Dog Boy,
excerpt from the first book about the Nightwarrior
by
Olaf Havnes
Chapter 1:
The Rawhide Clan
One night chief Old White was woken by Beak, a hunter in the clan.
"Soldiers," Beak grunted.
Old White was awake at once. "Far away?"
"They have horses. They will reach the pass before sunrise."
"Then we still have time to avoid battle. Give word to break camp."
"They are led by a renegade from one of the ten clans," Beak hissed. "We should kill him, or he will lead the soldiers after us again."
Old White nodded thoughtfully. "Tell the women to take the children into the hills. The rest will prepare themselves for battle."
The clan packed in darkness. Infants kept silent as they were lifted from warm cots. Dogs growled deep in their throats, but did not bark. Some shadows moved, and then the earth huts lay dark and deserted in the little valley.
* * *
Beak squatted behind a rock in the pass, holding a wooden spear, point dried over glowing coal and sharpened on sandrock. Soon darkness would die, but new light had not yet been born. Now the spirit flow was at low ebb, and only the strongest will could keep the mind alert. He grunted. It was a good time to attack.
The soldiers rode in single file through the darkness, dressed in chinking birnies, bows and battle axes on the pommels of their saddles. The renegade ran at their head, dressed in the long leather shirt of the hill people.
Beak stared at the soldiers with slitted eyes. Even the children of his clan would have heard the clopping hooves and rattling weapons a long way off. He expected such from the emperor's soldiers, but he could never understand how somebody from the ten clans should join the enemy to fight his own.
Beak did not reflect why this man had chosen to serve Kraken, the emperor of the lowlands. If the clan ran, the renegade would lead the soldiers after them again. So Beak waited with the other hunters of his clan. The renegade had to die if the clan was to live.
* * *
When the soldiers reached the pass, a fall of rocks cut into their force and split the line of riders in two. Warriors with white death stripes painted across their cheekbones melted out of the darkness.
"Kill! Kill!"
The hill people sent a hail of arrows down onto the soldiers before charging with weapons drawn.
"Kill! Kill!"
Beak let the anger take over, blood red and screaming in his ears. Spear in hand he leapt towards a soldier, seeing only a white throat before him.
"Kill! Kill!"
Before he had cleared the rock, a pain burned in his temple. He stumbled and tried to clear his head. ... this is too soon ... not the enemy ... who? Beak forced himself to his feet, twisted and caught a glimpse of Kato, son of chief Old White, with a stone in his hand. Kato hit him again with the stone, once, twice, and then the red rage gave way to darkness in Beak.
* * *
After the battle the hill people went among the enemy soldiers and killed those that had been too wounded to escape. The hunters counted the cost of the victory. The renegade lay dead among the enemy soldiers, but so did chief Old White and four other warriors from the clan.
"Where is Beak?" asked Brother Little, one of the hunters.
No one answered. No one had seen Beak for some time, although he was not among the dead. Nor could they recall having seen him during the battle. Their spirits fell as they contemplated what might have happened to him. Many a winter he had brought home food enough to keep the youngest members alive until spring came. And in all their battles with the Enemy, Beak had always led the first charge.
Old White had left two sons, Kato and Kajite. The clan turned to Kato, the elder brother, who was their chief now.
"The renegade is dead. They will not hunt us for a while," Kato sighed.
They all nodded.
"Beak must have been captured," said Kato.
"Shall we set off after them?" asked Sintaje, the youngest of the hunters, just one year from being a boy.
"We won't catch the soldiers, they have horses. They're far away by now," answered Kato.
"We can't leave Beak in the hands of our enemies. If he's still alive then we must rescue him. When have Kraken's soldiers been able to outrun the clan in the Mother Mountains?" protested Sintaje.
"Enough men have lost their lives tonight," replied Kato wearily.
Kato was the chief, and no-one contradicted him.
* * *
Day dawned over the hills as the hunters took care of their wounded and made ready to leave. They sliced meat from the dead horses, made small cuts along each side of the slices and stretched them out to long, almost translucent strips that soon dried in the heat of the sun. They collected the knives, swords and axes from the dead soldiers, but left the armour, as such things were of little use in the mountains.
The hunters of the clan emptied their hearts and cut the heads off their dead enemies, sticking them on poles by the entrance to the pass. When the soldiers returned with a larger force and found the heads of their dead comrades, they would think twice before going after the clan. It would buy them maybe one year of peace, telling the Emperor's soldiers that they were not welcome in the Mother Mountains.
They wrapped their own dead in blankets and carried them into the hills, where they would be laid out for the brown eagles circling the peaks deep in the Mother Mountains. Then they left without a backward glance. All knew they would not return to this place for many years. There were other secluded valleys in the Mother Mountains, and only the foolish would remain in a place that was known to the enemy soldiers.
* * *
Of all the people in the clan, Sister Omeh grieved the most for Beak. She had been engaged to marry the warrior. Her broad hips were just made for child-bearing. And her powerful shoulders could be loaded with a day's worth of wood without causing her to lose her footing. Though she worked hard all day she hummed contentedly to herself and always had a smile to spare. But now Omeh smiled no more. The others cried by the body of their dead, but Omeh did not even have a body to grieve over. She sat outside their camp, refusing eat or drink, singing softly all the time.
"Once the eagles flew,
white-winged and brave,
over the hills
But Kraken hunted them,
with his soldiers
he hunted them so long
The white eagles are gone
Only brown eagles are left
And my lover is gone
My lover is gone,
but he will return to me,
when the raven is dead."
Even when Kato, the new chief, asked Omeh's father for her marriage price, she did not stop singing. Omeh's father cuffed her and told her she was mad not to marry the chief but she just looked at him with bleak eyes:
"The white eagle is gone
Only brown eagles are left
And my lover is gone."
* * *
The whole clan feared for the future. Their new chief was a man made crazy of love. Kato's eyes flickered and he brooded constantly, and no one dared talk to him. They could all see that this maddness stemmed from Omeh's behavior.
The hill people knew more sorrow than others. The men died in battle with the enemy soldiers. The women and children starved during long winters, when they lived on the run. From birth they had been taught to love hard and grieve hard, and to continue life. If not, the emperor of the lowlands would steal their freedom.
But Sister Omeh refused to forget Beak no matter how much pressure they put on her. In the end Omeh's father went to Sister Moon, the medicine woman, and asked her to intervene. She looked at him and nodded. The whole clan rejoiced, but did not see the troubled eyes of the medicine woman.
Sister Moon told Omeh to eat and rest, and then she retreated to her hut. The village could hear soft drumming for three days and three nights before she appeared again.
"Tell all to prepare for the wedding feast the next full moon, when Omeh will be married to her lover," she told the clan. "This is what the white eagle told me: There will be no wedding, and there will be a wedding. The marriage will be short, and it will last forever. The son will die, and he will live forever."
Such talk was strange, even from a medicine woman, but the clan breathed a sigh of relief. There would be a wedding, and everything would return to normal.
* * *
Kato sent runners with invitations to the other clans in the Mother Mountains. Some of these had their own names, such as the the Hot Springs Clan and the Western Clan, but all were part of the hill people. There were smaller clans too, but these were really only family groupings.
Kato was chief of the Rawhide Clan. Even the others who belonged to the hill people looked upon the Rawhide Clan as wild animals. They built their earth huts in remote valleys, where they married and raised their children. They seldom met others or traded with other tribes. They had few weapons of iron, and they wore loincloths and headbands of still deerskin, not the felt or softer leather used by others.
The Rawhide Clan never announced their arrival. On the rare occasions when they visited other tribes they appeared from nowhere. One moment the hillside was bare, the next a handful of warriors stood there with weapons raised.
When the runners came with the news that the chief of the Rawhide Clan was about to marry, the chiefs of the others tribes set off, loaded with gifts and speeches, for even though they regarded them as wild animals it was thought best to remain on good terms with them.
Much of the cost of the wedding was born by the inheritance from Old White. For several days stew bubbled in clay pots and meat hissed on spits. Kato offered sacks of juniper berries pressed to juicy rolls, bitter-tasting roots that turned sweet over the fire, cakes made of nuts and roots, meat from young mountain goats and two whole roasted deer. The deer's bellies were suspended between stakes, and water, meat, herbs and salt lumps were placed in the sunken bags. Red-hot stones were put in the broth, and when these lost heat the women replaced them with hot stones.
The sun shone down upon the wedding day and the clan looked forward to the celebrations. Omeh remained with the women in a separate hut. They rubbed the juice of chewed roots into her long, straight hair until it shone blue-black. She put on a soft, embroidered deerskin dress, lined with pelt from the snow hare. All the time she sang softly to herself, and there was a strange light in her eyes.
Kato sat round a great fire with his guests, boasting of all the warrior sons he and Omeh would have together. The others listened with half an ear, anticipating the great feast to come later in the evening. The men were all thin and sinewy, with large heads and powerful features. The gods of the mountains carved their faces from stone, the sun burned their skin to a dark bronze, and the winter storms left deep lines across their cheeks and foreheads. Their faces were almost hairless, apart from eyelashes and brows, and now and then, on some older man, a straggly moustache.
Suddenly Beak was among the circle of hunters. It took a moment before they recognised him. His clothes were just rags. His face was pale, and there was a red scar on his temple. Hatred and shame had carved furrows over his forehead and cheeks. Beak stared at them, eyes narrowed to burning slits.
Kato sat up, a sheepish smile on his lips.
"Beak, so you managed to..."
Beak jumped across the fire, a knife appearing in his hand.
"Kill! Kill"
Kato raised his arms, but was unable to ward off the blow.
"Kill! Kill!" came the cry again.
The heavy knife just carved through Kato's fingers, and then the chief tipped, blood from his throat spraying the chest and face of Beak.
"Omeh!" Beak shouted.
Kajite leapt to his feet. Again the knife in Beak's hand blinked, and a long gash opened on the face of the chief's brother. Beak thrust the limp body aside and looked around the camp.
Omeh ran towards him, feet light as air and shiny black hair flying in the wind. Beak received her as she threw herself into his arms.
He looked at the circle of men that had waited for the wedding. They looked back with confused eyes. Never had any man returned after being captured by the enemy's soldiers. And never had they seen a bride like her, white deerskin dress streaked with blood and eyes burning with love.
Omeh spat on the dead body of Kato, and then she grabbed the hand of her lover and ran off.
No one tried to stop them as they fled the camp. Some of the guests from the other clans boasted about giving chase, but nothing came of it. When they saw the faces of the hunters of the Rawhide Clan, they quickly changed their mind. Not even the Rawhide Clan would be able to track a hunter like Beak. Nor did they relish the thought of entering narrow defiles and passes where he might be lying in wait.
Chapter 2:
Little Eagle
One and a half year later five hunters from the Rawhide Clan found themselves two day's march from their winter camp in search for food.
"Do you see what I see, chief?"
Kajite came last in the little group of hunters wading through the snow, high above the tree-line. He stopped.
"What is it?"
"A white eagle!" said Sintaje.
"You've been looking too long at the sun. There's nothing there, at least, not a white eagle. There are no white eagles up here in the mountains any more. You know that as well as I do," replied the chief.
Flat Face, Brother Little and Brother Big said nothing. The scar that ran down from the left temple to the powerful jaw pulled Kajite's mouth into a permanent grin. The other hunters thought of him as Scarface, but that name was never used when he could hear it.
"The white eagles will return, it has always been said," said Sintaje. "When we win the war against the emperor Kraken, they eagles will return."
"Children's tales," spat Scarface. "The white eagles are dead, killed by Kraken and his men every one of them."
In spite of his youth, Sintaje was highly regarded as a hunter. His supple body could range far, and his eyes missed nothing. Both Scarface and the young warrior had strong noses, black hair, high cheekbones and dark eyes, but there the similarity ended. Sintaje laughed easily, and never let difficulties weigh him down. But Scarface ws much given to brooding, and he never smiled. He had been like that ever since his brother died and he acquired his new name.
"I know I saw a white eagle," said Sintaje.
Inwardly the others groaned.
