The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age)

by Scott Bury

  Before either could say anything, a high, drawn-out wail pierced the night, followed by another. The villagers froze. “Wolves!” someone said, and several ran to the stockade to make sure it was closed fast.

  Lalya pulled away; she looked afraid. The howling started again, and was answered again, closer this time. “They’re howling strangely,” said Mstys.

  “Not natural wolves, Javor,” Photius said quietly. “We must take turns keeping watch tonight.” He led the young one back to their borrowed hut, Javor looking wistfully over his shoulder.

  Everyone else dispersed to their huts; the happy mood was gone. The howls continued, but Javor couldn’t distinguish between them and those he had heard four nights ago in the hills. He did not rest: every few hours, Photius would wake him.

  Photius was true to his word that night: they took turns sleeping and keeping watch until the sun rose again.

  The next day, the sun rose, dull and weak behind thick, threatening clouds. A cool wind whipped from the north, and Javor shivered in the summer.

  “Unusually cold for this time of year,” said an old man who brought them breakfast this time. Photius just nodded, staring down at the dirt.

  The villagers led the cattle and pigs out of the holody to the fields, but no one went very far. They said they didn’t want to get caught in rain, but no rain fell. The sky got lower and darker, and there was a feeling of tension all around. Children squabbled in the centre of the village.

  Javor wandered to the crest of the cliff near the holody, watching the stream hurl itself over the rocks, and heard a yell. Looking up, he could see a cloud of dust north of the village. He remembered the same sight from solstice at his home: riders on horseback. The villagers ran back to the holody, driving livestock before them.

  Javor tore to his hut. As he buckled on his weapons, he could hear the villagers crying, “Raiders! Raiders are coming!” The villagers gathered in the holody or hid in the forest; Mstys ordered the gates shut and the men gathered at the stockade.

  A dozen raiders rode into the clearing at the bottom of the hill. They were archers mounted on small horses. They wore round metal helmets, furs and leather armour reinforced with metal. Some held drawn, curved swords, others had bows and arrows at the ready. Their round shields each bore a device in the shape of a winged serpent—a dragon, Javor realized.

  “Damned Avars!” Mstys cursed, peering over the stockade beside Javor. “Will we never have peace. Perhaps,” he added hopefully, “they’ll just take some food and be gone.”

  As if in answer, one rider lifted a burning brand. An archer used the flame to light an arrow, then fired it at the stockade. Dozens of burning arrows began to hit the logs. “Get water! Put out the fire!” Mstys screamed, and the villagers began hauling pots and buckets. Javor backed away from the stockade as the smoke grew denser. Maybe it will rain, he hoped, and knew it was a stupid wish. He ran for water and threw bucketsful over the stockade.

  He heard a scream and looked up to see one of the young men of the village, a handsome youth named Hlib, falling from the stockade. One hand grabbed uselessly at an arrow protruding from his neck, the other still clutched a pot—he had reached over the stockade to pour water on the fire. Hlib fell to the foot of the stockade and didn’t move anymore.

  The gate crashed open and then there were horses all over the holody. The raiders slashed with their curved swords and trampled women and children.

  Javor found his sword in his hands. A horse rode toward him, a curved sword swung through the smoke. Javor raised his sword and slashed and a body fell from the horse. He felt his body thrust the sword downward to finish the rider off. Another horse charged at him and he slashed again, slicing through the animal’s neck. He dodged the dying horse and found himself face-to-face with its rider. The raider swung a curved sword at Javor; Javor parried, thrust forward and felt resistance—then he saw his opponent crumple, pulling Javor’s sword down with him. He yanked backward, panicking. He glimpsed another raider at his right, so he swept the weapon around. He felt it hit something, felt the sword slow in its sweep but then continue, saw the raider’s forearm fall off, still clutching a sword. Blood spurted over Javor’s face, but he pulled his sword back and leaped forward. There was another raider, sword raised over one of the villagers. Screaming, Javor swung the blade with all his might and cleanly sliced off the attacker’s head.

