Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  And we of the People are no different.

  On each passing of the sun, each changing of the season, they had their habits. The warmer months were the time to hunt, to gather, to prepare for the cold to come. Battles were fought, brothers died. Then the days grew shorter, mediation ended conflict, and minds turned to making babies. As the snows came, the shamans would tell the families stories of the old times, of legends and myths. And with the new sun came fresh hopes, new desires and a chance to right old wrongs. Nothing changed, everything was predictable.

  And I would change all that.

  His brother Arluuq thought him mad for believing it, while young Immayuk told him every day that clearly he had been smoking too much of the weluck leaf. Only shamans had the power to harness its effects and Immayuk was eagerly awaiting the day Nutaaq’s topknot turned orange. But he was neither mad, nor a Singer in waiting. As the eldest of the three, he was the Father now, since the passing of their sire during the winter. In many ways he was only continuing what his sire had begun, taught as he had been to think beyond what was expected, to range further and look for opportunity in the wider world. And just look what those travels had brought back. He was glad his sire had lived long enough for Nutaaq to show him his discovery. There had been pride in those eyes, even as the life had faded from them. His sire had approved, and now he was Father, his word was law and the family would follow. But even he could not have dreamed that other families would have so quickly embraced his vision.

  ‘Nutaaq.’

  He felt the odd pressure in his head even before his name was uttered. It no longer scared him, nor caused him discomfort, but it was a strange sensation. To hear a thought in your mind that was not your own. Even the shamans could not do that.

  ‘Nutaaq. We are ready.’ The voice was light, soft, a gentle timbre. Like the kiss of a breeze upon the skin. It was the voice of Ellen, a female, but it was nothing like that of the females of his family. She was no more than a child to his eyes but she had power, that was obvious, and this Ellen was no fool. He respected her for that.

  He took a deep breath through his wide-ridged nostrils, then blew it out slowly and deliberately, gathering himself for the chase, focusing his thoughts on the task at hand. Twenty spans away, a small herd of oreqs gathered at the bank of the river to drink. One of the animals, the alpha male, had already filled his belly and now stood watch. The oreq was forever moving its head, the two spikes that emerged from its forehead pointed forwards, which helped to show which way the creature was looking. And you never wanted a male oreq looking at you, because those spikes would soon be aimed at you. He had seen one of the family’s hunters taken in the back. Those spikes had punched clean through his chest.

  Nutaaq tightened his grip on his spear and stood upright in one fluid, silent movement. His stare was fixed on the alpha. There were other males in the herd, but that one was the most dangerous. He pulled back his arm and released his spear in one smooth, practised action. The moment it left his hand he grabbed his second spear, and charged forward, letting out a bellow, a loud guttural challenge. His shout was joined by those of his brothers, the noise echoing in the clearing. The oreqs reacted immediately, their bodies tensing, ready to flee or fight, as they looked to the source of the sound. Nutaaq broke cover, knowing his brothers were with him, their spears flying ahead of them. Tissans appeared out of the brush to flank them, their weapons glinting in the sun. Escape routes blocked, many of the herd began to ford the river. It would do them little good, as more of the Tissans, along with Ellen, were waiting to receive them.

  Nutaaq kept his focus on the male. His spear had struck the oreq in its flank and drawn blood, but it was not a clean strike and the spear had been shaken free. The creature howled in pain and fury as it turned to face him, its powerful hind legs tensing, readying to leap. Nutaaq closed the distance to a few spans and levelled his weapon. The oreq launched into the air, its spikes aimed at his chest. Nutaaq followed the leap, raised his weapon, and thrust it forward into the alpha’s belly, even as he fell to his knees. Hauling back on his spear, he used the beast’s forward momentum to carry it up and over his head. The spear was almost torn from his grasp but he held firm and pulled it free.

  He swung round. The alpha had rolled and was scrabbling to regain its feet. Blood spattered the floor, pouring from the hole in its gut. It would die of its wounds but it wasn’t done yet. It bellowed, saliva dripping from its mouth as it lunged to bite him, Nutaaq struggling to keep the spear between them.

