by Dan Davis
Still speaking steadily, Wetelos walked closer to the woman, trampling the grass down underfoot, with his arms spread wide.
Her eyes were wide and the whites seemed to glow from out of her grubby face and bronzed skin as she listened, astonished, to whatever it was Wetelos was saying to her. It was to her that he spoke now, seemingly ignoring the men arrayed behind her, and he spoke in a steady tone as if to a skittish horse.
She spoke back in a tone of surprise and confusion, gesturing with her bow to the north and to the south.
His reply, whatever it was, only surprised her more and then it was clear she was asking something about Herkuhlos and the others and Wetelos turned, rattling away with some explanation.
Herkuhlos was amazed that Wetelos spoke the tongue of the Seal Men so fluently and wondered what was being said but he was content to allow Wetelos to say it. What was strange, though, was the emotion in their voices and the tears that now ran down the cheeks of the woman.
Suddenly, they surged together and embraced, Wetelos wrapping his arms around the woman. She was almost as tall as he was but the other Seal Men, shorter but powerfully built, were not happy with what they were seeing and they looked between the embracing pair and each other in confusion and concern.
Breaking apart, Wetelos turned and looked over his shoulder. “She will bring us to her village, lord.”
“What is this?” Herkuhlos asked, astonished. “You have a wife amongst the Seal Men?”
Wetelos took a deep breath and Herkuhlos saw then the tears in his eyes. “She is my sister.”
The wind gusted through the long grass as they looked at one another for a long moment and a dozen questions hung on the tip of his tongue. But they were hungry and exhausted, their enemies were surely not far behind, and Pehur needed help if he was ever to recover and so all those questions could wait.
“Then let us go to this village.”
Herkuhlos was disappointed to discover that the village was still a day’s journey away but he held Pehur over his shoulder as they walked beside the river and through the trees along tracks that were known only to the Seal Men. They travelled in a long procession and Herkuhlos gave his attention only to Wetelos before him.
The young woman he had called his sister strode in front of Wetelos. Their loping gaits were somehow similar, as was the cadence of their stride and the upright straightness of their backs. Her buckskin hood bounced behind her neck revealing that her braided hair was the same shade of yellow.
One of the strange men soon ran on ahead while the rest of them walked steadily through the afternoon until the sun fell low in the sky behind them as they wound their way sometimes north and sometimes east but going always quickly and surely.
By sundown, the old woodland with the big trees had thinned into wind-bent scrub and there was an odd smell in the air that Herkuhlos had never experienced before. Strange birds circled high in the evening air, glimpsed through gaps in the canopy overhead, dark shapes silhouetted on the grey sky. Still they went on as darkness fell and he followed Wetelos now into the blackness as a shape moving through shadow.
He began to despair for Pehur. The youth had not stirred since he was felled that morning and had been shaken and bounced around ever since without waking. It was likely he was carrying the corpse of Pehur, his spirit long departed, and that made him weak with sadness.
At least the darkness would protect them from pursuit. Surely, only the Seal Men could find their way through such terrain at night and there was no possibility that riders could traverse such dense woodland. Later, the moon came up and though it was little more than a slither shining through wisps of cloud it touched the edges of his band with grey and silver.
The scrub thinned further and Wetelos slowed, letting out a great exhalation.
“What is it?” Herkuhlos asked softly.
Wetelos stood aside and pointed through a gap in the trees at the glint of moonlit water on the distant horizon.
“The sea.”
On they went, the land falling and blocking the view but there was a distant sound now like a steady wind and strange smells in the air. Eventually, the trees thinned into bushes and the bushes into clumps of tall grass.
Finally, their processions slowed and spread out as they reached their destination. Before them was a collection of huts which Herkuhlos at first took for animal shelters or workshops as they were poorly made from rough poles and brushwood and plastered with mud.
