by Angus Watson
Ottar squeezed his racoons, then looked up at the chief of the Green tribe and nodded, eyes full of tears.
Sassa couldn’t help her own tears springing, but neither could she help being just a little satisfied to see all of the women of the Owsla—even Sofi Tornado—walking briskly away lest, she was sure, any of the Wootah should see the world’s finest warriors crying over a boy and his pets.
Chapter 8
Off We Go to Kill Beaver Man
A thin drizzle soaked them slowly but efficiently. The local deer didn’t seem to mind the penetrating damp and were more numerous here than anywhere else on their odyssey so far. In the long uphill hike out of the Green tribe’s town there were thousands of the buggers. A couple skittered from their direct path, but most only looked up from their grazing and chewed fearlessly at the Wootah and Calnians as Klippsta and Weeko Fang led them by.
Ottar the Moaner’s wailing didn’t seem to disturb the deer. Erik the Angry had never seen anyone as magnificently grief-stricken as the boy. Freydis tried to comfort him for about twenty heartbeats before declaring him a lost cause and marching on ahead, at which point the boy sat on the path and howled and wouldn’t go on. So Chogolisa swung him up onto a shoulder, where he wailed all the more, kicking and punching in frenzied anguish.
Erik the Angry’s emotions morphed from wet-eyed empathy via self-congratulatory tolerance to silently imploring the little fucker to shut the fuck up. He could have dropped back or walked ahead, away from the sob siren, but Chogolisa was carrying the boy and Erik felt that he should support her.
Two things cheered Erik, though, both of them footwear-related. First, Tatinka had given excellent leather boots to all the Wootah, with hard but pliant soles (she’d also offered them to the Owsla, but Sofi had said they would be hampered by such large shoes). Erik was very grateful for them. The boots looked smashing and, by the way they gripped the wet track and had so far kept his feet warm and dry, they were as good as they looked. The second was his invention of Paloma’s watershoes. He’d spent the previous day making two new pairs. In both he’d used more sinew to make them tougher and he’d weaponised them by fire-hardening and sharpening the edges. One pair was roughly the same size as his prototype, one was a great deal smaller. Erik guessed the optimal size was somewhere in between the two, but these were early days.
The image of Paloma Pronghorn running across a lake, unstrapping her shoes and laying into an unsuspecting enemy with them cheered Erik at least as much as his new boots. However, the image of Paloma sitting on the lake edge asking her foe if they wouldn’t mind waiting a mo before she smote them because she had to unstrap her watershoes was a bit of a turd in the cookpot. He’d have to have a look at making those bindings easier to release.
The path flattened out and Ottar’s wails, finally, quietened into a snotty snivelling. Freydis fell back to rejoin them and asked if she could go up on Erik’s shoulders.
They walked along in contented silence until Chogolisa asked: “What are you thinking about?”
“How to improve Paloma’s watershoes.”
“Put grease on them to repel water?”
“Possibly, but no, it would be an extra hassle and she doesn’t strike me as the type who likes getting grease on her hands.”
“You’d be right there. How about beaver fur?”
“Difficult to attach so that it would stay on at high speed.”
Chogolisa made several other suggestions, all of which weren’t bad but weren’t good enough. In the end she gave up and said: “What do you think is in the woods?”
“Fuckloads of deer?”
“Erik the Angry!” scolded Freydis from his shoulders.
“Many deer.”
“That must be it. Beaver Man and his army of dagger-tooth cats are cowering on the plain because they’re scared of deer.”
“Uncle Poppo was bitten by a deer once,” said Freydis, “but it was his fault.”
As Freydis told the story of Poppo and the deer-bite, Erik looked into the trees. He thought he saw something bigger and a whole lot darker than a deer slinking through the undergrowth, but then it disappeared.
“What is in the woods?” he wondered aloud when Freydis’s story was done and Chogolisa had finished laughing.
“You really want to know?” asked Klippsta, who’d nipped up silently behind them.
“Sure,” said Chogolisa and Erik at the same time.
“They’re ghosts,” said Freydis.