  A black shape entered his vision from his right side. It took a moment to register it was Immayuk. His brother drove his weapon deep into the alpha’s side. The oreq fell to the ground, snapping at the haft of the spear that held it pinned.

  ‘Finish it, brother!’ shouted Immayuk. He was grinning, though his face showed the effort of trying to keep the beast down.

  Nutaaq dropped his spear, pulled free his wide-bladed falchion, and leapt to the other side of the writhing alpha. He gripped his weapon with two hands, raised it high over his head and brought it down, chopping deep into the exposed, thickly muscled neck of the oreq. The head was half severed from the body, and the beast’s movement ceased as a pool of blood spread outwards, staining the ground.

  ‘You missed your throw,’ taunted Immayuk.

  Nutaaq knelt and wiped his blade free of blood against the oreq’s flank.

  ‘I did not miss, brother,’ he said, keeping his voice calm. Immayuk was deliberately baiting him, as he always did. ‘I simply wished to make the fight more interesting.’

  ‘Thank the Fathers I was here to help you then,’ replied Immayuk, as he pulled free his spear.

  ‘I thank them for you every day.’

  Nutaaq stood and looked at the outcome of their hunt. Most of the herd were still in the water, splashing away from them, following the river’s course south. He walked towards the bank and watched them get on to solid ground beyond the range of the hunter’s weapons. They would be allowed to go, they needed to survive and replenish their numbers. On the far bank, two more oreqs were down. His sharp eyes could see small arrows, bolts they called them, jutting out from the corpses. Fired from the mechanisms some of the Tissan warriors carried, they were deadly at shorter ranges, but Nutaaq had already decided that the People’s bows were more accurate and had a far greater range. The mechanisms, crossbows, took time to load. A good archer could loose a dozen arrows and guarantee many strikes in the time it took the crossbow to be readied. But arrows were rarely used to hunt oreqs. It was a mark of pride and expectation that in honour of the oreq’s great strength and ferocity, a warrior must face this enemy with spear and axe and club. The Tissans had no such scruples but then the Tissans were strange folk.

  ‘Nutaaq!’

  He looked towards his brother, running toward him, his spear levelled. An eruption of sound alerted Nutaaq to the oreq emerging from the water. He had no weapon, no time to react, could only brace for the impact. Another spear flashed into his vision and took the beast in the side with such force it knocked it back into the water. Then Immayuk was by his side. Another warrior stepped forward and brought his axe down hard on to the skull of the oreq, the crack audible as bone and brain were crushed.

  The warrior stepped back and Nutaaq realised his saviour was his brother, Arluuq. Tall and powerfully muscled, even for one of the People, Arluuq’s topknot was coloured yellow and had been allowed to grow down around his ears. It contrasted with his dark green skin and ensured he stood out in any melee.

  ‘It was the alpha’s female. She wasn’t happy with you, brother.’

  ‘I should have been more careful,’ conceded Nutaaq.

  Immayuk let out a long sigh.

  ‘Oh brother, where would you be without us to look after you?’

  Long dead. He conceded that even as the Father, he was not the mightiest warrior, nor the most cunning. Truly one is never so strong as with Family, and never so weak without it.

  He clapped Im
mayuk on his back and stepped forward, gripping Arluuq’s hand.

  ‘Good throw, Arluuq.’

  Arluuq shrugged.

  ‘It wasn’t me. That spear was on the ground ten spans away. It was one of them. The arrogant ones.’

  Arluuq pointed at one of the Tissan warriors, a tall, well-built male that wore ornate armour. His name was … Eilion? He was one of the Gifted, one who possessed power, so Ellen had told him. Arluuq had the right of it. That one carried himself like he was a great one, a hero, like all the Gifted did, except for Ellen. If she had not been present at their first meeting, their fledgling alliance may have swiftly met a short and bloody end.

  Nutaaq reluctantly nodded his thanks. The Tissan inclined his head slightly in return. Nutaaq owed the Tissan a debt, no matter what he may think of him.

