‘Down!’ Dagon cried.
Hattu fell into a squat as Dagon’s thrown mace met the axe-man’s temple with a boom like a bursting bag. The foe’s skull crumpled with a spray of foul matter and he wilted like a flower. Hattu pounced on the moment of shock to snatch up a burning faggot of hay, ramming it into Black-teeth’s face. The fellow screamed, his beard-hair and flesh melding with a stinking sizzle. Dagon rushed forward to plunge his sword into the man’s flank with a crack of sinew and bone. Black-teeth fell to his knees, face ruined with fire, then collapsed completely, legs kicking in death-spasms. Hattu and Dagon swung one way then the other in the scudding smoke and licking flames, back to back, certain another foe would be rushing for him, but there was none: each of the Kaskan nobles lay dead or groaning, bodies riven.
All but one… Pitagga’s body was absent.
No! he mouthed, then almost leapt from his skin when a small door at the edge of the fort clicked shut. His head snapped round, his smoke-grey eye focused on the door. Without a second thought, he snatched up a dropped sword and lunged for the door, kicking it open, sword levelled. Inside, he found not a room, but a dark-walled stairwell, hollowed out of the rock, winding down into the mount. Another part of the honeycomb-like lead mines, he realised.
In the meagre light before the door swung closed behind him, he saw Pitagga further down the stairs, fleeing but pausing to look up, eyes wide. Then off he set again, descending out of sight. If the Kaskan leader escaped then this would all have been for nothing. Hattu stumbled down the stairs after him, shoulders scraping from the jagged stairwell walls, tripping and rolling down one stretch of steps and skidding down others. It felt like an endless descent, then suddenly he spilled into broad daylight again, stumbling through golden grass at the southern edge of Baka hill. Hattu shot a look one way then another around the deserted space, before a shape shot up from the grass and a flash of bronze came for his face. He leapt to one side and rolled across the ground just as Pitagga’s double-headed axe cut through the air where he had been. The Kaskan Lord stalked over, ready to raise the axe again. ‘This time, Cursed Son, I don’t think I will let you live.’
Hattu leapt to his feet, levelled his sword and crouched like a warrior. ‘The last time I faced you I was a boy. Now, I am a warrior. You will pay dearly for what you did to my brother and my teacher.’
Pitagga’s eyes came alight with menace as he laughed darkly, and both raised their weapons.
‘Lord,’ a voice cried from the trees nearby. A Kaskan warrior in the shade there was pointing in panic to a cloud of dust coming along the Green River valley. Hattu peered at it too, until he saw the screaming, snarling wall of men… soldiers… Hittites! The Fury Division, alert to the danger, weapons drawn. At their head… Muwa!
Suddenly, the air was alive with skirling pipes singing a bold song of war as the Hittite ranks came to conquer Baka hill.
‘Your ruse has failed,’ Hattu spat.
Pitagga backed away, his confidence draining. As he went, he held up and shook a dark bag. ‘But your brother’s head will stay with me, and your own will join it in good time, as will your father’s and the Tuhkanti’s.’ Then he pulled something from his cloak – a rag of sorts. ‘Your silver god is already mine.’
Hattu frowned, confused, catching the thrown rag as Pitagga vanished into the trees.
A strip of dark cloth. Then he held it up, saw it for what it really was, and his heart fell into his boots.
Dagon staggered out from the stairway passage and saw his friend’s face turn paler than snow. ‘Hattu, what’s wrong?’
***
The Battle of Baka Fortress ended as soon as the Galasmans saw the Fury Division surging from the Green River valley. Most of the Galasmans melted away before the Fury could reach them, but those too slow were cut to pieces. The well-placed Kaskan forces positioned along the high sides of the Carrion Gorge just to the north vanished too, retreating deeper into the mountains now that their ambush had been exposed.
Hattu staggered breathlessly round the foot of the hill, coming to the western slope, he and Dagon supporting each other as they went. From the corner of his eye, he saw the smoking mess that was the fort – the fires only now being tended to. He saw a hundred or more Hittite warriors strewn on the lower slope of the golden hill, entangled with the brutish corpses of many more Galasmans. Shards of white bone jutted, sinews stretched and dangled, red and black blood and foul grey innards coated this macabre undergrowth. The stink of death was powerful and unremitting. Flies droned in thick, black clouds over the mess. His face wrinkled like a hissing cat’s and he spat in the ground by one staring Galasman corpse. ‘The loyal watchmen…’ he said with a bitter growl, then saw in the dead man’s hand a small wooden pig. A child’s toy. The dying fellow’s last thought had been of his little ones. A great sadness swept across him.
