Chapter Four

Moisture hung in the air, hot and heavy. The farther Tarn and Connor travelled inland, the less prevalent the breeze. The less prevalent the breeze, the more Tarn sweated, and the more he swatted mosquitoes, slapped tiny blackflies burrowing into the fine hair on the nape of his neck to bite him behind the ear, and crushed yellow-striped swept-wing deerflies that tried to tear great chunks of scalp loose. Living on an island, surrounded by saltwater, acted as a natural bug repellent, but in the forest, be it insect, animal and villager, in one way or another, wanted to eat him, or at least to sample him, he thought. Twice today they had been forced to hunker down and to wait while Kaholia hunting parties passed. Ashwa's children combed the land relentlessly, guided by the ever-present drums that droned from sun up to sundown. They carried bow and arrow and blowguns to hunt game, two- and four-legged, and right now Tarn and Connor were their game.

Under his father's expert forestry skills they avoided marauding bands of Ashwa's followers by hiding during the day and travelling mostly at night. Connor taught him direction by the sun in the day, the stars at night, and by moss on trees when they could not see either one.

In spite of the inherent hardship in a long cross-country trek, Tarn seldom complained. He struggled in silence to keep pace with his father's long stride no matter how much his legs hurt and muscles ached. Along the way, Connor pointed out animal tracks and their spoor. He schooled Tarn on the particular animal's habits, where it hunted; if it lived in a den; and the varieties of food it ate. Already Tarn knew the difference between several types of bear and great cats. Possessed with a child's fearlessness of the unknown, and the security of a father he hero-worshipped, each day brought new mysteries to unravel. No man was stronger or braver. Tarn came to love the time sitting beside a small and smokeless fire, copying his father's hands as he learned to build snares, and listened to stories about his wondrous new home in the mountains of Asgard.

The first time a snare Tarn had set captured a rabbit, he offered the heart to this father. Connor accepted the tribute with great ceremony, and then showed him how to skin the hide, and gut the carcass. They lived off the land, whose endless bounty of food delighted Tarn with its diversity.

Under rocks, and inside rotten logs, they rooted out fat white grubs with tawny-brown heads sporting powerful pincers. To cook the grub, Connor pressed a small stick between the needle-sharp, curved pincers. When the grub bit down, Connor crushed the head, locking the pincers in wood, ready for roasting. Bulrushes were another delicacy. Sweet, pulpy meat waited in the centre for the taking. Included in Tarn's education, he learned to recognise drinkable water and to detect tainted water that would turn his bowels to water and perhaps kill.

The weeks passed quickly. His was a discovery of a world that he never imagined existed. The thoughts he once had about Kalen's legendary sword gave way to his new experiences, but at night he still dreamed about wielding the great blade.

Six weeks of travel brought them to the boundary of the deep forest. Tarn noticed the land changing as they ascended into higher altitudes, leaving the lush greenery of the forest below. The tree growth thinned. The terrain turned harsher, and the air became increasingly colder and less humid. His father seemed oblivious to the temperature change, but Tarn had lived all his short life on a tropical island. They crested a high ridge.

Sparkling under the midsummer sun, Connor pointed to a chain of spiny, white-capped peaks. "That be our destination lad. Asgard."

Following along the length of his father's arm, Tarn saw a chain of magnificent mountains whose tops were shrouded in clouds.

"Do thy people dwell in the heavens?"

"Nay son. Ye canna breathe so high. But it is in those mountains and on the plateaus where our journey ends. The mountain of our people is called Bear's Tooth. It curves on high to a point, like that of a bear, and all but reaches into Valhalla. Once we cross the valley, we enter the land of my people. The people of Asgard by thy people as well," he said, clasping his son's shoulders.

Connor's keen eyes detected movement. Tarn sighted it as well. From their height, the moving objects appeared no larger than ants.

"What is it, Father?" Tarn asked inquisitively, following his father to one knee.

"Trouble lad. They be a southern valley clan. It can be no good thing when a valley clan enters these hills."

