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  THUNDERER

  Gods of Bronze

  Book 2

  Herkuhlos and

  Torkos the Devourer

  Dan Davis

  Copyright © 2021 Dan Davis

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  1. The Boar

  2. Mardoc

  3. Sacrifice

  4. Unworthy

  5. Sif

  6. Raid

  7. Defenders

  8. Lost

  9. Pursuit

  10. Power

  11. Ambush

  12. Chief

  13. Signs

  14. Priest

  15. Rite

  16. Murderer

  17. Hrungna

  18. Surprise

  19. Betrayal

  20. Feast

  21. Flight

  22. Hunting

  23. Healing

  24. Brother

  25. Farewell

  26. Destruction

  27. Crossing

  28. Weakness

  29. Goddess

  30. Strength

  31. Return

  32. Destroyer

  33. Humbled

  34. Sacrifice

  35. Horsemen

  36. Arrow

  37. Thunderer

  38. The Stag

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  BOOKS BY DAN DAVIS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1. The Boar

  The mortal was late. In the east the sky was already growing lighter and still he had not come to the circle of stones and the god Torkos sensed the fear rising in his warriors. They were afraid because they believed Torkos would be angry and that was proper for his anger was a thing to be feared and so he stood in silence and allowed their fear to grow.

  Beyond the ring of standing stones wisps of mist rolled in from the distant sea, unseen in the darkness to the west. It was too far to hear the waves breaking on the low shore but Torkos fancied he could taste the salt in the air, carried across the land to his lips by the pale grey mist. The mortal was late and if he did not arrive soon then Torkos would have to return to the clan empty handed and that would diminish him in the eyes of his warriors. One of them at least would have to be eaten to remind the rest of their place and perhaps they suspected this and that was why they were afraid, shuffling their feet in the grass behind him. Somewhere in the darkness a sheep cried out and another answered and both fell silent.

  Torkos knew he had been foolish to trust the mortal. Trusting his own warriors was one thing but this mortal was one of the Seal Men and they were a vile people who did not even make good slaves. They were wild and ignorant and they reeked of seal fat and they barked and hacked when they attempted to speak the true language and Torkos looked forward to the day when they were all subjugated or killed. He would not even eat them for their flesh tasted of seal fat and the seal, a strange creature of sea, was an ignoble beast.

  There was one thing alone that he wanted from them. One thing only but it was the most important thing on the earth for him. He meant to have it and there was nothing he would not give and nothing he would not do to take it from the Seal Men.

  Nehalennia.

  Their goddess, their protectress, the ancient and powerful immortal Nehalennia would be his. He would take her and he would master her and when she was subjugated he would lie with her and she would beget him sons to begin his dynasty.

  But only if he could find her.

  She was out there somewhere among the salt marshes and shifting sands and the mud and the islands of that swift, cold sea. His warriors would never find her, Torkos knew. They would try it if he commanded it of them but they would kill themselves trying, swept away by the vast tides and drowned in the mud and shot with arrows by unseen Seal Men. His warriors were men of the land. Riders of horses, men of the plain and the woodland, men of the axe and the spear and they had no business out on the wild water of the northern seas and so he had sent them to bring him captive Seal Men.

  This they had done, raiding the villages on the mainland shores and carrying off all those that did not flee on their cunning boats. Most of the captives had been too wild to control and the rest had been too witless to understand his men’s attempts to question them.

  A whistle sounded to the west. High and short, it sounded again.

  “Bring him,” Torkos said, his voice rumbling in the predawn air, his breath turning to a vast cloud of mist before him.

  It was not long before his men brought the mortal to the edge of the ring of stones. Torkos could smell the Seal Man as he approached and knelt with bowed head, trying to hide his fear. It amused Torkos to see his attempt at bravery for it showed the mortal had more spirit than most of his kind.

  “Where is she?” Torkos said.

  “Lord, I beg forgiveness of you,” the Seal Man said. Somewhere he had learned the true tongue but still he spoke it like the ignorant creature he was.

  “For what do you ask forgiveness, little man?”

  “I was to be here in the darkness. Yet, the sun, it rises.” He was shaking now and not from the cold. “Also, lord, I could not find her.”

  Torkos snorted. He had expected this failure, for Nehalennia would not give up her secrets easily but even so he could not allow it to go unpunished.

  “Then you will die.”

  “No, lord, please,” the Seal Man cried, looking up, his eyes white in the darkness. “I bring one who knows.” He waved a shaking hand behind him. “I bring him to you, great lord, so that he may speak of the Mother.”

  At the edge of the stones, two of Torkos’ warriors held between them a tall, thin figure dressed in sealskin. He tried to stand straight but he was weak and as they dragged him closer it was clear the figure was wounded and limping and his face was bloodied and swollen behind his long grey beard. They threw him down beside the kneeling Seal Man and he fell forward onto the cold, wet grass but got quickly to his feet again, though his wrists were bound, and glared up at Torkos. When his men grasped the man to throw him down once more, Torkos waved them away and allowed the greybeard to stand before him.

  “Who is he?” Torkos asked.

