Crown of Vengeance fie-1

by Stephen Zimmer

  The blue-eyed male with the medium length brown hair, named Janus, was found strolling idly about the grounds of the village. Ayenwatha grinned as he saw Janus being trailed at a distance by a few curious children.

  The dark-haired, solemn one named Logan was discovered sitting by himself on the shaded side of the longhouse, with his back resting against the elm bark paneling.

  The dark-skinned man called Derek and the tall female named Erika were found together in another part of the village. They had been speaking with a couple of the village warriors, standing close to the modest garden plot for ceremonial tobacco lying adjacent to the great longhouse where the Sacred Fire of the Five Realms was kept and tended.

  The warriors were showing the guests their curved war clubs, and as Erika watched over his shoulder, Derek fingered one of the weapons with an unmistakable look of admiration. The sight was no surprise to Ayenwatha, as Derek carried the distinctive air of a warrior.

  Once Ayenwatha had all seven of the foreigners gathered together, he walked at their head towards the village entrance. Several of the village warriors were already assembled and waiting there.

  They joined the stalwart war sachem and the foreigners, as he led them all forth from the village. The party passed through the village’s narrow front entrance and headed down the slope of the great hill. A light spread of fog was slowly wafting through the trees below, and a vibrant chill yet lingered in the morning air.

  Though the additional warriors took pains not to discomfort the foreigners, there was no denying the warriors’ escort function. They were all there at Ayenwatha’s behest. The seasoned war sachem was not about to discard reasonable precautions, even if he still sensed no threats present in the otherworlders.

  Ayenwatha glanced towards the seven foreigners, and saw that most of them looked quite alert, well-rested for the day’s coming foray.

  Two of the three that had remained inside the longhouse were still showing signs of being a little drowsy. Antonio and Kent yawned periodically, and stretched out stiffened shoulder and arm muscles as they headed down the hillside. Yet they already walked with a limber step, and it was clear that they were simply shedding the last vestiges of a long sleep’s grogginess.

  Once they had reached the base of the village’s hill, Ayenwatha led the party forward through the trees. They soon passed through the primary areas used for the village’s cultivation, in which a number of women had just gotten underway in tending to their day’s work tasks.

  Ayenwatha watched them idly as his group continued on past the crops. Two of the women had been dear friends to his own beloved wife. They had helped to bring his daughter into the world, one of the most precious, wonderful days in all his life.

  The beautiful memories swiftly brought sharp pangs of pain and regret that he quickly pushed back down, before they could evolve into cavernous sorrows. Those shining days were past, and could never be regained. He lived with an abiding hope in the beneficence of the One Spirit, but the only thing that now mattered was what lay right ahead of him.

  Laboring with their hoes made of wood and bone, the diligent women paid the group little attention as they passed by. They were far more concerned with the needs of the Three Sisters, the maize, beans, and squash that were so utterly vital to the village and tribe’s well-being.

  The party left the fields behind and continued onward until they finally arrived at the Winding Stream. Too broad to jump, and moderate in depth, the substantial waterway displayed a robustly flowing current between its banks.

  A few of the warriors with Ayenwatha broke away and headed off into the undergrowth. They shortly pulled a number of canoes out from where their elongated forms had been obscured by the dense foliage growing adjacent to the stream’s near bank. The light, narrow vessels of stitched bark were subsequently dragged down the bank, and maneuvered to the edge of the water.

  The group was then divided up and assigned to the four canoes, separating the seven foreigners in the process. The next moments were spent getting situated in the vessels and pushing them off into the water.

  The current quickly gripped the canoes and began to carry them downstream. Without delay, the Onan warriors picked up wooden oars that were lying within the interior of the boats.

  With fluid motions, the warriors dipped the oars into the water and pulled vigorously as they began to propel the vessels down the Winding Steam. They traveled in a staggered line, with Ayenwatha’s canoe traveling in the lead.

  Almost immediately after bringing the boats under control, the quartet was gliding into a curving bend towards the left. It was just one of the many twists and turns that gave the sinewy watercourse its name.

