Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  Struggling into a sitting position, Neugen wore a wary expression, but still he ventured, “Thought I would be up singing and eating long before you rolled your sorry ass off that pallet. Looks like you beat me there, ho?”

  Caros stared back flatly. “You will be up soon as well.” The words felt thick with insincerity. Neugen had a life to go back to. Still had one of the horses Caros had traded him. Of course, he could lie there and make light of their wounds.

  Neugen sighed. “Caros, things did not work out, but we are alive and that is a lot...”

  The words brought Caros’ blood boiling to his cheeks and he felt the anger closing his throat, even subduing the pain partially.

  “Neugen, how stupid are you? Is it quite impossible for you to see I do not want to talk about those things? Ever!” His voice was like a whip across Neugen’s face.

  The man smiled sadly. “How about what I want? You hold pain to you like a shield, Caros. It is not a shield, it is a... it is not a shield.” Neugen finished lamely. He was losing his appetite for trying to help Caros.

  Caros stared at him. “A shield? What is a shield, but to protect? Now you have these sudden deep insights my friend, how about you tell me what I have left to protect? Where is my mother, father, brother? Where is the girl I love? I have no shield because there is nothing left to protect.”

  “If you think that is true then you are a fool man. You think you are the only one who has lost loved ones? Look around you, Caros. The living overcome loss.” Neugen doubled over, gasping and coughing.

  Caros watched his friend spit blood into the dirt beside the pallet while Isbet rushed to help him. Saur’s dogs! Caros was panting with anger. His head was exploding.

  “Oh, leave him alone. Can you not see he is just enjoying this breeze and living a wonderful life?”

  Contrary to her normal nature, Isbet turned on him like a mother lynx.

  “Enough! You speak with no thought. You are bitter with anger and self-pity! He is doing only what any good friend would. If you do not see this, then you do not deserve such friendship. Now leave us until you are calm!”

  Caros was startled into silence and before he could say anything, she emphasised her meaning, “Go! Go! Go!”

  Caros stepped back, distancing himself from her fury. The children were staring at him and Tarren was watching from the nearby orchard. Silence fell, punctuated by wheezes from Neugen. Caros tottered back a step more. His eyes fell on the old lady, standing still as a statue and staring at him with hooded eyes. Nobody moved. He felt as though the world had gone mad. Or was it he? In the oppressive quiet, he turned and walked unsteadily toward the small livestock corral

  Tarren met him at the gate with a frank stare. “You want to ride away? You are too ill and what about your friend?”

  “I am fine, besides you heard her.” He snapped.

  Unfazed Tarren responded. “She did not mean to leave... you know, just go.”

  Caros almost laughed at the man struggling to explain. “I know what she meant. Are you going to open this gate or not then?”

  Tarren said no more and dragged open the pole gate. Caros did not need to call for the mare was already nickering her greeting and on her way.

  “Good girl, come on let us see how you are.” Caros stroked and patted the mare, her skin quivering in response to his touch. He looked her over and was relieved to see she had come through their ordeal with nothing more than a long, shallow furrow across her rump.

  Tarren left to fetch Caros’ pack and returned to help him mount the horse. When he was astride the mare, Caros nodded and burrowing in the pack, brought out a silver stater. He thrust it towards Tarren who ignored him and returned to the orchard. Caros felt a flush of shame, but quickly snuffed it with the more familiar feeling of anger. He clicked his tongue and the mare obediently set off. One last glance to his left saw Isbet removing newly bloodied linens from Neugen who lay prostrate on the pallet. At the last moment, Neugen raised a hand and waved slowly. Caros turned away and rode out of the yard.

  CHAPTER 11

  THEY WERE FORTUNATE. A day after capturing the wagons they had been overtaken by the Lusitanian and his two companions. The man advised Berenger that a column of sixty odd horsemen were coming down on them from the north. He smiled at the news that this column was just a half-day behind them and coming fast. They were fairly matched then, and it was unlikely that the horsemen would attempt to retake the wagons when they encountered a force equal to theirs in size. They may pursue and try to harass Berenger’s column, but more of his men were streaming back to the column every day and soon the enemy horsemen would be outnumbered two to one. Then they would flee or die.

