Black River

by Peter Fugazzotto

  The villagers were gathered now with weapons apparent. The Hounds were outnumbered, almost five-fold.

  Shield broke the tension. He touched his palm to his chest. "I am Shield Scyldmund, captain of the Hounds of the North, son of Aros Scyldmund, great chief of the Clan of the Broken Mountain, a people born of the earth and the water of the North. I come with open hands to share story and mead."

  "The son of Scyldmund," the woman's voice trailed into memory. "How can I refuse a cup of mead to the son of a hero of the North?"

  The men slid from their horses and followed the woman into the long house. As they passed through the throng of villagers, all eyes were on them, especially on Shield and Vincius. The latter because of his curly hair, his clean-shaven face, and his Dhurman garb. The former because he was the son of a man of legend in the North.

  But eyes also fell on Shield because he had killed the Warlock King. Harad could see the mixed emotions in the faces of the men his own age, men who had survived the war among the Northmen, men who had succumbed to the Dhurmans, men who had endured a life under the yoke of another people.

  Just before he ducked through the fur curtain into the roundhouse, he caught the eyes of the little girl. The moment their eyes met, she hid behind her mother. Then immediately she peeked out, a smile wide on her face. Then she hid her face again. Harad fought the tears forming at the edge of his eyes.

  Patch, at his heels, shoved him into the roundhouse.

  The warmth of the roundhouse swept across Harad's face. The familiar smells of a thick goat stew filled the room. It was mostly dark but for the pulsing orange glow from the fire pit in the center of the room. The edges of the house were piled with rolled blankets and furs, barrels and large jars of salted meats, pickled vegetables, grains and, of course, mead. Along the stone walls hung weapons: swords, axes, spears, a few bows and arrows as well as an assortment of hide bound shields, painted with old symbols and animals.

  Logs were thrown onto the fire, men and women crowded together to sit crossed legged on furs, and without great ceremony mead was poured into large wooden goblets, carved with the heads of steer and the shape of mountains, and these goblets were passed around the gathering, first to their guests and then to the elders and others, finding their way back into the hands of the Hounds and Vincius and running their circuit, often pausing at barrels to be refilled.

  Darkness fell outside. Meat and stew were shared. Children fell asleep in their mother's arms. Eventually, a few were left still awake talking.

  When Harad slipped the Book of the Southern Sword from his shoulder bag, the voices vanished beneath the crackling of the wood on the fire. His fingers found the dried blade of grass that marked his page and he pried the book open. There was a passage that he had been mulling over the past several days.

  A circle of eyes waited. Shield nodded.

  Harad ran his big clumsy finger over the letters and his gruff voice filled the roundhouse.

  He read of Akha, a captain of the guard, encamped with his men on the side of a mountain. That night before the dying fire, the men – farmers and fishers – spoke of their longings for home, the warm embraces of their wives, the tumbling laughter of their children, the wrinkled smiles of their fathers. But between these soldiers of the South and their homes lay a dark mass of warriors and with them a hero. As his men lay down to sleep, Akha realized that the only way to bring his men home safely would be to match his arms with the hero, to buy safe passage for his men.

  And rising, he pulled his leathers over his ribs and lifted a dented bronze bound shield from his sleeping brothers. Gripping his spear, the lion of the guard stepped alone into the night.

  Harad slid the grass to mark the page, closed the book and tucked it back into his bag. The fire burned low, the warmth of the room still thick. The mead cups found their way back to the barrels. A few slipped out of the roundhouse, returning, while others settled to reeds and blankets on the ground. Outside, the wind hissed through the distant stand of trees.

  As Harad was falling asleep, wrapped in borrowed furs, he felt for a moment that he had never left.

  But then he rolled over to see Vincius, eyes wide open, scanning the prone figures, his mind busy, parsing out bits of conversation, remembering names, planning his interrogations for the next morning, wondering whether he could root out any words of power. Harad imagined it would be just like it had been in so many other villages upon which they had descended: an old herb woman trembling on a bench, harsh words, denials, the muscle of Harad and his fellows, a broken figure and Vincius scowling, mumbling that they were hiding from him before storming off into the dying grasses.