He did not have time to examine them closely however as there were dozens of people spread out in an arc in front of the huts. There were lamps guttering wildly on the ground in the lee of some huts and some of the people held aloft bundles of lit tapers burning hard in the steady breeze coming off the sea. In the meagre light of the flames, the people before him in their thick mottled grey clothing looked almost like rocks come to life. Herkuhlos could see enough though to note the bows, spears, and slings that they held at the ready. The array of Seal People stood in silence as their band emerged and stopped before them.
The woman, Wetelos’ sister, went forward and began speaking rapidly with gestures over her shoulder.
“What is this?” Herkuhlos asked. “Are we not welcome?”
“One of the hunters warned them we were coming,” Wetelos said, indicating the men they had met in the wet meadow. Herkuhlos could see only two of the four now. Where the others had gone he did not know.
“It seems they do not want us here,” Sunhus hissed, his arm around the frightened Amra. “We should go, lord.”
“All will be well,” Wetelos said quickly before taking a step forward, straining to hear what was being discussed.
“Did these people take your sister for a slave?” Herkuhlos asked, unable to understand Wetelos’ relationship with these people.
But then Wetelos was called forward and he went to the people of the village and began speaking while they stared at him. Unseen somewhere beyond the huts the waters of the sea broke against the shore in steady and relentless waves and the flames they carried guttered and roared in the cold breeze.
“Will we have to fight, lord?” Sunhus asked softly.
If the gods have deserted us, perhaps, he thought. “If so then I will kill them all,” he said.
His words were hollow, for he had spoken with the same confidence before fleeing from Torkos and Sunhus, weary and afraid, did not deign to reply.
Quite suddenly, the tone of the discussion changed and the people were gathering around Wetelos and touching him with outstretched hands before, one by one, they walked away.
“What is this?” Sunhus asked.
“I don’t know,” Herkuhlos muttered. “But I think it is good.”
Some of the men and women still stood watching Herkuhlos but the danger had passed and soon some children emerged from the dark doors of the huts and now they stared at Herkuhlos, too, their mouths gaping in the dim firelight.
“They will give us food,” Wetelos said, returning to them with his sister at his side. “And shelter.”
Relieved, they went in a strange procession through the village with eyes watching from every doorway and from every space between the huts. A dozen children of various ages quickly followed them in wide eyed silence.
“Here,” Wetelos said. “They say we are welcome here.”
It was one of the largest huts and yet Herkuhlos had to bend almost double to get in the door, cradling Pehur in his arms like a child, and he could not fully straighten up once he was inside. Still, it sheltered them from the chill of the breeze and the fire was warm and Pehur was laid on the floor beside the hearth.
Wetelos crouched on the other side of the flames beside his sister and they both stared at Herkuhlos as he took his knife and cut his wrist. There should not have been witnesses but he had already waited far too long before doing this and it might already be too late. He had lost almost everything and he could not stand to lose Pehur too, even if he was just a servant. He did not know for certain w
hether this would even work without the magic of Denhu but he was desperate that Pehur not die and so he was willing to try and to hope that the gods had not abandoned him completely.
The blood ran from the small wound he punctured into his wrist and instead of asking for a bowl or cup he touched his fingers to Pehur’s blue lips so that the dark liquid dripped into his mouth.
Pehur stirred and closed his eyes and he coughed as the blood ran into his throat but then he swallowed and licked his lips. As the blood flowed into his mouth and he drank, Pehur began to writhe and his fingers stirred and flicked into life. After a few moments he reached up and grasped Herkuhlos’ wrist and pulled his arm down until the wound was over his mouth and he began to suckle directly from it. His sudden strength was extraordinary and Herkuhlos was profoundly disturbed by the sight and so pulled gently away. Pehur’s fingers dug into his flesh, clinging on with mad desperation, and Herkuhlos had to prise them off one by one.
Wetelos and his sister gasped at the sight of this blood magic but he ignored them just as he ignored the bustle of the others, his own band and the Seal People, in the hut.
