Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

No, wait, I did feel Herut's ribs crack beneath my weight and the . . . the heaviness of metal piercing flesh.

Next I remember standing on the sheer horn, clutching its end, so I could look the length of the boat. Struggle seethed, not only alongside. Boii who found or made a clear space were hauling themselves up. A pull, a squirm, a leap, and a man stood in the hull. Once there, he hewed about him with the iron blade that was deadly from hilt to point. We outnumbered them, but their weapons made each of them worth two of us. The dead and the wailing, groaning wounded thickly cluttered the bilge.

My soul still icily clear, I saw what might save us, filled my lungs, and bawled the command through the racket, over and over. Gair-warth, amidships, was fighting skillfully. It was not his first time. He used a spear to fend off blows, yielding enough that the sword did not cut the shaft in two, then jabbing in before the foeman was again on guard. That checked the onslaught, at least. He heard me and understood. He passed the order on to those near him. They obeyed, bit by bit and blunderingly, but doing it. When men are desperate, their single great wish is for a commander.

Take paddles. Push us off this sandbank. Or else stand by and protect.

Next in my memory, I was fighting my way aft. That seemed to be the only duty left me. But I did not really fight much. I pushed against the crowd packed into the narrow room, forcing myself among crewmen. Once, I think, a foe came before me, and I stabbed and may have hit, but others, Skernings, roiled between us, and he was gone. Afterward I saw that it would have been better for me to keep my place forward and help repel boarders. What happened is unclear to me. Mainly I remember the sharp stench. When a man is killed he fouls himself.

And then we were free, drifting north on the river. We had not been hard aground. I hope it was I who called for paddlers to get us out beyond the enemy's depth. Maybe it was Gairwarth, maybe both of us. At first just a few were able to man the sweeps, but that served.

In truth—as I, astonished, saw after a while by the sun—the battle had been short. No more than a handful of Boii had scrambled aboard. They had reaped gruesomely, but now several slashed a path to the side and sprang back over.

I learned that later. Suddenly one broke out of the press that hindered him and charged forward. His cry ululated, not a wolf-howl but a strange song. Drops of blood flew fire-hot from his lifted sword. Somehow I had been forced clear of the struggle and stood again in the bows, shakily, alone. I knew it was my death coming for me and raised a blade too short and soft to stop it. Behind him, Ernu surged from the crowd. He had dropped his axe; a red gash gaped on the right forearm. But he threw that arm around the Boian's throat and clamped tight. They tumbled down together, Ernu underneath, still throttling while his left fist pummeled. The Boian went limp. Ernu rolled over on top, sat astraddle, and laid both hands around the throat.

"Hold," I gasped. "Don't kill him. Not yet. Keep him quiet."

Ernu grinned. "Aye," he rasped. The Boian stirred. Ernu cut off his breath for another bit.

I have often wondered why I wanted this. Yes, a fleeting thought that we could learn something or gain something from a prisoner—but hardly a plan, there and then in the tumult. Did a god slip it into me? If so, to what end? On this midsummer day I wonder anew, and a chill strikes into me.

On that day, there was too much else. I looked behind us. Already we were rounding the bluff. I barely glimpsed our other boat. It had not broken loose. Maybe it was stuck too fast—for none of the crew could have gone into the water to push, with rage all around them—or maybe no one had gotten our idea in time. The Boii were swarming into it.

Young Athalberh was aboard.

And Herut lay dead at my feet, a horror to see, Herut who told me and taught me so many things in my boyhood, whose quietly spoken counsel guided us along our way through a foreign land, who had been closer to me than my own father—I know not which was the greater grief. Both choked me.

I pushed them down, blinked the stinging from my eyes, and squared my shoulders. Later I could mourn, we could all mourn. Right this now, with work to do, it was unworthy of a lord.

I went from prow to stern, giving men orders and words to hearten them, my voice sounding eerily calm in my ears. We had lost some paddles, broken underfoot or thrown overboard in the fight, but a few spares lay stowed, and presently enough were swinging to carry us at a good downstream speed. We dared not stop yet, but we laid out our five dead and bound the wounds of our half dozen most sorely hurt as best we were able while afloat. I set those few who were more or less hale and otherwise unengaged to cleaning off the blood and filth. Even in midstream, a cloud of flies was buzzing nastily about us. We never got all the stains out of the timbers.

There were three Boian corpses. One looked as though somebody had slit his throat after a blow stunned him, but—I didn't inquire— maybe not, for the only weapon of theirs we found was a dagger sheathed at this man's waist. Dying, each seemed to have cast his sword into the river, or else a comrade did it for him. I sent those bodies after their glaives. Ravens flew from the woods and wheeled above our wake with guttural cries.

The sun was westering through air gone hot and still when at last Gairwarth and I could draw a little aside and talk. "Are they mad yonder?" I asked. "Would they not at least hear what we had to say?"

"They are what they are," he answered. Though his tone was as dull as mine in our weariness, the trader wits were again busy. "Plain to see, now, the signs and rumors of unrest amongst them bore truth. I'd guess they're at war with each other, or, anyhow, a feud's begun and been spreading, as feuds do. Well, when a Celt is in battle rage, he's dangerous to everybody. That's how they're raised to be. And the rage can smolder just under the skin, always ready to burst into flame. I'd also guess the fellows we met lost a fight not long ago, got driven off the field, are still full of fury and pain about that. Here we came, somebody to strike at—our powers unknown to them, save that craft like ours had never been seen in these parts before, so we must be strong enough that honor could be won by beating us. And loot; but honor, what they call honor, meant much more. If the chief had listened to us and invited us to land, we'd have become his guests, our persons sacred while we stayed. So he didn't."

I shook my head. "You may say it's their way of thinking. I say it's madness. And yet—did they throw away the swords to keep us from having them? That sounds like forethought."

"No, I'd guess, instead, they didn't want the weapons, which they believe have souls, to become captive, any more than they'd want a brother taken for a slave." Gairwarth sighed. "Those few wouldn't make a markable difference to us, would they? I see naught for you now but to return home. What you've gained is the knowledge that there'll be no dealing with them for a long time to come."

"Yes." I tried to tell myself that that was something to show for our losses and deaths. Suddenly I stiffened. "We have a prisoner!" With all else there was to do, I had quite forgotten. Gairwarth nodded. "I noticed. And his sword, for whatever it may be worth." He grinned. "If the poor dog is still alive. That's a hefty weight squatting on him."

I hastened forward. Yes, Ernu held the Boian fast. His hands remained at the throat, though he had eased their grip once the warrior understood that otherwise there would be no breathing. He looked over his shoulder as I neared, Gairwarth beside me. "Can I let go now, lord?" he asked. "My knees are sore, my legs are nigh gone asleep, and we're both wet from when I had to piss."