Howl of Blades

by J Glenn Bauer

  “Come now, you walking dog turd, it is time to end this.”

  Maleric raised his blade up over his right shoulder, both hands wrapped around the hilt.

  The giant wore fresh wounds on his cheek and thigh. Blood mingling with sweat to smear his armour and sheet his legs. Lips curled back to show his blackened teeth, he edged to Maleric’s right, eyes on the sword. He spread his arms, spears ready to cut and pierce.

  Maleric shuffled to track his opponent, his left foot sliding under the lip of the shield that had tripped him.

  The giant dropped his right shoulder and attacked, sweeping the spear in his left hand at Maleric’s neck and readying his right to stab him in the gut when he twisted away from the slashing blade.

  Maleric saw the shoulder begin to dip and his heart danced in his chest. With the giant’s spear hissing through the air, he flicked the shield from the ground with his foot, aiming for the giant’s scowling face. The shield lifted with a geyser of dust and Maleric flowed after it, hacking down with his blade and taking off the giant’s right arm as he stabbed at where he expected Maleric to be.

  Before the severed limb hit the ground, Maleric slammed the end of the sword’s hilt into the center of the warrior’s face, crushing his nose and cracking teeth. Maleric whipped his sword up and it flashed through smoke and dust to lodge deep in the man’s neck.

  Maleric felt the blade part flesh and bite bone, jarring him to the shoulder. The man tried to form words, his eyes wide with shock. The sword was stuck fast between the bones of the dying man’s neck.

  Rappo whooped and shouted to Maleric.

  “Maleric! Here! To us!”

  The Gaul raised a hand to show he had heard before placing a foot on the giant’s face to jerk and twist his blade free. With a grin, he raised it above his head in a short-lived victory salute.

  Beside Rappo, Beaugissa went as taut as a bowstring, her fingers digging into his shoulder.

  He looked beyond Maleric and immediately grabbed Beaugissa’s hand. She sobbed once and tried to run toward her husband, but Rappo curled an arm around her waist and snarled at the Vascon to help hold her.

  Maleric backed towards them, unwilling to drag his eyes from the old champion.

  Artur stood tall in greased armour, sword gleaming keenly in his grip. At his back the Vascon that had rallied to him stared at the mass of enemy warriors sporting bloodied weapons. Fear grew in their eyes and their shoulders sagged.

  A warrior stepped to the front of the enemy band, his armour stained black.

  “Where is the Bastetani, graybeard? I have seen his tame Gaul here. The African too. Where is Caros the Bastetani? Set him before me and I will consider sparing your people.”

  Artur raised his sword above his head and smiled up at it.

  “I am Artur of the Vascon!” Bringing the sword down, he ran at Berenger. The Vascon with Artur shuffled forward hesitantly, taking fewer than a handful of paces before abandoning the champion.

  Maleric gave a strangled curse and dropped his gaze while Rappo hissed and tried to shield Beaugissa from what was to come.

  “Stand aside, Rappo. I would bear witness to true Vascon honor. I wish to see my husband’s final battle.”

  Rappo’s eyes grew wet and he stood back. Maleric looked hard at her, his face filled with respect before he turned to watch as Artur advanced through the orange-tinted smoke.

  The Vascon champion’s sword hacked splinters from the black shield Berenger met it with. The blow rocked the younger man who spat and rolled his shoulders.

  Attacking the Vascon, Berenger’s blows were countered by blade and shield. In return, Artur whipped his blade low, scoring a red gash across Berenger’s thigh.

  With a curse, Berenger renewed his onslaught. Driving forward with his shield, he pressed the older man back despite Artur’s hissing sword.

  Berenger broke off his attack and laughed at the champion who stood shaking, sword too heavy to lift.

  “If you thought to earn a quick or honorable death on my sword, you were mistaken.” He snapped a kick at Artur, knocking aside the man’s shield and sliding his blade inside his guard, piercing his hip.

  Artur paled and staggered. He studied the river of blood that spilled from the wound and then lifted his eyes to Berenger.

