Volca brought his trident tip swinging round, sure it was certain to pierce the general’s heart. But Nuwanza sprung up like a cat, unhitching the bow from his back in a flash. ‘Never force an archer onto his bow,’ Nuwanza growled, taking two steps back from the stunned Volca and reaching up to his back quiver, flicking the leather lid open. Then his face fell as he clutched at thin air.
Volca grinned like a shark. ‘And never leave a Sherden alone with your weapons,’ he purred. ‘Your arrows lie in the dirt, back at the camp gate.’ Then he lunged forward, plunging the central tip of the trident into Nuwanza’s breast. With a gasp, the Master Archer dropped his bow. Volca rammed the trident in fully. Three thick runnels of blood poured from the wounds and General Nuwanza sank to his knees, mouth agape. ‘And it is to the dirt with you, Bowman.’
He drew the trident back and Nuwanza thumped forward, dead. Volca panted, his mind already picking over the detail of how he might falsify his report when, from a pace away, the most unholy shriek sounded.
He swung round to see Arrow, that damned falcon, flying in a tight circle around him. Like a lizard’s tongue, he swept out a hand to swat it away, but the falcon was too quick, banking clear.
The falcon settled a safe distance away on the gully edge, looking down at Nuwanza’s corpse and keening. Volca thought then of the two brother princes, so hateful now. He smiled, closed one eye and lifted his trident like a javelin.
Chapter 19
Brothers Asunder
Summer 1300 BC
As the last vestiges of light slipped from the land, the Wolves sat around their campfire. Hattu poked and prodded at the single pot cooking over the fire. After a hard day marching, the meagre half-ration of spelt to make porridge would barely feed the sixty men. But Muwa had been insistent on the punishment ration. Hattu had challenged him to punish Volca too, but his brother had refused to even listen to him. He stirred the thin porridge and scooped a ‘helping’ out with a spoon, passing it to Dagon.
‘You stood up for us, that’s what matters,’ Dagon said, sensing Hattu’s mood.
‘You spoke well,’ Tanku agreed, taking the next bowl offered.
Hattu’s teeth ground together behind closed lips as he sat down with his porridge. It had taken all his reserves of willpower not to scream at Muwa, to demand apology for the unjust blame the Chosen Prince had yoked him with. Even now the sight of his brother across the camp, the sound of his voice or of others saluting him grated like salt on broken skin. He barely realised he was holding his bowl with a throttle-like grip until the clay vessel broke with a think clunk, the paltry porridge ration seeping away into the earth.
‘Not hungry?’ Kisna remarked cautiously, one eyebrow arching.
‘Not even slightly,’ Hattu replied.
When a commotion erupted at the western entrance to the camp, Hattu rose, Tanku and Dagon standing with him. At the entrance – a short and heavily patrolled gap in the spear palisade – many hundreds of soldiers had clustered around an arriving horseman.
‘Volca,’ Dagon said.
‘Did he not set out with Nuwanza?’ Tanku said, speaking for them all.
Hattu set down his porridge and pushed into the crowd, the Wolves gathering in his wake. ‘Where is the Master Bowman?’
The Sherden warrior’s gaze found him and the Wolves amongst the crowd. His forlorn eyes answered the question. ‘A knot of Pitagga’s hillmen fell upon us, just west. He fought like a lion but... ’ he stopped and shook his head once.
As Volca ranged past them towards the royal pavilion, many others clustered around him, the questions coming thick and fast. Hattu, Tanku and Dagon watched the space the Gal Mesedi had ridden through, mute, disbelieving. Nuwanza had been there, always, at Father’s side. Now he was gone.
‘The Bowman is dead?’ Dagon said, his words laced with disbelief. The men of the camp cried out in lament as word spread through the camp.
Hattu saw Kurunta, nearby, staring, his craggy face suddenly like a lost boy’s upon hearing the news. It was doubtful whether the haggard general had any true friends, but in Ruba and now Nuwanza, he had lost two age-old comrades on this wretched march. The laments soon turned to angry chatter and arguments. The leader of the Blaze had been slain, some snapped. Pitagga’s forces must be just a short way west, others argued – vulnerable and within striking distance at last.
