by Dan Davis
Sighing, she went to the door and looked out. It would have to be Alef, she supposed. That was what people had expected for as long as she could remember and she could not possibly submit to Satara, with his darting eyes and wet lips and his limp unwelcome touches. Worse even than all of that was his apparent acceptance that Sama was not coming back. In fact, he seemed almost pleased about it or relieved at least and it was obvious he relished the chance to become the spirit walker and to join with her. Yes, it suited him very well that Sama was gone.
He killed him.
The thought was so sudden and so clear that it could only have been sent by the spirits and it stunned her to hear it in her mind. But as she thought it again it became clearer and more obvious.
Satara had killed Sama because he wanted to take his place.
Revulsion welled up in her and she gripped the wall beside the door and bent over. If she were not so hungry she would have vomited but all that came out was a sob and she crouched in the doorway and leaned her forehead against the gnarled, rotting branch that formed the frame.
It was so clear in her mind now. Satara had killed Sama and meant to take his place and that was why his excuse for not being there in the hut the night Sama disappeared was so weak. He had been there after all and he had murdered Sama and carried his body away, paddled it out to sea and let the tide take it, or sunk it in the bog and weighed it down with stones or a log.
Sama’s disappearance made sense now and the spirits told her she was right.
But what could she do about it? The chief would not believe her. Alef would laugh at her as would the women.
There was only one thing to do.
She had to kill Satara.
It would not bring Sama back but it was what the spirits wanted. Balance had to be brought back to the world and only a death could pay for a death. That balance would heal the rift caused by the murder of Sama and nothing else could do so.
What about Zani? Had he killed her? How could he have done it? Perhaps he was not guilty of that but there was some whispering voice of the spirits that told her the disappearances had the same cause. She resolved to ask Satara for the truth before she killed him. Now all that remained was to plan how to do it.
Looking down at the flat stones of the threshold, she saw that one of them about the size of her fist had been turned over so its rougher side was facing up. It was the stone closest to the doorframe and she had not noticed until now, squatting right over it and looking down, that it was inverted. Someone must have kicked it over going in or out, she reasoned, and idly she lifted it and turned it over.
There was something in the hole beneath.
She picked it out and held it up to the light. It was small, dark, and twisted but she knew at once it was a large, dried piece of spirit moss, the bulbous head with the teat still discernible on top.
Her heart thudded in her chest and her hand shook as she held it for she understood at once that it was no accident that this was here. Zani used spirit moss to speak with the spirits and she kept a basket of them hanging from the rafters above the fire where they would stay dry. One could not easily have found its way here beneath this inverted stone.
There was no doubt Zani had done this. She had taken a piece of spirit moss, prised out a stone, and replaced it upside down. But why?
She is speaking to me. Zani is reaching through time to tell me something.
Does she mean for me to journey to the otherworld? Without her to guide me? Would that bring her to the answers that she sought?
What if there was some other meaning?
The truth was that Zani rarely journeyed to the otherworld now she was old for she claimed she had been there enough and the spirits spoke to her too freely as it was but when she did need to she went always to the old oak grove. That was where Zani’s grandfather was buried and Zani would sit or lay on the stones over his grave and use the power of his spirit to aid hers in travelling and returning.
That must be where Zani had gone. Perhaps she had gone there to the oak grove to hide from Satara or, if Alef was right, from the Heryos raiders.
Heart racing, she took her bow and ducked outside, ran along the soft earth of the causeway, and took the track south between the woods and the river before turning into the trees and racing along the deer track with the branches whipping overhead. She ran at a steady pace, knowing she could run at this pace all the way to the sacred grave beneath the ash trees. As she ran, her mind grew clear and the noise of the spirits fell away until all she knew was the rhythm of her feet and her breath.
It had been more than a year since she had been there but when she reached the point at which she needed to turn she knew it without hesitation and she slipped beneath the branches and pushed through bushes until she found the way between the trunks deeper into the ancient woodland. The ground was drier here and it never flooded and the rocky ground made her feet ache but still she pushed until, coming to the clearing, she slowed and then stopped, controlling her breathing as she listened and tasted the air.
Silence. No smell of woodsmoke or sign of people. But Zani was cunning and knew well how to hide her presence and so Sif pushed forward into the clearing.
The ground here was dry and the soil was crumbly with a kind of pale sand that came from the mass of grey rocks beneath the earth. Ash trees grew all around but the centre was clear of growth. Below the slabs of rock Zani’s grandfather lay and no trees grew over him, the power of his spirit reaching clear and unobstructed into the sky.
Zani was not here.
There was no sign that she had ever been here. It was empty and so the spirits had deceived her or she had misunderstood the signs.
Suddenly exhausted, she sat down hard and stared through the trees into the distance but her eyes were unfocused and she saw nothing.
What could it have meant? Was she supposed to consume the spirit moss and undertake a journey? If so, she would have to return to Zani’s hut and brew them in a pot before coming back here. She looked around at the grave and knew that she would have to bring furs to lie on and she would make a fire to keep her body warm as her spirit journeyed far.
