by Dan Davis
The people cried out in horror and the murmur of their voices rose in a wave of outrage.
“The Mother has spoken that this usurper is the cause of your fate. As your crops fail to ripen, as the seeds rot upon the stem at harvest, as your seed is spoiled by pest and disease, know that the usurper is the cause. His hand is cursed and his curse has spread to this people and to each one of you. Your only hope for salvation is to beg the god Torkos for his blessing and to go to him and to fall to your knees and—”
Herkuhlos struck him a blow with the back of his hand. It was meant only to shut him up but Malon’s head snapped back with an audible crack and he fell like a rope into the blood of the bull. A cry of horror echoed around the enclosure and the priests shrieked and dragged Malon away through the mud. They had abandoned the oxen who, frightened by the smell of the blood and the noise of the surrounding crowd, began to leap and thrash, dragging the ard in wavering arcs across the rows of ploughed soil.
“The rite is over!” Herkuhlos roared, slashing his hand at them and wheeling around. “Go back to your homes.”
He stomped away from the enclosure back toward the village and his loyal men fell in behind him while the rest of the village either stared at him or rushed to help restore order to the chaos he had left.
“That could have gone better, lord,” Pehur said, hurrying to keep up.
“I am in no mood for your wit.”
“All is not lost, lord. We can still defeat Torkos if we leave the village now.”
“I will have these people fighting for me.” He almost growled with frustration. “I should not have struck the priest. Do you think he’s dead?”
Pehur again tried to make light of it. “If he’s not then he’s going to be angry when he wakes.”
“He’s dead, lord,” Wetelos said. “But that’s no bad thing. He was speaking lies against you, lord.”
“I know what he was doing,” Herkuhlos growled. “Turning them all against me.”
“Malon is cunning. He probably weakened the Blade of the Mother before he gave it to you,” Wetelos suggested.
Herkuhlos stopped, shocked. “You think he meant for it to break? It was a holy blade, I never would have broken it intentionally. Surely no priest would break a sacred blade.”
Wetelos shrugged. “He’s a cunning one, that Malon. And I doubt he holds anything sacred except Torkos. He has a madness for that god.”
“Torkos is a yotunan,” Herkuhlos said before continuing toward the longhouse. “A devourer. A destroyer. Not a god.”
“Yes, lord.”
Once back inside the longhouse, Herkuhlos demanded food and pulled off the lion pelt but kept on his armour and he did not sit. Instead, he paced back and forth between the hearth and the great seat, his bronze plates clanking as his anger grew at the priests for what they had done to him.
“He said I had cursed these people,” Herkuhlos growled. “I have cursed no one. It was he that cursed them with his lies.”
“If they were lies there is no curse,” Pehur said.
“The sacred knife was still shattered,” Wetelos corrected him. “Everyone saw it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pehur said. “Lord, shall we gather what men we can and go to attack Torkos now?”
“Now?” Herkuhlos snapped. “Now is hardly the time. They are angry.”
“They are afraid,” Wetelos said.
“They should be,” Herkuhlos said. “I am their chief now and they must obey me.”
A figure appeared in the doorway and Herkuhlos stopped pacing. It was Genna, his prize. The light fell behind her and illuminated and framed by the doorway she was startlingly lovely.
“May I enter, lord?”
“I thought you claimed this house as your own,” Herkuhlos said.
“But I see you are at a war council, lord, and have no wish to disturb you.”
“Come in,” Herkuhlos said. “Have the servants prepare a feast for my men here. I want them all well fed for tomorrow.”
“Perhaps a feast for all the village?” Wetelos suggested. “The bull you sacrificed is supposed to be shared amongst the people by your hand, lord.”
Herkuhlos cursed that he had forgotten in his urge to get away from the murder he had accidentally committed. “Yes,” he said. “Will you see to it, Wetelos? Have it divided in whatever way is proper and tell them it comes from my hand.” Wetelos bowed and left without another word. “Genna? Do I have stores of grain and meat and the like?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Have it prepared and distributed to the men so they may share amongst their households.”
She smiled a little. “Yes, lord.”
“You approve?” he asked.
Surprised to be asked, she hesitated a moment. “I do, lord.”
“Good,” he said. “Please see it is done swiftly.” He turned to the Heryos warriors who had hardly left his side since his first morning here two days before. “Sunhus, ask the men of the village to assemble before me here. I must address them.”
“I will summon them at once, lord.”
He left and Herkuhlos turned to Pehur. “Get this blood cleaned off me quickly.”
By the time most of the men had gathered, Herkuhlos was clean and had washed down his anger with a cupful of beer and now all that remained was a lingering bitterness. He had found that he could not sit in the great seat as his armour would not let him bend so far at the waist and so he stood before his seat and they gathered on the other side of his hearth until most of the longhouse was taken up by them. The younger sons and lesser men had to wait outside and pass word of what was said from men listening outside the doorway.
