by R Magnusholm
Gnorrk the Merciful had a certain ring to it.
All over the village, Gnorrk’s warriors were bashing the heads of bewildered Sunrisers. Meaty thumps were followed by yelps of pain. Violated females squealed in protest, much to the amusement of their captors.
But the battle wasn’t going as smoothly as Gnorrk hoped. Out of the communal lodge in the middle of the village emerged a score of fierce defenders. These Sunrisers burst out in an organized group and fought as a team. Armed with sharpened stakes as well as clubs, they pushed the invaders back, killing two outright and wounding half-a-dozen. A large silverback bear, the chief obviously, fought in the center, calling to his warriors as he rained blows with his club.
Unfortunately, most of Gnorrk’s troops were too preoccupied with looting the huts, gobbling up mussels, and besporting themselves with captured females to pay attention to this new threat.
“There, get them!” Gnorrk roared. He grabbed the nearest looter by the scruff and shook him. The young bear dropped a sealskin sack of mussels and rushed toward the fight. With the help of his lieutenants, Gnorrk kicked the rutting idiots to their feet and rallied the troops for a renewed assault.
Gnorrk leaped over the dead and dying bears as he threw himself into the thick of the fray. A sharpened stake grazed his elbow. A club whistled inches past his ear, but he was already ducking and sidestepping and bringing his own club down on the Sunriser’s head.
Gnorrk gripped his club in both hands and went through the enemy throng like an avenging whirlwind. The Sunriser defense disintegrated—only to regroup seconds later. And their numbers were steadily growing. Soon the two hosts were battling each other in a long line stretching across the village. Evenly matched, and tired of swinging clubs, the bears paused, panting and exchanging wary glances.
“Cousin Gnorrk of da Woodland Clan, art dat thou?” the Sunriser chief called in his weird dialect. “Thy fame precedes thou.”
“It is I, cousin . . . err, what’s your name?”
“Moorgs.”
“Ah, Moorgs, your warriors attacked us,” Gnorrk said accusingly.
“Thou art in my village.”
“We came in peace—just to say hello.”
Moorgs scowled. “Came in peace with an army?”
“What army?” Gnorrk kept his face perfectly blank as he gazed about himself. “They’re just my bodyguards. My army is camped out in the woods.” He pointed casually behind him.
His shoulder ached where it had been struck with a club, and his arm smarted where it had been gored with a sharp stick. Many of his warriors were likewise injured. At that precise moment, it occurred to him with blinding clarity that instead of attacking the Sunrisers and trying to rob them, they might have offered to swap wind-cured chucks of venison for mussels and clams. They could have also traded berries and deerskins for sealskins, although fighting was so much more fun. And having a little banter with another chief was ever so funny.
Moorgs scratched his head. “Well, dese are my bodyguards, too. My main army is in da larger village, over dere.” He gesticulated with a hooked thumb at the golden disk of the sun rising behind his back.
“Only salt marsh and the sea that way,” Gnorrk observed drily. “You don’t have another village.”
“And thou don’t have another army, Gnorrk.”
“Eh . . . I—” Gnorrk began, working hard to suppress an amused snigger. He failed and broke into a hearty laugh.
When Moorgs joined him, the tension melted away. The warriors of both hosts watched their chiefs in incomprehension. First one and then another of them took a step back, lowering their weapons.
“I think we shall be friends,” Gnorrk said. “Instead of fighting, we can trade.”
“What’s trade?” Moorgs asked.
Gnorrk shared with the other chief his idea of swapping goods that are common and plentiful in one place for those common and plentiful in another—mushrooms for mussels, for example. And they could also agree not to attack each other, but to join forces and fight the Salmon Clan together.
“Da Salmoners,” Moorgs exclaimed. “Da scoundrels! I’ll help thee.”
The warriors of the two hosts set aside their weapons and started chatting. In accordance with the ancient custom, they honored their fallen comrades by butchering their bodies and feasting on the still warm and dripping meat. Everyone knew that those eaten by the clan would live forever in the clan.
