Thunderer Read online

  Amron spread his arms. “What is the number of steps upon the earth to one such as you?”

  “I rode my horse,” Herkuhlos said, “as befits a warrior of the Heryos. We passed through village after village of the Furun in coming here and I have been feasted and honoured many times with good pork and strong beer. Distance across the earth means nothing to me, Amron, but the days I spent coming here are days I did not spend in pursuing other yotunan. Greater and more dangerous yotunan than the one that plagues your people.”

  A frown touched Amron’s face. “Yet you have come.”

  “I have.”

  Amron rubbed his cheek. Behind him his sons and daughters and wives whispered amongst themselves. Although the Furun had traded with the Heryos for generations, most of them did not speak the tongue of the Heryos. Chief Amron and some of his sons spoke with strong accents but were well practiced in the language of Herkuhlos’ people.

  One of the chief’s wives dug an elbow into his flank and whispered in his ear and his frown deepened before he waved her away. “Perhaps you would prefer to rest now after your long journey across the earth? After you have eaten this good food and drunk of this good beer you may sleep in the warmth and shelter of my village. Just across from this longhouse, I have prepared a longhouse for you and your servant with a fine hearth. It was once the home of my son and his wives but he has died and now I give it over to you for as long as you are my guest.”

  Herkuhlos waved his cup to dismiss the implication that he was so weak as to need rest. “No, no, I am not tired. Tell me about the yotunan that rules over your people.”

  “I will tell you all there is to be known about the god.” Amron shifted his backside and looked at the wife closest to him. She had a long, pale face with eyes that were too close together and she stared coldly back at her husband. “Yes, yes, certainly I will tell you all, which is right and proper. But first, mighty Herkuhlos of the Heryos, I must know if what is said about you is true.”

  Herkuhlos stopped chewing and spoke with his mouth full. “You call me a liar?”

  Amron spread his arms wide and shrugged. “Certainly I do not say any such thing, and I say nothing at all of lies but how can I be certain of other men’s words? How can I trust other men’s judgement? I am the chief of my people and I must know a thing for myself and not trust to the words of others, even those of my trusted men, even the words of my own sons.”

  Herkuhlos rubbed his cheek. “You told me yourself that you know me by my fame. That is truth enough for warriors of the Heryos. Perhaps the Furun are more familiar with deceit than are my own people.” He took another bite of the meat and cast his eyes across Amron and his kin. “Are the Furun a people of lies?”

  Those sons that understood his words were offended and stirred themselves but Herkuhlos had been offended by their chief’s doubts and so cared nothing for their outrage. Amron waved his sons into silence and turned back to Herkuhlos.

  “You must understand that I put myself and my people at great risk by bringing you here.” Quickly, he corrected himself. “I mean by asking you to be my guest here, lord.”

  Scoffing, Herkuhlos reached for his beer. “How so?”

  “Because if you attempt to do what must be done and then you fail,” Amron gave a weak smile before continuing, “then all my people shall be punished.”

  Herkuhlos drank, took another bite of the roast meat and chewed for a while. The meat was good, cooked right for his taste, and the beer was filling him with warmth and strength. He could understand that this chief was afraid for his life but the Furun were a small, weak people that lived in small villages growing wheat and raising small herds of cattle and sheep and they did not have the spirits of warriors like the Heryos. The chief’s fears were well placed because his people could be destroyed with ease but that was no concern of Herkuhlos.

  “You tell me where the yotunan is, Amron, and I will kill it. If I succeed, it will die. If I fail, then I will die. It will never know that you asked me here. How could it?”

  “The god will know. It knows all.” Amron lowered his voice. “It has acolytes. Priests that do his bidding. They will know.”

  Herkuhlos nodded, for it seemed that the yotunan liked to be served in this way. “Where are these acolytes? I will kill them too.”

  This seemed to make Amron even more afraid. “They are everywhere. They go from place to place and they watch and they listen and they know all that occurs. They know how many pigs we have and how much grain we harvest and if we do not sacrifice enough to the god then we are punished by them.”

