‘We will have vengeance for our fallen,’ Sargis replied from nearby.
‘With the Son of Ishtar and Tanku the giant, we are unshakable,’ Dagon said, his voice quivering with pent-up ferment.
Their careful pace picked up from a slow stalk to a walk, to a quick walk. Then they broke into a jog and a run. The light grew stronger, brighter at last, the air cleaner, more plentiful – it was as if they were about to surface from a dark pool. Hattu filled his lungs, ready to cry out with the others as they poured towards the clearing.
The front ranks of the bullhorn of soldiers burst into glade, the air shaking with their cries.
Emptiness greeted them. No Kaskans. Nothing.
The war cries faded and they slowed, looking around the deserted space. Hattu squinted in the late afternoon sunshine and saw the abandoned dome huts, the spent dung-fires, now just embers. Recent prints of boots, wheels and hooves marked the flattened grass. A small brook ran across the space. Not a soul to be seen.
‘They were here but they’ve left,’ a scout said, kneeling by the remains of one fire.
No Atiya…
But there was a stake rising from the largest ash-pit. Tied to it were four bodies, lashed there by their wrists. They were merely shapes of men, black as pitch, their flesh and bone burnt through. Hattu scrambled forward, sliding to his knees, hands raking the ashes. In it he found a sliver of hide – a piece of a Hittite helm, blackened but etched with the wing of a bird. ‘These are men of the Eagle Kin,’ he said. He looked up, seeing Muwa emerging from the trees, eyes wide on the burnt corpses.
Hattu ran his fingers through the ashes again – still warm. He stood and looked at the direction of the prints in the earth, all leading into the northern treeline. He glanced up to the sky, seeing that the sun was dropping and dusk would soon be upon them. An interminable itch stabbed at him, a fiery desire to be on the move again. Atiya: find Atiya! He clambered up a moss-covered rock near the centre of the clearing and craned his neck, giving himself just enough height to see across the forest roof. The woods ran for another danna and then a green haze of open countryside followed. Such a short way. In his mind’s eye he saw the Kaskans just beyond the woods, Atiya bound and helpless. A fire of pride and anger flooded his mind and he felt an urge to rush through the trees himself. If there was just a patch of a chance… a chance to stuff Muwa’s unjust words of blame back down his throat.
‘A good soldier chooses the right time to march and the right time to wait,’ Kurunta muttered, just behind him. ‘That will be the hardest danna we’ve ever trod: roots, vines, uneven ground – we’d still be fighting our way through it when darkness came.’
‘Does that make it the wrong choice?’ Hattu asked.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Kurunta replied, rising up the rock to look across the forest roof himself.
‘They might be just beyond?’ he pressed. ‘What if Pitagga lingers there with just a small guard, the priestesses and the stolen statue? This could be over within hours.’
Kurunta’s lone eye seemed narrowed at the prospect, but he shook his head. ‘It will be the Tuhkanti’s choice,’ he surmised, turning to the treeline where the royal wagon was emerging – covered in foliage, Muwa directing the driver with waving hands and shouts.
Soon, the three divisions entire had poured into the clearing, near-enough filling the space. They stood in their groups, awaiting orders. Muwa, Nuwanza, Volca, Colta and Kurunta gathered by the royal wagon. Hattu, standing with the Wolves, saw how Colta, Kurunta and Nuwanza weighed the virtues of staying and making camp here against moving on and trying to escape the last stretch of forest in the final hour or so of daylight. Volca, on the other hand, seemed certain that it would be folly to leave with darkness so close. Muwa seemed swayed by the Sherden’s convictions.
Hattu felt his mind and his heart swing one way then the other. His head said stay and his heart said go – still imagining himself ploughing headlong through the undergrowth, alone. He wandered from the Wolves, towards the generals.
‘Perhaps we should do both,’ he said.
The generals swung round at the unexpected interruption.
‘Forgive me, for I know my voice holds no weight in such company, but I feel we could camp here, but also send a knot of men ahead, to sight and track the Kaskans… maybe even to take back the things of ours which they hold.’ He looked at Muwa as he said this.
‘You’re right,’ Muwa said, ‘you have no place in this discussion.’