  The rising sun’s rays glinted off the stream as they slanted through the flanking trees, dappling the water surface with a dynamic blend of sparkles and shadows. A lively chorus of insects along the banks and high among the trees joined their serenade with the bright songs of birds, providing a peaceful accompaniment to the passage of the four boats cruising smoothly along the water’s surface.

  Before the sun had risen much higher, the Winding Stream merged in a confluence with a much larger river. Looking behind him, Ayenwatha watched the eyes of his guests widen in wonder as they passed into the channel of the considerably larger flow.

  The greater river was called the Little Brother. The Little Brother was a substantial river in its own right, but undeniably a lesser sibling to the great Shimmering River that passed through the very heart of the Five Realms.

  The Little Brother had cut deep into the tribal lands over the long ages, as it meandered around a number of large, forested hills. Rich green slopes towered high to either side of the river, rising away from the steep banks. The morning fog had dissipated by then, and Ayenwatha relished the brightness of the clear, unsullied day that now dominated the skies above them.

  Ayenwatha heard the otherworlders within his vessel begin to speak quietly to each other, where they sat just a few places behind him. Discreetly, Ayenwatha listened intently to their conversation.

  “I wonder where we are going today. It seems to be quite the surprise,” the one named Logan commented, with a somber tinge to his voice.

  Antonio replied in a similarly low voice. “Do you think I know? You tried asking him?”

  Ayenwatha knew that they were referring to him. His finely chiseled limbs continued to move with a steady, rhythmic grace, flowing smoothly through each dip, pull, and raising of his oar. The war sachem kept his eyes focused upon the broad river ahead, even if his mind was wholly occupied with his guests.

  There was no need to interject with an answer. They would know where they were going, and who would be waiting there, soon enough.

  LOGAN

  From where he was sitting further back on the canoe, Logan knew that it would be rather difficult to speak directly with Ayenwatha. He had grown highly impatient with the query that lingered upon his tongue. With each moment he found it increasingly harder to wait any longer, and he finally opted to seek some level of answer. Instead of raising his voice and trying to address Ayenwatha, he turned towards the tribal warrior that was paddling immediately behind him.

  The warrior’s face was implacably stern, presenting a pair of stoic, dark eyes that rested behind a hawk’s beak of a nose. His mouth was set in a taut line over his sharp chin. A little taller and broader of back than Ayenwatha, the warrior held a strong posture, and conveyed a supremely confident aura about his person.

  The warrior certainly looked as if he was not the sort of man very inclined to harboring a good sense of humor. Nor did he appear to be the kind of individual given to easy conversation.

  “So, where are we going today? Nobody has told us yet,” Logan asked the warrior in a low voice, careful not to sound too demanding.

  “Ayenwatha will explain to you soon. You are in no danger,” the warrior replied calmly.

  The warrior did not take his eyes away from his task, continuing to work his oar in a c
onsistent rhythm.

  Logan waited a few moments longer, hoping that the warrior would elaborate further. With nothing forthcoming, Logan turned back towards Antonio, and shrugged in a gesture of resigned futility.

  “Maybe it is a big surprise,” Antonio said.

  At the moment, Logan was not feeling very enthusiastic about surprises. The new world that had been revealed out of the dense fog had been far enough of a surprise for his liking. Indeed, it was a surprise that was adequate for a lifetime.

  A part of him wondered whether it would simply be better to jump out of the canoe and swim for the shore. He glanced back at the warrior, the man’s unbending expression showing no acknowledgement of Logan, as if he were invisible.

  As Logan casually eyed the warrior, he could not help but take note of the man’s strong build, and the sense of strength that his sculpted, heavily tattooed form radiated. The sight brought to mind the stoutly fashioned, ball-headed war clubs, the short-hafted axes, and the bows that the warriors such as him possessed and utilized.

