Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

"Why, do you suppose his spell will be of any help?" I asked.

"Belike not. However, I don't look for it to do any harm, and—he's right, it ought to brace them. The thing is, he thinks ahead."

I wasn't used to believing that of anyone so lowly. Nor did I care, then. "We were talking about Gairwarth," I reminded him.

"Yes. What will it take for him to come with us? He's a trader, he'll have his price, but he'll start by demanding all the goods we're carrying, and we'll need plenty for gifts, if we can meet with a Boian chieftain. How to bargain Gairwarth down without seeming to demean him—"

I laughed. "That's for you."

"Be on hand," he urged. "Be gracious. Pay close heed. Those are skills you ought to learn, Havakh."

I felt a flicker of offense, I, a son of Cnuath, lord of the Skernings. I caught a breath and stamped on the feeling. Herut was also well-born, and he was right. In the years afterward, as ever more of our olden strong world has failed us, I have often harked back to that sudden insight.

But there's scant use in calling up the whole of the next two days. We stayed at Suwebburh and dickered with Gairwarth. In the end, we loaded a goodly treasure aboard his boat, for his trusty man to guard and take away with his family if the worst came to the worst, and we would give him as much again if we returned here safely. Him on my craft, we set forth at the following sunrise. I remember how mists swirled and eddied in the chill and the enormous silence. The villagers clustered on the riverbank, gaping, half terrified, were soon lost to sight. The sounds and sweat of paddling were very welcome. Then a flock of ducks winged noisily off the water and life awakened everywhere. Now, when the memories and ghosts crowd in on me as I walk to the hall of my fathers, until it is that which seems unreal, now my yearning is to recall this last short while of peace and half-hopefulness. I would see water shine murmurous, a thousand hues of green on either side, clouds tall and dazzling white against blue. I would feel cool shadows where we camped at eventide, and share merriment with my friends until the stars overran heaven—for we were young, proud, unaware that our boldness sprang from our not truly understanding that we could die. But the few days and nights blur together, go formless, like land seen through one of the snowstorms that come over us in these winters. Today I have met Conomar again, and there was victory behind his eyes. Our first meeting overwhelms me. As when lightning smites an oak— The land was rising, less and less level, the current faster and the paddling harder. Once in a while, where the banks were too steep for trees, we glimpsed what must be mountains, afar and hazy to the south. Once we passed an open spot where a riverside steading had been. Only the charred wreck of it was left, already weed-begrown. The sight did not give us much pause. We knew that an always uneasy peace had been breached again. We were outsiders, with no quarrel here but, rather, good things to offer. Besides, we were not so few, and well-armed. What we did not know was that our faring was being followed, scouts slipping through the woods to peer from cover and speed their messages back.

Where the river swung around a high bluff on our left, it shoaled. Hulls barely cleared sandbars; water swirled and gurgled around us. "Hai, hoy, stroke, stroke, stroke!" and we toiled onward. As busy as we were, paddlers, steersmen, lookouts squinting to find channels, the sight beyond burst upon us.

Here was an end of forest. A few groves remained on the east side, still high and gloomy, but broad, rolling reaches had been cleared— slashed and burnt, I think—to make grassland, grazing. I spied two or three herds of ruddy cattle in the distance; smoke rose from scattered huddles of huts and one larger cluster at a distance that might be a hall and its outbuildings. This was only at the edge of my awareness. A band of the Boii waited ashore.

They numbered maybe two score, warriors all. Their leader stood with his driver in a chariot drawn by a pair of restless horses. His spearhead glowered aloft, a gold torque circled his neck, and he wore breeks and tunic of fine, colorful weave. Beneath a horned helmet his hair was pulled back in a queue, his cheeks and chin shaven, while a mustache fell nearly to the jawline. The others poised in loose array, afoot. They were mostly tall, fair men like him, though their garb was seldom more than a kind of blanket thrown over one shoulder and wrapped about the waist. Their gear was as simple: spears, slings, and swords. Iron, rammed through me. But those blades were not flamelike, nor even as bright as bronze. They were dark, almost brown. Nor did they have the laurel-leaf curves of ours; they were long and straight, barely tapered at the ends.

My hand dropped to the hilt of my own. Several among the crews yelled. Paddles rattled to the bottom of the boat. Those who had not been paddling snatched for weapons and shields. Standing beside me, Herut caught hold of my shoulder. "They don't know whether we're friendly," he said fast.

His strength flowed into me. "Easy!" I shouted, loud enough to be heard in both boats. "Keep station! Gairwarth, tell them we're peaceful!"

The Boian leader shouted, flung his spear at us, and drew sword even as he sprang from the car. His followers howled and dashed forward. A slingstone whizzed by my ear. I saw a man in the hull crumple, skull smashed asunder, brains spilling out on a tide of blood.

For a trice, I think, each one of us stood unmoving, stunned. The Celts splashed into the shallows. It comes back to me how the water swirled and glittered around their calves, knees, thighs. "Get away!" I cried. I felt us scrape bottom. The current had borne us inward and we sat fast. The foe were hip-deep when they reached us. Their blows and thrusts crossed our low freeboards.

I remember the battle as a wild red rainstorm, formless save when a lightning flash brings a sight forth searingly bright. I had learned the use of arms, as every high-born youth should, but never before had I wielded them in anger. Since then—too often, when stark need in the worst of these worsening years has raised packs of cattle raiders, and lately we must beat off an assault greater and fiercer than that— Harking back, I can piece together the jagged tales I heard after this affray, and see the shape of it.

At the time, all that I knew to begin with was a face glaring at me, a mustache like tusks over bared teeth and red stubble, a blade lifted slantwise, and the fleeting thought that that blade seemed endlessly long. Blindly, I stabbed my own at the throat beneath. It missed when he shifted deftly aside, and I stumbled, half falling against the strake. My clumsiness saved me; for he swung. Not thrust, swung. The whetted iron flew inches past my shoulder and bit deeply into the wood— how very deeply!

Herut edged close. His point reached. I saw it go in one cheek and out the other. Ferret-swift though he was, I saw how the Boian pulled his sword free before himself. That movement took him past our upward-curving prow. I know not what became of him. Belike he returned to the combat, wound and all. Maybe he lived, maybe he died.

What I remember next is another of them there, and that his hair was black and his nose crooked. He must have appeared quickly after the first, but by now everything was one uproar. His sword whirred past Herut's and cut into the neck. It nearly took the head off. Blood spurted and gushed, weirdly brilliant. It spattered over me. Herut sagged down, jerked, and lay still, sprawled at my feet. I felt nothing, just then. It was as if I stood aside and watched another man tread on the body, forward, to thrust into the Boian before he could recover. I watched the bronze enter beneath the chin. More blood spouted. He toppled out of sight.