The words were like a stinging slap. His brother then turned his back, closing the circle of generals, his black cloak swishing out like a drawn veil.
‘There is still an hour of light left,’ Kurunta said to Muwa, firmly but respectfully. ‘Maybe an advance party would be viable?’
‘Like at Baka?’ Muwa snapped. ‘Disaster almost had us there, General. More than a hundred good men fell thanks to that calamity. And for what?’
‘A bigger disaster would have been certain had the advance group not stumbled upon Pitagga’s trap,’ Kurunta countered. ‘Thousands would now lie dead had the army entire wandered on into the Carrion Gorge unawares. The king himself. You, Tuhkanti. All of us.’
As Muwa stifled an angry reply, Volca looked to the skies, then across to the treeline. At last the Sherden shook his head, pointing to the branches of the nearest elm: a long-eared owl sat there, watching them pensively. ‘A night bird watches us. It is an omen we should heed. It is night and thus we should make camp – all of us.’
‘It is a day-hunter,’ Hattu said.
Muwa swung to him again. The troops nearby were watching on now.
‘His eyes are amber,’ Hattu continued, hearing Ruba’s voice from the classroom, ‘like the sun. This means he hunts by day. Only black-eyed owls are night-predators. There is no omen here.’
Volca sneered dismissively.
Muwa’s face twisted. ‘Return to your ranks… soldier,’ he spat.
‘Perhaps there is merit in sending a troop of archers ahead, Tuhkanti,’ Nuwanza now argued. ‘They could move silently and with mud and dark garb so as not to be seen.’
Colta stroked his forked beard and added: ‘We still don’t know exactly how many warriors Pitagga has with him. Any knowledge would be a boost to our hopes.’
Muwa swung to the pair. Hattu could see the signs: the few times in years past when his brother’s temper had exploded – all reason and wisdom cast aside. By now, most of the soldiers had heard the terse words of their leaders and had turned to watch.
‘Camp here and send a troop forward as Prince Hattu suggests,’ one group of Wrath soldiers muttered. ‘The Son of Ishtar has been a good omen so far, has he not?’
‘The Tuhkanti has chosen,’ Volca cut in, stepping over to stand beside Muwa. ‘Prepare camp. We remain here for the night,’ Volca concluded. ‘There will be no advance party.’
Muwa seemed to draw in a sharp breath, his dark and taut, eyes fixed on Hattu. Hattu imagined a hundred whispered, acid words travelling upon his brother’s fiery gaze.
***
As the three divisions set about fortifying the clearing with a strong watch around the edge and a rough, circular palisade of spears, Volca sat on the driver’s berth of the king’s wagon, watching the men at work on the defences then settling down to cook their evening meals. Darkness seemed to descend swiftly and the rhododendron forest penning them in was now pure black, illuminated only by the occasional set of staring gemstone eyes of curious, watching animals. Then there was another set of eyes: different, narrowed… narrowed on him.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he gave the slightest of nods.
***
Hattu felt his eyelids grow heavy as he sat by the fire, watching the horses and mules cropping at grass, listening to Dagon’s gentle, wistful song:
‘The wind howls like a hound, yet none flinch at the sound,’
‘As rain lashes the fields, in calm prayer we kneel,’
‘When snow blankets the walls, ou
r proud sentries stand tall,’
‘Thunder rolls through the sky, yet the children don’t cry,’
‘For they were born in might-ty Hat-tusaaa…’
The song conjured an image in Hattu’s mind: of him and Atiya standing on the acropolis walls, hugging each other for warmth, watching Arrow bank and dart through the sky. He pulled the tight leather string holding his hair in a tail, the locks falling around his face. He found the lock with the beryl stone on it, held it to his lips and kissed it. Tomorrow, I will find you.
He saw Muwa across the camp, sitting cross-legged, head bowed, chin resting on steepled fingers. Tomorrow, Brother, I pray for her sake… and yours… that she has not come to any harm because of our delay here.
Another spoonful of his half-eaten bowl of rabbit broth, another mouthful of watered wine, and Hattu felt drowsiness creep across his mind. He gazed out into the blackness of the forest. Darkness. Sleep… and, right at the perimeter by the Wolves’ fire… eyes. Human eyes?
