by Dan Davis
“Will you stop flapping your tongue?” Torkos growled. “And cease your panicking. He is no one you know. Not one of us or one of them. As I said, you thick-headed lump of stone, he is a son of the Usurper. One of the godborn. Merely a half-mortal son. A youth. A boy, hardly a man at all.”
“But strong enough to slay Thrima the Roaring One.”
Torkos rubbed his great jaw and looked at the roof of his tent overhead. “And Leuhon.”
“Leuhon!” Hrungna cried. “When?”
“Last year or perhaps the one before. I had the tale from traders coming from the east and I doubted it but now that this has happened I believe it to be true.” He kicked the bundle of skins that held Thrima’s skull. “So yes he is a half-breed and has seen perhaps twenty summers but it cannot be denied that he is strong. If he is even a tenth as strong as his father then he is a danger to any one of us.” Torkos growled and rubbed his jaw. “And now he is coming here.”
Hrungna frowned. “Here?” He pointed at the ground between them. “To this place?”
Torkos snorted, amused. “It seems so. At least, he is near to us now. He is in the next valley, to the south.”
“Then I don’t understand, brother, why are we here? Should we flee?”
Torkos sneered. “Flee? Do not name me brother, you are no brother of mine and even as a kinsman you shame yourself and me with your cowardice. No, we will not flee. We will crush him. I will take him alive and I will eat his flesh piece by piece and find out all he knows of his father and Kolnos. His knowledge may help us in the war to come and his blood must surely have power. Yes, I will eat him slowly and enjoy every piece of his flesh.” Torkos clenched his fists as he thought of it. “Kolnos will pay for his treachery and the Usurper, too.”
“Better to kill him. Just to be sure.”
“I am sure.” Torkos snorted as he looked at the fear in his kinsman’s eyes. “There is no danger for you. You shall stay far from him with your men to protect you while my men capture the half-breed.”
Hrungna grunted. “My men are weak and few in number. These Furun are smaller even than the Heryos.”
“I know about your weaknesses, Hrungna, and the weaknesses of your men but my warriors will stop the half-breed before he even reaches us and I will have Ghebol to best him.”
“Ghebol? Your best warrior he may be but he is no match for a godborn son of the Usurper.”
Torkos shook his head. “Ghebol will have the strength of the gods in his limbs.” He gestured at the entrance. “You brought your sacrifices as I commanded?”
“Of course. They are weakened from driving them here so quickly but yes, they are here.” He held out a massive arm. “Can’t you hear them?”
Just then, two slaves came in carrying a great basket of steaming horse meat between them and set it down before Torkos and backed away. Hrungna wiped his drooling mouth and then rubbed his belly. “I am gladdened by the sight of this horse flesh, brother. Right gladdened, to be sure.”
“Forget that, we shall conduct the sacrifice now.”
“But the horse,” Hrungna said, gesturing at the meat. “I am so hungry.”
“Come. You can fill your belly with blood,” Torkos said before ducking through the tent opening. A light rain fell from low grey clouds and the sacrifices crouching outside his tent were wet and shivering. Most were bound and some of the men were bound to one another and there were thirty in all, just as he had demanded.
The great tent of Torkos stood in the centre of a great circle of sacred stones and beyond the stones stood his warriors. Beyond them was his encampment with dozens of tents and the open pasture beyond was bordered by the woodlands that supplied their timber. Running through the camp and past the sacred stones ran a stream that provided their fresh water. It was a fine place for a camp and when he found the goddess and brought her here it would have everything he needed to rule this land until he was ready to begin the war against the gods. He breathed deeply in satisfaction as he looked around at all that he had won for himself.
Between the two tallest stones on the western side of the sacred circle stood his war chief Ghebol, armed and armoured for war.
Hrungna emerged from the tent chewing on a fistful of horse meat. “This better be enough for you, Torkos, as I’m running out of slaves.”
Torkos sneered at that. “You will never run out of slaves. These mortals infest every part of this earth and they breed like vermin. There are always more.”
