by Dan Davis
Herkuhlos was too late. He realised it even before it happened and then he had to watch, powerless to stop what was happening.
Pehur had risen only to his knees when Ghebol reached him and brought his shining axe down on top of Pehur’s skull, smashing through the bone and into his brain. His body dropped and his eyes stared unseeing as his spirit was sent to the otherworld.
Herkuhlos’ cry of rage echoed as he charged towards Gehbol but the chief of Torkos’ warband snarled a mocking smile as he yanked his horses’ head around and charged away through the smoke of the burning huts. The other mounted warrior, though, wished to win glory for himself by slaying the half-breed for Torkos and he drew an axe from his belt, tossed it up and caught it, and charged Herkuhlos with his weapon high.
At the last moment before they clashed, Herkuhlos leapt forward and drove his own axe down on the front of the horses’ skull. It collapsed at once, its front legs folding and its head dropping into the ground and its hind quarters coming up to throw the rider as both horse and man fell in a cloud of sand and dirt. Avoiding the kicking legs of the dying horse, Herkuhlos drove his bloody axe down onto the head of the fallen warrior. The long ash shaft snapped with the force of the blow and he tossed the haft aside and took the axe of the dead rider.
There was a long copper dagger in his belt and he took that, too, and stood as three more raiders came for him on foot, their weapons bloodied and their eyes mad with joy. All around the huts, hooves drummed against the earth and the raiders whooped as they attacked the screaming villagers who fled if they could and fought and died if they could not. The three men coming for him had seen him and had known him by his stature and they, too, wished to win glory for themselves and so they called to Kolnos, to Torkos, and to their chief Ghebol to witness their courage as they threw themselves at Herkuhlos with their axes.
Instead of waiting for them to come and to surround him, he rushed the one farthest to his left. The man aimed a wild cut at his head but Herkuhlos had expected, had wanted it, and had stopped his advance so that the blow swung past his face and before the warrior could recover, he swung his stolen rider’s axe and struck him a glancing blow on the head. It was enough to drop him at once, dead or dying. The next warrior was almost on him and Herkuhlos stepped forward and punched the copper dagger through his neck and ripped it free before knocking aside the last man’s axe swing and kicking him in the chest with such force that it knocked him back and crushed his ribs.
Shouts filled the air and smoke billowed as a hut roared into flame beside him. Arrows slashed through the air and sling stones banged against the sides of the huts as the Seal People fled from the carnage and down to the beach. A glance over his shoulder showed boats already launched into the surf and desperate figures wading toward them while more boats were being pushed into the water. Just a handful of the men remained in the village to hold back the attack but they were hunters not warriors and the Heryos delighted in killing them, taunting them as they stayed out of range of their spears and taking turns to dash in to make cuts with their knives or aim blows at their knees.
Herkuhlos knew he could never kill all the raiders. He had no armour and would be filled with arrows before he could reach it and put it on. There was no question now that he would die here in this strange village by the sea and that the oath he had sworn to Kolnos would remain forever unfulfilled. The mighty deeds and immortal fame he had sought would never be achieved and his small victories thus far would soon be forgotten. All that remained was to die well so that he would go to his ancestors with at least that honour to his name and perhaps then they would not shame him for his other failures.
An arrow flitted in the corner of his eye and he ducked his head. The arrow cracked against the timber wall of the hut behind him and shattered as an attack came from two warriors and three more behind them, two of them with bows in their hands. The closest two had long spears and he understood at once that they meant to keep him at bay with these weapons while the others came closer to shoot arrows into him, as a hunting party might surround a cornered aurochs. There was one thing that such a hunting party feared and that was that the aurochs would not be disoriented or cowed and would instead charge the cordon before it could be brought down.
Bellowing, Herkuhlos charged the spearmen, knocked the weapons aside and smashed his axe into one then slashed across the face of the other with his dagger. Not stopping, he charged on toward the next three men who turned to flee from his rage and his strength but he caught the closest bowman in two strides and crushed his skull with a blow to the top of his head.
He was struck suddenly, high on the left arm near his shoulder and he staggered away, wheeling around to look for the attacker. An arrow shaft jutted from his arm and the bowman a few paces away was already nocking his next arrow and he drew back his bow.
Herkuhlos charged him with a snarl.
There was no time to reach him before he shot but if the gods were with him then the bowman’s courage would fail him and he would flee from Herkuhlos’ charge.
Instead, the courageous bowman calmly drew back his strong bow all the way to his ear and the arrowhead came up to aim at Herkuhlos’ face.
Roaring with the effort, Herkuhlos leaned over and threw his axe. Turning over once as it flew from his hand the weapon slammed into the bowman’s face as the arrow shot from the bowstring and cut the air over Herkuhlos’ shoulder.
Now with only his dagger, Herkuhlos found more warriors coming for him. Their chief Ghebol still with a mocking snarl on his face sat on his horse directing his men into the attack. Though he sought no further glory for himself still his men obeyed his commands and advanced on Herkuhlos and the shameless dishonour of it frustrated and enraged him for he knew he could not reach Ghebol before being killed.
