The shadow of the hunt, p.2
The Shadow of the Hunt, page 2
part #1 of Turlogh Dubh O'Brien Series
Suddenly he sighted a flying shape in the mist, and yelled fiercely. A longship! Some Viking farer who had put out to meet him, doubtless, having gotten wind of his ravaging and not wishing to be caught napping in his skalli, as had those sea-kings whose skulls now adorned the shield-rail.
Turlogh, eyes fixed on that racing shadow, shouted a command to alter the course and lay her alongside. His Lieutenant, a grim, one-eyed Scotsman, dared an objection.
"We've got to hold her in the wind; if we veer half a point, a broadside sea will break her in two. It's mad enough to venture among such seas in a ship with never a deck to her-"
"The devil takes care of his own!" yelled Turlogh. "Do as I say, you spawn of hell-there! She's faded into the sleet-I can't see her-"
The huge ice-crested waves tossed the long, low craft like a chip. The Scotsman was right; only a madman would have ventured into those winter seas. But Turlogh had a tinge of madness in his soul that broke its rein at times.
Suddenly and without warning a beaked prow loomed out of the driving mist on their port bow. The men of Crom's Hate saw the horned helmets and the fierce blond faces of the Norsemen who lined the rail, yelling and brandishing their weapons.
"Run alongside and board her!" yelled Turlogh, as a cloud of arrows whistled through the howling wind. Crom's Hate leaped forward like a spurred horse, but an instant later the strongest man at the sweep, a giant Saxon with the brand of a runaway thrall on his face, dropped with an arrow in his heart, and the kicking sweep head resisted the efforts of his fellows. Turlogh yelled fiercely, and others sprang forward, but the galley, out of control, veered away, tossed and trembled to the impact of a broadside sea that swept half a score men overboard, and the Viking galley rammed her.
The iron beak of the Norsemen did not strike squarely, else it had sheared straight through the waist, but it ripped a great rent near her prow and scraped down the sides, with a deafening splintering of oars. The longships locked almost rail to rail, and the bulwarks were instantly thronged with howling, hacking figures that slew and died in a red holocaust of hate.
Men died like flies along the rails where axes shattered helm and skull, and swords broke in mailed bosoms. But the Scotch mate sought Turlogh where he slashed and hacked like a blood-hungry demon, and yelled: "The seas will tear us apart at any instant and Crom's Hate is sinking under our feet!"
"Lash them together!" yelled Turlogh, eyes ablaze and foam flecking his lips, his latent madness burst all bounds. "Lash them rail to rail and we'll drag these swine into Hell with us! We'll sink together and slay while we drown!"
And with his own hands he flung the first grappling hooks. The Vikings realized his intentions and sought to draw away, but too late. Locked together, there was no steering either ship. They were at the mercy of the winds and waves that tossed them and raced them dizzily along, while the crews closed in a last desperate grapple. Hacking and slashing in a red cataclysm of howling hell, Turlogh was vaguely aware that a great roaring ripped the din, like waves dashing on a rock-bound coast. But the berserk madness of slaying was on him and on all the rest and they ceased not to howl and ply their red axes as the two tortured ships, mastless, prowless and with splintered oars and timbers, hurled headlong through the surf to shatter on the foaming coast.
1
"AND you alone lived?" asked Somalkeld, breathlessly.
"I alone," answered Turlogh somberly. "Why, I know not. In the midst of the tumult, darkness fell upon me and I awaked in the hut of a strange people. Some whim of the waves cast me ashore when all the rest died. But not alone was I washed ashore. Many others the sea cast up, but only I had a spark of life in me. The rest were slain of wounds, water or cold. Many froze. I too, the people said, was almost frozen. And my buckler and axe were gripped in my hands so tightly they could not loosen them, and I still gripped them so when I came to myself.
