by Dan Davis
“Lord,” Helek said, “the sun rises.”
Taking his thick spear and his heavy stone war axe, he nodded at the ageing warrior.
“Any sign of the hunters?”
“No, lord.”
Herkuhlos looked around at the faces watching him from the trees all around. There were hundreds of them. He saw Eron, grown in fame and power for his role in bringing so many of the Furun together. Behind Helek stood Hargu and Lekkas with their own small warbands of hardened warriors. They carried spears, bows, axes, daggers and blades of flint, copper, and bronze and others carried the great wicker and hide shields they had made.
All there knew that this would be a greater battle than any that had ever been fought on the wide earth.
“Give the word, Helek.”
As the cries of command spread through the woodland, Herkuhlos stepped forward from the shadows with spear and axe in hand. The drums of the Furun shattered the silence and the voices of the farmers roared like the crashing of the sea just as the haunting birch war lurs were blown and the morning echoed with the announcement of war.
35. Horsemen
They crashed through the undergrowth beside him onto the empty pasture where the shadows stretched all the way to the pale domed tents of Torkos’ warband and the wagons and carts parked between them. In the centre was the huge circle of stone and within that the tent of Torkos, wider and taller than the others. Around the tents was a broken ring of ditches with a low bank on the inside, the earth still bare but for a few grasses and plants already colonising the exposed soil. It had been completed less than a moon ago to defend against the attack they knew was coming.
Trees surrounded the pastures and wheat fields, supplying the timber that the huge warband required and though the sun had risen the trees were dark all around.
A shallow stream flowed through the settlement from the north, winding around a third of the stone circle and cutting between sections of the defensive ditch. It flowed from the woodland, through the golden wheat fields in the north, curved through the settlement and then through more stands of wheat in the west.
The tents were quiet but Herkuhlos knew there were warriors there, waiting for him. He caught glimpses of movement, faces peering above the low bank and from between the tents and saw flashes of polished stone and metal weapons reflecting the low sunlight behind him.
The track they had followed through the woodland continued ahead of him through the pasture, worn into the bare earth by the passing of many feet, hoofs, and wheels. That track led on through the ditch and bank into the centre of the settlement where Torkos’ great tent stood, the skins flapping gently in the morning breeze. There was no fence across the track, no parked wagon blocking the way over the ditch, and he understood that they wanted him to attack there. Ghebol had certainly hidden warriors inside and behind the tents near the entrance and when Herkuhlos funnelled his warriors in there they would be set upon from both sides. It was the same way his people funnelled panicking antelope through a valley before slaughtering them.
“The men must spread out,” Herkuhlos said to Helek. “They must cross the ditch and the bank, not crowd through there.” He pointed with his spear.
“I understand,” Helek said and turned to shout his commands to the Furun chiefs. He then turned to Herkuhlos and lowered his voice. “They may not do it.”
“Send your sons to show them the way,” Herkuhlos said. “Their courage will inspire the others.”
Helek growled. Herkuhlos had already killed one of his sons and now he was likely sending the other two off to die leading a band of farmers. After a moment of deliberation, he nodded. “They will win glory or they will die.”
When Helek stepped away to speak to his sons, Herkuhlos found himself alone. “As will we all,” he said to himself.
More and more farmers emerged from the trees either side of him, stretching almost to the trees on the north and south side of the pasture and the sight gave him hope. They were a small people, small in stature and small in their aspirations, and yet they had the courage to come this far so he believed they would fight to the end.
Still, the trees in the north were yet empty.
Where were the Seal People? Had Sif had time yet to find them? Would she be able to inspire them to stay if she had? How many had come? He had hoped for hundreds but even two score shooting arrow after arrow from the north might make a difference, if only they could be brought out to fight.
It was too late to worry about it now. The Furun and the Heryos were looking at him. The warriors of Torkos were beginning to show themselves in the village, stepping out from the tents to shake their axes and cry out in response to the horns and drums.
