Here was an end of forest. A few groves remained on the east side, still high and gloomy, but broad, rolling reaches had been cleared— slashed and burnt, I think—to make grassland, grazing. I spied two or three herds of ruddy cattle in the distance; smoke rose from scattered huddles of huts and one larger cluster at a distance that might be a hall and its outbuildings. This was only at the edge of my awareness. A band of the Boii waited ashore.
They numbered maybe two score, warriors all. Their leader stood with his driver in a chariot drawn by a pair of restless horses. His spearhead glowered aloft, a gold torque circled his neck, and he wore breeks and tunic of fine, colorful weave. Beneath a horned helmet his hair was pulled back in a queue, his cheeks and chin shaven, while a mustache fell nearly to the jawline. The others poised in loose array, afoot. They were mostly tall, fair men like him, though their garb was seldom more than a kind of blanket thrown over one shoulder and wrapped about the waist. Their gear was as simple: spears, slings, and swords. Iron, rammed through me. But those blades were not flamelike, nor even as bright as bronze. They were dark, almost brown. Nor did they have the laurel-leaf curves of ours; they were long and straight, barely tapered at the ends.
My hand dropped to the hilt of my own. Several among the crews yelled. Paddles rattled to the bottom of the boat. Those who had not been paddling snatched for weapons and shields. Standing beside me, Herut caught hold of my shoulder. "They don't know whether we're friendly," he said fast.
His strength flowed into me. "Easy!" I shouted, loud enough to be heard in both boats. "Keep station! Gairwarth, tell them we're peaceful!"
The Boian leader shouted, flung his spear at us, and drew sword even as he sprang from the car. His followers howled and dashed forward. A slingstone whizzed by my ear. I saw a man in the hull crumple, skull smashed asunder, brains spilling out on a tide of blood.
For a trice, I think, each one of us stood unmoving, stunned. The Celts splashed into the shallows. It comes back to me how the water swirled and glittered around their calves, knees, thighs. "Get away!" I cried. I felt us scrape bottom. The current had borne us inward and we sat fast. The foe were hip-deep when they reached us. Their blows and thrusts crossed our low freeboards.
I remember the battle as a wild red rainstorm, formless save when a lightning flash brings a sight forth searingly bright. I had learned the use of arms, as every high-born youth should, but never before had I wielded them in anger. Since then—too often, when stark need in the worst of these worsening years has raised packs of cattle raiders, and lately we must beat off an assault greater and fiercer than that— Harking back, I can piece together the jagged tales I heard after this affray, and see the shape of it.
At the time, all that I knew to begin with was a face glaring at me, a mustache like tusks over bared teeth and red stubble, a blade lifted slantwise, and the fleeting thought that that blade seemed
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endlessly long. Blindly, I stabbed my own at the throat beneath. It missed when he shifted deftly aside, and I stumbled, half falling against the strake. My clumsiness saved me; for he swung. Not thrust, swung. The whetted iron flew inches past my shoulder and bit deeply into the wood— how very deeply!
Herut edged clo se. His point reached. I saw it go in one cheek and out the other. Ferret-swift though he was, I saw how the Boian pulled his sword free before himself. That movement took him past our upward-curving prow. I know not what became of him. Belike he returned to the combat, wound and all. Maybe he lived, maybe he died.
What I remember next is another of them there, and that his hair was black and his nose crooked. He must have appeared quickly after the first, but by now everything was one uproar. His sword whirred past Herut's and cut into the neck. It nearly took the head off. Blood spurted and gushed, weirdly brilliant. It spattered over me. Herut sagged down, jerked, and lay still, sprawled at my feet. I felt nothing, just then. It was as if I stood aside and watched another man tread on the body, forward, to thrust into the Boian before he could recover. I watched the bronze enter beneath the chin. More blood spouted. He toppled out of sight.
No, wait, I did feel Herut's ribs crack beneath my weight and the . . . the heaviness of metal piercing flesh.
Next I remember standing on the sheer horn, clutching its end, so I could look the length of the
boat. Struggle seethed, not only alongside. Boii who found or made a clear space were hauling
themselves up. A pull, a squirm, a leap, and a man stood in the hull. Once there, he hewed about
him with the iron blade that was deadly from hilt to point. We outnumbered them, but their
weapons made each of them worth two of us. The dead and the wailing, groaning wounded thickly
cluttered the bilge.
