by Dan Davis
Satara ran to catch her up but when he began to speak she hurried on and pretended not to hear him. It was childish but then she had always acted this way with him and found it difficult to stop.
She was wet by the time she reached the shaman’s house. There was a fire smouldering on the central hearth and for a moment she rejoiced, thinking that Sama had returned but then she remembered that Satara lived with the old man. Of course he had made the fire.
“What happened?” she asked, turning on him as he came in, breathing heavily. “Tell me everything.”
He stared at her for a moment, his eyes bulging but the words seemed to stick in his throat and instead he crouched to feed the fire.
“Satara, I heard that he was just gone and has not returned. But where were you?”
He did not look at her for a moment. It seemed that he could not. “I was away from the house just for one night,” he said eventually. “Not even the whole night, not really. When I returned, he was gone.”
She shook her head in frustration. “Did he speak of going anywhere?”
“No.”
“Where was he when you left?”
Satara gestured at the empty bed. “He was asleep.”
“What was he doing in the day before that night?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he have gone to consult the spirits? Or to the islands?”
He shrugged. “His canoe is still here.”
She stared at him. He did not seem concerned. No one seemed concerned or afraid that Sama had gone. Zani would not be missed as people did not like her manner and they were afraid of her tongue but they relied on Sama’s wisdom for so much of their lives and yet they seemed either to expect him to return or they thought it did not matter that he had gone.
“What do you think happened?”
Sama would not meet her eye but he replied. “It is said that the wise ones will walk into the sea when the spirits tell them their time has come.”
She could hardly believe what she had heard. “But he was not sick. The spirits were with him. The spirits are always with him.”
He looked up at that. “Then why is he not here?”
Although she began to answer she found she did not have an explanation. “No one seems to care but me.”
“You care the most, of course, but we all care. Me more than any of them.” He gestured vaguely back at the village.
She could not deny that. He was Sama’s acolyte and might one day be initiated and then take over when Sama could no longer perform the rites. Had that day come?
“Sif, you are not like the rest of them. We are the same, you and me.”
Hardly listening to him, she nodded, which he took for encouragement.
“You should stay here now,” he said. “Where you will be safe.”
“Safe?”
“Sif, this is a time of great change, you know that. Sama has been saying it and even Zani said the same. The chief will die soon, he may die this winter or even before, he grows weaker every time the spirits attack him. The tribe is weak and we are in great danger now. We must find strength where we can.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
He shuffled closer. “The farmers are coming into our land ever more. The Furun have always been here but now these new men have come, the Heryos, led by a powerful god, and if they come here we shall have to flee.”
She was confused now. “There is nowhere to flee to. All the lands and all the islands belong to one tribe or another and we are too weak to fight them for a new place for our people.”
Satara smiled and leaned forward. “You understand as I knew you would. We must make great changes if we are to become strong again.”
“Changes?”
“The Furun make fair trades and might even be trustworthy but they are being subdued by the Heryos now.”
“How do you know all this?”
“We have to make alliances with those who are strong in order to pass through this time. It will not be easy but it must be done and our tribe must stand united.” He linked his hands together for a moment and then reached out one hand to lay his fingers on her knee. “Sif, we are the same. We both lost our brothers when we were children. Now you have lost Sama and Zani also and you are alone, as I am. As I have always been. And so now we must do what is necessary for the tribe.”
Her heart raced and she felt hot with dread. She opened her mouth to stop him but he crashed on through her objections.
“Sif, I must become the spirit walker now that Sama is gone. It will give our people the strength we need.”
“You are not initiated,” she said, flatly.
“One of the others will do it, especially if you tell them it was Sama’s wish.”
“I do not know that it was,” she said.
“Of course it was,” he snapped and then softened his voice as he shuffled closer still, his fingers closing around her knee. “Sif, we must be joined. You are too old to be a maiden and I will make a good match for you. The spirits speak to you and I know the rites. Together, we will steer our people through this crisis.”
Horrified, she pulled back from him, slapping his hand away. “No,” she said. “No, no, I will not join with you.” She jumped to her feet. “And you cannot be the spirit walker for Sama will return. Sama and Zani both!”
She grabbed her bow and her spear and threw herself out into the rain. Satara’s voice called out but she ran on away from him heading inland toward the trees.
Something was terribly wrong and she did not understand what was happening.
But she swore to the spirits that she would find out.
9. Pursuit
Eron may have been the new chief but Herkuhlos took command of the pursuit and chose nine of the surviving farmers who were willing to go after the raiders. Most were young and unmarried, sons of the handful of senior men, but of the nine Herkuhlos chose was an older man himself who had lost his wife and all his children in the attack. The last man was the bow maker Mardoc.
They wanted to leave before nightfall, on the very day of the raid, but Herkuhlos told them no. Instead, they would take the time to collect weapons and food and everything they would need and those that were able to sleep did so. Even so, it was before dawn when Herkuhlos had them woken and assembled them outside on the scarred battlefield in the centre of the village between the chief’s longhouse and the village tombs.