‘What the?’ he gasped, suddenly alert and shooting to his feet, sparks rising from the fire with him. The Wolves rose too, startled. Tanku’s sword screeched as he drew it. Dagon hoisted a spear.
A figure emerged from the trees, hobbling.
‘Slowly,’ the nearest sentry demanded, keeping his spear tip trained on the newcomer.
It was an old woman, her back hunched and her hair hanging in tousled clumps like the lichen of the forest. ‘My, never have I seen so many faces in one place,’ she croaked – in the Hatenzuwan tongue – eyeing the fifteen thousand men in the clearing. ‘Hittites,’ she mused, noticing their garb and features.
‘Who are you?’ Muwa barked, striding over from the royal tent area to see what was happening, adding his sword point to Tanku’s.
‘A villager,’ she snapped, now in the Hittite tongue, flicking her head back towards the north from whence she had come, her nose shrivelling, ‘and you ought to show a little more respect, boy.’
Muwa seemed disarmed by her motherly rebuke.
‘She is alone,’ Hattu confirmed, eyes searching the darkness within the trees.
Muwa’s top lip twitched. ‘I can see that,’ he growled, tucking his sword back into his belt. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I walk these woods, and I stop here every evening to fetch water,’ the old woman pointed to the brook then the rickety old hand cart she was towing – an empty bucket sitting on it. Nuwanza, Colta and Kurunta had gathered now too, along with a crowd of soldiers.
Muwa eyed the woods once more then narrowed his eyes. ‘And have you come across the Kaskan tribes tonight?’
She frowned. ‘By the Gods, no. And may every day forth be the same.’
He waved a hand as if to clear a path for her to the brook. She hobbled forwards with a sigh, then stopped to sniff the air like a hound, curling her bottom lip in disappointment. ‘If you tire of that grim broth you all seem to be cooking,’ she said loud enough for many nearby units to hear, ‘then you will find plenty of nourishment in these honeycombs.’ She gestured to the handcart. Piled in there were pale yellow waxy shards – broken chunks of hives.
Kurunta blew air through his lips, impressed by the hag’s impertinence. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said, reaching over and taking one of the shards, dipping his finger into the waxy lattice and sucking the thick, runny liquid from the tip. ‘Lovely… and interesting,’ he said. Soldiers from each division harvested chunks of the nectar too.
A voice nagged insistently in Hattu’s mind, stirred by the sight of the honeycomb. What was it Ruba had told him?
But Volca appeared at that moment. ‘We’ll lighten your burden,’ he grinned, tossing the old woman a small bag of copper rings. ‘Let’s spare most for the watchmen, eh? It will keep them alert. Pass it round,’ he said, taking one entire disc of comb and passing it on to the nearest perimeter sentry, who gladly broke off a piece and passed it round to the next guardsman.
Hattu noticed the old woman’s face had drooped. She looked up at him, one half of her mouth raised in a sad smile. ‘I had best be on my way,’ she muttered.
Hattu saw that the leather bucket in her cart was empty. ‘But your water?’
‘Ah,’ she sighed. ‘Yes…’ She hobbled over to the brook and awkwardly crouched to try to fill the bucket. Hattu pitied the sight. He walked over, taking the bucket and bending to fill it for her.
‘You are a kind young man,’ she said. More words seemed to be stuck behind her lips, but she said nothing.
‘Thank you for the honey,’ Hattu said. ‘It will invigorate us for tomorrow, when I will free my love from Kaskan hands.’
‘Hmm,’ she replied.
‘You have seen them, haven’t you?’ he asked.
‘You build fine houses in Hittite lands, I hear?’ she mused.
Hattu frowned. ‘There are fine palaces. Shacks and shanty houses too though.’
‘Your love,’ she said, ‘if she was in a burning room and a family were in another. If the house was about to collapse and you could save only one, which would it be?’
‘That is a cruel choice,’ Hattu replied.
‘Aye, it is,’ she muttered.
And off she went. Hattu watched her melt back into the woods. Dagon shoved a triangle of waxy comb into his hand and patted his back. ‘It is wondrous,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of the stuff.
