“Anyhow, my father liked the maiden’s looks, bought her, and took her home. She could never be his real wife—no family left, been in foreign hands, never learned his language well—and must have felt lonely; talked much to me when I was a boy. That’s how I got my Boian, and it’s stood me in good stead.”
He finished bleakly: “I got to know that tribe, too. I tell you from experience, you’d better turn back.”
“Why?” I cried, and Herut asked more quietly and wisely, “What’s happening?”
Gairwarth sighed. “I can’t say for sure. But word runs from steading to steading, through the woods to the water. More and more raids. A few dwellers get away, with nothing left to them but the tidings they bear. Rumor goes that those who lived nearest the Boii saw big war-bands gathering. That may or may not be right. Still, it’s enough to keep me here, with my boat ready to carry off my household and me if they come this way.” He paused. “Oh, I’m no coward. I’ll stand with our men. But, between us, I’ll know it’s hopeless, and when we break, I don’t aim to flee blindly.”
Herut sat thinking—my own head was awhirl—before he murmured, “Why do you say hopeless? I gather the Celts have no fleet of boats. They’d have to go overland, and I wonder how many at a time can get through these forests.”
“They needn’t be very many,” Gairwarth said. His mouth tightened in the beard. “Their weapons are iron.”
A shiver passed through me. I had heard something about iron, that it was not only stronger and kept a keener edge than bronze, but was far more plentiful. The Southfolk had long made use of it, and then the knowledge spread to the wild tribes north and east of them, who were soon hewing their way west. But I had never seen any. A vision rose before me, a sword with a blade that shone flamelike.
“Two or three times I’ve tried to bargain for one, even just a knife,” Gairwarth finished low. “The owner would not part with it.”
“Was he afraid you’d turn it against him?” gibed Herut. “Small use, a single piece, when you have no way of making more.”
“No, it’s that they believe their weapons have souls, somehow bound to theirs,” Gairwarth answered. “A strange folk, fearless, reckless, spendthrift, yet if a man thinks he’s been wronged, he may well brood on it for half a lifetime, planning his revenge—They have holy men, deeply learned in their lore, who stand higher in their eyes than do their kings, yet they sacrifice captives to their gods—I don’t really understand them myself. I can only tell you to turn around, go home, before it’s too late.”
“No, we can’t!” burst from me. “Slink off like dogs at a mere word? We’re Skernings!”
Herut shook his head at me slightly, made a brief silencing gesture with his hand, and said, “We welcome your counsel and wish to hear more. You’ll find us not ungrateful.” Whereupon, aided by the roundaboutness of translation, he got talk going in other directions. The Suwebi were glad to set their worries aside and hear about our journey and our homeland.
After the meal, as evening drew in, he said that he and I had better go see if all was well in the crew’s encampment before we returned here for more drinking and then sleep. While we strolled off over the muddy ground, among the scattered huts, he told me, “What we need in truth is to speak together quietly. If honor forbids we give up the quest this easily, mother wit bids us give heed to what we’re told and make use of what tools come into our hands. Havakh, we must have that man along with us. I think the gods may have seen to our meeting him.”
What gods? I wondered. Have we not left ours far and far behind us? I looked around me. Beyond the squalor of the hamlet, the forest lifted, its crowns goldened by the setting sun, and through the stenches drifted its sweet breath. Mighty ahead of us, the river gleamed. Surely, I thought, if none else, whatever these people call her, Yortha is here also, the Mother for whom the maidens at home dance when the hawthorn blossoms. My heart steadied.
Our feet dawdled while our tongues ran hurriedly through ways and means. Nevertheless, we soon came to the boats, which we must for appearances’ sake. As before, the men squatted or sat cross-legged around a fire, where they had heated food the villagers gave them. I did not await more than a glance and maybe a few words. It was a surprise when a big fellow got up and lumbered over to us.
I recognized Ernu of the bog and stiffened, though he had paddled quietly enough. Nor did he now pose a threat. He bobbed his shaggy head and rumbled, “Lord, a word, by your leave?”