  Before Harad was aware of the passing of the night, the sky through the door of the roundhouse had paled. Morning had come.

  THE DESERTER

  SPEAR SHUFFLED FROM foot to foot on the banks of the Black River. He held a cupped palm waiting. The sun glowed behind the mists but it was not enough to warm his fingers.

  The river trader, soaked in the stench of fish, dug in the folds of his furs for the copper coin. Behind him, a boy stood on the rocking boat, one hand resting on the piled seal skins harvested from the Western Sea.

  Spear's impatience at the man's fumbling was about to erupt when he noticed the bloody man on the far shore of the river.

  He was Dhurman, half his face covered in dried streaked blood, one hand bound in a dark reddened cloth. He waved an unsheathed sword and shouted. But his words were lost beneath the groan of the river.

  Spear sent a small skiff across to fetch the man.

  The Dhurman stumbled out of the boat before it returned to the bank near Cullan, his feet post-holing into the unknown depths, and then he lunged forward on hands and knees, weeping and wailing.

  Spear could not make sense of what the man was saying.

  "He's with the garrison. One of those that headed out on the patrol," said Cruhund. "Name of Justio. Sent to the North for his gambling problem and can hardly hold his drink."

  Spear shook the man by the shoulders. "Stop your babbling. What are you doing back here?"

  The man Justio fumbled at his words, fell again, and, finally after a long pull from a jug of fermented cider, he spoke. "We were attacked. The Century, the entire Century."

  "And you ran?"

  "By the gods, yes, I ran as fast as I could," he said propping himself up on his sword.

  "Well, then I imagine that there will be hell to pay when Urbidis gets back."

  Justio fell again, his knees weakening. "We need to send word to Vas Dhurma. No, no, send me south. I'll go. I'll get the legions." He rose and darted towards the garrison fort, but Spear grabbed him by the corner of his armor and wheeled him about.

  "You go back there and they'll ask questions. Deserters have a way of falling into my hands anyway. So you can get your story out while you can still stand or later when you'll have no choice."

  The Dhurman soldier's eyes suddenly focused. "Spear, you, you'd be the one to hold the fort. You and your men. There is no one left."

  Spear backhanded the man. "Where are the men of the garrison?"

  Justio closed his eyes and tried to contain his breath. "Dead. All of them. Or nearly all of them. I don't know. I ran."

  "Tell me what happened. Slowly. Calmly."

  The Dhurman soldier sighed. He sat on a sideways barrel and then told his story.

  For the first few days, everything had been fine. The Dhurman force of one hundred had crossed the Black River, and settled into life in the field. They marched by day and made a boisterous camp by night. Most of the men thought that the whole thing was a ruse and that Urbidis was looking to squeeze some discipline out of the motley force.

  Then the scouts reported a small encampment of clansmen. The men of the garrison moved quickly and without a single man dying had put the half dozen men, young and old, into chains. There was even a woman among them. Urbidis had his scouts employ heated metal and bone splinters to find out why they carried D
hurman coin and blades on them. Word spread through the men that the work of the garrison was over before it began, that they had captured those responsible for the killing of the Dhurmans and the burning of their settlements, and that soon they would return to their gambling and drinking within the walls of the fortress at Cullan town.

  But then Urbidis ordered a double guard on the perimeter of their camp, scouts were sent north, and whispers crept around the campfires. The clan raiders, even under the duress of torture, denied any of the attacks on the farms. Instead, they claimed that their own village was assaulted, that everyone was dead, and that they were trying to escape across the Black River to the safety of the Cullan and the fortress.

  Spear stared across the Black River.

  Had a chieftain once again united clans? Was a Northman sending a message to Dhurma that a line had been drawn and that to cross it would mean death? Was this the leader of the North that Spear had been hoping would emerge after all these years of discord and subjugation? But why would he kill his own people?

