by Dan Davis
“Are you sure, lord?” Pehur said softly. “That was another two days or more to the north, in the next valley.”
“That was Ghebol’s village, where Torkos dwells, and so this is Kapol’s place and that is why he has come to here.” He turned his head to look at Pehur. “Strange, is it not? This place. It is like a Heryos camp but it has Furun houses. They scratch through the earth and eat bread, like your people.”
Pehur stiffened. “The Furun here are ruled by the Heryos, just as my people were.”
“Perhaps the Furun here will help us to fight Kapol and the Heryos.”
Pehur shook his head. “We cannot fight them, lord. We are too few. If we attack this place we will all be killed before we get close. The Furun are afraid. Even Mardoc would return home now.”
“You will probably all be killed if we attack, yes,” Herkuhlos said. “But even so I may find Kapol and slay him and then this place will be mine by right.”
Pehur was silent and Herkuhlos knew he was appalled. “I will make none of you come with me if you lack the courage for a fight, Pehur.” Slowly, he lifted a hand to point at the sky. “See, night approaches.” He gestured ahead. “There is not even a ditch around this village as there is many others and they will not expect us. That is to our advantage.” We can get close with ease and start killing them before they know we are here. How many warriors do you think they have? Twenty?”
“More like fifty, lord, and perhaps many more.”
“So many?”
“Look at all the tents. And they will have dogs. There is one now, you see, sleeping in the sun outside that longhouse. And anyway, they will surely be expecting us to follow them here and to attack them.”
Herkuhlos peered at him. “You believe this Kapol will be waiting for me? How would he know I have the courage to follow him to his home?”
Pehur closed his eyes for a moment before answering slowly. “Lord, they know you killed Thrima. They saw what you did to their men when they ambushed us on the track. And Wetelos will have told them everything he knows about you by now.”
That was true, he had forgotten about Wetelos. He would have told them he was the son of a god and capable of great victories. “You think they will expect me to attack in the dark?”
“Lord, do all men of the Heryos take part in the koryos?”
“All warriors, yes.”
“Then this man Kapol and the other warriors will have raided camps as boys, just as you did. They will have been cold and hungry, they will have crept into camps, killed the dogs, cut throats and stolen food and weapons. All Heryos understand what it is you plan. They will expect you to do it, yes. How could it be otherwise?”
Herkuhlos took a deep breath and considered it. What Pehur said was true but he could see no other way forward. “I will do it anyway. I must trust to my strength to bring victory even if they are waiting for me. They are mortals, Pehur, and I am more so I will win.”
Pehur sighed and spoke with a whispered desperation. “They will fill you with arrows and what will your strength be then, lord?”
Herkuhlos almost growled with frustration. “If only I had my armour, then I would have no fear of the weapons of herders and cowards.”
“Lord, what if we forget Kapol and simply go on to find Torkos? We can go around this place without being seen. Keep to the trees, you see? Up those hills with the trees and into the next valley.”
“But I must have my armour if I am to face Torkos.”
Pehur had an answer for that, too. “You could use your bow against him. Mardoc will make you more arrows. And if we can find bronze, I will forge arrowheads of metal that will piece his flesh with ease.”
“Such a victory would be worthless. How can I make myself great if I kill only from afar? They will say Herkuhlos is a coward.”
“No one will say that, lord. None but you would dare to shoot a yotunan.”
“Because they fear failure. As do I. There is no doubt I could shoot him with one arrow and perhaps two or even three if the gods are with me but would that be enough to fell him? If not, it will be a fight by club and spear and for that I would have my armour. The gods know I fought hard to win it and I cannot be confident of victory without it. You do not understand, Pehur, because it is not in your blood to be a warrior.”
Pehur was quiet for a while before he spoke. “You cannot mean for us to cross to there in darkness and kill them in their sleep? Even if we were not caught in the open, our farmers would not do it. They are not capable of it, they would make noise and their courage would fail them and they would not slit the throats of sleeping Heryos. If it is not in my blood then it is not in theirs.”
