Howl of Blades

by J Glenn Bauer

  Neugen grinned and clapped Caros’ shoulder.

  “I think Maleric is right. The Carthaginians have no intention of granting them.” Caros thrust the copper lozenge into the hands of the closest elder. “Present this at noon tomorrow along with the petitions.”

  Despite the sinking weight in his chest, there was still some slim chance the elders would be successful. They might not win all the concessions they would ask for, but the Carthaginians would be foolish to turn them away with nothing. Not with their vaunted General far away across the alps in Italy. Not with the Romans just days away to the north.

  The elders departed long before noon, leaving Caros to sit morosely in the inner yard with Rappo for company. Neugen and Maleric had gone off to buy provisions for their return to Tagilit so that success or not, they could depart Qart Hadasht early the following day.

  It seemed to Caros that the sun took a season to climb the bird’s egg blue of the morning sky. He whetted his sword until its blade was keen enough to slice the bristles of his chin. Rappo, kept up a constant chatter about the horse herds he would buy when he returned home in the future and the wives he would gather. His mention of wives sent Caros’ thoughts north to the lands of the Vascon, to Beaugissa, that fine warrior woman who had fought at his side against the Romans. For long moments he forgot where he was or why he was there and then came the whooping of Bastetani voices.

  Standing abruptly, Caros swore as his whetstone fell from his lap to splinter on the stones of the yard. The whoops grew louder and he strode quickly through the lodging house, past the rows of cots and huddles of patrons. The elders were gathered in the front yard where they had encountered Neugen and Maleric returning from the markets.

  Neugen broke away to greet him, a broad grin on his face.

  “The elders have returned with excellent news, Caros.”

  Caros noticed the position of the sun. Whatever had been agreed had not taken long for it was not far off noon.

  “The Carthaginians have agreed!”

  An elder called to Caros in triumph.

  His mind floundering, he scowled at the man.

  “What have they agreed? What petitions?”

  “All! They agreed them all!” The elder was joined by his four fellows, eyes bright and wattle necks bobbing.

  One raised a hand to slow down the chorus of accomplishments won.

  “They agreed and have given us a tablet to that end. The only concessions were that we receive two talents of silver instead of the six we asked for and that we raise two thousand spearmen to field by spring.”

  Caros came to a stop, eyes widening. His blood pounded in his ears as he shook his head. The elders had agreed to raise still more levies to fight for the Carthaginians. He struggled to contain his anger.

  “They have allowed us to be robbed for two seasons and for that they offer to allow us to fight for them again?” He glared at each elder in turn. “Two thousand of our fittest to be absent from their fields in spring?” His voice ground down as the faces of the elders closed tight.

  “They would not withdraw the Turdetani tax collectors until our levies were raised and in the field. Would you rather the Turdetani kept taking our taxes through the next harvest too?” An elder shot back.

  “We have won concessions on the taxes too, Caros. Two thousand warriors is a large number we know, but it is for the best.” Another cajoled.

  Neugen looked abashed between Caros and the elders. His smile disappeared as he considered the implications.

  “They have tricked us.”

  The elders rounded on him.

  “You were not there! Their concessions are reasonable, even generous.”

  “No, they are not. Two talents of silver will scarce feed the starving through winter if we can even find the provisions to purchase.”

  “What do you know of provisions? We can buy them right here!”

  Neugen turned on the man. “I have just come from the markets old man! They are bare! The provisions are all taken by the quartermasters of the army.”

  “We will buy food from the Ilerget or Celtiberi then. They…”

  “You forget the Romans who infest the north. By pledging two thousand of our warriors you have pulled our teeth should things go badly and war come to our land.”

  Caros turned with a curse. He was spitting angry and could hear the Carthaginians howling with laughter at how they had outwitted the Bastetani. His knuckles clenched white around the hilt of his sword as he strode towards the stables, scattering passersby with his scowl.