  That made Herkuhlos pause. “The acolytes punish you? Not the yotunan himself?”

  Amron was confused. “The god would never come here, only those that serve him. We could not hope to resist their strength.”

  “The strength of a few priests?” Herkuhlos asked.

  For some reason, this question seemed to make Amron uncomfortable and he hesitated before answering. “The acolytes are mere servants of the god but they are in turn served by warriors and we could never defeat them. They will take from us and take more and more until there is nothing left to give.”

  Herkuhlos narrowed his eyes as he looked at the discomforted chief and his blank-faced sons. “Your men tell me your yotunan is named Thrima.”

  “Thrima, yes. The god is called Thrima the Roarer, among his many names.”

  Herkuhlos nodded as he heard the name. “Your men tell me he is mighty and terrible and all fear him. But they will not tell me what he looks like.”

  “Few have laid their own eyes upon the mighty Thrima and lived to speak of it.”

  “But you have?” Herkuhlos asked.

  “Never have I seen the god.”

  “A false god,” Herkuhlos reminded him. “Which we call a yotunan. An eater of men.”

  “Yes,” Amron agreed. “A yotunan, then. These are all Heryos words to me.”

  Herkuhlos leaned back and drank another mouthful of the Furun beer. “But if you have never seen him, then can you be sure this Thrima is even a yotunan? He could be some mortal chief and his acolytes could be ruling you by trickery. There might be no Thrima at all.”

  The chief was outraged and his sons were even more so. Herkuhlos watched them and waited for their anger to die down and for the chief to answer him.

  “We know. Always, our people have been here. My ancestors have always ruled this earth, from the Great River to the Ten Oaks and from the Stone of Ash to the Stone of Kasku. This land is mine and always the god Thrima has been here ruling over us. We leave the sacrifice, it is taken, and bad fortune is warded for the span of one moon to the next.” He shrugged and then looked at his women before leaning forward and lowering his voice. “And that, mighty warrior Herkuhlos of the Heryos, is how you will slay it.” Nodding, he sat upright again.

  “What is your meaning?”

  “It is almost time for the sacrifice. My men will take it to the Stones of Thrima, just as they always do, and then you will lie in wait, hidden in the trees or behind one of the sacred stones themselves. Then, when the yotunan comes to take the sacrifice you may leap from cover, surprising him utterly, and then you may strike him dead with a single blow of your famed weapon of bronze. And my people will no longer suffer from the ever-growing hunger of Thrima the Roarer.”

  Herkuhlos stopped chewing for a moment as he considered this proposal. “That would not be honourable.”

  Amron scoffed. “What is honour when facing evil? Besides, this way you will be certain of victory, no? And you must be certain, oh lord of strength, you must be certain of your victory or all will be lost for you and for me and my people.” He held up a finger. “It is the best way. The only way. The certain way.”

  Herkuhlos looked around at the younger men arrayed behind Amron. “If it is so certain then why not do it yourself? You and your sons. All your warriors together?”

  Amron was astonished. “But we are not demon slayers, mighty one. Indeed, we did not know
that the yotunan could be slain until the tales of your victory reached our ears. Now we know it is possible to slay Thrima but we cannot do it, Herkuhlos lord of battles. What are we but mortal men, we who raise our wheat from the earth, we who milk cows, we who live humble lives while you are the son of a god?”

  Herkuhlos stared at him as he took another bite of the meat. It was growing cold and he could tell that the innermost parts were not cooked enough. Swallowing, he tossed it into the ashes of the fire and drank deeply from his cup of beer to wash away the taste.

  “Your men take a sacrifice to this place of stones every full moon and leave it behind without seeing Thrima, is that right?” Herkuhlos waited for the chief and his eldest son to nod in confirmation. “Do you know what weapons he carries?”

  “Lord of battle, I do not believe that Thrima the Roarer requires weapons. He is a god.”

  Herkuhlos grunted, amused. “Does he wear thick leather or plates of tusk to protect his flesh from weapons of mine? You see, I should have such knowledge before I attack your demon, Amron.”

