Thunderer

by Dan Davis

  There it was, on a rise of dry ground beside the river that never flooded, joined to the woodland by a spit of land that was mostly above the water but not by much and Sif’s feet sank into the soft earth as she approached the house. With a groan, she kneeled and shrugged the deer off her back onto the ground in front of the house. She turned around, grasped its legs and dragged it through the doorway into the house.

  “It’s me,” she called. “We will feast tonight.”

  As she entered she sensed that something was wrong and she dropped the carcass and turned quickly, drawing her knife and her axe.

  It was cold inside and dark.

  There was no fire.

  Zani was not always home. She ranged often for herbs and whatever else she needed but there was a stillness and coldness that was unusual. Her fire was often left burning with a pot of seeping herbs warming on the banked coals.

  Crossing to the central hearth, Sif put a hand to the ashes.

  Cold.

  The bed on one side of the house was covered with furs and the pots and baskets were in their usual places on the floor and the bunches of herbs and strings of fungus were hanging over the hearth. Indeed, everything appeared to be in its proper place and yet Sif felt uneasy, as if the spirits were trying to tell her something.

  She would go outside and down to the riverbank to see if Zani’s canoe were still there. If it were gone then surely all was well and Zani would return soon enough.

  As she moved to the door she heard footsteps outside and relief welled up before it was replaced with dread.

  They were heavy footsteps.

  Men’s footsteps.

  Drawing back into the shadows, she gripped her weapons and tried to calm herself while her heart raced in her chest.

  A huge figure appeared in the doorway. A man in sealskin with his hood up who stepped inside and paused when he saw the deer carcass at his feet.

  Sif leapt forward with her knife out in front and her axe up over her head. “Stay! The spirits take you!”

  The man flinched and brought up his own knife and Sif backed away, knowing she stood no chance against so powerful a hunter.

  “Sif?” the man said, stopping. “Is that you?”

  “Alef?” she replied, still ready. She raised her voice, angry at him for surprising her. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked around the empty hut. “Is Zani here?”

  “No.”

  Alef nodded and shoved his knife into his belt. “Where is she?”

  “Why do you want her?”

  “You can put away your knife, Sif,” Alef said, attempting a smile. “We’ll not hurt you.”

  “Who is with you?”

  Alef jerked his head. “Karu, N’fal, P’nu.” He really smiled then, his true smile, mocking and amused at her. “What are you afraid of?”

  Sif was not amused. “Why are you here, Alef?”

  “I told you, I came to see Zani.”

  “Why?”

  Alef shrugged. “We came to talk to her. To ask her for her wisdom.”

  “What do you seek her wisdom about, Alef?”

  He looked around the dark interior again before passing his eyes over Sif’s knife and her axe. “I came to ask if she has seen Sama.”

  Her heart began to flutter like a bird and bad spirits circled outside the hut. “Why?”

  Alef shrugged. “Because he is gone.”

  Sif let her arms drop to her side and she stood upright. “Gone?”

  Alef looked around the hut. “No one has seen him. He is not in his home.”

  “Perhaps he went to consult the spirits,” Sif said, feeling the falseness of her words as she heard them. “Or to the islands.”

  Alef nodded slowly. “If he did then he told no one and he has not returned.”

  Sif had a black feeling. Something was wrong but the spirits would not reveal to her what it was. In fact, they were staying out of reach, hiding the truth from her and she did not know why.

  “What do you think has happened, Alef?” she asked.

  He laughed at her. “That is what I wished to ask Zani.”

  “Why did you come into this house unannounced with your knife in your hand?”

  He frowned, looking down at her. “Why do you think, Sif?”

  The spirits screamed at her that something was wrong but outwardly she remained impassive. “Tell me.”

  Alef laughed again. “There are drag marks upon the ground with fresh blood in them. I was afraid that someone had hurt Zani and dragged her body inside.”

  Sif was horrified. “Why would anyone hurt Zani?”

  “One of the Furun, perhaps. Or the Heryos that rule over them.”

  She was confused. “They do not come here.”

  “Oh but they have been seen, Sif. The Heryos raid everywhere now, they cannot be stopped. They have been encroaching on our lands, even as far as the sea. Even in our woods here.” He waved an arm.

  “When? Where?”

  “A group came through not long ago. We have been tracking them. Then we found out about Sama and now Zani is gone.” Alef shook his head in wonder. “Something is happening, Sif. We must be careful. It is not safe for you to be out hunting alone any more, you see that do you not? You will come back to the village with me and I will keep you safe.”

  “Was Sama’s canoe at his house?”

  Alef was surprised by the question. “Yes, I think so.”

  “We must check Zani’s. Stand aside.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Alef nodded and ducked beneath the doorway out into the daylight and disappeared. After a moment, Sif followed him, still with her weapons in hand.

  Outside, the hunters Karu, N’fal, P’nu stood watching her, leaning casually on their bows and harpoons.

  “Sif,” Alef called from the other side of the house down by the water.

