by Dan Davis
They saw him standing at the edge of the ditch and two men walking together stopped as one, heaved back their bows and shot.
Herkuhlos, stunned by the sight, reacted just in time and threw himself to the side. He fell stretched out into the mud and the arrows cut the air where he had been standing and clattered against the walls of the longhouse.
They were under attack.
It was not some other Furun village either as the big men with broad shoulders and wide faces looked like his own people, the Heryos, and they had come in a full raid to take captives and livestock and to kill all that opposed them.
He had to reach his weapons. There would be no time to dress in his armour, that was certain, but with his weapons he stood a chance of surviving this attack.
Jumping to his feet, he started to run for the chief’s longhouse before he froze and turned back. An arrow slashed past his head and a man shouted out on the pasture. He did not stop to look but instead raced into the longhouse where he had left Amra and the other young women.
They slumbered together still beneath the furs and he ran to them, yanked the covers off them and shook them awake. “We are attacked!”
Irritated and confused, they stared dumbly up at him and he remembered they did not speak his language.
“Wi da?” Amra muttered.
“Move!” he shouted, dragging them naked from the platform bed. “Run or you die, you fools.”
They were afraid now and flinched from him so he dragged Amra across the longhouse while she pulled away from him and beat a fist on his arm. He pulled her into the doorway and pointed.
The warriors were just beyond the ditch now and even as they watched the first of them plodded down the outer bank and leapt across the rotting foulness of the sodden middle to the inner bank with a grunt of effort.
Amra turned and shouted a stream of words at her friends who at once stopped pulling on their clothes and ran toward them.
“To your father’s longhouse,” Herkuhlos said, pointed.
Amra nodded and together they set off across the village, past the animal pens toward the chief’s enormous house. The warriors saw them and some of them whooped with delight at the naked skin on show for they knew that soon it would be theirs. Herkuhlos hurried them, keeping his body between them and the bowmen but no one shot. They would want the young women alive. At first, at least.
Herkuhlos looked behind him and as he expected he found that more warriors were already inside the village. Indeed, they were already going inside other houses and some were carrying faggots of lit branches with which to fire the thatching on the roofs. Someone in one of the longhouses screamed and then the shouting started. Warning cries and shouts of fear and pain as the Heryos stormed into the outermost longhouses.
There was no chance that he could save this village. Already people were dying and it had hardly yet begun. All he could hope for was to save his own life and as many of the others as he could.
The women with him were shouting warnings before they reached the longhouse but still when they went inside most people were fast asleep. Half the village was still there, sleeping where they had sat around the fire or crowded onto the bed platforms at one end of the building. It had been a great celebration and they were sleeping deeply, still befuddled by the effects of the beer.
“You are attacked!” Herkuhlos roared and this startled many of them to their feet.
While Amra ran to rouse her father and the other women ran shouting to other men, Herkuhlos pushed aside the panicking people to reach the dark end of the longhouse to where Pehur guarded his weapons. His servant leapt naked from the mound of furs and woollen blankets, leaving a confused young woman behind him.
“My weapons,” Herkuhlos commanded.
“Who is it?” Pehur asked as he bent to the bundles on the floor beside the sleeping platform. “Thrima’s acolytes?”
“Heryos,” Herkuhlos replied, looking at the sea of confusion in the longhouse. “A raid.”
“Wolkanos preserve us,” Pehur muttered as he threw off the leather wrappings and hefted the bronze war club.
Feeling the cold, smooth touch of the metal in his hands settled Herkuhlos at once. The immense weight of the weapon, its solidity, gave its strength to him and it told him that it wanted blood and Herkuhlos nodded.
“I want blood, too,” he said softly to the club, holding it before him.
“You want what?” Pehur asked, ready to fetch whatever his master had requested.
“The heavy spear,” he replied and his servant raised it up and Herkuhlos gripped it in his left hand and shook it. The broad blade of the flint head was wickedly sharp and would tear through flesh and split bone.
Behind him, the chief was roaring commands and the women were fleeing to the working end of the longhouse while the men gathered in the doorway, armed with whatever they had to hand. A fortunate few brandished the Furun war clubs that were disc shaped stone heads on short hafts. Some had poles, others adzes and knives, though some had nothing but blackened stones pulled from the hearth or lengths of firewood. Still, they would spend their lives defending their women and their chief and that was good.
An arrow flashed through the doorway and slammed into a man’s neck. He dropped his stone club and staggered backward clutching the wound before falling over. The women screamed and the men roared their defiance at the Heryos gathering outside.
“The bronze skin, lord?” Pehur asked, lifting a part of the armoured tunic.
“No time.”
“The lionskin, at least,” Pehur said. “The sight of it will terrify the enemy.”
“Very well,” he said and Pehur climbed onto the sleeping platform behind him and heaved up the weighty skin to place it over Herkuhlos’ head. He tugged it into place, pulling it back so that the top of the open mouth did not obscure his lord’s vision.
“It is done,” Pehur said, jumping down. “What do we do, lord?”
