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.
Since the days of Howrus the prophet, priest and king, male children born of Elven blood were required to undergo the ritual anointing of sacred yew oil beneath a consecrated ancient yew tree or yew bower near a haligryft or some other designated holy place. Irminsul was such a place.
Sur Sceaf seized the opportunity to bring his fyrds with him so that they not only would receive the blessings of the day, but also would experience a reunion with their wives, fiancées and children.
His father had promised to attend the behoodment of his newest grandchild, but at the last minute sent his regrets, explaining that his spies had detected a disturbing influx of numerous Pitter legions into the Eugene Zonga. Despite their disappointment, both Sur Sceaf and Paloma had been born of warrior kings and understood the call to duty. In two moonths time and provided Paloma and the baby were fully fit to travel, they would accompany Long Swan, Redith and Mahallah on their return to Witan Jewell in time to celebrate Holy Ullr’s Day.
In the meantime, Sur Sceaf and Paloma were enjoying the company of kith and kin. Conversation was lively and full of cheer, centering around the baby and Long Swan’s recent engagement to Faehunig, daughter of Paloma’s eldest brother, Talbot. Sur Sceaf’s mother, like the force of nature she had always been, had completely taken over the care of baby Arundel, causing much good-natured grumbling from the sisters, Redith and Sagwi.
At high noon the behoodment was to take place beneath a freshly built yew wood bower in the shadow of the towering Woon Stone. The day before, Long Swan in his capacity as Lore Master, had carved and painted sacred runes of protection into the upright posts while Mahallah entwined newly cut yew fronds through the hazel wood lattice-work. That morning Sagwi and Redith would hang Sharaka talismans and dream catchers from the arched top, as was the custom of all Red Men.
At the end of his meditation, Sur Sceaf offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for all the blessings given to him by the gods. Rising, he stretched his muscles before heading back to his pfalz tent in the fyrd encampment. When he arrived, Bugler Schmo von Hollar, a Quailor recruit, blasted reveille. The pledging young blood of fifteen winters was actually Sur Sceaf’s uncle, though two years the younger.
As soon as Schmo spotted him, the lackbeard trotted over. “Hath anyone told thee that that queer little duck fellow and his mannish wife took off on their own during the night about three days ago?”
Sur Sceaf frowned. “I was told Walker was scouting the area for a suitable place to settle his refugees. Heard tell he was even considering land belonging to the Frink Glen Band, which didn’t set well with Chief Thunder Horse. In fact, he instructed me to warn off that ‘nosy little possum’, which I plan to do as soon as Walker returns.”
“I don’t think they plan to return, my lord. They left without saying a word to the refugees and their wagon along with their possessions is still here.”
“Then how did they leave?”
Schmo looked disgusted. “That’s the problem. They stole two of our fastest Sharaka mounts. The horse marshal, Elfbeard, was furious and tracked them as far as to the Sisters’ Trail where he lost the signs in the rocks. Said they were headed north like a couple of crows out of an eagle’s nest.”
That same pervasive sick feeling that Sur Sceaf had experienced at first sight of these queer folk returned. The Ur Fyr warned me they were no good at all. I should have trusted those feelings more. The Sisters’ Trail is the main route to Eugene and the Pitter Zonga. That can only be bad.
He asked Schmo, “Have you searched the wagon for any clue to their true motives?”
Schmo nodded. “We did, my lord. Turned it inside out, but found nothing suspicious, not even a bedbug.”
Sur Sceaf turned his thoughts inward in hopes of receiving direction from the Ur-Fyr, but all he felt was a stupor of thought, which he read as a sign to refrain from action for the time being. Still, he felt he had to take some logical precautions. He would immediately order the scout patrols increased, and after the ceremony, he would consult further with Crooked Jack as to whether they should pursue Walker and his monstrous wife through their spies in Eugene.
***
The day was perfect, warmer than usual. Sweet, gentle breezes bore the scent of the sylvan surroundings, and the sky was a deep cerulean arch over the dark green bower. Nine maidens, godija, from Hrusburg on the outskirts of Witan Jewell softly strummed the hymn “If You Could Hie to Valhalla” on their lyres in accompaniment with the age-old words of anointing spoken by Long Swan acting as the presiding high priest.