“There they are,” Helek cried, his face grim. His sons, each with a handful of warriors, spread out to the north and south flanks.
“How many do you think?” Herkuhlos asked.
“Two hundred in sight?” Helek guessed. “Three hundred?” He shrugged. “I was never good at counting.”
“And we have four hundred at least,” Herkuhlos said, nodding in satisfaction as he looked them over. “With more still coming behind us.”
“But only eighty warriors,” Helek pointed out before gesturing to the empty shadows of the northern woodland. “And no hunters.”
“Bring my shield,” Herkuhlos said, shoving his axe into his belt and taking the offered shield.
It was a wicker frame of woven hazel covered with cowhide, like a small section of wall from one of the Furun houses, just like Mardoc had used for shooting into with practice arrows. It would not stop every arrow or sling stone and raising it quickly exhausted the arm of the man carrying it but it would give them protection as they advanced on the enemy.
Many of the men carried their own versions. Smaller and lighter than his vast shield they were made from willow or even densely woven reed and covered with skins, they would allow his farmers to rush the defences and close with the warband before throwing them aside for combat. Though the Heryos were doubtful, the Furun were only too keen on the idea and had improved the original designs suggested by Z’ta and Herkuhlos.
“All things die,” Herkuhlos said. “Only fame lives forever.”
“For glory,” Helek agreed.
Herkulos looked up at the sky. “Kolnos!” he roared, lifting his spear and his shield and spreading his arms so that they might see him. “Sky Father!”
Helek nodded and raised his axe overhead. “Herkuhlos!” he cried. “Herkuhlos!”
The Furun and the Heryos both took up his cry and roared for their war chief and the pasture echoed with the sound of his name being shouted and the power of it took his breath away.
Herkuhlos started forward across the pasture as the warband ahead emerged early from their hiding places. They would have to fight with the morning sun in their eyes while Herkuhlos and his men emerged from the glare. An old raider’s trick he had learned from his father that he was happy to put into practice now.
Glancing around he found that not all his farmers had followed him. Some still hung back near the safety of the trees, unwilling to march out into open space and throw themselves against the enemy. But some followed, spreading out behind him on both sides and advancing toward the tents.
There was no sign of Torkos but surely he was there in his tent. Would he emerge and fight Herkuhlos this time or would he let his men do it for him? Either way, Herkuhlos would have to fight his way through the warriors and then face Torkos. He hoped that he would not have to do so alone. If he had any warriors left he would command them to shoot Torkos with their bows and sling their stones and throw their javelins. It did not matter if the victory were not his alone for there would be glory enough for them all if they achieved it.
Halfway to the outskirts of the tents now and more of the enemy warriors emerged from cover and their shouts filled the air ahead of him, roaring their defiance and mockery. Some warriors danced a weapon dance to demonstrate their prowess and other men
sang the songs of their ancestors to call the attention of their spirits.
There was a motion in the corner of his eye and he raised his shield just in time. A stone struck the woven frame with an almighty crack and the impact of it jarred his arm. Still, it saved him from a devastating injury.
“Thank you, Mardoc,” Herkuhlos muttered to the old Furun’s spirt.
From the shelter of his raised shield he glanced to either side of him and saw other men doing the same, advancing with their shields raised toward the enemy. Arrows began to fall now and one of the farmers nearby let out a scream as an arrow pierced his shoulder and he writhed in the grass.
Glancing behind, Herkuhlos found that more of his people were moving into the attack now and his spirits were raised to see them overcoming their fear. Still men roared his name and the drums hammered a steady beat while the lurs blew over and over to echo across the pasture.
Still, there were no hunters in the north and he feared for Sif. Had she merely failed to find her people or had some worse fate befallen her? There was no time to think of it further as a storm of arrows crashed into his shield and smacked into the earth around him. Of course they were trying to kill him. The archer or slinger who killed Herkuhlos would make a name for himself and anyway he presented the biggest target and so he drew the most attention.