It was then that she noticed the three large stones propped up against one another over the head end of the grave. She was certain those stones had not been there the last time she had been to the grove and so she crawled swiftly to them and pulled them apart.
Inside was a small leather pouch, weighted in place with a fourth stone.
Excited again, she opened it and tipped the contents out onto her palm.
It was a pile of small brown seeds. Rather flat and rounded at one end and pointed at the other. She knew all the seeds of the trees and plants of woodland and riverbank and yet these were unfamiliar.
There was no doubt that Zani had sent her here after all and she had meant for her to find this bag and these seeds. It was certain that this was another sign meant for the eyes of Sif alone.
The problem was she had no idea what it meant.
14. Priest
Herkuhlos woke with a start, remembering battle and pain and half sat up in fear, his heart racing. He found himself unclothed, in a wide bed, lying atop layers of soft furs and covered in a thick woollen blanket with woven geometric patterns in red and white.
It was Kapol’s bed. At least, it had been. It was the chief’s bed and the chief was now Herkuhlos. At the memory, a smile spread across his mouth and he winced, feeling the split upper lip he had received in the fight that had won him his clan. It had not fully healed but apparently the wound had been deep, split beyond the lip almost to the nose and the strange thing was he did not recall receiving it. But then the battle rage had been on him.
The longhouse around him was quiet. It was before sunrise but there was light enough coming from the gaps between the top of the wall and the overhanging roof and through the open door in the long south wall to see by.
This house was his. The whole village was his, the whole clan, too, but this
enormous house was his alone. This end was partially screened by woven textiles hanging between the pillars that held up the roof and from the beams spanning the width of the house. That was clever, he thought, and he was impressed by the amount of wool and dye used and by the skill of the weavers. This was a wealthy place and it was his now.
Moving to the edge of the bed he winced again at the pain in his shoulder and flank. Those wounds he did remember. They would likely have killed a mortal man, or at least rendered him on the edge of death, but Herkuhlos as the son of a god had survived. He lifted his arm and pulled at the pink flesh where the jagged wound was healing. It was sore, more like a fresh burn than an old wound, as the new shiny skin formed over it. Lifting his other arm higher he gasped as the pain hit him and he lowered it. His flesh healed swiftly but the pain still went deep and lingered for a while afterward. He hoped he would not have to fight again today.
He groaned a little and Pehur came around the side of the hangings, concern on his face. “Lord?” he said softly. “Are you well?”
Herkuhlos stifled another groan as he straightened and smiled. “Perfectly well. A little stiff from the fight, no more. Has there been trouble?”
Pehur shook his head. “Mardoc sat guarding the door all night.” He gestured and Herkuhlos leaned around the hangings to see the older man sitting on a low stool, his bow across his lap and an arrow at the ready. “There was no trouble.”
“I told you so,” Herkuhlos said. “Fetch my clothes.”
After killing Kapol, Herkuhlos had stepped forward toward the crowd and demanded that they acknowledge him as their chief. There had been some hesitation but he had stopped to pick up his lost spear and there was no man there willing to defy him. Standing close now, he knew they were awed by his size and evident strength, and by the look in his eyes and the wounds that spilled blood down his body while he stood apparently unmoved by them, not knowing of the pain he was suffering.
A powerfully built older warrior with a long beard finally stomped out ahead of the others and kneeled before Herkuhlos. The others followed his example before escorting him into the settlement. He had been exhausted and suffering but he fixed a hard look upon his face and allowed himself to be guided deeper within. In the chief’s longhouse, he had sat upon a high seat before the hearth and accepted their symbolic gifts. A figure lurked at the back and Herkuhlos had caught his eye.
“Wetelos,” he had said, causing the crowd to fall silent.
The young man had pushed his way forward and knelt before him. “Lord.”
“Go across the pasture to the trees. Call out that I have sent you. My men wait there.”
“I will lord but they will not trust me.”
Herkuhlos was tired and his wits were not what they might have been but he thought of something. “My servant Pehur. His former master was named Kounos. Only I would know that here so if you tell him that he will trust that all is well.”
Wetelos bowed. “Kounos, lord, I will remember it and I will bring them to you.” He hesitated. “I am glad that you were victorious, lord.”
Herkuhlos, aware of his audience, smiled with confidence through his pain. “Mortals are no challenge to me, Wetelos. Go now, I would have my own servants.”
As Wetelos left, the older man with the long beard approached. “My lord, I am Helek. I have many strong sons, perhaps you will accept one of them as your own man and he will then provide you with servants from his own tents.” He held out a massive hand covered with black hairs to indicate a row of young warriors behind him. They all looked like good men but Herkuhlos shook his head.
“There is plenty of time for such things. For now, all I need is a woman or two to wash my wounds. Where are Kapol’s servants?”