  “I understand,” Amron said and turned to his sons at his side, speaking in the tongue of the Heryos so that Herkuhlos could understand also. “You see, Eron, this is the cunning of the Heryos. They know the ways of battle as we know the ways of the earth. With such knowledge a warrior may be more assured of victory.”

  “Yes, lord,” the son Eron said, nodding slowly.

  Addressing Herkuhlos, Amron nodded. “There is one who has seen Thrima and yet lives to speak of it.” He snapped his fingers at one of his wives and spoke rapidly in the tongue of the Furun before turning back to Herkuhlos. “Lord, this is my daughter, her name is Amra and she will escort you to one who will tell you all that you wish to know about Thrima. His name is Mardoc.”

  “Very well,” Herkuhlos agreed.

  She was brought forth by the older women and he recognised her as one of those who had fetched him his beer and meat and he stood, wiping his fingers on his tunic as he looked down. Like many of her people she was small, her skin was pale and like a minority of them she had blonde hair and her eyes were a pale green. Amra bowed her head and then she led Herkuhlos from the longhouse out into the village.

  It was early spring and still cold but life, light, and warmth were returning to the earth and every day the sun banished more of the dark of the night. The village of Amron was larger than many he had passed on his journey from the east and there were many longhouses within the ditch that enclosed the settlement. The longhouses themselves were impressive structures of varying sizes, with long straight sides and rounded ends. One half of the long buildings was for sleeping and eating while the other was for working or for animals or for storing food. The chief’s was the largest by far and divided into three parts, the centre of which was where people gathered for village business but the other buildings were still larger than anything the Heryos erected. Each one seemed to be the home of a man and his family and slaves and outside each house were fenced off enclosures where they kept pigs and goats or grew plants. There were smaller houses here and there and lean-tos where slaves or animals were kept and everywhere people were busy working. They eyed him warily as he stood in the doorway of the chief’s house looking out.

  In the open centre of the village was a large tomb where great slabs of stone had been cleverly erected to make a kind of cave or stone box, the sides banked with grass-covered earth. On the side facing east was a low entrance, dark with shadow, where the chief and his family could crawl inside to commune with their ancestors. Herkuhlos had seen similar tombs in other Furun villages but this was an impressively large one and the open area around it was kept clean of animal dung and other rubbish and that impressed him also.

  Beyond the enclosure ditch were the fields of the village, some pasture for the herds of shaggy cattle and sheep, while others were areas of bare earth that were being churned over ready for the planting of seeds that they grew into wheat for their bread and their beer. As far as Herkuhlos was concerned, they could keep their bread but if their fields of grasses gave them beer then it was no doubt worthwhile.

  Further along the outside of the longhouse, his servant Pehur perched his backside on a pile of firewood. Beside him their horses stood tethered with their heads down. They had been ridden half the day to reach here carrying Pehur, Herkuhlos and his armour and weapons, and their food and the beasts were happy to stand and rest while Pehur saw they were fed and watered. The small young man saw Herkuhlos and jumped to his feet, ready to hurry to attend him but Herkuhlos waved him back down. He did not need him.

  The young woman spoke a harsh word to draw his attention to her and gestured to him and Herkuhlos followed her through the village, past the enclosures and other longhouses to the outskirts where there were only a few small structures.

  He looked down as he walked beside her. Herkuhlos wondered for a moment why Amron had sent one of his many daughters to escort him instead of one of his sons but quickly he understood. Amra was almost pretty but she walked with a slight limp and had a generally underfed look beneath her pale skin that her fair hair and green eyes, and furs and jewellery could not distract from. Other chiefs in other villages had offered him women as he passed through and he assumed that this Amra, with her lameness, was not desired by other men and Amron was trying to be rid of her. Well, Herkuhlos would certainly not take her away with him if that was his intention.

  “Mardoc!” the girl shouted and gabbled something else in her own language before repeating the name with an even louder yell.