  Carefully, she followed him around the outside to where the reeds grew thick up to the high bank. There was a steep slope down to the water and an old depression in the earth where Zani had for years dragged out her canoe from the water onto the bank and tied it to a thick, rotting stump near the wall of her house.

  The canoe was gone.

  “Perhaps she will return soon,” Alef said, smiling. Out in the daylight she could clearly see his strong face, his bright eyes and smooth skin, and when he was like this she could understand why the women and girls in the village giggled when they spoke of him.

  “I will wait for her,” Sif said.

  He frowned. “Didn’t you hear? There are Furun in the woods. Or even Heryos. Perhaps both. You are not safe here. Perhaps she saw them and fled.” He raised a hand and looked up in a gesture of thanks to the spirits. “She must have paddled down to the village for safety. Or to warn us. Come on, we should get back there as quickly as we can.”

  She followed him slowly back to the front of the house where Karu was heaving the deer carcass onto P’nu’s shoulders.

  “That is for Zani!” she cried.

  They all stared at her and their eyes flicked to Alef.

  “Zani has gone to the village,” Alef said, soothingly. “It will only go to waste here. You can give it to her when we get there.” He smiled and nodded to the others who moved off back along the track. Alef started after them and turned. “Are you coming?

  Sif looked back at the house and then at Alef. What had happened to Sama and Zani? For them both to have disappeared at the same time was a blow unlike any other she had felt. The two people who meant most to her were gone and she did not know where. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation and they had gone to perform a journey to consult the spirits but she did not think so. The spirits were silent about it and that silence was full of meaning for they usually told her everything that she wished to know. There were ways of consulting the spirits but it was a great risk and she was not sure she could risk such a thing without either Sama or Zani to guide her and there was no one else to do so.

  And that was some
thing else. What did it mean for the village to be without their only spirit walkers? How would they guide the elders to the right decisions if they were not there to do it? What would the chief do without someone to speak to the spirits for him? What would that mean for her people?

  Sif did not know what had happened or where they were but the spirits told her one thing.

  Only she could find out.

  6. Raid

  Herkuhlos laughed and gulped down more of the intoxicating beer. He had not been completely sure about its bitter taste at first but after many cups of the stuff he found he was starting to enjoy it and he belched and passed back his cup for more while he watched the people dancing on the other side of the fire to the music of the whistles and drums. Inside the chief’s enormous longhouse the celebration raged while outside it had been dark for what seemed a long time.

  His belly was full and he glowed in the warmth of the fire and in the joy of the people. They were not his people but they celebrated his victory over the yotunan and he knew his fame had grown through his actions and that truth pleased him greatly. So what if he had not killed one of the yotunan he was sworn to destroy? There was plenty of time for such victories, for he would live a life many times longer than the lives of mortal men and if he did other great deeds in the meantime so much the better.

  The men escorting him had been stunned by the victory and even the girl Amra had looked at him with new respect and even admiration. Mardoc had wept at the sight of the slain Thrima and had gripped Herkuhlos by the hand and thanked him over and over. Over the days it had taken to return to the village, Herkuhlos had thrown off the vague worry he had felt at Thrima’s last words, convinced by the joy of the others that it had been a great and worthy deed.

  Only Pehur had not seemed impressed, indeed he was if anything disquieted and more pensive than before but as a servant his opinion was of no consequence.

  “More beer, mighty lord?” Chief Amron said, offering yet another cup of the powerful drink. “Or have you had your fill?”

  “I have had my fill but yes I will drink more,” Herkuhlos said and took it gratefully.

  While he drank, Amron shared the jest with those sitting around them and their laughter filled the air.

  “No man has ever drunk as much beer as you, mighty lord,” Amron. “Not without falling down dead.”

  Herkuhlos paused, the rim of his cup near his lips. “Dead?”

  “I am sure one as mighty as you will never succumb to the beer.”

  Shrugging, Herkuhlos threw back another mouthful and the crowd cheered to see it. “Is it truly made from wheat?”

  The chief smiled and relayed his question which brought more laughter. “Truly, my friend, the goddess of the harvest bestows great wealth upon the Furun through her bounty.”

  That was impossible to deny but it was heady stuff and he found his vision was blurred and when he looked at the chief he could not focus unless he closed one eye. “I think, my friend, I have finally drunk my fill.” There was more laughter but Herkuhlos felt like closing both eyes and lying down and he rubbed his face. “Is there a bed?” he asked, hearing his words coming strangely from his mouth, as though his tongue was asleep already. “A place to lie down to rest?”

  A hand pulled on his and he looked up to see a woman smiling down at him. Confused, he looked around and saw the chief smiling at him.

  “Go my friend and enjoy the harvest.”

  “The what?”

  “Enjoy the rewards of your labour!”

  Herkuhlos shook his head at the laughter but with the help of those around him he got to his feet and followed the insistent tugging on his hand until he was away from the warmth of the fire and beyond the oppressive mass of the crowd.

  When he stepped out of the doorway he stopped. The cold night air helped to revive him and he looked up. It was a clear night and he closed one eye to look at the stars crowding up there.

