Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  Once the wine had been brought Berenger began his report. Abarca listened quietly and without interruption throughout. He pursed his lips just once when hearing of the lost wagons and bounty of iron they carried. Berenger ended his report by pulling a belt with leather pouches attached from under his tunic. He let it fall heavily onto the table beside the flagon of wine. “That is the city’s share of the takings.”

  Abarca nodded disinterestedly. Unlike the rest of the ruling elite of the city, Abarca was not avaricious. Instead, he placed his almost untouched wine on the table before him and cleared his throat., “I have had other reports of these horsemen you have described. They have appeared these last weeks to the west and north.”

  “So Barca sets his noose about our necks.”

  Abarca’s eyes flashed. “They will be tasked to cut off reinforcements, supplies and to harass.”

  “You want me to strike at them?” Berenger presumed the Strategos would want to keep his supply route from the north open.

  Instead, Abarca turned his flinty gaze on Berenger and shook his head. “Let them come. I have a bigger role for you than that.”

  CHAPTER 14

  CAROS STAGGERED, FLAGON of ale in hand, to the house and slumped onto a bench. He had found an easy rhythm in these long days since he had returned home. The village men would come midmorning and work till the sun grew too hot then they would return to Orze leaving Caros to his preferred solitude. He would open a flagon of ale and drink through the afternoon until he passed out on the bench at the front door.

  This was where Julene found him late in the afternoon. He squinted up with one eye when she wiped his forehead with a damp rag. The ale still ran warm through his body giving him a feeling of weightlessness. Looking up at her, watching her bosom shift under her tunic, he felt himself stir. The concern in her face and her large, shining eyes beckoned him and without thought Caros reached up and gently cupped her breast. Her eyes widened, and she stopped moving. He caressed her, savouring the weight and feel of her in his hand. His thumb found her hardening nipple and felt his body’s response echo hers. Pulling her closer, he sought her mouth with his while he loosened the pins of her tunic. She parted her lips to his probing and met him urgently. Her tunic fell free and his hands found her flesh, stroking and caressing.

  Rising to remove his breeches he saw a rider seated on a horse at the entrance to the yard. It was Julene’s youngest brother. Staring at the youngster, Caros felt shame course through him. What was he doing? He cursed. Julene was removing her tunic fully, her body plump and bountiful. She was his dead brother’s intended. What had he been thinking?

  “Stop. Your brother is here!” Stepping forward to protect her from her brother’s sight, Caros waved at the youth. How much had he seen? The boy looked afraid. Behind him Julene scurried to pull her tunic back into place and he heard her sobbing quietly in distress. The youth walked his horse slowly forward. These were deep country people who lived by honour and virtue. Clearly Julene had some experience of acts of love. It was only a matter of a season or so before she would have wed Ximo, so this was perhaps no surprise. Under those circumstances, while still not condoned, intimate acts were at least understandable. Caros spared a quick glance over his shoulder and saw her still struggling with the pins. “Quickly, he is almost here.” He hissed.

  The heavy wooden table on the front portico helped block her from view, or so Caros hoped. He uncovered the basket of foods she had brought him. Feigning indifference, he removed a fresh baked loaf from within and tore it in half. He looked to smile at the boy, but froze instead. Julene’s brother no longer looked afraid. He was glaring at Caros, his arm extended, pointing directly at his face. The words the boy shouted nearly made Caros choke.

  “Put the bread back! I saw what you were doing. Is it not enough you abuse my sister?”

  Stunned, Caros stared open-mouthed at the boy not yet sprouting hairs. He was on the verge of acting outraged when he stopped and looked down at the bread. It fell from his hands to the boards. It was not in him to be deceitful. He had acted inappropriately and he would accept the consequences. He gritted his teeth.

  Finally dressed, Julene scampered past him and down the stairs. She fled through the yard into the forest, the shortest way to her home. He watched her run ponderously, with her tunic held high enough that he could see her pink soles kicking up behind her. The boy was talking again, his voice rising and breaking as was usual in lads of his age.

  “When my father hears of this he will dash in your head properly this time!”

  “Enough!” Caros raged. In a single motion, he snatched the basket up and hurled it hard across the space between them. The basket flew straight and to Caros’ consternation, smacked the boy in the face. Caros shook his head in disgust. What were the odds?

  A shrill screech came from the yard and Julene was back; screaming at the top of her lungs as her brother clutched his face, blood running in twin streams from his nose.

  “You dare hurt my brother! Look at what you have done!” Her screeches went on and on.

  Suddenly, Caros really did not feel anything. His earlier shame and embarrassment drained from him. He turned and lifted an upright flagon. Outstanding. It was at least half full. Sitting, he stretched his legs and thumped his sandaled feet up on the table. Taking a long swig, he felt a rush of comfort. The screeching from the yard was kind of amusing.

  “...tried to kill me...monster...deserves to be run off...pirate.”

  He stared at the boy and woman who yelled intermittently his way and sobbed into each other’s arms. The boy’s bloody nose had stained Julene’s tunic and her tears had practically drenched the brother’s. Carlos took another long swallow and closed his eyes.

