frenzied bear in an effort to keep it from climbing up the rock after her.

  Raw fear shot through him. Instinctively he let out a war cry, causing the bear to only momentarily shift focus.

  As he rode towards her, it became evident there was a steep and impassable ravine still dividing them. Only a zigzag ride back up around the ravine would give him access to her. My God, Woon, will there be time? Hell, I’ve got to get to her.

  A thorny cane of blackberry bramble tore at his sleeve as he turned his horse around and headed back up the hill at full speed. An earth-shaking roar followed, arousing visions of demonic horror only a father could know. Atop the ravine, a maze of boulders and saplings blocked his vision. With both fury and fear in his heart, he forced White Fire to slow down so as to keep from sliding into the deep ravine by reason of the scree under foot.