“They would do it,” Herkuhlos said. “Mardoc would, at least, and the others want to kill these men. Dolon lost that girl that would have been his wife and now he’s lost his brother, too, he would cut a hundred throats and enjoy every one, I know he would.” Herkuhlos sighed and lowered his head as he thought through such an attack. The Heryos outnumbered them and every warrior was worth two or more of the Furun.
“But you’re right, it would surely end in failure.” Slowly, he looked over his shoulder. Far back through the wood in the dimness beneath the trees, the others hid behind a fallen log or stood behind trunks. Mardoc crouched with his back to a tree, carefully perfecting an arrow shaft. Amra sat beside him and it was a shame she had not gone home because if they failed she would be taken as a slave by the Heryos. Dolon and the two other Furun would at least be killed outright and their spirits would return to the wellspring of their people.
“Send the others home, lord,” Pehur whispered as if knowing his thoughts. “We can go on, past this village, and find the lair of Torkos.”
“Yes, Pehur, so you have said. But I cannot kill Torkos if his entire warband is attacking me. There is a path to Torkos, I can feel it, but to beat him I must beat his warband. And to do that I must have a warband of my own.” He looked again at Pehur. “You say these warriors have been in a koryos and that is surely true. And so they must know the ways of our people and they must live by them.”
“A warband of your own?” Pehur asked.
He stood upright and Pehur hissed at him to get down. Instead, Herkuhlos left his great war club and collected his spear and stepped forward through the undergrowth out onto the pasture. A nearby cow lifted her head and stared at him with a clump of long grass hanging from her mouth.
“Fear not,” Herkuhlos said to her and at once she continued her chewing as he strode by her toward the village.
Pehur called out behind him, asking what was to be done but he ignored him for the concerns of servants and slaves were of no consequence to great men and soon Herkuhlos would be chief of a warband or he would be dead on the field of battle.
The cows in the pasture strode lazily from his path but in the distance, near to the outermost tents, a dog had seen him and it stared with head up and its legs stiff and back straight. This was it now, Herkuhlos knew, there would be no stepping aside once that dog opened its mouth.
At first the barking was hesitant, as the dog was uncertain whether he was an intruder for he walked with the confidence of its masters. But as other dogs joined in the barking became more insistent and by then the first servants had likewise raised the alarm.
Herkuhlos’ heart pounded in his chest as he raised his spear above his head.
“I challenge Kapol,” he cried. “I am Herkuhlos, son of Sky Father the lord of gods and men and son of Alkmene. I challenge Kapol to combat.”
The gathering men and women stared and warriors pushed through the watching crowd with spears and bows in hand.
Now he would discover if Kapol was a man with honour. If they began shooting at him, Herkuhlos would have little choice but to turn and run for the trees. It was doubtful that he would make it to the cover of the trees and even if he did he would have to fight every warrior in this clan as he fled through the night and Pehur and the others would certainly be slain. Whether Herk
uhlos lived or died would depend now on whether Kapol was a man with honour.
Lowering his spear for a moment, Herkuhlos continued to close on the masses of people standing at the edge of the pasture and he was stunned to see so many. There had to be three hundred of them and more were coming.
The tallest man amongst them finally stepped forward.
It was Kapol. One side of his head was shaved and Herkuhlos recognised him at once as the man who had dragged Wetelos away on the track. Now, however, the man was naked and his hair, last time tied in a knot was now hanging loose and blowing in the evening breeze. It was likely the chief’s slaves had been washing the dirt from his body when Herkuhlos had arrived and rather than waiting to dress he had left his tent immediately. His heavily muscled body had tattoos all over it and some certainly spoke of the enemies he had slain in battle and of the wealth and glory he had won but there was no time to take it in.
Herkuhlos stopped his approach and raised his spear once more. “I am Herkuhlos, son of Sky Father. I am the slayer of Leuhon and Thrima, and I challenge the war chief Kapol.”
Eyes turned to the naked form of Kapol who stared at Herkuhlos with wild eyes. They were mad eyes, the kind of eyes that all sane men feared to see alight on them.