“That priest Malon was never anything but a servant of the yotunan Torkos,” he said to the gathered warriors. “He deceived us all with his trickery, weakening the sacred Blade of the Mother so that it would break at the slightest use.” Herkuhlos did not know for certain that this was the truth but he thought it must have been true and so it was not a lie and therefore speaking the words was no dishonour. The men before him muttered in their surprise and disbelief and he addressed their concerns. “Malon pretended to serve me and to serve you but he was always foremost an acolyte of the yotunan Torkos and so nothing he ever did or said could be trusted.”
One of the former warriors of Kapol spoke up. “But lord, Torkos is no yotunan but a god.” A few of the other muttered in agreement and he was encouraged by this and continued. “He is powerful, lord, and Malon and the other priests served him, yes, but they served all gods.”
“What’s your name?”
The warrior looked around nervously. “Laertos, lord.”
“From the north, yes? In the east, I mean, you first came from the north. Your homeland is in the woodlands amongst the wolves and the fir trees.”
His eyes widened. “I am, lord. How did you know?”
Because I can hear it in your voice and see it in the features of your face, he thought to himself. “Torkos and the other yotunan with him came through your lands years ago, Laertos. Those who opposed them were slain and those who joined them were dragged south and west for moons and years.” He glanced at Sunhus, Gelbus, and Desgen. “Some of you have come from so far away and others are from here in the west but you all served Torkos.” Their heads nodded, the simpleminded amongst them surely impressed by his supernatural knowledge and the clever ones understanding that he was merely showing he understood who they were and where they had come from. “I know what Torkos is. I know what the others of his kind are. I know this because Kolnos the Wolf God himself told me with his own mouth.” Most of them exclaimed softly, for as youths they were sworn to the Wolf God and they understood his power. “Kolnos told me that Torkos and the others with him were indeed yotunan. Devourers, all, demons and destroyers, they had escaped the clutches of the Sky Father.” He let his words settle for a moment, looking from face to face. “I am a son of the Sky Father and Kolnos himself commanded me to slay Torkos and all the o
ther yotunan who escaped with him.”
“Lord, why did you not tell us this before now?” Old Helek asked, his voice a rumble. Other men nodded in agreement.
“I should not have had to tell you at all,” Herkuhlos said. “I am your chief and you must obey my commands.” He looked from man to man. “I tell you now only to ease your minds and prove to you the curse of the false priest Malon are a lie. My deeds are not cursed, they are sacred. Kolnos has blessed me. My father the daylight sky looks down on me and gives me the strength to do what I have sworn to do. And you have all seen my strength with your own eyes.” He raised a finger and waved it across them. “And you will obey me, as you have sworn to do.” He let his hand drop. “Tomorrow, we will raid the village of Torkos.”
They erupted in surprise and in excited talking but he waved them down and spoke over their noise.
“We will go there in our full strength. Every man and boy. You will fight the warriors of Ghebol and I will defeat Torkos in combat.”
“Lord,” Helek said, stepping forward. “We are not enough to fight Ghebol’s men.”
Herkuhlos gestured at Wetelos. “I am told he has perhaps a hundred warriors.”
“He has more than that, lord,” Helek said. “And we have no more than sixty men and boys who can hold a weapon and not all are warriors.”
“You do not have to defeat all of Torkos’ warband,” Herkuhlos said. “You merely have to threaten them with your presence or perhaps fight them until I slay Torkos at which point they will surrender to me.”
They stared, appalled, thinking of the carnage to come should they have to fight in such a great raid.
“Lord,” Helek said again, speaking for his village, “what becomes of us if you are slain?”
“I will not be,” Herkuhlos said at once. “My father the daylight sky will not allow me to fail. Besides, there is none stronger than I and you must trust my word that Torkos will fall to my club and my spear.”
They did not like his answer but they were not brave enough to give voice to it. In a way, that pleased him, as it meant he truly had impressed them with his status as a son of the great father of the gods. But judging by their faces he thought they needed more encouragement.
“When we are victorious, all that Torkos has now will become mine. And I will give generously to my warriors. I will know of those that fought bravely and with skill as I will know of those that tried to hang back and preserve their own lives. My generosity will reflect your courage.” He raised his hands. “And my generosity begins now. My stores are being prepared and will be shared for the feast. Fill your bellies but do not drink too deeply of that beer that you love so well in these parts for tomorrow we must begin our great raid and bring an end to the demon Torkos. Go now, men, go now and feast.”
He half expected a cheer but there was a heavy silence followed by grim mumbling as they filed out to the village.
“How do you think that went, Pehur?” he asked his servant when the last of them had gone.
The small youth shrugged. “Better than earlier, lord.”
“It went very well, I think,” Herkuhlos said. “Genna! Bring me food, I am hungry.”
There had almost been a disaster but he was sure he had saved the situation. They would be busy with eating now and in the morning he would get them to move out before first light so they had no time for doubts to grow and so that no cowards could turn them against him.
Huge jars and baskets were carried in from the store houses, carried in by strong men, and stacked opposite the door near to the hearth where the servants tended to it. There were great jars of freshly ground flour and bowls of fat and these were mixed to make cakes cooked on the cooking stones of the hearth. Great baskets of dried beef were dragged in and pieces cut and distributed. Staring at the growing mound of baskets, Herkuhlos wondered how much had been produced by the village and how much had been taken in raids.