"The eyes get tired when you spend a long time walking in the snow," said Scarface curtly. "It's easy to imagine that one is seeing things."
Scarface gave the order to continue. Sintaje scowled, but the others breathed sighs of relief. They had been walking for three days without finding any tracks. Soon the provisions would run out, and they would have to return empty-handed.
The chief wore a cloak made from the hides of many snow hares. The furs had been cut into wide strips and twisted into a warm cape. The others wore long tunics made of deer-hide. Leather headbands kept back their thick growth of hair. Their high moccasins reached to their knees. Some of the hunters absently fingered their horn bows and bone tipped arrows. A hunter was judged by what he brought home, and their spirits sank at the thought of what the rest of the tribe would say.
"There! I saw it again!" shouted Sintaje.
Scarface whirled, eyes narrow and the red scar glowing.
"Are you trying to make a fool of me? I'm beginning to think it was a mistake to bring you along," he said, voice shaking.
"Look, chief!" interrupted Brother Little. "Way down in the valley!"
The others gazed as he pointed to the valley far below them
"I see nothing," mumbled Flat Face as he peered down.
The others laughed, and even Scarface twisted his lips into the semblance of a smile. The stocky Flat Face couldn't see much beyond the end of his nose. He was of little use as a tracker, but he could carry his own weight for days without slackening his pace.
"There's a raven circling over some scrub down there," said Brother Little.
"There's your white eagle," Brother Big said to Sintaje.
Still Flat Face saw nothing, but no-one needed to tell him that something lay hidden in the scrub, and he followed the others. They moved more quickly now, encouraged at the prospect of a catch.
The raven croaked harshly a few times before it disappeared and left its prey to the hunters. Brother Little and Brother Big crouched low and crept into the bushes, one from each side. When the two brothers hunted together they thought as one. The three others raised their weapons and waited for their prey to break cover. But the hunters heard only footsteps and twigs snagging on leather clothing.
The heads of Brother Little and Brother Big appeared among the bushes.
"This catch is of little use to us," they said.
The others lowered their weapons and made their way towards the brothers. A woman lay still at their feet. Her clothes showed that she belonged to one of the hill clans, but she was lying on her side with her face turned towards the snow. Brother Little and Brother Big squatted. There was still some warmth in the limbs, but the joints had begun to stiffen. They turned her over. Two eyes stared vacantly up from the white face.
"It's Sister Omeh," said Sintaje quietly.
Brother Little and Brother Big looked over at Scarface. They all remembered the day Kajite's brother died and he became chief of the clan, the day his face turned to a mask, with the only sign of emotion being the glowing scar.
"We don't have time to take her with us," Scarface said. "Take her clothes and leave the body."
Sintaje was about to protest, but a warning glace from Brother Little silenced him. He bent down and helped Brother Little and Brother Big. Omeh's face had been turned towards the snow, and now it was all white and twisted somwhow. They began to undress her without looking at her eyes.
Beneath Omeh's leather dress Sintaje found a little bundle. He felt something soft inside it, and carefully opened the bundle.
"It is a boy-child' he said.
The child seemed no bigger than his fist. The eyes were tightly closed, and the skin was white, but there was still some life beneath the skin.
Sintaje opened his shirt.
"It is the offspring of Omeh and Beak," hissed Scarface. "Throw it in the snow! We don't have time to bring him with us while the tribe is starving."
Sintaje shook his head. He put the new-born boy under his shirt, pressing it to his chest. The little body was as cold as ice, yet Sintaje's skin seemed to burn at the touch.
"I'm going back," he said. "You go on without me."
Scarface marched stiffly over to Sintaje, towering over the young warrior, but Sintaje did not flinch. The chief raised his arm to pull the child away. Then he felt a hand on his forearm. He turned and looked into Flat Face's eyes.
Flat Face said little. None were stronger than him, but he obeyed all orders from the chief and from those whom he believed wiser than he. But now he shook his head as he held Scarface's forearm in a tight grip.
"Let Sintaje go," Flat Face said evenly.
Scarface struggled with all his might but was unable to move his arm. Flat Face showed no sign of exertion.
"Let Sintaje go," he repeated.
The chief's scar flamed red, but he relaxed his arm.
"Go!' hissed Scarface, and spat.
Sintaje looked one last time at the body of Omeh lying in the snow. She was as white as ice, and the breasts that had once given her son milk were just flat bags of skin. But Omeh had rescued him. She had given the boy warmth from her body, even after death had come to claim her.
* * *
The next day there was general surprise in the village at Sintaje returning alone, having run through the snow all the way. But surprise was replaced by wonder as they heard how a white eagle had guided him to the bushes where the son of Omeh and Beak lay waiting.
The clan murmured among themselves when they heard how Omeh had frozen to death. It seemed clear that Beak must by lying somewhere dead up in the mountains, for he would never have abandoned her.
The clan shook their heads as they wondered how it was that Beak had met his death. No-one knew the Mother Mountains better than he. They at once thought of the Emperor's soldiers, although they could not understand how anybody could have gotten the better of Beak. Yet they wished they had been witness to his last stand, for surely that would have been something to tell their children and grandchildren.
But most of all they wondered about the boy. Some said it was an ill boding for the future to return with a child so marked with death, but Sintaje just laughed them off.
"Little Eagle will be our joy," he laughed. "A white eagle showed him to me. Maybe the white eagles will return to the hills?"
And when the others saw his face, they talked no more of death and ill bodings.
* * *
One week after the other hunters had returned empty-handed a new group set out from the village. Sintaje was their leader this time. His smile and laughter seemed to infuse all the others with strength, while Scarface showed no interest in hunting or anything else. For several days the chief spoke to no-one. He sat in the darkness by a cold hearth and neither ate nor drank.
It was Tamara, Sintaje's wife, who cared for the child while her husband was hunting. She too had lost her heart the moment she saw that frozen little body. When a mountain child was born too early, the mother would carry it in a bag close to her stomach. Little Eagle had not been born too early, but the cold had almost killed him.
Tamara tied Little Eagle to her body, so that he could feed on her warmth and nurture the will to live. She dipped a cloth in thin gruel and smeared it on the infant's tongue, and slowly but surely colour returned to his skin. He no longer breathed air down into his lungs in thin, wheezy gasps. The tiny red body would survive.
When the hunters returned with two deer and several snow-hares, the tribe's spirits rose. Hill people were better able than others to go without food, but even they had limits. Soon their winter supplies of roots, berries and dried meat would run out, and they looked forward to eating fresh meat again. Even Scarface managed a slight smile as he emerged from his hut.
Sintaje had killed both deer, and the others in the tribe praised him highly for his skills as a hunter. But Sintaje himself was not there to hear the praises sung. He sat with Tamara in their hut and ministered to Little Eagle.
The clan celebrated that evening. Winter was not over, and the food would not last long, but for short while they could enjoy life. They patted their full bellies and belched contentedly. The whole tribe stayed up late that night, singing songs in honor of fallen warriors and telling tales of battles between the hill people and Kraken's soldiers.
* * *
The following day Sintaje stopped by the chief's hut. Scarface was sitting on a blanket in the snow. The scarred face was calm as he gazed at the winter sun. Sintaje coughed lightly, but the chief did not move.
"I wish to take Little Eagle for my own," said the young warrior. "Tamara and I have no children yet, and we have plenty of room in our hut."
"No," said Scarface."You and Tamara are both young. You will have many sons and daughters. It is not fitting that Little Eagle be adopted by people who have no children of their own."
He sat in silence a moment. "There is more room in my hut, and it is my intention to adopt Little Eagle myself. He shall be raised in a manner befitting the son of Beak, the hunter."
Sintaje stared at him open-mouthed. He was about to ask something, but the chief gestured with his hand to indicate that the young warrior should return to his own affairs. The chief had made up his mind, and thus it would be.
At first the rest of the clan were much surprised. Everyone recalled how Beak had given the chief the scar on his face. But Beak was most likely dead now, and they reasoned that this might have softened their chief's attitude. The chief could not hate a dead man.
It seemed that Sintaje was right. Little Eagle would be their joy after all.
Chapter 3:
The dying of Sister Moon
Little Eagle was well looked after by the chief's wives. In the early days Scarface was afraid that the little boy might die. But once Beak's son began to scream and wave his limbs about Scarface relaxed. He could sit for hours and watch the child, and after a while even lost interest in his own children.
The fourth summer after they had found him, Little Eagle had grown into a wiry little kid. His eyes were dark and deep-set, he smiled often and wide, and his black hair stuck out all over the place. Now it was clear that the boy had inherited the large, hooked nose which had given his father his name. No-one ventured to call him a pretty child, but the mountain people had never set much store by pretty faces. It was more important that he should turn out to be a good hunter. Everyone assumed that the son of Beak would be a great provider for the village once he grew up.
Little Eagle wandered about the village, babbling away to whoever he met. He looked at the whole tribe as his family. Of late the chief had little time to look after the boy, and the responsibility fell on all those who remembered Beak.
"He looks like his father," said one old woman as the boy ran past chasing a puppy's tail.
"Yes, doesn't he," replied Scarface with a smile.
The old woman smiled back. The chief had changed a lot in the last four years, it seemed to her. That scar was less prone to glow, and more often Scarface took part in the evening songs round the campfire.
That evening Little Eagle returned to find the door of the earthen hut closed. As he was about to pull back the rug Scarface emerged. A well-aimed kick sent Little Eagle tumbling in a somersault across the grass.
"From now on you sleep outside," said Scarface.
Little Eagle was bewildered. He got up, confused, and approached the door-opening. A second kick sent him flying again. This time he didn't get up. Without a word Scarface disappeared into the hut and let the rug down.
* * *
The wolf dogs around the village were treated better than Little Eagle, as they were fed regularly, and were seldom kicked or beaten. Little Eagle ate what he managed to scrounge from the dogs, but the pack did not willingly share their bones, and he always bled from bites and scratches.
During the day Scarface worked him. The boy collected roots, twigs and edible plants. He scraped deerhides, rubbing away with brains and stretching the hides to dry in the sun. He colored dried skins and cut them up. Little Eagle would begin in the middle of the hide and work his way outward in circles, cutting the hide into a long strand, thinner than a little finger. If he didn't cut evenly he was beaten. Rope-cutting was difficult, and he was often beaten. He sewed shirts, moccasins and long leggings, but never wore anything but the rags Scarface tossed him.
Sometimes Little Eagle tried to hide from the chief. Then he would be roundly beaten, and he soon abandoned this idea. He had also tried to creep into other huts during the night. But Scarface saw to it that no-one sheltered the son of his dead enemy. Anyone found doing so could be sure of incurring the chief's wrath, for his old rages had returned, and now Scarface was worse than he had ever had been.
In the winter Little Eagle lay curled up with the dogs outside the huts. Warmth from the fires inside seeped through the walls, and Little Eagle did not freeze to death. Sometimes, when Scarface was looking the other way, Tamara or one of the other women sneaked food to him. Little Eagle always wolfed it down, so that no-one should see that the chief's orders had been disobeyed.
* * *
One night Sister Moon, the old medicine woman, came to to him after he had curled up with the wolf dogs. Her long white hair was combed, and she wore her finest embroidered deerskin dress, like she was invited to a celebration.
"Come with me, Little Eagle," she smiled to him.
He looked at her in fear. "Scarface will hurt you," Little Eagle whispered. "He has promised to hurt all that take me in."
She just smiled. "Come with me, Little Eagle," she smiled to him. "It is your birthday today. Six years old you are, and I have a gift for you. Have no fear for an old woman like me."
Little Eagle followed her, dazed and scared, but his eyes opened wide as he entered her hut. The medicine woman had prepared a little fiest, with juniper rolls, sweet nut cakes, salty deerfat to chew, all the sorts of food he had only dreamed of tasting.
He was so conscious of his smell and dirty clothes that he dared not sit down. But she pointed to a clean blanket and told him to sit there and eat all he wanted.
Afterwards, when his belly was bursting, he looked at her, and there was hope in his eyes.