Helek and his warriors closed up, raising their own shields to make a kind of wicker wall behind which to advance. There were gaps between them and arrows flitted through, wounding and killing the men who were struck and arrows and stones still found their way through the woven shields but still they closed at a fast walk. Herkuhlos glanced over the rim of his for a moment and found they were almost there and his heart was filled with excitement. This arrow storm had been what he feared most and they were almost through. He gripped his spear tighter, lifted his shield high and walked on with the warriors filling the pasture now on either side of him.
The ground was shaking.
That distant thunder meant only one thing and he turned within the safety of his shield, looking for the source of the sound. Shouts of surprise and fear drew his attention to the south and he froze at the sight.
From the trees advanced a hundred Heryos horsemen.
At the head of them rode Ghebol with his shining bronze blade raise up high. On his head and shoulders he wore the lion pelt of Herkuhlos. The farmers on the southern flank were already cringing away from the advancing horsemen.
“Kolnos save us,” Helek growled.
“Bowmen, shoot them,” Herkuhlos shouted. “Javelins, slings, loose. Spearmen, close up together! Pass the word. Close up!”
Some men heard him over the commotion and a few were already shooting into the massing riders now advancing from the treeline and horses and riders were struck by stones and arrows.
But more of the farmers were backing away in terror. They were not used to horses and certainly not used to mounted warriors and the surprise of their appearance was breaking the fragile courage of the Furun.
Hargu, the son of Helek, though, was roaring commands to his small band of warriors and they created an island of bravery in the sea of fearful farmers and they stood ready with their spears at the forefront as the horsemen of Ghebol advanced.
Herkuhlos looked at the warriors coming forth from the tents and realised he had misunderstood the trap they had set for him. He was not to be lured across the ditch and attacked from between the tents but instead they had lured him onto the pasture so his warband could be crushed between the horsemen and the village.
Failure reared its head once more and he knew he had underestimated the cunning of Ghebol and Torkos. If he continued to the village, the horsemen would scatter his warband behind him but if he instead tried to defeat the horsemen then Torkos and his warriors would come out and crush him from the rear.
But he could not abandon Hargu and the farmers to face the terrifying horsemen alone. Herkuhlos had led them into this trap and so he had to save them from it.
“Helek, with me,” he roared and shouted to his men in the north. “Lekkas! With me!”
Throwing down his shield he pulled his axe from his belt and ran hard for the horsemen who were already breaking through his men and swinging their long axes or thrusting with their spears.
But it was difficult for any warrior to fight from the back of his horse. A superb rider with a good horse who knew him could do it but even then the warrior would struggle to control where the horse went through the battlefield and when he struck with his weapons he risked falling. That was why most raiders preferred to dismount and fight on foot and some of them were doing just that while others galloped through the frightened farmers. Those riders were hardly even striking at the fleeing Furun and instead were whooping their war cries to spread the panic and drive them back to the trees or even toward the village. Some horsemen indeed were riding right through the masses of Furun so that they might surround them on all sides and herd them like sheep into a pen before the slaughter.
If only the Furun could find the courage to stand and fight they would discover that they were not so easily beaten by the warband. Only the gods could give them that courage and so Herkuhlos ignored them as he ignored most of the horsemen and ran for Hargu and the brave Heryos who defended themselves from the circling riders.
Commanding those riders was Ghebol, big and terrifying on his great stallion, and Herkuhlos ran for him, anger filling his limbs and driving him forward through the raging battle.
Filling his lungs, he roared a wordless battle cry and raised his spear high.
Behind him, Helek was shouting something that Herkuhlos only just heard. “The pelt, lord. He means to anger you.”