Then he looked at the rag of cloth Pitagga had given him, and nothing else mattered.
Amongst the bloodied living, he saw Tanku with the rest of the Mountain Wolves. They were stained red with smoke, dust and blood, and the hundred were now only sixty or so. Big Tanku seemed to be holding back tears as he held up a clenched fist and let loose a forlorn wolf howl. As Hattu and Dagon walked amongst them, many hands clasped their shoulders and shook them warmly.
But still Hattu saw only the rag in his hand.
Stumbling on through the masses of the Fury ranks, he felt many eyes upon him. Something was different. Their hard looks had changed, softened. And then he heard the whispers from the Ravens to the Fury men. ‘He saved us, saved us all. It was he who led the climb to send up the signal, to take the fort. Is this truly the Cursed Son?’
But a Raven corrected this one. ‘Did you not hear him before battle? Did you not see him fight? He called upon Ishtar and she heard his call. He is no Cursed Son… he is the Son of Ishtar.’
The title was innocently voiced, but of all appellations, this was the darkest they could have chosen. Yet still there was only the rag in his hand.
‘Son of Ishtar!’ many others echoed, laughing, panting, oblivious to his thoughts.
An hour or more passed, with Hattu sitting, head between his knees, the frantic events of the day shooting before his eyes, the rag clutched in his fingers.
By mid-afternoon, the Blaze and the Storm had arrived, Volca and the Mesedi leading the royal wagon up the stained hill and into Baka fort – the fires doused now but the bastion blackened and still smoking. Hattu followed, almost in a trance. Up there he saw the generals of the day were inside. Kurunta and Nuwanza, lashed with dirt, sweat and blood. Volca, unsullied.
A noise behind him caught him unawares: a weak moan. He twisted to see the now-lowered timber crossbar and the gruesome pennant of poor Ruba’s body – almost forgotten in the mayhem of the battle – still twitching, his lips still quivering as if trying to talk. A pair of royal healers were crouched by the old teacher, but their sagging shoulders and sad faces said it all. ‘There is nothing we can do to save him,’ the nearest said. ‘He is in great pain.’
Hattu’s throat thickened fiercely as he knelt by the old fellow’s side, clasping his hand – the fingers already cold.
Kurunta knelt with him, clutching a short dagger. ‘Old Goose,’ the general said, his voice hoarse. A short, sharp nick across Ruba’s neck and his torment was over. Silence reined. A warm, late afternoon breeze lifted Kurunta’s silvery braid of hair, and Hattu was sure he saw a single, crystal-like teardrop fall from the grizzled general’s bowed head and blot the dirt.
Farewell, old tutor, Hattu mouthed, tears openly streaking his dirt-stained cheeks. Arrow settled lightly on his shoulder, emitting one long, elegiac cry.
The sombre moment ended with an eruption of scuffling and shouting. From behind the armoury in one corner of the fort, two Hittite soldiers dragged the thrashing Darizu from some rat hole he had been hiding in. The Galasman was kicked to his knees before King Mursili’s wagon. A weak, white hand peeled the veil back and Mur
sili looked out, his lopsided face like a wraith’s.
Darizu’s pig-eyes widened and his features paled. ‘The Kaskans arrived here first and they came in great number,’ he stammered, the words falling over one another. ‘They said they would burn our families alive unless we sided with them. Those who resisted their demands fought fiercely but were overcome, then Pitagga burnt them in high, awful pyres made purely of bodies – fires that only this morning breathed their last.’
Hattu thought of the smoke pall that had drawn them here and let his eyes close to rid himself of the image. But in its place he saw the strip of cloth and all it meant. It cannot be true…
‘They threatened to gut me and let hawks pick at my innards if I didn’t deceive you from the fort walls. What were we to do?’ he pleaded. His thick, silver necklace – a Kaskan piece – jangled with his every gesticulation, undermining his every word.