  From one of the huts, an old man emerged, stooped and blinking. “Amra?” he asked and started when he saw Herkuhlos towering beside her. He began to ask her a question but she spoke over him rapidly and at length before turning and walking away with her head down.

  “Strange,” Herkuhlos observed, watching her leave. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Afraid of you, lord,” Mardoc said, watching him warily.

  “Of me?” Herkuhlos asked, surprised. He looked around at the limping, hunched figure retreating toward the enormous longhouse of her father. “Why?”

  Mardoc snorted. “Come inside my dwelling, mighty lord.” He stepped back through the doorway of his hut and Herkuhlos followed, ducking low and stooping beneath the low ceiling.

  There was little within. A small, cold hearth in the centre, a low bed made from rough poles covered with furs on one side, and a log by the doorway where the old man sat to do his work. There were polished stone adzes of different sizes, piles of shavings, and a cluster of poles and sticks leaning against the door.

  “You make bows,” Herkuhlos said. “And arrows, I see.”

  “Yes, lord,” Mardoc said, laying a fur down beside the cold hearth for Herkuhlos to sit upon. After he was seated, Herkuhlos looked at the weapons by the door and Mardoc sat upon his bed.

  “To my shame, I have nothing to offer you, lord. If you will wait here I can fetch water from the river for you to drink.”

  “Your chief has fed me well. How is it that you speak my tongue?”

  Mardoc grunted. “Many years, I traded with the Heryos on behalf of my people.” He rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “Mardoc does not forget.”

  Herkuhlos looked around at the meagre hut and wondered why such a valuable man was living alone in such squalor but it was not a guests’ place to ask such questions of his host. “Your chief tells me you are the only man to see the yotunan Thrima the Roarer and live to speak of it.”

  Mardoc stared, his wrinkled face hard to read. He reached up with a large, bony hand and scratched the short grey hairs on his chin. The man was old but Herkuhlos suddenly saw by the size of his hands and the muscles bunching on his forearms that he was still strong. “You will kill the god?”

  “Yes, I have come to kill this Thrima. Tell me what you saw, Mardoc and your words will help me to slay him.”

  “My words will help you do this?”

  “I know nothing of Thrima an
d it seems no one else here does either. How tall is he? What weapons does he carry? Is he quick? Strong?”

  “I will tell it,” Mardoc said, though his eyes narrowed and he turned away. “He is big.”

  Herkuhlos stared, waiting for more. “As I would have guessed. Big, you mean tall?”

  “Tall? High, yes. As high as you or higher.” Mardoc spread out his arms. “But big like this. Big, like an oak. And the face…” He gestured at his own. “Very bad.”

  Herkuhlos had expected as much but still he felt fear rising within him as he imagined the yotunan and thought about what it could do to him. “What about weapons?”

  “Weapons?”

  Herkuhlos mimed the actions as he spoke. “Spear? Knife? Axe? War club?”

  “Why would a god need a weapon?” Mardoc asked, confused.

  Herkuhlos nodded. “And what was he wearing?”

  Mardoc shrugged. “Like this,” he said, tugging at the furs around his shoulders. “Like this,” he said again, gesturing at Herkuhlos’ woollen tunic.

  Sighing, Herkuhlos realised that he had wasted his time speaking to this useless old man. If he truly had seen the demon, he knew nothing that could help. “How did you come to see the yotunan?”

  Again, Mardoc shrugged and looked through the open doorway. “I was a young man. Young men are fools.”

  When the old man did not continue, Herkuhlos prompted him to do so. “I agree. So you did something foolish and that is how you saw it?”

  “Amron did not speak of this?”

  “No.”

  Nodding, Mardoc stood and walked to his doorway and leaned a hand on the frame, looking out at the village. The sound of women talking and children laughing echoed through the spring air. Evening was coming and soon it would be dark. “The young Mardoc was a fool. Anger is the word, yes? Anger. The young Mardoc attacked the god.” He snorted. “Tried to kill a demon with a knife this long.” Without turning, he held up a thumb and forefinger to demonstrate the size of the blade.