“If you say so,” Hrungna said, saliva running down his chin.
Torkos pointed at the slaves. “Bring them to me.”
The warriors standing ready dragged a young farmer forward. Little more than a boy and underfed, his blood would be weak and unsatisfying. But there were plenty more sacrifices to fill his belly.
Reaching down, he grabbed the farmers head with one hand and his upper arm with the other and lifted him to his jaws. The little man struggled and screamed as Torkos tore his head from his shoulders, dropped it, and sunk his mouth over the tattered flesh of his neck and drank the hot blood that pumped into his mouth. When he had drunk his fill he tossed the body to where his acolytes collected the remaining blood and harvested the flesh.
Stomping forward, Hrungna rubbed his hands together and waded into the sacrifices as they cried out. His appetites were almost insatiable and he worked his way through them so quickly, drinking the blood and feasting on mouthfuls of flesh, that the acolytes could hardly keep up and soon the ground within the circle was saturated with blood and littered with bodies.
Soon Torkos was bloated with a belly full of blood and it soaked him from jaws to thighs but he felt the great power of it filling his limbs and now it was time for him to be bled.
“Ghebol,” he commanded as he ducked back into his tent.
There his acolytes bled him while he stood in the centre of his tent in the centre of the sacred circle. The bowl of his immortal blood was mixed with the sacred mead and the leaves of canna and fresh mares’ milk and the words of the rite were spoken over it.
Finally, the war chief Gehbol was permitted to drink and the power of the immortal blood filled his veins and gave him great strength.
Torkos smiled to see it. “We will find this half-breed, Ghebol. We shall slay those that worship him. And then his suffering will begin.”
18. Surprise
Herkuhlos was pleased for the march north had gone well. Despite his fears, his warriors had gathered in their full strength and they followed him from the village. That was a victory in itself, for after the execution of Kerwes that had at times seemed unlikely. But Helek had shown up with both of his other sons and all the warriors and men and boys of the village, Heryos and Furun both, all armed and carrying food and water. No doubt they had been impressed by the god-like figure of bronze that stood at the centre of their village waiting for them as the sun rose and illuminated him with its power. How could any mortal fail to follow so mighty a godborn chief?
In his relief Herkuhlos found himself smiling as he led his warband across pasture and through woodland up the long, low hills and down into the next valley. It was good land, blessed with streams and wide flood plains for grazing cattle and sheep and oak and beech forests for timber and pigs and woodland grazing. It was no wonder there were so many villages here and it was no wonder also that Torkos the Devourer had made his home at the centre of this wealthy land for his warband could raid in every direction and never run out of cattle and slaves. There were tracks across this landscape that showed the way from one village to another, well worn by the passage of feet and hooves over the long years, and these tracks they followed in a great mass of men spread out like a herd.
The men spoke as they walked and though some warriors tried to sing their efforts were not taken up and they soon fell quiet once more. Two of the priests marched with a war drum that they beat occasionally but again they seemed to lack the spirit to keep it up. When battle came they would play it, however, and the other pri
ests would sing and blow their horns to summon the attention of the gods. Three of them carried the strange, long war lurs. Made of birch bark and reinforced with bone and wood, they were shaped like incredibly long horns but they produced a powerful, unearthly resonance that would surely terrify any enemy unused to them and call the eye of every god on the Sacred Mountain.
By the end of their long day of walking they came to a village and there they stopped. Like the others in this land, this village had been founded by Furun, conquered by Heryos, and had recently been conquered by the warbands of Torkos.
Following advice, he had sent riders ahead on some of their few horses to warn the village of their approach and to assure them they meant no harm and indeed intended only to pass through their territory on the way to the village of Torkos. The riders were also to invite the chief and his men to come to Herkuhlos’ camp as his guests to discuss what was happening.
The chief was named Negwis and he arrived before dark with twenty-five warriors that surrounded him as they filed in to Herkuhlos’ camp. They were escorted to the fire where Herkuhlos sat with his men to receive his guests and the Negwis sat on the other side of the flames and was offered beer and bread.