‘You could have stayed loyal to… your Labarna,’ Mursili said flatly, ‘donned the armour and spears… I had sent for your… fighting men and stood alongside the few who resisted. Together, the Galasmans might well have fended off the Kaskan advance until we arrived. You had that choice, Darizu, but you chose instead to betray me… and to betray your ancestors.’
Darizu’s head turned, eyes searching the merciless faces. There was a moment where his pig eyes widened with some inner realisation. ‘Spare me, My Sun,’ he said, turning back to the king, ‘and I can tell you everything… ’
A shiver shot up Hattu’s back. Darizu had known the king was coming. How?
Mursili sat up too, quivering and pale within the carriage.
Darizu nodded hurriedly. ‘Everyth-’
Suddenly, three points burst from the man’s breast with a shower of dark blood, his head shooting back and his face contorting like that of a stunned fish. Volca placed one foot on the Galasman leader’s shoulder and wrenched his trident free, kicking the corpse onto its face.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Kurunta said, rising from beside Ruba’s body. ‘A dead traitor won’t tell us much, will he?’
‘His voice was boring me,’ the Sherden said with a smirk. ‘And he was armed,’ he added, pulling a small skinning knife from Darizu’s belt.
Hattu gazed at the dead traitor, pink froth bubbling from the three grim holes in his back, at Ruba, his oldest mentor, at the scores of bodies lying riven, mangled and mutilated all around the fort, at the swarms of flies and buzzing and birds picking at the cadavers. And the rag in his hand felt like an ingot of lead.
‘And what of Pitagga?’ King Mursili croaked.
‘Pitagga lives,’ Hattu said flatly. He felt his father’s scornful eyes on him.
‘Then we cannot return home,’ the king tremored, the effort clearly sapping what little strength he had. ‘We may have foiled Pitagga’s trap today, but the Lord of the Mountains has succeeded in destroying our generations-old alliance with Galasma. This frontier is broken. We must continue to the Lost North. We must hunt Pitagga down.’
‘My Sun,’ Nuwanza, standing by the carriage, protested in a whisper that was inadvertently loud, ‘the north is unknown, treacherous. Those mountains…’
Volca sidled over to the carriage, much to Nuwanza’s annoyance, addressing the king but speaking loud enough for all to hear. ‘On the Isle of the Sherden, we used to suffer bandits. Swift and spry, they would fall upon our trade wagons like wildcats then melt back into the rugged slopes of the Fire Mountain. Gone,’ he flashed the fingers of both hands before him, ‘like shadows. One of my greatest mistakes was in thinking that by driving them back, we had beaten them. Because they, like these mountain men, always come back stronger, like weeds. Heed your king. Outright victory is the only kind we should seek.’
‘We will regroup and tend to our wounded,’ Mursili wheezed, ‘then we will cross the mountains… we will find Pitagga.’ He shook a weak left fist. ‘Into the Lost North.’
A muted cheer met this proclamation, amplified by a short, whistling breeze.
Hattu swung to the north, to the Carrion Gorge and its rising path through the Soaring Mountains. The notion of marching there seemed like nothing… the rag was everything. He eyed the strip of cloth once more, then heard approaching footsteps.
He looked up to see his brother. Muwa’s face was like a quarry, his frown lines like deep cuts, his gaze stonier than any of the whisperers’ had ever been.
‘Brother, you are hurt,’ Hattu said, seeing a thin red slash on his face from the edge of an axe.
‘The wound is a decoration, nothing more,’ Muwa snapped.
‘You and the Fury saved us,’ Hattu said.
‘We did. Yet the men speak of you as the champion of the day,’ Muwa muttered darkly, his tone a war of jealousy and grudging respect.
‘There was no victory today, Brother,’ Hattu said softly, handing Muwa the piece of cloth.
‘What is this?’ Muwa scowled.
‘It is a strip torn from a priestess’ robe,’ Hattu replied, his throat thickening. ‘Pitagga had it. Pitagga… has her.’
‘What?’ Muwa gasped, his face crumpling.
‘They must have ambushed the wagons of the templefolk on the way to Tapikka. The divine statue. The Eagle Kin. The priestesses… Atiya… ’
Muwa took a step back from Hattu. ‘I put her wellbeing in your hands, Hattu,’ he croaked.