Heads turned and Herkuhlos followed their gaze to where a tall woman stood. She was pretty and had a long, strong face that stirred his loins even in his exhausted state. At his look, she approached and bowed. Her black hair was braided and curled prettily up atop her head.
“I am Genna,” she said, her face and voice quite hard. “I am Kapol’s wife.”
Herkuhlos raised his eyebrows. “He had only one?”
Her brow wrinkled. “The others are nothing. Prizes of war. I am the daughter of Gerhon of the Strong Bow.”
Though he had never heard of him, he knew that he was supposed to be impressed and so feigned it. “Indeed? Then I am honoured.” She smiled and he went on. “You are also a prize of war now, Genna and you will provide me with servants to wash the filth of battle from me.”
Her face fell and she clenched her jaw before answering that she would do so.
Feeling exhausted, Herkuhlos had dismissed them all and reluctantly the men had filed out. A small group of three warriors hung back and for a moment he thought they were going to attack him but instead they bowed and spoke respectfully.
“Lord, we have heard of you. Word of how you defeated Leuhon reached our ears. We are glad that you have come and we are glad that you have slain Kapol.”
“Tell me your names.”
“I am Sunhus, this is Gelbus and Desgen.”
There was something familiar about those names. “Do I know you men?”
“Lord, we are from the Rasga,” Sunhus said. “Our clans were destroyed by the yotunan in the east and we were made to serve Torkos the Devourer with Ghebol as our chief. We never wanted this, lord, but could not get away. And now we are glad to serve you.”
He looked between them. “And I am right glad for your service, Sunhus, Gelbus, and Desgen. I now know your names and your faces and I will not forget them. Go now but serve me well here in this place and I will speak to you again soon.”
Looking as happy as they claimed to be, they had gone, and the servants of Genna had come to wash him and feed him and then his own people had come into the longhouse. They were afraid to be in the village but when they saw he was still alive and well they rejoiced.
“We watched your victory from afar,” Pehur said, “and we rejoiced but then you went with them and we were going to follow you in, Mardoc insisted, but Dolon and the others were afraid and I thought it best to keep all of us together otherwise I would have—”
“Enough, Pehur,” Herkuhlos had said, waving him into silence.
Tired, he had told them to keep watch and he had collapsed into his new bed.
Now, this morning, he had to face the men of the village and take true control of his new clan.
It had been a difficult path and he had almost fallen from it but his strength and his courage had seen him through. Now he had to be courageous once more and he had to bend the men of this clan to his will. He would have to force them into line and he would have to lead them against the forces of the Boar. Some would not wish to do so and they would leave and some might even rebel but he could not afford to lose many men. He might have fifty or even more warriors here in this clan and that might be enough for what he needed to do. It would be difficult but that was the path he had chosen and it had to be walked now until death or victory.
“There is a woman outside,” Pehur said as he pulled on Herkuhlos’ shoes. “Just standing there. She’s been there since full dark.”
“Tall and pretty with black hair? That is Kapol’s former wife, Genna. She must be keen to lay with me.” He grinned and winced at the cut on his lip.
Pehur did not smile. “It is no simple thing to be chief, lord. I am sure she and many others have much to talk to you about.”
“By Kounos, Pehur, you have no humour in you.”
“No, lord. Shall I ask her to come in, lord?”
“I suppose so.”
In the grey morning light she was even lovelier than he remembered. Her skin was smooth and her features were delicate, though her eyes were fierce and she stood without fear before him.
“Genna. You wanted to see me?”
“See you?” She stood straighter. “This is my house, those are my slaves, and I would set them to their work properly.”
Herkuhlos raised his eyebrows. “Very well.” He waved a hand. “Have at it, then.”
She bowed and turned to the women and snapped out a stream of commands, whereupon the slaves hurried to their work and soon a fire was blazing and food was being prepared.”
“What do you wish of us, lord?” Pehur asked.
“Find Wetelos and bring him here,” Herkuhlos said. “Find our horses. Find my armour. If these fools have dared do anything to damage it then I will have the guilty punished.”
Pehur bowed. “Yes, lord. And the captive Furun who were taken by the Heryos?”
“Yes, of course, have them freed and reunite them with Mardoc and Dolon and the others.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Mardoc, have you sat awake all night? Go down there and sleep now. You have done well and you will be rewarded.”
“Thank you, lord.”
Herkuhlos sat back on the great chair. There had been low stools everywhere and in some places there had even been chiefs with high stools or low seats with back rests but never a thing such as this carved from a massive block of oak. It seemed overlarge for an ordinary man but he fit in the seat as though it were made for him and he felt in some way that it must have been. He felt as though he were in the right place. As though the seat had been waiting for him as he had been waiting for the seat. It was his now and his alone and it was a symbol of his fitness for chiefdom.
“Lord.” A figure filled the doorway.
“Wetelos,” Herkuhlos said. “Come in here.”
He stepped through the doorway, looking strangely awkward as he hesitated there. “Lord, I have another with me. He insists on seeing you at once.”