by Dan Davis
Herkuhlos pursued with his stone axe in one hand and Ghebol’s bronze axe in the other and caught him with a blow on the right shoulder and another on his left thigh, dropping him to one knee. His next blow chopped into his upper chest, crushing his collarbone. Dropping the stone axe, Herkhulos looked down over Ghebol and yanked the lion pelt off his head and threw it aside. He wore a leather cap beneath but that would not protect him from the power of the bronze axe.
“Free Sehi,” Ghebol said, clutching his severed wrist to his chest and looking up but Herkuhlos did not understand his words and he did not care.
“Pehur!” he roared, calling down the spirit of his friend to witness this vengeance as he smashed the axe through Ghebol’s skull, splitting it apart in an explosion of blood, brains and bone.
He looked down at the dead warrior and felt the approval of Pehur’s spirit surrounding him.
“Lord!”
The voice of Helek shook him from his victory and he turned to find the battle still raging around him.
His Heryos and Furun had together defeated the horsemen and the bodies of the fallen men and beasts lay in a vast swathe before them with the survivors and the wounded fleeing toward the trees, the last of their will broken by the death of Ghebol. But the other warriors were now rushing from the village, crossing the ditch and charging into the rear of the farmers who were by now exhausted from their bloody clash.
Helek’s sons, themselves covered in blood, were shouting commands that their men should turn about and face the new attack but there was too much noise and chaos and some continued their pursuit of the fleeing horsemen, driven wild by their victory. Others crouched to loot the fallen warriors of their weapons and jewellery and some hacked through necks or scalps or ears to take trophies from their kills.
Though some were prepared, the rest of the farmers were in disorder when the first of the enemy crashed into them with their spears and axes. They cringed back from the assault and suddenly it seemed that defeat was now at hand.
“To me!” Herkuhlos shouted with his bronze axe raised high overhead. “We must kill them!”
Not waiting to see how many obeyed him, he took a deep breath and went forward to meet the new attack by the fresh warriors.
Then there was a sight that raised his spirits to heavens.
From the woodland in the north poured scores of Seal Men, their bows in hand, and as they waded through the tall, mature wheat they were loosing arrows at the rear of the Heryos. At first there were just a dozen hunters but then more came behind them and within moments there was a hundred and still more were coming.
His farmers saw it also and the sight gave them the courage to stand and take the charge of the enemy warband as the arrows fell.
Caught between the newly steadfast farmers and the ever-growing arrow storm in their rear, the Heryos stopped and turned about in indecision and fear. The ones closest to the village did not hesitate and they jumped back into the ditch and climbed the other side to find shelter behind the tents and the wagons and fences as the hunter’s arrows cut the air around them.
“After them!” Herkuhlos called. “Drive them back!”
Helek and his sons and Eron and the other surviving chiefs took up the cry and together they advanced on the closest warriors who now turned and fled as fast as they could back toward the village.
While the masses of hunters still poured forth on the north side of the village, the farmers chased down the Heryos.
Herkuhlos laughed aloud as he ran, limping, his wounds causing him no pain as the joy of victory grew in him. He looked over the heads of the men and through the clusters of tents at the circle of stone for he knew he would now have to fight Torkos.
There he was, emerging from his tent.
He wore Herkuhlos’ own armour, the tunic part at least, the bronze plates rippling and flashing in the sunlight as he stepped out from his tent. Like Ghebol, Torkos had clothed himself in stolen glory but the protection it gave Torkos would give him a powerful advantage. Instead of the lion pelt that he had given to Ghebol, Torkos wore what seemed to be a wolf skin over his great hideous head.
As Torkos stepped out, more figures stepped out with him. There were two mortals beside Torkos and two giant figures almost of a height with him.
One was the massive yotunan from the west called Hrungna the Gorger but there was another tall figure with him, bound tightly and wincing as she walked blinking into the sunlight.
Herkuhlos slowed to a stop in astonishment at what he was witnessing and his heart thundered in his chest.
“No,” he said. “It cannot be.”
Torkos had Nehalennia.
As she was dragged clear of the tent by Hrungna the Gorger, the Seal People saw her too and at once they stopped shooting. Like the Furun, they stopped advancing outside the ditch. Doubt and confusion spread across the battlefield now and their advance slowed to a stop.
A single loud voice cried out from inside the stone circle, a voice shouting in the tongue of the Seal Men. One of the figures beside Torkos was shouting something from cupped hands at the hunters to the north.
First one and then more and then all the hunters threw down their bows.
And despairing they backed away and turned and fled back to the trees.
“Lord!” Helek cried.
Herkuhlos, his eyes fixed on Torkos, realised that the yotunan was not wearing a wolfskin. He was wearing the skin of Kerdheros, the guardian of Nehalennia.
Torkos was grinning as he stared across his village for at a stroke he had driven away a great part of Herkuhlos’ strength and now the outcome of the battle had once more swung in favour of the enemy. Emboldened, the warband stopped fleeing and turned back to face him and his tired men.
“Lord!” Helek cried again. “What do we do? Lord!”