Both Heryos captives were brought forward into the still darkness of the pre-dawn. The men and women and children of the village stood back and watched in grim silence.
“I will lead you to my brothers, lord,” the older man called out, his eyes wild as two farmers held him between them by his bound arms. “I will be of use for you, lord. I will be your slave and will serve you well.”
“You will kneel,” Herkuhlos said, his club in hand.
“I will lead you or else you will never find them, I swear it. They hide their tracks and leave false trails. Do not kill me, lord, I will serve you and help you to find them, lord, or else your warband will fail.”
Herkuhlos turned to the younger, fair-haired captive called Wetelos who understood his questioning look. “It is true, lord.”
Herkuhlos turned to Pehur. “What do you think?”
“The Heyos might make false trails but I think leaving these men alive will cause trouble, lord.” Pehur gestured at the older man. “He will bite the throat of the first man he can when we lay down to sleep.”
That was a distinct possibility and anyway the man deserved to die for his improper manners alone. “Kneel,” he said, gesturing with his club to the Furun men who held the captives.
Though the bigger raider resisted, he was injured, tired, hungry, and afraid and he was swiftly forced to his knees.
A commanding voice spoke from behind Herkuhlos and a moment later the new young chief Eron approached, his own disc shaped stone war club in his hand and he gestured to himself and to the captive on the floor.
&
nbsp; “I am chief,” Eron said, standing beside Herkuhlos. “I must be the one to execute these men.”
“Yesterday you told me these captives are mine to do with as I will,” Herkuhlos said.
Eron glanced at his people, watching from the darkness all around. “It would be better for them to die at my hand.”
Herkuhlos looked at Eron. His face was grim. He had lost his father and many of his kinsmen and the survivors would have a struggle if they were to make it through the rest of the year and into the next. As well as the people and livestock, they had lost the precious trained oxen that pulled their only ard and they would lose farming labour and resources in the rebuilding of the houses and fences. Their weakness would become known to the other chiefs around them who might take advantage of the situation by claiming land or making wildly unfair trades to exploit their desperation. They faced a hard and uncertain future and executing this warrior would be a symbol of Eron’s strength and determination to see them through.
On the other hand, this prisoner had almost killed Herkuhlos and he had spat at him and insulted him. Honour demanded that he be put down by his own hand.
“No,” he said to Eron. “He is mine.”
With a smart blow Herkuhlos crashed his club down on top of the man’s head, smashing his skull and pulping his brains in a sudden spray of blood that spattered up over the faces of the men holding him.
There was a momentary silence until the men let go of him and he slumped forward to the ground. Herkuhlos turned to the second captive named Wetelos who looked him in the eye as he dropped to his knees. The young man had a fine face, with a wide jaw and a long straight nose and eyes that seemed to shine with some inner blueness in the grey light.
Turning to face him, Herkuhlos looked down. “Yesterday, you spoke to me of your lord and the yotunan they call the Boar. You told me this so that I would give you a clean death.”
“Yes, lord,” Wetelos said.
“I will slay you, Wetelos,” he said. “Once you lead me to your people.”
Wetelos’s mouth dropped open. “You agreed.”
“You have not yet told me all I wish to know and I would have your help in guiding us to your friends,” Herkuhlos said. “Continue to please me and I shall release you with this.” He held up the bloody club. There was a chunk of scalp and matted hair stuck to it.
“This is slavery,” Wetelos said, outraged, as the farmers pulled him to his feet. “I will be a slave no longer. You gave your word, lord.”
Herkuhlos pointed his club at Wetelos’s face and a drop of thick blood fell slowly from the end. “Then you should have won victory or death.” He turned to Pehur. “Get them moving. We have at least half a day to catch up.”
“Yes, lord,” he said.
Herkuhlos turned to Eron and the others of the Furun village behind him who had woken to see them off. They were a broken people and it was likely that they would all die. There were countless emotions on Eron’s face and Herkuhlos suspected that the young chief blamed him for what had happened. Herkuhlos knew that was not true, for it was old Amron who had caused all of this to occur by his desire to see Thrima dead and Herkuhlos was not at fault for bringing it about.
The old chief was on a litter in his house. His people would soon carry him to his tomb in the centre of the village which was accessed by the low passage. Amron’s ancestors were interred within and soon Amron would join them, his body seated against one of the walls amongst the bones of his fathers until his flesh was corrupted and his spirit released into the land. How long before Eron joined him could not be known but Herkuhlos suspected it would not be long and wondered if there would even be anyone left in the village to carry him within when his time came.
Amongst the women with Eron was the girl Amra, one of his sisters, surrounded by the other young women Herkuhlos had lain with that night and saved the next morning. She, too, had lost her father and her face was a tight mask of pain. When their eyes met, she nodded once. It was a sign of respect to an equal that few men ever felt courageous enough to give to him.