The bower was deliberately oriented east to west. Long Swan stood in the east representing the rising sun, while Sur Sceaf and Paloma stood opposite. In the center stood the Lady Redith cradling Baby Arundel on a soft wool cushion embroidered with Herewardi knots, the same cushion on which she had borne Sur Sceaf at his behoodment. The sleeping prince had been wrapped in the finest linen swaddling before being dressed in a silken gown also embroidered with Herewardi knots over the breast and navel.
Although the ceremony was a solemn one, Sur Sceaf couldn’t help revealing his pride and happiness over his firstborn. Paloma alternated between tears of joy and the most beautiful of smiles. The look of wonderment in her gentian blue eyes was ever burned into his heart.
Though nearly the identical age of Sur Sceaf, Long Swan spoke with the dignity and feeling of a wizened wizard, infusing all those present with a spirit of reverence. When he concluded the words of the ritual, Jacky Doo and Mahallah stepped forward. In her hand, Mahallah carefully cradled the traditional onyx well containing the Holy Oil of Anointing. Jacky’s deep baritone voice seemed to vibrate the timbers of the arbor as he began, “I, Jacky Doo, having been granted the power of sealing by the High King Sur Spear, hereby anoint this young prince with this yew oil sanctified and set apart for the protection of all worthy candidates in the House of Hereward until the last generation of time, a rite reserved only for those of Elven Blood.”
Turning to Mahallah, he dipped his finger into the oil and gently anointed the flaxen fuzz on the crown of the baby’s head. “Son of Prince Sur Sceaf of Lady Paloma’s hearth, I hereby bestow upon thee the name chosen by thy father as dictated by Herewardi Law, Arundel the Third, by which name thou shalt be known in the Ea-Urth and in all the records of Herewardom.”
Suddenly, Baby Arundel opened his eyes and looked straight up at Jacky with utmost curiosity. Jacky smiled. “Young Prince, I hereby pronounce a prophetic blessing upon thy head that thy horns will one day drive the enemy from our lands unto their utter destruction and as a prince thou shalt prevail.”
With that, he nodded to Sagwi to bring forth the tiny saxon-green hood that had once behooded Sur Spear as well as Long Swan and Sur Sceaf. Jacky took the hood and raised it for all to see. “I herewith behood thee with the emblem of an Elven lord signifying that thou mayest be a partaker of the hidden knowledge passed down from the days of Howrus unto this generation by which Odhin separates you from the Nations of the Ea-Urth as his own. For that which is heathen contains the secrets of the gods, which no other nation may know, though it reside hidden in plain view.” He placed the hood over the back of the infant’s skull and loosely tied it under the tiny chin. “So mote it be!”
All present echoed, “So mote it be. Hooded we stand evermore protected from the profane and fallen of this world.”
Jacky leaned down and brushed a feather-soft kiss on the young lord’s forehead. “My little lord, we expect great things from thee,” he whispered.
Muryh the Master Builder, who had been standing next to a small tr
estle table to one side of the bower affixed his mark to the official vellum document waiting there, then pressed his signet ring against a small measure of hot beeswax. “As prescribed by Divine Law, and having affixed my mark and seal herewith, I certify that the anointing and sealing have been properly celebrated and verified and will soon be entered into the Archives of Herewardom.”
Long Swan, clad in the white hooded robe of a wizard, raised his staff and prayed to the gods to receive this sealing. Then, smiling, declared, “The Sealing of a Royal Scion of Elf Blood is officially completed and it is verified that all seed born unto him shall be protected and shielded under the Covenant of the Heathen Seed Code. Now, let’s all retire to the yew grove by the river for rest and refreshment.” Long Swan grinned. “The barrels of high desert ale that arrived yesterday are a gift from our sister, Queen Va-Eyra in honor of Herewardom’s youngest Prince of Promise and the Hope of Herewardom.”
Sur Sceaf grinned at Paloma before gently kissing her. He was reaching for his son when a young, dusty brave ran up to him. It appeared the boy had just completed a hard ride. “Sur Sceaf, Bear Killer has sent me to you to beg your aid and assistance. We are under siege by mobs of Pitters at Goose Lake Valley. Our herds are being slaughtered as are our braves. If we do not hurry to their relief, our Frink Glen Band will be no more.”