  The villagers were running in every direction, women clutching children, men running with axes and daggers and burning brands to defend their homes. Riderless horses ran back and forth, confused and snorting.

  He ran toward the broken gate, swinging the sword. He felt it checked with a ringing metal sound, and realized he was fencing a man on horseback. Again, he swung at the animal’s neck, but the horse dodged and its rider leaped down. Javor hesitated and the raider attacked. Javor jumped back, parried the slash with his sword, pressed forward. Back and forth they fought. Then he saw his opening. He feinted a left slash, checked it and lunged forward, watched the sword cut through his opponent’s chest, watched blood splash everywhere.

  A blow square in the middle of his back knocked Javor to his knees. He turned and realized a spear had hit his armoured back. Someone was rushing at him now, screaming. Javor jumped up, slashing his sword. It dug into the man’s chest and came away again.

  He pressed forward, slashing at the horses near the gate, but they drew back. He realized then that the raiders were withdrawing, leaving the holody. They turned their horses and galloped down the hill and disappeared into the forest. He started after them, but felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Photius’ voice, “Hold, Javor!”

  Javor turned, sword high, but found himself facing Photius and Mstys. “Don’t chase them!” Photius yelled. “They want us to follow them! Out in the open, their horses have the advantage! They’ll cut us down!” The last of the raiders left the holody. Javor saw the remains of the gate lying on the ground. A young villager leaned into the opening to take a look and fell back instantly, an arrow protruding from his chest.

  Photius drew an arrow from the quiver on his hip, spat on its head and fitted it to his bow. Without looking over the stockade, he aimed the arrow upward and bent the bow. Javor saw the old man’s lips move, but his eyes were squeezed shut. Then he released the arrow. It flew high over the stockade and disappeared beyond it. They heard a scream. “You hit him!” Lalya cried. She was peering through a small space between two logs.

  Photius drew another arrow, spat on the head, prayed and let fly again without looking; again Lalya cried out “Got him!” joyously. “They’re running away!”

  Javor realized he had been holding his breath. He looked up; the grey clouds were getting darker and lower. Villagers were still running with pots and buckets of water to put out fires. A dying horse kicked and thrashed. Men’s and women’s bodies, villagers and raiders, were scattered on the ground. A woman, her tunic soaked in blood, sobbed on her knees beside a headless raider. Another woman wailed, clutching the limp body of Hlib, the young man who took an arrow in the throat after standing too high over the stockade to put out a fire. Then the air was full of the cries and weeping of parents and children of those killed, of moans of the wounded. One of the huts burned fiercely, despite the efforts of some twenty to douse it.

  “I don’t understand it. They usually just demand food and water, maybe a girl, then they go,” said Mstys, sitting on the ground. His face was covered in blood from a slash over his eye.

  A thin rain began to fall, chilling them all.

  “How many times have they come before?” Photius asked.

  Mstys looked at the ground. “Four or five.”

  “And they’ve only asked for food?”

  Mstys nodded. “Until last time. There wasn’t enough for them, so they started beating and killing and raping women. And today, they didn’t even ask first. Why?”

  “Were they the same barbarians as today?”

  Mstys shook his head again. “I
don’t know. They had fur on their clothes, round helmets, curved swords—they were Avars.”

  “They’ll be back, tonight, unless I’m much mistaken,” said Photius. “They did not expect a fight. We have much to do.” He began ordering the villagers to put out the last of the fires, to dispose of the dead horse, to repair the gate. He delegated four young men to gather wood to make arrows, and three women to tend to the wounded. “We will bury the dead as soon as possible,” he said.

  Mstys roused himself to coordinate the villagers’ burial. Six bodies were carried out to the village cemetery and quickly interred; Photius said a few words over them. Meanwhile, others were improving the defences of the holody. Javor stripped the raiders’ bodies of their weapons and armour, and gave them to likely young men of the village.