  "Then what?" he asked of Justio.

  The Dhurman soldier then told of the next day. They broke camp early and headed to the north, with their scouts leading them. By mid-day the reached the village of the fleeing clansmen. It was decimated. The roundhouses had been burned, the thatch roof and wood beams ash in the center of fire blackened stone. Blood was everywhere. A battle had been fought and lost there.

  But the place seemed out of sorts. It was full of bloodstains yet empty of bodies. It made no sense at all and unease rose through the ranks. Where had the bodies gone?

  The answer came as the sun was swallowed in the western mists. On the crest of a low hill, an army stood. Justio had thought it odd that the soldiers massed together on foot, not a single one of them on horse, so unlike the Northern clans and their fighting techniques. As the army approached, the Dhurman heard a plaintive song, two voices twined together, a man and a woman.

  "They were dead," he said.

  Spear shook his head.

  "They were already dead."

  "Who were? The man and woman?"

  "The army of Northerners and settlers. They were dead."

  "This makes no sense. Have you lost your mind?"

  "They were raised from the grave. An army of the dead. And each of our own that fell joined their ranks. There was nothing we could do. A few of the men rallied around Urbidis, trapped inside the remains on a longhouse, but the dead came at them, relentless, the song filling the air. We had no chance. So I ran."

  AFTERMATH

  BIRGID LAY AMONG the corpses.

  Her breath streamed from her mouth and nostrils, visible, billowing against the pale light of dawn. What would it be like for the world to be swallowed by the magic that unfurled from her mouth? Would the world change?

  Gyrn, the Painted Man, squatted beside her, feeding twigs into a small fire. She could not feel the spread of warmth. But soon she would have the energy to rise.

  The corpses littered the field. Who would bury these men and women? Who would even know that they were lost?

  "Fennewyn wants us to return," said Gyrn.

  Birgid pushed herself to her hip and then sat. Even pulling the cloak about her shoulders and neck made little difference; the cold of the earth had penetrated deep into her body. She felt the ice in her bones.

  "Come closer," said Gyrn.

  She crawled forward. It was too much effort to rise. Her outstretched hands trembled against the fire. Still the flames bent from her. No heat came to her.

  Gyrn pulled off his furs and settled them across her shoulders.

  "Won't you be cold?"

  "The sun comes up. He wants me and the others to take their armor. Clansmen are gathering north. They have seen enough to know that it is better to fight for him alive than..." He swallowed his words, suddenly conscious that it was not only Fennewyn that they feared. Not only Fennewyn that he feared.

  What had she become?

  A witch among the corpses.

  Gyrn cracked more sticks, larger ones across his knee, and the flames of the fire rose. But the cold still touched her cheeks, slipped in the gaps of her cloak, fingers around her neck.

  Then the Painted Man was with the others turning over the bodies of the fallen. She remembered little of the battle. They had laid in wait in the small depression outside of the village. Beside them the men and women that Fennewyn had captured crouched in the heather. They were settlers and villagers, a mixture of nations. Fennewyn did not care, as long as he had the bodies to do his bidding. Then as the sun had set, the Painted Men at the word of the warlock passed before the frightened clans people and farmers, slipping blades between ribs.

  Then he turned to his witch.

  At first, Birgid had refused. But then Fennewyn dragged her to the lip of the rise. Face in the grasses, she had stared down on the encampment, the soldiers sharpening their blades, the horses tearing at the sod, and the laughter against the cook fires. Even then, she was not moved. She felt nothing. No anger rose in her throat. So, the warlock cradled her cheeks in his palm and turned her eyes. Five stakes set in the ground, on top of each, the head of a Northman.

  What was supposed to elicit fear in the North burned in Birgid. She saw her Fionn in the ditch, her own flesh rotting. She saw his body half consumed by the weather and the insects, black shiny beetles pocketing in him.

  The fire caught in her until she could no longer contain it.