"But I nearly forgot!" she said, clapping her hands. "You must want your gift now?"
He merely nodded, as it was over midnight, and he was too tired to really want anything.
"Go to sleep now, Little Eagle, and your gift will come to you."
For a while he wondered what kind of gift that was, but she sang for him till he fell asleep, all the while brushing the hair on his forehead. When he slept, he dreamt of a woman in a cave, and a warrior standing beside her.
* * *
Winter covered the hills with snow, and frost smoke from a wild river drifted towards the cave entrance. But inside cave the warrior fed a fire and packed blankets round the woman. The woman must be Omeh, his mother, he knew, and the man Beak, his father.
And then he saw himself by his mother's breast, newborn and blue, but eyes open to the world. And he saw the light in the eyes of Omeh and Beak, and there was no fear in his heart.
The dream would last forever, but then the enemy soldiers came riding up along the open river, headed directly for the ford below the cave. Beak hung his head. There was no way to avoid being discovered.
He could escape, but Omeh was too weak to outrun horses. His mind raced as he bundled a little dried meat and a flask of water in a blanket, making the bundle as light as possible.
"You leave now, Omeh, you and my boy."
"And you?"
"I wait here."
"And die?"
"I leave the hardest part for you, my love. It is cold and dark, and you are tired. But you have to find the clan and go back to them."
Omeh nodded. There was truth in his words. And so Omeh left, with the boy child bound tightly against her skin, her heart singing with pride for her man, never thinking of her own weariness.
And when the soldiers reached the ford, there was a creature of darkness waiting for them. The river ran red that night, and only the stars watched while Beak held the ford for his wife and son to escape.
Then morning came, and the dream was over.
* * *
Little Eagle woke hearing howls of rage outside. Fearfully he stuck his head under the rug across the door. Sister Moon stood there facing the angry chief, and behind them stood the rest of the clan. Her face was tired, as if she had not slept that night, but her eyes were clear, and her back straight.
Sister Moon faced the clan, speaking through Scarface like he was air. "The white eagles have spoken to me, and this is their message: When the warrior of the night returns to the clan, and asks you to leave the Mother Mountains and fight for him, that will be your salvation. Until that day, you shall know no honor. Shame will be the food you eat, the water you drink, the wind you breathe."
Something snapped inside of Scarface. He struck the medicine woman with one mighty blow to the side of her neck. They all heard her something break inside her, and she tumbled like a ragdoll.
Little Eagle leapt forward without a word, fingers like claws, teeth bared like the dogs he slept with, but Scarface just swatted him aside. He turned towards the clan, blind to anything but his own anger.
"Look at me, I am not done," a hollow voice said. "Scarface, you will live till you see the one-armed man. And then you will wish you never had lived."
The medicine woman swayed in front of the clan, eyes rolled up white, head lolling and blood pouring from her lips. A voice spake through her from far away:
"And you, Little Eagle, all I ask of you, is to remember me. When the world trembles before your feet, and you can find no love for mankind in your heart, remember the old woman that died to give you your last warm night. And you will now how to repay me."
A pair of white eagle wings flapped over the old woman, and she lay dead on the ground again.
Chapter 4:
The Dog Boy
Little Eagle was seven when he decided to find the cave with his father and mother. For a week he stole bones and scraps of meat from wolf dogs of the village, tying the food in a bundle inside his ragged shirt.
He waited until after a great hunt, when the men were lazy with much meat and praise from their women. After midnight he snuck past the guards and started running. He ran the whole night and the whole day. By sundown he found a brook, slaked his thirst and gnawed at the bones he had stoolen from the village dogs. Then he curled up to sleep in the gravel.
He woke just to see the shadow of Scarface looming above him in the darkness. Little Eagle tried to get up, but he was kicked in the stomach, and anyway he was too tired to run more. Scarface turned him on his stomach, forced his face into the gravel and ripped his leather shirt up across his back. Little Eagle laid still, fearing the anger of the chief, not understanding what was happening. Then Scarface forced himself on Little Eagle.
The boy bucked and snarled and tried biting the hand on the back of his head. Scarface grunted and knocked his face into the ground until he lay still. His buttocks were ripped and torn and pain shot up the spine and exploded in his head. His mouth filled with vomit, and then he did not remember much more.
He was dragged some of the way back to the village, and he stumbled some of the way, all the time feeling blood on his buttocks and inside his legs.
* * *
Later, whenever he emptied is bowels, blood would run down his crotch and the insides of his thighs, and he would be sick with shame. He would sneak off and just lie in the river, letting the water run down his body. And long after the blood stopped coming, he could still feel it on his skin.
* * *
The second time he ran away, he ran with fear gagging his throat and his heart beating so wildly he thought it would burst in his chest. When Scarface tracked him down and raped him, he just laid there, trying to feel nothing.
"The next time you run, I will cut off your big toes," Scarface said afterwards. "Then you will never run anywhere again."
* * *
Now Little Eagle did not exist for anybody in the clan. The grownups looked through him, and other children feared to even play near him. His only company was the village dogs. It was a long time since any had used the name Little Eagle. If any mentioned him at all, they always spoke of the dog boy.
* * *
He was carrying an armful of branches when three boys stopped him. Their leader was Jojote, the eldest son of Scarface. The young of the village had learned that one way to find favour with the chief was to bully the dog boy.
Jojote was a good head taller than other boys of his age, and he walked with his chest sticking out, as befitted the son of a chief. He picked up a clump of hard earth and threw it at the dog boy, who let it whistle by his head without moving a muscle. Jojote turned to his companions, a smile on his face.
"Can you smell the stink of dog?" he asked.
The dog boy lowered his eyes, but a blow with the flat of the hand knocked his head up again. He took a step backwards, and felt his feet being kicked from under him. When he had struggled to his feet, he saw the boys tossing around the branches of firewood. His face still burned from the blow, but he just stood there looking at them with large, dark eyes.
Suddenly Sintaje stood among them. The hunter's face was stretched like a mask over his skull.
"Shame," he whispered. "Shame will be the food we eat, the water we drink, the wind we breathe."
The three boys snuck away, and the dog boy gathered the firewood without a word. And then he too left, still dragging his feet.
* * *
Whenever he was in sight of others, the dog boy dragged his feet and stumbled beneath a load of firewood or a sack of water. But on his own the dog boy never stood still. Fetching water to the chief's household, he ran along the river bed, skipping on bare feet from one slippery stone to another. Gathering firewood he burst through tiny openings in the sagegrowth. One wrong step would send him into bushes where barbed thorns would rip his legs to shreds, but he never hesitaded in his step.
* * *
The Rawhide Clan camped for summer in a valley deep inside the Mother Mountains. A stream flowed though the valley, with thick grass growing beside it. Bushes with tough, evergreen leaves grew together in small clumps, and the odd mountain birch had even managed to put down roots in the rocky ground.
Here the tribe erected their huts. Each hut consisted of three poles, pointed at one end and two-pronged at the other, with the entrance between two more poles. The frame was covered by numerous thinner poles, sinewy branches and twigs weaved together. Finally the hut was covered with turf. A rug covered the entrance to preserve the warmth from the fire, and smoke could find its way out though an opening in the roof. In the end there were fifteen such huts along the two sides of the stream.
There was no more beautiful valley than this, thought the dog boy. In this valley old and young alike had all the time they needed to do whatever they had to do. There were times when even Scarface forgot about him. As long as he was careful not to attract attention, it was possible to live almost like the others.
The dog boy loved this valley. Here summer would last forever, and he would never again feel the cold of winter. The nights could still be chilly, but it was a long time since he had shivered at the going down of the sun. When the clan went to sleep, he curled up in the outside of the village. As often had happened lately, the wolf dogs curled up beside him.
* * *
The next morning he made sure to stumble with a sack of water outside Scarface's tent, not trying to evade the kicks and blows that followed. Afterwards he fetched a new sack of water, dragging his feet all the time.
Nobody would think that the dog boy would run now, not from this valley, and not in the middle of the day. So he ran.
He ran the whole evening, making sure that he did not tire himself. He knew in his heart that his disappearance would not be discovered until the next morning. The two other times Scarface had looked for him in the morning. This time Scarface knew he was still in the village.
The dog boy gathered moss and grass and made himself a soft bed under a bush, and there he slept without dreaming. The next morning he yawned and stretched his arms towards the sky. He drank some water and chewed some fat from a bone, making sure that his stomach did not become heavy.
The dog boy was eight summers old. And today he would be hunted by the most dangerous man of the Rawhide clan.
He started the run.
* * *
By noon the dog boy could feel eyes in the back of his neck. He did not need to turn to know that Scarface was running behind him. He ran a bit faster, but just as steady.
A ptarmigan flew by him, flapping its wings and not fearing this human at all.
"I am Sister Ptarmimgan, and you know me," the bird said.
The dog boy thought that the bird voice seemed like the voice that had spoken through the dead medicine woman.
"Yes, I know you," he thought as he ran, a bit confusd at being spoken to by a bird.
"You know what I do to protect my young from the snow fox?" Sister Ptarmigan asked.
"You pretend that your wing is broken," thought the dog boy. "The fox thinks you are easy prey, and he runs after you as fast as he can, not stopping to think or smell for your nest."
"Yes. And now you will do like me."
The dog boy stumbled and rolled twice. He got up at once, but now he ran with a limp. He could feel Scarface burst into speed behind him, certain that the prey would soon be exhausted. But Scarface did not notice the limp disappear and the dog boy run on just as steady.
After a while he could feel the anger as Scarface slowed down, knowing that the prey was still not exhausted.
By evening the dog boy started stumbling for real. A big dark shape lumbered up beside him.
"You know me, I am Uncle Elk, and you have seen my tracks, big old me, climbing up the side of a hill."
The dog boy nodded. The voice was deeper, but it still sounded like the medicine woman.
"Yes, I know you," he thought. "Everyone knows that your tracks are the easiest way to the top."
"Run uphill with me. It is harder for you, but it is harder for Scarface too. And I will guide your step."
The dog boy changed his course slightly, more uphill and harder on the lungs and heart, but he thought like the elk and found the surest foooting. Behind him he could feel Scarface stumble in rage that he still had not overtaken his prey.
By nightfall the dog boy still ran uphill. His arms and feet were numb, and his throat burned with pain from every breath. The dog boy knew that he would never outrun the man behind him. He just hoped that he would be able to run until his heart gave out.
Something gray and sleek ran up beside him.
"I am Wolverine, the hunter, kin to no one. Sister Ptarmigan don't fool me with her broken wing. And I run down Uncle Elk if it takes seven days and seven nights. Do you know me?"
"Yes I know you," the dog boy thought. "I have seen your tracks, how they cut like a knife across the hills."
"I am Wolverine, the hunter, kin to no one, but tonight I will run with you, and tonight you will run like me."
The dog boy nodded.
He hovered above himself, saw the dog boy run on the ground, saw the chief burst forward and almost catch up. But the boy on the ground ran faster, like a knife his tracks cut through the hills.
The dog boy still hovered above all this. Now he saw that Scarface was the hunted. Like a reindeer being chased by the wolverine, it knows the wolverine will never give up once it has singled out its prey. And Scarface knew he would never win. The knowledge of defeat that kills a reindeer, now made him stumble and fall, tears streaking his face.
But then the dog boy was back in his body, still running, never once turning to see the chief pale and shrink in the distance.
Chapter 5:
The onearmed man
Day dawned over a little valley, but the dog boy was not sleepy. He could not feel his arms or legs, nor the heart beating in his chest. The morning air was water in his mouth, and he knew he was dying, but his mind was open to the world.
The night had cast glinting frost crystals across the grass and the sun painted gold stripes down the mountainside. Early morning mist rose above a brook and drifted down the valley.
He was eight summers old and he tried to think of the ones he loved. Not many of those were alive now, but still he said goodbye to his mother Omeh and his father Beak, to Sister Moon, the medicine woman, to Sintaje that once had stood up to Scarface and saved him, to Tamara, who had nursed him to life, and to the village dogs, that had warmed him during the winters.