  “Good work Rudax. Odd that they were so far behind the wagons, but no matter, take fifty men and keep up a rearguard. Let me know when they come into sight.”

  The wiry Lusitanian tribesman blinked. “As you wish.”

  Berenger frowned as Rudax pulled his horse around to gather the rearguard. “Wait!” Rudax paused. “There is something more on your mind?”

  The Lusitanian seemed to consider for a moment. “These riders are not Bastetani. They are unlike any I have seen before.”

  “How do you mean?” Berenger was curious.

  “They are foreign. They ride differently and dress strangely.”

  Berenger was bemused. “Ride and dress differently? Look around you Rudax; we are all mercenaries. The hills are full to bursting with men who ride and dress differently.”

  Rudax nodded once. “You asked Commander. I’ll take the fifty now.” With that he urged his horse back to the troops.

  It was true that in the last ten years the hills and valleys of Iberia had rung to the clash of iron wielded by men from many lands. It was as though the land was a magnet for violence and power. Mercenaries were the order of the day. Between sunrise and sunset a Commander could bolster his troops with mercenaries from ten different lands. Show them coin and they’d follow. Show them loot and they’d fight. Show them mercilessness and they’d win.

  By evening the wagons and column had travelled a dozen leagues. True it was mostly downhill, so they had made good time, but Berenger fretted about every day between them and Sagunt. Added to that, the strange horsemen Rudax had observed had not reappeared. That may not be a bad thing, but Berenger preferred to know where his enemy might be. It was possible they had no connection with the wagon column. On the positive side, two of the bands of the raiders he had flung out like a net of death over the Bastetani lands, had now returned and his eighty men were bolstered by an additional forty. A warhorn sounded from the hills to his right, another incoming band. Return calls sounded and soon a string of riders materialised into view as they slipped down a forested hillside to join their fellows on the road. Berenger watched as the men joined their companions, counting off the number returning. “That is Turro’s lot, and he is short by seven men.”

  “Eight. They now have a woman with them.” Josa argued.

  Berenger looked again and realised Josa was right. He fumed silently. Could these fools not understand the necessity of speed? “Order camp set. Sun’s almost down.” Turro had made no move to seek out Berenger and report to him. This maddened the Commander still more and he ground his teeth as Josa rode off yelling for the camp to be set. Men cheered happily and amongst them Berenger could hear Turro’s baying laugh. No doubt regaling his peers with his tales.

  It was dark and flames were snapping hungrily at the dry branches collected to build Berenger’s fire beside the lead wagon. He sat on a cask taken from the wagon and swept a whetstone down the sword blade time and again. Across the fire Josa quaffed a slug of potent ale liberated from the stores on the wagons. He hiccupped and leaned forward to turn the haunch of goat roasting over the fire. Berenger sighed and sheathed the wickedly sharp blade and wrapped the stone. Josa sat up quickly and plugged the spout of his flask. Berenger smiled across the fire at him. It was a tight, icy grin and Josa nodded his head.

>   The two men rose together and strode down the line of boxy wagons. Ahead more fires blazed and men sang and shouted. Laughter rose and fell in tides of boisterous abandonment. The men were recounting the past weeks’ raids and skirmishes. Their tales encompassing everything they had accomplished from daring bravery to wanton horrors. Berenger, dressed in customary black, swept from the shadows and appeared in the midst of the warriors.

  The men stood in a wide circle around a large fire. Flames and sparks twisted into the velvet darkness above while yellow light reflected off their bared torsos and bronze and silver armbands. Many swigged from skins of ale. An entire goat looked to have been consumed already and bones and scraps lay scattered about. One man laughed and roared loudest among the thirty or so men. A thick arm, corded with iron-like muscle, lay draped across the shoulders of a fellow warrior as the two drank in fellowship. The flickering firelight played over the giant’s chest where old scars, white with age, writhed and battled with more recent livid blue and purple scars. This was a warrior who accepted battle at every opportunity and laughed at death.

