by Dan Davis
Ghebol, chief of chiefs, would now witness what power over men truly meant.
11. Ambush
Amra had followed them all the way from the village and the others were stunned to see her, or rather hear her protests after she was dumped on the ground beside them in the darkness. Herkuhlos told them all to go back to sleep and he stayed awake to watch over the captive until Pehur and then Mardoc took their turns. Before dawn, Herkuhlos woke Amra and crouched beside her.
“Ask her what she is doing here,” he said to Mardoc.
Amra crossed her arms and scowled as she muttered her answers.
“She says you gave her a signal that she should join you.”
Herkuhlos was surprised. “A signal? I gave no signal.”
“She says you nodded your head that she should go with you.”
“I nodded my head? By Kounos, woman, I was saying farewell. What madness gripped you that you would think to join warriors?” He pinched his nose in his frustration at the foolishness of women. “Now I have to weaken our strength, girl, for one man shall have to take you home.”
Mardoc told her and then listened as Amra rattled off an angry response. “She says she will not go home. She will help. She will fetch water and when we rescue the women from the Heryos she will look after them. She says they are her cousins and her friends.”
“It matters not who they are.” He scowled. “Will she be able to find her way home by herself?”
Mardoc shrugged. “Of course she could, lord, but she will not. She is stubborn and will follow us once more. No man here can control Amra, not even you, lord.”
Herkuhlos grunted. “Especially not me, it seems. So who shall we send back with her?”
Mardoc rubbed the grey hairs on his chin. “She will force them to turn around. She is a cunning woman, this one. Takes after her mother.”
“They can drag her if they need to. Tie her up.”
The older man shook his head sadly. “All these boys are cubs around her.” He shrugged and gestured at one of the drowsy young farmers. “Send Medra.”
“He looks strong, I don’t want to lose him.”
“Strong, yes, but he has had a wife so will know how to ignore a woman.”
Herkuhlos shook his head. What did it matter to him what happened to this woman? She was not his responsibility and if she was killed in the fighting to come then that was her foolishness and no concern of his. “Tell her she is likely to die if she comes with us.”
“She says we are all dead anyway.”
That was true enough, he supposed. He reached out and touched his fingers against her shoulder. “If we all die, Amra, you should run. If you cannot run, hide. If you are found, use your knife.” He handed it back to her and waited for Mardoc to translate. “Does she know how to slay herself?”
Mardoc did not bother to ask her. “She knows.”
“Let her come, then.” He stood. “We are losing the day. Come on.”
Once more they followed the track beside the river. The trail was just as obvious as they followed it that day and half of the next where they found a wide area where the Heryos warband had spent the night. The ashes were still warm and the disposed animal bones and other waste was fresh. The Furun spread out in the clearing, looking at the tracks all around.
“There are two trails away from here,” Mardoc said, pointing with his bow.
“They broke into two groups?” Herkuhlos wondered aloud, looking at the ground.
“Or one is a false trail, lord,” Pehur suggested. “As the captives suggested.”
“Wetelos?” Herkuhlos called for his prisoner. “Which is the true way?”
The young man brushed his dirty long hair from his face as he looked at the ground. “That is the way to the village, lord.” With his bound hands he pointed at the tracks heading northwest. “That is the way back to the house of Thrima the Roarer.” He pointed then at the tracks veering off to the northeast.
“The tomb and the great stone, you mean?” Herkuhlos said, using his spear to point north. “Is that not this way, along the river?”
Wetelos was amused. “That is the place of sacrifice, he did not live there. No, he had a house where we would meet him, some way from the tomb and stones. That is where his acolytes live and where Thrima sleeps. Like a Furun longhouse in the woods. They have sheep and cattle and slaves.”
Herkuhlos nodded. Because he had hid behind the standing stone he had never actually seen the yotunan emerge from the tomb, he had simply assumed that was where he had come from. Of course it was likely he had simply walked from some unseen track leading to the woods beyond it.
“Mardoc? Amra?”
They approached, her demeanour still now somewhere between embarrassed and defiant.
“Ask her if she saw Thrima come out of the tomb when he came for her.”
Amra shook her head.
“She says she hid her eyes in fear and did not see but she thinks he came from the trees.”
Herkuhlos turned to his captive. “Wetelos, you are too useful a man to kill. You prove your worth over and over. Perhaps you wish me to keep you alive after all.”
His eyes burned with cold fire. “I speak truth. I act with honour and accept what comes. Will you do the same?”
Pursing his lips, Herkuhlos looked again at the remnants of the camp. They were getting closer with their pursuit, there was no doubt about that. Half a day behind at the most now and there was a good chance of catching them up by nightfall.
“You seek death, Wetelos, because you are shamed by your capture. But I might be killed today and then you would return to your people. Is your shame so great that you would chose death now over a chance at being rescued by your friends?”
“Free me now, lord,” Wetelos said. “Free me now or kill me now, as you swore to do. I have done as you asked while you have not.”
“You should have been less useful to me,” Herkuhlos said.