My soul still icily clear, I saw what might save us, filled my lungs, and bawled the command through the racket, over and over. Gair-warth, amidships, was fighting skillfully. It was not his first time. He used a spear to fend off blows, yielding enough that the sword did not cut the shaft in two, then jabbing in before the foeman was again on guard. That checked the onslaught, at least. He heard me and understood. He passed the order on to those near him. They obeyed, bit by bit and blunderingly, but doing it. When men are desperate, their single great wish is for a commander.
Take paddles. Push us off this sandbank. Or else stand by and protect.
Next in my memory, I was fighting my way aft. That seemed to be the only duty left me. But I did not really fight much. I pushed against the crowd packed into the narrow room, forcing myself among crewmen. Once, I think, a foe came before me, and I stabbed and may have hit, but others, Skernings, roiled between us, and he was gone. Afterward I saw that it would have been better for me to keep my place forward and help repel boarders. What happened is unclear to me. Mainly I remember the sharp stench. When a man is killed he fouls himself.
And then we were free, drifting north on the river. We had not been hard aground. I hope it was I who called for paddlers to get us out beyond the enemy's depth. Maybe it was Gairwarth, maybe both of us. At first just a few were able to man the sweeps, but that served.
In truth—as I, astonished, saw after a while by the sun—the battle had been short. No more than a handful of Boii had scrambled aboard. They had reaped gruesomely, but now several slashed a path to the side and sprang back over.
I learned that later. Suddenly one broke out of the press that hindered him and charged forward. His cry ululated, not a wolf-howl but a strange song. Drops of blood flew fire-hot from his lifted sword. Somehow I had been forced clear of the struggle and stood again in the bows, shakily, alone. I knew it was my death coming for me and raised a blade too short and soft to stop it. Behind him, Ernu surged from the crowd. He had dropped his axe; a red gash gaped on the right forearm. But he threw that arm around the Boian's throat and clamped tight. They tumbled down together, Ernu underneath, still throttling while his left fist pummeled. The Boian went limp. Ernu rolled over on top, sat astraddle, and laid both hands around the throat.
"Hold," I gasped. "Don't kill him. Not yet. Keep him quiet."
Ernu grinned. "Aye," he rasped. The Boian stirred. Ernu cut off his breath for another bit.
I have often wondered why I wanted this. Yes, a fleeting thought that we could learn something or
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gain something from a prisoner—but hardly a plan, there and then in the tumult. Did a god slip it into me? If so, to what end? On this midsummer day I wonder anew, and a chill strikes into me.
On that day, there was too much else. I looked behind us. Already we were rounding the bluff. I barely glimpsed our other boat. It had not broken loose. Maybe it was stuck too fast—for none of the crew could have gone into the water to push, with rage all around them—or maybe no one had gotten our idea in time. The Boii were swarming into it.
Young Athalberh was aboard.
And Herut lay dead at my feet, a horror to see, Herut who told me and taught me so many things in my boyhood, whose qu
ietly spoken counsel guided us along our way through a foreign land, who had been closer to me than my own father—I know not which was the greater grief. Both choked me.
I pushed them down, blinked the stinging from my eyes, and squared my shoulders. Later I could mourn, we could all mourn. Right this now, with work to do, it was unworthy of a lord.
I went from prow to stern, giving men orders and words to hearten them, my voice sounding eerily calm in my ears. We had lost some paddles, broken underfoot or thrown overboard in the fight, but a few spares lay stowed, and presently enough were swinging to carry us at a good downstream speed. We dared not stop yet, but we laid out our five dead and bound the wounds of our half dozen most sorely hurt as best we were able while afloat. I set those few who were more or less hale and otherwise unengaged to cleaning off the blood and filth. Even in midstream, a cloud of flies was buzzing nastily about us. We never got all the stains out of the timbers.
There were three Boian corpses. One looked as though somebody had slit his throat after a blow stunned him, but—I didn't inquire— maybe not, for the only weapon of theirs we found was a dagger sheathed at this man's waist. Dying, each seemed to have cast his sword into the river, or else a comrade did it for him. I sent those bodies after their glaives. Ravens flew from the woods and wheeled above our wake with guttural cries.
