by Kevin Ashman
‘You are the problem,’ he said. ‘When Golau returns, he will claim you as his bride.’
Sky fell silent releasing his hand.
‘How do you know?’ she asked.
‘Ffion told me. Don’t be angry, Sky, it was not her fault, it was just that I asked her about your feelings toward me, so she had to tell me so I would not pursue you to share my hearth.’
Sky was shocked. All the young women of the clan liked Ceffyl. He was young, strong and had an air about him. Many of the single women would gladly share their furs with him, and given the chance, some of the married ones as well, but he had steadfastly refused to take a mate. Now she knew why. Ceffyl looked down into the flames and Sky touched his arm.
‘Ceffyl,’ she said, ‘it is true that I am promised to Golau. And it is a promise I will not break, but know this, if this promise was not made, I would gladly accept your approach. There would be no greater honour for any woman. Ceffyl, you are a great man, and I for one see no other suitor who comes even close. You are my leader, my inspiration, and my friend, but I cannot let myself become too close to you, for when Golau returns the pain would be too great for both of us.’
‘I agree,’ he said drawing a deep breath, ‘and for that reason, from now on, you must stay at your own hearth in the evenings, and I will sit with the men and talk about man business.’
She smiled at him.
‘I think this would be best,’ she said quietly and stood up to leave.
‘Sky,’ he said quickly.
She turned back.
‘The milk was lovely,’ he said giving her a warm yet poignant smile.
She smiled back and walked over to join her father.
----
Chapter 33
The drums started one afternoon, the high-pitched sound of bone against rock sending shivers of fear down the spines of the hunters in the pit. They all sat, backs against the rocky walls staring upwards, expecting the feared faces of Baal at any time.
‘I think that this might be our last day,’ said Golau.
‘I am ready,’ said Gafr quietly and they all sank back into silence listening to the mesmerizing beat of the unseen drums.
The day dragged on slowly, continuing past the purple dusk, and then late into the ominous night. Repetitive chanting, spiced with the occasional shout or scream from the drug-fuelled participants, joined the relentless rhythm of the drums. Something stirred above and the hunters jumped to their feet, nerves on edge after the hours of expectation.
A leering Baal warrior peered down from beneath a ceremonial headdress of feathers and leaves. One end of a rope landed at the feet of the hunters and the familiar voice barked out a command.
‘Hair-face,’ said Kraynar, ‘it is time for you and your warriors to meet your fate.’
No one moved.
‘What have you done with Kraiach?’ shouted Golau.
‘Kraiach? replied the Baal chief. ‘Oh, you mean the Hairy-one. Forget him. He is already dead.’
‘You’ve killed him?’ asked Afon.
‘I did not have that pleasure. The Slorth-baal requested his presence. By now they will be picking his gristle from their teeth.’
‘Why don’t you come down here and fight us on our terms, filth?’ interjected Gafr angrily.
‘There is no need, Angry-one,’ he said confidently, ‘you will all come out, and you will all die on the field of pain.’
‘Perhaps we would rather die here like rats than provide sport for your people,’ shouted Golau, ‘and we will take many of your warriors with us.’
‘I think not, Hair-face,’ answered Kraynar, ‘I have a trade for you.’
‘What trade?’
‘You will come out, or your women and children will come in, one by one, minus their heads.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Golau. ‘After all these miles, why would you waste them?’
‘There are many more where they came from, Hair-face,’ he responded. ‘Make your choice. This will help you decide.’
A shape plummeted into the pit, smashing onto the rock floor; crimson blood still pouring from the freshly hacked neck of an unknown female body.
Golau turned to his colleagues.
‘We have no choice,’ he said, ‘we have not come all this way to be the cause of our own people’s death.’
‘They will die anyway,’ said Gafr.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Golau, ‘they may have some hope.’
‘What hope?’
‘There is always hope,’ he snapped.
Golau turned to Afon.
‘What of you, Afon,’ he asked, ‘what would you do?’