  ‘Nutaaq? Are you alright?’ A voice sounded in his head. Ellen stepped forward from the group of Tissans, her face radiating concern. She wore armour too, though Nutaaq found it hard to imagine she could fight well in it. She looked too slight. Water dripped from her legs and waist from where she had forded the river.

  He grunted in response.

  ‘I am happy.’ She smiled at him.

  He inclined his head. There was no lie in her eyes. She was as she seemed, though it still unsettled him that she spoke in his mind that way. It was strong magic. And one of the reasons he had trusted to ally his people with hers.

  ‘Nutaaq!’ another Tissan called to him from across the river. It was the leader. They called him Emperor. Nutaaq likened him to a Father, the Great Father, Father of all. There had been no such person in all the history of the People.

  ‘Grace.’ Nutaaq used the word they all used to greet this man. It was getting easier to speak their words, though his voice growled out the sounds. The Tissan’s language was so soft to hear, to make the words come out properly he had to whisper them. He was also prudent enough not to reveal just how many words he had learned in their short time together.

  The Emperor crossed the water, flanked by two of his Gifted. He clapped Nutaaq on the arm and pointed at the carcasses. He said a few words and grinned.

  ‘He says that the hunt went well. The Family will feast tonight,’ sounded Ellen.

  Nutaaq grunted. He had understood well enough.

  ‘Brothers, let us go home,’ he commanded.

  He stood by and watched as the Tissans on the far side hauled up the oreq corpses and dragged them to the riverbank, their smaller frames making it heavy work for them. In contrast, his family easily gathered their share of the slaughtered, tied their legs together to thread on to poles which were in turn hoisted on to two sets of shoulders.

  The Emperor was still by his side so Nutaaq reached for the small waterskin attached to his belt, and took out the stopper catching the pungent smell of the fermented chaga within. He passed it over to the Tissan. The Emperor had taken a liking to it, and Nutaaq watched with approval as the man took a long drink, wiped his lips and passed it back. Nutaaq took a large swig. That oreq had caught him off guard and rattled him a little. He savoured the sour and sweet liquid and enjoyed the heat as it ran down his throat.

  The Emperor clapped him on the back. He did not mind, he liked the Emperor, he liked his energy, his passion. More importantly they shared a common bond and a common purpose.

  ‘Good,’ he said with a smile, his attempt at speaking Nidhal, odd and delicate.

  Yes, a good day. But there will be better days to come. Bloody days.

  Nutaaq smiled back and nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  Three cycles from now he would face the Fathers of all the Families and he would tell them of their future. He would tell them they were going home.

  CHAPTER THREE – MICHAEL

  Father Michael stood with his arms folded across his sleeveless leather jerkin and allowed his breathing to return to normal. There was a surprisingly cool breeze coming down off the mountains, but he barely felt it. His body was still warm from his exertions and he stood comfortably watching the deep blue sky ahead of him. His opponent, a Nidhal called Weguek, sat on his haunches just to his left, taking a long drink from a crude wooden tankard. Steam rose from his body, his upper torso bare to the elements. His grey-green skin was covered in old scars and fresh scratches. His topknot hung at an untidy angle, where one of the braids had frayed loose. It had been a real challenge to best the old warrior. Say what you would about the Nidhal, they were good fighters. Father Michael’s size – and there were no bigger among the surviving Tissans – matched the average Nidhal warrior’s build, and that meant he could go toe to toe with them. Ellen had told him that the Nidhal had observed his daily training, and wanted to see what he could do. He had been happy to oblige. For too long he had raised his weapon to strike a man down, to kill. Even his sparring back in the pits had stopped once it became clear no one would face him. With Weguek, however, it took all Father Michael’s efforts to defend himself, and in the end he just wore the Nidhal down.

  I must be getting old.

  Or perhaps it was his years of devotion to the Living God that had taught him wisdom. In truth he was not as sure as he used to be. All he knew was that the Emperor did not confide in him as much as he used to, preferring the protection of the Gifted. Father Michael had no problem with that; they were his bodyguard after all. Yet it galled him a little that the Emperor no longer expected Father Michael by his side, and that meant he could not fulfil the charge laid on him by the Arch Cardinal. So he did the next best thing, he trained. He practised his art, honed his body and polished his skills that had diminished in the long journey from Tissan. Now he was almost back to his best, his muscles had regained their strength and their speed … almost. No doubting it, he was older, and could feel the passing of the years. He had to make the remaining years count.