He wandered over to the brook, knowing that if he bent down to drink, he would never get up again. So he just stood there, thinking of the ones he loved for as long as possible.
* * *
A strange man sat on a stone by the brook, holding a staff in his right hand. The dog boy wondered why he had not seen him before. A filthy, ragged cape with a hood covered his head and shoulders. The stranger sat quite still.
"Who are you?" he thought, too tired to speak.
The stranger lifted the hood from his head, revealing a thin face with a pair of brown, almond-shaped eyes. The smooth, black hair was gathered in a loose knot at the neck. His skin was dry and pale, like an old hide that had been left out in the sun, but still it was impossible to guess at the age of the man.
The dog boy understood that this man was not of the hill people. He had never seen other parts of the world, but he knew that this man had to be from very far away. And there was something else about the man, something odd, but still within grasp. Then the dog boy saw that the cape hung empty around the left side of the man. The stranger had only one arm.
The ground was strange and soft, and every step the dog boy took seemed like falling forward. As the dog boy got closer, he saw the sadness in the almond eyes of the thin, onearmed man.
The man rose from the stone, slight of build, but the way he moved made him seem taller.
"Who are you?" the dog boy thought again, too tired to speak.
"I am Shiriken," the onearmed man said. "And you must be a son of Beak. I can see his face in yours. Are you the son of Beak?"
"Yes," the dog boy whispered through cracked lips.
And then he fell.
* * *
The strange man draped him in his cape and poured a strong, bitter broth down his throat. The dog boy tried drinking, but gagged on cramps in his chest. Strong fingers did something to the nape of his neck, and then he was too drowsy to worry about anything.
It could have been the same day, or the next day, when the dog boy woke, still draped in the stranger's cape. His whole body ached, and all the joints were stiff. Shiriken, the stranger, gave him a little more of the broth to drink, and this time he swallowed eagerly.
"How did you know Beak?" he asked.
"Many years ago I rescued him from one of the emperor's prison transport," Shiriken said. "I traded him his life and freedom for a promise to help me, when the time came. But now it seems he is dead." The stranger's voice was deep and hard, and every word seemed like a promise.
"How do you know he is dead?"
"Would you be here, if he was alive?"
The dog boy hung his head.
"What is your name?"
"The dog boy," he said.
"That is no name," Shiriken said, sadness in his almond eyes. "What is your name?"
"Little Eagle," he whispered.
"That is a more fitting name for you. So, do you get cold sleeping out at night, Little Eagle?"
Little Eagle shook his head. "Not any more."
"That is good." Shiriken nodded thoughtfully. "That is good," he repeated, almost to himself.
A thought struck Little Eagle. "You must run," he said, seeing before him the dead medicine woman after she had taken him in. "You must run, before Scarface catches up with us. I know the hills. I can show you the way. But you must run."
"Scarface is the reason you are running alone in the hills?"
"Yes. I outran him, but I don't know if is still tracking me. Now he will hunt you too."
The sadness of the almond eyes gave way to anger, not the wild howling rage of Scarface, but a quiet, ice cold anger that scared the dog boy even more.
"So, this man will hunt me down just for helping you?"
"Yes." And then shame filled Little Eagle. "I must run too. He will cut of my big toes if he catches me, and then I will never run again. And he will do to me what he did the other times I ran."
Shiriken looked at him. Somehow the sadness was back in his eyes. "He did it to steal your very wish to live. Like he would be stronger, the more shame you carried in your heart."
"Yes," Little Eagle said, glad that this man had not asked him to tell more about what had happened. "But how do you know so much? Have you met Scarface too?"
"No, I have not met him, but I have met many of his kind, and know them very well." Now the voice was cold and hard, and every sentence a promise again. "We will go back to him."
Fear struck Little Eagle. "Why? He promised to cut off my toes, if I ever ran away again."
"He will hunt you in your dreams, Little Eagle. When that happens, I want you to to tell him, that you are unafraid of him."
"Why will I be unafraid of him?"
Shiriken looked at Little Eagle with dark, almond eyes.
"When he comes hunting you in your dreams,you can tell him, that you saw him die."
Chapter 6:
The new chief of the Rawhide Clan
Sintaje knew the clan was dying. Scarface had returned, not looking at anybody, not saying a word, face closed to the world. And Sintaje knew that the bones of Little Eagle were left for mice and crows somewhere in the hills. With Little Eagle all hope for the clan had died.
His arms were heavy with sadness, and his head ached. There were no words in his tongue for what he had to do. Scarface had to die if the clan was to live. Sintaje did not believe he would win, but he knew he had to try. He had not the rage of Beak, not the courage of Sister Moon, and not the strength of Flat Face.
Sintaje had met other hunters in the hills, dangerous men, and he had fought the emperor's soldiers, but he had never feared anybody like he feared the chief. Not even Beak, when he was alive, had seemed as dangerous as the chief of the Rawhide Clan.
Sintaje knew tales of the mountain lion. If the mate was killed by hunters, the lion would hunt down the hunters, even venture into a village to take revenge. And thus had been the anger of Beak. Beak had wanted Omeh, and she had wanted him. They had a song in their hearts for each other. But Scarface had no song in his heart. It was as if he nourished on food that other men could not eat, as if the wind he breathed came from dead mountains and the water he drank melted from another, darker snow.
* * *
During the night Sintaje made love to Tamara, his wife, and when she fell asleep, he lay there listening to her breath. She was the song in his heart. He whispered his goodbyes to her, praying that he would lie beside her when the sun set the next day. And then he left the hut.
He stood there in the greying dawn. He didn't quite know why, but something was different in the camp. The others were sleeping, and all he heard was the chirping of birds mingling with the riversong. But there was a slight charge in the air, as always before a battle between Kraken's soldiers and the Rawhide Clan.
He jumped as he caught sight of a stranger leaning on a staff in the centre of the camp. A filthy, ragged cape with a hood covered his head and shoulders. The stranger stood quite still. Beside him stood another shape, smaller, but familiar. It was Little Eagle, thinner than before, eyes darker and cheeks sunken.
Something folded inside Sintaje, and he could not speak for joy. He remembered the time he had stood up too Scarface, the time he ran through the snow with a boychild under his heart. And then he could feel the strength of Beak in his arms, and knew why the mountain lion ventured into a village to revenge a dead mate.
And he knew he would fight Scarface with strength he never before had known.
"Little Eagle," he whispered.
The boy and the hooded man looked at him. Sintaje did not shout to warn the sleeping clan of this stranger among them. Instead he approached Little Eagle and the stranger cautiously, stopping a few places away from them.
The man threw back his hood and revealed a pale, dry face with dark almond eyes. The thin man did not belong in the mountains, yet he was not one of the Emperor's soldiers, and he was not one of the serfs that lived in the lowlands where Kraken ruled. This was a different man, a kind of man Sintaje never before met. It was as if he somehow carried the darkness with him, even in the midst of a sunrise.
"You must be Sintaje."
Sintaje was not surprised that the man could speak their tongue, even if the words sounded slightly odd, much like the way the very old and the medicine women spoke.
"Yes, I am Sintaje." His thoughts were racing. "How did you meet Little Eagle? Why are you here? Are you one of the Emperor's men? Who are you?"
"I am Shiriken. And I am no friend of the Emperor."
The wolf dogs had begun to bark. The hunters awoke and rushed out of the earthen huts with their weapons raised, but it seemed as though the stranger did not notice them. Among the hunters came Scarface. His face was dark and his eyes ringed, as if he had not slept for a long time, but that only made him seem more dangerous
Shiriken stared at the chief of the Rawhide Clan, and then at Sintaje. "You will die, you know that?"
"What?" Sintaje looked confused.
"You are all ready to challenge him. But you will die."
Sintaje nodded. "I ... maybe. But ..."
"You should have killed him in his sleep," Shiriken said.
Sintaje shivered. "I ..."
"Little Eagle told me you once saved his life."
"Yes."
"Today I will save yours," Shiriken said.
* * *
Everyone was surprised to see Little Eagle, but they were more surprised to see a stranger in the camp. The dogs hadn't barked, nor had the guards been alerted. Deep in the Mother Mountains, in the heart of the land where none but the ten clans could travel in safety, a stranger had found his way to their summer camp. They looked curiously at him.
"Where is Tyigh?" asked Scarface.
Two men ran off in search of the watch. Shortly afterwards they returned, supporting between them the staggering Tyigh.
"Everything turned black," he said, shaking his head in confusion.
People muttered to one a another as they stared in wonder at the man in front of them. They formed a circle around the stranger and the boy.
"Who are you?" asked the chief finally.
"Shiriken," the oneramed stranger said. "And you must be Kajite, or Scarface, as people call you behind your back."
The scare flamed red. The chief was a head taller than the one-armed man. He knew he would be able to kill the stranger, but curiosity got the better of him. Before he died, the stranger would provide him with a few answers.
"What are you doing here in the mountains?"
"I once saved one of your clan from the Emperor's soldiers. Beak was his name. I came here to collect the debt he owed me, but since then I have learned that he is dead. Now it seems as though I must leave with my mission unaccomplished."
Scarface stared at him. "What are you doing with the boy? The boy belongs to me," said Scarface. "He ran away, but now he is back. Do you have no sons yourself? Is that why you go round stealing the children of others?"
As soon as he had uttered these words, Scarface regretted it. He did not understand why, but suddenly he was more afraid than he had ever been. I was as though he had been sleeping until now, as though a pail of cold water had roused him from a soft, warm dream.
The stranger's almond-shaped eyes changed. For a brief moment he stared at something in the past. When the gaze returned to the Mother Mountains his eyes glistened with venomous hatred. The dry skin tightened across his face. A slight smile played over his lips.
"You asked me what I did here in the hills. I came to fight Kraken, the Emperor."
"Here?" Scarface tried to laugh. "You certainly won't find the Emperor here, and his soldiers no longer dare to enter our hills."
Shiriken looked through the chief and spoke to the Rawhide Clan. "Oh, Kraken is here, have no doubt about it. He has looked hard and hungry at the Mother Mountains for many years now."
Still that slight smile played over the stranger's lips. Scarface felt it like the point of a spear to his stomach, and his scar glowed a fiery red. He wanted to harm the stranger, but found himself unable to move. His arms hung heavily at his sides. Cold sweat ran down his brow. Scarface smiled feebly, the way one smiles when one does not know what facial expression to choose.
Shiriken looked at him. "Why don't you show Kraken's emblem to the rest of the clan?"
Scarface bellowed. He balled up his huge fist and lunged forward in a punch that would break this thin stranger in two.
The whole clan remembered the morning Sister Moon died, the last person that stood up to their chief. They all expected to the oneramed stranger to tumble like a ragdoll. Afterwards they could have sworn that the the onearmed man did not move, his dirty cape just ruffled a bit. But Scarface missed.
The chief grunted and fell to his knee, but he rolled forward, grabbed the heavy knife at his side and was up in one fluid motion.
Shiriken's cape billowed like the wings of a bat as he glided forward, under the arc of the knife, gently touching the chief's shoulder with his wooden staff. The heavy knife sailed through the air, and Scarface's arm dangled at a strange angle by his side.
One moment the clan was watching a thin, bent man, the next they say a dancing shadow with bat's wings and a whirling, humming staff. The staff shot out towards Scarface's left leg and caught him with a thud just above the knee-joint. There was another low humming from the staff as it struck Scarface on the right side of his neck, and the chief had to transfer his weight to his left leg.
When the leg folded Scarface sank to his knees, an expression of astonishment on his face.
"It is not helping you much now, the Raven, is it?" Shiriken asked, his thin smile gone.
He let go of the staff, and his hand opened towards the chief. Finger and thumb parted to form a semi-circle. The skin at the base of the thumb struck Scarface on the throat. Then he glided back.
Scarface raised both his hands to his throat. A gurgling sound came up through the burst windpipe, and the chief began to sway. The rest of his face took on the glow of his scar. Then he collapsed. His throat was swollen, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Scarface gasped for breath a few times, but when the blood and water had filled his lungs he lay still.
