Vamireh

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  In compensation, he met the somber clarity of the eyes of the lacustrian girl, the adorable tremor in the trellis of lashes, finer than slender branches before the Moon—or, rather, before black pools in which the Moon is reflected. And although he loved Eyrimah, he nevertheless experienced a singular languor and warm pleasure before the bushy hair of Eï-Mor, like very distant fir-groves, her skin, delicate without being resplendent, and her attitude, full of sensuality within terror.

  When Tholrog had finished speaking, he felt less sense of triumph; Eyrimah remained preoccupied rather than admiring. When Hogioé asked to see the torrent-bed, her brother consented. They all went, for barbaric life had not yet allowed the horror of blood to arise in them.

  Silence had already fallen again. The mountain-dwellers, overexcited by the success of their avalanche, were adding all the stones of the plateau to the accumulated piles. Eyrimah saw the massacre, but could not recognize anyone; those who still had human faces seemed to her to be from a tribe distant from Rob-Sen’s. The others were hideously disfigured. It was impossible that In-Kelg was among them, and the young woman’s heart beat less heavily. Rob-Sen’s daughter, perceiving the prisoner taken by Tholrog, furtively pointed him out to Eyrimah.

  “He’s not one of ours!”

  “No,” Eyrimah replied. “Don’t speak to him!”

  The daughter of the lakes had no need of this advice; her own people, more ferocious than the mountain-dwellers, had familiarized her with the peril run by captives.

  Meanwhile, Tholrog, standing on a rock, spoke to his warriors exhorting them for the battles to come. His voice carried powerfully, his gestures were curt, his shoulders full of strength. Rob-Sen’s daughter looked at him in astonishment; that hospitality toward the foreigner rose up in her heart which is the instinct to mingle races. The scorn preached by the people of Re-Alg for the mountain people was erased by the victory and the beauty of the blond men.

  When Tholrog had finished, shouting burst forth, trumpets sounded lugubriously and war fever resonated in their minds. Tholrog could not help saying to Eyrimah: “Those down below shall never pass through the gorge.”

  She lowered her head and looked away. She loved the man who had rescued her in her flight fraternally, but the mysterious gift of her destiny was pledged to another human being. Tholrog felt anger overwhelming him. “They will all perish there,” he said spitefully, but he calmed down before the dark softness of the eyes of Rob-Sen’s daughter. He felt condescending and protective toward her, like the shade of a maple-tree over a traveler.

  While he stood there indecisively, the sound of distant trumpets was heard.

  “Our brothers are also fighting!”

  His eyes plunged into the darkness of the stream-bed. A slight wind was whistling. An eagle was soaring beneath thin, pale clouds. The frightful cadavers of the lake-dwellers, some in sleep-like poses, the majority mutilated, covered in horrible redness—fragments of flesh, solitary hands, eyes torn out of their sockets, and split skulls from which gray matter protruded like some gigantic fruit—spoke of Death and Terror, the inevitable end of all those who palpitate upon the Earth. At the very bottom of the ravine, crows had settled, along with lean quadrupeds and insects; the faint noise of the feast was audible.

  The scouts Tahmen and Asberl had gone back down, adept at gliding silently, as nimble as ibex and as sinuous as weasels.

  Tholrog went to the lacustrian prisoner and spoke to him in his own language.

  “Would you like to live?”

  The terror-stricken prisoner, who had insectile eyes, the skull of a buffalo, a thick-lipped mouth, a forehead creased by a deep wrinkle between the two temples and nostrils like an ant-lion’s pit, made no reply at first.

  “Would you like to live?” Tholrog repeated.

  “Yes,” he said, with a vague relaxation of his features.

  “Tell us what your people are doing, how many of them there are below the gorge, and how many there are at the other passages.”

  The prisoner hesitated; race-hatred heightened his fear, and the conviction that, when he had talked, he would be killed anyway. However, he said: “The entire mountain is full of our warriors…”

  A mountain man armed with a club took up a position beside him, and Tholrog said: “If you don’t talk, or if lies gleam in your eyes, that club will smash your skull. Tholrog knows how to read eyes!”