The sun was westering through air gone hot and still when at last Gairwarth and I could draw a
little aside and talk. "Are they mad yonder?" I asked. "Would they not at least hear what we had to
say?"
"They are what they are," he answered. Though his tone was as dull as mine in our weariness, the trader wits were again busy. "Plain to see, now, the signs and rumors of unrest amongst them bore truth. I'd guess they're at war with each other, or, anyhow, a feud's begun and been spreading, as feuds do. Well, when a Celt is in battle rage, he's dangerous to everybody. That's how they're raised to be. And the rage can smolder just under the skin, always ready to burst into flame. I'd also guess the fellows we met lost a fight not long ago, got driven off the field, are still full of fury and pain about that. Here we came, somebody to strike at—our powers unknown to them, save that craft like ours had never been seen in these parts before, so we must be strong enough that honor could be won by beating us. And loot; but honor, what they call honor, meant much more. If the chief had listened to us and invited us to land, we'd have become his guests, our persons sacred while we stayed. So he didn't."
I shook my head. "You may say it's their way of thinking. I say it's madness. And yet—did they throw away the swords to keep us from having them? That sounds like forethought."
"No, I'd guess, instead, they didn't want the weapons, which they believe have souls, to become captive, any more than they'd want a brother taken for a slave." Gairwarth sighed. "Those few wouldn't make a markable difference to us, would they? I see naught for you now but to return home. What you've gained is the knowledge that there'll be no dealing with them for a long time to come."
"Yes." I tried to tell myself that that was something to show for our losses and deaths. Suddenly I stiffened. "We have a prisoner!" With all else there was to do, I had quite forgotten. Gairwarth nodded. "I noticed. And his sword, for whatever it may be worth." He grinned. "If the poor dog is still alive. That's a hefty weight squatting on him."
I hastened forward. Yes, Ernu held the Boian fast. His hands remained at the throat, though he had eased their grip once the warrior understood that otherwise there would be no breathing. He looked over his shoulder as I neared, Gairwarth beside me. "Can I let go now, lord?" he asked. "My knees are sore, my legs are nigh gone asleep, and we're both wet from when I had to piss."
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A laugh like a crow's broke from me. I drew my blade; Gairwarth lowered the spear he had taken again as I started off. Ernu clambered to his feet, grabbed the iron sword, and lurched aside. Yes, flashed through me, Gairwarth was right, he does have a yokelish canniness.
The Boian croaked and sat up. We peered. He was somewhat shorter than most of those we had
fought, a little bandy-legged, but his upper body and arms were heavily thewed. Blanket, sandals,
and a scabbard hung slantwise across his back were his only garb. Ruddy hair was braided behind a
round head. A mustache of the same hue bristled on a long upper lip below a snub nose. Blue eyes
glared. His neck was badly bruised, and at first he could barely utter a few hoarse words.
"He'd attack us and die like a warrior if h e had strength," Gairwarth explained. "Instead, he asks
us to kill him. Nothing less than death— his, since he can't give us ours—will make good the
indignity he's suffered."
Ernu half raised the iron sword. "Want me to do it, lord?" he rumbled with a leer. "I'd like to try this thing." "No," I decided. "Better we keep him and question him. Our undertaking was—is for the sake of learning about his folk."
"Safer to keep a wolf or a wild boar," Gairwarth warned.
"I know—now." My thoughts had sharpened themselves afresh. They were as bleak as our winters have become. "Tell him this. We'll hobble his wrists and ankles with thongs. We'll tie a rope around his waist and secure the other end about a thwart, so if he jumps overboard we can at once haul him back. If he nonetheless misbehaves, we won't kill him, we'll blind and geld him."
Ernu slapped his thigh. "Haa, good!" he guffawed.
Gairwarth was more troubled. "That does not seem much like you, Havakh."
I stared aft. We had spread bedrolls over our dead. I had myself set Herut's head straight, closed the eyes, washed the body. Yet there he lay, and others with him, and already it was clear that one of the gravely wounded would soon die. As for our second boat, I could merely hope that Athalberh and the rest had fallen. Yet it was not hatred that replied, it was will. "I swore to do what I can." Now, though, entering the hall of my fathers, I think it was also a foreshadowing of the cruel years ahead.