He nodded back and turned away from Amra, from Eron, and the rest of the Furun to follow the others, his makeshift warband.
Despite the warnings of the captive, the trail of the Heryos leading away from the village could not have been clearer. They travelled by the track paralleling the river that Herkuhlos and the others had taken to Thrima’s sacrificial stone circle and the ground was littered with signs of their passing. Footprints of man and beast and the dung of the stolen animals and the detritus tossed aside by the warriors. There were also spatters of blood and then they found one of the village dogs lying dead in the long grass next to the track with its skull broken.
“He must have chased them all this way,” Pehur said as they passed the dog.
“They killed the dogs before they attacked,” Herkuhlos said.
Pehur was surprised. “How?”
Herkuhlos shrugged. “Some raiders tempt them with fresh meat so they come out and then they are killed. Others become dogs themselves and get close enough to cut their throats.”
“Become dogs?”
Herkuhlos nodded. “You need a dog skin and you must eat its flesh and summon its spirit into you and you become a dog. That way the dogs let you come close or they come to you and then you can kill them.”
Pehur was impressed.
After midday they found the remains of a sheep that had been swiftly butchered on the road, leaving the innards, head, and blood-soaked pelt. Four of the Furun were angry that their livestock was still being destroyed and they turned on the captive Wetelos, shoving him and shouting at him. Mardoc tried to get them to stop but they ignored him so Herkuhlos stepped in and pulled the prisoner away from them. Without the focus of their anger, they turned back and continued but faster than before until they were almost running along the track with their faces set and determined and their spears and axes raised.
“Should we slow them, lord?” Pehur asked, panting behind them. “What if the enemy is near?”
“The Heryos are a day ahead of us. This haste is good for we must hurry.”
Mardoc dropped back from the others, breathing heavily and Herkuhlos slowed with him.
“Too old,” Mardoc said between breaths and wincing. “Too much time in my home.”
The rapid pursuit only stopped when they found something else lying off the side of the track in the trampled grass and the men stopped, breathing heavily, and staring down in horror and cold fury.
A body in the undergrowth.
Her naked skin bruised all over and her white neck cut open. The eyes stared unseeing at the branches swaying above.
“Marna,” Mardoc said, his voice almost a wail and tears welling in his eyes. “A good girl. Daughter of Imon and Sala. She was sworn to Dolon.” Mardoc gestured at the young man named Dolon. Mardoc shook his head at the horror of it. “This evil must be stopped, lord.”
Once again, the men turned to Wetelos who was still bound and the bloody wound on his face had swollen into a hideous lump but he looked at them with his chin up and ready to accept their anger. Though his features were unusual, quite apart from the brightness of his hair and eyes, he was half a head taller than any of them and if it were not for his injury and his status as a prisoner he would look like a warrior or even the son of a chief.
The Furun, led by the young man Dolon, surrounded Wetelos and lifted their weapons.
“He is my property,” Herkuhlos snapped at the crowding men. “Now, let us go on.”
“Lord,” Mardoc said quickly. “Marna must be buried.”
Herkuhlos shook his head. “There is no time.”
“She cannot be left for the crows and the foxes,” Mardoc said, horrified. He quickly explained to the others what was happening and they were likewise outraged. Some even bent to the body and began to move her, placing her legs together and arms at her sides and stroking her bloody hair.
“If we stop for this then you may as we
ll all go home after because we will never catch the warriors who did this to her and to all the others. What about the women still alive, did you think of that?”
“It is not right,” Mardoc said. “The gods will be angry with us, lord.”
“The gods favour men who win victory.”
Without waiting for their answer, he shoved Wetelos along the track ahead of him and Pehur hurried behind.
“Are you sure about this, lord?” Pehur asked. “That poor woman.”
“Come on,” Herkuhlos snapped, irritated to be questioned by his servant.
They delayed only a short while, perhaps moving the body of their kinswoman somewhere off the path, and then they ran to catch up. There were no more bodies found before nightfall and eventually it grew too dark to continue and even when the moon came up later it was hidden behind low cloud. After collapsing in exhaustion beneath the cover of an oak tree, the men ate some of the bread, meat, and cheese and fetched water from the river before wrapping themselves in their furs and falling asleep. Old Mardoc, suffering more than the rest, passed out with a piece of food still in his mouth and one of the other men fished it out with a hooked finger lest he choke in his sleep.
Wetelos sat watching them in silence and Herkuhlos shifted closer and gave him a beaker of water and a large piece of bread. The captive drank the water and held the bread, looking at it in his bound hands.
“Why do you not eat?” Herkuhlos spoke softly.
“I do not want the last meal in my belly to be bread,” Wetelos said.
Smiling, Herkuhlos nodded. “It’s not as bad as all that. These bread eaters do well enough on it.”
“They are weak,” Wetelos said. “The villages are small and the men cannot defend themselves from the Heryos yet they will not unite with one another to do it together.”