by Dan Davis
Herkuhlos nodded and fingered the smooth wood of the bow stave in his hands. “The warriors look tired, also. They carry a heavy burden. I should have insisted on bringing the horses.” The chief had said that as neither he or his men had horses and they were used only by the Heryos, if the company were seen to have them then it would alert the demon or its servants that something was amiss.
That meant that Herkuhlos had worn his bronze armour and lionskin throughout the journey, along with his weapons while Pehur carried their food and other equipment. Being godborn gave him greater strength than mortal men but still he was tired from the journey and the armour chafed his skin raw, especially at the shoulders and the bottom of his shin where it rubbed as he walked. He resolved to always bring his horses in future, no matter what, and to secure for himself more servants so that they could carry all that he needed, even his weapons.
The party travelled for three days after leaving the village, heading north and east all the way as they followed the course of the river and had arrived just after sunset on the night of the full moon.
“There it is, lord,” Mardoc said, his voice low and awed but steady. “The lair of the god.” His breath steamed from his mouth, illuminated by the moonlight.
Before them was an earthen mound in a broad clearing, the grass all around and over the mound apparently kept short by grazing sheep, though where the sheep were, Herkuhlos could not say. There was no smell of smoke in the cold night air to suggest a settlement was nearby and the trees around them showed only black shadow beneath the canopy of new leaves.
Finally, he stood looking out from the shadow of the trees at the grassy mound in the clearing, his breath misting in the moonlight before him. The demon was said to emerge from the mound, though there was no sign of an entrance from where they were looking.
Pehur nudged him and gestured. Thirty paces from the mound, on the other side of the clearing, was a large standing stone, twice the height of a man and broad. Before leaving the village, Herkuhlos had been told about this stone. It was where the sacrifices were always left and Herkuhlos was to do the same with the girl Amra but instead of leaving her and going home as they would normally have done, Herkuhlos was going to stay.
With a last look at Pehur and a glance around at the wide eyes and worried faces of the chief’s men, he stepped out from the trees onto the short grass and into the moonlight. The polished bronze plates of his armour seemed to glow with a light of their own when he turned expectantly for Amra. She stared blankly back at him and he thought he was going to have to grab her arm and drag her out but after a long moment of hesitation, the girl stepped out and followed him all the way to the stone.
It was a pale grey and the surface sparkled faintly where the moonlight struck it and the immense power of the stone radiated from deep within. There were standing stones back in his homeland and some were even carved with the symbols that focused their magic but none were as large as the stones they used here in the west. The Furun people were small and weak and had strange beliefs and lived every season of every year in their villages and there was no question that they were a lesser people than the Heryos who moved among them and who raided them. Despite all that they had built structures the like of which he had never seen before. They had tombs made of boulders so large he could not imagine how they could have been moved and they were roofed with slabs of stone than not even the mightiest demon could have lifted.
“You stand here,” Herkuhlos said softly, positioning the girl with her back to the stone and facing the mound.
She said nothing and stared through him until he crept around the other side of the standing stone, hidden from the view of the demon. He peered around the side of the stone to watch the mound. It was said that the demon lived within and emerged once a moon to take the sacrifice and retreat within once more but it was not known how the demon got in and out. Herkuhlos had expected there to be a door, perhaps even one made of stone, but there was none to be seen from this side. Or the demon might claw his way through the earth and grass at the top of the mound. There was no movement and no sound other than the wind in the leaves and the sounds of the animals of the night so he stood upright and hid himself once more behind the stone.
