by Dan Davis
Chewing his cold cooked meat, Herkuhlos gestured at the sleeping farmers. “They need a chief strong enough to conquer them.”
“There is no such chief among them,” Wetelos said and shrugged. “It hardly matters now Torkos has come.”
“When did he come?”
“Two years past or perhaps three, I do not recall.”
“And this yotunan is your lord?”
Wetelos looked up. “Ghebol is the chief of chiefs. He serves Torkos.”
“Your chief submitted to the yotunan?”
“My chief was challenged by Ghebol and they fought with spears. My chief lost like this.” Wetelos clicked his fingers. “Ghebol rules now and does the bidding of the god.”
“Torkos the Boar is not a god.”
Wetelos shrugged as if he did not care what Torkos was or was not.
“This Ghebol is a great warrior?” Herkuhlos asked.
Wetelos’s face darkened. “He is an evil man who drinks the blood of those he kills while it still pumps from their flesh but yes he is a great warrior.” Wetelos looked up. “Greater than you, even.”
Herkuhlos’ mind turned quickly. A drinker of blood who was a great warrior. It certainly sounded as though he served the yotunan. “Was it Ghebol who led this raid against Amron?”
That amused Wetelos. “Ghebol would not stoop so low. No, it was his son, Kapol.”
“An important son?”
Wetelos nodded. “His first and most trusted.”
“And a great warrior also?”
“Yes.”
“A drinker of blood?”
“Not that I know of but he would do anything to have the power of his father.” Wetelos smirked. “But this failure will do him harm in the eyes of his father and Torkos.”
“Failure?”
“This raid was not ordered by Ghebol. We were supposed to collect the sacrifice and return to our village. Instead, Kapol ordered us to follow the trail back to Amron’s village to take revenge which was right and proper. But Kapol lost more men than he should attacking the Furun and now he will be late in returning home and without the sacrifice from Thrima. Yes, this failure will do Kapol harm.” Wetelos smiled at the prospect.
Nodding slowly, Herkuhlos found a plan forming in his mind. A vague plan and a dangerous one but it was a possible path toward facing the Boar.
“Is Ghebol hated?”
“Hated?”
“Surely, the people do not love a new chief who drinks their blood.”
“He is feared but the Heryos are a people that loves power. And Ghebol is a powerful chief of chiefs who is loved by the gods.”
“By a false god,” Herkuhlos observed. “And his son Kapol is the one fleeing with my armour. Where is your village?”
Wetelos gestured. “North, three or four days, in the next valley.”
“And Torkos the Boar lives elsewhere?”
“Torkos dwells within the Great Circle beyond that but we came from Kapol’s village, which is not so far. From there, Kapol oversees Thrima and the Furun lands sworn to him.”
Herkuhlos scratched his chin and frowned, looking through the trees as if he could see these places. “Torkos is lord over a chief called Ghebol. Ghebol is the father of Kapol. And this Kapol is master of the yotunan Thrima? How could this be?”
Wetelos shook his head. “Torkos is lord of all. All do his bidding, now. Furun, Heryos, women, warriors, chiefs, and even the other gods. All do his bidding or they are slain and devoured by Torkos.”
Jabbing a thumb at himself, Herkuhlos smiled. “There is one here who will not do his bidding. Nor will I be slain. It is the servants of Torkos who will be slain unless they join with me.”
Wetelos narrowed his eyes. “Lord, I suggest you give up this pursuit and tell these bread eaters to do the same. Nothing good will come of this.”
Herkuhlos snorted, snatched the bread from his hands and slapped a piece of mutton in Wetelos’s hands. “Give me that bread, take this meat. And keep your advice.”
“Thank you, lord,” Wetelos said and tore into it at once.
A rustling in the long grasses made them look up as Pehur came hurrying back out of the darkness where he had been keeping watch on the track. “Lord. Someone comes.”
Herkuhlos took up his weapons and stood. “Where? How many?”
“Only one or perhaps two. That way,” Pehur gestured back the way they had come with his light spear, his eyes white in the darkness.
