by Dan Davis
“Kill them!” Herkuhlos roared and charged ahead at the fleeing Heryos ahead of him. After just a moment his farmers and warriors joined him and they chased on over the entrance and into the enclosure where some of the Heryos turned to form a line of defence.
Speed was important now, they had to break through before the enemy warband organised a defence and so Herkuhlos threw himself straight at the warriors standing shoulder to shoulder ahead of him. He smashed their weapons aside, drove his axe into the head of the man on his right and punched his fist into the face of the man on his left and crashed through them with hardly a lost step.
Behind the Heryos were forming another line between two tents beside the track leading to the stone circle. Beyond them in the circle by the great tent stood Torkos, Hrungna, the goddess and a handful of mortals, one of them still shouting at the hunters with his arms raised. Astonishingly, he was a Seal Man himself.
As Herkuhlos watched the Seal Man was suddenly struck in the throat with an arrow that came seemingly from nowhere. He jerked away, his death a certainty, and Torkos and the others flinched from him as if he were tainted by some curse.
While they were all staring at the dying man, another figure moved behind them. A well-made mortal woman in the white robe of a priestess stalked forward with an enormous spear that was surely the weapon of an immortal for she could hardly close her hands around it as she levelled the weapon and ran forward at Torkos.
Hardly trusting his eyes, Herkuhlos watched her in astonishment as his farmers swarmed past him, led by Helek and his sons and Eron and the Furun chiefs. They rushed into the next line of defending Heryos with a savagery he did not think possible but he hardly noticed their courage because of what was happening beyond them in the stone circle.
Before the priestess struck, the goddess threw off the hands of Hrungna and ran at Torkos, shouldering him and sending him reeling sideways.
The white-robed priestess, unseen by the unbalanced immortal, rammed her great spear low into Torkos’ back. She had cunningly aimed beneath the bronze armour and inflicted a wound between his hip and his spine and he arced his back and roared in surprised agony.
Helek turned and called out, for his sons had cut a path through the Heryos and Herkuhlos shook off his astonishment. Limping from his wounded leg he loped forward through his warriors, swung his axe left and right at the Heryos still fighting and kicked at the fallen men still trying to stop him.
Then he was through and he left the fighting behind him and found the path ahead almost clear all the way to the circle of stone. The warriors that were there backed away from him with their hands up in submission and he ignored them as he made for Torkos. Off to the north the fire had grown enormously and it roared to the skies like it meant to engulf the whole world.
The yotunan had recovered from his surprise and he yanked the spear from his lower back and turned on the priestess. She did not attempt to flee and instead stood with her head held high as Torkos grabbed her by the shoulder with one hand and wrung her neck with the other. Torkos lifted her from her feet and roared in her face, his enormous, brute teeth dripping with spittle. Behind him, Hrungna the Gorger had recovered the goddess and pulled her away back toward the wall of the massive tent and they watched as Torkos snapped the priestess’ neck and tossed her limp body to the ground.
By then, Herkuhlos had reached the outer edge of the circle of stones and the goddess watched him coming. Beside her, Hrungna also watched and yet gave no warning as Herkuhlos rushed Torkos, loping forward with his axes in hand.
For a moment it seemed as though Herkuhlos would be free to strike the first blow on the unsuspecting Torkos but some instinct made him turn just in time.
Torkos stepped sideways and Herkuhlos missed his first strike by a hair’s breadth and his second fell short as Torkos backed away, drawing a bronze dagger and a bronze axe from his thick belt.
Changing direction, Torkos launched himself into an attack, his hideous face twisted into a rictus grin as his bronze blade whirled faster than Herkuhlos could see and he retreated while using his axe to block the blows. The dagger slashed a gouge down Herkuhlos’ forearm and the axe cut the air in front of his face as he backed toward an immense stone behind him.