“You dare to come here?” Kapol said. “To challenge me before my people?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, Herkuhlos thought the madman was about to decline the challenge because Kapol looked left and right at his own men.
But then Kapol spoke.
“Helek, your spear.”
An older man with a broad chest and a long beard did as he was commanded, though somewhat reluctantly, and Kapol snatched the spear, shaking it hard to test its strength before turning back to Herkuhlos.
The huge chief stepped out away from his men and came closer, his manhood swaying as he walked. No man fought naked unless he was possessed with the spirit of the wolf or dog or bear. Or if he was mad. To risk being unmanned in combat was a display of utter contempt for Herkuhlos and such an insult filled his belly with fire. He would kill this Kapol before his men and they would all understand that no man was stronger than Herkuhlos.
“You are no son of the god of the sky,” Kapol said, thrusting his spear up.
“I am.”
“You did not slay the god Thrima.”
“I challenged Thrima and I defeated him.”
“You are a liar.”
“I killed Leuhon the Lion of Nemea and Thrima the Roarer and I killed your men in the village of Amron and I killed your men on the path to your camp and now I will kill Kapol, son of Ghebol before his warriors and his women and his slaves and then this warband will belong to Herkuhlos while Kapol feeds the earth with his flesh.”
Kapol barked a harsh laugh and shook his head, his mad eyes now bulging with anger and suddenly hunching low over his spear, Kapol came closer, muttering to himself behind clenched teeth as he continued the steady approach.
Now they were almost within thrusting range and Herkuhlos readied himself for the sudden attack.
Kapol was surely used to being the strongest and so Herkuhlos expected him to come straight at him, trusting to that strength, and so Herkuhlos planned to knock the attack aside and press forward with his own.
Without warning, the tattooed chief exploded into movement. Not with a straight thrust but leaping to the side as well as forward to get behind Herkuhlos’ spear. Reacting with instinct alone, Herkuhlos swung his spear backhanded in an arc and turned but Kapol had already changed direction and came forward again on the inside, his spearhead spiralling as he charged, flicking up into Herkuhlos’ spear shaft and twisting it away. The spearhead sliced into the palm and wrist of his rear hand and he flinched and his hands betrayed him, letting go of his weapon and finding it being tossed away.
Before he could draw his knife, Kapol planted his feet and thrust up at his chest. He twisted away from the attack and tried to grab the spear but succeeded only in knocking it up toward his throat.
It pierced him high on his chest and the spearhead caught on his collarbone, sending him back as Kapol whooped in victory and thrust on and on.
A deep rage filled Herkuhlos and he twisted, planted his rear foot, and smashed the shaft aside with the palm of his hand. The spear shaft broke and the spearhead was ripped free, though it gouged a deeper wound he felt no pain and instead grabbed his enemy.
Kapol tried to flee but Herkuhlos caught him by the arms and Kapol struck him on the head with the broken spear shaft but still Herkuhlos bore his enemy to the ground and landed on top of him. He did not know it but he was roaring in a white hot rage as his fingers closed around Kapol’s throat.
The chief jammed the splintered end of the spear shaft into Herkuhlos’ flank but the jagged wood stuck between his ribs and Herkuhlos hardly felt it. Instead, he drove a fist into Kapol’s face, breaking his nose and splitting the flesh apart before he landed another blow that broke the bones of his face inward and a third that collapsed the front of his skull. He punched again and again until his fist was pounding a wet mass of skin and shattered bone.
Pulling his bloodied hand from the carnage, Herkuhlos watched as the thick blood ran down his knuckles and peeled off a piece of Kapol’s tattered skin from the back of his fingers.
The enemy chief had been more skilled than him and incredibly he had been faster. But Herkuhlos had been stronger and he knew now that was all that mattered. Strength was everything.
He felt the wounds in his shoulder and flank now and he knew he had broken the bones in his hand and shredded the skin there on the shattered skull of the body beneath him. But those wounds would heal and they would heal quickly, for he was the son of a god.
