The Sire Sheaf (The King of Three Bloods Book 1)

by Russ L. Howard

  Sur Sceaf said, “I do not recall this brave. Is he recently come from some other tribe?”

  “He is from the Klamath Tribe with a scruffy group of followers and under no good report of them either. Newly arrived about three winters ago. Since then we now understand why the Klamaths encouraged him to leave. Few brains and ambitions beyond honor.

  “The word is out, unfortunately, that you bear great counsel wrought in deep secrecy. It is sad that there be those, even amongst us, we cannot fully trust. I cannot imagine why those braves thought to extort the communiqué from you, but you can be assured it was not honorable. Nor can I imagine what they have heard through their spying and eavesdropping. But I assure you there is a dark permanence in Standing Bull that I suspect one day shall cost us all most dearly. I already warned the talking chiefs to keep a close eye on him.”

  He glanced back to make sure the thugs weren’t still lurking nearby. “I scryed Standing Bull when he was courting the chief’s daughter, Taneshewa. A dark essence arose in my scrying, like he was bound to some dark force and unable to disentangle himself, but I could not discern whether they were Pitters or just another band of renegade whites. Mayhap they were even dark elves. All I knew is that there was a dark permanence in his soul that will not easily be uprooted. He has troubled me ever since that day.”

  “I see.” Sur Sceaf had always had only good relations with the Sharaka and was disappointed over this encounter with a people he was supposed to win as his allies.

  Thunder Horse glanced at White Fire who was nibbling some nearby grass. “I will return to the DiAhman Lake and let Onamingo know that you are fasting and praying in the Medicine Mountain Youxlokes. Ah, but your people call it Mount Hereward. I will tell Onamingo you shall join our council fire at the Great Crater of the Elk Spirit. Tribes are already beginning to gather from all over the high desert and from far off places. There are already Cheyenne and other Buffalo Nations there. And none too few Ndee.”

  “I won’t be long in the mountain, for my commission must be completed as soon as possible. I will know when the moment of my arrival shall come.”

  The Thunder Horse removed his long beaded medicine belt from his crook and handed it to Sur Sceaf. “Take this medicine band and hang it from your belt so that no one of Sharaka blood will molest you again. Not even those three hooligans.”

  “Thank you Thunder Horse. I count it a great honor to wear the belt of so great a spirit chief.”

  “It is my pleasure and my honor, grandson of my sister. You have grown into a fine man since last I saw you. You now have that bearing and carriage of a seasoned warrior. It has been five winters since I saw you down in Witan Jewell and ten winters since you lived amongst us. And now perhaps you can tell me, how goes it with my sister, Redith, these days?”

  “She lives with me at Namen Jewell on the outskirts of the city-state of Hrusburg. She is still full of fire and life, and she has been a great light to the Herewardi people since the death of my mo fa, LuHollar, the Flying Wolf.”

  “The death of LuHollar in the battle of Salem against the Pitters is still most grievous to me. His loss has greatly wounded my soul. He was the greatest white chief I have known. Even the peaceful Quailor called him a king. The predacious Pitters could not endure the peace and contentment of the Quailor. They simply hated anyone should live so content and planned to demolish so vulnerable a prize as the Quailor farmsteads offered them. They thought the fruit was ripe for their legions’ pickings, but that was before they met the Flying Wolf. He alone had the power to muster the Quailor to battle. I am so sorry he has died, but the Pitters have learned the Quailor were not so easy a fruit to pick after all. We can thank Flying Wolf none have dared make a direct attack on Salem since. There aren’t many warriors that could have held off the Pitter legions for six moons.”

  Sur Sceaf added, “Within that time frame many Quailor learned the value of being battle ready. It was in a sense a great victory, but the loss of Rusyrus and Ludwig was most painful to us all. Recently, I heard there is a Retrenchment Movement in the Quailor Tribe whereby the men who once took up weapons of defense have since buried them with an oath to never take them up again. But even with their noble stance, had Rusyrus’ fyrd not been there, it would have been a wholesale slaughter.”