  “He is Sama,” the kneeling man said. “The spirit walker of our tribe. He is an initiate of Nehalennia.”

  Torkos smiled, revealing his great teeth. “He knows where she hides?”

  “I think so, lord,” the Seal Man said eagerly. “He has seen her with his own eyes. She initiated him. Long ago. When he was young.”

  Torkos grunted. Long ago. Mortals have no conception of time. “Ask him where she is.”

  “He speaks the sacred tongue, lord.”

  That amused Torkos. “You understand my words, greybeard?”

  The old man stared defiantly as if he did not in fact understand. Angrily, the Seal Man spoke in his harsh, guttural language while the greybeard, the spirit walker of the tribe looked up at Torkos with his piercing blue eyes. Most mortals feared to look upon a god but this one did not waver and Torkos was impressed with the man’s mastery. A spirit walker was something like a priest of the Seal Men who still followed the ways of the ancients. Although this man was a mere sea dweller on the edge of the world, Torkos saw that Nehalennia had chosen him well. Perhaps his blood would be worth drinking.

  The Seal Man finished asking his question and in reply the spirit walker turned and spat into the kneeling man’s face. The younger man was angry but he did not lash out. Instead, he wiped his face and shook with rage and perhaps with fear that Torkos would now kill them both.

  “Lord, he will not speak of what he knows.”

  “All men speak,” Torkos said. He looked to his men. “Bleed him.”

  The Heryos warriors grasped the spirit walker and pulled up h
is thin, strong arms out in front of him and though the old man struggled to free himself he could not resist their strength.

  The first light of the morning sun now filled the mist with a white glow all around and above them and when one of the warriors drew his copper dagger it shone with the memory of the fire that formed it. The warrior laid the weapon on the cold skin of the spirit walker and dragged the edge down and across, slicing down through into the flesh and drawing forth a line of blood that grew until it spilled over and poured down to the cordage about the bony wrists. Gritting his teeth, the old man hardly flinched and his eyes remained hard and defiant. Another warrior leaned forward to catch the blood in a wooden bowl which filled quickly with the spattering dark liquid. The smell made Torkos’ mouth water and he took the proffered bowl, raised it to his lips and tipped it back. Still warm, the taste was good and nourishing, no hint of the sea in it, and filled him with its strength.

  “Blood of power,” Torkos said before licking his lips and handing the bowl back. “Again.”

  His men cut the other arm, a deeper gouge that spilled more blood. The old man understood now that he faced nothing but pain before his coming death but he still showed his defiance by looking up at the god before him and holding his gaze.

  Torkos knew that his face terrified mortals and this knowledge pleased him. His spreading smile revealed his teeth and the spirit walker flinched, wavered, and finally looked down. Laughing, Torkos took the next bowl of blood and drank it.

  “The hands,” Torkos said and his men set about severing the old man’s fingers one by one with the bloodied, copper blade.

  Gasping, the old man shook now and had to be held upright while he was cut apart and he hissed a stream of angry, desperate words at Torkos.

  “I will devour you, mortal,” Torkos said, amused and crunching the mortal’s finger bones with his powerful jaws.

  “He says he will not speak of her.”

  Torkos gestured at his men. “Take his manhood.”

  They stripped the last of his sealskin rags to reveal his scrawny, swarthy flesh shivering in the morning light. His muscles bunched tight like twisted cord as he struggled against the men holding him and then he thrashed as the knife, sticky with his blood, touched his groin.

  “Tell him he will go to the next world a man,” Torkos said, “if he tells me where she is.”

  The Seal Man translated while the spirit walker shook, his blood still seeping from the wounds on his arms down to the mangled stumps where his fingers used to be. In answer to the demand, the spirit walker tried to spit at Torkos but he could not muster the strength and his head hung forward. After a wave from the god, the men allowed the spirit walker to fall to his knees on the wet grass where he hunched over clutching his mutilated hands to himself while the warriors stood over him, the knife held close by his face. The old man spoke through clenched teeth, hissing his words.

  “An island,” the Seal Man translated. “She is on an island.”

  Torkos had guessed as much. “Which?”

  The Seal Man asked the question and the spirit walker spoke his answer. “The Isle of Death.”

  Satisfied, Torkos looked to the Seal Man who now seemed more afraid than ever. “You know this place?”

  “Lord,” the Seal Man managed, “I have never heard of it.”

  With sudden speed, the spirit walker reached out and clasped his ruined hands around the knife hand of the warrior beside him and held it there while he threw his neck onto the point of the blade and heaved himself against it. The warrior flinched away, dragging the knife out of the old man’s throat but it was too late. The spirit walker collapsed onto the wet grass as blood gushed from the wound in the front of his neck and choked as it spilled even from his mouth. Looking up at Torkos, the mortal’s eyes shone with triumph before the light in them went out.

  In silence, they stared at the dead man, his naked body lying before them in the dawn light.

  The Seal Man threw himself down on his face in terror, certain that he would now be killed for his failure.

  After watching this pathetic display for a moment, Torkos reached down and dragged him to his feet. A deep rage welled within him and his fist tightened around the Seal Man’s arm. With a jerk, he could have ripped the mortal’s arm off and he was tempted to do it but with a mighty effort he controlled himself. He had been so close to finding the goddess but all was not lost.