  When Artur struck, Berenger did well to twist away, but even so, Artur’s sword opened his upper arm from elbow to shoulder.

  Berenger glared in surprise at the wound and the Vascon who bared his teeth.

  “Still feel like flapping your lips?”

  Berenger howled. His next blows were fueled by anger and loss of face. He opened a deep wound in the Vascon’s thigh followed by a savage cut to the man’s right arm. The Vascon champion fought on bravely and when his sword fell from numb fingers, he struck with his head, smashing Berenger’s lips. In that moment, Berenger drove his blade up, sliding it deep into the old man’s chest and sundering his heart.

  Beaugissa began to keen as Artur slumped against his killer who caught him, spat into his eyes and dropped him to the ground.

  The Vascon villagers melted away; fleeing to take their kin over the walls. Berenger’s warriors were turning their attention to where Beaugissa scored her arms and tore at her hair.

  Rappo drew his short blade while Maleric took a deep, rattling breath and hefted his sword. The four Vascon with them were torn between wanting to emulate their champion and their desire to live. The number of warriors turning their way and the savagery in their faces decided their course and the Vascon began to scramble over the wall at their backs. Maleric placed a hand on Rappo’s shoulder and turned the young Masulian to face him. He gestured to the last of the Vascon disappearing from sight.

  “Take Beaugissa and flee with them. They know this place and will be able to evade Berenger’s wolves.”

  “You too, Maleric.”

  “Not I. That big bastard almost ended me and I have no strength to run now.” He grinned. “Go find our friend. Beaugissa needs him and he her.”

  Berenger had recovered and was making his way towards them, tracking through pools of sticky blood and kicking aside outstretched limbs.

  “Throw aside your weapons. The gods have proven today they have no desire to watch heroes.”

  Beaugissa’s keening cut off and she lifted her face, eyes glowing. Rappo gripped her elbow.

  “Come. We will find Caros. Ride to Iruna and summon Vascon warriors. Come.” She allowed him to drag her upright and hustle her to the wall. “I will pull you up after me.”

  Berenger roared at them and his warriors pelted forward, baying like starved hounds after a hare.

  Nimbly, Rappo scaled the rough wall and threw a leg across the top. Instead of reaching for her outstretched hand, he stared east, one hand shading his eyes from the morning sun.

  “Rappo! Go, they are almost on us!”

  Maleric stood, legs apart, his splintered shield tight across his chest, his sword angled over his shoulder, ready to hew and sunder.

  “Riders coming! Berenger’s horsemen are fleeing!” Rappo’s voice rose. “I see Caros!” He leapt to his feet as the distant rumble of galloping horses carried across the burning village.

  One of Berenger’s men called a warning from the gates and he drew to a halt twenty paces from Maleric who grinned and beckoned him closer.

  “What? Am I not old enough for you?”

  A scar-faced warrior spoke briefly to Berenger and turned on his heels, jogging for the gates. Berenger glared after him and, with a string of curses, followed.

  “Stand and fight for once, Berenger!”

  Maleric staggered forward, his face growing dark with sudden rage.

  Rappo hopped from the wall and with Beaugissa, calmed the Gaul.

  Caros’ focus was on the smoke-shrouded village and he could just make out the walls.

  “There!” Neugen pointed to where a column of riders rode south at speed. “They have seen us coming!”

  Telmo raised his l
eft hand and made a gestured.

  “Our warriors will hunt them, but they ride south and the Vascon are numerous there so…”

  Caros was torn between hunting the attackers and racing for the village. He wiped away the sweat that burned his eyes and turned for the village, beating the reins and pumping his elbows.

  Riding through the smoke and dust, he passed a huddle of butchered Vascon. They lay on their backs, stripped to their smallclothes.

  A riderless horse whinnied in the orange haze and turned away from his path, blood drying on its flanks. Near the gates, another mount thrashed and rose on its forelegs with a pained scream. It toppled onto its side, neck stretched back and eyes rolling white. Caros steeled himself to keep riding towards the gates and the scattered mounds that filled the path beyond. Only once within the gates, did the sound of grief and pain reach him.