‘Lead us out, Golau,’ he replied, ‘and we will take as many as we can to sit before the Sun-god’s judgment.’
‘Gafr?’ prompted Golau looking at the other hunter.
Gafr paused, and looking at both his oldest friends, nodded his silent agreement.
‘Then it is decided,’ he said, ‘let us waste no more time.’ He took hold of the vine and bracing his feet against the side of the wall, clambered upwards out of the pit into the arms of the waiting throng of hidden Baal warriors.
Within minutes, all three had their arms tethered tightly behind their backs once again and were marched at spear point to their destination.
At the centre of the village flaming torches, fixed high on poles surrounding the arena lit a large clearing. Hundreds of Baal men and women, each heavily decorated with body paint and garish ceremonial robes, chanted in unison, stamping their feet at mutually recognized points of the tribal mantra. Others stood on any available vantage point, every space taken up by primitive eyes, hungry for the gore that the ceremony would surely bring.
The chanting was mesmerizing as the three hunters were brought in to crazed insults and jeers, and their necks were tethered tightly to three poles placed there especially for the purpose. Old toothless women came close, kicking and scratching at the prisoners, spitting in their faces and screaming incomprehensive insults at them in their strange language.
For an hour, the dancing and chanting continued and the three hunters watched in silent trepidation as wave after wave of dancers undulated across the arena drawing close to the prisoners and falling away as the chanting dictated.
Gradually the beat intensified, and the sweat from the hairless drummers ran down their naked flesh, forming salty pools around their rock drums as they increased the tempo and the force of their strike. The warrior dancers slowly formed their carefully choreographed lines in front of the tethered hunters, drawing slowly closer, one step at a time, finally culminating in the central warrior drawing his arm back to thrust his blood stained stabbing spear into Golau’s face.
Despite his internal fear, Golau kept his eyes wide open in defiance, as he accepted his imminent fate. The sudden deathly silence of the crowd perfectly coincided with the blood smeared spear blade, stopping inches away from his face.
‘Sholar!’ whispered the warrior into his face and the crowd erupted into screams and cheers.
----
The ranks of sweating painted warriors opened up and from the back and the familiar form of Kraynar strode forward to face the captives.
‘Are you ready to die, Hair-face?’ he snarled.
Before Golau could answer, once again, Gafr spat in the warrior’s face, and once again, the Baal warrior didn’t flinch, simply turning to face the glaring hunter.
‘Aaah, Angry-one,’ he said, ‘we have unfinished business, you and I, we will start with you.’ He jabbed the tip of his spear into Gafr’s chest, just enough to draw blood and confirm him as the first to meet the Baal’s wrath. Nearby warriors fell on Gafr, and dragged him kicking and fighting into the centre of the arena where he was gagged and stretched, spread-eagled on a sapling framework, his ankles and wrists tied at the furthest points. His worn deerskin tunic was cut from him and the frame was hoisted vertically, displaying the bound hunter, spread-eagled in front of the watching throng.
&nbs
p; The crowd fell silent again as Kraynar drew close, walking slowly around the tethered man, lovingly passing his razor sharp flint knife from hand to hand. Without any further ceremony, he stepped forward and very gently drew the blade around the bound hunter’s wrist, easily slicing through the skin, but not enough to cut into the underlying flesh.
Gafr grimaced as he repeated the action on his other wrist and ankles, and as Kraynar carefully cut around the base of his neck Gafr’s eyes widened in fear as he realized what was about to happen. Kraynar stood back and examined his work. He walked behind the hunter and untying Gafr’s gag, whispered affectionately into his remaining ear.
‘You will soon forget the pain from your ear, Angry-one,’ he said quietly.
‘Do your worst, filth,’ spat Gafr, ‘I will not give you the pleasure of hearing my pain.’
‘We will see,’ he said and barked an order in the Baal language.
Two large warriors stepped forward and over the next few minutes, as Gafr’s blood ran freely from his mouth in his struggle to stop himself from screaming, they stripped the skin from his body, sliding their hands between skin and flesh to break the seal.
