The Sire Sheaf

by Russ L. Howard

  Sur Sceaf smiled and smacked Wose on the back, “Enough flyting, my friend. How did you know to look for me here?”

  “When I heard of your commission in Witan Jewell, I left to find you and came upon Arundel moving his herds over Black Top. He told me where you should likely be found. What would Flying Wolf say if I neglected my duty to watch over you?”

  “I’ve told you many times, I do not hold you responsible for the death of my mo fa.”

  “You can say that all you want, but I cannot rid myself of that guilt. It is I who must determine what I owe in wergeld and service and none other.”

  The twinkling sound of swifts in the twilight sky alerted Sur Sceaf that the hour was growing late. “Hold that thought while I finish this ritual.”

  Sur Sceaf took the antlers from his head and fastened them onto White Fire’s head. “I still have the forty-four perambulations to complete around the Sacred Space. Walk with me. It will put us on the same foot together.” With Wose at his side, Sur Sceaf led the white stallion around the Sacred Space, a rite only one of king’s blood was allowed to perform or participate in.

  Following the pollen line as he passed the lit candle, he recited the first of the Forty-Four Laws. “An Agricultural Fundament.”

  They walked in silence until they reached the candle once again and Sur Sceaf spoke the second law, “Protection of the blood line at all costs.”

  After the forty-fourth perambulation, he removed the antlers from White Fire and said, “Help me return the sacred implements to the crypt and then we can share some of my brown stout ale. A Jack Daw brew.”

  “Rituals always make me thirsty,” Wose said with a grin, “Especially after reciting all forty-four laws.”

  Night fell in the glade with the hooting of owls. After tending White Fire, Sur Sceaf brought out bread and cheese while the Wose made a cozy fire.

  When the meal was finished, Wose drained his gourd of Jack Daw Ale, and then locked the fingers of his hands tightly together with thumbs resting on little fingers and shook the grip for emphasis that it could not be broken. “Our souls and fates are woven together, whether you like it or not, Surrey. I am your man!” He signed, ‘Beloved Brother.’

  Sur Sceaf gave the older man a look of approval, “Well, hail, and well met you are, my friend, Starkwulf. Spend this night with me, for I do love your company. Then on the morrow I give you leave, for I go on a mission of peace to the Sharaka and I need to go alone, I hope, without the company of you, my bloody destroying angel.”

  * * *

  After eating breakfast over the sound of crackling flames and running waters in the refreshing cool mountain air, they rose up, shook the dew off their capes and bid one another farewell with the royal embrace. After watching the Wose disappear into the thick brush, heading in the direction of the Willamock, Sur Sceaf mounted White Fire and continued his journey to the east to meet Chief Onamingo at the DiAhman.

  After several hours in the saddle, the air became electric from an approaching thunderstorm, but the sun was still shining brilliantly in the eastern sky. As the wind swished by his ears, it was as if he could hear his father’s voice, “All men have the right to follow their own conscience above prophet, priest, or king. Trust only in the Ur Fyr and remember, holiness is to be experienced, not taught. It is the Heathen way”

  Whatever did he mean by that? wondered Sur Sceaf.

  With a loud blast of his nostrils, White Fire snorted, and showed an agitated gait. His hooves pawed the dirt as a signal of pending danger. Sur Sceaf became even more alert. He looked all about. No sign of danger. He thought maybe a bear or wolves. But he saw no tracks.

  After the trail ran back up hill, White Fire began to settle down, signaling the danger was no longer imminent. What, he wondered, had caused the horse to give out such warning? His ever vigilant stallion did not issue vain warnings. Something was out there. Whatever it was, White Fire had considered it a threat.

  Chapter 3: The Three Ruffians

  Shortly after midday, Sur Sceaf entered a dense old growth forest where the trail was lined with trunks like soldiers along a gauntlet. As he rode along the narrow trail, the trees caused the sunlight to flash across his face in a staccato rhythm as though he were rapidly blinking his eyes. He squinted against the glare, but the distraction forced him to shade his eyes with one hand to see the trail ahead.