I nodded, puzzled. Staring at the ground, he said, “I’m sorry about the fight. Not but what that Kleggu toad—Well, I got him and his kin not talking to me and mine no more, nor us to them.” I saw that the two factions sat on opposite sides of the fire. “But we’re all at your beck, lord.”
“That is well,” I answered almost as awkwardly.
Did a sly grin steal through the beard? “We’d not get home without you to lead us.” He lifted his gaze to mine. “First, though, lord, we’re going on into danger. The wild men, right? What I want to beg is your leave that my kinsmen and me, we make an offering for luck.”
“What kind of offering?” snapped Herut, as I should have done. Who knew what might please or might anger the gods of this land and the river?
“Oh, a poor little thing. We’re poor men. We’ll go into the woods and . . . give blood. Our own blood. Just a few drops on the ground. With a few, uh, words.”
I glanced at Herut. This must be some uncouth rite of the outback. He thought for a heartbeat before he shrugged. “You may,” I said.
“Thank’ee, lord. I wouldn’t want you to think we were running away or anything. We’ll be gone a while tomorrow, but we’ll come back. We’ll feel better, bolder. And it’s for you likewise, lord. Thank’ee.” Ernu slouched off toward the fire.
Too many eyes around it were upon me. I turned and strode from them, Herut at my side. After a while he murmured, “That man surprises me. Uncouth, but not witless.”
“Why, do you suppose his spell will be of any help?” I asked.
“Belike not. However, I don’t look for it to do any harm, and—he’s right, it ought to brace them. The thing is, he thinks ahead.”
I wasn’t used to believing that of anyone so lowly. Nor did I care, then. “We were talking about Gairwarth,” I reminded him.
“Yes. What will it take for him to come with us? He’s a trader, he’ll have his price, but he’ll start by demanding all the goods we’re carrying, and we’ll need plenty for gifts, if we can meet with a Boian chieftain. How to bargain Gairwarth down without seeming to demean him—”
I laughed. “That’s for you.”
“Be on hand,” he urged. “Be gracious. Pay close heed. Those are skills you ought to learn, Havakh.”
I felt a flicker of offense, I, a son of Cnuath, lord of the Skernings. I caught a breath and stamped on the feeling. Herut was also well-born, and he was right. In the years afterward, as ever more of our olden strong world has failed us, I have often harked back to that sudden insight.
But there’s scant use in calling up the whole of the next two days. We stayed at Suwebburh and dickered with Gairwarth. In the end, we loaded a goodly treasure aboard his boat, for his trusty man to guard and take away with his family if the worst came to the worst, and we would give him as much again if we returned here safely. Him on my craft, we set forth at the following sunrise. I remember how mists swirled and eddied in the chill and the enormous silence. The villagers clustered on the riverbank, gaping, half terrified, were soon lost to sight. The sounds and sweat of paddling were very welcome. Then a flock of ducks winged noisily off the water and life awakened everywhere.
Now, when the memories and ghosts crowd in on me as I walk to the hall of my fathers, until it is that which seems unreal, now my yearning is to recall this last short while of peace and half-hopefulness. I would see water shine murmurous, a thousand hues of green on either side, clouds tall and dazzling white against blue. I would feel cool shadows where we camped at eventide,
and share merriment with my friends until the stars overran heaven—for we were young, proud, unaware that our boldness sprang from our not truly understanding that we could die. But the few days and nights blur together, go formless, like land seen through one of the snowstorms that come over us in these winters. Today I have met Conomar again, and there was victory behind his eyes. Our first meeting overwhelms me.
As when lightning smites an oak—
The land was rising, less and less level, the current faster and the paddling harder. Once in a while, where the banks were too steep for trees, we glimpsed what must be mountains, afar and hazy to the south. Once we passed an open spot where a riverside steading had been. Only the charred wreck of it was left, already weed-begrown. The sight did not give us much pause. We knew that an always uneasy peace had been breached again. We were outsiders, with no quarrel here but, rather, good things to offer. Besides, we were not so few, and well-armed. What we did not know was that our faring was being followed, scouts slipping through the woods to peer from cover and speed their messages back.