"Well, these folks were Finns-kindly people who treated me well. With them I abode a space, but their land was a barren one of ice and snow and when the time came when I knew it was early spring in southern lands, I left them. I had a horse of them, and I wandered south through the great forests full of wolves and bears, and evil beasts whose shadows and footprints only I saw.
"I came upon fierce pagan tribes in these forests, some of which I fled from and some of which I tarried with. Some of these fold defied the grandsons of Rurik and I was well pleased to strike a blow against the Norsemen again. So I wandered for many months, first on the horse the Finns gave me, then on steeds I stole or bought, lastly on this great stallion that a pagan chief gave me. When I left the huts of the Finns it was late winter there. Now it is nearly winter again and I am still far from the southern lands my heart craves."
"Come with me and dwell in the tents of my people, oh, my brother," urged Somakeld. "We are a brave people and we love warlike deeds. You shall be a chief. The girls of the Turgaslavs are fair. Dwell with my people."
Turlogh shrugged his shoulders. "I will ride with you, Somakeld, for my steed is weary and I am hungry. I will abide with you awhile because there is the smell of war in the land; aye, the ravens are gathering and I would not be put aside when the swords come to their quenching."
Night had fallen when the companions rode up to the encampment of the Turgaslavs. Turlogh had seen Tatar camps and this Slavic camp did not differ materially from them. The same high lumbering wagons, the same peaked saddles heaped carefully about, the same rings about the fires, where women cooked meat and passed about drinking horns of milk and mead. The Aryan and the Turanian nomad had progressed and evolved on much the same lines. Turlogh realized that he was gazing on a phase of Aryan life which was swift passing. The Aryan nomad was gradually quitting the pastoral life in favor of the agricultural life, or was being absorbed by the Tatar nomads.
Turlogh saw plenty of evidence that amalgamation was already taking place among these ancient Aryan steppes lords and the Mongolian peoples. Many of the Turgaslavs had the broad faces and black hair that betokened a Tatar strain, and there was a fair sprinkling of pure-blood Tatars, though the bulk of the tribesmen were tall and big boned, with the light eyes and flaxen hair of the primitive Aryan. The admixture had already begun such as in later centuries was to produce the Cossacks.
The horses of these Aryan wanderers were tall and heavier than those ridden by the smaller Turks and Tatars, and their swords were long, straight and heavy, with both cutting edge and point. They were also armed with heavy axes, long spears and daggers, and bows, lighter and less effective than the bows of their Turanian rivals.
Their armor was crude and scanty, consisting largely of iron helmets, rude corselets of iron plates laced to heavy hide jackets, and round wooden, leather-covered and iron-braced bucklers. They wore as clothing, garments of sheepskin. The men were tall, upright in carriage and frank and open of countenance, while the women were pleasing in appearance.
Sentries on horseback roamed the steppe and these challenged the companions, but gave back at the word from Somakeld. A moon was rising as Turlogh and the youth trotted up the slope of the slight eminence whereon was pitched the Slavic camp, and sweeping the plains with his keen glance, Turlogh saw dark shadowy figures and lurching bulks cross the distant horizons, converging toward the camp on the rise.
"My people answer the call of war," said Somakeld, and the Gael nodded, his eyes glittering in the gloom as dim ancestral memories stirred vaguely in the sleeping deeps of his soul. Aye, the clans were gathering to feed the ravens as the Aryan clans had gathered in the dim lost ages-as the Gael's own ancestors had gathered on these very steppes, lurching along in clumsy wagons, or swinging on half-wild horses.
As they rode up to the fires a shout of welcome greeted them. Turlogh instantly picked out the chief-his name, as Somakeld had said, Hroghar Skel. He was old, but his long beard was still flaxen and when he rose to greet the stranger with simple stateliness, the Gael saw that he was mighty in stature and that age had not dimmed his eagle eye nor withered his iron muscles.
"Your face is new to me," said the chieftain in a deep calm voice. "You are neither Slav, Turk nor Tatar. But whoever you be, dismount and rest your steed. Eat and drink at our fires tonight."