Robbed of the blood, Pehur’s eyes snapped open and he looked around in confusion. “Where am I?” he asked as Herkuhlos helped him to sit upright. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth, frowning as he looked at the blood on his fingers and the taste in his mouth. “I am wounded?”
“You were wounded some time ago when we were betrayed and defeated,” Herkuhlos said, scowling and holding his wrist. “You are wounded no longer.”
“There was a battle, I think. But then we were fleeing for the horses,” Pehur said, touching the side of his skull and wincing. “What happened then?”
“We ran. Almost everyone was killed. Wetelos led us to the sea.”
Pehur blinked and looked around the hut that was now growing stiflingly warm. “But who are these people?”
Herkuhlos looked to Wetelos, his face a mask of astonishment, and the woman he called his sister beside him. The light of the fire flickered across their faces. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you can tell us, Wetelos. You know their tongue. There is something you have not told us. Your sister is a slave to these people?”
Wetelos looked between them. “My true name is Z’ta. I am one of these people who the Heryos and the Furun call the Seal People. These are my people and this is my tribe. I was raised here, in this village, for the first summers of my life. I was going to be a hunter or perhaps a spirit walker like my father. But when I was young I was taken by the Heryos.”
“The Heryos raided your village?”
“They never come to the coast. They don’t understand it, they fear the sea. No, my sister and I were out setting traps and we strayed too far from the village. The Furun and the Heryos are a danger but I did not heed the warnings of my mother and my father. It was my fault. They found our tracks and heard us playing from afar.” He shook his head as he looked at his sister. “I was making her laugh as we played and our laughter alerted the Heryos who were out hunting our woods. Once they found our tracks there was little hope. We tried to run and we tried to hide but still they found us.”
Herkuhlos looked at the young woman beside him. She seemed to be listening carefully, surprise on her face, though of course she could surely not understand a word of Heryos.
“Both of you?”
“I buried Sif in a pile of leaves and I ran so that they would follow me. Then they made me a slave.”
“Sif is her name?” Herkuhlos asked, looking at her face. Her wide mouth twitched as he spoke and he was surprised to see the mirth and pleasure in her eyes. It stirred an immediate attraction in him.
“Sif,” she said, her voice as clear and bright and steady as a midsummer sunrise.
He pointed at her and spoke softly. “You shot me.”
Her smile broadened and she made a gesture like a shrug. “Heryos,” she said.
Herkuhlos snorted a laugh and dragged his eyes from hers. “But how can this be, Wetelos? You were no slave but a warrior. You were respected amongst the Heryos. You read the signs and your people listened.”
He sighed. “But I was a slave, lord. Then I grew strong. And all the while I read the signs, just as my mother and my father taught me. Later, they took me on raids. Soon, they put a spear in my hand.” He shook his head as he stared into the fire. “But I was always a slave.”
Herkuhlos glanced down at Pehur beside him. He was gingerly touching the lump on his head. “That was why you wanted me to kill you after the raid rather than take you back to your clan. You were never a slave in your heart and you preferred death over returning to slavery.” He frowned, remembering something else. “But Kapol rescued you. I saw him dragging you away after that ambush.”
“After Kapol and Ghebol conquered my masters, Kapol took a liking to me. He had me speak of the signs to him almost every day. He treated me well and even trusted me as a warrior but I was more a slave to him than to anyone.” Wetelos shrugged and looked down as if ashamed. “I meant always to flee the Heryos but I never seemed to find the strength to do it.”
“You’re free now. Free and home amongst your people.” Herkuhlos grunted as he realised that Wetelos had led him north and east, first on horseback and then on foot, across that river and through the trees all to get himself home to his people. Well, he could hardly fault him for that and it seemed their flight had worked. Herkuhlos glanced at the sister who still seemed to be listening. “So, should I call you Z’ta or Wetelos?”
“I have been Wetelos for so long.” He stopped himself and looked at Sif beside him. “But my name is Z’ta.”