  I serve the Emperor, my Living God, until the day of my passing.

  A distant shout drew his attention to where a knot of Nidhal were gathered, gesturing to the sky. He looked up. An eagle approaching from the east. He looked around at the encampment, as more Nidhal came to witness its arrival.

  Weguek stood up next to him, eyes fixed on the bird. The spectacle of the visit of a giant eagle had not worn off among the Nidhal. Father Michael understood and shared their sense of wonder, even after such a long time being among the Riders and their mounts. The power of the Tissans to tame such mighty beasts inspired a respect in the Nidhal which had certainly helped pave the way for the alliance of the two species. The eagle passed low overheard and he spied black spots that dotted the wings. It was Hilda, Cadarn’s bird. There was a hubbub of interest interspersed with the howling of vargr, the creatures the Nidhal used a mounts. He and Weguek watched in companionable silence as the eagle’s wings flared and it touched down on the edge of the small encampment that the Tissan party called home. With the spectacle over, the Nidhal started to drift away. Father Michael clapped Weguek on the back. ‘Thank you, friend.’ The Nidhal responded with a tight nod. Father Michael left the small area between yurts they used for sparring and made his way towards the Tissan camp, keen to speak with Cadarn, eager to find out if the Arch Cardinal had sent him any messages.

  Walking between the Nidhal yurts he passed a vargr stretched out on the ground, it had clearly lost interest after the eagle had passed by. He paused a moment to admire the animal. All muscle and teeth, it was as large as a pony, with powerful hind legs, a coarse, shaggy hide and furry pointed ears, more like a bat’s than anything else Father Michael could think of. Its breath was deep and even, clearly at rest, but it regarded him with curious, if not a little suspicious, eyes. Easy there, just passing through. He had been here long enough now for his scent to be familiar and the many vargr scattered around the yurts to not instantly bare teeth at his passing. They had been fortunate not to encounter the wild packs that roamed these lands, there would have been bloodshed. He nodded to the creature and continued on. Why had he done that? No harm in keeping friendly,
he supposed, he’d had his fill of fighting wild animals.

  As he approached the Tissan tents he saw Cadarn was already in discussion with Bron. The Rider looked over and waved to Father Michael. He raised his hand in return as the pair left Hilda and headed towards the cookfire that Bron had permanently ablaze.

  He joined them at the fire where Cadarn was leaning over the cooking pot and filling his bowl with stew. Since setting up this permanent camp, the quality of food had improved, and the Nidhal had shared some of their knowledge of local herbs to add some welcome flavour to Bron’s cooking.

  ‘Father,’ acknowledged the Eagle Rider.

  ‘Leader,’ replied Father Michael. ‘What news?’

  ‘Forgive me, I am starving. Can we eat and talk?’ said Cadarn, in his usual calm and steady manner.

  ‘Of course, I could do with a meal myself,’ said Father Michael, trying to sound gracious.

  ‘Father Michael is always hungry these days,’ added Bron with a grin.

  Father Michael ignored the jibe and, collecting another bowl, helped himself to a large portion. Together both men settled on to a selection of Nidhal blankets scattered around the fire. Father Michael took a mouthful and chewed, he was desperate for news, but he let the Eagle Rider settle down to eat and tried to find his patience. Bron took a spot opposite them, leaned forward, picked up a small stick, and prodded the fire. Father Michael took another mouthful and chewed it faster, his frustration growing. Damn it all. He opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Things are getting busy back home,’ said Cadarn at last.

  Father Michael shut his mouth and nodded, his attention fixed firmly on his bowl.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘The Admiral has the place in a frenzy. I don’t think I have seen any man happier since this all started.’

  Father Michael grunted. Happy was not something he would think to describe Admiral Lukas. He looked with unconcealed cynicism over at Cadarn, whose mouth was quirked in a smile beneath his thick, grey-speckled beard.