The onearmed man looked disinterested at the body in front of him. He tore open the leather tunic of the chief, pulled the medicine bag from his chest, snapping the leather thong and throwing the bag to Sintaje.
"You have seen the raven before, have you?"
Sintaje nodded. He had seen the emperor's soldiers carry the raven banner into battle, not understanding what the piece of cloth could mean to anybody. But he knew the bird with raised wings.
"Open the bag, then."
Sintaje opened the medicine bag and found an iron coin stamped with a face on one side and a raven with raised wings on the other. He showed the mark of the emperor to the clan.
"Oh, Kraken is here, have no doubt about it," Shiriken repeated. "You are one of the free tribes left, and his hunger will not be sated till the last one of you is dragged in chains into the lowlands."
The Rawhide Clan stood in fear round the stranger that had killed their chief. They all breathed easier now that Scarface was gone, but it seemed this man had replaced one fear with another in their lives. Were Kraken's arms so long that they reached all the way into the Mother Mountains, into the very heart of the clan?
"Little Eagle told me about the clan, Sintaje," Shiriken said. "You will be the new chief. Flat Face is strong and dependable, but he is not wise. Brother Little and Brother Big are good men, but they are happy when others give the orders. You are still young, but you are popular, and you make others strong."
Sintaje did not reply.
"Let us discuss this in peace and quiet in your hut," said Shiriken.
There was great power in his voice. Listening to him, the clan understood why Sintaje was the right man to be their next chief. For four years they had done nothing while Scarface revenged himself on a dead man. Now they were all weighed down by shame. No-one had any wish to kill the stranger. Instead they stood back to allow him and Sintaje to pass through.
Little Eagle went with Sintaje and Shiriken. The clan knew not what had passed between him and Scarface, and how he had escaped, but they knew that the chief was dead now, and Little Eagle was not. Some feared the boy, wondering if he would somehow let this onearmed killer loose and take revenge on the clan. Others, like Tamara, did not know what good they could do for him. But Little Eagle ate little and listened mostly to the men talk.
* * *
"I saved Beak from a prison transport outside the garrison at Osho," Shiriken said. "That is four, maybe five weeks march from here. He was on his way to Kraken, to be killed in the arena by Shimoshe. That is far, far to the south-west from here."
"Why was a hill man sent to Kraken?" asked Sintaje.
"You are still free," Shiriken said. "Kraken he wanted a man from the ten clans to die in the gladiator games to show all that the hill people would soon be crushed."
"But why Beak?"
"His name was not important to Kraken, he would take any captured man. It was Kato and Kajite that traded him for the life of a few soldiers and a renegade."
"What do you mean?" asked Sintaje.
"You see, in the battle you fought with the soldiers, the battle where Beak disappeared, another man died. That was Old White, the man that stood between the brothers and their plan. That was the reason they set up the battle, so they could kill their father and make it seem like the work of the enemy. Beak was just a gift from them to Kraken. Even though it also seems that Kato wanted him off so that he could marry Omeh."
"How do you know all this?"
"When I had freed Beak, I questioned him closely about his people. He was taciturn, and it was a long time before I managed to persuade him to tell me about the way you live. But finally he told me the names of your hunters and your chief. He would not say how the soldiers had managed to capture him, but I just had to ask him who would be the next chief if Old White died. He paled then, and told me how he had been betrayed by Kajite, Old White's oldest son. It happens the same way all the time. Kraken always approaches the ones that are in line, the ones that stay awake at night with hunger for power gnawing their hearts. And do not believe that Kato and Kajite only wanted this one clan. In a war others will follow the Rawhide Clan. Their plan was to rule all the ten clans."
Shiriken shook his head. "I made him swear to approach the clan with smiles and to take his revenge by stealth. I told him there were bigger issues at stake than his pride. But when he returned, and found the wedding being prepared, he forgot all about his promise. When Beak returned, Kato died, and then everything went wrong. Kraken had not recieved his gift. And nobody trusted Kajite, not after he almost had been killed by Beak."
"But how did you free Beak?"
"I freed him at night, when most of the soldiers slept. And they never woke up afterwards. You see, like you know these hills, I know the darkness. Kraken may rule the world, but I rule the night."
Sintaje shivered and did not want to know anymore about how Beak had been freed.
"How can you fight the Emperor when you are only one man?" he asked.
"He is only one man too."
"It is rumored that he lives forever."
Shiriken shook his head. "No, Kraken dies like all others. But when he dies, his successor will take the same name, wear the same clothes, issue the same orders." He thought for a while. " ... much like me and mine... " he added.
"Like who?"
Shiriken looked at the new chief of the Rawhide Clan.
"You can not imagine the reward you would reap for turning me in. There are riches in the world that you have never dreamt of, heaps of iron weapons to furnish armies of hill men, women that would beg for your touch, slaves that would obey your every wish. It would all be yours for the asking, if you betrayed me."
"I would never turn in an enemy of the Emperor," Sintaje said.
Shirken grunted. "They will come to you, now that you are the new chief of the Rawhide Clan. There are other men in the Mother Mountains that serve the Emperor, men that have been recieved here as guests, that have brought tidings between the soldiers and Scarface. How do you think they managed to find a hunter like Beak in the land he knew like his own breath? Scarface had these traitors looking for Beak from the moment he recovered from the wound. And when Beak and Omeh were found, they sent runners to the soldiers."
Sintaje paled. All these thoughts of traitors in the Mother Mountains were more scaring than any battle he could imagine.
"But what shall I do, when they come to me with offers? Go to war?"
Shiriken shook his head. "Oh, no, chief of the Rawhide Clan. Whenever Kraken's traitors among the ten clans approach you with silver tongues and golden offers, load them width gifts and food, promise your loyalty to the Emperor, and let them leave unharmed." Shiriken looked him straight in the eyes. "And afterwards you and your most trusted men must follow them in the night, and kill them without a trace leading to you."
"But why is the Eemperor so set on this clan?"
"You know well that the Rawhide Clan would be the clan to fight the longest were the war to come to these hills. Others would flock to the Rawhide Clan, and your chief would be chief of all the clans in the Mother Mountains. And soon there will be a war. You will do what Kato and Kajite did not manage. You must become chief of all the ten clans.
There are others who fight the masters of the world, but the free tribes live long distances from each other. The names of the Aroki, Fenni, the Gorotai and the travelling Rohini mean little to the hill people. You have never heard of Bürthe Kha-Khan and King Reidmar, but all of them are a part of the great chain which will unite the free tribes in the war against the Emperor.
For many years now the men of the wilderness have tried to forge the chain. Whether the messenger came from the south or the north he would carry the message further, so that King Reidmar of the islands could speak to the leader of the travelling Rohini. Thus Kraken would no longer be waging war against severed limbs but a whole body," said Shiriken. "Beak promised to take part in this struggle, but I should have realized that he would be unable to control his fury. Will you take the place of Beak, and be a part of the chain?"
"Yes," replied Sintaje at once.
Shiriken's brown, almond eyes penetrated deep into Sintaje. "A new time is coming. Soon the old ways will be changed. Soon forces will gather against the Emperor, and then all must play their part, If they do not, all will perish. Do you understand this?"
Sintaje nodded.
"Oh but you don't," hissed Shiriken. "These are not empty words. One day I will ask you to keep your word, and then it will cost you far more than you can imagine."
"I will be a part of the Chain," Sintaje said firmly.
Shiriken gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"There will come a day when you regret having given me your word, yet you will keep it. And now no more talk of the chain. Tell me about the Rawhide Clan and what goes on up here in the mountains."
For the rest of that day the new chief of the Rawhide Clan told the stranger about life among the ten clans. He told of all their battles against the soldiers, how many enemy patrols they had encountered during the last few years, how many renegades there were. Shiriken's curiosity was never satisfied. He queried and probed, and often Sintaje had to repeat whole stories or sentences.
* * *
Little Eagle got up at dawn and scrubbed his rags in the stream. He rubbed clay all over himself until his skin glowed pink, and then submerged himself in the ice-cold water. He remained under for a long time, until all the fine grains of sand had been washed off. Then he combed his hair with his fingers and went over his possessions: two pins made of a bone, a small knife, a flint scraper and a pair of worn-out moccasins. Finally he wrapped them all up in a bundle.
Daylight found the Rawhide Clan still sitting sleepy-eyed around the remains of their campfires. They had without protest accepted Sintaje as their new chief. They understood that things would never be the same for them again, and wondered what the two in the tent had been talking about all through the night.
Shiriken was the first to emerge. His cape flapped loosely around him and he supported himself on his staff. Then came the new chief. Usually he smiled and laughed a lot, but now the tribe saw that his expression was solemn.
In silence Little Eagle walked forward from his den, his small bundle of belongings over his shoulder. There was fear in his eyes, yet the boy kept his head high as he stared at Shiriken.
"I will go with you and become like you."
"Why?"
"You said that you fight Kraken. And you said that Kraken sent the soldiers after Beak and Omeh."
"Kraken did not know that your mother and father existed. He thinks only of whole tribes and empires that stretch from one end of the world to another."
"But it was his soldiers?"
Shiriken nodded.
"Then I will kill this Kraken," Little Eagle said.
A great weight seemed to descend on Shiriken. His face seemed to grow older and more tired.
"Stay here, Little Eagle. You have slept out enough. You have suffered enough dog-bites and been kicked enough times," he whispered. "Scarface is dead now. He will never walk in your dreams. There are people that will love you. If you go with me, you will never meet them. Then you will always hide your face and your heart. Stay here."
Little Eagle shook his head. "I go with you."
Shiriken straightened, and his face was hard again. "Kraken does not fear me anymore. But you... You will be the last one of us, Little Eagle. And he will learn to fear you. In the end, he will know nothing else."
With the son of Beak at his heels, Shiriken set off walking southwards. A short distance from the camp they stopped, and Shiriken took Little Eagle's bundle and threw it down a gorge.
"You have no further use for those things."
Little Eagle said nothing.
"And your name, it belongs here, not where we will go. From now on your name is Tonteh. In my language it means 'pupil'."
The boy still said nothing.
Shiriken handed him his staff. The heavy stick was twice the length of the boy's body.
"This will become a part of you," said Shiriken. "It will be with you wherever you go. In the beginning it will be difficult, but all things are difficult in the beginning. And one day you will know how to touch the wings of a bird with the staff."
* * *
Sintaje watched the onearmed man from a southern land and the eight-year old son of Beak. He continued to peer after the wanderers until they were no more than two black specks disappearing down the valley.
Chapter 7:
Silver Mountain
South of the Mother Mountains, past the dark peaks of the Moglon range, the Harak steppes stretched out. A Gorotai nomad starting out from the centre of their kingdom could ride for weeks in most directions without the terrain changing the least. All the way the horse's hooves would thunder against the scorched grasses, all the way horse and rider would be lashed by the dry wind of the steppes. But if the rider turned his horse southwards, he soon would find his way barred by a great white mountain.
When the sun shone, the crags glinted as though made of metal, and the desert nomads called it Silver Mountain. Apart from a few clumps of thick brown grass and bushes which clung tenaciously to cracks in the rock, the hill sides were completely covered by weathered and gnarled boulders. The cold of winter burst open these boulders and reduced them to gravel. Long summers dried the hill sides, and the autumn winds ground the gravel to sand.
The nomads of the desert never camped on Silver Mountain. There was little grazing to be had, and less game to hunt. The Gorotai favored the open steppes. No-one could catch them as long as they were on horseback. The people of the steppes were suspicious of cliffs and rocks, and they left the mountain to the snakes and the lizards and the desert rats.
Some said there was a curse on the Silver Mountain. No-one knows whether or not the Gorotai believed in the curse, but Bürthe Kha-Khan ordered that all who rode south should lose their heads, and that was curse enough for most of the desert nomads.
* * *
A boy clambered up the foot of the mountain. The gentle lower slopes he covered quickly, though there were no paths up the mountain. Some way up the mountain he came to a scree, where he dropped to hands and knees and scrambled on like a spider. Once past the scree he rose and hurried on upwards.