Where the river swung around a high bluff on our left, it shoaled. Hulls barely cleared sandbars; water swirled and gurgled around us. “Hai, hoy, stroke, stroke, stroke!” and we toiled onward. As busy as we were, paddlers, steersmen, lookouts squinting to find channels, the sight beyond burst upon us.
Here was an end of forest. A few groves remained on the east side, still high and gloomy, but broad, rolling reaches had been cleared—slashed and burnt, I think—to make grassland, grazing. I spied two or three herds of ruddy cattle in the distance; smoke rose from scattered huddles of huts and one larger cluster at a distance that might be a hall and its outbuildings. This was only at the edge of my awareness. A band of the Boii waited ashore.
They numbered maybe two score, warriors all. Their leader stood with his driver in a chariot drawn by a pair of restless horses. His spearhead glowered aloft, a gold torque circled his neck, and he wore breeks and tunic of fine, colorful weave. Beneath a horned helmet his hair was pulled back in a queue, his cheeks and chin shaven, while a mustache fell nearly to the jawline. The others poised in loose array, afoot. They were mostly tall, fair men like him, though their garb was seldom more than a kind of blanket thrown over one shoulder and wrapped about the waist. Their gear was as simple: spears, slings, and swords. Iron, rammed through me. But those blades were not flamelike, nor even as bright as bronze. They were dark, almost brown. Nor did they have the laurel-leaf curves of ours; they were long and straight, barely tapered at the ends.
My hand dropped to the hilt of my own. Several among the crews yelled. Paddles rattled to the bottom of the boat. Those who had not been paddling snatched for weapons and shields. Standing beside me, Herut caught hold of my shoulder. “They don’t know whether we’re friendly,” he said fast.
His strength flowed into me. “Easy!” I shouted, loud enough to be heard in both boats. “Keep station! Gairwarth, tell them we’re peaceful!”
The Boian leader shouted, flung his spear at us, and drew sword even as he sprang from the car. His followers howled and dashed forward. A slingstone whizzed by my ear. I saw a man in the hull crumple, skull smashed asunder, brains spilling out on a tide of blood.
For a trice, I think, each one of us stood unmoving, stunned. The Celts splashed into the shallows. It comes back to me how the water swirled and glittered around their calves, knees, thighs. “Get away!” I cried. I felt us scrape bottom. The current had borne us inward and we sat fast. The foe were hip-deep when they reached us. Their blows and thrusts crossed our low freeboards.
I remember the battle as a wild red rainstorm, formless save when a lightning flash brings a sight forth searingly bright. I had learned the use of arms, as every high-born youth should, but never before had I wielded them in anger. Since then—too often, when stark need in the worst of these worsening years has raised packs of cattle raiders, and lately we must beat off an assault greater and fiercer than that—Harking back, I can piece together the jagged tales I heard after this affray, and see the shape of it.
At the time, all that I knew to begin with was a face glaring at me, a mustache like tusks over bared teeth and red stubble, a blade lifted slantwise, and the fleeting thought that that blade seemed endlessly long. Blindly, I stabbed my own at the throat beneath. It missed when he shifted deftly aside, and I stumbled, half falling against the strake. My clumsiness saved me; for he swung. Not thrust, swung. The whetted iron flew inches past my shoulder and bit deeply into the wood—how very deeply!
Herut edged close. His point reached. I saw it go in one cheek and out the other. Ferret-swift though he was, I saw how the Boian pulled his sword free before himself. That movement took him past our upward-curving prow. I know not what became of him. Belike he returned to the combat, wound and all. Maybe he lived, maybe he died.