The time was coming when he would have to kill this yotunan and he found that he was afraid. His mouth was so dry that he could not even swallow and he cursed himself for not drinking water before coming to his hiding place. The bow felt damp in his hand and he found that his palms were sweating and he wiped them on his lion pelt. Would the bow do its job, he wondered? Would the arrows fly true? Flexing the bow, he took one of the four arrows from his bag and checked it. Finding it was as it should be he put it back, before drawing it out again and laying it on the string. He would have to move swiftly once it emerged. If the gods were with him he would get one good shot off when he stepped out from behind the stone and if he was favoured indeed that arrow might pierce his enemy’s eye or throat. It would be a marvel if he managed to get a second shot before the demon was on him and if the yotunan was still alive then it would come down to the spear, the club, and the dagger. These were the weapons he felt it would be most honourable to fight with. Shooting into an unsuspecting enemy was something a lesser man would do and it would hardly add to the fame of the slayer of Leuhon if he shot a demon from afar, like a woman shooting a herder from horseback.
Amra let out a gasp.
Herkuhlos peered around the stone and saw a huge figure coming from the direction of the mound. Where had it come from? There was no time to consider the answer, he had to act now before he lost his chance.
Deciding, he stepped out from behind the stone.
He raised his bow high above his head and tossed it to the ground.
“I am Herkuhlos, son of the Sky Father. And I challenge you.”
With his spear in one hand and his bronze war club in the other, Herkuhlos stepped forward.
4. Unworthy
Wearing a filthy bearskin tied around his shoulders over a tattered old tunic, the yotunan was unarmed but he was immensely broad across the chest and his legs were thick and powerful beneath him. Though he was taller than mortal men, he was no taller than Herkuhlos. His face was half in moon shadow but Herkuhlos had the impression of remarkable ugliness.
The yotunan stared, his eyes wide and his mouth open, frozen mid-stride in his flinch of surprise at the sudden appearance of a strange warrior from behind the sacred stone. But he was not afraid and he overcame his shock and looked to his left and right around the moonlit clearing, searching for more enemies. When he found none, he looked back to Herkuhlos and snorted.
“You?” he said, his voice a deep growl. “Son of Sky Father?”
“I am.”
The yotunan grunted. “Your father sent you to me?”
“No. I came to free these people from you.”
The yotunan frowned as he glanced at the girl crouching in terror beneath the stone. “Why?”
Herkuhlos spoke to the girl but kept his eyes on the yotunan. “Amra, you will go now.”
She did not need to be told twice and bolted as for the trees, her slight lameness no impediment to her flight. The yotunan watched her go but made no move to stop her and then returned his attention to Herkuhlos. “You come here for me? From Tartaros?”
“I was never in Tartaros and I did not come here for you. I came searching for those who escaped Tartaros.”
“Escaped?”
“Twelve yotunan. I have slain one, named Leuhon.”
The yotunan flinched at the name. “You? You are a slayer of Leuhon?” He snorted derisively. “No.”
“I wear his lion pelt, Thrima, and I wear this crafted skin of bronze that I took from his corpse. Now I search for the others who fled with him. I search here in the west for the Stag and the Boar but I heard instead of you and so I have come to slay you also, to win glory and to increase my fame.”
The yotunan snorted and did not hide his amusement. “The Boa
r? You speak of Torkos?”
“Perhaps.”
A bark of laughter escaped the huge mouth of yellow teeth. “Torkos will devour you, boy. Go home.”
“I will slay Torkos but first I will slay you.”
His amusement vanished but he was not afraid. “Why?”
“You demand sacrifices from these people but it ends now.”
“They are my people. They feed me.” He opened his arms. “I protect them.”
“You do them harm.”
Thrima was growing angry. “You know nothing, boy.”
“I know that I am sworn to destroy evil like you.”
Slowly, the yotunan shook his massive head. “You love words, boy. You speak them as if they are truth but your words are as empty as your head and as weak as your bones.”
“I am Herkuhlos and I am done with words. Now, you will die.”
With a mighty shrug, the yotunan flung the bear pelt from his massive shoulders and threw himself into the charge, his feet pounding on the earth as he rushed toward Herkuhlos. As he ran, the giant roared a wordless battle cry that split the air.