  “It is beyond grievous that the sons of those noble fighters should bury their weapons of war. It is not time for such foolishness. Although Flying Wolf was Quailor, Ludwig as you call him, was something more than Quailor. He was something between Herewardi and Sharaka in spirit. He made a noble Brother of the White Horse Order. We shall miss his wisdom in our lodges. We shall miss his counsel.” A sweetly calm expression came over the large shaman. “I could never quite touch it, but am coming to understand him more with time. King Ludwig was the champion of tolerance and surely, he was a major root in the Tree of Liberty. I do not know that his brother, Elijah, is possessed of the same strength of spirit, good man that he is. We feel Lu’s absence, Sur Sceaf. It is a great grief for which our hearts will always ache!”

  Sur Sceaf whistled for White Fire to come to his side. Reaching into his saddlebags, he handed some letters to the Thunder Horse. “I bring these letters for you from Redith and Mahallah and a letter to Mendaho from Shining Moon. I shall stay another day here in the wilderness to prepare for meeting Chief Onamingo, but I imagine the women will want their letters sooner rather than later, so take them for me, if you please.”

  The shaman put them into his haversack. “I am anxious to read the words of my sister. The women will mob me once they know I have word from their friends. Maybe I’ll make them wait to read the letters.” He chuckled.

  “Mo Mo Bro, Redith has written you an especially long letter. Your sister has been my mentor throughout my life, and since the death of Mo Fa, she has felt most comfortable living at my house. If any one hand has shaped me, then I am made by that woman.”

  “Then you are well made, my young prince. I thought it a strange enough marriage that she, a Sharaka, should marry into such a strange people as the Quailor with all their pacifist teachings, but now I see her daughter, Mahallah, has produced you and has married the high lord of the Hyrwardi. There was great medicine in Redith’s marriage to Ludwig the Flying Wolf which I had not foreseen, but now it is very clear. You are of three bloods, my prince, and I believe there is great purpose in this as well. I do hope you shall bring all three of them together someday. Above all, I know you to have the Sharaka spirit. It was made known to me by the Thunder Beings when you dwelt amongst us. It is in all your actions.”

  Sur Sceaf smiled. “The last thing Redith said before I left was: ‘You must live holy, trust in the spirit, and it shall all unfold before your eyes. For your blood is woven of three skeins, from which, someday a beautiful pattern will surely emerge, so that the Thunder Beings may bless all the tribes.”

  Thunder Horse moved his staff to his right hand. “This is in accord with Flying Wolf’s prophecy, which says,‘The Sharaka should become Herewardi and the Herewardi should become Sharaka and the Quailor will join them as one people. And they shall be as one and yet remain different people with all their fellows’.”

  “They shall be one.” Sur Sceaf said, as he contemplated his commission.

  “I am sure it is so! If you fail, we fail together, but if you succeed, we will succeed forever. Try to imagine a world without Pitters. I prophesy that you, my son, if anybody can, shall shape it so! I shall leave you now to finish your prayers and your quest. Hopefully we shall talk and feast when you come to the DiAhman Lake and then I shall join you in the council fire at the Crater Lake of the Elk Spirit.

  “Onamingo, the Chief of Chiefs, whom all the Red Nations are calling King, camps near us, too, on the south side of the DiAhman Lake by the Unequa Stream. Until then, may Grand Father protect you.” He signed with his hand: ‘Beloved Brother.’

  Chapter 4: In the Camp of Onamingo

  Sur Sceaf made his way on foot up the trail. Feeling th
e effects of the altitude, his lungs sucked deep into his belly to pull in the needed air to lead White Fire up the steep, winding path to the precipice overlooking the valley of the DiAhman, a place he used to come for meditation. The resinous scents of pine, spruce, and fir filled the air. Under foot was scree, volcanic dust, and pine needles making the trail treacherous, especially for his mount with steel hooves.