“The Heryos are supposed to value oaths more than life but you, Herkuhlos, are an oath breaker and a liar,” Wetelos said and spat on the floor. The men around them froze. They may not have understood the words but they knew a curse and an insult when they saw one and watched to see what the huge warrior would do to his captive.
“A man cannot swear an oath with his slave,” Herkuhlos explained. “Oaths are for men.”
Wetelos shook with rage and Herkuhlos expected an attack. Yet somehow Wetelos controlled his fury, closing his eyes and breathing deeply for a moment before lifting his head and looking up at Herkuhlos.
“You are without honour.” He spoke calmly now and the accusation was more powerful for it.
But Herkuhlos laughed in his face. “It is victory that brings honour so we shall see what the day brings.” He turned away then. “Mardoc, have them gather round and repeat my words.” He waited until they were looking at him before speaking slowly, allowing Mardoc to translate. “We may find our enemies today or tomorrow. We may come upon them suddenly. You will all be ready. We will string our bows. When we find them we will drop our packs, baskets, bags, and cloaks. When we see them, we will begin shooting until we have no more arrows or until they come for us. We will stay together, side by side, spears up. Do not die. Above all, stay out of my way. You hear me? Stay out of my way. That is all.”
They stared silently at him after Mardoc had finished and then looked gravely at one another before stringing their bows.
“Pehur, bring me my bow.” He bent the mighty weapon and checked his arrows. There were five of them. Six would have been better but if he could kill two or more men with his five that would help.
“What should I do, lord?” Pehur asked. “In the fight.”
“Stay back with the others. If I fall, you should run.” He looked at Amra. “I should drive her away now.”
“I will protect her, lord.”
He looked down. “In the name of Kounos, Pehur, don’t do that. They will go for her most of all and with her lameness she wil
l not be able to flee. Even without her lameness she would not get away from warriors. And so you would die.”
His servant shrugged. “It would be an honourable death.”
“Honourable? A foolish death, you mean. But you must do as you will.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “Not that it matters for I shall not fall.”
“No, lord.”
Amra was not driven away and together they went on, the farmers slower now with hunched shoulders, with their bows in one hand and their spear or axe in the other and looking always ahead with wide eyes.
Soon, Herkuhlos found himself far in front of the others as they dropped back, wary and afraid and he hissed at them to hurry. The sun was setting unseen beyond the trees and though the tracks were fresher he could hear no animals or men ahead and so he thought it likely they would not now catch up by nightfall. Perhaps in the morning they would do so but they would have to hurry if they were to catch the Heryos before they reached their village. If that happened, then the only hope would be through challenging their chief to combat and there was no guarantee he would accept.
The track wound away from the river and the trees closed in on either side. Though the sky was still evening-bright overhead, it was dark beneath the trees.
They found another body. An older woman discarded in the undergrowth beside the track. She had been a slave of the Furun but still she had been part of their village and the men grew angry once more and hurried on, more determined than ever to take revenge on the raiders who had destroyed their lives.
Herkuhlos found himself near the rear once more, where Pehur watched both Wetelos and Amra. In front of Herkuhlos, Mardoc followed the younger men of his village with an arrow already nocked on his excellent bow.
When we come up on the enemy, Herkuhlos thought, the slowest and weakest of the warband, the injured men and the cowards will be in the rear with the animals. We should have time to shoot many men before they reach us and then I will go forward ahead of them and begin killing.
Now the sun was going down he felt tired and his muscles ached from carrying the weight of his weapons for days now but the thought of the fight to come warmed his blood and he imagined slaying their leader, this young chief Kapol. That slaying would bring him more fame and power and if he did everything right then he would have strength enough to hunt down and defeat the warband of this greater chief Ghebol and then he could challenge Torkos the Boar.
Could it be done, he wondered? Could he walk the path to victory? He would have to take command of many men and he could only do that with complete certainty in his own strength. But he was strong, there was no doubting that. He was the strongest warrior any mortal had ever seen and that strength would be his path to victory over the Boar, he knew it in his heart. But he had to be strong now and always and he could let nothing stop him. Not the weakness of the Furun or his concern for their deaths. That was nothing compared to the glories that awaited him if he was strong enough to win victory.
A shout filled the air, waking him from his revere.
From within the gloom of the trees to his right, a single guttural cry and a moment later the whip sound of an arrow in the air.
In front of him, one of his farmers jerked and reeled back, a look of bafflement on his strained face and an arrow shaft jutting from his flank. Confused, the farmer plucked at the fletching as he staggered and fell to his knees.
The other Furun froze in shock, looking into the darkness of the undergrowth and their heads swivelling around. The quickest of them threw down his spear, pulled an arrow from his bag, and nocked it but the rest were caught in indecision.
“Back!” Herkuhlos shouted. “Come back to me here, this way. Flee!”
They could not understand him and he looked to Mardoc but the older man had crouched like a hunter and was busy pulling back his bow to loose an arrow into the darkness.
Just then, a dozen more war cries sounded from the trees.