  The lake-dweller looked into Tholrog’s blue eyes, fearful of their glare, but reassured by their frankness. He talked abruptly, without pausing, risking everything for a slender chance of life. “I can’t count the numbers. There are several tribes. Rob-Sen is leading those who must come through the gorges. Others are going through other passes. Those who are to attack you are 500. That’s all that a warrior who is not a chief can know…” He fell silent, expecting life or death.

  “Should I kill him?” asked the warrior.

  “Yes! Yes” cried several voices. Axes and knives were raised; sanguinary faces jeered.

  “The men of the mountain,” said Tholrog, “do not bite in the cowardly fashion of the vipers of the lake. Tholrog has promised the prisoner his life.”

  There was doubt, and hesitation; then the chief’s voice prevailed.

  “Tholrog, son of Talaun, has given you your life!”

  The prisoner fell to the ground. “Tholrog is strong! I am his slave!”

  Rob-Sen’s daughter was astonished by the chief’s clemency. Eyrimah looked on tenderly, in the confused sentiment that the people of her race were nobler of heart than the lake-dwellers.

  At that moment, the crows were seen to take flight between the overhanging rocks; the scouts were coming back.

  “The enemy! More numerous than before!”

  “They’ll die in greater numbers!”

  A handsome giant with ruddy skin and silver hair, Irkwar, who had grown up in a grim and bitter struggle against the pale peaks and glaciers, launched into a song of defiance with the mighty rumor of the trumpet. They all joined in, with the thunderous voices and bullhorns, which carried as far as the dazzling mountain summits.

  “Dithèv, Hogioé,” Tholrog ordered, “take the prisoner away.”

  Footfalls were heard. Thickset silhouettes were outlined in the pale mouth of the stream-bed. Their mass soon increased; sliding along the edge of the rocks, taking advantage of the projection—a strategy that made crushing them more difficult. Orders sent other silhouettes running. The bed of the extinct torrent filled with a swarm of silhouettes, like bears; they accelerated, counting on taking by numbers and speed a position impregnable to cunning.

  “To the death!” cried Tholrog.

  The boulders rolled. In spite of the lake-dwellers’ strategy, there was a terrible crushing impact. As soon as the first besiegers reached the slope, the lapidation was redoubled, the blocks of stone carrying away entire files.

  Heavy and dismal echoes, and the echoes of low voices, repeated the impacts of the stones, the screams of the dying, the clamors of the attack and the dull breakage of bodies and earth—but nothing stopped the attackers’ first charge. They clambered over their fallen comrades; they arrived in lines, protected by huge shields of leather and wood. Scattered until they reached the slope, they renounced all tactics before the ripple storm of stones, climbing heedless of obstacles.

  Tholrog watched them anxiously; the irresistible terror of the besieged before the besieger filtered into his soul. In the rear, he could see further columns running forward, driving back the rare runaways, encouraging the advance guard with ferocious shouts.

  Halfway up the slope, for about a quarter of its length, the rocks overhung to such an extent that the lateral lapidation became less dangerous. The efficacy of the frontal assault was diminished because of an outcrop close to the walls and a few blocks of stone resting on heaps of bodies. The assailants, therefore, hastened to reach that sheltered spot; soon, more than 100 men were gathered there, frantic with the fever of the assault, while newcomers ar
rived incessantly.

  The munitions of stones were beginning to run low.

  Tholrog disposed a party of men to launch arrows and javelins. The lacustrians, furious at the difficulty of advancing, were unable to reply to that. Without pause, however, others were running forward; more than 200 men filled the sheltered space. They still had to climb the final quarter of the slope—50 meters of bare and slippery ground, where the boulders rolled forcefully. There was a moment of doubt, of terror among the besiegers—and the well-positioned mountain men were still hurling their javelins and firing their arrows, occasionally releasing a well-aimed block of stone.

  In response to the orders of their chiefs, and the pressure of the rearguard, the lacustrians finally quit their shelter, with ferocious clamors and the savagery of desperate animals. The growls of the mountain men replied, souls filled with a sentiment of blind and mortal force.

  III. The Victory

  Tholrog gathered 60 men.