All he could manage was a whisper. “I don’t know.”
36. Arrow
Her people had been afraid to join the fight, hanging back in the woodland in their hundreds and some were already walking away or arguing with one another when she and Z’ta had arrived amongst them. Dozens of the hunters crouched at the edge of the trees looking out as Herkuhlos and the Furun advanced across the grassland but they would not go out into the light.
“They fear for the Mother,” one of the hunters said and raised his voice. “But we must fight anyway!”
“They have her,” a voice cried from the morning shadows. “We must flee.”
“No,” another man called in answer. “We must spend our lives to save her.”
Z’ta stepped forward and slashed his bow through the air and shouted over them all. “Of what do you speak?”
“They have her,” a hunter from the Long Island said, his face twisted in anguish. “The Heryos raided the Sacred Isle and killed the Mother.”
“Lies!” another spat. “She cannot be killed, she was taken.”
“You are mad,” a young chief said from the edge of the trees ahead. “You are all mad, you have heard madness from just a few others and their words have spread and though your eyes have not seen what they claim you believe them.”
“The Mother was taken?” Sif cried. “That cannot be. She would not allow it. There were warriors protecting her, and her great hound.”
As she spoke a figure came toward her from deeper within the woodland, the feathers of his headdress flashing in the dappled light.
“Sif,” he called as he hurried closer. “Z’ta, you have come.”
“Satara?” Sif said. “What is happening? It cannot be true.”
“No man here knows the truth,” Satara said, his voice astonishingly loud, echoing through the trees and drawing the eyes of every hunter around. “But it does not matter what the truth is. We came here to fight and that is what we must do.”
Hardly pausing as he drew near he marched on past the hunters crouching at the edge of the woodland and went on out into the long shadows of the morning, exposing himself completely to view without fear and
pointing at the battle raging on the other side of the grassland.
“We swore to fight,” Satara shouted, walking back down the treeline with his arms out wide. “We swore to the Mother. We swore to the half-god Herkuhlos. Do not fear. Take up your bows and follow me.” He pointed at the warriors coming out from the enormous village and raised his voice still further. “We will kill them all.”
Z’ta rushed out after him, leaping the long grasses at the edge of the trees and lifted his bow. “For the Mother!” Z’ta shouted. “For Herkuhlos! For the Thunderer!”
Following him, Sif ran through the trees and out into the light, drawing an arrow and holding her bow aloft, repeating the cry. “For the Mother! For the Thunderer!”
Hardly bothering to aim she pulled back her bowstring and shot her arrow, arcing up and down toward the mass of warriors. It would fall short and she did not bother to watch its flight because the example was all that mattered.
All three of them walked out into the grass and called to the others still in the trees. They were afraid of the Heryos, she knew that, and the rumour about the Mother had taken their courage, and so they would have to show the hunters the way.
Sif ran along the treeline and into the dense patches of dry yellow grasses and waded through them, still calling to the hunters who were finally emerging from the shadows. Behind her the first of them were now shooting at the warriors coming from the village and she cheered them on and called to the others to join them.
They were shouting, too, and they were roaring for Herkuhlos.
They were roaring for the Thunderer.
She saw Z’ta ahead of them all shooting an arrow before running forward and shooting another and Satara was behind her, shaking his spirit staff and rattling the shells and animal jawbones that hung from it while calling the spirits to give strength to his people.
She drew another arrow and shot it into the massing Heryos outside the village, hesitating now they were caught between her hunters and Herkuhlos’ warriors. She saw him out there on the pasture, head and shoulders above those around him and urging them on. Herkuhlos was still alive, praise the Mother.
Moving closer she took another arrow from her bag, this time found one of the enemy close enough to hit and shot her arrow toward him. Again, she did not follow where it fell and she instead moved closer, taking another arrow and shooting.
The arrows of her people fell like a storm amongst the enemy warband, killing them and driving them back inside their village in terror as Herkuhlos led his Furun and Heryos in the final attack on the village as the air filled with the sound of bowstrings and arrows cutting the air.
Coming out of a patch of wheat and leaping a wide stream, she ran splashing along the edge of it closer to the ditch around the village and then swerved into another stand of wheat and looked for warriors to kill with her bow. There were more hunters than she had ever seen coming from the trees, tribe after tribe of hunters, in numbers greater than she could count, and still more came to loose their arrows at the enemy and her heart was filled with love for them for coming so far from the sea.
A cry of anguish filled the air and then the hunters stopped advancing through the wheat and instead stopped and stared, aghast and afraid.
Following their gaze, she peered between the domed tents to the centre of the village where three giant figures came forward. She hardly saw two of them for her eyes were drawn to the third, her arms bound behind her back and even her mouth was covered with rope so that she could not speak.
Sif’s heart fluttered and she struggled to take a breath.
It was true. They had taken the Mother. She was bound like a common captive by the monstrous demons and their servants and the sight of their beloved goddess, the protectress of her people, so bound was a blow of profound devastation. The moment stretched as Sif found herself frozen in horror and indecision. But there was nothing to be done. Nothing could be done. How could they do anything but go on with their assault on the enemy and so win their goddess her freedom?