  Even the small knife, in the bead and quill decorated sheath hanging from the long cord around the warrior’s neck, took on a much more formidable aspect than it would have solely by itself. Its wearer conferred a significantly greater status upon the short blade, reinforced by the thoughts of his skill in wielding it.

  Logan shifted his attentions back towards the front. “Right now, I just don’t want any more surprises,” Logan stated curtly, as Antonio nodded his agreement.

  Logan sat in a moody silence for about two hours longer, resigned to simply take in the sights of the hilly landscape passing by around them. The thick mass of trees, running up the slopes of the rises flanking the river, presented a nearly impenetrable upper surface. The intertwined concourse of branches and leaves could easily mask any manner of creature lurking beneath them.

  Logan found himself wondering what manner of strange sights that the great span of forest might be sheltering within its midst.

  The continuity of branches and leaves down by the river was broken up from time to time by stretches of bare ground. Broad patches of open space were spread out along some areas of the shoreline, especially within a few of the bends in the river.

  On one of these patches, a rounded protrusion of land jutting deep into a curve in the river, was a herd of deer with reddish-brown coats. The cluster of deer came into sight as the canoes glided around the bend to the left. Having moved out from the shade of the treeline farther back, the deer were lapping at the clear waters of the river.

  Reacting as if one singular body, the startled herd recovered in an instant from their initial surprise at the sudden appearance of the canoes. For a moment, a flurry of snorts broke the passive spring atmosphere. Flashing the white undersides of their tails, they sprang off in nimble, bursting bounds, racing swiftly into the shadows of the forest. In just seconds, it was as if they were never there.

  About a mile downstream, along a straighter expanse of the river, Logan happened to be looking towards the bank when he caught sight of a towering, brown-furred form with a set of broad, palmated antlers. The great bull moose was almost hidden from view, standing still under the boughs of soaring trees. As the canoes neared the moose’s position, the huge creature turned and lumbered off into the forest.

  Shortly thereafter, another capacious swathe of embankment caught Logan’s undivided attention, as the canoes rounded another prominent bend in the river.

  Logan gazed in sheer wonder as the bank slowly came into full view, steadily revealing a mythic vision that struck him profoundly. A distant age of his own world was brought to life within the scene unveiling before his eyes.

  “Unbelievable,” Logan whispered slowly, under his breath.

  A long, narrow-bodied ship of timber, whose contours flowed elegantly throughout its design, had been pulled up to rest on the ground of the shore.

  The grand vessel was meticulously constructed by overlapping rows of horizontal strakes. The eminent level of craftsmanship required for such a ship was evident in its exquisite appearance, each fitted strake and ornamental carving openly testifying to the proficient skills of its makers.

  The ship was designed to hold a single mast, rising from a support set near to the center of the vessel. The stout vertical post of pine was currently lowered, and the woolen sail was furled.

  A full array of long oars was resting upon a pair of tall racks. The racks were in the form of vertical posts with shaped crosspieces, placed along the centerline of the vessel.

  The curving bow of the ship exhibited a carving of a snarling wolf’s head at its apex, with the stern displaying the corresponding image of a wolf’s tail.

  Around thirty very strong-looking men were milling about the immediate vicinity of the vessel, a few of them spread out along the expanse of clear shore. They looked casually towards the incoming canoes, showing no sign of alarm or surprise at its appearance. It was as if they had been waiting expectantly for the arrival of the tribal watercraft.

  Logan’s eyes absorbed as much as he could regarding their appearances, looking upon them with a sense of awe and wonder.

  A few of the men wore protective garb on their upper bodies, a select few with coats of iron-link mail, and others with hide jerkins. The woolen tunics on all of them, whether under armor or not, exhibited a variety of colors. Hues of reds, blues, and greens had been dyed into the wool, and brocaded designs and patterns encircled the cuffs of their wrists, as well as the circumference of their necks and lower hems.

  The clothing on their lower bodies was less colorful, largely earthen-colored trousers with either untapered or close-fitting legs. A few wore trousers gathered in below the knee, by cloth bands that were cross-gartered down to their footwear, whether leather shoes or cowhide boots, the latter with furred sides on the exterior.