The uneven stones made running difficult. The boy stumbled and hit his knee on the ground, but quickly got to his feet again. For a moment he stared up at the peak. He shook his head wearily before continuing with a slight limp.
Wide grey trousers flapped around the boy's legs, and one of the trouser-knees began to show red. The boy had twisted bits of leather around his feet. The soles of his feet were tough as horn, but not even horn could provide protection against the sharp stones. The sun had burnt his upper body dark brown, almost black, and a narrow leather thong held the raven-black hair back in a tight pony-tail. An oak staff was bound sideways across his back by a thin strap.
The boy ran with his narrow lips tightly pressed together. He breathed through his nose and tried to ignore the clouds of stone dust. He continued his way up the mountain until the sun reached noon, by which time he was about halfway to the top.
He rested a while on a ledge, calming his breath and his beating heart. His lips were still tightly pressed together. His throat burned, but he kept his mind free of all thoughts of water.
The boy began to run down again, hopping from boulder to boulder. The blood on his knee had dried, and the limp was gone. But he still kepthis lips pressed tightly together.
* * *
The sun was setting and it had turned cold by the time the boy arrived at the plain by the foot of Silver Mountain. A little underground stream bubbled to the surface. A handful of thorn bushes and a few straggly trees, twisted by the wind, grew in the stony earth around the water.
By the remains of a fire a onearmed man sat, feet folded under him and a woven cape over his shoulders. His hand lay with the palm upwards in his lap. His black hair was tied in a knot in the neck. A few streaks of grey in the hair, some deep wrinkles in his forehead and a fine net of lines around his eyes were all that revealed his age, for otherwise the face was as though sculpted in stone. It revealed little of what he had been through, and less of what he was thinking.
The onearmed man raised his head and fastened his almond eyes on the boy as he came running towards the oasis. He grunted enquiringly.
At sunrise Tonteh had filled his mouth with water and begun to run up the mountainside. Now, in front of Shiriken, he spat that same mouthful of water out onto the ground.
The boy lay down by the little spring that bubbled up through the stony ground and trailed his fingers in the clear water. For a long time he lay without moving, throat burning and dust clogging his nostrils. The water trickled by just in front of his face, and the dampness raised goose-pimples across his chest.
"Animals can smell their way to water," Shiriken said. "Most men use sight alone when searching for something. Where you are going, you will need the use of all your senses. Learn to track down water with your nose, Tonteh."
Tonteh let the faint smell eat its way into his nostrils. He let the soft sighing of implant itself in his ears. After an eternity he slaked his thirst.
Afterwards Tonteh sat down by the campfire. Shiriken nodded towards a flat stone with the remains of a lizard he had cooked over the flames. Tonteh ate slowly, carefully chewing each mouthful of the tough meat.
Heavy eyelids with long lashes drooped over a pair of black eyes. It gave his face an appearance of sleepiness, but Tonteh listened carefully to everything Shiriken said. Skin of burnished bronze was stretched over a face of scraped bone. Thin lips stretched out to a broad mouth. The glow from the fire highlighted the high cheekbones and the crooked nose. Few of the Rawhide Clan would have recognized him now. The boy who had wandered southwards four years earlier no longer existed.
"Now you must practise writing the Runes," Shiriken said when the meal was over.
Tonteh smoothed some sand and drew on the ground with a twig. Shiriken kept his eye on him all the time, giving him all the while new and more testing challenges. Finally, when Shiriken grunted his satisfaction, Tonteh brushed away all trace of his exercises.
"Remember that these signs are dangerous," Shiriken said. "Never leave them behind you. Promise me this. You must understand the Runes, but you must never use them yourself. Kraken fears all who understand his Runes, so it is important that you never reveal that you know their secrets."
Tonteh sat in thought for a few moments, then he repeated all Shiriken had said. The onearmed man grunted, and Tonteh rolled out his blanket. He untied the staff, laid it by his side, and crept under the blanket.
Shiriken waited a while, listening to Tonteh's breathing. Once he was sure that the boy was asleep, Shiriken began to speak. He spoke in a low voice, but his words were clear and the tone urgent. All night Shiriken spoke to the sleeping boy.
* * *
Tonteh woke early. He fastened the oaken staff to his back and took a small bow, some arrows, and the remains of the lizard they had eaten the previous evening. Some distance from the oasis he tied the skin, bones and innards of the lizard to a thorny root. Then he sat on his haunches behind a stone.
The sun had risen halfway towards noon. The rays burned and flies buzzed, but he just sat there, staring at the bait. A pair of wings swished, but did not look up, knowing well what flew overhead. The vulture would circle many times before finally landing, and then it would attract other birds.
Finally one bird landed and waddled round the bait, pink head bobbing. The bird began to pick at the skin, but the twine held the bait firmly.
Tonteh waited without moving a muscle.
Seeing that it was safe another vulture landed. The birds beat their black and white wings as they fought over the innards. Two arrows from Tonteh's little bow settled the issue. The wings flapped slightly, but neither bird took off. The boy emerged from his hiding place. Several more vultures circled overhead, but they would not land now that they had seen the fate of the two below.
Tonteh pulled out his arrows and untied the twine round the bait. He cleaned the arrows in the sand, coiled up his twine and left the bait to the birds. Later they would overcome their fears, and, after eating, they would forget what had happened to their relatives.
On his way back to the oasis he spied a dust-cloud far to the north. The cloud grew larger and larger, until at last he could make out some riders. He hastened back to the camp and called out to Shiriken.
"Riders coming this way!" he cried excitedly.
Shiriken sat on the bare ground with his hand in his lap and his head bowed. He grunted without looking up.
"Riders approaching!" Tonteh repeated, "at least three of them."
Shiriken raised his head. "Do you remember when we travelled south from the Mother Mountains?"
"Yes," Tonteh said.
"Why did we never rest at any oasis, or stay long by a water hole?"
"To avoid other travellers," Tonteh said.
"And why did we avoid other travellers?"
"So that they should not see you and me together."
Shiriken nodded. "That rule still apply. Nobody must see you and me together. There are not many that know my face, but none of them must know your face too. I do not know what errand these riders have here, but I will see to them. And you must take care that they do not know of your existence."
Tonteh nodded.
"Do you remember how you should talk when you walk among strangers?" Shiriken asked.
"I must relax the muscles in my lips when I speak, and only half pronounce the words. I will not mumble, but not speak clearly either. I will make it hard for others to hear and understand what I say. If I do this, people will soon cease to show an interest in me," Tonteh said.
"I should bend my head forwards and never look into the eyes of other men. But I must not blink if others look at me. That means I have something to hide. I must look down, as though I think little of myself. I must never allow others to develop a feeling about me, not hatred, not anger, not scorn, not even joy at seeing me. I must swim in their feelings like a salmon swims upstream, unaffected by the current."
Shiriken nodded in satisfaction. "Tell me one more time."
Word for word Tonteh repeated what he just said.
"Good. And now you can prepare the food."
Tonteh did as he was told. He gathered small branches from the thorn bushes around the stream, then he scraped the earth away from the fireplace. Beneath were the embers of the previous night's fire, still glowing faintly. He placed a little dry grass over them and gently blew life into the ashes. Then he stacked the branches over the flames. By the time he had finished skinning the birds the flames had settled to a glowing melt. He cut the meat into thin strips and laid them on a flat stone together with some herbs he had gathered. Them he placed the stone over the fire.
All the time he heard the faint rythm of hooves in the distance. But Shiriken showed no signs of interest, so Tonteh did not mention the riders again. When the food was ready Tonteh wrapped most of it up in a piece of leather, dividing what remained in two portions.
They ate in silence.
Afterwards Tonteh sat a while by the remains of the fire, staring into the red and black depths. It gave off little warmth, but the colours changed all the time, and this calmed his spirit. Then he untied the strap holding the staff to his back and lay down to sleep.
* * *
Tonteh awoke with a start. Beneath him he felt the faint vibrations of horses hooves pounding somewhere close by. He looked round.
Shiriken was gone.
Tonteh grabbed his oak staff and leapt to his feet. He could not see the onearmed man anywhere. An icy claw grabbed at his guts. For four years Shiriken had been his only company. Now he was alone.
A faint smell of smoke drifted in the air around him. He looked over at the fire. Shiriken had covered it with earth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he began to smell his way towards the source of the smoke. He moved slowly and cautiously, taking care to make no noise. Finally he came to a small, rocky outcrop.
Shiriken sat motionless by a fire below the rock. Tonteh heard the thudding of hooves approaching still closer. Finally five men came riding out of the night. They reined their horses and dismounted in a single movement. One of the riders had difficulty reining his horse and almost tripped as he got down. The others laughed, and he hit the animal hard across the muzzle.
Even from the ledge Tonteh could sense the harsh, acrid smell from these men. He peered with curiosity at the first strangers he had seen in four years. On the ground they seemed clumsy. They had broad, erect shoulders, long arms and short legs which carried their heavy torsos forward in a rolling gait. Eyes peered from tiny cracks in yellow, leathery skin. Their high cheek-bones and sharp chins cut their faces into triangles. One of the men had braided his beard in an oily spike, the rest were clean-shaven. They wore sheep-skin cloaks over long blue silken shirts and oxhide birnies. The wide, brightly coloured breeches hung in bags around their knees, and they wore pointed, curly-toed boots of grey felt. Their hats were trimmed with white fur, and all of them were armed with short horn bows, clubs and long spears.
Every day Shiriken and Tonteh practised a different language, so that the twelve year old boy would understand the most common languages of the world. Now he listened with great eagerness to the words of the warriors. Even the guttural sounds of the Gorotai seemed like music to him, for it was the first time in years that he had heard any other voice than his own and Shiriken's. But his pleasure was mixed with fear as he watched the men approach his teacher.
"Hai, Shiriken Khan," grunted the bearded man.
"Hai, Olon Tobar," Shiriken grunted back in their tongue. "The Gorotai were told to stay away from Silver Mountain until I declared otherwise. What is your errand here now?"
"You are the same pleasant chap I remember from old, Shiriken. The loss of an arm did not mellow you." Olon Tobar smiled, revealing a pair of filed eye-teeth. "We must talk seriously about the Silver Mountain. There is restlessness among the desert families, and certain difficulties have arisen."
Shiriken stared at Olon Tobar until the Gorotai warrior looked away. Shiriken grunted, and then he nodded towards the rest of the riders. "Dsjagatai Khan I know. Who are the other three? Why are you bringing them here? I do not trust them."
"Juro and Tuli are sons of myself and Bürthe Kha-Khan. They were just little boys when we rescued you, but they still remember the battles that followed when Kraken hunted us for revenge. The one who has not learned to ride yet is Ogodai Greeneye," Olon Tobar chuckled.
Ogodai Greeneye scowled at his leader with one brown and one green eye, but took his place by the fire without a word. The men sat in silence a while, rubbing their hands together over the fire.
"We bring you greetings from Bürthe Kha-Khan," said Olon Tobar, breaking the silence.
"May she live as long as the falcon flies and hooves beat across Harak. The sword is her word, the Blue People her body, Tsjingen the wolf that protects her," said Shiriken and spat.
The others spat to.
"She is wondering how much longer we are to guard the lands around Silver Mountain," said Olon Tobar.
"Forever," said Shiriken.
"For many years we have chased away any who dared approach Silver Mountain," Olon Tobar continued. "We do not know why we do this, but still we do it. Rumours are spreading, that a great treasure is hidden here. It is harder to keep people away. Soon Bürthe Kha-Khan will be unable to restrain the most restless of the warriors."
"Have them killed," said Shiriken.
Dsjagatai Khan snorted. "If there is a treasure here, then the Blue People should have their share."
Shiriken stared at him. "Shall men say that the Gorotai do not honor their word? Shall men say that the Gorotai is like the hare, hopping from one place to another, wherever the sun happens to be shining, without a thought for the past or the future?"
Tonteh wished he had brought his bow. The oaken staff would be of little use against the men standing beneath him, for he had not yet learned to make the staff sing and hum in the air. All the same, Tonteh steeled himself to leap down to assist his teacher.
