Chapter 8 - Wolves
Camp of Banat, Wilds of Lynx. SE Britain.
The Orphans enjoyed a brief rest. Farkas hunted squirrels for the dog bait, whilst the others readied weapons, and conducted a reconnaissance of Banat’s camp. It’ll be a long night for them. The rogues skulk as they await darkness, secretly watching the locals feast around their cooking hearth. Small groups of Lynx folk leave to retire to their snug nests, until the camp is asleep.
A scarred exile, and a giant silently wade through the fast flowing waters of a stream. On reaching a steep bank of the river island, they climb up next to an old otter slide. On the edge of a night time camp, these rogues move forward, tiptoeing between lunar shadows of dens. Dogs lie stilled by a smouldering hearth, their bodies bloated by Saabiaske’s poison. One whimpers with discomfort. Scar tissue pulls reminding the exile of his hunger for vengeance on these folk. He puts this aside to locate a cluster of promising shelters.
The dens of the wild nations dwelling within this region, consist of frames of pine poles strongly bound together using our strong rope. Awnings of pine sprays, or reeds cut from the water margins, are encased in netting, then leaned either side of the frames. To withstand a cold British winter, these awnings need to be dense, making our dens substantially larger outside than inside. A basin is commonly scooped out from the interior to be layered with a flooring of bark, covered over with soft, dried heather. The doorways to our dens are small, no more than low hatchways.
Eino lurks in the darkness while Saabiaske crouches close to one hatch. An absence of male artefacts, a small weaving frame and the scent of pressed flowers have brought him to this particular den,
Those ignorant fools, he thinks to himself. Gently, Saabiaske moves the hatch to expose deeper darkness within. Giving his eyes time to readjust, he listens carefully, hearing a pair of youthful lungs in sleep. His eyes detect a few photons of starlight that reflect on the form of a sleeping female as she snuggles with a bundle of furs. Saabiaske congratulates himself on his instincts, crawling into the den on hands and knees. A backed blade of flint in his right fist, and a gag of hide held in his left. Eino waits patiently ready to bundle their prize away into the wilds.
Without warning, the furs beneath stir and shuffle. Something is wrong. Saabiaske smells the canine breath and instinctively raises a forearm to guard his throat. The breath of the dog who had been snuggled up with a favoured human, since before Saabiaske had poisoned the other hounds. Sharp dog teeth sink into the meaty flesh of Saabiaske’s raised arm. His canine adversary releases hell onto the intruder. It rips and shakes Saabiaske’s arm, soon wet with dog saliva and his own blood. The young woman wakes to witness the noisy violence as her dog snarls and bites at someone inside her dark den. She joins in this riot, kicking down at her would-be assailant and shouting insults loudly.
Using his free fist, Saabiaske keeps punching into the dog’s head, but it locks its jaws and refuses to release. Saabiaske changes tactic, swinging a powerful left hook into the ribcage of his opponent. The sounds of bones splintering encourages his efforts, and he strikes again and again. Dog howls precede the release of his mauled arm. He lifts the blade to pommel the beast until it whimpers and falls silent.
The maiden grasps this isn't merely a lovelorn young man from the long lodge, but some dangerous enemy raider. She screams out with an angry alarm, adding to the noisy disturbance of the insults and dogfight. Large, rough hands wrap themselves around Saabiaske’s ankles, and he’s dragged back outside. Face down, he rolls around to defend himself from a new adversary, and swings his bloody arm, clutching a broken flint blade in its fist,
‘Woah! Saabiaske, it's I, your friend Eino’. The giant helps Saabiaske back to his feet. There, they see figures emerging from out of the men’s lodge. The two orphans must each battle their own way to an escape route. Saabiaske’s own, leads past the sacred hearth of Banat. He sees figures stoking its fire for better light but ascertains them to be the bent figures of crones, and decides to stick with his plan. This route he knew from his youth will take him to a bank over deep waters.
Sprinting past the fireplace, he gawks at one old lady raising a freshly ignited torch in her hand, he imagines she calls out his old Lynx name,
‘Géza? Géza the criminal, is that you?’
Almost he halts as an automatic response, but the footsteps of heavier pursuers run up from behind to catch him. He sprints harder and runs for life, before hearing the swoosh of an arrow. Saabiaske cannot resist glancing back over a shoulder, even if to strafe further projectiles. Rather than face an enemy archer he recognises a youth with an arrow sticking from his ribcage. Another Lynx man, ducks for cover. Saabiaske traces his fearful eyes to see in nearby waters, a spectre banshee.
Lanella removes the next arrow from her quiver, her sole item of clothing. She’s painted symbols of the Sun Magic over her pale, nakedness. Her red hair she has gelled with fresh ochre and grease, brushed it high to resemble flames.
Using words of the Leva tongue Lanella screams out, ‘Don’t just stand there Saabiaske. Run for your life while I frighten their men’.