  A voice spoke and he looked down into the face of Amra. She smiled up at him and he smiled back and gently stroked her cheek with his fingers.

  “You know, you really aren’t that ugly at all,” he muttered. “You’re actually quite pretty.”

  Not understanding his words, she spoke again and pulled him across the village toward another longhouse on the far side near to the boundary ditch and he let himself be pulled. One of the pigs in a pen was awake and it snorted at him as they went past and he snorted back at it, making Amra laugh and he laughed too. She pulled him into the doorway of the longhouse and they found it was warm inside from a huge fire raging in the hearth. There were young women there by the fire and he smiled and waved at them and they giggled and whispered to each other and laughed louder.

  Amra led him past the young women to the end of the longhouse where there was a long, wide platform against the end wall covered in furs and woollen blankets. It was where the people of this house slept but there was no one there now but Herkuhlos and Amra.

  “Who are your friends?” Herkuhlos asked, pointing at them as she sat on the platform and pulled him close so that he sat down beside her. He was surprised to see the other young women coming closer and they crowded around him and began stroking his face and pulling at his clothes.

  Laughing, he allowed them to undress him and when they stripped off their own clothes and laid down with him he mouthed a silent prayer of thanks to the gods.

  They were warm and soft and they enveloped him completely for what seemed to be all night until at last he fell back exhausted and content with his arms around them beneath the furs. A confusion of warm, soft skin pressed against him and smiling he closed his eyes and dreamt strange dreams. There was a great boar snorting in the darkness of a forest. He sensed it was there, watching him, and then he saw its great red eyes glowing in the shadows as it pawed at the ground with its massive hoofs, ready to tear him apart with its tusks. Beyond, in a clearing, stood a mighty stag, impossibly large with great ropes of velvet hanging in tatters from the broad antlers, its breath steaming in a great cloud.

  “You are not worthy,” the stag said.

  “I know,” Herkuhlos replied.

  The ground thundered and the boar was charging from the undergrowth, as tall as a horse, then as tall as an aurochs and growing larger and larger with its tusks shining like bronze spearheads in the darkness as it opened its mouth wider and wider, roaring like a tree-killing storm.

  With a start he woke.

  It was silent and he felt the pressure on him and the naked skin warm against his own. For a moment he was afraid that there was some danger coming for him but then he realised there was immense pressure from his bladder and he had a desperate desire to urinate. It was dark and cold but dawn was coming and there was enough light in the sky filtering through the doorway to see by. He pulled his arms from the women who muttered and groaned and he got up and threw the furs back over them. They shuffled together and slept on.

  Groping around on the floor he found his tunic and pulled it on, shivering in the sudden cold and pulling a spare sheep skin around his shoulders. Barefoot, he picked his way past the cold hearth and stood yawning in the doorway, recalling the events of the celebration last night. His belly felt sour and there was a foul taste in his mouth. He should have known better than to consume the drink of the bread eaters. It would be mead alone for him from now on, he swore to himself, as he stomped across the village, past the sleeping animals in their pens, to the edge of the outer ditch where he stood and pissed, groaning with pleasure at the release and swearing with astonishment at the never-ending stream that emerged steaming in the morning air. Across the enclosure ditch a light mist hung above the pasture all the way to the shadows of the coppiced woodland beyond.

  It was quiet. No one was awake but him and even the dogs appeared to be sleeping. Not even the birds were singing yet.

  Herkuhlos finished pissing and looked at the sky, his mind still heavy from sleep and the drink. It was not quite dawn yet but surely the birds should be
singing by now. Not even the crows were squabbling in their nests.

  He turned and peered into the deep shadows of the village. He had spent many nights here now and always there were dogs roaming the village meant to deter predators and alert to raiders and thieves. Whenever he had gone about before, at least one dog had come running over to him, excited to have some company and often they prowled the village ditch looking for discarded bones. But now there was nothing.

  Perhaps the feeling in the pit of his stomach was nothing but the sour fermented wheat drink and the remnants of his dream but he wondered if something was wrong. Had the chief really sent him off with his daughter last night? Was that meant as a gift of thanks? Or had it been a trap? Did the Furun mean him harm? Where was everyone?

  At the insistence of Amron, Herkuhlos’ weapons and his armour had been stored in the chief’s longhouse. For safe keeping, the chief had said, and Herkuhlos had acquiesced, trusting the smiling old man.

  Herkuhlos had decided to cross the village to the chief’s longhouse at once when he heard footsteps.

  One man walking unseen on the other side of the village beyond the nearest longhouses and then more footsteps approaching.

  They were not hurrying and not trying to be quiet either but there was something about the sound of them that made Herkuhlos alert to their danger.

  They were heavy steps, the sound of men moving with purpose, and then more sounds reached his ears. The rustling of branches and the swishing of long grass. He turned back to the ditch and through the mist in the pasture beyond he saw men emerging from the trees.

  Armed men.

  Warriors, stripped to their woollen tunics walking across the pasture with spears, war clubs, axes, and bows in their hands.