  Then the words had poured forth and she seized the spirits that struggled to wisp away. A mother pinching her daughter's arm to bring tears, a farmer cursing a stump as his axe fell, a young warrior digging the point of his blade into the carcass of a sheep.

  She remembered little else of the battle. Fennewyn's voice rose. It forced tendrils into her. The Painted Men howled as their spears slipped beneath armor. Then she was filled with others: the son of a fisherman who had never said goodbye, a thief who missed the warmth of the olive groves, a cowardly uncle who limped with each step.

  Deep in the night, Fennewyn's cold bony hand touched her shoulder, and he had told her to let them go. When she did, her heart ripped and she collapsed to the ground, into utter blackness, until she found herself awaking among the corpses.

  She fed another stick broken by Gyrn into the fire and then picked up a bit of dried meat and a hard cake that he had left on a cloth for her. She brought a water bladder to her lips. Slowly her energy returned.

  She rose, hands on knees, and then wandered among the stripped corpses until she came upon Fennewyn.

  The warlock leaned heavily on his staff, his knuckles white and bulbous. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy, and the eyes themselves branched with blood.

  He stood over the corpse of one of the young women of the village that he had sacrificed. Her dark hair spilled wide on the wet earth. A large welt rose from her cheek.

  "She was a mother," said Birgid. She bent to pull the woman's skirt down to cover her thighs. "But she struggled with it."

  "You knew her?" the old man said, his voice scratchy. He cleared his throat and spit.

  Birgid held her fingers over her mouth, but could not choke back the laughter. "I know them all. Every single soul that I ripped out of the air. Every single soul that I shoved into my heart. I know them."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "No, you're not. You wanted this."

  Fennewyn's lips quivered. His tongue was white, covered in thick mucous. "I waited for only one thing in my life. All those cold nights in the heather, all those days lost in the wild lands. Then I stumbled into her life, her village. A clan that accepted me. She best of all forgave my weaknesses, my cruelty, the selfishness that ruled my days."

  Birgid tore away from his grip. "The story will make no difference."

  "She gave me a gift. A daughter. Something to live for."

  "And then you turned to this?" Birgid fell to her knees, lifting the head of the dead woman to her thighs. She ran her fingers through t
he corpse's hair but it was horribly tangled. She wrenched at the twigs, the burrs, the knots.

  "They took her from me. My hope."

  "But you didn't have to turn this way," said Birgid. "We didn't have to do this." Her eyes swept over the field of corpses.

  The old man sighed. "I don't sleep. Or maybe I do. When I sleep, I am dead. Maybe I am never awake but always dead." He ground the butt of the stick into the soft earth. "They leave you, don't they?"

  "Only after they tear out pieces of my heart," Birgid said.

  "If only that," Fennewyn said. "They never leave me." He tapped a gnarled finger against his head. "They are filled with hate. They all hate me. I hate them. But I will win. I will wipe out everything. They took my daughter from me. They took away my hope and I will take away theirs."

  JUSTIO'S TALE

  HARAD STOOD ON the catwalk that ran inside of the ramparts of the Dhurman garrison in Cullan looking down on the waters of the Black River. Recent rains had swollen the river and would continue to do so until the snows came with the winter. Every year it was the same cycle of weather and seasons, the world folding and unfolding on itself.

  Yet something had changed beyond the Black River.

  The big Northman took one last look at the land that stretched far to the north only to be lost in the low clouds and mists that rose from the distant bogs. Then he clambered down the rickety ladder to the central courtyard.

  The others had already gathered and the arguments had begun. Pullo, the unkempt sergeant who had been left behind with the three dozen men to hold the fortress, was at the heart of the conversation.

  He paced in front of the Dhurman survivor. "If you are lying, Justio, your death will be slow and painful."

  Justio sat hunched on a bench, his eyes haggard as if he had not slept for days. Although he had bathed and put on a fresh tunic, he still looked as if he had been dragged behind a horse for miles. He laughed before speaking, the laughter erupting from his mouth past lips that tried to seal themselves.