Then stacks of furs were brought in by more men and piles of woven textiles were stacked near to the food to make great mounds.
“What is this for?” he asked.
Genna smiled. “Furs and blankets for your guests to sit upon and be wrapped in, mighty lord.” She gestured at it all. “And so that our chief can see his wealth and know that his people have not stolen from him.”
The patterned textiles were fine indeed and the furs were clean and plentiful so that the mounds were so high they reached almost to Genna’s waist.
“Enough of this display now,” he said. “I know my wealth by seeing the strength of my people.”
“You have finished your wheat cakes, lord,” she said, coming closer and leaning her face near to his. “What else can I bring you?”
“Meat,” he said. “More meat.”
As Genna brought him food he looked at her and saw the fullness of her body beneath her dress and the sight pleased him mightily. She was bending and straightening in such a way that the fabric stretched across her hips and then at her backside and across her breasts and he knew that she was doing it on purpose to arouse his ardour. It was obvious that she meant to please him and her eagerness excited him further.
“How many wives did Kapol have?” he asked her.
She looked up and smiled. “You want the others brought here, lord?”
He thought for a moment. “I want you.”
Her smile did not waver but there was something hidden behind her eyes. Probably excitement, he thought. Possibly lust for him. “I am yours, lord.”
“You are,” he said. “When I have eaten and when my men have feasted, we will go to my bed. Is that what you want, Genna?”
“It would be my pleasure, lord.”
Despite his assurances to his warriors about his chances of victory, he knew this might be the last night he would ever spend in a bed and his last opportunity to share it with a woman. He did not mean to let that opportunity go to waste.
16. Murderer
He woke in darkness.
All was silent but for the slow and quiet breathing of the figure in the bed beside him. Genna, he recalled. She had offered herself to him and after he had eaten roasted meat and drank cups of beer he had taken her to this bed and then, tired and intoxicated, he had slept. It was still dark and no animals or people were stirring inside his longhouse or in the village outside but he sensed that dawn was not far off.
What had woken him?
He strained his ears but heard nothing more than the faint wind blowing against the thatch above his head and the scurrying of mice amongst the stalks. Today would be the day he led the men of this place toward Torkos and perhaps the thought of it had worried at his mind and woken him from his rest. Had he been dreaming? He closed his eyes and lay back again, feeling the warmth of Genna’s naked flesh beneath the furs and the woven blanket.
She had been keen to climb into his bed but then that was the way of women. They all wanted the strongest and she had no doubt feared that she would lose status unless she offered herself to him as would a wife to her husband. He considered taking her as a wife but there was no point. Soon he would either slay Torkos or he would be dead and then Genna could offer herself to the next chief or whatever man would have her, if any would. She was a beauty certainly but there was something strange about her that he could not understand but did not like. Something that made him uneasy. She had been willing enough, that was true, and almost too willing if anything.
He sighed and shifted his weight, trying to silence his thoughts and return to sleep. Why was he awake? What had woken him?
Listening again, he realised something. The sound of her breathing was not quite natural and the muscles of her body were somehow tense, as if she were awake and afraid of something, too.
“Genna,” he whispered. “You are awake.”
She hesitated before making a soft sound in her throat.
“Did you hear something, Genna?”
“No,” she said with strange certainty. She did not sound sleepy. She sounded afraid
.
“Is something wrong?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “Go back to sleep, lord.”
Something was not right and though he did not know what it was he found his heart racing and he sat up, swinging his legs off the sleeping platform. He found he could see around the longhouse by the cracks in the walls and the light of the doorway and everything was silver and grey and black with shadow. Behind him, Genna’s dark hair spread out across the furs beneath her and the pale of her bare arm almost glowed in the faint light. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he began to stand.
Behind him, the white form of Genna exploded in movement and a terrible pain shot through his neck and he tried to stand but found himself pulled backwards.
“Now!” Genna screamed. “Do it now!”
The hanging fabric was ripped aside as a tall man leapt through with a war axe raised high and rushed toward the bed.
In a single moment of horror, Herkuhlos understood what had happened. Genna had thrust a blade into his flesh beside his neck and then pulled him backwards by it and now a warrior under her command was coming to kill him.
Throwing his legs up he rolled back from the attacker and though the pain in his neck was enormous he fought through it, knowing that to hesitate was to die, and he twisted as he rolled and came down again at the head of the bed and half on top of Genna.
She screamed in pain as his knee dug into her ribs and then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her up in front of him. The warrior was now on the other side of the bed but he jumped upon it and brandished his axe. Yet he hesitated and Herkuhlos knew the man did not want to harm Genna. Perhaps he was sworn to her or she had promised him payment but whatever the reason he hesitated and so Herkuhlos thrust the woman at the attacker with such force that they clashed together. If the warrior had struck her down or kicked her aside he might still have been victorious but instead he tried to drag her to safety behind him. She was dazed and injured and so would not move swiftly enough and while the attacker was distracted, Herkuhlos rushed him.