  In front of him was a large basalt column that towered above the ancient trees like a giant menhir at a place the Herewardi named Woonstone. On its base were engraved the names of the warriors who had died there following the infamous battle with the Pitters called Frink Glen, though it had really been fought in Goose Valley. It was a battle Sur Sceaf had won, but at a cost the young blood commander was not willing to pay. It deeply grieved him to have lost beloved friends. Everyone else considered it a victory, but the loss of so many warriors haunted his soul in the dark of night as he rehearsed the ‘if onlys’.

  It was here at Woonstone that the Herewardi had been betrayed by a Balmor Rogue named Jakob Inteus Walker, a man that had elicited their protection and trust as a merchant, but had secretly conspired with the Pitter Commissar, Sanangrar, to attack the Sharaka of the Frink Glen Band as a distraction in hopes of drawing the Herewardi fyrds away from the Pass so as to get into the Herewardi Stronghold at Witan Jewell

  After the defeat of the Pitters, Sur Sceaf learned that Walker and his sadistic wife, Yggep, managed to successfully flee with a remnant of the Commissar Sanangrar’s troops over the Stink Water Pass and into the Poisoned Lands. Walker’s escape had opened one of the most frustrating chapters of Sur Sceaf’s life. Since then rumors of the horrors perpetrated by Walker’s wife reached their ears from escapees of her labor camps in Brimestone. Tales that made the hearts of the strongest of men to cringe with revulsion. It haunted him that he was incapable of preventing their escape and that he could not pursue them to their graves for to enter the Poisoned Lands would have meant death for Sur Sceaf and his men.

  As battle scenes marched through his mind, he could hear the battle cries of that day as if it were happening right now. His breast swelled up with grief and his eyes welled with tears at the memory of those young comrades who fought so bravely in that battle. He saw their faces and perseverated on the grief of their loved ones when had he returned home without them.

  Before the massive column was a large stone table upon which travelers, pilgrims, and loved ones had placed mementos for the fallen heroes of that day. Sur Sceaf pulled a branch off a nearby hawthorn and reverently laid it on the table.

  “Warriors of Herewardom, hear my vow. Someday your blood will return on the head of the Pitters. By Os, someday I am purposed to avenge you with the blood of Walker and Yggep. For their scalps shall not escape my blade.”

  He walked over to the dolmans and barrows of previous compatriots, knelt and prayed to the Ur Fa to grant his dead troops a deserved rest and refreshment in the Halls of Valhollar, then rose up and raised his arms to the skies, “Hear, oh Heavenly Elfdom, and give ear you tribes of the Ea-Urth. I, Sur Sceaf, son of Sur Spear and of Mahallah’s hearth, am ready to bear the yoke of my high commission until fulfilled! I vow I shall not give my eyes rest nor my sword arm peace until the Pitter Empire is no more, and the blood of these men here resting is properly avenged. I shall not plow a field, lift a stone, or hammer a nail that is not to this end. For I and my seed, shall utterly smite the Pitter Empire from the Ea-Urth. So mote it be!”

  As he was turning away, a mighty dead timber crashed to the earth with a shaking thud. White Fire pranced and reared. After stilling the horse, Sur Sceaf remounted and wondered if he had somehow provoked the powers of darkness by his bold proclamation, for even as the ground shuddered from the impact of the enormous trunk, the sun darkened under deep black clouds. A dire premonition of danger engulfed his being, like some unwanted smoke backing down a chimney to fill a room. He knew within his being that dark elves had heard these vows.

  A raucous group o
f jays heckled him as a warning omen that something very bad was imminent. Though he tried to shake off the feeling, a foreboding miasma seemed to be gathering around him, pressing down on him as if he had become the object of some sinister unknown destructive intent from the Dark Unknown.

  Instinctively, he prepared for battle, assessing his wave blade at his side, his scramasax on his calf, and if needed, his broadsword, at his other side. The sense that prying eyes were upon him became all pervasive. Even White Fire seemed puzzled. He looked all about. Pitters, being an urban population, did not possess the ability to stalk or be this cryptic in the wild. Surely not the Wose again! thought Sur Sceaf. No, White Fire would know him. On high alert, he pressed on.

  It was mid-afternoon when Sur Sceaf caught the sound of thunder in the distance. Looking up, he saw the canopy of the trees swinging in the wind and felt the air changing from the heat of the forest floor to that of a cool storm. Thunder rolled nearer throughout the mountains, and wisps of wind carried the smell of the brewing clouds above.