At the doorway, an incursion by the warriors outside was beaten back by the masses inside and the men roared in their victory but it could not last for long. The smell of smoke was filtering through as the village outside began to burn. This longhouse would be fired soon and everyone would flee outside to be captured or killed or they would stay inside and die in the fire.
“These people are weak and they will all die,” Herkuhlos said. “Unless I can drive the Heryos away.”
“You are a great warrior, lord, but a single arrow could slay you. Perhaps we could break through the raiders and make for the trees?”
Herkuhlos nodded. “If I die, that is what you should do. But if they take you, serve your new master well.”
There was no more to be said and he walked toward the mass of men in the doorway, knowing what had to be done and yet fearing to do it all the same. The men at the back of the crowd were the most cowardly and they saw him coming and parted, staring as he passed them.
“Amron!” he called.
The chief was in the centre of his warriors and he looked back, saw Herkuhlos, and scowled. “What have you brought to my home?”
“They are nothing to do with me,” Herkuhlos said. “Whoever they are, we must drive them away together.”
“You go,” Amron cried, gesturing. “You kill them. You do it.”
An arrow flitted through the doorway and shot across the interior to thump into a post behind them. Another slammed into the doorframe and the shaft jutted out, quivering.
“I will go alone,” Herkuhlos said. “And I will die. Then all of you will die.” He stepped closer to the chief and looked down. “Only together will we stand a chance. I will fight but all of your men will fight with me. Do you understand?”
The chief hesitated but the screams of his woman and the stench of swirling smoke told him that his world was ending and that he did not have much of a choice. The chief nodded.
“Repeat my words in your own tongue,” Herkuhlos commanded. “We will attack them. All here must go together. Not
one man will hold back.” He looked around them as he spoke and heard the chief shouting over the noise. “When we charge them, many of us will die. Their arrows will kill us. But those that live must go on. Every man must kill the enemy until he is killed. Only then will we save our women.”
The chief finished translating. Whether his words were a truthful repeat of Herkuhlos’ own or not did not matter. Nothing more could be done.
“Make way!” Herkuhlos shouted. “Tell them to make way for me!”
Amron cried out and his men shuffled aside until there was a path ahead out into the dawn and the smoke and the storm of arrows, javelins, and spears.
Whether they would follow him or not, Herkuhlos did not know.
“Kolnos protect me,” he muttered and raised his arms to protect his face.
With a roar that shook the walls of the longhouse, Herkuhlos charged.
7. Defenders
The Heryos were expecting a desperate charge by the Furun and the few that were armed with bows were ready to shoot their arrows and those that had them were prepared to throw their javelins into the farmers as they poured out of the door.
What they were not expecting was an enormous warrior made monstrous by the lion skin and shining bronze club in one hand and an enormous heavy spear in the other. Nor were they expecting the roar that came from this mighty figure as it charged into the smoke and mist of the morning.
Flinching in surprise at this sight, some were made to fear and their confusion helped to stay their hands for a long moment until their lord shouted in fury that they kill him.
The dozen raiders were arrayed in a rough, short crescent facing the doorway and, startled into action, they pulled back their bowstrings and heaved back their javelins just as the men of the village came charging from the longhouse behind the huge warrior, roaring their own war cries.
Indecision about which targets to aim for cost another moment’s hesitation before they finally began shooting and throwing.
By then, Herkuhlos had almost reached the closest men and he was astonished by the fortune the gods had bestowed upon him because he knew he was going to kill them all. Just two more great strides and he would be within striking range of his spear and behind that he would come with the killing blows of his club and then their blood would flow and he would know only victory. He knew it, for he was Herkuhlos, the slayer of yotunan, and before him were mere mortals.
In the next instant, he was struck by an arrow in the back of his raised arm and another slammed low into his gut almost to the fletching and then a javelin sliced deep into his left thigh below his hip before skidding away.
The pain was extraordinary. At once he found he could not breathe and when he took a step on his injured leg he found it collapsing beneath him and he thrust the butt of his spear forward into the ground to hold himself upright.
Warriors came at him, thrusting with their long spears and he smashed them aside and staggered on into them swinging his club left and right into the head of one and the shoulder of another.
Both men fell and Herkuhlos lurched right into the next man, knocked his axe aside with his club and stabbed the spear into his belly, punching it through him and shattering his spine.
As he yanked his spear free an attack came from behind as a warrior with a long beard thrust a spear low and Herkuhlos stepped aside from the flashing spearhead only to find his wounded leg buckle beneath him and he went down on one knee with a roar of pain.
His sudden vulnerability brought a surge of warriors and Herkuhlos forced himself up and wheeled his spear around in a wide arc, the cutting edge slicing open a man’s face across his eyes and knocking another down and sending the rest leaping back in fear.
The battle raged around him as the men of the village fought for their lives and for everything they had. One on one the Furun were no match for the Heryos but they fought with the desperate ferocity of trapped animals and even the village slaves fought like madmen to protect their masters. Bodies lay on the churned earth and men writhed amongst them with terrible wounds and the smell of blood and the foulness of emptied bowels could be tasted in the air.