Despite being ready for just such an attack, the speed of it took Herkuhlos by surprise and he was slow to react. Too late, he realised he should have moved aside or braced to meet the charge but instead he made a wild swing at the great head, winging his club in a wide arc but his enemy had hunched low as he charged and the club skipped over its intended target.
A moment later the yotunan crashed into him with astonishing force, lifting him from his feet and sending him back before he fell hard onto the cold ground and the enormous weight of his enemy slammed on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs and jarring his whole body.
The demon recovered first and slammed a fist into Herkuhlos’ face, the huge impact making a shower of white stars in his eyes and blinding him completely. He knew that if he did not fight back he would be dead in moments and though he was blinded by the blow to his face he still gripped his club in his right hand and he swung it at the enormous figure above him. There was a soft thump and a grunt and Herkuhlos swung it again just as his vision cleared, this time harder and the blow crashed through the yotunan’s crossed arms into his face.
He howled and clutched his nose, falling backwards and Herkuhlos heaved him off and started to get to his feet, breathing heavily. His nose was broken and blood poured from it into the back of his throat so he spat and turned to finish off his enemy.
The yotunan threw himself forward from the ground, once again lifting Herkuhlos from his feet but this time slamming him against the standing stone behind him. The back of his head cracked hard against the granite and the impact stunned him so that he fought for breath even before the yotunan drove a huge fist into the soft parts of his belly and then struck him again with a punch to the jaw. Herkuhlos felt his legs go weak and he almost fell but thanks to the gods he recovered and came back up with a punch of his own, thumping his fist beneath his enemy’s chin and flinging his head back. With the space thus created, Herkuhlos jabbed the end of his club into Thrima’s belly, kicked out one of his legs and cracked him on the side of the skull with a short chopping blow from his club.
There was a mighty crack as the bones gave way and the yotunan fell, slumping to the side in the cold grass beneath the standing stone and falling into the moonlight. Black blood welled from the huge gash above his eye and he tried to rise but slipped and lay breathing heavily while he looked up.
Herkuhlos stood over him with his club in hand.
“You,” Thrima said, “are not worthy.”
“Of what?”
“Victory.”
“And yet it is mine,” Herkuhlos said and he swung his club down hard onto the already broken skull. The impact shattered his head and the club broke through sending shards of bone and a spray of blood into the air before the heavy copper pulverised the brains beneath. Drawing it out with a wet sucking noise, Herkuhlos swung it a final time into the yotunan’s head and dashed its brains onto the earth.
The only sound now was his heavy breathing and the pattering of blood from the end of his war club into the small puddle forming beneath it.
Pehur crept from the edge of the trees and approached cautiously but with a great smile spreading on his face. Behind him came Mardoc and the other Furun with Amra all staring in astonishment.
Herkuhlos was victorious but he did not feel pleasure. Instead, he felt only an vague uneasiness that the yotunan’s words had somehow been true.
You are not worthy.
5. Sif
Sif crept along the deer track beneath the trees in the half light, her best arrow on her bowstring, her eyes searching the shadows ahead. A steady rain fell and though her cord was protected by seal oil she knew the damp string would lack power when she shot. She also knew there were deer ahead, for she had seen their tracks, touched their spore and now she could smell them on the air along with the woodland scents intensified by the rain. Soon, though, the sun would rise and the deer would find a patch of ferns to sleep in through the day and she would have no offering to bring to Zani and so the old wisewoman would go hungry again and she was still thin from the hard winter.
A sight ahead slowed her. On a trunk just off the track a clump of fur was caught on the bark. They were shedding the last of their winter coats and the fur was high up which might mean it came from a stag. She did not want a stag. Her arrow might not penetrate deeply enough and even if it did she would have to pursue him for far too long and so she hoped for a small hind. Even if she were successful it would be a struggle to carry it to Zani.
Movement ahead.
Sif froze.