  Men about the scarred warrior fell silent as Berenger appeared amongst them. The warrior slapped the man beside him on the shoulders and sent a boom of laughter into the night at some jest he made. Despite the hush that had fallen on every man there, the warrior lifted a skin of ale and poured a stream down his throat. He followed that up with a huge belch and then smiled ingenuously over the fire at Berenger. “Commander! Have a drink!”

  Berenger cocked his head. Men muttered, and the circle shifted as they stepped back. The warrior was unperturbed and laughed. “It’s a fine ale. Brewed by some Bastetani in Baria. You must try some and I’ll tell you all about how we got our hands on it.”

  “You are eight men less and you brought a woman back.”

  “Ah Commander, you know the way of it. Some things look like things they have no business looking like.”

  “She’s not a woman then, but one of your cousins dressed as a woman?” Berenger threw back, knowing Turro fought almost exclusively with men of his own family beside him. Brothers, uncles, cousins and nephews. Turro gave a roar of laughter.

  “Excellent Commander. I’ll admit there are a couple of the family that could clean up like a girl if they put a thought to it.” He threw the skin of ale to a nearby warrior who fumbled it. “If you’ll not have the ale Commander perhaps you’d like to hear how we came by it?”

  Berenger stepped past the fire. A figure appeared behind him. It was Josa, clad in armour and hefting an axe and short sword.

  Turro stared hard at Berenger. “What do you want Commander?” His voice had gone cold as iron. This was not a man who acknowledged fear.

  “What do I want? For a start, perhaps you could repeat what you just called me?”

  Turro was no fool and saw immediately what Berenger wanted. “Commander.” He spat the word free from his lips after a short pause.

  “Thought that’s what you said. Do you know what that means?”

  “Piss off, Berenger. I only fight for you. If you need men licking your arse look elsewhere.”

  “See now that’s where I’m confused. You had to really just report back to me when you returned. Yet it seems I am too insignificant to merit even a brief report. Is that it?”

  Turro glared at Berenger. “I’ll repeat myself Commander. I fight for you. Neither I nor my kin owe you more, we are free men.” Around the fire, men shouted in agreement.

  Berenger was seething. These fools were quick to take the gold in return for swinging a sword, but thought nothing of strategy or discipline. That was why the Barcas could crush the tribes. “I’m disappointed Turro. You could be a great war leader, but until you can see past your own short sword, that will never be and you’ll always just be fighting for somebody else. If you cannot bring yourself to do a thing as simple as reporting to me, then I suggest that you take your kin and leave.” Berenger was ready to kill the warrior, but the bastard had a dozen kin here and who knew how many others would fight for him.

  Turro stepped towards Berenger with a growl, but an arm snaked around his chest as an older man than Turro stepped into the light. Berenger could not place him, but the man was clearly also one of Turro’s kin.

  “Commander, begging our apologies for not reporting sooner. It is regrettable, but we lost good men, brothers and cousins in a fight just yesterday. We mistakenly thought that we could relive their glory this night with our brother warriors and report to you on the morrow.”

  Berenger’s eyes narrowed as he listened to the obvious diplomat of the family speaking. “You have a name?”

  “My pardon, I am named Catalon. Brother to the father of Turro here.”

  “You’re his uncle then. Here it is then, you want the coin I’m paying you to fight for me, then from here on out you and your men obey my every command.”

  Catalon smiled and some of the tension in his shoulders faded. “Thank you Commander...”

  “That’s not all. You brought a hostage back, a woman. She’s now forfeit and to be sent to my campfire immediately.” Turro growled again and even the diplomatic Catalon frowned. Berenger didn’t allow him to argue. “And finally your man here and I end this now.” His meaning was clear as he patted his sheathed sword.