Hattu felt a fire creep across his skin. All around him, he heard whispers and then laments as the men of the army realised what had happened. The silver effigy of Tarhunda, the holiest of holies, had fallen into Kaskan hands. Their beloved priestesses had been carried off too. ‘Tarhunda, forgive us,’ one soldier cried out, falling to his knees.
‘I trusted you to choose an able escort,’ Muwa continued.
‘I did,’ Hattu insisted. ‘The Eagle Kin are a strong company and-’
‘Were a strong company,’ Muwa interrupted.
‘And I raised horse scouts from Father’s stable too,’ Hattu snarled, anger rising in his breast. ‘What more could I have done?’
‘You should have chosen a second company, you should have sent them on the high road – shorter and swifter,’ Muwa snarled.
‘Brother, I did as I thought right. A single company is the normal escort. And the high road? Are there not bandits on its stretches too?’
But Muwa’s lips grew thin and his nostrils flared. He backed away from Hattu, shaking his head. ‘You claim to love her, yet you let her fall into the hands of the vilest of creatures.’ He took another step back, stabbing a finger at Hattu. ‘This… is your doing.’
‘Enough,’ a frail voice called from nearby. Hattu and Muwa looked to the royal wagon, seeing the trembling king, eyes wide, face pale.
With a snort, Muwa turned his back and strode away. Hattu’s heart rapped with dread, his mind screamed a thousand different words of justification and curses, and his eyes blazed with fury.
Chapter 15
Into the Lost North
Early Summer 1300 BC
The army remained at Baka Fortress for eleven days, tending to the stricken, digging graves and building pyres. Old Ruba was cremated with Onyx by his side. Priests’ incantations were unrelenting as the dead were consigned to the Dark Earth, and the weak and sometimes blood-curdling cries of the wounded grew gradually fewer as the mortally injured faded and the rest grew strong again. At the end of it all, one hundred and seven Hittite warriors had fallen in the fray – thirty nine of them from the Mountain Wolves. A tiny fraction of the army, but each of them grieved for like fallen brothers. They spent another day replenishing the baggage wagons with game caught in and berries foraged from the woods and water from the Green River. On the twelfth day, they left Hittite lands behind, setting forth into the Carrion Gorge, cutting deep into the Soaring Mountains – realm of the Kaskans.
The gorge was like the throat of a giant. Wide, spacious and carpeted in soft moss at first, then after the first day of marching it became tight, twisting and rocky underfoot. And desp
ite the illusion of freshness lent by the snowy mountain peaks that loomed high above, these lower parts were uncomfortably hot, with the air in the gorge still and arid, the silvery sides of the corridor reflecting and multiplying the early summer heat. A vanguard of Nuwanza’s champion archers moved like spiders along the high sides of the passageway in case Pitagga had merely moved his gorge snare a few danna further northwards. They went barefoot, scuttling along in just kilts, scouting the caves, niches and ambush points along those heights and signalling back to the column.
Hattu and the Wolves marched in their place within the chain of the three great divisions, but there was less chatter than there had been in the march through Hittite lands. He felt acutely aware of the shrunken pack around him. Thirty nine young men – mere boys just a summer ago, boys who had trained with him in the red fells, who had resented him once, but had grown to love him as one of their own – were gone. Looking across the soldiers on this front rank with him, he saw Tanku and Dagon… but no Garin. Just as Hattu had beaten Kurunta’s challenges and become accepted in the ranks, so too Garin had shed his extra weight, turning from a chubby recruit into a lean, confident warrior. He remembered Garin’s tales about his beloved mother and pet cats, and felt the urge to weep for her, alone in Hattusa, unaware of her son’s death. He noticed Kurunta, just ahead. The one-eyed general seemed to be marching with invisible weights tied to his shoulders, his head uncharacteristically down. Ruba’s death and the fallen at Baka had hit him hard, it seemed. It stoked in Hattu something he never thought he would feel for Kurunta: pity. Pity and a memory, of something from that cold winter he had spent at the Fields of Bronze: a chorus he had heard Kurunta singing alone in the barracks.
‘Tarhunda weeps and the rain pours,’ he began nervously.
A few paces ahead, he saw Kurunta’s ears prick up.
‘His lightning blinds, his thunder roars,’ he continued, a few others joined in.
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