“How did they get behind us?” Herkuhlos muttered and gestured at Wetelos. “Put your spear against this man’s throat and if he makes a sound or moves any limb of his body even a finger’s breadth then shove it through his neck.”
“Yes, lord.”
Wetelos sat still and watched them, seemingly unconcerned. It was possible he would seek death, for he seemed to wish it, but dying by Pehur’s hand would be dishonourable and anyway Wetelos had served his usefulness now.
Herkuhlos considered waking the farmers to help but they would only panic and make a terrible noise. If there were a few scouts out in the dark come to cut throats then perhaps he could deal with them alone and by stealth. Keeping low, he crept in the direction Pehur had pointed and then stopped, straining his ears to hear over the breeze in the leaves.
There. A footstep crunching last year’s leaves underfoot, moving slowly and carefully as tiny wet twigs crackled.
They were coming right for him.
Herkuhlos waited as they came closer along the track and then he saw the merest impression of a figure, dark against the darkness, hunched low and carrying a spear that caught the moonlight through the clouds.
Only one man and he was coming steadily. He does not know that we are camped here.
Motionless, Herkuhlos waited until they were almost level with him and then exploded from the undergrowth, swinging his spear shaft into the man’s belly and folding him over with a single blow. The attacker dropped his spear and curled up on the ground, unable to draw a breath and Herkuhlos grabbed him, slapped his face, felt down his body for a knife and tossed it aside before pulling him upright.
It was just a boy.
While he was wounded, he felt for an axe or another weapon hidden inside his furs.
Instead of a weapon, he felt soft breasts beneath the tunic.
He froze in surprise, his hands still on her and she slapped his face and arms and, recovering her breath, cursed him until he slung her over his shoulder and carried her back to camp.
“What is that?” Pehur cried, squinting in the darkness, his spear still levelled at Wetelos.
“The old chief’s daughter.” He set her down on the ground with a thump and she cried out as much in indignation as in pain. “It is Amra.”
10. Power
Torkos the Devourer leaned back on his great seat of carved oak and closed his eyes while the slaves washed his feet and legs. Warmed water and soft, clean cloths were luxuries beyond his imagining while he was in Tartaros and he allowed himself to breathe deeply.
The roof of his tent flapped gently far overhead while beyond the felt walls the sounds of his clan at work came to his ears. A distant shout of anger followed by a slap and a burst of laughter caused him to smile. One of his men striking a slave, no doubt. They were good men. Hard warriors willing to do whatever he commanded. They would do anything he asked without question and without hesitation. The ones still alive, at least. The thought of that made him laugh softly, the sound little more than a rumble in the back of his throat.
The slave washing his right foot stopped for a moment before she carried on, no doubt startled from her work by the sound. Torkos opened his eyes and looked down at the naked girl. She was too young to survive his pleasures and too thin for his tastes but her skin was soft and pale and he felt his lust aroused all the same.
“Look at me,” he commanded. He spoke softly but the sound was still loud in the tent.
She was one of the Furun slaves and was not born to the tongue of the
Heryos but she knew enough of it. The girl tried to obey but when her eyes alighted on his face she looked away.
It amused Torkos that the mortals found him so repulsive. The other gods had never hesitated to call him ugly and he knew his nose was short and turned up like a snout and his jaw jutted out and that his teeth were so big that his lips could not contain them. They had never let him forget it, not even his mother who was the one who first called him the Boar, but none of that mattered. If you have power you can have anything you wanted. If you are not beautiful by birth, when you have enough power you can have it all the same.
“What is your name, child?”
“Ahana,” she said quietly, looking down.
“Look at me,” he said again.
Her body shaking, she lifted her head up and looked at his nose, the thick ridge jutting above his eyes, his low forehead with his mane of black hair sticking up wildly above it. They were afraid most of all, he knew, of his enormous jaw and his great yellow teeth. This was because they had seen what he could do with those teeth.
“Good girl, Ahana,” he said and at his words she screwed her eyes shut and hunched her shoulders. “You are a brave one. Perhaps I will drink you.”
“Lord,” a voice called.