Gairwarth grimaced, then shrugged. "Well, I understand. But I'll have to put it to him less bluntly, not all at once. What may I offer him?"
"Oh, if nothing else, a livelihood among us after we're home, if he's behaved himself," I answered indifferently. "Maybe someday his freedom, if he somehow earns it. Take charge of him. See to his needs. And question him. Belike I'll think of questions of my own later, but do you begin." I paused. "I suppose you can deem how trustworthy he is."
"It'll take time and patience to draw him out," said Gairwarth, "and maybe a few small kindnesses. However, I see no reason why he should lie, and indeed that's unbefitting a Celtic warrior." "I'll tell off men to stand by as guards." I turned to go. Bone-tired I might be, but so were my crew, and I had become their skipper. I stopped. "Give me that sword, Ernu." The bog dweller handed it over. "A good thing to have, hey, lord?" A slight whine slipped into his growl. "I didn't do so bad by you, did I?" "No," I acknowledged. "You saved my life, and afterward you were useful. You shall have the reward I promised when we return home. And more," honor made me add. "My kinsmen, lord? They didn't start that squabble, nor me. It was Kleggu and his breed, lord. And they're off to hell now."
I frowned at the unseemly gloating. He swallowed it. "Yes," I felt I must give him. "We'll pay your kinsmen too." I cut off his thanks—can a bear fawn?—and sent him back to work. Thereafter I set about discovering duties of my own.
We camped briefly that night, with sentries posted, and surely everyone's sleep was uneasy and dream-haunted. At dawn we swallowed some food and paddled onward. Again things blur together for me. It is enough that we went onward.
And that when we came to the clearing where folk had lived, we drew ashore, gathered brushwood, cut logs, and burned our dead: for this was right, rather than they bloat and stink, waiting to be set free. We did it as properly as we were able, bearing in mind that we were few and
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must keep watchmen out and be ready to escape pursuit. Those who could
danced around and around the blaze while I, for lack of anyone and anything better, cast amber and sweet herbs into it and bade the souls a joyous faring home to the sun. We stayed overnight, letting the ashes cool, then in the morning gathered what pieces of bone we could find and buried them.
And onward.
Meanwhile Gairwarth dealt with our prisoner. He continued after we reached Suwebburh, where we rested a while—and burned and buried two more men—with increasing success. He learned that there was no danger of an invasion anytime soon. The raids in the south had been simply that, spillover from widespread violence, gangs with their fierceness kindled who had nowhere else to take the fire until the next real war. A fresh wave of wandering was going through the Celts. Tribes eastward, fast-breeding, hungry for new land, pushed west. This stirred no few of those who had settled ahead of them and were, after all, themselves becoming many, to move on. It was not peaceful. Wars went like backflows in an incoming, wind-driven tide. But the tide itself was sweeping ever higher, it still is, and I know not when or where it will finally ebb.
Our captive hight Conomar, as nearly as I can voice the name. I never troubled to remember the
names of his father or his . . . clan? In everyday life he was only a grazier, but he boasted that his
brother was a smith and that he had sometimes helped that highly respected, slightly feared man.
When I studied his sword, I myself could well-nigh believe there are unhuman powers in iron that touch those who work it. Long, lean— gaunt, I almost thought—and darkly shining, the weapon weighed less for its size than mine, as if the more ready to leap. Where the fight had left mine battered and blunted, in need of hammer and file, this thing seemed well-nigh untouched, the keenness barely off the edge at a few places where it had hit something hard. The guard did not curve down, it was straight; the pommel was not much rounded or decorated; the grip was riveted oakwood, which I could see had often been clutched in a sweaty hand.
I tested it a number of times, as did several other of our well-born, hewing at a block or, after duly begging pardon, a tree. But we gained no skill. That would have taken years and been of scant use when we had only the one and nothing of the mysterious art that had gone into the making.
Turtledove, Harry - Anthology 07 - New Tales Of The Bronze Age - The First Heroes (with Doyle, Noreen) Page 41