The clan watched in appalled silence. It was growing dark now.
Mustering his strength and fighting the urge to cry out in pain, Herkuhlos stood over his defeated foe and faced the warriors, the women, and the slaves arrayed across the pasture before the tents and houses of their village.
“I am Herkuhlos,” he said, breathing heavily. “And this clan is mine.”
13. Signs
The hearth fire crackled in the middle of Zani’s hut but still the rain dripped through the rotten hole in the roof and blew in through the gaps in the walls where the moss and mud plaster had crumbled.
It was a dead place now.
Returning to rot and ruin, like a body laid out on an island in the bog, breaking down and returning to the earth. Only Zani had given it life and without her, despite the fire Sif had started and tended, it was dead and now it was returning to the earth. If Zani came back here, the hut would be burned and pulled down and a new one built on the body of the old. Or perhaps Zani would prefer a new site for her home, somewhere closer to the village where she might be safe from the Heryos.
Not that the village was safe from them. There had been raids by the Heryos on many of the tribes in her lifetime and though some were beaten back with arrows and slings the best defence was simply to flee in canoes, down the rivers or out to sea where the Heryos would not follow.
The Furun had always been here, since the dawn of time, living alongside her people but separate from them. The Furun grew their wheat and raised captured cattle and pigs inland while her people lived on the coast and on the islands out to sea and on the lands across it to the north. Even there the Furun raised their animals inland within the islands and on the northern land across the sea while her people kept to the coast.
Sometimes, they fought the Furun, that was true, and sometimes her people were taken as slaves by them and she knew of Furun women who had been stolen by her people. But more often they traded furs for pigs or seal oil for grain and sometimes the women from one people would marry into the other. Sif shuddered to imagine it. The Furun she had seen from afar had ugly faces and wore strange clothes and their babbling was like the lowing of their shaggy cattle. To submit to a man like that and live far from the sea, to not even be able to hear the wave
s or taste the salt in the air, to not eat seal or fish but only the flesh of grunting pigs was too awful to dwell on.
But neither could she imagine giving herself to Satara. Sif shuddered, remembering his desperate urging back in Sama’s hut. If Satara believed he could be a spirit walker then that was his path to walk but she resented him for talking of Sama as if he was already in the otherworld. She hated him for that and she could never give herself to a man she hated. Worse, she did not like his eyes. They glanced always left and right when he spoke to her but when she was not looking at him she felt him staring at her with desperate longing.
Alef did not have shifting eyes. He looked at her when he spoke to her and he had a strong face. There was no doubt Alef would be chief soon. What had S’tef said? There was no other man strong enough to make her submit to him?
It was true enough, she supposed, but still it angered her. The others respected Alef, he was a great hunter of seals, the women would do anything for him and the men followed him, even the elder men now the chief was sick, but still she could not imagine a life bearing children for Alef and mending nets with the women.
She threw another damp branch on the fire, sending up sparks and filling the hut with smoke.
“He is not so strong,” she muttered. “I shoot better than him. He cannot stalk, he is too big and loud, and he laughs too much. And he mocks the spirits.” Well, perhaps he did not mock the spirits exactly but he did not respect them enough, that was certain. He made offerings to the Mother but no more than that and his offerings were meagre, bordering on disrespectful.
Sif’s stomach churned loudly and she rubbed her belly. She had not eaten for more than a day. The deer she had shot would have fed her and Zani both for many days but Alef and his men had taken it and worse they had claimed it as their own and she had not eaten a morsel of it. There was no choice now but to go hunting or return to the village and she did not want to do either. What she wanted to do was to find Zani and Sama but she did not know how.
She could always go to another tribe. She had kinsmen both ways along the coast and across on the islands and they would take her in if she went to them. But they would make her submit to one of their men. There was no chance they would let her go on as she was, alone half the year, walking with the spirits and hunting for her own needs. It was only thanks to Zani and Sama that she had been free to live this way so long and now that they were gone she had no power to resist any longer.