“Good guess,” said Klippsta. “That’s pretty much right. The Badlanders have been using some weird ancient magic for years to create their freaky animals. When they do that, the essence of the animal’s life—its soul if you like—leaves its body. I don’t know how, I guess she uses a similar magic, but Tatinka calls those souls here to live in the woods.”
“Why?” asked Erik.
“To scare me when I’m alone, I reckon. Sometimes I feel them pass right through me,” he shivered.
“And to stop the Badlanders,” said Freydis.
“That is the official reason. I don’t know what all those souls would do to Beaver Man and his gang, but I guess he does, because no Badlanders have been into the woods for years.”
“I don’t think they’re scary,” said Freydis.
“You don’t have to come back all this way on your own,” complained Klippsta.
Erik guffawed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Chogolisa.
“Klippsta reminded me of an old Lakchan joke.”
“Go on then.”
“Okay. A child and a child murderer are walking together, deep into the dark, dark woods. These woods are scary! says the child. You think you’ve got it bad? answers the child murderer. I’ve got to come back this way on my own!”
Erik laughed but nobody else did and they walked on in silence.
“That wasn’t a very good joke,” said Freydis after a while.
The drizzle dissolved into a mist which eddied in ghostly tendrils around treetops and craggy outcrops, until Innowak the sun god decided that enough was enough, blasted the mist away and beamed his dazzling rays onto the wet rocks and leaves. A multitude of tweeting birds bounced in from wherever they’d been sheltering and embroidered the fresh morning with their shrill song, serenading the passage of Wootah, Calnians, Weeko Fang and Klippsta.
It was a two-day journey to the southern edge of the Black Mountains. They camped the first night next to a broad, dark lake. The lake was made, according to Klippsta, by a multitude of beavers damming the valley.
Finn the Deep trudged south to inspect the beavers and their dam. He didn’t have anything else to do. Paloma had been with Erik since they arrived, running on the lake’s surface with some special shoes he’d made. He could see why it was fun, but he couldn’t see why they both had to laugh so much, and why she had to fall into his arms at the end of every run. She clearly preferred being with his dad to being with him. Which was completely fine. His dad was a great guy. Finn really didn’t mind. He was Finn the Deep now and such things did not trouble him. Although it wasn’t like Paloma had even tried hanging out with him to see what it was like before getting all chummy with his dad.
He’d tried to talk to Thyri, too, but she’d been too busy sharpening her sax to even acknowledge his greeting. Again, not a worry.
The beaver dam was an amazing thing, he told himself. How had they got those huge logs in place and how did they keep them there, he tried to wonder.
He stayed as long as he could pretend to himself that he was marvelling at the beaver dam, but Erik and Paloma were still at it when he got back. Sofi Tornado had joined them now. Paloma was towing the Owsla captain behind her, along the water. The soles of Sofi’s feet were slapping against the surface, jetting plumes of spray. Finn thought he heard Sofi whoop, but decided it must have been Paloma or a goose or something.
He looked about for something else to focus on. He found Ottar the Moaner, sitting on a rock by the lake, crying silent
ly. He sat next to the boy and put his arm around him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring you back here and we’ll see Hugin and Munin again.”
Ottar made a face like twisted laundry and groaned like a morose moose. To Finn’s surprise, he understood what the boy meant. He was saying thanks, but he knew that he’d never see his racoons again.
So spectacular was the scenery on the following day, great fins and towers of stalwart grey rock soaring out of the forest, that Finn the Deep almost cheered up about the fact that Paloma Pronghorn hadn’t even fucking spoken to him since they’d kissed. Neither had Thyri Treelegs. And, for some reason that he was sure she could justify with an annoying phrase, Gunnhild was avoiding him, too.
It was mid-morning when Wulf the Fat jogged up, his face split with a grin that Chapa Wangwa would have been proud of: “Look, man, and remember this moment for ever. You will never see a rock that looks more like a cock.”
“Pretty sure you’ve told me that before,” said Finn.
Wulf pointed at a rock tower maybe six times the height of a man. It was topped with a helmet-shaped boulder. Two round boulders poked from fir trees at its base.