  Chapter 16

  A pillar of black smoke stood above the village. Reaching into the heavens, it marked the path the shades would take through the lands of the dead god, Saur. At the base of the pillar of smoke, a ring of people stood within a greater circle. They were the ones who had lived through the morning. Their reward was to gather timber and oil to build the pyre on which they stacked the stiffened bodies of their kin.

  “They are walking the path now and they are well led.”

  Artur’s shade would lead his people to their ancestors.

  “There is one who is alone in the dark still.”

  Beaugissa stood forward, her skin oily from the smoke and burning heat of the flames.

  Caros clenched his fists. He had gone looking for Gauls to blame for Lorea’s death, only to find allies.

  Telmo stood among the larger outer circle, but he stepped forward and tapped the back of Caros’ hand.

  “The lost child you seek is safe. Tell your woman that she will be returned.”

  Beaugissa rounded on the Gaul before he could respond, her eyes flashing.

  Telmo’s eyes widened briefly, the only sign of alarm he allowed. He placed a hand gently on Beaugissa’s and guided it and the blade it clutched away from his throat.

  “Your people took my daughter?”

  Telmo’s men watched with narrowed eyes, their hands not yet on their weapons, but close.

  “Speak, Telmo.” Caros’ voice shook. “Why?”

  “There is a wood beyond the smoke and walls. My men just now found a child there. Buried beneath a tree.” Beaugissa swayed, her eyes dulling. Telmo shook his head urgently. “The child was ours. She went missing two days ago. We believed you Vascon had taken her.”

  Caros cocked his head.

  “So you stole a girl of the Vascon. Now you know who did?”

  “We also found a warrior beyond the hillside. One of those that attacked your people. His wounds were severe, but he spoke of the girl. It was he that killed our daughter.”

  “Where is Lorea?”

  Beaugissa’s voice was firm again, her eyes hard. This was the woman that Caros knew from the war against the Romans. The warrior woman who had seen kin and clan butchered by the men sent from that far away city.

  “With our women and children. We will bring her.” Beaugissa turned without answering and stepped close to the fire. Telmo watched her for a heartbeat and then frowned at Caros. “The child will be with you tomorrow, but this village…” He gestured at the huts, stone walls blackened, thatch burned and contents turned to ash. “The heart has been cut from this place. It holds only memories and death now.”

  His voice held echoes of places once dear to him and his people.

  “We will wait till noon for the girl.”

  Caros regarded Telmo with unflinching eyes until the Gaul nodded curtly, lifted his chin and looked away.

  Lorea arrived early the following day. The Gauls that brought her stopped well out of arrow shot, set her on the ground and wheeled their mounts to ride north.

  Before they had gone twenty strides, Beaugissa was sprinting from the gates to snatch up her child.

  With the return of the girl, the village of two hundred now numbered three score, many older women and young children who had hidden during the short and bloody battle. Where before they boasted forty spears to defend their walls, they now had twelve.

  “Send for more Vascon. There must be farmers, herdsmen and craftsmen who would fill the spaces.”

  Caros was bare chested in the sun, a thick pole in his hands as he levered a partially burnt beam off what they hoped was a stash of unbroken amphorae.

  “It will not be the same. Others will come and rebuild, but I will not stay.

  “We will have to go by galley to Italia. Have you ever been on a ship?”

  Beaugissa reached beneath the timber and pulled gently on the handle of the clay jar, her face creased in concentration.

  “Hurry, it is about to slip again!”

  The jar came free from the carpet of ash and a heartbeat later the charred beam fell back. Beaugissa held the amphora aloft like a victorious Greek athlete and shook it.

  “Wine. The Gauls make good jars. Tonight we will drink well if just one or two more jars are unbroken.”

  Caros threw aside the pole and stepped past the beam so that he stood face to face with Beaugissa, his breath fanning her hair.

  “Why? You will miss your daughters and Italia is likely to be ablaze. That is if we even make it past the Romans here on the coast.”

  Beaugissa traced the ridges left by a potters fingers as they threw the clay and formed the amphora. Her eyes were distant for a long heartbeat before she shook her head and blinked.