Herkuhlos knocked Torkos’ axe wide with his own in a huge clash that jarred his arm and quickly cut back inside into Torkos’ belly. It was a hard strike and the bronze plates clanged, stopping the edge from cutting him but the blow was so hard it knocked the wind from the yotunan and his wild attack was stopped in its tracks.
Faster than the eye could see, the raging Torkos slashed with his dagger, opening a gouge on Herkuhlos’ chest and before he could grab the blade or block it, Torkos plunged the point into his belly.
Dropping his axe, the pain and mortal terror almost caused Herkuhlos’ legs to collapse but he grabbed Torkos’s shoulder and butted him hard. His forehead struck the jutting teeth of Torkos and ripped open the flesh above his eyes down to the bone but it hurt the yotunan too and he fell back, crying out in pain.
Keeping hold of his shoulder, Herkuhlos pushed him back and Torkos slipped on the body of the priestess and they fell heavily, Herkuhlos on top.
Recovering quickly, Torkos swung his axe at Herkuhlos’ head but he blocked the shaft with his forearm. The shock of the haft hitting his bone made Herkuhlos cry out in pain and rage as he butted the fallen yotunan again, this time crushing his nose with his wounded forehead. Blood poured from them both as they groped, half blind, for some advantage.
Yanking the axe from Torkos’ hand, Herkuhlos raised it high, ready to crush his enemy’s skull with a terrible final blow.
The dagger was still in Herkuhlos’ belly and Torkos yanked it free, twisting it as he did so to open up a deep gouge. Herkuhlos screamed in pain but still swung the axe.
Torkos caught the shaft in one hand and plunged the dagger into Herkuhlos’ belly again.
The pain racked his body and he folded around it like an animal curling around a wound. He lacked the strength to pull his axe free and it fell from his open hand to thump into the ground beside Torkos’ face.
Heaving up, Torkos threw Herkuhlos sideways and rolled with him so that he was now lying atop him, still with one hand holding his wrist and the other holding the dagger in his guts that he twisted, leaning his weight into it.
Herkuhlos writhed and tried to throw him off but his hands seemed to have no strength as he reached up to strangle Torkos. Blinded by pain and by the blood running into his eyes, he groped for Torkos’ throat but he felt only the great teeth and they snapped at him, trying to bite off his fingers. Weakly, he snatched away his hands and reached for Torkos’ neck.
Torkos also was weakening. The great wound in his back poured with blood and his fall had ripped it open further and now he found he could not lift himself from Herkuhlos’ grasp.
Herkuhlos wrapped both hands around Torkos’ throat and, summoning the last of his strength, he squeezed.
Torkos pulled away from the terrible power crushing the breath from him but he succeeded only in rolling over. Following him, Herkuhlos was astride him once more, now using his weight to push down on the yotunan’s neck.
Remembering the dagger, Torkos yanked it free and drove it once more into Herkuhlos’ flank. The agony jolted through him and his grip failed, allowing Torkos to wriggle free with a gasp, leaving the dagger where it had stuck between Herkuhlos’ ribs.
Still, Herkuhlos crawled after him and Torkos, on his back, looked up to where Hrungna the Gorger stood watching with the bound goddess beside him.
“Help me, brother,” Torkos snarled before Herkuhlos found his throat again with one hand and his words were choked off.
Hrungna watched as Herkuhlos yanked the dagger from his ribs, forced Torkos’ head up and slowly pushed the point beneath his jaw all the way to the hilt.
Still, the yotunan struggled beneath him and Herkuhlos drew it out, crawled up Torkos’ body and with his head drooping from exh
austion and pain, sawed steadily through Torkos’ neck as the hot blood ran out over his fingers and into the earth.
When it was done, Herkuhlos collapsed onto the bloody ground beside Torkos and looked up at the bright blue dome of the sky overhead. Smoke drifted across his vision and the world grew darker as figures appeared to block out the light. He could hardly take a breath and he felt his strength fading.
Silently, he hoped that his deeds would be worthy enough for his ancestors and with the joy of victory in his heart, he closed his eyes.