What I remember next is another of them there, and that his hair was black and his nose crooked. He must have appeared quickly after the first, but by now everything was one uproar. His sword whirred past Herut’s and cut into the neck. It nearly took the head off. Blood spurted and gushed, weirdly brilliant. It spattered over me. Herut sagged down, jerked, and lay still, sprawled at my feet. I felt nothing, just then. It was as if I stood aside and watched another man tread on the body, forward, to thrust into the Boian before he could recover. I watched the bronze enter beneath the chin. More blood spouted. He toppled out of sight.
No, wait, I did feel Herut’s ribs crack beneath my weight and the . . . the heaviness of metal piercing flesh.
Next I remember standing on the sheer horn, clutching its end, so I could look the length of the boat. Struggle seethed, not only alongside. Boii who found or made a clear space were hauling themselves up. A pull, a squirm, a leap, and a man stood in the hull. Once there, he hewed about him with the iron blade that was deadly from hilt to point. We outnumbered them, but their weapons made each of them worth two of us. The dead and the wailing, groaning wounded thickly cluttered the bilge.
My soul still icily clear, I saw what might save us, filled my lungs, and bawled the command through the racket, over and over. Gairwarth, amidships, was fighting skillfully. It was not his first time. He used a spear to fend off blows, yielding enough that the sword did not cut the shaft in two, then jabbing in before the foeman was again on guard. That checked the onslaught, at least. He heard me and understood. He passed the order on to those near him. They obeyed, bit by bit and blunderingly, but doing it. When men are desperate, their single great wish is for a commander.
Take paddles. Push us off this sandbank. Or else stand by and protect.
Next in my memory, I was fighting my way aft. That seemed to be the only duty left me. But I did not really fight much. I pushed against the crowd packed into the narrow room, forcing myself among crewmen. Once, I think, a foe came before me, and I stabbed and may have hit, but others, Skernings, roiled between us, and he was gone. Afterward I saw that it would have been better for me to keep my place forward and help repel boarders. What happened is unclear to me. Mainly I remember the sharp stench. When a man is killed he fouls himself.
And then we were free, drifting north on the river. We had not been hard aground. I hope it was I who called for paddlers to get us out beyond the enemy’s depth. Maybe it was Gairwarth, maybe both of us. At first just a few were able to man the sweeps, but that served.
In truth—as I, astonished, saw after a while by the sun—the battle had been short. No more than a handful of Boii had scrambled aboard. They had reaped gruesomely, but now several slashed a path to the side and sprang back over.
I learned that later. Suddenly one broke out of the press that hindered him and charged forward. His cry ululated, not a wolf-howl but a strange song. Drops of blood flew fire-hot from his lifted sword. Somehow I had been forced clear of the struggle and stood again in the bows, shakily, alone. I knew it was my death coming for me and raised a blade too short and soft to stop it.
Behind him, Ern
u surged from the crowd. He had dropped his ax; a red gash gaped on the right forearm. But he threw that arm around the Boian’s throat and clamped tight. They tumbled down together, Ernu underneath, still throttling while his left fist pummeled. The Boian went limp. Ernu rolled over on top, sat astraddle, and laid both hands around the throat.
“Hold,” I gasped. “Don’t kill him. Not yet. Keep him quiet.”
Ernu grinned. “Aye,” he rasped. The Boian stirred. Ernu cut off his breath for another bit.
I have often wondered why I wanted this. Yes, a fleeting thought that we could learn something or gain something from a prisoner—but hardly a plan, there and then in the tumult. Did a god slip it into me? If so, to what end? On this midsummer day I wonder anew, and a chill strikes into me.
On that day, there was too much else. I looked behind us. Already we were rounding the bluff. I barely glimpsed our other boat. It had not broken loose. Maybe it was stuck too fast—for none of the crew could have gone into the water to push, with rage all around them—or maybe no one had gotten our idea in time. The Boii were swarming into it.
Young Athalberh was aboard.
And Herut lay dead at my feet, a horror to see, Herut who told me and taught me so many things in my boyhood, whose quietly spoken counsel guided us along our way through a foreign land, who had been closer to me than my own father—I know not which was the greater grief. Both choked me.
The First Heroes Page 41