  White Fire was a seasoned warhorse, trained never to panic, but rather to follow his rider’s cues. Yet, White Fire was now snorting warnings more frequently, and showing agitation in his gait. Someone or some thing was stalking him.

  Sur Sceaf cocked his head and listened, trying to discern an alien sound through the whispering branches. The alternating shadow of trees and sunlight made visibility close to impossible. He had just ducked under a fallen timber to pass between a large boulder and a tree trunk when a sharp pain pierced his chest.

  He froze. Shockingly, a Sharaka warrior appeared where the trail narrowed. The young pockmarked brave grabbed White Fire’s bridle in one hand and thrust the tip of his spear against Sur Sceaf’s left breast, though it did not penetrate. Aware that his stallion could easily kill this young man, he issued a knee command to stand down.

  “My Sharaka brother, you clearly mistake me for an enemy. I am Sur Sceaf of the Herewardi, Blood Brother to Chief Mendaka.”

  “I know who you are, White Man. Give me the secret communiqué you carry, or I’ll kill you! I know you have it in an ivory box. Now hand it over!”

  Sur Sceaf hid his surprise. “I did not so receive it; neither will I so impart it.” He was unsure whether this was some sort of test.

  “Then you shall die!” the brave cried.

  With one hand Sur Sceaf brushed off the spear while the other tightened on the reins. He dug his heels into White Fire’s flanks, sending the horse into an explosive lunge that sent his assailant flying down a steep grade.

  He rode hard for another plow length before he came around a bend to a congested alder thicket where he was confronted by another fallen fir tree blocking the path.

  “Stop, or you’re a dead man,” came a voice above him.

  With his path impeded, he was forced to stop and was immediately seized by his hair with a knife laid to his throat. This brave had swung down from the tree, hanging only by his legs. He had the gentle face of a boy and sported a pair of dog ears as an amulet pinned on his chest. He, too, demanded the secret communiqué between the High Lord Sur Spear and the Chief Onamingo. Convinced now that this was no mistake, Sur Sceaf became irritated by their unlawful request. He grabbed the youth’s wrists and twisted hard, wrenching the assailant out of the tree as easily as you’d pull down a possum. The young brave struck the ground with a thud, followed by a sharp cry of pain

  Sur Sceaf shouted “Go!” sending White Fire plunging through the thicket like a charging boar. Looking back, he saw the youth had been joined by the first ruffian he had encountered as the two raced after him on foot.

  He spurred White Fire on, putting distance between him and his pursuers. Soon they were out of sight, and he was about to slow the stallion when all of a sudden he was lifted out of his saddle by a taut rope stretched chest high across the path. He crashed to the ground. Before Sur Sceaf could scramble to his feet, a broad-shouldered youth of about twenty loomed over him with his tomahawk raised, ready to strike a killing blow.

  Though his features were obscured by black war paint, his eyes burned with rage and cruelty. “Give me the secret communiqué !” he spat out. “The braves you crashed through are weak, but I am strong. I will smash your skull like a walnut if you don’t give it me!”

  Sur Sceaf summoned his strength and kicked the man backwards into the brush with such force that several buckthorn saplings snapped like twigs. Sur Sceaf leaped to his feet and drew his blade from its leg sheath.

  On his feet again, the large brave assumed a familiar battle stance. From the corner of his eye, Sur Sceaf saw the other braves approaching through the thickets. He anchored his feet, pulled out his broadsword with one hand and his scramasax with the other as he backed up against a large fir tree to narrow the field of attack. He whistled a command to White Fire to turn back and attack on command. Sur Sceaf was calm, but coiled for battle.

  The large brave strode menacingly toward him swinging the tomahawk. Sur Sceaf dodged the blow, then smacked him on the face with the flat of the broadsword. The brave recoiled in pain, his nose smashed and bleeding profusely.

  With sword raised, Sur Sceaf commanded, “I offer you peace or death, though it will be your call.”

  If this oaf raised his tomahawk again, he would meet his death, but Sur Sceaf perceived this was all a bluff to extort his communiqué, else they could have already killed him with an arrow. For if they had killed him, there would be no secret to discover. No, it was torture they had in mind, not death. In order to torture him, they first had to subdue him and that he knew was not likely to happen.