This statement she follows by releasing her second dart, at petrified targets who cower. Big, savage men who’ve never before seen a barbarian, but who fear their dreaded magic. Saabiaske has to suppress a grin of admiration for his brave girlfriend. He resumes his escape, to reach a group of alders marking the high bank over a water channel. Here, on happier days, he’d enjoy diving with friends. Saabiaske sees nothing but darkness, and leaps anyway. His reminiscence hasn’t betrayed him. He hits cold waters with a splash.
These waters numb the sting of his arm. A rapid current sweeps, accelerating Saabiaske’s escape. He swims a wild, meandering river. A solitary splash of an arrow is all he hears of any further pursuit. Other natural water channels join, and he’s carried far from the hostile camp, The flow subsides where the river builds into a great flood behind a beaver dam. Saabiaske takes this opportunity to swim the pond, and plucks himself out of the waters, pulling on the dangling branches of a willow.
Alone in a swamp forest, he stumbles haphazardly through the dark towards higher less overgrown land, and onto the sandy soils of a lime tree forest. Its canopy of leaves now almost fully shed, the Moon permits enough light to find his way onto a trail. The howls of a wolf pack send shivers down his spine, sounding out from north of the stream. Saabiaske tries to relax, until a hand slaps him on the shoulder. He swings around, only to hear the muted voice of Farkas,
‘Easy Brother. It is I, Farkas, not some warrior of the Lynx. I’m heartened to find you here alive and free’.
Relief fills the void left by fear. Saabiaske grumbles, ‘Of our two comrades how do they fare?’
‘They’re fine. Lanella and Eino follow me down from the high oak. The fat man ran into some trouble with Lynx men, but required no assistance from our bows. He was er… enjoying himself too much, but may need time to add a notch or two to his trusty war club’.
Saabiaske pictures a broad grin on Astrashan’s darkened features, and the Fox has more happy news to share,
‘Lanella is safe. She retreated leaving men trembling. Stories of her presence will be added to the hearth repertoire’.
Moonlit silhouettes of a giant by a small banshee appear on the ridge. The four orphans gather and Saabiaskle whispers his plans,
‘The Ishi of Banat will send a war party at first light, and some of those idiots may be searching these woods. We have to make our escape in this darkness. Follow me’. Saabiaske turns back towards the beaver dam.
Lanella protests, ‘This is the wrong direction to return to our waterways of the South’.
The exile pauses to explain, ‘Trust me, this way will take us to nearer safety and provide fresh opportunities. I’ve new plans to fulfil our commission, which I shall share once we're safe’.
With this granted the orphans follow the exile to the river, where they reach a fording spot downstream of the beaver works. They wade across to the northern side and Saabiaske leads them further along the gravels to confuse tracks. The orphans turn north, following another narrow animal trail climbing the valley side. The woods through which they now pass through, are heavy with wych elm-kind.
The valley slopes finally give way to uplands. The dark forest opens up to a wide plain of tall grasses, heather, gorse and orchids. Saabiaske recalls from his youth this plain is called the Prairie of Banat. The orphans pass nighttime shrubs of elder and hazel. He remembers being brought here by his mother with the foraging bands. Out in this more open countryside, they'll put distance between themselves and those who pursue. Moonlight falls across the prairie where they follow a trail free of the dark shadows of trees.
Saabiaske holds up a hand pausing the progress of his followers. He moves his hands to the side of his head, and gives the sign of the Bull. The orphans strain their eyes to see what he has detected. On a twilight plain, shapes move. A herd of aurochs have been spooked not by the orphans, but by some other perceived danger. These gigantic, wild cattle have corralled their calves into a safe centre of their mass. On the periphery of the herd patrols the dominant bull. Something panicked these beasts prior to the arrival of the orphans. At any time a wild bull is dangerous, and in high alert, lethal to our kind. These longhorns of our natural world are much larger than the tame cattle of the barbarians.
Cautiously the orphans divert to avoid the aurochs. It's as they pass the panicked herd, they spot smaller dark shadows darting along the fringes of woods. These clever predators are testing the bull’s resolve. Saabiaske mulls,
The wolf-kind here must be careless or extremely hungry to attempt the snatching of a calf. he big bull charges at the canine shadows. A fresh idea formulates in Saabiaske’s mind, I must remember the location of this herd.
The brightness of a newborn sun rises, casting its golden rays across the plain and illuminating a wall of trees with a magical glow. This light racks the weary heads of four overnight hikers. A trail carries them though more woods and down into another vale. They reach another stream. Together the orphans remove furs they wish to keep dry, before dipping their toes into chilly waters. The band wades across this river. At its deepest point, Eino suppresses laughter. Even though the river waters barely reach his chest, they threaten to sweep little Lanella away in the flow.
Once again they dress on the further banks, before climbing the wooded slopes of another valleyside. They follow Saabiaske into forest, where he halts to address his tired followers,
‘We’re safely out of the Lynx wilderness, and are in those of the Goshawk. The savages here are enemies of those who pursue us. Let’s find a shaded spot to rest our poor feet’.