"This is a noted warrior, oh ataman," exclaimed Somakeld. "A bogatyr, a hero! He has come to aid us against the Turks! By the honor of my clan, three Turks he sent to howl at the gates of Hell this day!"
The ancient inclined his lion-like head. "Our lives are yours, bogatyr."
As Turlogh swung from his saddle he noted another man squatted by the fire, a man in early middle life it seemed, with the broad, short build of the Tatar. This man had the bearing of a chief and beneath his sheepskins was the sheen of silks and the glimmer of silvered mail. His broad dark face was immobile, but his small beady eyes flickered as they rested on the splendid roan stallion. Behind the chief squatted a slim handsome youth, evidently his son. The Tatar's eyes rested long on the roan stallion.
Turlogh saw to his horse before he attended to his own needs, and assured that the roan was well cared for, he took a seat at the chieftain's fire. Somakeld, proud of his new acquaintance and of his own admission to the fire of the leaders, told the tale of his meeting with the Gael, and repeated the story of Turlogh's wanderings. All listened interestedly, and the new-comers, who were arriving in a steady stream, pressed close to gaze curiously at the Celt and to hear whispered versions of his exploits from folk of the outer rings.
"You have the look of an eagle, bogatyr," said Hroghar Skel. "Little matter to tell me you were a chief in your own land; well I know that you are a ruler of men. Well, the men of the Turgaslav need keen swords and strong wills. Khogar Khan moves against us and who knows how the war may go? The Turks are mighty fighters, and they have scattered like birds before the winds the warriors of Chaga Khan." And he nodded at the Tatar who sat drinking mare's milk.
"Aye," the Tatar's voice was like the rasp of a sword from its scabbard, "they were like wolves among sheep-by Erlik, they are madmen!"
"There is madness in them so that they fight as a stepped fire burns the grass," nodded Hroghar Skel. "There is magic in them that upholds them in the teeth of the spears. Khogar Khan claims descent from that red-handed scourge of old times, Attila the Hun. And more: he wears in his girdle the very sword which the Hun quenched in the blood of kings."
Turlogh gave a surprised exclamation.
The beady eyes of Chaga Khan turned on him.
"I saw it," the Tatar grunted, poising his drinking jack. "It was a red flame in his hand and with it he fed the kites. By Erlik, old Death ran before his steed and a black wind howled behind. When he smote it was as if a horde smote and no man could stand before him. He heaped my warriors in crimson ranks behind him to mark his course."
Silence reigned for a space. The night wind sighed through the high grass and the lurching rumble of distant wagons was heard, and the challenge of the outposts. Hroghar Skel shook his head and his iron hand was twisted in his beard.
"They gather fast; by dawn all the clans of the Turgaslav will be encamped and clamoring to be led against their enemies. But a cold doubt lies at the base of my brain. It is more than mortal men we fight."
All eyes turned toward Turlogh. Primitive people are swift to snatch at portents and supernatural conclusions. It seemed to them that Turlogh's coming was no chance thing, but that strange forces that work behind the veil had sent him to their aid. But the Gael merely said: "I will sleep."
As he stretched out on the sheepskins in Hroghar's tent, again deep ancestral feelings stirred in the Gael as he listened to the night sounds of the nomadic camp. All seemed friendly and familiar to him, the crackle of the fires, the scents of the cooking pots, the smell of sweaty leather and horseflesh, the jingle of bridles and the creak of saddles, the singing of the tribesmen and their laughter. These Slavs were of the very foundations of the Aryan race-the root and the stock. They clung close to that pristine existence that Turlogh's ancestors had abandoned so many centuries ago. Somakeld's people were fundamental, strong and clean with primal life and principle. They were knit close to the tie-ribs of existence, to the raw, red realities of life.