  Chapter 6

  Blue sky dotted with high-flying gulls, soared over the land through which Caros and his companions travelled. They rode north, taking their time to hunt for sport and for the pot. Qart Hadasht lay four days ride behind them and Caros’ anger at the Carthaginian’s deal had simmered to a deep frustration. The elders had remained to celebrate their perceived success and for that Caros was grateful.

  As usual, Rappo spotted the deer long before the others. With a yipping cry, he leapt his pony across a stream and took off.

  Caros whooped and urged his mount forward with Neugen at his shoulder. They raced their mounts to the left of the fleeing antelope while Rappo rode hard after their bobbing white tails.

  Slow to react, Maleric spat a curse and clapped his heels, setting out after the others. His horsemanship had improved greatly, but he was still nowhere near as proficient as his fellows. After almost losing his seating when the mare jumped a gully, he reined her in and watched as Caros and Neugen bore down on a deer that had paid Rappo too much heed and failed to see them.

  He grinned and caressed his mare’s neck when Caros launched his spear, taking the startled buck in the ribs just behind its shoulder.

  Neugen’s spear sailed over the animal as it screamed and fell into the undergrowth to thrash for a heartbeat as its life fled its body.

  The Gaul patted his belt, feeling for the keen-edged knife he kept sheathed there. He licked his lips, already hungry for a bite of the still warm liver. The drumming of hooves sounded, but not from the deer nor his companions who were gathered around the kill. Maleric twisted to face an onrushing rider and grunted with surprise.

  The horse that galloped towards him was lathered with streaks of red foam; its sides matted with congealed blood. The source of the blood was the body that hung over to the horse’s withers.

  Maleric winced at the sight of a pair of arrows protruding from the rider’s back. They were sunk deep as though loosed from close.

  “Your journey is over whoever you were.” He murmured as he intercepted the exhausted mount and grabbed clumsily for its reins. The figure began to slide from the horse’s back, head hung low, long black hair trailing almost to the ground.

  Maleric looked past the arrows protruding from the bruised flesh and saw the rider still alive. Her breath was labored, gurgling through a throat clogged with blood.

  The others had not noticed and Maleric issued a long piercing whistle to get their attention. Next, he swung from his horse and gently pulled the woman from her mount. Her fingers were wrapped tight in the reins and arms cinched about the horse’s neck. As he eased her from the horse, disentangling the reins, her eyes flicked open and she coughed blood over his arm.

  “Do not fear. I will set you down lightly.” He spoke softly, but his eyes had grown frosty with anger.

  He laid her on her side on the crushed grass between the two mounts, taking care not to jar the arrows that would soon kill her.

  He breathed hard through his mouth, seeing the other injuries inflicted on her.

  “Turdetani...” Her voice bubbled and whistled through the blood in her throat she clutched Maleric’s hand fiercely. “Tax collector did this. Please.”

  His anger mounted and he swore silently to avenge the woman who he now recognized.

  “Bastards. The tax collector? What is his name?”

  “Please. His warrior… a killer.”

  The woman’s s
trength was draining with every word and each droplet of blood that spattered Maleric’s cheek as he bent his head to hear her words. The last she would say.

  Maleric cradled a limp body in his lap and Caros felt a cold hand close about his heart. He slipped from his mount and the Gaul looked up at him, burning rage twisting his features. Caros squinted at the body of the woman, her ribs prominent beneath skin stippled by lash marks. Blood had flowed from her mouth to paint her cheek red and still dripped from her matted hair. Caros stared into her sightless eyes. It was a face he thought he should know.

  “You recognize her?” Maleric’s voice was coarse with anger. He turned her chin. “There. We saw her just days ago.”

  Caros’ face grew dark, understanding growing along with a flaming rage.

  Riding to the crest of the hill, Berenger pulled his mount up and stared at the village that crowned a smaller knoll below him. The Bastetani were long out of their cots. Women pounded grain, millet and barley, while girls bounced the crushed grain on stretched leather paddles, allowing the chaff to be whipped away by the morning breeze. There were men too, and Berenger counted them, judging which were spearmen and which would bow their heads without a fight.