Wulf was bouncing with delight. “It’s even got pubes! It proves my theory beyond any shadow of a doubt. There is definitely a Scrayling cock god who’s gone around making these. This one is not a mistake, my friend. There’s no way—by Tor, there’s another one. It’s even better! The knob of a chubbier man! Or maybe the chubbier cock of a thin man …”
The two young heroes strode along spotting cock rock after cock rock and laughing. Wulf’s enthusiasm for phallic geology made Finn forget the woes that the world had yet again piled upon him. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, they descended a path that overlooked another beaver-made lake. This lake was smaller, surrounded by domes and vertical slices of grey rock on one side, and with meadow and trees running into it from the other. There were no beavers to be seen, perhaps because, standing on the far shore, was Beaver Man himself, hands on hips, looking up at them.
“And this,” said Klippsta, “is the edge of Green tribe territory. I have enjoyed your company, goodbye.”
And off he buggered.
“Has Beaver Man seen us?” Bodil asked.
Nobody answered.
“Got your arrows, Sitsi?” asked Sofi.
“In my quiver.”
“Good. The highest of the outcrops on the west of the lake looks like a good vantage point.”
Looks a lot like a cock, too, thought Finn. He glanced at Wulf. The captain of the Hird, leader of the Wootah diaspora, winked. Finn bit his lip, but a squeak of laughter peeped out.
“Chogolisa, go with Sitsi,” Sofi continued, throwing so dark a look at Finn that it made him sweat.
Sitsi and Chogolisa slid away.
Finn watched Erik watch Chogolisa go. His father’s blue eyes were wide with concern above his bushy, dark blond beard. They all knew Erik liked Chogolisa and that she liked him. So why had his dad been pissing around with Paloma?
“Where are the cat cavalry?” asked Keef.
“In the trees behind Beaver Man,” said Sofi. “Wulf, take Erik, Keef, Thyri and Sassa around the eastern shore. Cross the meadow quickly then stay in the trees, stay together and stay defensive. Sassa, shoot anyone who has a blowpipe. Do not hesitate. They mean to kill you and yours. If it all goes to shit, flee across the lake to the rocky end. They won’t be able to swim as well as you and Sitsi can dissuade them from trying with arrows from her perch.”
“The rest of you, stay here, protect the children.”
Finn looked about. Weeko Fang was focusing on scraping a pattern in the dirt with his toe. So the hero of the Desert You Don’t Walk Out Of didn’t mind being put on nanny duties instead of fighting. But Finn the Deep did.
“I should go with the Hird,” he said.
“This is a proper post, Finn. The cats are fast and could easily flank the others and run up here. You have just as good a chance of being killed as everyone else.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay then.”
Finn could see Paloma and Sofi intermittently as they headed down the slope, through the trees. The Hird plus Sassa ran across the meadow and into the trees on the eastern shore, as instructed. Sitsi appeared at the top of the highest outcrop at the west end of the lake.
On the far side, beyond the southern shore, the dagger-tooth cavalry padded towards Wulf and the rest of them.
Finn looked at Ottar and Freydis. Ottar was still miserable, showing no interest at all in the butterfly that his sister was pointing out to him.
Then it all happened.
Beaver Man jogged across the clearing. Paloma Pronghorn tore across the lake on her watershoes, pulling Sofi Tornado behind her. Beaver Man stopped to watch them approach. Sitsi’s arrow hit him square in the chest and penetrated deep.
That’s it! Finn realised he was bouncing on his toes in excitement and stopped. But Sitsi had hit Beaver Man with the magic arrow right in the heart!
He really hadn’t thought it was going to be that easy.
And, of course, it wasn’t.
Beaver Man ignored the arrow protruding from his chest. He ran to meet Sofi and Paloma. Another arrow stuck in his shoulder and checked him for an instant, but only an instant.
Sofi and Paloma reached the shore. Paloma sat to unfasten her watershoes. Sofi walked to meet Beaver Man, stone axe swinging.
Sitsi’s spirits sank. She’d pierced his heart! Why wasn’t he dead? Tatinka had told them that the arrows would penetrate his flesh, and she’d been right. Sofi had suspected that they wouldn’t have much effect on him, and she’d been right, too.