Torkos looked up to see Ghebol and Sehi entering and kneeling before him. The mortal chief was dressed for war, as he often was, with a tunic of leather covered by boar tusk armour and a cap of the same material.
His wife Sehi was in a long blue dress that clung to her body, pinned together at her shoulders by shining gold broaches, and a long necklace hung with ovals of gold and the thick braid of her shining black hair hung over one shoulder down to the rounded fullness of her breast. Torkos’ eyes were drawn to her, as they often were and he stared at her while he spoke to Ghebol.
“You have come. You may rise and speak.”
Ghebol and Sehi stood. He was a huge man and his wife was well matched, for she was a tall and sturdy woman who retained some of her beauty even in her advanced years and after birthing many sons.
“Lord,” Gehbol said, “you sent for us.”
Torkos nodded slowly and spread his hands. “Where is my sacrifice? I am thirsty.”
Ghebol stood with his legs braced and faced his god with courage. “Lord, my son Kapol has sent word. He travelled to Thrima’s home but there he found Thrima slain.”
The words hung in the air and Torkos stood, kicking aside the bowls of water and scaring away the slaves who fell back in surprise but stayed where they had fallen, not daring to do anything without being ordered.
Taking two steps forward, Torkos looked down on Ghebol, the woman forgotten.
“Slain?” Torkos said, his voice a low rumble. “How could a god be slain?”
Ghebol looked up and did not flinch. “I questioned my son’s messengers. My wife questioned the acolyte of Thrima who returned with them.”
Torkos sniffed and looked down at Sehi. “You let a woman do this?”
Ghebol stiffened. “Questioning them apart, we could then compare their tales to judge whether they each spoke truth.” He gestured. “It was my wife’s idea.”
Torkos grunted and looked at her with appreciation. “Clever.” She smiled at him and he considered reaching out to grab her breasts through her dress but such pleasures could wait. “And what were their tales?”
“Kapol’s men said they found the Roaring One dead beneath the sacrifice stone, his skull broken. They took the acolytes captive and threatened them, wondering if they had somehow caused it.”
With a grunt, Torkos dismissed that. “Impossible.”
“Yes, lord,” Sehi said, her voice rich and steady, as if it came from deep inside her. Her gaze did not falter as she spoke. “The acolyte told me they had come to the place on the full moon as ever and there had been a sacrifice. A young woman from one of the Furun villages sworn to Thrima. As he went to claim her, another man emerged. This man fought Thrima and killed him.”
“A man?” Torkos said, his voice growing louder. “How dare you repeat such lies. No man could kill a god, not even Thrima.”
“The acolytes of Thrima thought this strange man was one of the undying ones, lord,” Ghebol said. As befitted a great chief, Ghebol did not fear death and like his wife he looked upon his god’s face impassively.
Another god here, Torkos wondered? Who could have come? One of his brothers? What did they mean by this attack on Thrima? Was it an attack on him, Torkos the Devourer?
“Who was this god?” he barked.
“He announced his name, lord,” Sehi said. “The acolytes said the slayer of Thrima named himself Herkuhlos, son of the Sky Father.”
Torkos scowled. “There is no such son. He lies.”
“Perhaps,” Sehi said, taking a half step forward. “But, forgive me, lord, I have heard such a name spoken. Another priestess told me of this Herkuhlos, just before winter. The priestess came from east. They say Herkuhlos, one of the godborn, was also the slayer of Leuhon.”
Standing over the priestess, Torkos ground his teeth and raised a fist. Sehi tensed and closed her eyes to receive a blow that would surely kill her. Yet Torkos relented. He breathed out and lowered his arm and opened his fist. “Lies.”
“Yes, lord,” Sehi said, lifting her head again.
“Where is your son now, Ghebol?”
“He took his warband against the village that sent the sacrifice. He will destroy it and kill them all.”