  The combatants on both sides knew that it was the decisive moment. Tholrog and his 60 men hurled themselves into the entrance to the valley, while the others continued rolling down the torrent of stones. Long furrows of flesh and blood cut through the company of the assailants; sudden gaps opened up in their mass. Abruptly, they came into contact with the besieged.

  Irkwar, the mountain giant, struck the first blows; his immense silhouette and the whirling sweeps of his club enthused the mountain men and fascinated the lacustrians. An enormous shock caused them to recoil; the surge of hundreds of men projected cadavers and living men pell-mell on to the plateau. They arrived in a furious pack with crazed faces, bloodshot eyes and frantic raucous voices.

  Before that irresistible mass, the mountain men’s advance guard retreated. Then, men dressed in vegetable fibers and men dressed in animal skins, tall blond silhouettes and dense dark silhouettes, clubs and lances, hammers and pikes, smashed into one another in heated battle.

  The warriors of the lakes had the advantage. The moral force of the attack, the surge of those shoving from the rear, and a certain disarray among the mountain men, weary from maneuvering blocks of stone, accelerated the assault. Ten defenders succumbed to straight and very rapid thrusts of short spears, while the powerful clubs and pikes only struck down a handful of lake-dwellers.

  At the same time, the launch of boulders became increasingly rare at the top of the banks, and without any great effect. Further bands of aggressors reached the slope and the covered pass. Soon, more than 300 men were pressed into the attack, against less than 100 defenders. Only the narrowness of the entrance attenuated the savage thrust of that mass.

  In a resounding voice, Tholrog cried: “All into combat!”

  The stone-rollers came running.

  Setting himself at the head of 20 warriors, Tholrog hurled himself at the lacustrians’ flank, with a vast whirl of clubs.

  His troop cut through, dividing the invading force in two, sealing off 30 round-heads in the ravine. Carried away by their momentum, they rushed forward, while Irkwar leapt forward to support his chief.

  In response to the impact of the giant, the atrocious carnage of his club, and the ardent and mortal determination of Tholrog, there was a moment of stunned amazement among the lake-dwellers. That time was sufficient for those who had come too far forward on the plateau to be surrounded and massacred.

  The plateau was free then; the efforts of all the mountain men were concentrated at the entrance. Their disarray had vanished, the moral force of the assailants was diminishing. To the rapid spear-thrusts, pikes, stone clubs and wooden clubs now responded frenziedly. Irkwar’s massive hammer protected the center; everything went down before his thrusts, breaking heads and lances. A surge by Tholrog, leading a new contingent laterally, cleared the pass.

  There was a tacit pause on both sides, a hesitation on the part of one to resume the attack, and on the other to emerge from their retrenchments to take the offensive.

  Tholrog took advantage of the pause to rearrange his men. Of the 80 remaining mountain men he sent ten with Irkwar, and while they withdrew to the left he cried: “Javelins!”

  A cloud of javelins rained down outside the fort; because of the configuration of the entrance, the lake-dwellers were unable to make much response. Their chief, moreover, understood the imperious necessity of taking the offensive; he forbade delay in firing darts and brought his men back to the assault. Pell-mell, pushing one another and pushing cadavers, by an effort of the mass—condemning those in the front rank to death—they took the pass again and spilled out on to the plateau for a second time.

  The mountain men did not lose their footing, however. Taking advantage of oblique attacks, striking down the new arrivals from the side, they accumulated a rampart of cadavers and wounded, which slowed down the mass—and so the battle went on, feverish and slow, impetuous and resistant.

  Tholrog, confident in the bravery and stubbornness of his men, now that the moment of surprise had passed, had thrown himself toward Irkwar and his companions on the rocky banks of the stream-bed. They arrived behind a basalt column that overlooked the surrounding area; then, between the interstices and crenellations of the rocks, the chief showed Irkwar the enemy.

  “Those directly below are unwary—a rock-slide might crush 50 of them and sow terror among the others. We have to detach the rock.”

  Irkwar shrugged his shoulders in discouragement. “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s possible. I’ve tested it—it can be overturned. When the lake-dwellers were staying under cover, it would have been futile—now, it’s victory. We have to bring down the rock on their heads!”