Located in the Steens Mountains, Frink Glen was Chief Bear Killer’s base camp, but because these Sharaka were a nomadic people, husbanding thousands of sheep, goats, donkeys, alpacas, and horses, they ranged far and wide according to the graze.
Sur Sceaf immediately suspected that Walker and his harridan wife were operatives of the Pitters sent to spy out the nakedness of the land. What a fool I have been to allow them access to a high security area! The shame of it all is on me.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a whir of activity. After consulting with Redith and Sagwi about his wife’s condition, he decided to send Paloma and the baby to his father’s Stronghold of Witan Jewell along with the other women. Long Swan would accompany them along with Sur Sceaf’s best twelver, a dozen young blood warriors specially trained in bush master tactics.
In the meantime, Mendaka sent Fire Ant, one of the Sharaka scouts, to Di-Ahman with orders to summon his dog soldiers and to bring his sharp-toothed hounds of war.
The young bloods and their horses prepared for immediate departure. Sur Sceaf methodically donned his battle armor, while at the same time formulating several plans of attack. After seeing the women and his son off on their hasty journey, he shared his plans with Crooked Jack, who expressed his approval.
As they made ready to mount, Sur Sceaf stopped dead in his tracks. Glancing upward at the overshadowing Woon Stone, he made a decision that seemed to come from nowhere. He issued an order to Jacky to remain at Irminsul in command of five fyrds. Sur Sceaf would take only four to assail the Pitters.
Though clearly stunned by this sudden reversal, Jacky nodded. “Whatever you say, my lord. I have learned during my long service to your father to never question his orders when he acted under the spirit of inspiration. May the gods be with you.” He paused for a moment, looking Sur Sceaf square on from his horse. “None of this brings shame upon you my boy. Ilker vetted Walker, he must answer for that.”
***
The light was waning by the time Sur Sceaf called a halt at the entrance into Goose Lake Valley. Thick columns of smoke arose ahead of them. Riding at his side, Mendaka let out a foul Sharaka curse. “Relickadic! Looks like we may be too late.” He turned in the saddle and shouted, “Drum Runner!”
While waiting for the brave to ride to their side, Dak explained, “Drum Runner is the best far seer we have. He’s from the Cherokee Tribe. Once let us know the Pitters were advancing toward us from twenty-five miles away over hilly country. Father insisted he ride with us. Now I’m grateful that he’s here.”
Muryh shaded his eyes for a better look. “I knew the man when I was supervising the installation of the iron gates at Fort Rock. As I recall, Surrey, your sister Va-Eyra was particularly fond of him during the building of the south gate. He foresaw a Pitter incursion into the desert heading for Fort Rock. Gave us time to put down our trowels and pick up our swords.”
Drum Runner was a lithe brave of about thirty winters, with a long nose and straight black hair to his waist secured by a snakeskin band sporting three owl feathers suggesting he was of shamanic heritage.
Dak nodded toward the smoke. “What see you, Hawkeyes?”
The far seer narrowed his gaze and leaned forward. He was silent for several moments before revealing, “I see many Pitters on ill-favored horses, surrounding the camp, many dead Sharaka on the ground. So many livestock slain that the sage has turned red.”
Sur Sceaf ground his teeth. “Do you see any response from the Sharaka?”
“Only young braves fighting from a grove of junipers. Through the branches I see many women and girls shielding those of tender years.”
“It is enough. We ride!”
Though Sur Sceaf felt the urgency of crossing the valley floor as quickly as possible, wisdom compelled him to keep the pace gentle and even, so that the horses would not be too exhausted to fight upon arrival. Halfway across, flocks of ravens and crows by the droves swooped in from all directions as if summoned to some grand feast.
“By the gods,” Sur Sceaf cursed, “ how come these bloody beaked harbingers of death to haunt me? Be off! Oh Great Night-Rider Odhin, ride with me this day. Blow reviving air into our horses’ lungs. Let their hooves of steel grind our enemies into pulp, wash our tomahawks in the enemy’s blood, and give us godspeed, I pray.”