  His men waited out of sight along with the tax collector, aware that today was to be a day of killing. Berenger whistled softly to himself as he eyed the surrounding slopes, marking the scattered goats and young boys tending them.

  There was a smudge of low hanging smoke further east, marking the nearest neighbors. Berenger estimated it lay some fifty stade distant. Turning his attention once more to the village, he eyed it critically, assessing the walls, the condition of the thatched roofs and even the garments of the villagers. No great wealth was visible, but neither were these people who rarely saw silver. The tax collector’s suspicion that they were wealthier than they appeared was probably accurate. The fields outside the walls were bare now, but looked well-tended. The goats on the hillsides were numerous and he counted three pigsties within the walls.

  Berenger loosened his sword in its sheath and turned to his men who sat watching him with dark eyes.

  “Hear me! You have all eaten your full these past forty days. You have drunk till your livers have turned sour and you have had more women most graybeards.” The men grinned yellow teeth at one another. “You have filled the tax collector’s wagon and for that he has offered us a reward.”

  The men’s smiles dimmed and their brows drooped. None were farmers and few had ever had any trade other than brigand or mercenary warrior. Not for them a life of rustic hardship.

  Berenger drew his sword slowly, allowing the honed blade to clear the sheath with a long rasp that foretold of violence and bloodletting.

  “The village has withheld the taxes owed to the Barca and Carthage. For this they must be punished.”

  Understanding dawned on the faces of the riders and their growls grew ragged, some turning their mounts in circles, ready to charge.

  “There is one condition! No man woman or child lives!” He pointed his blade at a rider. “You are to take five men and mark the goatherds. Kill them the moment you hear the first screams from within the walls.”

  The rider gritted his teeth, frustrated at the unrewarding task, but not daring to give voice to his annoyance.

  “The rest of you follow me and the tax collector as though about our usual business.”

  He pointed his sword at a blading warrior with a belly that stretched his tunic beyond his belt.

  “You will ride at the rear with ten picked warriors. The moment we are inside the walls, you are to shut the gates. If there are any people beyond the walls, you and your men are to cut them down.”

  A nod.

  “The tax collector has authority for this punishment from Qart Hadasht on condition that these killings are not a cause for the Bastetani to rise against Qart Hadasht.”

  Their blank gazes made Berenger wonder if it was worthwhile continuing. He decided to make the instruction clearer. “You are to never reveal what we do here today. Not to your mothers, not to your bedmates and especially not when you are pissing ale faster than you can sink it.” He twisted his blade to reflect the sun across their faces. “If I hear a single whisper…”

  Men glanced at one another, suspicion alive in those looks, yet they had done so much killing and plundering they had little care for the legitimacy of what they were about to do.

  Berenger glanced at the tax collector who was scowling at him, no doubt disgruntled that the deed was placed so squarely at his feet.

  The squeal of the heavily laden wagon reached them first. Axleen, was weaving flax fibres in the sun beside the beehive home of her family when the sound crept into her hearing. Villagers rose from their tasks, their faces sullen and eyes hooded. She set her work aside and stood, calling for her children. A chill fear burned down her back and circled her gut to squeeze the breath from her chest. The tax collector would not have returned here except to mete out punishment for losing face on the road.

  Her eldest were with the others in the center of the village, grinding grains, sorting and storing flour. Heart beating hard, she wrenched aside the curtain of the hut.

  “Get your spear, husband. The ancestors are close and their voices scream danger.”

  Her crippled man grunted and looked hard at her. A spark glimmered in his eyes and flared brighter. It was a thing that had long been absent from him and she was grateful to see it again though now her knees shook.

  He struggled upright and dragged his spear from the rafters. With a rueful snort, he used it as a staff to limp from the hut while Axleen lifted a thornwood club. One blow between the eyes with it would drop a young bull at slaughter time.