  Irkwar and Tholrog positioned themselves against the rock at a slight angle, in the direction of the ravine. Stiffening their muscles, they imparted a feeble oscillation to it.

  “You’re right, son of Talaun! With our companions, we can tip it over!”

  “Do it!” said Tholrog. “I have to go back to join our warriors!”

  On the plateau, the lacustrian flood was again overspilling the barrier of cadavers, driving back the mountain men, like a rising tide driving a river back into its mouth. It was the decisive mêlée. An unexpected effort, a surge more terrible than the rest might carry the position conclusively. The circle of mountain men was already reduced to 50; 40 were lying dead or helpless. Of the 500 round-heads, more than 200 remained, nearly 200 having been crushed in the stream-bed and nearly 100 struck down in the assault—but 220 men, 150 of whom were on a level with the defenders, was a force far more considerable than 500 fearful of lapidation in the gorge.

  On seeing the new arrivals spill forth, in good order and full of ardor, Tholrog understood that defeat was only a matter of time. No maneuvering was possible in that hand-to-hand conflict, in which only the narrowness of the entrance was slowing down the mountain men’s forced retreat. The forces were directly engaged and would remain so. The lacustrians had an accurate notion of the relationship of the two troops; the whole battle was taking shape as a powerful pressure, with breaking heads, punctured breasts and a vertiginous whirlwind of clubs and spear-thrusts at the point of contact.

  Tholrog hurled himself forward. Rushing like a bull into the thick of the fight, where the lacustrians were least weary, then advancing more slowly, lashing out with both his shield and his club, he succeeded in pushing back the enemy’s left flank, and enlivening the bravery of his own men.

  “Courage!” he howled. “Irkwar will crush them!”

  These mysterious words, and the partial retreat of the lacustrian left, put heart into the blond men. Before the renewal of their surge, the combat came to a standstill, the speed of the weaker party neutralizing the advance of the other. The further tightening of the combat caused all the blows to strike home, redoubling the carnage.

  Tholrog and those surrounding him advanced at an angle into the enemy mass—but that impetuous maneuver quickly reduced the number of the mountain men on the plateau to less than 40 combatants, and although it
inflicted heavy damage on the lake-dwellers, it further diminished the proportion of the number of the besieged to that of the besiegers. The advantage was, therefore, brief. Soon, the round-heads resumed the offensive, and their progress accelerated.

  The mountain men’s arms were weakening, and their courage too. Once again the dark-haired men were about to make the fair-skinned mountain race retreat. The bitter sentiment of fatality overwhelmed them. Even in the fury of combat, Tholrog and his companions had a lugubrious awareness of being the vanquished race, the race in decline in confrontation with another, better organized, more fortunate and more numerous.

  As his own men were driven further back, in every direction, the young chief gave himself a few more seconds before summoning the women and Irkwar—before renouncing his last hope.

  When we’ve been driven back another five meters, I’ll call the women…

  He had scarcely finished this thought than the retreat accelerated. He saw the beginning of the defeat. Angrily, his voice growling, he summoned the women.

  They came, with their long blonde hair, their pale faces, their gentian-blue eyes, gleaming like snow; the superb Dithèv was in the lead, fully inspired with the bravery of her race, crying: “Sons of great warriors, children of the heights, will you not die rather than reappear vanquished before the old men or serve the cowards as slaves?” All of them, with loud cries, the youngest at the head, joined in with the men. The power of the race came with them, the ancient creation, Love, Hearth and Heritage. They brought 15 pairs of vigorous arms, and a fresh ardor; they put heart back into the vanquished.

  Once again, the mountain men stopped the lake-dwellers in their tracks. Dithèv and Hogioé were seen bearing their slender grace between the blows, thrusting with a lance or raising a club.

  Eyrimah, who had come with them, remained hesitant. Bewildered, she searched among the lake-dwellers for familiar faces, but found none. Terror and a confused ardor alternated within her. When she felt sure that In-Kelg’s tribe was not present, the terror diminished, and mysterious voices murmured within her, impelling her to die with her own people.