Soon, the generals gathered by a large fire near the royal pavilion, with an audience of thousands of soldiers, Hattu and the Wolves included. Muwa stood before the flames, his broad face uplit by the fire. Using a stick, he traced a crude crescent like a waning moon in the dirt, the open end facing east. He then made a dot, just northeast of this crescent.
‘We are here,’ Muwa said, gesturing to the dot. ‘Going by the location at which Volca and Nuwanza were ambushed, Pitagga has swung towards the southwest. I fear he now retreats across the nearby hills,’ he said, tracing the stick across the upper arm of the crescent and into the circle of space within, ‘and towards the basin of Nerik. If he crosses that basin and once again melts into the Soaring Mountains,’ he concluded, indicating towards the lower arm of the crescent, ‘then we cannot hope to continue the pursuit.’
‘Do not dismay, Tuhkanti,’ Volca interrupted. ‘The basin of Nerik will be Pitagga’s grave.’
All stared at him, rapt.
The Gal Mesedi sank to his haunches to gesture to the interior of the crescent. ‘I have heard many tales of the place: flat, broad plains. Fine terrain for Hittite forces, for chariots! Not so good for mountain men…’
A regimental chief of the now leaderless Blaze division stroked his jaw, his eyes brightening. ‘If we can get there first…’
Volca grinned, nodding.
Another chief beat a fist against his knee. ‘Block the southerly routes into the mountains… trap him on those plains.’
‘We can fall upon him as he tries to escape... he will be wandering into a pen,’ agreed a third.
A chorus of cheer and pride rippled around the fire.
Colta gazed into the flames, tugging at his forked beard. ‘A pen for whom? When does the fox become the hound?’
Volca glared at him for a moment then swiped a hand through the air and scoffed. ‘Now is not the time for procrastination, Old Horse. With every passing heartbeat, Pitagga slides closer to his high mountains. Do you really want him to vanish into those heights? Do you really want another fruitless campaign?’ He took to drawing more in the dirt, outlining a meandering line that entered the crescent from the north. ‘Going by what I saw on my scouting sortie, Pitagga and his tribesmen are headed to Nerik via this awkward hill route. It looked slow and winding. But here,’ he marked out a more direct route that cut straight for the open end of the crescent, ‘is a good path that bridges a ravine and will get us to the plains in less time. It can be done.’
General Kurunta strode along the edge of the flames, his silver braid swishing, torso glinting in the firelight. ‘In my youth I fought alongside General Nuwanza in the eastern deserts, in these forsaken hills, in the western riverlands. The handsome bastard always drew the eyes of the local women.’ The thick ring of gathered soldiers laughed fondly at this. ‘Yet he was just as cautious with them as he was with foes on the field of battle. Never hasten to battle, lest you trip upon your hubris.’ Kurunta shook his head bitterly. ‘Now I rarely heeded his advice: one wink from a Lukkan maid, or the glint of raiders’ armour across a desert wadi and I was off and running, weapon in hand – if you take my meaning.’ More laughter. ‘And right now, if I was alone against Pitagga and all his spears, I would most likely bound straight towards him just for the chance to avenge Nuwanza’s death. But I do not see the Lord of the Mountains. We catch glimpses only of the scorpion’s tail of his rearguard. Perhaps, Bowman,’ he tilted his head to speak into the night sky, ‘I will agree with you at last. Let us be cautious – has Pitagga not already shown what an asp he is?’
The gathered soldiers seemed deflated at this.
The soldiers erupted in a cry of support. Kurunta’s face crumpled.
Hattu watched his brother’s brow knit tighter and tighter, locked in indecision.
‘Prince Muwa, this is your chance – to lead this great army to victory!’ Volca persisted. ‘To secure your reputation as their young general-prince.’
This seemed to strike a chord. Muwa’s eyes rolled up to meet Hattu’s. A dark look.
‘Return to your tents,’ Muwa said. ‘Come dawn, we take the swift road to old Nerik.’