  “Ever since returning from the battle last summer, I… I have felt some piece of me is missing. When we went east to fight I wanted revenge, but I learned so much. Saw so much. The night is bigger than one fleeting spark, but that does not stop the spark from burning as bright as it can.”

  Caros watched her lips move, saw her tongue dance behind white teeth. Her breath tasted sweet and he leaned closer.

  Beaugissa pushed the amphora into his chest.

  “It will be dark soon. Since we are leaving early tomorrow, we should get the rest out now.” Caros took the amphora and ruefully watched her roll a grinding stone close. “This time, lift it high enough for me to slide the stone under it. Then we can both get to the jars.”

  The meal that night was somber. The Vascon had spent two days sifting the rubble of their homes for anything of value and packing it all into sacks, crates and baskets. Neighbors from surrounding villages would be here the following day with carts and wagons to take them away.

  Beaugissa’s kin, a sister who had only ever born one child was taking the two girls south to her home. Caros was at times elated that Beaugissa was accompanying them and at times filled with fear. His plan was to travel east to a Greek port, buy passage east, to Italia itself if possible, and from there search for Hannibal Barca. That Berenger had followed him so far north only proved how far Qart Hadasht would go to see Caros and his companions punished. Without Hannibal Barca’s intercession, Caros would never be able to return home.

  Caros doused cold water over his head once more, hoping to clear away the throbbing fever caused by the wine.

  Maleric was whistling as he laced his boots over his braccae, showing no ill effects after consuming a full amphora on his own.

  “Are you whistling a tune or just making a noise?”

  “Ah! It is a beloved melody sung by the Boii.”

  Caros threw the pail aside and took up his tunic. The cool morning breeze felt good on his wet skin, but his stomach was still sour.

  “A song of love of course.”

  Maleric grinned, his eyes sparkling amidst the broken veins and purple bruising.

  Caros dressed in silence, thinking of Beaugissa. His heart was hers, but she had not said a word about how she felt since Artur’s death. His greatest fear was that she blamed him for leading Berenger to her home and that her feelings had cooled.

  Rappo whistled, unlike the t
uneless Gaul, the Masulian’s whistles imitated the call of eagles and were always a signal. In this case, the arrival of the first of the neighbors followed soon by others. While wagons were being loaded, Beaugissa spent her time with her young daughters, tying their chitons, brushing their hair and consoling them. When her sister’s people arrived, she lifted the girls onto the bed of the cart and settled them on the cushions provided.

  “You are my sun and my moon and so we will be together again.” From her hair, she drew two flowers and tucked one behind each child’s ear. “Always keep a flower such as this close to you and you will be safe from the black wolf, Gaueko.”

  Saying farewell to the men, Beaugissa stepped back to watch as the cart swayed and lurched down the road, pulled by a single mule. Her face remained stoic until the girls, their arms around each other at the tail of the cart, turned their faces away. Only then did she allow tears to spill down her cheeks.

  “We should ride now.” Caros spoke gently, but he kept a sharp lookout for danger. Beaugissa wiped her cheeks and examined her wet forearm as though surprised.

  Their horses stood two abreast, those on the left burdened with provisions purchased from neighbouring villages or retrieved from the smoldering ruins of the village.

  Rappo held out the reins of her mount. She took them and using his knee as a mounting block, swung her leg over the horse’s back. Maleric passed her a war spear and shield.

  “I still do not understand why you use such small shields.” He shook his head. “Among the Boii such things would be useful lids for our pots.”

  Caros smiled as Neugen began to defend the size of the shields commonly used by Iberians. Maleric had a way of diffusing tension by creating diversions.

  They left the Vascon village, heading south east, wary that Berenger might return. Tamso’s riders had not caught the fleeing column, but they said that it numbered twenty five men after three fell from the horses, succumbing to wounds they had received in the village.

  Beaugissa knew the countryside well and steered them along the best routes. Even so, she stopped far more often than Caros would have to speak with locals. None of them complained though as both Maleric and Neugen were stiff with pain.