Not just on one side but on both sides of the track. Arrows shot in, cutting the air and footsteps sounded as the Heryos attackers came charging out from their hiding places behind trees and from the undergrowth.
Herkuhlos had blundered badly. The farmers were panicking. Some were fumbling with their arrows, obeying his old instructions to shoot first but not understanding that it was too late for that now and that they should instead had thrown down their bows and used their spears and clubs or better yet that they should flee.
“Mardoc! Get them back!”
Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Herkuhlos leaped across the bank of high grasses to his right and pushed through the thin branches of the bushes beside the track and stomped into the leaf litter beyond.
At once he came face to face with a charging Heryos warrior, his war axe already raised high. He must have been charging Mardoc and when he saw Herkuhlos appear before him he tried to check his run.
But it was too late and Herkuhlos slammed his spearhead through the warrior’s face, bore him to the ground and stepped over his body to find the next man in the darkness. The closest Heryos swerved away while the other four he could see further along continued to charge onto the track to attack the farmers there.
Herkuhlos ignored them and chased after the man who had run from him, circling around a dense stand of hazel while the warrior held up his axe as if it would help to save him. Clearing the hazel and coming into range Herkuhlos lunged with his spear but the warrior leapt aside, swatting at the spear with his axe before backing away further. Frustrated, Herkuhlos ran at him and the warrior turned and fled as fast as he could, leaping a fallen trunk and crashing through the new growth covering a small clearing and going on into the darkness, the noise of his passing scaring up a nest of crows.
“Coward!” Herkuhlos snarled and turned to find a new victim.
He was farther from the track than he had realised and there were shouts and screams and the clash of wood and stone and he understood that he had been tricked, drawn away by the cunning, cowardly warrior.
With a growl of rage he started back toward the fight and quickly he came crashing back through the overhanging branches onto the track, further down than he had been.
Half of the farmers were dead or dying and the rest were fleeing back toward him in fear. Mardoc had a bloody figure slung over his shoulder as he stomped away from the raiders and Pehur was backing away, his spear up, with Amra limping behind him. Beyond them, most of the Heryos were already walking away, seemingly content with their short, sharp victory.
“Move!” Herkuhlos roared and barged them aside as he raced toward the ten or so Heryos spread out on the track.
The closest two were bent over the fallen farmers, their axes rising and falling to finish off the wounded men. When they heard his cry and saw his approach they turned to flee but it was too late and Herkuhlos speared one in the spine and on instinct threw his club at the other. The heavy end struck him on the back of the skull with a wet crack and dropped him to the ground. His thrown club bounced into the grass beside the track and Herkuhlos looked past the fallen man to the others making their escape.
Wetelos was there, half-running and half being dragged away by his bound wrists by a warrior, taller than Wetelos and far broader. One side of his head was shaved and tattooed while the other was tied in a knot over his ear. The huge warrior looked over his shoulder and smirked at Herkuhlos before yanking Wetelos after him.
Somehow, Herkuhlos knew that this warrior was Kapol, son of Ghebol.
It was already a long spear throw and his spear was for thrusting, not throwing and so he looked for his discarded bow. It was two paces behind him amongst the fallen bodies and all his arrows but one had been snapped underfoot. Quickly, he dropped his spear, snatched up his bow and nocked the last arrow. The trackway curved ahead and most of the Heryos had already gone beyond it into the concealment of the undergrowth but he knew he still had time to shoot the last two figures.
Wetelos was in the rear, blocking the
shot on Kapol but Herkuhlos could hit his captive. He was fleeing straight down the track with the trees on either side of him, framing him perfect, and his wild yellow hair almost glowed in the last light of dusk filtering from above. The gods could not have provided him an easier target for his arrow.
Herkuhlos aimed above the head, feeling and knowing that his shot would strike Wetelos in the lower back.
The young man looked over his shoulder as he fled and saw Herkuhlos aiming at him and he stumbled for two paces until Kapol pulled him upright and dragged him on with a curse.
Herkuhlos lowered his bow.
Wetelos looked again behind him just as they disappeared out of sight beyond the trees.
They were gone.
Herkuhlos had led his men straight into a trap and half of them were now dead.
He had failed.
12. Chief
The village was strange. It had some buildings in the centre that looked like longhouses with pig pens outside them and there were areas of fenced land here and there with long gouges through the dark earth from the ard, prepared for the growing of wheat. That much at least looked like a Furun village.
But amongst the wooden houses and outside of them were tents and wagons and there were herds of horses grazing on the pastures, like a Heryos camp. There were cattle roaming, too, and though both Furun and Heryos used cattle the herds were far larger than those kept by the Furun.
“This must be where Wetelos was from,” Herkuhlos whispered to Pehur. “The village ruled by Kapol.”
They were lying flat on the damp earth, close to the edge of the woodland and hidden from view behind a dense clump of long grass and bright green, young nettles. All day they had followed the tracks of the Heryos who had ambushed them the night before and now they had found the place where they had gone.