  The massive lake spread out wide and peaceful below him, mirroring the snow-capped Mount Leofric behind it. On the eastern shore were tipis lined up neatly like rows of corn. Numerous smoke signals arose out of the DiAhman Basin. Before him camps were scattered all the way to the Crater of the Elk Spirit, stretching a distance of perhaps two times seven miles from the south end of DiAhman Lake by the Unequa Stream. From the various smoke signals he could read, they were visiting tribes gathered here for the upcoming inter-tribal meetings. Some of the tribes were local, such as the Klamath and others from far off such as the Ndee, Cherokee, Cheyenne, and Lakota. Intermittent among the tipis were horse corrals with perhaps three thousand muscular pintos and overos penned therein. It appeared thatThunder Horse had spoken correctly, The king-chief, Onamingo, had invited a whole multitude of red tribes to this pow wow in hopes of drawing in more than just the Sharaka to the proposed confederation. The bigger they could get the greater their chances of arresting the progress of the Pitter Empire and its accompanying tyranny.

  Sur Sceaf could not recognize the banners hanging over several, but he thought them to be Snowmen from the Northern Tribes of El-Ea-Ska and La Kanada.

  Sur Sceaf opted to take the west side trail off Mount Hereward through the encampment of Eloheh to his blood brother, Mendaka’s tent. Eloheh usually served as a summer camp for Mendaka’s band of a few thousand Sharaka dog soldiers. Now the king-chief, Onamingo had appointed DiAhman to be the gathering place of all tribes from the Kalifornias to the Montan and beyond for this grand pow wow. Formerly, it had been the camp of the Herewardi in their western expansion. It now served as shared holy grounds for both Herewardi and Sharaka.

  On the entire western shore Sur Sceaf saw the familiar hustle and bustle of the Sharaka gathered in canopied glades stocked with tipis and hogans. Blue smoke veiled the encampments likely composed of the usual two to three hundred tipis per camp. Sun rays pierced through the thunder clouds and towering trees that hovered over these children of the forest, giving it a mystical ambiance. The people moved and seethed in and out of the glades like honeybees.

  He estimated the number of people in the DiAhman Basin to be thirty thousand souls. He trebled that by the distance of the farthest signal coming out of the Crater Rim. The task of dealing with all these extra tribes loomed in his mind. It was as though the survival of all hung by a spider’s thread, and he was that strand. One mistake and the entire web would collapse into a Gordian knot of endless squabbles. All of his doubts and insecurities tumbled down in an avalanche of fears.

  He ground-tied White Fire to a white barked pine and sat upon a nearby rock. He retrieved the golden medallion from his breast pocket, clenched it tight in his fist and swore, “So be it! By the Seven Forefathers, we wanted our numbers to be greater, and here is their beginning. I am satisfied. It is time to enter. Come with me Father Odhin, for my work in the Ea-Urth begins. I must deliver the communiqué and show this sacred gold coin as the token that I am the true messenger.”

  “Almighty All Father and all assembled Thunder Beings, I plead for your assistance in uniting these people in our grand cause before it is everlastingly too late.”

  He kissed his fist and placed the golden medallion back into its pouch and buttoned the pocket. Then taking a deep breath, Sur Sceaf mounted White Fire and began his descent through the thick spruce, fir, and pine forests. Thunder roared through the ravines. Lightning snapped like whips to the west, where the sky was dark with rain, contrasting boldly with this eastern side of the mountain, which was filled with sunlight streaming through the tall trees in effulgent rays. Wrens filled the air with their bubbling bird song. A river of blue lupines bloomed under hoof, dovetailing seamlessly with the sunny blue eastern sky above the DiAhman Lake Basin. It was the place where alpine, desert, and forest met.

  Mighty Mount Leofric stood to the southeast, tall and commanding like the longfather for which it was named. It held high its pointed head like the memory of that great Elven lord of past glories. He goaded White Fire on and moseyed down the trail. The saddle leather creaked and rubbed beneath his thighs on the steep descent. As the stallion picked his way carefully, Sur Sceaf prayed, Gods and Goddesses, I beseech thee, do not fail me in this my hour of proving.

  As soon as he reached the forest floor he was challenged by two lanky Sharaka Scouts on their overo ponies, and a yellow frosty-mouthed cur running beside them. As soon as they viewed the four red, black, blue, and white beaded serpents on the medicine belt that hung from Sur Sceaf’s waist, they signed, ‘Honored friend,’ and said aloud in the Sharaka tongue, “Welcome Lord Prince Sur Sceaf of the Hyrwardi, we have been told to expect you. I am White Eagle and will escort you into the camp. Axe-Face will signal Chief Mendaka’s camp to send someone for you.”