The words filtered through into his awareness just as he saw the mocking smile on Ghebol’s face. It had not been won in battle, the lion pelt had been snatched from a burning hut on the shores of the northern sea, and yet Ghebol wore it as if he had defeated Herkuhlos in battle. That was surely meant to insult him and enrage him and it was working. Herkuhlos meant to tear him apart and rip the pelt from his mangled corpse.
But Helek was right. They meant to draw him away, to use his warrior’s pride against him.
That pelt was another trap.
Herkuhlos swerved away from his mad run at Ghebol and instead ran toward the knot of warriors led by Hargu. They made room for him as he pushed into the centre beside Hargu and raised his spear beside the others.
Beside him, Hargu nodded in acknowledgement and more and more warriors joined them as Helek took position on the left and then Lekkas and his men took up the right.
“Spears!” Herkuhlos shouted. “Spears to the front. Stand together!”
While their number grew, so did the horsemen gather into a broad mass with the huge figure of Ghebol mounted at their centre. Chancing a look over his shoulder, Herkuhlos saw that the warriors were coming out from the village to attack them in the rear and so he had to act quickly before he was crushed.
“They cannot fight well on their horses,” Herkuhlos shouted. “And horses are afraid of noise.” He slammed the haft of his axe against the shaft of his spear with a loud crack once, twice, and thrice. “We will break their will and then we will kill them. Kill them! Kill! Kill!”
As he shouted he advanced with his spear out and at once the amassed mixture of Heryos and Furun advanced on the horsemen. Their weapons crashed and they chanted their war cry until their throats were raw and the riders struggled to control their horses. Even Ghebol on his massive stallion was turned right around as he fought to stop it from bolting.
When they came closer, Herkuhlos shouted the command to charge but he found his warband were already doing so, seemingly of one mind, and they rushed the horsemen and thrust up with their spears. Some riders tried to flee while others stayed to fight from horseback while others abandoned their horses to fight on foot.
Herkuhlos aimed for Ghebol. If the war chief was filled with the immortal blood of Torkos then there was
no other who could hope to slay him.
He drove his spear into the chest of the stallion and it reared and kicked with its forelegs but Herkuhlos thrust deeper, pushing the animal up and back until Ghebol was thrown and the horse’s rear legs collapsed. As the dying stallion thrashed his legs, Ghebol came up with axe in hand and attacked while Herkuhlos was still pulling his spear free. Releasing his spear, Herkuhlos blocked the short, powerful cuts of Ghebol’s axe with his own and stepped back a pace from the furious assault, and then another as Ghebol did not let up.
The ageing warrior, fortified with the blood of Torkos, fought with a lifetime of skill and experience and with a speed and strength beyond all mortal men.
But Herkuhlos was more than a mortal and the gods filled his mind with the image of Ghebol striking down Pehur with this very axe. He felt the presence of Pehur’s spirit, watching and judging his actions, and he stopped his retreat and stepped forward, catching the haft of Ghebol’s axe with his free hand and punching his own weapon forward into Ghebol’s face. Blood spattered as his nose was broken and he tried to back away from Herkuhlos’ counter attack as Herkuhlos drew back his axe to strike the killing blow through the lion pelt onto Ghebol’s skull.
The old warrior was not so easily defeated and though half blinded by his broken face he thrust his bronze dagger beneath Herkuhlos’ upraised arm. Herkuhlos leaned back and kicked Ghebol away from him but not before the dagger stabbed into him below the armpit and gouged a wound into his ribs. Ghebol fell from the kick to his chest but he rolled to his feet again and threw himself into the attack with his dagger alone, cutting up toward Herkuhlos’ loins with an upward arcing slash that sliced though Herkuhlos’ thigh from above the knee almost to the vein of his groin. He stopped it with a tight swing of his axe that hacked into Ghebol’s forearm.
The warlord roared in pain and recoiled, his hand dangling uselessly and swinging, severed above the wrist but for the ribbon of skin and tendons that it swung by as Ghebol retreated, his shattered nose pouring blood over his face.