“Then Z’ta, it hardly needs saying but I free you from any service you feel owed to me.”
“I would serve you still.”
Herkuhlos snorted. “That would be foolish. I am nothing. I am defeated. Be with your people instead. You are home.”
Z’ta looked around at the hut and at the Seal People crouched in the doorway peering in at them. “I never knew how small our houses were. Nor the people.”
Herkuhlos nodded for they were a short but strongly built people, from what he could tell. “Yet you and your sister are tall, like the Heryos. That is why I was so surprised. You look almost like us.”
Z’ta nodded half to himself. “I do remember our mother and father being taller than the others.” He looked around again at the people crowding in the stifling hut and at the children peeping in through the doorway.
He turned to speak to his sister but she spoke over him, pointing a finger at Herkuhlos and Pehur. Herkuhlos watched her face as she spoke, the glow of the fire dancing across her skin, and was entranced by her beauty. He was surprised by it, for he had not even imagined it before, but she had a beautiful if unusual face with high cheekbones and large, bright eyes.
“She asks about your magic, lord.” Z’ta said, waving her to silence.
“My magic?”
“Your powers of healing. She asks if you can perform the same healing on others.”
Herkuhlos frowned. “My blood is precious. I would not give it to anyone who was not dear to me, as Pehur is.” He looked at his surprised servant. “I rely on you, Pehur. I realise now that I value your wise council and do not heed it as often as I should. If I had listened to your words and acted upon them then we would not have met with disaster and defeat.”
Pehur did not know what to say to the unexpected compliment. “Thank you for healing me, lord.”
Z’ta began to translate what was said but his sister Sif scowled as she shot back a reply. “She says the chief of their tribe is sick. The spirits may soon take him and her magic cannot heal him.” He waved her into silence again as Sif continued to speak, clutching his shoulder with the familiarity of siblings, as if they had been apart for days rather than for years. “She says it is only fair that you give something of yourself in return for the food and shelter our chief’s people have given to you. I am sorry, lord, she has always been this way, you need not lis
ten to her, you are here as my guest and you owe us nothing.”
“No, no,” Herkuhlos said and then addressed the woman. “What you say is quite right, Sif.” He reached up to touch his chest. “I am Herkuhlos. Tell her that I will see what I can do but I do not know if it will work.”
She leaned forward as she smiled, the firelight making her glow as she expressed her delight in her own tongue, even before Z’ta had translated.
Quickly, she got up and pushed her way outside.
Herkuhlos pointed at the doorway. “Does she understand me?”
Z’ta scratched his jaw as he thought about how to answer. “We do not speak Heryos, lord, and yet there is another tongue spoken amongst our people. The Sacred Speech, the words of the gods. Only the initiated know these words and they are used in sacred rites. Our mother and father spoke it and they taught us some of it. When the Heryos took me I was surprised that they spoke something so like the Sacred Speech.” He looked over his shoulder. “Perhaps our mother taught her properly. Perhaps Sif has already been initiated. You should be careful what you say around her, lord.”
“Then I will be,” he replied. “Where are your parents Z’ta?”
He smiled. “The spirit walkers live beyond the confines of the village. I will see them in the morning, lord.”
“Let us see if we can heal your chief, then, Z’ta of the Seal People.”
It was cold outside but the chief’s hut was not far away. The crowd watched from afar as they went through the darkness from one hut to another in apprehensive silence. Pehur insisted he was quite well enough to come, though he looked weak, and they left Sunhus and Amra to be fed by the attentive women of the tribe.
“She says we should wait here,” Z’ta said, indicating himself and Pehur when they reached the chief’s hut. “While you enter with her. I explained that you will not understand her words but she says the spirits must not be disturbed by our presence.”
Herkuhlos looked at Sif. “You are a healer, then?”
She said nothing before she ducked inside the hut. Herkuhlos looked questioningly to Z’ta.