  Photius moved back and forth, fussing over details, ordering people to shore up the stockade here, make him more arrows, and fill as many containers with water as they could find in the village.

  The whole village watched, transfixed, as Photius used his own sword to cut the heads off the three raiders’ bodies that still bore them. Holding them by their long hair, he then picked up the head that Javor had severed the same way. At that, Javor bent over and retched heartily. He felt ashamed, but no one else seemed to notice. They just watched as Photius stuck the four heads on poles in a matter-of-fact way. He instructed the villagers to place them at the four compass points around the holody. “For luck,” he said, smiling grimly. “And to discourage more raids.”

  Photius spent the rest of the day fussing over his potions and powders. He prepared a bucket of a foul-smelling liquid and soaked new arrows in them. He ground powders and set them into a complex arrangement of bowls near the gate and the path to the forest where the raiders had retreated. Between the bowls he laid a rope, soaked in oil as a primitive fuse.

  Javor spent the rest of the day training a dozen young men to use weapons. Six had taken weapons from the dead raiders; the rest had homemade spears and long knives and axes. Other than what they took from the raiders, they had no armour at all.

  Javor felt himself a complete phoney, knowing almost nothing about fighting with a sword and armour, but the young men apparently trusted him. He found himself giving tips, things he had only just learned, and sounding very credible. At one point, Photius asked him to find the best archer in the village. Javor set up a target and organized a short tournament. The winner was one young blonde man named Hach. Photius gave him his own bow and told him to practice.

  They rested in late afternoon, eating what they could. Javor took the opportunity to take some of the water and wash, cleansing himself of not only sweat and grime but also a good deal of strangers’ blood. He felt much better, then, even stronger.

  Sunset came, gleaming sullen and red under the clouds. Then a cry rang out from the watchers around the stockade. “They’re coming! I see torches in the trees!”

  Javor ran to the log wall, loosening his sword. It was true: firelight flickered in the forest until the raiders rode hard into the clearing before the holody. In the sunset, their torches lit up the sky.

  There were many more than before, close to fifty, all mounted and masked. They carried torches, spears and long, broad swords. Hach, the archer, took a position prepared for him: a small opening in the stockade, narrow on the outside wall but offering him a good view of the field. Photius took the arrows that had been soaking in potion, dipped one in another liquid and immediately gave it to Hach. With only a quick glance at his target, Hach let fly. The arrow sped to a raider in the front row and hit him full in the chest. As the man fell from his saddle, his body burst into flames. Hach shot again: the arrow hit a raider’s shield, but also caught fire, which spread to several others. Soon several raiders were on fire, slapping themselves to extinguish it. Their horses panicked and broke away, screaming, carrying their riders into the woods again.

  The leader waved his sword and the troop charged the gate. Photius grabbed a torch and touched it to his fuse; it caught and flame moved along to the bowls of powder he had prepared. One by one they shot sparking flames high into the air, scaring the raiders and their horses even more. Javor’s attention was torn between that spectacle and the raiders riding forward—their chief led a group that dodged between Photius’ flames. Just when Javor thought it was too late to do anything, a huge ball of flame burst in front of the gate. The raiders’ horses reared up, screaming, but checked their charge.

  Overhead, a ball of fire roared into the air. It spread, flattened and began to take shape. And then, in the unbelieving eyes of the villagers and the raiders alike, it became a blazing golden dragon. It stretched upward, roared, spread wide golden wings and rose higher into the night sky. A few arrows rose against it and passed right through it, blazing. Then Javor saw the raiders turning, spurring their horses faster as flame fell on them. Two died in burning agony, rolling futilely on the ground. The others disappeared into the forest again.

  Silence again, and then a whoop from the holody. Then everyone was cheering. Even Photius was smiling. “Yes, that will keep them away for some time to come.”

  Someone stoked the bonfire in the centre of the village, someone else found some bread and wine and soon the whole village was celebrating. A little band of drum, lyre and pipes struck up and the villagers started singing.