They sat around the fire once more and he sucked out a good helping of honey, smacking his lips in satisfaction and drawing some soldier bread from his bag to dip into the comb. It was sweet and energising. Kurunta sat near him, and for the first time, Hattu realised he was glad of the one-eyed leader’s nearness. He gazed at Kurunta’s eyepatch as he ate. The ‘vengeful general’ was a myth. Kurunta was a steadfast warrior, a pillar upon which the king stood. Why, he wondered, had Father taken his eye?
‘You’ll never work it out,’ Kurunta said quietly without looking up from his shard of honeycomb.
‘Sir?’ Hattu said, startled.
‘Many a story has been conjured about this,’ he said, tapping a finger on his eyepatch. ‘Aye, they whisper about me just as much as they whisper about you, lad.’
‘Tell me,’ Hattu said gently.
Kurunta sighed deeply and examined the ground before him, gazing through the earth as if it was a window to a past era. ‘Some say I lost it in a brawl with the king’s guards. One hurkeler spread the tale that I was caught in the king’s chambers at night with a knife. Others claim the king himself pinned me down and scooped it out with a spoon, wrenching with his bare hands at the sinew and tendons that dangled from the socket until they snapped away too.’
Hattu stopped chewing on his sweetened bread, mildly disgusted but also wondering who else was listening. Nobody – the rest of the Wolves were busy chatting amongst themselves.
‘I don’t believe any of those tales,’ Hattu said.
Kurunta flicked his head to one side as if uncomfortable with the intimate words. ‘And I believe you are no Cursed Son.’
Hattu frowned, chewing his bread slowly now. He was sure the general would say no more.
‘It happened many years ago,’ Kurunta added after a silence, ‘Two hundred and seventy one men patrol the Dark Earth because… because of me.’
Hattu felt a shiver across his back.
‘It wasn’t long after the Mitannian Wars had ended. I was a regimental chief then, posted to the dry flats of Nuhashi. The king had given the order for all patrols and garrisons to withdraw from the area, as we expected a strong uprising from the loyalist locals. But a sand-storm kicked up, you see. The king’s word was withdraw, but I knew my men would suffer were we to march on in that stinging tempest, so I led them into a small, abandoned mud-fort. The fort was bleak but sheltered enough for us to at least draw breath and wait the storm out.’
Hattu shrugged. The logic was sound.
‘Then come morning, the storm had faded… but the local tribes had gathered around the fort in their thousands. They ha
d barred the gates from the outside. Expert bowmen in those lands,’ he smiled without a crumb of humour. ‘They shot us down like pigs in a pen. Every last one of us… except me.’
Hattu felt a stone settle in his belly at the bleak tale. ‘So an arrow took your eye?’
Kurunta shook his head. ‘Somehow I was unhurt. The locals left. I clambered from the fort, over the rampart of heaped corpses. I staggered back through the baked wastes until I reached Aleppo’s walls where the king and his various forces had retreated to. I had disobeyed my superior’s orders, the king’s orders. The punishment is clear enough – blinding, as has always been the way.’
‘My father did not hear your story?’ Hattu asked, looking once to the royal wagon then back to Kurunta.
‘Aye, he listened,’ Kurunta nodded. ‘And he spared me.’ Then he turned to Hattu, his face bent in disgust. ‘But is the cruellest punisher not the one within?’ He tapped his temple. ‘I could not live with the memory of their deaths, the reality that they had died while I did not. I needed to feel something, something other than guilt.’
A horrible sense of understanding settled on Hattu’s shoulders. ‘You asked for the eye to be taken… ’
‘I begged the king,’ Kurunta said quietly. ‘I begged him as others might beg to keep their lives. And when it was done I found that it helped… a little.’
They ate more in silence, sharing a skin of watered wine. Eventually, Hattu asked Kurunta of the better times in the Mitannian Wars and of simple things, like his life outside the army, with his wife and his beloved pigs in Hattusa. The general struggled to speak of these things, but Hattu could see he was eager to try.
After a while, he noticed the watered wine flooding to his head even more swiftly than before. His blood felt warm and he noticed that despite the air growing cool with the darkness of night, a layer of balmy sweat had spread across his skin. He held up his water skin and the small wine flask, both blurry and outlined by the moon and its silver halo.
‘Gods, this wine is strong,’ Kurunta remarked, shaking his head like a wet dog.
Son of Ishtar Page 33