  Sur Sceaf eyed the approaching ruffians like a bull buffalo eyes a pack of wolves. He readjusted and contemplated the braves’ every move. He stared, relaxed, while at the same time cocking for action as they circled him. He knew he could out fight them and cause them some serious pain, but he did not want to injure them permanently if it could be avoided. After all, they appeared to be Sharaka, and as such, were not supposed to have any enmity towards him. The largest brave began yapping like a coyote as he moved in closer with his tomahawk swinging from side to side. Thunder roared through the mountains. Sur Sceaf signaled White Fire, who drove the two younger braves back into the thickets with his steel hooves.

  Without warning, a tall grey-haired figure brandishing a shepherd’s crook medicine bow sprung from cover and shouted, “Standing Bull, you damned fool. Get the hell out of here!”

  The ruffians immediately ceased their harassment, turned away like whipped dogs, and moved back against the thicket with lowered eyes. The man standing majestically before him was a Sharaka shaman in beaded doeskin. He knew him to be none other than the Thunder Horse, his mo mo bro or uncle, as the Sharaka say.

  The shaman rebuked the three ruffians sternly. They slowly backed away into the wood. “This is a true messenger to our people. He will lead us to truth and light. Something you three will apparently never understand.” He pointed with his medicine bow. “When I was back in camp with you, Standing Bull, I sensed you were up to some evil. It was clear that dark spirits are in your heart. So I followed you three crows out of camp two days ago. Now, I see, this was your foul design, to intercept a communiqué, and to what end? It is not for you to know the contents. That is why you were not invited into the Council of Chiefs. It is not even given to you to understand it if it had been told you. Now be gone!”

  The youth with the dog-ears amulet looked dejected and ashamed whereas the Standing Bull and the pock faced brave showed even more defiance.

  The medicine man’s visage took on that of a spiritual force that was both awesome and frightening. He spoke in that grave baritone voice Sur Sceaf remembered from his youth, “I said get your shameful faces out of here!”

  Standing Bull’s two henchmen slinked off into the shadows of the forest like retreating smoke, but Standing Bull stubbornly remained where he was, teeth gritted and jaw muscles pulsing. Finally, he turned, twisted the top off a huckleberry bush,
and followed his lackeys into the wood to disappear down the trail.

  Thunder Horse then turned with the utmost gentleness to Sur Sceaf. “I am sorry you have been thus treated, Lord Prince Sur Sceaf. Those boys are of next to no worth. They are like dogs that eat livestock. That damned Hotuekhaashtait, the Standing Bull, does more damage to our people than any ten enemies ever could! Would to Tah-Man-Ea he would leave our community forever. We did not expect you quite this soon and certainly not traveling alone in such dark times as these. It is not safe, particularly for one of your stature. And bearing the treasure of great knowledge you surely must be bringing. With the increasing evil of Pitter attacks on us and on the Quailor, we have hope your counsel will be a fruit of life to the people.”

  The Thunder Horse was the revered spirit chief and medicine man, or adawehis, of the Sharaka. Sur Sceaf had not seen his uncle for at least five winters, but it was unmistakably the Thunder Horse, as witnessed the beaded elk skin robe over his left shoulder and the teeth marks of a panther across his naked right shoulder, the twisted strands of horse hair sporting panther teeth worked into his braids, and his bold demeanor as only a man of great spiritual power is able to possess.

  “Forgive me Thunder Horse,” Sur Sceaf said, throwing back his hair and re-situating his raven hair claw. “I left ahead of the fyrd because I wanted to become spiritually attuned and obtain a revelation from the Elf Father Undergod, before meeting with the Chief Onamingo.”

  “You are a holy man, young Prince Sur Sceaf, like your father the High Lord Syrus, whom they nowadays call Sur Spear. Though you have had this experience with Standing Bull, perhaps when you know Hotuekhaashtait the Standing Bull better, you shall think even less of him.” His expression darkened and his dark eyes flashed contempt. “There is both good and evil in the world, and then there is the paradox of holiness. Those are the three levels of mankind. I place Sur Spear’s family in the camp of the holy. Standing Bull does not even make it to the level of good.”