  They’ll be back, Javor knew. He walked the perimeter of the holody, peeking over it or through spaces between the logs long after dark. But when daylight had faded completely, he guessed that the raiders were not used to fighting at night, so he relaxed a little.

  He put his weapons away in the hut he shared with Photius, and when he stepped back outside, Lalya was at the door. She pressed a cup of wine into his hands. “Thank you, Javor. Thank you.”

  Javor drank. “For what?”

  Lalya just smiled in answer, but gently pushed him into the hut. Inside, she pushed her mouth against his, and with her body steered him toward the straw bed. Her tongue pushed into his mouth and her hands pushed his tunic off his body. Before he knew it, they were both naked. Her mouth roved all over his body. He felt a rush as her skin touched his hard penis. He was aware that she was older than him by a good ten years, older than Elli by probably more. But in the flickering firelight that filtered in through the open window, she was beautiful. She was over him, now, smiling, caressing his face. “You are beautiful, and you don’t even know it, do you?” she asked.

  He pulled her down, rolled on top and kissed her, hard. She pulled away. “Relax, Javor. Not so fast. We have all night.” She smiled again, and Javor kissed her again, softer this time, making an effort to be slow. He remembered how feverishly fast it had been with Elli that first time. Make it last longer, he reminded himself.

  Lalya took the lead, kissing him slowly, encouraging him at every step. Javor took her example and kissed every inch of her body, moving his mouth over her high, pointed breasts and marvelling at how she responded. He tasted her, drank her in, took care to experience every bit of her, and she did the same. And when he entered her, he took time again, going slow and fast, consciously enjoying it as long as he could. At last, he could hold back no more, felt himself flowing into her. He collapsed, hot, sweating, spent, felt her body press against his. Skin on skin, he thought. It’s wonderful.

  Chapter 9: Refugees

  Morning dawned with the sun gleaming redly under heavy black clouds. Drizzle started within an hour and continued on and off the rest of the day, leaving everything and everyone soggy.

  Lalya was gone when Javor woke, but there was a loaf of bread in the hut. He ate it and looked through the doorway at the drizzle. He found an old cloak in the hut and held it over his head against the rain, then went to look for Lalya. She was crouching in the doorway to her father’s hut, doing something he couldn’t see. But Mstys was standing outside the doorway, miserable in the drizzle, and he glowered at Javor. Javor decided not to approach.

  He found Photius near the stockade. In
his wide-brimmed hat and long cloak, he seemed impervious to the rain. He had ordered pairs of sentries stationed at intervals around the stockade, and the two young men beside him, peering into the rain, looked very unhappy.

  “Just because the raiders left last night, don’t think they will not return,” Photius explained. “In fact, they’re doubtlessly anxious to punish this village—they have a reputation to support.”

  “Look sharp up there!” Mstys bellowed from right behind Javor, who jumped. The boys on the stockade looked briefly at Mstys, their faces miserable, but then quickly turned back to peer harder into the mist and drizzle.

  In mid-morning, one of the sentries called out. Staggering up the hill was a sorry-looking group, men and women, old and young. Several limped, bled from wounds on their heads and limbs. One man had wrapped his head in an improvised bandage, almost completely pink. Another man was being partly carried by a heavy-looking woman; one of his arms hung limply, bleeding from a savage rip near his shoulder.

  “Bilavod!” one of them called. “Help us, please!”

  “They’re from Kletka, by the river,” said Mstys. “Let them in!” he bellowed.

  Someone opened the gate, and soon the wounded were gathered around the fire in the centre of the holody. The people of Bilavod rushed to bring water and bandages, while Photius directed cleaning their wounds.

  “What happened to you?” Mstys demanded.

  “Raiders. Avars, I think,” said one man. He had a raw-looking cut across his face.

  “No, not Avars,” said the man with the arm wound. “At least, not like the usual. Most Avars don’t wear furred hats like that. And they had a symbol on their shields, too. More like Sarmatians.”