Later that day, as Gnorrk watched his warriors fraternizing with the Sunrisers, he pondered how simple-minded the bears were; only this morning they had been prepared to fight each other to the death. He turned to Moorgs. “Have you heard of any strange goings-on upstream from you?”
“Strange like what?”
Gnorrk told him about the nineteen missing warriors, heads on stakes, and fire falling from the sky and striking a bear. “Our shaman says they are fire-eating spirits, but some say they’re only bears who learned to use fire.”
“Bears using fire,” Moorgs exclaimed. “Who’d ever heard of such silliness?”
“Just what I think.”
“Thanks fer warning me. Not dat we ever go upstream.” Moorgs smoothed his paws over his ample belly. “Plenty of food right ‘ere.”
Gnorrk said nothing. Clearly, the Sunrisers hadn’t invaded his lands along the Great Salty River; the lazy clam-eaters didn’t know how to use fire. But somebody had. Perhaps he’d visit the Sunset Clan next.
“So how about dat joint raid against da Salmon Clan?” Moorgs asked.
“I’m ready to march at once.”
Moorgs studied the sun. “It’s late. But if we leave at dawn, we can reach da mouth of da Big Salmon River and set camp fer da night. From dere it’s just a day’s walk to deir village.”
“Good.”
“We rest and sleep,” Moorgs said. “Thy warriors must be tired.”
Gnorrk stretched on a pile of reeds in the communal lodge. “Rest is good.” He imagined the salmon eaters would fold fast once they saw the combined army. And if he managed it well, they could avoid excessive bloodshed, and then he could make a treaty of friendship with the Salmon clan also, so he’d become the chief of chiefs. King of the bears. Now that was something. Inside his furry chest, his heart swelled with pride.
Outside, the sea wind howled like a wolf, and the lodge shook with each gust. The reed-thatched rafters creaked. “Is it always so windy here?”
“It’s very calm today, actually.”
“Ah.”
Gnorrk closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had no fear of the Sunriser treachery; savage though the bears were, once they extended their hospitality it would be taboo to break it.
As expected, the night passed peacefully, and Gnorrk arose at dawn well-rested and refreshed. Sometime around midnight, the storm had subsided, and now it was just a fresh northeasterly wind that chilled his nose and made his eyes water.
As they marched north along the seashore, the wind died, and the sun rose out of the sea, and he found the surroundings less bleak. The tide was coming in, flooding the mudflats on the right, but the water level was still quite low, so the marching troops could forage for mussels and clams.
“Dat’s how we live,” Moorgs said. “Da sea provides, and we’re never short of food.”
Gnorrk snorted. “It may be so, but in our woods it’s always peaceful and quiet, while you have this dreadful wind and banging waves.”
“We’re used to it.”
“About that other thing,” Gnorrk said. “The fire spirits that invaded my territory upstream from you. You never sniffed anything odd from that direction?”
“No, but I’ve sent four hunters to look upriver while thou slept.”
“That may not be wise.”
The Sunriser chief shook his head. “Dey’re only going short ways. Besides, we need to watch our rear while we’re visiting da Salmon Clan.”
“Ah, that makes sense. But remember, I lost nineteen warriors there. Not one got away.”
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“As I said, dey’re only going short ways,” Moorgs said. “To where da sea stops, and da Great Salty River begins.”
“May the Great Bear in the Enchanted Woods protect them.”
“Who’s that?”
Gnorrk explained that when brave bears died, they went to the Enchanted Woods, where it was always summer and plenty of nuts and berries and deer and aurochs just dropped dead at your feet to be eaten.
Moorgs listened politely, then told him that the story of Enchanted Woods was a pile of auroch’s poo, because really brave bears went to live in the Enchanted Cave, where mussels the size of a fist grew on walls, and the bears had their wicked ways with females that were half-bear-half salmon. They could then kill and eat them, for their bodies were filled with salmon caviar, even their heads.