Torkos was angry and also he was confused about this Herkuhlos. Was he truly another god? He must at least be godborn if he was strong enough to kill Thrima. He was no son of Typhon and Ekidna but if he had killed Thrima the Roarer in single combat then whoever he was he was surely stronger than a dozen mortal warriors. But could Leuhon really be dead? His brother had never been the brightest or the strongest of them despite his mad belief in his own greatness but he was ancient and powerful and there was no possibility that some young spawn of the Sky Father could have slain him.
“And what of the slayer of Thrima? Where is he?”
“If he is with the Furun then my son will slay him in turn, lord,” Ghebol said.
Torkos snorted. “Not if he is an undying one, Ghebol.”
“No, lord,” the chief replied and then braced himself to make a suggestion. “But I could slay him with the power of your blood, lord.”
Torkos nodded. “Perhaps. If you slay this Herkuhlos, you will bring great glory to yourself.”
“Yes, lord.”
Thinking, Torkos looked at Sehi’s body and up to her face. “You have come into my presence, woman, and told me of your deeds and your cleverness because there is something you desire for your reward.”
Sehi inclined her head. “My god is wise.”
Her pointless words irritated him. “Speak of it.”
“When you find the goddess that you are searching for, lord, she will require acolytes to serve her. It is my desire that Torkos consider Sehi for chief priestess.”
Torkos snorted as he looked between them. “So Ghebol will rule my warriors and Sehi will rule my women, yes?” Their lust for power amused him for it was monstrous in scope, almost blasphemous, almost more than mortals could be allowed. Almost. Compared to the power that Torkos would have when he found Nehelennia it was petty and meaningless and so he could afford to be magnanimous. He looked down at Sehi’s breasts and her wide hips and wondered how much they desired this earthly power. How much they were willing to suffer for the power over others.
“You will have my blood, Ghebol. But I must quench my thirst.” He addressed the woman. “Bring that slave. The girl.”
Sehi glanced at the two naked females, hesitated hardly a moment and strode past him, yanked the girl up by the wrist and dragged her back to Torkos. The girl was dwarfed by the powerful woman who held her.
“Good little Ahana,” Torkos said. “Brave one. Your blood will be strong, despite the weakness of your people.”
He grabbed her by t
he upper arm and lifted her from the floor. She thrashed, kicked her legs, and beat his arm with both hands as she screamed but there was nothing she could do as he brought her up to his mouth and closed his powerful jaws over her throat. With a single savage bite he crushed her neck, his huge teeth piercing her flesh and he drank deeply of her blood. It was good, as he had known, and the strength of it filled his belly and spread through his body.
After he had drunk his fill he tossed the body aside and cuffed his bloody lips and licked his teeth clean.
Ghebol stared impassively and Sehi tried to do the same but he saw something in her eyes. Awe of his strength, he was sure of it, and he knew he would show her and her husband the power of a god.
“Go to my bed,” Torkos said to Sehi.
They both stiffened and the wife glanced at her husband. After a moment, she mastered her terror and walked past the slaves, one dead and one alive, to the large bed on the far side of the tent. There she stood, her back to him, her shoulders rounded.
Ghebol gritted his teeth with suppressed rage and that amused Torkos most of all. He did not dismiss Ghebol from his presence because he wanted him to see and hear what the power of a god meant for mortals who sought earthly power of their own.
With a grunt of pleasure, Torkos walked slowly to Sehi and stood over her. She was shaking but she held her head up and looked him in the face with her eyes open. Torkos ran a hand up her body, squeezed her breasts hard then grabbed her necklace, the gold shining between his fingers as he closed his massive fist about it and tore it from her neck and tossed it aside. She gasped as it pulled against her neck and was yanked forward to him and he grabbed her and ripped off her shining gold shoulder broaches so that her dress fell into a pile around her ankles. He looked down at her naked body and smiled. She smiled back, despite the look in her eyes, and her courage pleased him.
Torkos touched her face and her hair and twisted her thick braid in his fist and yanked her head back hard, causing her to gasp in pain. He bent down and sniffed her white neck, sensing the hot blood pumping below her soft skin and he gently ran the tips of his largest teeth across her throat. She shook with fear but she did not move. She could not, for he held her in a grip of stone and slowly he pushed her face down onto his bed.