They paraded their bloody prize around the arena to the screams of approving Baal as another warrior threw water over the hanging body of Gafr who had passed out in pain. He regained consciousness and looked down into the face of Kraynar looking up at him with amusement on his face.
‘You have done well, Angry-one,’ he said looking at the exposed mixture of flesh and fat glaring angrily down from Gafr’s torso.
‘But now it is time for my people to hear you scream.’
Two women stepped forward with animal-skin buckets and Gafr’s semiconscious mind just had time to register the contents before his heart breaking screams reverberated around the volcanic crater.
Golau and Afon watched in horror as the women rubbed the salt into Gafr's raw flesh and listened to their friend die in endless screaming agony.
----
When Gafr’s tortured body finally welcomed death, Kraynar cut down his corpse and the old women dragged off it quickly to the cooking fires.
Kraynar drew close again and stared at Golau and Afon, enjoying the fear in their eyes, before jabbing Afon in the chest, indicating his choice. Again, the hunter was dragged to the centre of the arena and this time the warriors formed a large circle, their spears facing inward, as his hands and feet were untied and he stood freely in the arena.
‘Do you wish to fight, Ugly-one?’ asked Kraynar.
‘Give me a weapon and I will kill you,’ he answered angrily.
‘You will have the chance,’ he said, ‘but first you will fight my champions.’
‘Bring them on, filth,’ said Afon, ‘I have nothing to lose and will take many with me.’
‘Nothing to lose? You have honour. Now you must choose.’
He stepped back and threw a knife at Afon’s feet. The drums started again and Afon quickly picked up the knife spinning around trying to spot his anticipated foe. From behind the body of one the surrounding warriors, Afon spotted movement and a small child of no more than four or five years old ran forward into the circle and smiling sweetly, walked up to the hunter.
Afon looked confused, but before he could work out what was happening, the little girl revealed a small knife she had been concealing behind her back and plunged it into Afon’s thigh drawing a roar of approval from the watching crowd. Jumping back in pain he lashed out with his hand and knocked the child back, careful not to hurt her with his knife. The child burst into tears and ran back to the waiting arms of her mother.
‘What is this?’ cried Afon. ‘You send a child to fight. What kind of people are you? Send your warriors.’
‘We are all warriors,’ replied Kraynar, and with that Afon saw movement from all around as dozens of children, boys and girls no more than seven years old emerged from the surrounding warrior circle, each brandishing a weapon of some sort.
‘You have a choice Ugly-one,’ called Kraynar, ‘your honour or your life. Are you a child killer?’
Afon stared around the circle looking at the cute, yet frightened faces of the children. Finally, his gaze settled on Golau who looked on in confusion.
‘What do I do, Golau?’ he shouted, ‘I was prepared for anything, but not this.’
‘Be strong, Afon,’ urged Golau, ‘these children will grow up to become Baal and will feed on our grandchildren. Take as many as you can.’
Afon looked around again at the gathering children, finally he turning his gaze on Golau for the last time.
‘I cannot, Golau,’ he called, ‘these children are not responsible for the acts of their fathers. If I kill them, I am no better than the Baal.’
‘Sell your life dearly,’ screamed Golau, ‘be strong, Afon.’
‘I will not kill a child, Golau,’ said Afon calmly.
‘Afon!’ screamed Golau.
‘I will save you the best seat at the Sun-god’s fire,’ said Afon calmly. He turned back to the waiting Kraynar, and after a few seconds, threw the knife away.
‘I am ready,’ he said.
Kraynar grinned and gave a command. The children drew nervously closer to the beat of the restarted drums and waited, tense and afraid. Afon turned back to face Golau and stared into the familiar eyes as he awaited his fate. Suddenly the drums stopped.
‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said, and with a concerted scream, the children fell on him, stabbing and hacking at his undefended body. The last few moments of his life focused on two final realizations through the pain. One was that some of the children’s teeth were sharpened to points as many tore into his flesh and the final thought of his life was that he had never seen Golau cry before.