When they were two hundred yards from the enemy, Sur Sceaf gave the sign to halt. He withdrew and strung his bow and shot an arrow that struck the eagle standard of the Pitter commander, snapping it in half as the eagle plunged into the ground. It was instantly read by a full two legions to be the worst of omens. Thousands of the hell-rats fled out into the desert. Still several legions were too engaged to see what was going on and many were still not aware Sur Sceaf’s fyrds had arrived.
The Pitters astride their nags grabbed women by the hair, capturing them before they could reach the safety of the grove where the braves were making their last stand. Pitters leaped from their horses to rape, plunder, and savage the dead for fingers, ears, genitals, and other gruesome trophies.
A scream drew Sur Sceaf’s attention to a Pitter who had a young maiden by the hair. Spurring his mount, White Fire, into a gallop, he drew his sword and, with a Herewardi battle cry of “Ye-oh,” severed the demon’s hand from his arm. Blood spurted everywhere, drenching the maiden’s buckskin dress. A look of horror crossed her face as she realized the Pitter’s hand still clung to her long hair. Frantically, she freed herself before racing toward the grove where a small group of young braves were fighting valiantly to defend the women and children.
With a cry Mendaka let slip his sharp-toothed hounds of war, and soon the tri-colored beasts were seizing the enemy by their throats and dragging them to their death in the desert dust.
Sur Sceaf’s surcoat had chaffed him raw from the hours in the saddle, and sweat clung to his garments like a sucking glue. “How ends this nightmare?” he cried out to the gods.
Mendaka shot him a quick glance. “With our tomahawks, swords, and hounds, my brother, let us lay on, that blood may touch blood.”
Sur Sceaf signed for Schmo to sound the charge. This was the young Quailor’s first true battle. The boy’s trumpet let out a pitiful squeak. He licked his lips and managed to sound the charge.
Horses’ hooves squished in the carnage of braves, sheep, goats, and Pitters none too few. Sur Sceaf spat on his hand to get a better grip on his sword. White Fire gave the signal with the lift of his head that he was ready to render full service. The mere sight of a wall of white horses sent the half-crazed nags of the Pitters into an uncontrollable stampede away from the Sharaka camp. Like coyotes hackled over carrion, the Pitters turned from th
eir rape and plunder to form a shield wall. They bawled out oaths and curses at the approaching cavalry, come to take away their ill-gotten goods.
The campfires and burning tipis were raked by the wind, sending a blinding smoke over the Pitter hell-rats, thus allowing Sur Sceaf’s army to slam into the shield wall with such force that the hell-rats on the other side were dead before they struck the ground.
The sight of the suffering women made Sur Sceaf thirsty for revenge. Swinging his sword in one hand and tomahawk in his other, he rocked from side-to-side down through the Pitter ranks, like a scythe through barley corn.
A strange image of the little pink fist of his new-born flashed in his mind. He interpreted this as the gods telling him he had just begotten a great warrior. With that in mind, he renewed the energy of his slaying. He cleaved skulls, severed arms, and felt the squish of entrails as White Fire brought his full weight and kicks upon each wretched rat-faced Pitter that dared to stand against him.
His hair tied in elf-knots, he readjusted the hair claws so that the loose braids could cushion his helm from any blows the Pitters sought to inflict, but, at present, only minor wound sores bit at his shins from deflected knife jabs or an occasional ache from a colliding shield that had bruised him in the fray and heat of battle.
Heads rolled off Pitters like melons on a fence row as onward, onward, the fyrds and dog soldiers cut swath after swath of Pitters to the ground. He saw out of his left side a young blood, Segnir by name, rise up from a fall his horse had taken. The boy was so rattled, his mind was goblin-robbed.
Sur Sceaf quickly changed course and cut his way through a row of the transhuman Pitters, grabbed his compatriot by his surcoat and swung the lad up behind him as easily as tossing a sack of potatoes.
“Can you still fight, lad?”
No answer came, only a vacant stare as he looked back, but the boy clung to Sur Sceaf tighter than a squirrel on a branch.
The Sire Sheaf (The King of Three Bloods Book 1) Page 3