Through the bright green leaves of spring hanging wet over the track, she saw the top of a head turn, the small ears flick, and the head ducked back down as the deer continued to graze. There were no antlers, not even the small velvety antlers of spring and so it was a herd of hinds.
It was a long way for a bowshot and so Sif crept forward once more.
If she could not get a shot on any of the young hinds then she would try for a full grown one and the outcome would be with the spirits. Lowering her bow to avoid it catching on an overhanging branch she stalked closer, her soft sealskin boots making no sound on the wet ground underfoot.
The spirits were with her, she realised, when she saw a pregnant hind and beside her a yearling. The spirits had placed the yearling closest of all and though she could see only the top of its head she knew where its chest would be and so without delay she pulled back her bow as she brought it up. At the creak of the wood, the deer started and their heads came up, their chewing stopped.
In that moment, Sif released the cord and the arrow shot through the undergrowth, whipping through the leaves, arcing up and down before it smacked into the flesh of the young deer.
As one, the herd sprang away in blind sudden flight, the forest erupting as the unseen deer leapt through the bushes as fast as their powerful legs could take them. Sif had started after her prey the moment her arrow had left the bow and she slapped twigs and wet leaves aside as she ran, leaping a fallen tree and ducked beneath a low branch, keeping her eyes locked on the form of the fleeing yearling. It was slower than the others but faster than Sif and it was ever on the verge of vanishing in the darkness and if she lost the tracks she would never find it.
There was a soft thump ahead and she found the hind lying on its side, struggling to get up from where it had tripped over a fallen branch. Sif leapt the branch and forced the hind’s head down with one hand while she pulled her slate knife from her belt and plunged it into the deer’s neck. She twisted as she pulled the knife out and the hot blood poured forth over her fingers.
“It is over now,” Sif said softly, looking into the hind’s wild eye as she caught her breath. “Go now, swift one.”
It lay down its head and soon the eyelid closed over the shining black eye and the spirit of the deer left its body.
“Great Mother, I thank you for th
is gift,” Sif said to the forest around her. “Your bounty will bring strength to Zani your servant and so will bring strength to our tribe.”
Working quickly, Sif used her knife to cut out the gland and open the anus to get her fingers inside to pull out the skin so she could cut out along the belly to expose the innards. These she pulled away and used short blows with her axe to chop at the pelvis until it broke and she pulled the leg up to open it up. With her knife and her axe she opened it all the way to the upper chest, cut away inside, opened the rib cage with a hard pull and reached inside the neck to cut through the windpipe above the heart. With one hand around the heart and windpipe and one down by the innards she pulled all the organs out of the body onto the wet earth then cut away all the sinew until the great stinking mass was free. With great effort she dragged the carcass up onto the branch so that its head was down on the ground and watched as blood drained from the wound in the neck. While she caught her breath and allowed the deer to bleed she cut out the heart and chewed on a piece. The blood was warm in her mouth but she spat out the tough meat and instead cut into the liver and chewed on that, savouring it greatly. The deer had been young and the liver was as healthy as she had ever seen. It was a good sign and she felt pleased with her success. Zani would eat well now and she longed to see her so Sif collected her tools, heaved the carcass fully onto the branch and crouched low before pulling it onto her shoulders.
Even without the innards and much of its blood it weighed as much as Sif but she stiffened her back and made her way along the track toward the river. By the time the trees thinned the sun was up and Sif was breathing heavily. She considered putting the deer down to rest for a while but she could not be sure she would have strength enough to pick it up again and so after a pause she went on through the high grasses toward the river.
The reeds were green with new growth and she wondered if the hunters from the village would make Zani a new roof this year as the old one would not last another winter. It would be better if the whole thing were burned and a new one built but she did not know if they would do that. It depended on the seal hunting this year and whether Zani would make them do it for her. If she told them to do it then they would but she would be guided by the spirits and that was infuriating for Sif, for surely the spirits would wish for Zani to have a dry home.