  “You will find the island.”

  The mortal’s surprise was quickly recovered and he stammered a reply. “Yes, lord. I will, lord.”

  He had not found the goddess but he had crossed half the world and he was near her now. He would find her and take her and rule this land with their sons and the mortals would worship him, generation after generation. Then, when he was strong enough, he would finally wage war on the gods themselves.

  But first, he would find Nehalennia.

  2. Mardoc

  A steaming platter of roast boar, carved into thick strips, was laid on the furs before Herkuhlos. The chief’s eldest daughter smiled as she backed away, the smooth pale skin of her face reflecting the firelight, and sat on the furs just behind her father with the other women. Sunlight from the open doorway of the longhouse reached to her bare arm and the beaded bracelets around it at the wrist and above her elbow.

  “It is good,” the chief said from the other side of the fire. He wore a woollen tunic with bold woven patterns in bands of red across it and a beaded necklace with a heavy round pendant of shining copper hung around his neck. Around the crown of his head he wore more copper, a band of it that ran around his brow and in his belt was a small but elegant bronze knife. He had all his great wealth on display to demonstrate his power to his guest. “This boar came into my woods at the end of winter and my first son Eron killed it with a single thrust of his spear.” The chief gestured at a young man seated behind him.

  “Then he has a strong arm,” Herkuhlos said without taking his eyes from the maiden as she settled behind her father.

  “The strongest,” the chief said with a proud smile.

  “But not strong enough,” Herkuhlos replied as he pulled a large piece of hot flesh from the shoulder, “to face the yotunan.”

  The chief’s smile dropped and his pale eyes became hard. “No man is that strong.”

  Herkuhlos crunched through the thick, crispy skin and the soft, moist meat beneath and grinned. “I am.”

  “So we have heard,” the chief said. “But then you are more than a man, lord.”

  Another young woman appeared in the doorway of the house, momentarily blocking the daylight as she entered, carrying in a large cup with a round body in both hands and crouched to place it before him. She was nervous and did not meet his eye as she stepped away and went back out into the village beyond.

  “Beer,” the chief said with evident pride, indicating the enormous cup. It was bowl shaped at the bottom with a broad funnel above it so wide at the rim that a man could get his whole face in it as he drank down the contents. The cups were all decorated with lines and dots impressed into the pottery but this one was the finest he had seen in all his travels in the west. It had a broad band of fine hatching around the top and neat bands of chevrons running up from the base while all of the smooth parts were dark and shiny from some cunning art of its making. These people were honouring him by allowing him to drink from such a magnificent cup.

  Herkuhlos grinned and snatched it up with two hands. “I like beer,” he said before pouring the golden liquid down his throat. Although it was not a patch on mead, this new drink they made in these strange lands of the west was delicious and it was strong like mead, warming his belly. The chiefs of the Furun drank it and for them it was sacred. They made it from the wheat that they grew around their villages and that wheat gave them life and so was sacred to them. Guests, of course, were sacred too and so were godborn warriors of the Heryos that this chief of the Furun wished to honour.

  “So we have heard,” the chi
ef said, a smile spreading on his weathered face.

  “You heard I like beer?” Herkuhlos asked in disbelief before taking another drink.

  “We have heard much about the mighty Herkuhlos. It is why I sent my men to bring you here.”

  Herkuhlos paused and looked over the brim of the bulbous cup. “Bring me?”

  The chief smiled and spread his hands. “I mean to say that because of your fame I sent my men to find you, lord, and to ask you to be my guest here in my village.”

  Herkuhlos gestured with his huge cup. “Because of your yotunan.”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling, Herkuhlos nodded and leaned back against the piled furs. “What else have you heard about me?”

  The chief, whose name was Amron, reclined and raised a hand in the air as he replied. “You, mighty Herkuhlos, godborn warrior of the Heryos, killed the yotunan Leuhon far to the east who had conquered the Kalekka. Then you walked the wide earth, carrying out ever more great deeds in every place you went. We have heard the tale of how you saved the sons of the chief of the Semu from wolves and carried them to their home upon your back. When the Heryos raiders came to the Furun tribe of my kinsman in the upper Abor you defeated them all and saved the tribe from destruction. When the tales of your strength and heroism reached my ears I knew the gods had sent to me a sign. To be sure, I consulted my ancestors and they told me it was true that the warrior Herkuhlos was destined to save my people from their oppression. And so it was that I sent my best men to find you. It is a long way to those parts of the wide Abor but by the reach of your fame they followed the tales until they found you and you returned with them here.” Chief Amron smiled and glanced at the women behind him. “My wives doubted you would come, yes, they did. Even some of my sons doubted me. And though I was without my best men for two whole winters I never doubted they would return with you, for my ancestors had spoken to me.” He swept his arm wide. “And here you are, sitting with me in my longhouse.”

  Chewing, Herkuhlos nodded slowly. The fire crackled before him and he looked around the dim space of the enormous longhouse and the chief’s kin who sat behind him. “Your village was much farther than your men said it would be.”