Gnorrk bit off an angry cry of Blasphemy! and ground his teeth in frustration. Such heresy. Intolerable. But he had to be pragmatic if he wanted to be king.
Chapter 41
Painting the Snow Crimson
East of Camp Bramble
Late morning found John, Liz, and Spot walking downstream along the frozen shore of the Thames. A light wind blew from the northeast, which was useful for Spot to sniff out any approaching danger. Liz carried her bow with twenty arrows in her quiver. John brought his own bow with another ten arrows, as well as his two spears and an axe. Though well-armed, they weren’t expecting a fight. A clay pot with smoldering coals produced enough smoke to scare off any wild animals—other than the ursines, of course.
After three hours of brisk walking, they came to the leaning willow that John had last seen in monochrome through Spot’s eyes. He clambered up the thick-barked trunk, held on to a bough, and peered over the rippling reed beds.
On this clear day, with the sun shining brightly, he could see far and wide. The distant south shore was lost in the blue haze, but oh wonder of wonders, a large island lay three or four miles away. Thickly wooded and hilly, it was clearly separated from the opposite coast by a wide stretch of water.
He gazed down at Liz and Spot, grinning. “We should’ve built a boat instead of the stockade.”
“An island?”
“Yep.”
He climbed down, and they headed toward the river through the reed bed where Spot had walked earlier by himself. The tide was in like the last time. They crossed the first reed patch, traversed over the snow-covered ice to the second patch. Rush heads swayed overhead, and frightened waterfowl fled at their approach in a flurry of beating wings.
The reed thicket ended abruptly, and they stood on a ten-yard-wide belt of cracked ice. Beyond its edge, cobalt-blue water flowed under a cerulean sky. The island slumbered offshore, dark-green and brooding. When John had looked at it through Spot’s eyes, it was just a hazy gray mass on the horizon.
“It’s beautiful,” Liz said. “But it could be chock-full of bears.”
“Hmm.”
Spot had detected bears far off to the northeast—miles away. He supposed if they came to this spot again when the wind blew from the southeast, he could use Spot’s nose to scout the island for ursines without setting foot there.
Liz said, “Anyway, the tides are vicious and getting there would be problematic.”
John studied the river—or perhaps that stretch of water should properly be called a sea inlet. Whatever the hell it was, the tide flowed sluggishly inland. It didn’t look scary at all now, but two hours earlier it had been rushing in a raging torrent.
From observation, they knew the water would remain placid for at least three hours at this high level—maybe four. Likewise, at the low tide. Would that be enough time to get across? If the weather was hot in summer, he might be able to paddle across, lying on a bundle of reeds. Or they could build a large reed raft and sail in comfort. Anyway, they’d have to wait until summer, and by then—
His eyes drifted to Liz’s midriff. No visible baby bump at four and a half months—not with her wearing a parka—but it would be different by summer. If all went well, there’d be three of them. As much as he’d love to mess with boats, he couldn’t afford the risk by taking Liz to the water. And neither he could risk getting himself killed, nor could he leave them alone for more than a few minutes. All of them would have to sail together, or none at all.
“The grass is always greener on the other side,” he said, gazing at the island wistfully. As they turned to go, he caught an alarmed thought-shape from Spot. They were being stalked again by his own kind.
Liz must have seen something on his face, for she unslung her bow and raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“Wolves,” he said. He closed his eyes and projected his awareness outward, searching for the pack leader with whom he had a tenuous bond. He found him by the crooked willow, sniffing their trail, frightened of the smoky odor, curious, and hungry. “Let’s loop back and scare them. Quickly.”
Trailed by Spot, John and Liz headed back through the reed bed, paralleling their earlier trail, and keeping downwind of it. John’s heart beat fast. Emerging on the bank of the inner channel some fifty paces west of the original path, they crouched and waited.
Rush heads whispered above their heads, a peaceful sound. White clouds drifted across the endless azure of the sky. Liz pulled out the clay pot with burning coals, lifted the lid, and crumbled in a few chunks of dried tree-fungi. A thin curl of smoke emerged.