  Nobody arrived the following morning to finish the last of the work. The men had completed most of the rebuilding in the days since he had returned. The fire damage cut out, a new floor laid and stonewalls reset. Fresh thatch covered the roof and the front walls had been limed white. He spent the day brooding about what had happened with Julene. It was possible Brent would look to restore his family honour, although in the end the fumbling had not gone that far. Caros briefly considered going over to his neighbour and apologising, but felt that would attribute more to the sorry episode than it merited. In the end, he did what he had done almost everyday since returning. He gathered another jug of ale and wandered the house while drowning his guilt.

  Ugar arrived in the late afternoon. Caros was bleary eyed from sleep and ale but struggled to his feet to greet the stonemason. Ugar’s face betrayed his anger and Caros thought for a moment the aged man would strike him.

  “From that look, I would say you have heard about...”

  “Shut up, Caros!”

  This startled Caros into silence. He had never heard the kindly man’s voice so angered.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  The question confused him. The way Ugar asked it, his tone and the extreme outrage. He stared, thinking hard, trying to make some connection that made sense.

  “I thought I knew you. What I heard yesterday sickened me!”

  The stout old man pushed his face close and Caros’ anger began to rise causing his head to throb like a shaman on mushrooms.

  “Hold on! I...” he willed himself cooler and calmed his anger. “I am sorry, it just happened. She was leaning over me when I woke.” The stonemason looked on angrily while Caros struggled to put into words how he had felt. “I just needed someone, Ugar.” He finished lamely, suddenly feeling an acute loneliness well up inside. He slumped to the bench and leaned on his knees, trying to summon some strength against the pain of loss engulfing him.

  Moments of silence ended. “You needed someone!” The stonemason exploded.

  Caros looked up at Ugar, sensing something was unbalanced. There was more afoot here than what he had expected. With a hint of impatience in his voice, he answered. “I have never seen you so spitting mad. What in the name of Endovex are you on abou
t? We, Julene and I, never got beyond tits and tongues!” He thought how a couple of moments more and her stout little brother would have had a lot more to screech about. In truth, he felt like he had dodged an arrow. “See, her brother arrived and fortunately we were just kissing really.” He wished he had not used the ‘tits and tongues’ phrase he had learned from a crew of foul-mouthed Greek sailors.

  Ugar sat slowly on the opposite end of the bench, his face grey in the wan afternoon light. “Is that the truth? Really the truth?” He asked.

  With a curse, Caros explained what he had done and when he had finished the stonemason lowered his head for a long moment.

  Finally, he looked up at Caros, “Your story has a ring of truth in it, but it differs from what has been circulated.”

  Ugar told how he had heard from Brent that Julene and her brother had arrived home bloodied and crying. “Their story was that you had attacked Julene. Barbarically.” The old man shifted uncomfortably. “When her brother arrived, you turned on him as he tried to drag you off his sister.”

  Caros was stunned and horrified at the turn the true tale had taken. The villagers could demand he be killed for what they accused him of. He leaned deeper over his knees, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion. After a long while he sat up straight, resolve in his face.

  “I have told you how it happened, the what and why, as best I could. I am not saying I am an innocent, but I would never force a woman.” He grunted at the irony. “However, I will not apologise to anyone and I will not sit here meekly if any man decides to act on the false tale told. In return for leaving me be; I will resolve to stay away from the village. I do not know what my future holds for me. Maybe in time, I will leave, or this wound will poison me entirely. I do not know...” He looked away to the north, to the blue mountains of the Basque tribes, the Gauls and others. Was there any place he could find peace?

  Ugar watched Caros carefully. He felt the pain in the young man. So much hurt and still so strong without even realising it. This unpleasantness seemed to him to be an unnecessary insult to heap on the already tormented lad. Who of them could say how they would deal with any of what had already happened Caros if their own fortunes suddenly went so sadly awry? The lad had lost weight, was gaunt and sickly looking, but there was still a spark of fire in his eyes. He still had the Bastetani nobility in him. This much was evident in not accusing Julene of lying. To the point, Ugar thought, I believe him. He resolved to take the lad’s side of events to the elders. He would insist they at least delay taking any action until tempers had cooled. If they decided to exercise some kind of punishment on him, Ugar expected that Caros would not hold back. Such actions would cause the young man to become an outcast. Ugar shook his head at the vision of Caros as outcast, living amongst those vile marauders. He would be a very dangerous man as such.

  “I will speak on your behalf, Caros. There are already more than a few disbelievers of the untrue version so do not despair. I agree that you should stay away from the village and I am afraid no more work parties will be coming. Fortunately, most of the work is done. Stay here, rest.” He swept a hand about, gesturing at the empty ale jugs. “Stop drinking and get your strength and wits back. There is a future for you, a good future, even though it appears dark before you right now. Visit the tomb of your family, you may find some solace there with the already dead.”

  Caros blinked slowly, his gaze on the far mountains. He did not hear the old man leave.