As he drifted into slumber, Turlogh's last vague, waking thoughts were that though half a world lay between them and his people, the blood of these nomads was his own, and after centuries and wandering in alien lands, he had come home at last. Then he sank into sleep haunted by dreams wherein he, light-eyed, wild, skinclad, traversed endless leagues of forest and plain in lurching, oxen-pulled wagons, or on the backs of half-wild horses, and in company of his wild, light-eyed, skin-clad kind, roared and slashed in nameless battles in dim, lost lands, fought man and beast and foaming torrents, and trampled tottering civilizations that were old when the world was young-so in his dreams he wandered and fought again down dim, lost ages.
2
HROGHAR SWEPT his hand around in a gesture that took in all the camp, where women cooked food and mended harness and men whetted swords.
"These are all my people. I can muster but seven hundred warriors, strong able men, neither too young nor too old to fight. Some three hundred Tatars hunt with us; they will fight for us as long as the arrows fly, but we cannot depend upon them to stand when it comes to sword strokes. Khogar Khan has a good thousand riders, and five hundred Tatar allies."
"What of Chaga Khan?" demanded Turlogh.
Hroghar shook his head.
"The Tatars are like wolves that make a ring about two warring bulls, to devour the loser. Chaga Khan sent to us to ask for aid, but joined battle before we could come to his help. He feels he owes us nothing. His people have withdrawn far to the east. He waits to see how we will stand up against the Turks. These Tatars who cleave to us, and they whom Khogar Khan has impressed into his service are of small roving clans. Chaga Khan's tribe is the most powerful one in this part of the steppes. Despite his defeat by the Turks, he can still muster a thousand riders."
"Then in the name of the Devil," snapped Turlogh, "can you not make him understand that if he joined forces with you, you would defeat the Turks?"
The old Slav shrugged his shoulders. "Little use to argue with a Tatar. Khogar Khan struck fear into him and he is afraid to go up against the Turk. And I am not so sure that he wishes to aid me, anyway. He will watch which way the feather falls. If we win, he will come back to his old pasture lands. If the Turk wins, he may retire further into the East, even into the deserts of his people, or he may join forces with Khogar Khan. He believes that the Turk will be a great conqueror, like Attila his ancestor, and it is good to follow the banners of a conqueror."
"Then why not ally yourself to Khogar Khan?" Turlogh watched the old chiefs face narrowly. The mighty hand on the spear-shaft shook with anger; Hroghar's eyes blazed.
"We white-skins have been lords of the steppes for untold ages. Hence went conquering hordes to people the world. When we were many we lashed the dark-faced people back into the Eastern deserts. Now that we are weak and few, we make them the same reply our ancestors made: `Death to you, dog-brothers!' Our fair Lord God made us the masters of all other races. If I treat with these Moslem jackals for peace, may the heart rot in my bosom!" Turlogh grinned hardly and bleakly. "There is iron in you, old man! But you have overlooked one thing: even if we win, the tribe will be greatly weakened, and
Chaga Khan and his jackals may swoop down and wipe out what is left of us."
Hroghar plucked his beard. "True; but what can we do?"
The Gael shrugged his shoulders. "How will you fight these Turks?"
"Why, lord sir, in the same manner we always fight; we will mount our steeds and gallop across the steppes until we meet their horde and then we will shout our war-cry and charge in and cut them down like grain."
"And will they not' bend their bows and shoot you out of your saddles before you can come to grips?" Turlogh growled.
"There will be a flight of arrows," agreed the Turgaslav. "But these Turks are not like the Tatars; they like sword strokes. They will loose a cloud of shafts as they charge and then rush in with naked steel. Chaga Khan's warriors had the better of it as long as the battle was an exchange of arrows, but when the Turks rode in among them, they could not stand before them. The Moslems are bigger men and better armed."
"Good," grunted Turlogh. "You are bigger men than the Turks and will have the same advantage with them that they had with the Tatars. But the Turgaslavs must come swiftly to exchange of sword strokes if they are to win."
Robert E. Howard, The Shadow of the Hunt