Negwis was a thin man with a long face and a thick moustache that hung down at the sides but his eyes were shrewd. Negwis and all his men were nervous about their invitation and were uneasy about sitting in the camp but oaths had been sworn and gifts exchanged and Herkuhlos assured them again that they were his guests and no harm would come to them.
“I have seen no warband of this size since the coming of Torkos and the other gods,” Negwis said. His voice was high but no less commanding for it.
“Where are you from, Negwis?” Herkuhlos asked. “You are not from here in the west, I am sure.”
Negwis nodded and raised a finger to acknowledge this insight. “My fathers ruled over the Deniper.”
“I have been through that land,” Herkuhlos said. “I passed through when I slayed Leuhon the yotunan that conquered Nemea.”
“Indeed,” Negwis said, apparently unimpressed. “And now you are here outside my village with a great warband to threaten me with conquest.”
“Not to threaten you, Negwis.”
“Then why do you come into my lands uninvited with this warband at your heels?”
“As my men told you, I wish only to pass through in peace. I come into your lands only to pass out of them again on my way to the camp ruled by Torkos.”
“Your messengers told me but I do not believe it because they also told me your purpose.”
“It is true,” Herkuhlos said, spreading his arms. “I come to kill Torkos.”
Negwis began to laugh and stopped when he saw Herkuhlos was serious. “Are you truly a son of Sky Father as your men say?”
“I am. And I am the slayer of Leuhon the Lion of Nemea and Thrima the Roarer. And soon I will be the slayer of Torkos.”
“You mean to defeat his warriors with this band?” Negwis said, gesturing at the camp around them. “This is how many you have?”
“With you and your men we will have a greater chance of victory.”
Negwis took a deep breath. “Torkos is my god. I will not betray him.”
“He is a yotunan.”
It was a terrible accusation to make against a god but Negwis appeared unconcerned by it. “My god has given me everything I have. Do you see the number of my warriors? Do you see the size of my herds of cattle and horses?”
“You have many horses, Negwis? I see but a few.”
Negwis scowled at the suggestion he was boasting unduly. “My herd is on the pasture beyond the village and yes I have many horses. This is not the plains of the east, slayer of yotunan, and a herd of thirty good horses makes me a wealthy man but my three hundred cattle, my two teams of oxen, and my twelve wives make me a great chief.”
Herkuhlos acknowledged that wealth with a slow nod of agreement for it was impressive. “All of which Torkos could take away on a whim.”
“That is the nature of gods. They could send a flood or a storm or a fire,” Negwis gestured around him, “or a great warband to take everything any man has at any time. All a man can do is stay loyal to his chief and to his gods.”
“Stay subservient, you mean.”
Negwis was unmoved by the accusation. “Yes. We all serve another and even the highest chief of chiefs serves the gods.”
“That is true but Torkos is no god.”
The chief was not provoked and instead smiled. “And you are a god?”
“No. I am a slayer of yotunan.”
Negwis turned to look behind Herkuhlos to where the other warriors sat. “Helek, I am surprised to see you here. Do you wish to lead your people to their deaths?”
Helek took a moment to reply but when he did he spoke steadily. “I do not lead them. I follow my chief. And you know I was never a willing servant of Torkos. My people were conquered by you and yours and if Torkos and his chiefs Ghebol and Negwis are gone from these lands then I will rejoice.”
Negwis shook his head. “You have made a mistake by coming here, Helek. Torkos will punish you for this betrayal. Did you help this man to slaughter Kapol?”
“My people were conquered by yours. My wives and women and my horses were taken by Ghebol. My punishment has already been dealt.”