***
King Mursili heard the clamour outside his wagon. When it faded, he heard his breaths come and go with a weak rattle. He felt like a helpless babe in a cot, with his minders craning their heads in the wagon windows every so often to check on him. Only Volca’s root brew gave him nourishment of sorts – but it was an empty nourishment that lifted him for mere moments before giving him a gnawing, fierce need for more. And what was this news that Orax, one of his long-serving Mesedi, had brought him? After he had asked Nuwanza to take Volca out on patrol – and the effort in issuing the command had near enough knocked him out – he had sent Orax to look inside the Sherden warrior’s tent. Orax had returned a short while later.
‘I found nothing of note, My Sun,’ he shook his head and chuckled wryly, ‘but something strange happened when I left the tent. A sentry from the camp perimeter – near the western gate – bumped into me. He was carrying these.’ Orax had held up a clutch of arrows. ‘A gift from Prince Muwa to Nuwanza earlier today. The sentry had found in the ditch near the gate. They had been discarded there… loosely buried under the dirt.’
And now Nuwanza was dead, starved of his arrows and slain on the scouting sortie. Mursili’s head began to ache as he tried to piece it together, to try to find a conclusion that was not as dark as the one which seemed unavoidable. He recalled the dying Zida’s eyes, swivelling to pin Volca. His illness and pains had started not long after the Sherden had joined his entourage. The Sherden had urged the Hittite army to hasten to the Carrion Gorge, had seemingly known the honey in the Hatenzuwan forests was bad, had robbed Nuwanza of his arrows…
A horn-helmed head poked in from the wagon window as if hearing Mursili’s thoughts, gazing down upon him, the root brew flask in one hand.
Mursili’s gummy lips peeled apart and his tongue lolled. ‘Tell me… tell me I… am wrong.’
Volca’s smile faded. ‘Ah, I can see your troubled mind needs soothing,’ he said. With a furtive look around, the Sherden tipped not a flask of root brew but the contents of a small vial into his mouth. It tasted like fire – one hundred times stronger than the root brew. ‘This will soon bring an end to your suffering, My Sun. Drink swiftly. With any luck you will be numb for what is to come tomorrow. Your divisions will be marching to the plains of old Nerik, you see… to the land of the waning moon.’
Mursili shifted his head from side to side, weakly, trying to protest. Quickly, blackness filled his mind and he slipped into unconsciousness.
***
Hattu returned to his tent, his heart roused by the sounds and sights of so many warriors eager to finish this. ‘The Wolves and the Storm will fight like gods,’ Tanku said to the soldiers nearby as they went. ‘Pitagga will cower on his knees by dusk tomorrow. The silver likeness will be recovered.’
‘And we will free the templefolk… save your woman,’ Dagon added privately to Hattu, squeezing his shoulder. Hattu patted Dagon’s hand in a tacit acknowledgement, just as they rounded a circle of tents to come to their own.
There, Sargis and Kisna took hold of each other’s shoulders, growling, slapping one another in the face as if battle was but moments away. ‘Save your ire and excitement for tomorrow,’ Hattu advised them, ‘If we let our blood grow too fiery now, we will be spent by the time we come to face Pitagga,’ he said as he ducked to enter his tent, drawing back the woollen blankets of his bed. ‘And be sure to drink a good share of wat-’ But the sentence was never finished as he froze. A mass of dark brown and white feathers lay inside his bed, stained red, shiny and wet. Fright, horror, then heart-rending realisation.
‘Arrow?’ he said, his voice suddenly like a boy’s again. He reached down to lift her with trembling fingers. Her light body was cold and her head and wings hung limp. Her eyes – those magnificent eyes – gazed into infinity. He traced a thumb down her bloodied breast, finding the savage injury that had killed her. His eyes widened as he saw it was from a weapon wound of some sort. ‘Who… who did this to you?’
Hot tears splashed on his hands and Arrow’s body and he kissed her head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. I was not there to protect you. I’m so sorry… ’
He barely heard the forlorn sigh behind him, but felt Dagon’s hand rest on his shoulder again. ‘Hattu? I’m so sorry… who did this? We’ll find whoever it was.’
Hattu lifted one feather that did not belong to the falcon: a greylag goose fletching. His mind came alive with fire. He swung round, his face bent in a snarl. ‘I know who did this,’ he snapped, his eyes glowering past Dagon, across the night-cloaked camp and to Muwa, seated by the great fire. The Tuhkanti’s quiver rested nearby, the matching fletchings jutting proud.