38. The Stag
Sif had always known the day would come when Herkuhlos would leave their tribe but now that day was here she found she was not ready to say farewell. Her son and her daughters stood beside her and their hearts were broken, though they too had always been told their father would leave them.
Herkuhlos wore his lion pelt and his shining bronze armour as he stood atop the dunes looking down at their tribe and though it had been many years since he had first come to them he looked not a day older than the day she had shot him with her arrow. In that time she had become a mother many times over and had aged, though always she had carried the scars of the battle fought by the circle of stone. The scar across her brow from the stone, the puckered wound from the arrowhead, and the burns on her back where the flames had touched her before she found the shelter of the stream between the wheat fields.
Though she had aged and carried those scars, Herkuhlos still held her in his arms beneath the furs at night and now that would be no more. She had walked the path of the maiden and she had walked the path of the mother and soon she would walk the path of the crone all the way to her death.
Beside her children stood Z’ta, the chief of their tribe, with his own women and children with their arms raised to bid farewell to Herkuhlos. Around them stood the people of their tribe, made up of the Seal Men, and Furun, and Heryos, all brought together as one. A people that fished in the sea and the rivers, grew crops on the land, and herded cattle on the hills above the village. Heryos warriors and Seal People hunters took Furun women and their children spoke the languages of their parents as they learned to hunt in the forests and herd cattle on the grasslands.
Over the sea to the north, the goddess looked out across the waves and smiled with her blessing to see the harmony and order that Herkuhlos had brought to the lands of her people.
“Sif!” Herkuhlos cried, suddenly impossibly close. “Sif!”
He grasped her in his arms and lifted her up, the water pouring from her body in streams and he slapped the tangled hair from her face.
Coughing, she grasped his arms and held on to him as he carried her away from the smoke and laid her on the ground.
“You’re alive,” he said and she saw the love and relief on his wounded face.
She smiled up at him and touched his bloodied forehead. The skin there had been ripped to the bone and pieces of it hung tattered from the long wound across his brow. Smoke swirled around them and men coughed and she saw that she was still beside the village where the battle had been fought.
She had a jolt of pain and loss as she remembered her children. They were gone and it almost made her cry out with anguish but then she knew that they would come back to her, in time.
“I had a vision,” she said.
He stared down at her, confused for a moment. “A vision?”
“You will leave me,” she said. “You will give me children and then one day you will leave me because of your oath.”
He looked down at her belly as if expecting to see it swollen already. “Children?” He shook his head, still confused. “I will not leave you.”
“You will,” she said. “You must.”
After a moment, he nodded and winced.
“Help me up,” she said and he obeyed.
“I will take you to the goddess,” he said, gesturing at the stone circle. “She will heal you as she healed me.”
Sif touched her brow and winced as she felt a welt there the size of a goose egg and touched the arrow wound. “Let her heal those who need it most.”
“Then I will heal you,” he said. “My blood has power.”
She looked at him closely then. Slightly hunched over, he was filthy with blood and soot and his tunic was torn and blood-soaked where he had been wounded. “You do not have blood to spare, my love.”
He shook his head. “All I have is yours.”
She laughed at that and patted his arm as she looked around at the devastation surrounding the village. Wounded men groaned and limped or were carried here and there and the dead lay everywhere. Behind her, the wheat was burned to black stubble and ashes all the way to the woodland and there were blackened bodies lying dead within it.
“Here,” he said, cutting open his finger with his knife. The blood welled from it and he held it out to her. “Go on.”
Hesitating only a moment she took his hand and guided his finger to her lips. He tasted of dirt and sweat but the blood was somehow clean and nourishing and when it reached her stomach she felt the strength of it spreading to her limbs. She stopped and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“It really does have power.”