Shiriken looked at each and every one of them. "Juro and Tuli, as sons of Bürthe Kha-Khan, you are bound by blood to honor her word. Dsjagatai Khan, do not let the search for fool's gold blind you. Ogodai Greeneye, do you wish your descendants to live as slaves beneath the yoke of Kraken? And Olon Tobar, you are the husband of the Kha-Khan. You lost many of your own blood the time you carried me on horseback through the lands of Kraken. Was all that in vain?"
"The Gorotai are tired of obeying the words of others," grunted Dsjagatai Khan.
Where Shiriken had sat by the fire, a grey shadow leaped into the air, seemingly melting into the smoke. The oaken staff hummed, and then Tonteh heard a sound like the crack of a branch breaking. Dsjagatai Khan collapsed in a heap where he was sitting. The desert riders watched while the smoke twirled away, and all that remained was a furious pale man with a staff in his hand.
"Keep your word, and Tsjingen the Sky-wolf will guard and protect you." Shiriken's voice shook. "Break it, and the Blue People will rot from within. The grandsons of your grandsons will call on me, begging the night to give them one more chance to keep their word. But the night will be silent. There will be no one in the darkness to answer their prayers. And then the Blue People will be like a stone thrown into water. After the rings are gone, there will be no trace of you."
Olon Tobar and the others nodded gravely.
"You will keep the Silver Mountain if I have to guard it alone," said Ogodai Greeneye. "None of my blood shall slave under foreign masters."
Juro and Tuli nodded gravely. "It does not become the sons of the Kha-Khan to break her word."
"I remember the fighting fifteen years ago. All the Gorotai remember. Let none say my kinsmen died in vain," said Olon Tobar.
The desert riders shook Dsjagatai Khan awake. He checked to make sure his head was still in place, and when he found it, he gave a grunt.
"I'm glad we arrived after they cut off your arm those years ago," he said. "If you had had both your arms today, they probably would have had to tie me across the horse on the way back," said Dsjagatai Khan contentedly. "Keep your treasure, Shiriken Khan."
The men remained sitting a while round the fire, speaking to one another in low voices of good and bad days gone by. Dsjagatai Khan rubbed himself on the forehead a few times, but he did not mention the blow again.
On the ledge above them Tonteh breathed a long sigh of relief.
* * *
Later the Gorotai made ready to leave.
"Heyah! Let's ride!"
They leapt into their saddles, and with a last cry of "Hai, Shiriken Khan" rode off into the night.
Tonteh did not wait for the dust behind them to settle. He ran back to the camp, lay down and closed his eyes.
"How much did you hear?" asked Shiriken when he arrived back at the camp.
Tonteh opened his eyes at once. He repeated those parts of the conversation which he had overheard. He had expected Shiriken to be furious, but the onearmed man merely smiled a twisted smile.
"Not one of them spotted you. You're learning," he said. "Tell me about the Gorotai, Tonteh."
"Gorotai means the Blue People. They are divided up into families, with one khan in each family. The khans often file their teeth into sharp points in order to distinguish themselves. The head of all the tribes is Bürthe Kha-Khan, who lives in the tent-city of Harakhom. The Gorotai worship a god whom they call Tsjingen. The name means Son of the Wolf in their language.
Each tribe has its gods. The Snow People in the north worship the white reindeer as a god. That is because they depend on the reindeer for their survival. The god of the island dwellers lives in the storm. That is because they fear the storms that come from the western sea. The Gorotai believe that the Son of the Wolf lives up in the blue sky, because their own land is so flat and they see the sky around them on all sides."
Shiriken nodded. "The Gorotai are like mad war dogs. But they have their place in the world. They are among the few tribes whom Kraken cannot subdue. No-one is able to control them," added Shiriken.
Then his voice changed, and he no longer spoke in his usual firm manner.
"Never follow me again. Let no-one see you together with me. It could be dangerous. They no longer fear me, but they will fear my successor. For this reason your existence must continue to be a secret. Never let anyone see you."
"They spoke of how they had rescued you," Tonteh prompted. "Did they rescue you from Kraken? How were you caught?"
For once the onearmed man did not know what to say. "I had a wife," he whispered. "And a son. I had gone back. I thought none would recognize me, not after all those years. But the soldiers came." Shiriken looked away. He could not speak. "They took her," he whispered. "I was betrayed. There was someone that recognized me, someone that had known me as a child. Itagaki, his name was. I ... surrendered to save her life. But they killed her anyway."
"And your son...?"
"I ... try not to think of him. You ... you are my son now, Tonteh. Not much good have I given you. But you will be the last one of us, that I know. Let that comfort you later."
The almond eyes were filled with sadness, and suddenly the darkness was heavy over Silver Mountain.
"There is a man, that can tell you my story. You remember what I have told you to do, if we ever were to part?"
"To go south," Tonteh said. "In the village of Holin I should ask for the bowmaster, and tell him my name is Chepe Nolon."
"Yes," Shiriken said. "And he will tell you my story. I can tell you no more, I am too tired."
Tonteh was still curious, but he knew it was no use persisting once Shiriken had made up his mind. Tonteh turned over and pulled the blanket around him. Sleep came hard as he lay there, sensing the sadness of the onearmed man.
Finally, when Tonteh was asleep, Shiriken began to speak softly. Every night he spoke thus to the sleeping boy, always in the same low, urgent voice.
* * *
Half a year later the air began to turn colder. Tonteh wore the same clothes, but in addition he had a woolen cape to cover his shoulder. His head stuck through a vent in the woven blanket, and he wrapped the cloth around his body.
The sun peeped over the horizon in the east. Shiriken nodded towards the peak of Silver Mountain, and the two began their ascent. The onearmed man went first. It was hard for Tonteh to keep pace with the grown man, but he did not complain. When they reached the top, they saw the sunset colour the sky red.
"It is time for you to learn to breathe," said Shiriken.
Tonteh looked up in surprise. Surely everyone could breathe, or else they wouldn't be alive?
"There are four ways of breathing," continued Shiriken, ignoring the look on the boy's face. "You can breathe with your shoulders, in small mouthfuls, like a frightened sparrow. Those who are on the point of dying from some illness breathe like this. They strain for air, and each mouthful is a gasp.
You can breathe with your lungs, like a frog that blows itself up and croaks out the wind without using it. This way of breathing you see among men who are not in the habit of working hard. When their arms and feet tire, their chests puff like a bellows. It does them no good at all to breathe so much when the body is unable to make use of the wind.
You can breathe with your stomcah, as do peole who make much use of their bodies. They draw the wind deep into their lungs and let the stomach set the rhythm of their breathing. But even if you breath with your stomach you will find yourself at the mercy of your emotions.
You can breath with the soles of your feet. Draw the wind right down to the ground on which you stand. That way you breathe with all your body. Only then will you be able to control your emotions. You will never be afraid, nor angry. When you are afraid, you will move too quickly, when you are angry you will grow careless. Give an outward show of fear or anger, but empty yourself inside. Fear begets fear. Anger begets anger. Free of fear and anger your breathing will be as it should be. Being as it should be you will be void of emotion."
Tonteh's black eyes were wide open as he listened to the onearmed man. Then Shiriken bent forward. With his one hand he raised up a flat stone and balanced it on its edge.
"Lie down here," Shiriken said, nodding at the spot where the stone had lain. "Do as if you were asleep."
Tonteh lay down on the ground and closed his eyes. After a while he began to breathe evenly. Then something fell across his chest, driving all the wind from his lungs. Opening his eyes he saw the stone over him. Shiriken was standing on top of it.
Tonteh gasped for air, but the weight squeezed his lungs together. He flapped his arms and legs, but nothing helped. His head pounded and blood hissed in his ears.
Fear begets fear, a voice whispered in his head.
His strength drained away. High in the night sky he could see the stars. There was no rush now. Finally his world darkened, and memories of his first breath returned to him. The memory grew in his mind and entered his body as he lay there with his eyes shut.
The hardness melted from the face of the onearmed man as he looked down. The boy breathed evenly beneath the stone. Each breath lifted the great weight in a gentle rhythm. Never did he complain. Never did he ask for help. Driving him as hard as this was like a knife in Shiriken's stomach.
"Train hard and fight easy," whispered Shiriken.
He cursed the generations of nightwarriors that had handed down such a heavy burden. He knew the fate of those who refused to accept the burden. His thoughts wandered back into the past, and his eyes no longer saw Tonteh.
"Anïko, oh Anïko," he whispered, as the tears ran down across his pale cheeks. "What happened to our son?"
His face grew hard again. Anïko was dead, and their son was gone. Only Tonteh was left. Only the last of the nightwarriors was left.
Chapter 8:
To touch a feather
Tonteh and Shiriken looked at each other. The boy held an oak staff slanting across his chest. The man's single arm hung limp. Tonteh raised the staff above his head and whipped it towards Shiriken's unprotected left side. The onearmed man span round, grabbed the staff and pulled it towards him. With his back towards Tonteh he kicked out with his left heel, catching the boy on the temple.
Dazed from the kick Tonteh watched as Shiriken pulled the staff forward and released the grip. The boy tumbled face-first into the sand. He heard a low, whistling sound as something hit the ground next to his head. He turned and looked up at his teacher.
"You must be quick and strong. But it is even more important that you show no mercy to your enemy. Attack from behind whenever possible. If he is unarmed and you have a knife, all the better. Even better is when he is lying down and you are on your feet. Never help your enemy. Never waste your time in mockery of him. Destroy your opponent as quickly and with as little effort as possible."
Shiriken spread out his blanket on the ground. On it he laid a short bow, some arrows, a knife, several oblong objects made of iron and his oaken staff. He lifted the bow.
"You must learn to shoot well with the bow. At the moment you are able to hunt birds and small animals with it, but to kill a man wearing chain metal is something quite different. But leave the bow for the time being. You will learn about it later."
The words trailed, and for a while Shiriken was lost in memories.
"Yes, you will learn about the bow later. But for now ... You must learn to do with your hands what others use a knife for. But you cannot fly through the air as a knife can. You need something to throw, but you can't use a knife, because it's a valuable weapon. Few of those who live in Kraken's land can afford iron, and anything made of metal attracts attention. That is something you must avoid at all costs."
Shiriken put the knife aside. Now he went for the small brow iron objects. Each one was about the size of a finger, rectangular and arrow sharp at one end. The onearmed man fingered one of them.
"This is called a shu. This is what you must learn to use instead of a knife. These too are made of iron, but they are easier to hide than a knife. Let your hair grow and hide them in your hair. Sew them into small pouches along the seams of your clothes. Bind them with straps to your underarms. Then no-one will be able to see what you are carrying, and they will not be discovered even if someone searches you. And yet a shu is as dangerous as a knife in the hands of someone who knows how to use one."
Shiriken lifted the oak staff and balanced it on his hand. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"The staff is the traveller's weapon. Some men tie a knife-blade to the end to make a long spear of it, but this is not a good idea, for then people will know that you are armed. An ordinary staff will not be regarded as a weapon, but oak is hard enough to break the blade of a sword. Modesty is the staff's greatest strength."
Tonteh had heard Shiriken speak of these weapons many times, but thus was his habit. Shiriken would repeat his speeches hundreds of times, till Tonteh knew them by rote. And then, if he ever forgot anything, he could just repeat the words of the teacher, until he remembered.
"By letting the staff glide through your hand you can alter the length of it," Shiriken said. "Depending on your grip, you can use it at close quarters or standing away from your opponent."
Tonteh learned how to describe shapes in the air with the staff, grey, growling shapes that formed an invisible wall between himself and his opponents.
"Use your whole body when you mount an attack, not just the arms that are holding the staff. The strength from your arms, hips and legs grows as it passes though your wrists and fingers."
Almost without exerting himself Tonteh was able to splinter pieces of dry wood as thick as a man's upper arm.
"Learn to think with your hands. You don't have time to think with your head. If you repeat a movement often enough your head will no longer need to tell your body in what to do," said Shiriken.