A voice shouted and she moved to her left to see a smaller figure, a mortal figure, walking forward from amongst the giants with his hands raised as he called for their attention.
“Put down your bows!” he shouted in a voice used to shouting across the waves and over the winds. “Put down your weapons and leave. You must leave or the Mother will suffer. Leave now and all will be well. Go, my brothers, go or the Mother will be harmed!”
At first, Sif could hardly believe what she was seeing.
Alef.
It was Alef.
He was with the demons. He was amongst them and he was with them, serving Torkos the Devourer.
Then the spirits poured the understanding into her all at once and she knew then, finally understood, that Alef was an enemy after all. He had betrayed them and he had betrayed her.
Alef had been trying to kill her that day when she had first seen Herkuhlos. Alef or one of his friends had then led the Heryos raiders to their village. Then he had fled with Sif and Z’ta and insisted on joining them. Later, Alef had told them the location of the Sacred Island and that was how they had found the Mother.
Alef had killed her father.
She knew it with complete certainty and with the knowledge came a cold fury.
The hunters behind her, stunned and heartbroken by the sight of the captive goddess, did as they were commanded and threw down their bows or turned and walked away, fleeing back to the trees and from there they would run home to the sea. Like her they had been shattered by the knowledge that the goddess was taken and Alef’s threat to her life had filled them with terror. What else could they do but obey?
Sif’s anger was almost more than she could contain but she had no focus for it and she shook with the rage. She was too far to do anything to help the goddess. Would the hunters listen to her if she tried to stop them? What could she say? What did she want them to do?
Alef was still shouting at them with his arms up, commanding them to leave. His betrayal enraged her utterly and in that moment she wanted nothing more than his destruction.
Without warning, Satara ran forward through the wheat ahead of her, his sealskin cloak dragging across the tops of them and threw out his arms and suddenly the end of his staff burst into flame. As he ran, he swept the staff through the ears of wheat and threw out his arms, flinging the fire around him. She knew how the magic was done, with tinder powder and blubber, but she had never seen it performed with such skill and she marvelled at the speed at which the fire spread as Satara ran through the dry wheat parallel to the village ditch.
The enemy had been stunned and confused by the strange man’s solitary attack but now they saw their fields burning they began shooting at him with bows and slings but thanks to the spirits they all missed him and he ran on spreading his fire as the smoke and flame spread behind him.
She knew with sudden insight that he had done it for her. Like the spirit walker performing a rite that distracts attention with one hand while bringing forth a charm with the other, he was drawing their attention to him so that Sif could do what was necessary.
Smoothly, Sif bent over low into the wheat and ran crouching through it toward the village while the Heryos shot at Satara as they followed his wild course across the face of the ditch. The dry wheat whipped past her face as the smoke swirled into the air above her and the fire crackled as it spread with appalling speed in the kindle-dry stalks. Ahead, she watched the shouting Heryos rushing after Satara and beyond them, through the domes of the tents, she saw the monstrous Torkos the Devourer, the vile Hrungna the Gorger, and the agonising vision of the Mother bound so horribly and yet with rigid dignity beside him.
Closer she ran util she reached the edge of the wheat field. Smoke from the approaching fires drifted across, showing the strength of the breeze that fanned the flames. Before her was a stretch of tangled, trampled dry grasses and then the edge of the village near to the stream that cut straight through between the curving ditc
hes. It was still a long way to the centre of the stone circle and a longer shot than she had ever made in her life. But she had to make it.
Her quiver held just one arrow now but it was her best one. A shaft of perfectly straight ash from a tree by her mother’s hut, strong and well weighted, with short fletching from the wing of a goose her father had killed for her and so his spirit would help to guide it. The flint for the arrowhead had been traded by the chief for a bundle of seal skin a year before and he had given it to her after she had last cleansed the bad spirits from his bowels. It flashed in the sunlight as she placed her arrow on the string and stood upright as she drew back her bow. The Heryos would surely see her now but she ignored them just as she ignored the heat of the flames threatening to engulf her and the bad spirits that swirled around to throw off her aim.
Spirits guide my arrow, she thought, aiming high and against the wind, and loosing in one motion. The string whipped forward and the arrow shot up over the tents going high, higher than she intended, shifting sideways in the wind and it stayed up for so long she thought it would never come down but then, seemingly almost beyond its target, it arced down and slammed into Alef’s throat.
Jerking back, he staggered away clutching at the shaft and she sent out a call of thanks to the spirits and to her father just as an enemy arrow sliced through her arm and a sling stone struck a blow against her skull and she fell back into the wheat as the flames leapt nearer.
37. Thunderer
Though the hunters retreated, a sudden fire burst into life in the wheat field drawing the eyes of all on that side of the village. There was an astonished hesitation amongst the men on all sides as they looked between the fire, the hunters, and Torkos with his immortal captive behind him.
The warriors of Torkos’ warband were still running back through the entrance to the village and whether or not the Seal Men were with him, and whether or not the goddess was now a prisoner, Herkuhlos had to fight on.