Then the Heryos were retreating. Streaming away through the village between the burning buildings, taking their prizes with them. Terrified cattle and sheep were driven before them and slain pigs carried between them. Women and girls screamed in the distance as they were carried off and some Furun men chased after the retreating Heryos, only to be cut down by axe and arrow when they got too close.
Herkuhlos started after them but found his leg was so stiff that he could hardly move it and the pain from the arrow in his gut made him whimper. Blood streamed down his belly and soaked his loins and once more he leaned on his spear to keep himself upright.
“Lord!” Pehur was there at his side, deep concern on his young face. “You are wounded.”
“Where is Amron? He must send his men after the Heryos.”
“He is slain, lord,” Pehur said, gesturing at the women crowding around a body and wailing. Behind them the roof of the chief’s longhouse burned at one end and all around men screamed in pain and loss and others ran to save what they could from the burning buildings.
“Pehur, you must bring out my armour.”
With tears in his eyes, Pehur fell to his knees and held up his bloody hands. “Forgive me, lord. I joined in the battle. I wanted to fight and I killed a man.”
The pain of his wounds and the loss of blood confused Herkuhlos and he shook his head. “You did well, Pehur. Now fetch out the armour, quickly. Then you must pull this arrow.”
“Lord,” Pehur said, almost wailing. “Lord, they broke inside the longhouse. They took women. They took our horses and they took your armour, lord.”
Herkuhlos closed his eyes. His armour was gone? The horses too were a great loss and the shame of it was almost more than he could bear but there was nothing he could do while he was so gravely injured. “Pull this arrow now and bind up my wounds.”
“You are not angry, lord?”
Herkuhlos found his vision fading from the edges, as if night were falling in the corner of his eye. “I may kill you for this failure, Pehur. First, you must help me.”
“Yes, lord,” Pehur said, jumping to his feet.
Looking around through the smoke, he looked for a place to sit away from the bodies and the dying. A pig pen nearby had the wattle fence trampled down and he made for that, dragging his stiff leg and leaning on his spear.
Pehur ineffectually tried to help by supporting his weight but they made it to the flattened fence and Herkuhlos realised that because of the arrow through him he could not bend over to sit and so he turned about, intending to have the arrow pulled while he stood. Instead, the world kept turning around him and then the ground came up and smashed him in the face.
***
The wailing woke him and the low groaning of an injured man. He was cold and wet and uncomfortable and then he realised that the groaning was coming from him and he stopped and opened his eyes.
It was late in the day and the fires had burned out and the smoke had thinned. Still lying where he had fallen, half on the collapsed wattle fence, Herkuhlos tried to sit up and hissed as a sharp pain wracked his belly.
“Lord,” Pehur said eagerly at his side. “You are alive.”
“Water.”
His servant was ready with a cup and Herkuhlos rolled gingerly onto his side and raised himself on an elbow to drink. It was not water but the beer he had been drinking in the chief’s longhouse—was it only last night? The bitter taste now seemed foul but he gulped it down greedily and was still thirsty when it was all gone yet the drink revived him enough to look around at the devastation caused by the raid.
Most of the farmer’s bodies had been carried away but the dead Heryos lay where they had been killed.
A light rain fell and everything was sodden and puddles of bloody water filled the churned mud of the battleground. There was a wet sheepskin over Herkuhlos’ bel
ly and a heavy woollen blanket clinging to his legs. He threw back the sheepskin and found his tunic cut open and the arrow gone.
The wound where it had been was already healing and he thanked the gods for his immortal blood.
“My thanks to you, father,” he muttered.
“Lord?”
“And I thank you, too, Pehur.”
“I had to cut deep to get it out but you have healed well, lord.” Pehur shook his head in wonder.
“Help me up.”
Clenching his teeth, Herkuhlos leaned on Pehur and got to his feet, swaying a little when he stood upright. Pehur gave him his spear to lean on while the servant carried the bronze war club. Some of the longhouses had burned to their blackened skeletal timbers but others had lost only their roofs and others seemed quite untouched by fire. Amron’s longhouse had been burned at one end and the thatching was blackened but otherwise still stood. The gods of the Furun had sent a rain to save what was left of the village and that was surely a good sign.
“Who leads here now?”
Pehur gestured at the longhouse. “Amron’s son, Eron.” He swallowed. “What will you do, lord?”
“I suppose we must speak to him, if we can.”
“I meant what will you do about me, lord?”
Herkuhlos looked down and recalled how his servant had abandoned their belongings so that he could take part in the fighting. It was not his place to fight but he had always been that way, despite his low birth, and Herkuhlos could not fault him for that. Besides, he had removed the arrow and washed his wounds which may have saved his life and for that he was grateful.
He placed a hand on Pehur’s shoulder and smiled. “Perhaps I shall kill you later. Come, let us find the chief’s son.”
Eron stood in the centre of the longhouse with many of the men, young and old, standing by him. At the far end of the longhouse the women bent over the naked body of their fallen chief as they prepared it for burial.
The men broke off their conversation when Herkuhlos appeared and the expressions on their bloodied, blackened faces stopped him coming closer. Eron approached. He had the look of his father but was thinner and taller and when he came close he reached out and took Herkuhlos’ hand in both of his, gripping it tightly as he spoke earnest words.