  He rolled slowly onto his back, waiting for the beast to awaken in his head and the nausea to flood his gut. The buzzing began in his ears and then the dark presence arrived just as he began to heave. He threw up bile and the remnants of another day of drinking ale. When the heaving subsided, he found himself on his knees, eyes squeezed tight against the pressure in his wounded head. Blinking away tears of pain, he fought to focus. He did not even wrinkle his nose at the sour-smelling spew pooled a hand’s breadth from his face.

  This was the norm these days. He would have liked to say he knew how many days he had been back home, but that was something he had forgotten in a blur of long days drinking ale and avoiding the people of the village. At the thought of them, he peered about carefully to see if any were nearby. He was startled to find himself beside a hill road with his mare cropping grass nearby. Choking back a stream of bile in his throat, he pushed himself upright on his elbow. He remembered waking that morning and then drinking. At some point he vaguely remembered deciding to visit the tomb of his family in the mountains. He had never reached the tomb. He must have passed out and fallen from his mare.

  He rolled away from the vomit he had expelled and closed his eyes. When next he awoke, he coughed and gasped. Dust hung thickly in the afternoon air. Men were shouting and he felt the drum of hoofbeats reverberating through the soil. He sat up unsteadily and saw the steep mountain track was teeming with riders. Some of them watched him disinterestedly while others milled around, conversing in a strange tongue. He recognized them after a long moment. These were Masulians. He saw two riders converging on the rest, leading a horse. Realisation struck him. They had his mare!

  Outrage drove Caros to his feet and he paid for the swift movement with a hammer blow of pain from his head injury. He gasped and fought through the pain, staggering towards the men leading his horse.

  “Not so fast! That horse belongs to me!” He shouted angrily.

  The Masulians fell silent, their eyes boring into him. A heartbeat later, one rattled off something rapidly in his native dialect, earning laughter from the rest.

  Caros reckoned there were upwards of two or three hundred horsemen along the track. He closed on the men with his horse and one of them rode between him and his companion who held the mare’s reins. Caros tried to round the man’s mount, but the rider easily twisted his horse to block Caros. Furiously, Caros grabbed the man’s right leg and heaved upwards. Caught by surprise, the rider yelped, lost his balance and fell from the horse. The man’s companion snarled and rode his horse at Caros who barely avoided being knocked to the ground by the animal. He snatched at his mare’s reins and just as his hand closed on the leather, he was struck from the rear. The downed rider tackled him to the ground.

  Caros roared in anger and struck the man with his fist, but his blows seemed to have no strength and the rider quickly rolled on top of Caros and struck back. The first blow was open handed and this infuriated Caros even more. To be struck by an open hand was a grievous insult amongst the Bastetani and other Iberian people. With all his might, Caros batted away the next blow and then gripped the man’s tunic at the chest and pulled the rider hard towards him. As he did so, he rammed his forehead into the man’s face. The blow stunned the rider and his nose bubbled bright red blood. The man yanked away from Caros, tearing his tunic by which he had been holding him. Caros did not notice. He had his hands to his head and was almost unconscious from the pain that swamped him when he had headbutted the rider.

  The injured rider jumped away from Caros with a cry of surprise. One hand pinching his nose to stem the blood, he began shouting. The effect was like a bird twittering and many of the riders began laughing at him, not hearing his words. However, those nearest heard and drew closer to inspect Caros.

  At that moment, a single rider galloped down the column and pulled his horse up in a plume of dust and stone.

  “What are you men up to? Who is the donkey turd and why is he rolling about in the dust?”

  The riders looked solemnly at the speaker. He was clearly a leader and exuded an air of command and respect. The rider with the bloodied nose judged it a good time to remove his hand from his nose and spoke clearly.

  “The man is a drunkard and left his poor beast to wander loose and thirsty far from water or decent grazing.”

  The leader frowned and looked over at Caros’ mare. “So, take the mount, it is a beautiful beast.”

  “He tried to prevent us doing just that which is why I have this bloody nose, however he wears an amulet.”
>
  The leader looked from the rider to Caros who was slowly recovering and trying to rise. “Explain?”

  “The amulet. It is the white lion.” He said this last reverently.

  The leader’s eyes widened and he looked hard at Caros and the amulet dangling at his throat. The man addressed Caros in the bastardised Greek common in trading ports.

  “Greetings, stranger. You wear a powerful amulet, one that is not of your people. Where did you come by it?”

  Caros straightened slowly and stared at the man before him. Shorter than Caros, but about the same age as him, the man held himself with easy nobility. His accent was harsh, but Caros was used to foreign dialects. He lifted the amulet from where it hung over his torn and greasy tunic.

  “This? This was gifted to me by one of your own.” He paused to remember the name of the Masulian who had given him the amulet. It seemed like lifetimes ago. “Massibaka. The man who presented me with this, his name was Massibaka.” Caros was confident he had the name right, but the rider frowned sceptically at him. “Massibaka rode from Malaka with an Iberian named Gualam. He also gave me a war name.” Now he saw a shift in the rider’s eyes.

  “This war name you were given...what was it?”

  “The Claw. I am Caros the Claw.”