Sitsi sat, bow on her lap. The rock wobbled below her. The top of the pillar she was on was a separate boulder, which had somehow stayed on its perch through the ages. The wobble stilled and Sitsi relaxed. These were Sofi’s orders. Shoot him twice, then wait in plain sight until the next cue.
“Wootah tribe!” It was Rappa Hoga.
They could see glimpses of dagger-tooths and riders through the trees and Sassa had raised her bow a couple of times, but so far she’d had no clear target to shoot.
“Yup!” answered Wulf.
“Stay where you are. Do not attack us and you may live to the end of the day. Do you understand?”
“Do you mean do I understand what you’re saying, or are you asking whether I agree to it?”
“The latter.”
“In which case, go fuck yourself! We’re coming for you!” yelled Wulf. “Woooootah!” then, in a hoarse whisper, “all of you stay exactly where you are. Do not attack them unless I say. Don’t shoot any of them, Sassa.”
“I strongly recommend,” called Rappa Hoga, “that you remain where you are.”
Sofi accelerated into a run and launched herself at Beaver Man, all her weight and strength in an axe blow aimed for his head; at least that’s what it looked like. He raised an arm to block, as she’d known he would. She diverted her axe’s swing to smash his elbow and slammed her palm into his nose a moment later.
She skipped away. The Badlander’s nose was ruined, there was white bone protruding from his elbow, but there was no blood.
“The deer tick,” he said, “is my chief power animal. Not the most splendid of beasts, but indestructible and strong as an army. Come on, I’ll let you have one more go at me without striking back before I kill you.”
She danced towards him, axe flashing, and heard him prepare to punch her. Indestructible, but not as noble as he liked people to think. She ducked the blow, smashed his chin with an axe uppercut and drove her pointed fingers into his liver, hoping that his lower organs might be vulnerable.
They were not.
Beaver Man leapt at her, arms and legs flailing in a frenzied onslaught. Frenzied was Sofi’s least favourite type of attack. She couldn’t avoid every blow. Her upper thigh exploded with pain as he drove a knee into bunched muscle, then he caught her on the temple with a punch like a moose’s kick.
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She reeled. He followed, hammering fists into her midriff. A rib, possibly two, cracked. A backhanded slap blinded her for a moment.
She heard him step back, heard him wind up for a punch that would take her head off. There was nothing she could do about it.
Then something struck her hard and she was flying.
Sitsi watched Beaver Man beat the crap out of Sofi.
Sofi had told her to hold, whatever happened. She did as she was bid but it was horrible to watch. Anyone but Owsla would have been killed long before.
Beaver Man wound up for a punch that would surely finish things, but Paloma, having finally unstrapped her watershoes, came tearing across the clearing, dived at Sofi and shot on, carrying the Owsla captain into the woods at around the same speed as a falling star.
This was Sitsi’s cue.
Beaver Man turned to follow Sofi and Paloma. Sitsi Kestrel loosed an arrow. It zipped over the lake and skewered the Badlander through the back of the neck.
No matter how good an archer you were, it was difficult to shoot exactly where you wanted. Imperfections in the bow, twine, arrow shaft, head and fletching could all affect the course of an arrow, as could external factors like wind, altitude, temperature and the wetness of the air. So Sitsi was very happy when her arrow pierced Beaver Man’s neck dead centre, severing his spine.
Instead of flopping to the ground and never standing again, however, as any decent man would have done, Beaver Man turned slowly, smiled at Sitsi despite his mashed face, and ran towards her. He hit the lake and Sitsi thought he was going to swim, but, no, he ran across it like Paloma, but without the watershoes.
She swallowed hard.
He reached the base of the tower and shot up it like a squirrel. He leapt onto her boulder triumphantly.
Other warriors might have fought him then and there, but Sitsi knew her strengths. Asking Innowak to watch over her, she leapt backwards off her perch.
Tansy Burna steered her cat through the woods, her nose pressed into musky neck fur, always keeping trees between her and the Wootah woman with the bow. She found Rappa Hoga sitting on his cat at the edge of the trees, watching Beaver Man run across the lake, scale a rock tower and frighten one of the Calnian Owsla from the top of it. Beaver Man jumped after the woman and out of sight.