For some time Shiriken threw small stones at him, and he tried to parry them with the staff. To begin with he crouched down with the staff in front of him and kept his eyes fixed on his teacher's hand. In a few months Tonteh was able to block each stone. Then Shiriken asked him to stand upright and relax. He must cease watching the hand that threw the stones.
"It is good to have a strong wrist and to be supple. It is better still to take your opponent by surprise. You will learn how to fight, yet you must always be careful to conceal the skills you possess. Neither speak nor act in such a way that peole realize you are able to look afteryourself. Never wear armour. Warriors attract attention, and your best defence is to be invisible."
In a few months time Tonteh could wander in his own thoughts some distance from Shiriken, and if a stone suddenly came hurling towards him, his staff would jerk up from the ground and send the stone back with a dry crack. After this Tonteh would wander on as though nothing had happened.
Thus was Tonteh's life. Each day was like the day before. During the day he trained with his teacher, in the evening he ate a meal and at night he slept. Sometimes he heard the tramp of hooves in the distance, and then Shiriken might disappear for a peroid of several hours. Apart from the one occasion when he had sneaked after the onearmed man he had never been winess to these mettings. Later Shiriken would return with clothing, blankets, ropes, dried meat, flatbread and other necessities.
* * *
One day Tonteh was woken earlier than usual.
"Now you shall learn to fight the way a wanderer fights."
Tonteh, now sixteen years old, rubbed his eyes in bewilderment. Shiriken read the expression in the young man's eyes and shook his head.
"So far you have learned how to handle weapons. In any army you would be one of the outstanding men. But you can never fight in an army. You must always fight alone, and you will face many opponents. For you there will be no resting place. An ordinary soldier can seek shelter behind his army's defences. There will always be someone to protect the camp while he recovers his strenght. When you are hunted, there is no safe bed. You must be able to fight just as well when you are weary."
That day Tonteh trained longer and harder than usual. The sun burned above him, but Shiriken would not let him rest. His dry throat yearned for water, but Shiriken would not let allow him to taste a single drop. His breath came in hoarse gasps as he felled one imaginary opponent after the other.
Late in the afternoon the world around him grew dim. His field of vision narrowed until he could see only what was directly in front of him. He staggered round in circles before dropping in a heap.
Each day Tonteh trained until he fainted. When he regained consciousness he dragged himself back to camp where he ate and slaked his thirst. All day long he though of the blessed sleep to come when the sun set.
One day he was brought round by Shiriken's throwing cold water in his face.
"Anyonce can seek refuge in sleep. Anyone can faint. Except you. You may never faint. Tomorrow you will train harder, but you will not faint."
* * *
The circle of imaginary opponents were under the command of Shiriken. When one fell, Shiriken summoned a replacement and armed him with sword, spear or axe. In the end Tonteh looked upon his imaginary opponents as a merciless giant with a thousand arms that never grew tired.
He punched, kicked and butted the air. He rolled about in the sand and sprang up like a cat. He threw small knives at wooden targets Shiriken placed around him. Always the whirring sound of the staff, always the sound of short, quick breathing, always the pumping of arms and legs.
Sweat poured from his skin. Hair swung about his face like lengths of soaked rope. The wide trousers hung heavy with sweat about his ankles. The skin of his upper body turned from golden bronze to a fiery red. Dark blue patches began to appear, until finally his entire chest and back was blue.
Tonteh had trouble keeping his balance. His legs gave way under him, and time and again he had to force his knees straight. His movements grew more and more weary. He stumbled back and forth, shaking his head. He tried to let go of the staff, but his fists refused to reliquish their hold on the wood. He looked around in confusion, and his eyes met the inscrutable face of Shiriken.
His upper body began to tremble. He collapsed, his arms and legs shaking, saliva dribbling from his mouth. Still he kept his eyes open. They stared up at Shiriken. The harsh rasp of his breathing was the only sound that broke the silence.
"Sleep now," said Shiriken.
Tonteh curled up and slept as a baby sleeps. Shiriken bent over him and opened the white fingers that still clutched round the oak staff. With his one arm he lifted the young man and carried him on his shoulder back to camp. There he covered him with blankets. He folded his legs under himself and began to talk to Tonteh. He spoke for a long time, his voice clear and distinct. There was no need now for him to lower his voice. Tonteh would not wake anyway.
* * *
Tonteh and Shiriken looked at each other. The onearmed man's hair was streaked with silver, his forehead was deeply wrinkled, and there were more crow feet visible at the corners of his eyes. A smile played somewhere deep inside the brown, almond eyes, but the dry, pale face was expressionless.
Tonteh at seventeen was young in terms of summers and winters, but his features were those of an experienced warrior. He wore his long, raven-black hair in a tight knot at the neck. The powerful cheekbones, the hollow cheeks and thin lips were chiselled in stone. His face had become leaner, making it seem as though the black eyes and the aquiline nose had grown more than the rest of the face. He rarely glanced to the side, and never blinked.
Though he was not tall, his lean body gave an impression of height. The thin muscles were streched tight and hard across the bones. The shoulders were broader, the legs longer since he came to the Silver Mountain, but his movements were never clumsy. His feet hugged the ground as he walked, and he made no unnecessary moves.
On his upper body he wore a grey felt jacket with wide arms, the two halves held together by a crude leather belt around his waist. His trousers were made of the same grey felt, and the wide legs hung loose, like skirts, almost trailing along the ground.
A sudden gesture of Shiriken's hand, and a shu came shistling through the air towards Tonteh. Without taking his gaze from the brown, almond eyes Tonteh moved his oak staff, and the little knife cracked against the wood.
One end of the staff moved towards the right side of Shiriken's neck, and the onearmed man lifted his arm in a parry. The staff was withdrawn, and now the other end whipped towardws the left thigh. Shiriken took two rapid steps backwards, but Tonteh followed like a whirlwind.
Blows and kicks rained over the onearmed man. By weakening each separate part of the body in turn Tonteh would eventually triumph over the older man. Sometimes he moved to avoid a kick or a pundh, otherwise he kept up a continous advance.
He feinted, and Shiriken lifted his arm. At once Tonteh's staff swept down and hooked up one of his feet. A swishing kick to the ribs sent onearmed tumbling to the dust. He rolled over and tried to regain his feet, but each time Tonteh swept the feet from under his teacher.
Finally Shiriken lay still. His great almond eyes looked gravely at Tonteh, and he rose slowly to his feet.
"You have trained well," said Shiriken. "You have trained harder than I would have thought you capable of."
"Thank you," replied Tonteh, inclining his head slightly forward.
"You have trained well," Shiriken said again, and for once a warm, broad smile lit his features. "In another year you will be the most dangerous of all men."
Tonteh smiled back sheepishly. His face burned. It was so rare for him to hear praise that now he lapped up Shiriken's words as though they had been ice-cold water.
"Do not trust my smile," Shiriken said.
"What?"
The onearmed man held out his hand, showing the sand he had grabbed as he rolled on the ground.
"A smile can kill, and a grain of sand in the eye can hide a whole mountain. Were I to throw this sand in your face, I would win, even if you are stronger and faster than me. I meant what I said just now, but you must not rely so completely on your skills with weapons. Expect attack from all quarters. An enemy will often make it his business to be your friend, and then not all the speed and strength in the world will be able to defend you," said Shiriken. His smile faded.
"But the opposite is also true. Befriend your enemy. If you are unable to avoid trouble, don't at fall into a crouch like a raging ape. Smile and walk easy, that will give you the time you need. If you have to raise your arms and crouch low before attacking you will warn your enemy."
* * *
The next day Shiriken decided that Tonteh would not train.
"Do you remember what I said the first time you lifted the staff?"
"That one day I would learn how to touch the wings of a bird with it," Tonteh replied.
"Are you able to do that now?"
Tonteh looked around and spotted a couple of dust grey sparrows fluttering among the thorn bushes. He lifted his staff across his chest, ready to strike, and glided towards the birds. But the sparrows flew away before he had half closed the gap.
"Give me the staff," Shiriken said.
Tonteh did as he was told.
Shiriken folded his legs and sat on the ground with the staff across his lap.
"Make room in your head for Silver Mountain," he said. "You will always be able to return here in your thoughts. Don't be influenced by your emotions when you walk among stranger. Even if you hate someone, that person may still be of some use to you. Freeze hatred, freeze anger. Don't waste your energy on revenge. Instead let your thoughts return to the Silver Mountain."
And then he just breathed with half closed eyes, seemingly lost to the world. After a while one of the dusty sparrows fluttered out from the thorn bushes and landed on the oaken staff. Shiriken opened his eyes and stared at it. Then he lashed out with his hand, but the bird beat its wings and was gone.
"Did you see the fear in the bird?"
Tonteh nodded.
"What do you fear most of all?"
"I fear nothing at all," replied Tonteh, believing he spoke the truth.
"You fear neither pain, great heights, water nor darkness. You fear no man and no beast. I have never seen fear in you," said Shiriken. "But fear is what will save you later, when you go the places where no one else will go. Then the fear will come. And then it will be the friend that will carry you to safety. When the fear is gone, so is the wish to live."
* * *
Shiriken had been away for some days. He had disappeared before, but always returned at the agreed time. Now there was no sign of the onearmed man.
Towards evening Tonteh began to worry for his teacher. He shivered through the night, and did not sleep. When the first rays of the sun showed above the horizon Tonteh began running in a wide circle around Silver Mountain. He ran all day, and saw no sign of human life.
Next day he ran in an even greater circle, but still found no trace of Shiriken. He felt a claw clutching his stomach and slowly twisting his guts. The world shrank until it seemed like a pale, milky egg around him, and he lost the ability to think clearly.
For the next ten days he did nothing but search for Shiriken, certain that someone must have harmed him. He ran in circles until he began to stagger. His chest rose and fell like a bellows, and he wasted must of his effort in breathing. He hardly ate, taking time only to drink a little water. At night he shivered, unable to sleep.
He had to make all decisions himself. There was no-one but himself to rely on. For the first time in his life he was completely alone. Finally he was able to put a name on the deepest fear of all.
Nobody has harmed Shiriken, Tonteh realized. This was his last lesson to me. And the one I paid the dearest price for.
* * *
Tonteh remained at Silver Mountain for a further year. Shiriken did not come back, nor did he see another human being. But he spoke most of the tribal languages, and had long talks with himself. He had a knowledge of all lands and every tribe, and was able to draw a crude map of the Eastern and Western Quarters, of the Angoro Jungle in the south and the Snowland in the north, of Alania, the Middle Kingdom, with Shimoshe, the Town of the Dead, and the forests near Rotharin.
Though he had never seen a single imperial soldier, he knew how the Emperor's army was organized, the weapons they used, and where the largest garrisons were situated. He even mastered the art of Runes, the powerful symbols that could send messages through time to others skilled in the art.
Tonteh had acquired all the knowledge that Shiriken possessed, even those parts of it that he had not understood at first hearing. Alone he rehearsed the lessons over and over, until they became a part of himself. Tonteh called to mind every speech Shiriken had made, turning them sideways and upside down, as though they were beautiful jewels that must be viewed from every angle before the whole could be appreciated. Sometimes it seemed to Tonteh that he could hear Shiriken's voice among a choir of long dead warriors, all teaching him the same lesson. Yet when he looked around he still found himself alone.
* * *
The sun spilled across a beautiful spring day. Tonteh studied the mountain above him, committing to memory every stone and every outcrop. Shoots appeared on the tough green bushes which clung to cracks in the mountain sides. Higher up there were still patches of snow and ice, but clear streams trickled down the grey slopes. Before long the mountain would again return to dust and dryness.
Make room in your mind for Silver Mountain, a voice said in his mind. In your thoughts you can always return here.
Tonteh filled his mouth with water and set out running up the mountainside. He reached the top at the same time as the sun reached noon, and was down again in time to see the last rays of the sun paint the horizon red. With a shout he spat out the water. Then he curled up and slept on the bare stone ground.
At sunrise the next morning he headed south.
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