  She followed her husband into the sunlight, hearing the clipping of many hooves now above the rumble of the wagon wheels. She looked past the walls to the hills beyond where her son watched the flocks along with the other young boys and saw riders strung out across the hill, herding the herders. A sob broke from her throat and a tear eased over her eyelashes to track down her cheek beside her nose. She waved to the boys, some of whom were looking over their shoulders at the silent riders while others watched their parents in the village. A tall boy, her son, lifted his arm in response. From over her shoulder came a clatter of hooves and a hoarse shout.

  Axleen spun on her heel and ran towards the growing commotion. Quickly overtaking her man who was hobbling as fast as his injuries would allow.

  “No Axleen! Go over the wall and flee!” His voice rang at her back unheeded.

  The first clash of blade on shield sounded like a drum beat and men began to bellow and women to shriek in outrage. Axleen sprinted around a beehive hut, club already aloft and collided with a mount as its rider plunged his spear down at a woman snarling up at him.

  Spinning away from mount and rider, Axleen’s eyes widened as his spear slid effortlessly into her neighbor’s chest. She howled in fury at the sight and swept her club down with all her strength, smashing it into the killer’s knee.

  He screamed as bones splintered and his mount skittered aside, causing him to lose his balance and topple to the ground at Axleen’s feet. His eyes widened as she swung again and drove the club into his face. Blood misted from his smashed mouth and nose as he let loose another cry of agony. Before she could lift her club again, her husband was there, driving his spear into the fallen rider’s throat, opening both large arteries and freeing the rider’s blood to fountain high.

  “Take his blade and shield!”

  Axleen pulled the round shield from the dying man’s left arm and stepped over him to draw the spear from her neighbor’s trembling body. She shuddered as the blade drew free with a nauseating sucking sound.

  “Axleen!” Her husband cried out even as he shouldered her aside.

  She had not seen the next rider scythe at her with his spear and had almost had her throat opened. She heard the blow land though and her husband’s gasp. His spear clattered to the stones.
/>   His scalp was laid bare, blood sheeting down his face as he fell to his knee, blindly groping for the fallen spear. His attacker leapt from his mount to kick him in the face, rocking him onto his hands and knees.

  Axleen growled and sprang at the man, the bloodied spear she clutched clanging harmlessly off the shield he bore. His dark eyes bored into her and his yellow teeth glistened between wet lips. Blocking her next thrust effortlessly, he stepped forward and planted a heavy foot between her husband’s shoulder blades, forcing him onto his belly. Axleen screamed and hurled herself at the warrior, slashing at his face with the spear in an effort to force him off her man. He laughed at her efforts and fixed the point of his spear on his neck.

  “Run Axleen! They are too many!”

  Around her, the narrow street was awash with warriors hacking at her kin, cutting away arms raised in defense, plunging cold steel into unprotected necks.

  In the center of the melee, a single rider remained mounted. A broad-shouldered warrior in a dark tunic and wielding a large sword. He swung and thrust, dropping the village warriors with no effort. Cutting through their boiled leather armour, hacking through their bronze helmets and cleaving their flesh and bones.

  Axleen heard the crack of her husband’s spine as the warrior towering over him, forced his spear through the bone and into his throat.

  A girl ran into her legs and clung to her tunic; her screams incoherent. A long gash down her back, marked where a spear had opened her to the ribs.

  Her husband’s killer drew his spear free and casually punched it into the girl’s back.

  Axleen groaned as the little body fell away from her legs to kick and shudder in her husband’s blood. She retched and the rider stepped towards her, his hand out.

  “Come! You can be of use and maybe live.”

  His hand was red with blood, his tunic stained by it. His beard was matted with grease and crusted food. His eyes were alight with the fire of lust and killing.

  Axleen sobbed and fell to her knees before him, her shoulders shaking, her heart afire with grief.