  Turro smiled on hearing the last condition. Catalon whispered furiously to the powerful warrior who just shrugged him away. “If that is what you want Commander, then I will be happy to obey.” He swept down and in one fluid movement pulled a war axe from the bundle that had been lying in the shadows at his feet. Berenger’s eyes twitched in surprise, but his trained reflexes were already guiding his own great sword from its sheath. With a long, loud rasp the blade flashed free and Berenger sprang at the grinning Turro. Turro had expected some element of surprise and hesitation in the Commander when he lifted the axe, but instead it was he who was surprised at how fast Berenger responded. He was forced into a hurried defence as Berenger lunged. This was a death match and there would be no drawn out parrying. Each man knew his life could now be measured down to a few last frantic heartbeats. Their blood pounded and their breath raced. Outwardly they appeared to be revelling in the challenge and the warriors in the circle were quickly joined by more and more from other campfires until a throng of men stood crowded about the impromptu battlefield.

  Sword and axe clashed and the men cheered as the two combatants came together at the chest, their weapons straining against one another over their heads. Berenger was angling to bring his sword down through Turro’s shoulder, while Turro was using his great strength to smash his blade through the Commander’s skull. For a second they strained like that and then quick as a lynx Berenger twisted his hip and reversed his power to pull on Turro’s axe. The warrior lost his balance and stumbled, his crotch smashing into Berenger’s knee. He groaned in agony and was sure something soft had popped. Berenger for his part had not intended to knee the warrior in the crotch, but to throw him to the ground over his knee. He had miscalculated, unprepared at how fast the big warrior had compensated. Now though he had the momentum and used it to plunge his sword down into Turro’s chest behind the collarbone and straight into his heart. The point of the blade pierced the man’s thick skin, but only sank that far before Turro drove his axe shaft up into Berenger’s solar plexus.

  Berenger sprang back, dragging his sword free with blood pursuing an arc through the air about them, splattering like vivid tribal war paint across the bare chested warriors chanting all about them. Turro was already launching himself after Berenger who could not take a breath due to the blow to the soft point between his ribs. Berenger crouched and rose in the blink of an eye and in so doing, unlocked the muscle spasm, allowing him to breathe again. He swivelled around Turro as the man led a charge with his axe. With practised dexterity, he swapped the axe to his left hand and as he passed Berenger, the blade flashed in a backhand blow that thumped into Berenger’s hip. With a hiss of agony, Berenger whipped his blade at Turro and laid
the warrior’s left arm open from shoulder to elbow. Turro did not seem to feel the blow and snapped back, coming in low and fast. Berenger found his mobility dangerously limited by the injury to his hip beneath the split leather armour. Turro again had the advantage and so Berenger knew he had to end this fast. Still breathing raggedly from the two blows he’d taken; he vowed not to underestimate the big warrior’s speed again. Instead he would use his trusted counter-move against a fast, skilled and above all, powerful warrior.

  Every old warrior has one or two personal tricks. In Berenger’s experience big, powerful men like Turro were used to men shying away from them and fighting from a distance. It was understandable, but such warriors counted on it and timed their swings in expectation of their opponent gliding away, just as Berenger had done before being struck. Turro had probably killed tens of experienced warriors with just that move. Berenger moved to back away, just a slight twist of his hips to give an indication of the direction he’d move. Turro saw the move and knew he’d kill the Commander now. The axe swung and blood sprayed from his flayed arm with which he still gripped the axe. Berenger saw Turro swing and flicked his eyes in the direction his hips pointed and then moved the opposite way; straight into the swing. His sword blade held across his chest, Berenger drove sideways into Turro. To his credit the warrior had recognized the feint the moment Berenger flicked his eyes. He adjusted the arc of the swinging axe, but it was not enough, so he dipped his right shoulder and twisted his chest, hoping to allow the sword point to glance off a rib. The noise in the camp rose to a crescendo. Warhorns blared and men roared. The guards on the perimeter had long since left their posts and clambered onto the shoulders of their brothers already in the circle. Others had become so incensed by blood lust they had started to fight amongst themselves. The oxen, those still alive, bellowed and pulled in fear at their traces, but could not escape, tied and braced as they had been for the night. Under the rear wagon the dazed and hurt woman lay bound. Her fear grew and she sobbed uncontrollably even as she felt her bladder loosen. Strange birds called from the dark hills and eyes followed the movements of the warriors around the fire.