Instead of charging them, Herkuhlos turned and ran back toward the rear of the village behind the shelter of the huts where he would have a better chance of slaying his enemies before they finished him. Without slowing he snatched up a fallen spear and ran on away from his pursuers. He would turn suddenly and charge once more and it would likely be the last attack he would ever make and so it would have to be a good one.
Swerving between two huts he came out at the rear of the village beside the dunes and there he found a small group of men fighting desperately to slow the attacking raiders while the last group of women struggled down to the beach with their children in their arms. There were just six Seal Men and even as he watched one was struck with a sling stone and felled with an arrow through his face and the others stepped back, shouting in their guttural tongue as they swung their own slings and brandished their spears. The smallest man in the centre was their chief, S’tef, his frail body hunched over a spear as he roared defiance at the men who had destroyed his village. Beside him was his son Alef who was wounded and covered in blood but likewise shouting his defiance at the Heryos who swarmed around them.
This was a better way to die, he decided as he changed direction. If he could give them a few moments to get away, that would bring him the greater glory and it would repay in part the disaster he had brought down upon them by his presence.
With a bellow that echoed from the burning huts he drove himself into the jeering raiders, bowling men over and stomping them beneath his feet as he swatted others with his spear and lashed out with his dagger, breaking their arms and their skulls and lacerating their flesh as they screamed and fled from the death he brought to them. He felt himself struck in turn and cut by their blades but he ignored the pain and felt no fear as he turned and struck and moved and stabbed in a storm of stone and bronze and blood. In moments they were dead or dying or they had fled and he found himself wheeling left and right and peering through the smoke looking for more men to slay.
“Herkuhlos!” The desperate cry of someone calling his name finally reached his awareness and he turned away from the flames.
Z’ta was standing amongst the fallen hunters by the dunes, over the body of
S’tef. No, he was not dead but wounded and Z’ta was standing over him with the chief’s son, Alef, both defending their chief from a group of raiders coming around the flank to finish them off.
With another roar, Herkuhlos stomped toward them. He found he could not run as his strength was leaving him now, flowing out along with the blood that poured from his wounds, but still he advanced with his bloodied spear and dagger and knew that he could slaughter many of them, too, before he fell.
Instead, they fled from him in terror of the blood-soaked giant coming for them through the smoke and flame.
They were all fleeing from him but they still meant to kill him and arrows flitted in through the smoke. One struck Z’ta below his knee and he cried out and fell back, dropping the chief in the sand while the wounded Alef threw down his spear and attempted to drag them both toward the boats.
Growling at the sight of this struggle, Herkuhlos strode toward them, dropped his spear and lifted the chief in his arms. He felt as light as a child.
“Help him!” Herkuhlos said to Alef.
The Seal Man did not understand the words but he got their meaning and he helped the limping Z’ta through the dunes down to the beach where just a few boats were left floating in the surf. A large double-hulled boat was held in place by Sif, tears in her eyes and she shouted at them all to hurry. He waded into the cold waves toward her.
A punch struck his back and then another and though there was no pain he understood that he had been shot again and he felt his legs turn weak beneath him. Still, he struggled on through the waves until he reached the boat and lay S’tef into one just as an arrow struck the boat by his hand, quivering as the point buried itself into the carved wood.
He turned to help Z’ta into the other hull of the craft and then together with Alef and Sif he pushed the boat deeper into the water as the waves lifted it, splashing, up and down.
“Get in!” Z’ta was shouting at him. “Climb in!”
“I have to go back,” Herkuhlos said. “I have to die in battle.” But the words would not come properly and he found blood coming from his mouth.
Suddenly, Sif’s face was in front of his, her vivid blue eyes filling his vision like the brightest of stars in the darkest of nights and she placed her ice-cold hand on his bloody cheek. “Get in,” she commanded with such certainty that he found himself obeying.
With great effort he heaved himself up over the side, making the whole boat rock and sway enormously but then he fell sprawling into the bottom of the boat beside the chief. His blood leaked from his wounds and mixed with the seawater sloshing around him.
The world rocked up and down and the sky was blue overhead where the gulls cried and wheeled. As he closed his eyes he knew it was now his time to face his mighty ancestors.
27. Crossing
Sobs and wailing and the quiet crying of children floated across the water between the canoes but most of her people sat in grim, stunned silence as they paddled. Her village burned on the distant shore and the Heryos raiders stood on the dunes silhouetted against the flames, watching them fleeing across the water. Her people had lost their homes and many of them had lost their lives but at least the Heryos could not follow them out here across the sea.
The canoe flotilla bobbed on the gentle waves as the current carried them out and swept them in an arc that would in time carry them up the coast, across to the northern islands and into the territory of their kin and so that is where the villagers would go. If the Mother blessed them then in time they would hunt seal and catch fish enough for all the survivors of the tribe and then when it was safe they would return to the village to salvage what they could and recover their dead. Whether they would ever make that bay, that beach, their home again none could yet say. The next bay beyond the headland was their territory, also, and seals liked to pull themselves up there so perhaps that is where they would make their primary summer camp in the coming season.