  Sur Sceaf hailed them, “Hail and Os-Frith, my red brothers.”

  They exchanged grips of the forearm, then White Eagle rode on to escort him through the encampments. They wove through the trees following the well-worn twisting path. Waving as they wove through tipis to let everyone know this was an honored guest.

  Drums pulsed throughout the camps where dancing circles were in active progression. Each tribal banner draped from its standard pole. In the camp of the Snake Clan, an aged shaman burned ceremonial incense, sweeping the smoke with raven feathers, while the burning pinewood of campfires and the rich scents of foods in the bubbling pots permeated the smoke laden forest air. Along the way women and children, young braves, and the elderly walked out to the trail to watch the unusual sight of a white lord with a serpent medicine belt passing by. Older children playing Lacrosse in the clearings gave him only a cursory glance before returning to their sport.

  Sur Sceaf studied the features of the bystanders to see if he recognized anyone he knew, but was disappointed. On the edge of the lake, he spied the Pelican Banner of the Klamath Tribe. Naked braves in canoes were busily pulling up nets full of wriggling fish and dumping them in the bottom of their canoes. Others were gathering fish out of the weirs they built at the water’s edge. The Klamath Chief’s son, Pulls-His-Feathers, recognized Sur Sceaf and hailed him heartily. Sur Sceaf signed happily, ‘We will join one another later.’

  In another camp, under the camp Banner of the Bull, he saw the annoying Billy Weasel who coldly signed ‘peace,’ but showed no further interest. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized the figures of the three ruffians he had wrestled with on the day he met Thunder Horse. The one called Standing Bull shot him a contemptuous look. Sur Sceaf smiled as he caught sight of the welt he had left across the brave’s face. He gave the ruffian a stern look of disapproval with a turned up corner of his lip and rode on.

  White Eagle turned back and motioning with his hand at Standing Bull, said in a low voice, “Big body,” pinched his fingers about a hazelnut size apart and said, “Small brain.”

  Sur Sceaf smiled and gave a goad from his heels and a swift lift of his head that told White Fire to move away from this camp. Just as he was exiting the Bull Camp, he saw a well-figured maiden with long glossy black hair wandering towards a meat pot. As she turned, he knew her very well. It was Mendaho of the Klamath. Meny was her usual flirtatious self, meandering through all the camps, he assumed, still looking for eligible braves. She smiled seductively and pushed her breasts out as far as she could while two younger teenage girls in buckskin dresses giggled nervously by her side.

  White Eagle said, “Careful, you will be playing with fire with that one. She’s smarter than any ten men, and though flirtatious she is all teeth and nails. Doesn’t think much of men after she took off her moccasin for Billy Weas
el.”

  The frosty-mouthed cur barked a friendly greeting at the three maidens.

  “Actually, White Eagle, Meny and I have met. She just doesn’t recognize me with my beard. I can tell, or she would be all over me. I was little more than a lack-beard when last we met. We were good friends, but that was all.”

  “How did you know her?” White Eagle asked.

  “It was fourteen winters ago. We had both just arrived. She from the Klamath Tribe and I to visit my beloved Mo Mo Sis Sagwi. I used to teach her Herewardi ways and lend her books. She was too picky to take anyone in marriage in those days. Probably still the same.”

  “She has not found anyone strong enough to handle her. For what man can ride a panther.” They both laughed.

  Word spread fast throughout the camps. Multitudes of Sharaka of all ages began greeting him with “Hail the messenger! Hail the messenger!” Sur Sceaf noted that their moods seemed receptive.

  Occasionally, he spotted white men sitting in camps dressed in Sharaka attire. These men wereHerewardi skalds, sent out last year by Sur Spear as goodwill ambassadors to prepare the way for the uniting of the tribes that the new arrivals might get used to Heathen ways.They also acted under authority of the Roufytrof and by permission of the Sharaka talking chiefs, as educators and reporters.Some had even taken Sharaka women to wife.

  After his long fast, the aromas of cooking fish over the fires, the sight of some youth eating squirrel, and braves hanging an elk in one of the camps, set his mouth to watering.