‘Hattu, no, surely-’ Dagon started, but Hattu shot up to standing, barged past him and stomped across to the great fire.
Muwa looked up, his sour face curdling further when he saw his younger brother. ‘I don’t have time for you, not now.’
Hattu felt his hand itch to pull his sword free. He did not, but his mind chewed over and over on the idea. ‘Why? Why?’
Muwa looked up, eyes like slits, mouth twisted in an uncomprehending grimace. ‘Go back to your tent, soldier,’ he scoffed, waving a hand at Hattu. ‘Eat your punishment rations.’
Many warriors nearby turned to look on.
‘So that is it?’ Hattu said, shaking with rage. ‘When I was the Cursed Son, you were happy enough to endure me. Now some men call me the Son of Ishtar, you grow jealous?’
Muwa stood, nose-to-nose with Hattu albeit a hand’s-width taller. ‘The last I heard you were acclaimed amidst a heap of dead children and women at that village.’
‘And so you felt justified in what you did?’ Hattu roared, tossing the fletching feather at Muwa. ‘You don’t even care, do you?’
Muwa watched the greylag goose feather swirl and float between them, his brow creasing in confusion. ‘I did nothing you did not deserve,’ he said, glancing over to Hattu’s tent where the Wolves’ half rations bubbled away in the pot. ‘Go back to your place with the ranks,’ he added, then shoved him, hard.
Hattu stumbled back a few steps, then rushed for Muwa, shouldering him harder, knocking him onto his back. At once, a dozen or more flashes of bronze saw Mesedi blades circle the two. Orax and Gorru, leading the guard party, looked at one another, unsure what to do.
Hattu stabbed a finger towards the rising Muwa. ‘The shining silver vest of the Tuhkanti grows black on your chest, Brother, infected by the tendrils of your heart.’
Muwa shot his brother a wild-eyed look. ‘And it would rest more easily on your shoulders, would it? That is what this is all about, isn’t it?’
‘I will never forgive you for this,’ Hattu said then swung away, back to the tents.
Chapter 20
Master of the Wolves
Summer 1300 BC
A white raven banked and arced through the cool, dry night air. It swooped down on the lone figure atop a dry bluff, landing on his outstretched arm, eyeing his lion-skull helm.
Pitagga beheld the odd bird fondly, and wondered how he might reward his Sherden accomplice for this. Perhaps with a swift death, once it was all over?
Then he turned
his attentions to the flood of men pouring through the defile below. Men of strange blood, odd garb, different ways. All heeding his call. All draped in toughened armour and dripping with copper and bronze weapons, the Lost North was united in a way none would believe… until the time came. And that time was approaching. The coming dawn would herald the greatest of days…
***
Others within the Wolves offered to bury Arrow for Hattu, but he refused. Instead, while the rest turned in, he remained awake, cradling her in his hands, his throat thick with grief. Eventually, he buried her alone.
After that, he slept little and when he did, he suffered dreams more wicked than ever. In one, he and Muwa were young again, playing in the waters of the Ambar. All was well, Arrow soaring above them. It was a genuine memory and one he treasured like a gemstone. They laughed and joked, splashing each other, Arrow flying through the spray. But when Hattu looked down he saw that the Ambar’s current had turned red around him. Aghast, he had staggered towards the banks, then looked to the midriver to see Muwa, laughing gaily, holding Arrow’s broken body like a prize, wringing her corpse and causing her blood to stain the water. He woke and, for a moment, that warm blanket that so often follows a nightmare – the gradual realisation that it was not real – comforted him. Then he saw the small, freshly-dug mound near the tent. His heart cracked in two all over again.
Dawn had broken, he realised. All of the Wolves had risen – every other bed roll was empty. Sargis and Kisna were sitting cross-legged by a recently-kindled fire, eating a breakfast of scrambled eggs and soldier bread. He rose and sat with them, knotting his hair tightly at the top of his scalp, unplugging his water skin to drink a bellyful. ‘Damn – no Dawn Call?’ he asked the pair, hiding his grief by looking to the newly risen sun and then over the camp – cloaked in a veil of shade from the nearby hills and dotted with men roused and gathered around fires to eat and lay out their armour and weapons.
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