He nodded and she noticed then how wild his eyes still were, as if he were stunned. Part of him yet walked with the spirits and he had been travelling toward the otherworld and still felt its pull.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
Herkuhlos gestured to the edge of the village where Satara stood with Z’ta, tending to wounded hunters sitting on the bank inside the ditch. “They told me you were in the fire. I almost died again when they told me.” He smiled. “Then we found you. You woke and cried out and then you slept for a while here in my arms and that was when your brother and the spirit walker went to help the others. Thank Kolnos you woke again.”
“Not sleep,” she said, touching the throbbing lump on her head. “A vision. I was visited by the spirits and they showed me a vision.”
“A vision of me leaving,” he said.
Frowning, she looked up through the drifting smoke to where the goddess stood in the centre of the circle with the demon Hrungna the Gorger beside her. “You did not kill them?”
“I killed Torkos. Only just. That one, Hrungna, he freed Nehalennia so that she could heal me. I left them to find you but I should return now. Despite what the goddess said, I do not trust him. Can you walk or shall I carry you?”
“I will walk,” she said. “If I can lean on you.”
They picked their way through the edge of the stream and into the devastation of the village. Arrows were everywhere embedded into the ground and into wagons and the fabric of the tents. Bodies lay on the ground, though many were already being carried away by men from one clan or another and she was stunned by the number of the dead. Wounded men cried out and were helped by their friends or left alone with their suffering and others picked through weapons and other treasures taken from bodies or captives or from the tents and wagons that were being rapidly searched.
When they reached the edge of the circle of stone she saw how the earth was churned with blood all around the enormous body of Torkos. The bronze armour, stolen from Herkuhlos, had been stripped form the corpse, as had the pelt of the great hound he had worn over it.
What took her attention though was not Torkos but the body of Alef with her arrow through his neck.
“That is Alef,” Herkuhlos said. “It seems he betrayed your people. I am sorry, Sif.”
She nodded, not knowing what to say until she said it. “A fine shot, was it not.”
“It was,” he said, not knowing it was her who had shot it. “You can have your people take him back to your lands and bury him there.”
“No.” They looked up. Nehalennia had spoken and was crossing the bloody ground between the tent and the edge of the circle. Despite the ordeal she had suffered and the filth that her white robe was covered in, she retained her magnificent dignity. “He will be tossed into the ditch and his
traitor’s corpse will be feasted on by dogs.”
“I am sorry for Alef, goddess,” Sif said as the goddess drew to a stop before them. “I brought him to you on the island. I knew something was wrong with Alef, I suspected him of treachery long ago but failed to act. This is my doing.”
The goddess reached out her long fingers and touched the lump on the side of Sif’s head. “We are victorious and our enemies are dead at our feet,” the Mother said. “We will have no talk of failure or of blame now. All is well, do you understand?”
Looking up, Sif met Nehalennia’s eye and nodded. “Yes, goddess.”
The Mother gestured with a bloody hand at two hunters carefully carrying the limp body of a woman into the tent. “She was a priestess named Sehi. Taking the spear of Torkos, she drove it into him before he killed her. Her sacrifice helped your victory, Herkuhlos.”
“I saw it from afar,” he replied. “As I saw you throw off your captor and unbalance Torkos. It was courageous of you.”
“It was nothing. But even so I should not have done it. The Covenant does not allow us to cause one another harm.”
“The Covenant?” Herkuhlos asked.
The Mother glanced down at Sif before answering. “Long ago all immortals swore an oath never to harm another.”
“Gods and yotunan both?” Herkuhlos asked, astonished.
“All the undying ones, yes.”
“But why?”
“To end the war before it ended us.” She looked at them both. “You understand this is sacred knowledge meant not for mortal ears.”
“But I am mortal, goddess,” Sif said.
The goddess smiled down at her and spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial voice. “The child you carry will be part immortal and so in a way we are almost kin.”
Sif was so astonished that she could hardly breathe.
“A child?” Herkuhlos asked and their eyes met.
“There will be time enough for celebration,” the Mother said. “There is much to be done.”