But those decisions could wait. Now, the people wished only to get away. Night was coming and they would not reach land until the morning so they would be spread across the sea away from one another in darkness. To prepare for the night the canoes were being paddled together and men were distributed between them so that every boat would have a chance to reach safety tomorrow.
Sif would not go with the rest of the tribe. Already, she was steering her canoe to the edge of the current where soon she would slip out from it and make her way toward the Long Island and from there to the sacred isle where her mother had gone.
“Zani will heal S’tef,” Sif said to Z’ta and Alef as they paddled in the other hull. “And Zani will heal him and both of you, too.”
“Couldn’t we take his magic blood?” Alef said, gesturing to the enormous body of Herkuhlos where he lay awkwardly sprawled beside his father the chief, between Sif and Satara who paddled at the rear.
“Don’t be foolish,” Sif said as she drove her paddle into the far side of the next long wave. “We cannot bleed him after he saved us.”
“He did not save us,” Alef snapped. “He brought this disaster upon us. If not for him our village would have been spared.”
“It was my doing, not his,” Z’ta said, his face a mask of anguish. “I brought him to you.”
“You are to blame, too,” Alef said. “And now my father will die because of you both.”
“But he would be dead already were it not for Herkuhlos healing him when we first arrived,” Z’ta said.
“That’s why we should take his blood to heal him again. It wouldn’t wound him further but look, his blood leaks everywhere from his wounds. Take that, scoop it up and use it on father, please, Sif. If he is a god then he will not die.”
“He’s not a god,” Z’ta said. “He’s half a god but more like a man.”
“It doesn’t matter what he is,” Sif said. “We cannot take what is not freely given.”
“He would allow it, Sif,” Z’ta said. “I’m sure of it.”
Looking back over her shoulder, she glanced at his wounds and the broken arrow shafts jutting from his body. The chief lay curled like a child in the water in the bottom of the canoe beside him, shivering violently while Herkuhlos lay almost like a dead thing. She did not know about Herkuhlos but there was no doubt that S’tef would die before they reached Zani on the sacred island.
From the back of the canoe, Satara laid down his paddle. “I will do it,” he said. “I have a small bowl I will use to collect his blood.”
“Stay where you are and keep paddling,” she said. “But give me that bowl.”
First, she pulled S’tef up from the bottom of the boat and into the slightly raised prow section so most of him was out of the water and then she lay her sealskin over him. Going back to Herkuhlos, she pulled his sprawled arms in and with great effort rolled him more fully onto his back. The canoe rocked and waves splashed over the side. His eyes were closed and his skin was an ugly grey and he frowned and stirred, moving his lips as someone visited by bad spirits in their sleep. She hushed him and stroked his face and softly sang to the waters and the spirits that were brought forth by her voice calmed him into stillness. Next, she touched his wounds. There were many. His head was cut to the bone in many places and there were ugly welts from stones or axes raised on his flesh. The arrows sticking into his flesh were the greatest wounds she could see and these would have to be removed before the corruption crawled inside of him. The shafts were sticky with blood and would not come when she pulled on them so she used her slate knife to cut through his clothes and then sliced into his flesh to free the first arrowhead.
“Catch that blood,” Alef said eagerly, kneeling up to peer across the water from his hull.
Z’ta and Satara hushed him and while they paddled she worked her knife deeper, slicing into him with quick strokes to expose the arrowhead buried in his flesh. She had retrieved her own arrowheads from animals in just this way many times but never had she thought to do it on a living man while waves rocked the boat and sh
e had to time her cuts with the rise and fall of the sea. Bad spirits swirled around her but she sang louder to drive them away and told herself that if he were an ordinary man he would be dead already and that if the Mother wished him to live he would live no matter how deeply she cut him.
Still, when she had finally finished the bottom of the boat was awash with his blood and night had almost come. She wiped a hand across the weeping wound of Herkuhlos’ shoulder, sweeping his blood into the small, shallow bowl from Satara and then she moved forward to dribble the contents into the lips of S’tef.
“Is he alive?” Alef asked, anxiously.
“Your father is weak but he lives,” she replied, watching the old man drink. “Somehow, despite all he has faced, he lives. The spirits have seen that our people need him and so they have sent him back to us. There is still time to call to another canoe. You should take him and go with the others, Alef.”
“No,” he said. “He is too weak to move him to another boat, he will die, no matter what the spirits wish.”
“Then you go to another canoe, Alef. You go and we will care for him but our people need a chief now more than ever and you must lead them to safety.”
“There can be no safety with the Heryos as our enemy,” Alef said, glaring at Herkuhlos. “And you will need my strength to reach wherever it is you are going if you mean to cut across to the Long Island from here through the night.”
It was almost dark now but Sif caught her brother’s eye. She knew what meaning was conveyed by his expression. “You can help us get to our destination but then we will carry your father ashore and you must stay with the canoe.”
“What about him?” Alef asked. “How will you carry that whale anywhere?”
“Never mind that,” Z’ta snapped. “Save your breath and paddle. Once we reach the island current the tide will take us in by dawn but we must cross the open in the dark and it will be a hard path all the way if we mean to avoid being swept past the islands.”