John broke off a bundle of rush heads and held them over the pot, ready to push them in and set them alight. “That should give ‘em the fright of their lives.” He chuckled, enjoying the excitement of the hunt. His mind drifted back to all the times he’d played hide-and-seek as a kid—and to the later times when he played it with his children. What were they doing now? Perchance, playing hide-and-seek with the version of John Summers who had remained in the Old World . . .
He exchanged a sidelong glance with Liz and then with Spot. Their eyes gleamed with excitement. Wolves were not bears, and as long as their clay pot contained fire there was no risk.
The wind blew in their faces, and he fancied he could smell the salty tang of the sea. Minutes passed. Through Spot, he sensed the wolf pack cautiously making their way through the reed patch upwind from them.
“Any moment now,” he whispered to Liz.
She held an arrow nocked and pointed at the ground, the bow only quarter-tensed. He hoped she wouldn’t have to use it.
A shadow slunk out of the reeds forty paces upwind, followed by another, then another.
Now! John pushed one of the rush heads in his bundle into the firepot. Flames shot up and spread to the rest of the bunch, transforming it into a burning brand.
As he leaped out of concealment with a savage cry, Liz’s bow twanged, and an arrow streaked past him. The nearest wolf jumped high in the air, its long legs scissoring comically as if it attempted to run on the spot—quite unsuccessfully. It plowed nose-first into the snow, then shot up to its feet, whining pitifully. The rest of the pack bolted. The stricken wolf tried to follow, but soon collapsed and lay, twitching. A black-feathered arrow protruded from its flank.
John stopped and turned to look at Liz uncertainly, his burning brand crackling in his hand. He had only wanted to scare the wolves, but she evidently had a different definition of scaring. “Good shot,” he said.
She shrugged modestly.
Spot dashed past them, snarling, and before they could stop him, his jaws closed over the stricken wolf’s throat. For a while, there was much thrashing and growling. By the time John and Liz arrived, the victim stopped struggling. Blood, impossibly scarlet and bright, stained the pristine white of snow.
John lifted his eyes to the sky. Oh, the brutality of existence . . . It was hard, nay impossible, to believe that less than half a year ago he’d been chairing team meetings and sending memos from a sleek office.
“Let go, Spot!” Liz yelled. “You’re spoiling the hide.” She drove him off.
“They eat dogs in Korea.” John knelt in the snow and began
working the arrow out. “But this specimen is emaciated.”
“Good pelt, though.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s big enough for a parka for the baby,” she said.
Frowning, John pulled out his knife, which in the previous life had been used for sawing cheese and spreading butter, but was now honed to a razor edge on a flat stone, then stropped on a piece of tough auroch hide. He skinned the carcass, while Liz built a small smokeless fire out of reeds and driftwood. The tide started running out, and the ice field underneath them groaned and creaked.
“I’m not sure I like that sound,” she said.
“I don’t believe this ice will break until spring.” He tapped it with the butt of his spear. “Still, let’s not take chances.” They gathered their gear, and he rolled the wolf pelt up. He tied it with a length of deer hide rope and slung over his shoulder, then stared at the sorry carcass, wondering what to do with it.
“Eat it,” Spot spoke in his mind.
Reluctantly, John lifted the stiffening body off the snow, surprised how heavy that bundle of sinew and bones was. He supposed it would be disrespectful to waste anything in this savage world.
Chapter 42
Isn’t it Ironic?
Spot led the way across the reed field, with John struggling under the weight of the wolf carcass, while Liz brought up the rear. They left the reeds and traversed the channel before coming onto dry land by the leaning willow.
Liz glanced at the sun. “It’s past midday. We better hurry home before the fire goes out.” She crumbled more dried fungi into the firepot, frowning.
John pushed his hood back and wiped his brow. With no easy means of making a new fire, the task of feeding the hearth fire limited the range of their explorations severely. The fuel needed to be replenished every five or six hours. They had the clay pot as a backup, but the smoldering coals had a habit of going cold unless they were continuously fed with dry fungi.