  A few of the men wore cloaks, most of which were pinned at their right shoulders with metal brooches or straight pins. Aside from a few with colorful headbands or round caps of wool, a majority of the men wore conical iron half-helms upon their heads, hammered out of one piece of iron, or fashioned from four iron plates. Several of the helms had straight nasal guards, and a very few had silver-gilt, spectacle-like eye-guards set in front, descending low enough to protect the nose as well.

  The men were clearly prepared for combat, many bearing sizeable, round wooden shields, with projecting iron bosses fitted into their centers. A few other shields were set in an outer timber batten that ran down the length of the ship. Vibrant colors were presented on the shield surfaces, paired in most instances to create swirling or sectioned patterns.

  All of the men had weapons close at hand, ranging from long-hafted, broad-bladed war axes, to straight swords nestled within their scabbards, and to spears of varying shaft lengths and blade types. A smattering of bows could also be seen in evidence amongst the warriors, the bearers of which possessed quivers full of feather-fletched arrows.

  At the approach of the canoes, the men standing closer around the body of the longship trundled down to join the others at the river’s edge. Assembled together, they all patiently waited for the arrival of the oncoming vessels.

  Logan was impressed with the physical traits of the fair-skinned men, the common characteristics among them becoming clearer as the canoes drew closer.

  They were rather tall, very powerfully-built men. Broad of shoulder and thick of limb, most wore full beards upon their faces, some worked into a braided or forked style.

  Longer hairstyles predominated amongst them, most having locks cut to about shoulder length. Good grooming was in full evidence, with well-combed tresses culminating in even trims.

  Despite the presence of ample color, artistry, and grooming habits among them, there was absolutely nothing soft about the throng of warriors. Their faces and bright eyes formed decidedly hardened countenances, and Logan recognized at once that these were not the kind of men to be taken lightly, or underestimated in any way.

  �
��Eirik! Welcome to you and your men in the land of the Five Realms,” Ayenwatha called out loudly, breaking Logan’s concentration as the war sachem shouted abruptly to one of the foremost of the waiting figures.

  The man identified as Eirik grinned broadly in response, moving at once to intercept Ayenwatha’s canoe just as it reached the shoreline. Ayenwatha set his oar down as the bark-lined vessel grated against the ground underneath, rising up and lithely swinging himself over the side of the canoe.

  Eirik moved forward and took Ayenwatha into a strong embrace that nearly lifted the tribal warrior off of the ground. Several of his long, blond locks billowed outward as they were picked up and buoyed by the breezy air. The ends of his red, square cloak, clasped by a shining silver brooch at the right shoulder, flapped as it was caught up in the stout gusts.

  About six feet tall, he was exceptional of build, even among his own men, being particularly robust in the upper chest and shoulders. He had a multi-lobed, silver-gilt pommel crowning the bottom end of a long sword. The pommel and leather-wrapped hilt protruded upward from where the short, straight crossguard rested flush against the bronze-lined mouth of the scabbard at his left side. The scabbard itself was girded via a leather belt secured snugly around his waist.

  Towards the bottom of his brown trousers, his feet were covered in dark, sealskin boots.

  Several fingers of his sizeable hands exhibited gleaming silver rings. He wore a couple of silver arm-bands above his right elbow, circling his biceps, the gleaming bands visible right below the short sleeve of his chain mail shirt.

  A type of beaded necklace, with two silver pendants hanging down at the bottom of the decorative array, was partially obstructed by the thick, forked beard that the man’s face displayed, the farthest ends of which rested upon his broad upper chest.

  The fierce-looking man looked markedly relaxed in his posture, adjacent to Ayenwatha’s own very casual manner. The pair made for an odd sight; the brawny, fair-skinned man with flowing blonde locks, and draped in his richly colored attire, next to the leaner, reddish-skinned man in his hide kilt and leggings, with a crowning tuft of black hair and his upper body covered by naught but tattoos.