----
Once again, the bloody corpse was dragged from the killing place and eventually the hysteria died down as all the watchers waited for the final act of this macabre demonstration of Kraynar’s evil and perverted imagination. The warrior chief approached Golau, once more standing before him.
‘Just you and I now, Hair-face, your friend had honour. What would you have done, I wonder?’
‘I would have killed every one and then killed you,’ spat Golau, ‘try me!’
‘Oh, I have something very special for you,’ countered Kraynar.
‘I don’t fear death, pig,’ answered the prisoner.
‘Death?’ asked Kraynar feigning surprise. ‘Who said anything about death? If you perform well, you will not be harmed, and you will be set free far to the south.
Golau stared at him.
‘I know you, Kraynar,’ he said, ‘there is a price to be paid. What is it?’
‘You are right, Hair-face. There is a small task you will perform to earn this freedom.’
‘Name it.’
‘You will kill a child.’
‘Ha!’ exhorted Golau. ‘I do not have Afon’s morals, Kraynar, and I will have no problem wiping this earth clear of one of your disgusting spawn.’
‘No doubt this is true,’ said Kraynar, ‘but what about your own?’ Kraynar stood to one side and Golau focused his gaze on the small scared figure being dragged into the centre of the Arena.
‘Little-bear!’ he called out in sudden recognition.
The little boy looked up, and wiped his eyes, not quite comprehending his father was before him after all these terrifying months.
‘Golau,’ he called and ran forward throwing his arms around Golau’s waist.
‘Little-bear,’ he gasped, ‘are you all right?’
Little-bear blubbered an answer through his tears of fright.
‘I am afraid, Golau,’ he cried, ‘have you come to save us?’
Golau longed to take his boy in his arms and comfort him, assuring him that everything would be okay, but his arms were still tethered behind his back. He looked at Kraynar.
‘Please untie me,’ he said, ‘I promise I will be no trouble. Just for a few moments.’
‘You will be untied soon en
ough, Hair-face,’ said Kraynar cruelly, ‘but first, I will explain your task.’
Golau listened in growing disbelief as Kraynar outlined the impossible choice he faced, and felt Little-bear’s embrace stiffen as even his young mind comprehended the terrible situation now facing his father.
‘It is simple, Hair-face,’ said Kraynar, ‘you have two choices. If you fight, we will kill you. Of that, there is no doubt. But before you die you will pay witness as our women take your son’s eyes, tongue, hands and feet, and he will be destined to crawl blindly amongst our village for the rest of his life, hoping for scraps to feed his hunger, while we laugh at him. You, Hair-face, will die knowing you have caused his fate.’
‘What of the other choice?’ asked Golau helplessly.
‘You will not be harmed. You will be bound and let go in your own lands far to the south.’ He paused and threw a knife in the dirt at Golau’s feet. ‘But first you will open your own son’s throat.’
‘What?’ gasped Golau. ‘You know I will never do this.’
‘Consider carefully, Hair-face’ said Kraynar, ‘if you make the cut quick and deep, he will suffer little and be dead in a moment. Otherwise, he will spend a long life crawling blindly in our filth, unable to see or ask for what he wants. Is this the life a father wants for his son.’
Golau felt Little-bear’s embrace get tighter in fright.
‘Please don’t do this, Kraynar,’ pleaded Golau, ‘you know I cannot make this choice.’
‘You have a hundred heartbeats to make your decision, Hair-face, and then there will be no choice to be made. I will give your son to the women.’
----
Golau felt Little-bear loosen his embrace and step back from his tethered father. He looked down as his son wiped his five-year-old eyes with his sleeve and walked slowly over to the knife lying in the dust. He turned to face his turmoil-ridden father.
Kraynar watched fascinated and gave the signal to release Golau. His binds were cut and he ran forward to embrace the son he had not seen for so long.
‘Little-bear,’ he whispered through his tears, ‘I am so sorry to lead you to this.’
‘It is not your fault, Golau,’ he said, ‘the Sun-god has other plans for me.’