A bark of a laugh escaped Negwis. “Helek, there is always more punishment to be had, as you will soon discover.” Negwis clapped his hands. “There is no more to be said. You have my permission to camp here until first light and I give my oath I will not attack you. However, I will send a man to my lord Ghebol to inform him that you have come. He will be ready for you at the settlement of Torkos and his warband will defeat you and then you will all walk with your ancestors or you will be made into slaves.” Negwis raised his voice so more of Herkuhlos’ warband could hear him. “Some of you men will find yourselves eaten alive by Torkos the Devourer and you will go to your fathers with pieces of you missing and you will shame them and they will ask you why you did not listen to the wisdom of the great chief Negwis.”
Herkuhlos wished he could shut the man up with his fist but guests were inviolable. “It is well that you send a man to warn Torkos for I do not mean to raid or to surprise him. I will array my warriors against his and I shall challenge him to fight me alone, spear to spear, club to club, and I will be victorious.”
Negwis leaned back and made a show of looking at him. “You are a tall young man. Broad shoulders and long arms.” Negwis chuckled to himself. “But you need more meat on your bones, lad, if you mean to fight Torkos. Have your eyes seen him?”
“No.”
Negwis shook his head and his smile fell from his face and his eyes seemed to look right through Herkuhlos. “When they do, you will surely know the truth that Torkos the Devourer is the spirit of the enraged boar in the form of a god.”
No man spoke in reply and they listened instead to the fire and the wind overhead and in the distant trees. Men looked to Herkuhlos for a reply.
“Boars can be hunted,” Herkuhlos said. “We have an agreement, then, Negwis. You will take your men and go.”
Negwis seemed relieved to be going but there was a knowing smirk on his face as he left and Herkuhlos’ warband watched them go in silence.
When the party returned to their village, Herkuhlos called his senior warriors. “Negwis swore not to attack us but still I want some men awake to watch for raiders from the village and from the woodlands all around. Have your men take turns to sleep and get as much rest as you can. We will leave before dawn.”
They muttered their agreement and moved off but Herkuhlos stopped one of them. “Helek.”
The older man flinched. “Lord?”
“When we march in the morning I want your best men out in front.” Herkuhlos cast his eye over Helek’s warriors. “Where are your sons, Helek?”
Helek rubbed his beard as he looked out over the masses of men and boys all around them. “Hargu is ther
e, lord. I expect Lekkas is around. Probably already watching for raiders, lord, as you have commanded.”
“Good,” Herkuhlos said. “In the morning you could have one of your sons lead the way.”
Helek inclined his head. “A great honour, lord.”
“Yes. That will be all, Helek.”
The old man bowed, his face falling into shadow. “Lord.”
When the warriors and their sons and servants had gone, Herkuhlos sat with his men beside the fire as the sun set beyond the trees. They were subdued and hardly a word was said. He understood that they were afraid of what was to come and that the words of Negwis had only made them more nervous. It was his responsibility as their chief to give them courage and help them to overcome their fears.
“All will be well,” Herkuhlos said, looking from one man to another with the light of the fire reflecting on their faces and casting their eyes into shadow. “Trust in my strength and you will see.”
“We do, lord,” Sunhus said. “We know that you will prevail. And do not doubt that we will hold off the warriors of Gehbol while you destroy the false god.”
Gelbus and Desgen nodded enthusiastically and Herkuhlos accepted their faith in his strength. “I know you will, Sunhus. Now, there is little more to be done. Keep watch through darkness. Keep your weapons to hand. Tomorrow we will march on and if the enemy comes south we will fight by midday and if not we will have battle before nightfall. Rest well, men.”
They retired and Pehur and Amra brought him some dried beef cut into strips.
“Lord,” Pehur said quietly. “Would it not be best to share the strength of your blood amongst your warriors, as you did in the east?”
Herkuhlos had thought about this. His blood had great power and it might give them and therefore him a better chance of victory but there were good reasons for not giving his blood to anyone. “Firstly, I do not know the secrets of the potion, Pehur. That magic was brewed using ancient and sacred knowledge by the goddess Denhu and I cannot make it for anyone. Even if I did, I would hardly share such strength with these men.” He looked around at them out there in the darkness. “They are strangers and not to be trusted. To grant them a taste of my strength would be madness.”