"Do they no see us?"

"Methinks not. We be in wooded land and they are moving away from us. Let us travel silent and quickly," Connor instructed. "We have but a day or so more, ere we be home."

Connor picked his way cautiously down the ridge, stopping often to listen. Tarn placed his feet carefully, but try as he may, he failed to emulate his father's steps. Most of the time Tarn had to view his father to be sure he walked beside him. It felt eerie, as though he walked beside a ghost who passed over the ground and not upon it. Keep practising his father had told him. Walk on the balls of thy feet and not thy heels. Tarn tried on many occasions to sneak up on him by the fire, but he had never succeeded.

When they reached the edge of the valley floor, Connor stopped and pointed out man-track, saying, "See the depth of the print boy? This be a sign of burden, either armour or meat, mayhaps both. Raiding parties leave deeper prints as they gather possessions. Now, lad, what be these shallow tracks?"

Tarn studied the group of similar imprints. They were not only shallow but smaller and narrower than the others.

"Children. Small and narrow footed. Not much older than I am."

"That's good reasoning son, but only some are children, the rest are women folk," said Conner indicating one almost perfect impression. "Glimpse here, the sign tells us they be barefoot, and their heels dig deep into the ground. The valley raiding clans take captives and force them to go barefoot, to render escape more difficult. They are being led by ropes and pull back as they walk and dig their heels into the ground, which makes it appear as though the print is smaller. In this way, they slow their captors and allow rescue parties to gain ground."

"What do they do with the women and children?"

"They are sold to slave markets." ― Connor paused ― "When a lad reaches his twelfth winter, he begins the passage into manhood. It ends when he has fought his first battle; when he's been blooded, though he may marry between that time if he can find a bride who will take him untried. 'Tis a rare man who becomes a warrior ere his twelfth winter. An Asgard warrior would sooner die in battle than be captured. Seldom do Asgard males twelve and older allow themselves to be captured. Most fight unto death or until they achieve victory. Now walk softly and be ready to freeze like a young grouse when I tell thee," he finished rising to his full height.

For the rest of the day, Connor and Tarn followed the tracks, yet they never sighted the raiders again. At dusk, they stopped to eat a fireless meal of dried meat strips, berries and nuts they had collected the previous day.

"We be not sleeping here," said Connor when he saw Tarn preparing a bed from wintergreen boughs. "Do thee remember the hand signals I taught thee while we hunted the rabbit and grouse?"

"Aye Da."

"Good. Be silent, and do not make walking noise."

Without another word, Connor led Tarn up the base of the mountain skirting from boulder to bush. The waxing moon cast bright beams to navigate the obstacles, and Connor knew this terrain well, for it was that of his boyhood hunting grounds. Several hours after the moon began the sun chase, Connor signalled Tarn to stop and look ahead.

Peering carefully around a large outcrop of rocks, Connor detected the outline of the raiders' temporary camp. Tarn's inquisitive eyes stared out from beneath Connor's arm. The captives were bound together in a circle with two visible sentries. The sentries took turns prodding and squeezing one of the females in her tender regions. The woman neither cried out nor flinched at her abuse. She held herself tall and proud no matter how cruelly they mauled her. When the sentries realized they could not provoke a reaction, they spread out a blanket and threw multi-sided bone dice; a common gambling game.

Connor signalled Tarn to stay put and melted into the night. He moved like a scrap of fleeting shadow, circling the camp scouting for other sentinels, stealthily circumventing the root tangles that snatched at his ankles. Satisfied that no others existed, he crept toward the dice players. The sentries had foolishly built a fire by whose light they gamed.

Connor avoided looking directly at the flames to protect his night vision. Only a fool peered into a fire and played dice on sentry duty. Hidden behind that last piece of cover between himself and the guards, he drew his sword. The woman, who had suffered the focus of their cruel ministrations just minutes earlier, sighted Connor as he rose to his feet.

She called out to her abductors in a loud voice, "Brave warriors, will ye not untie my hands so I may heed nature's call?"

"Sit in your own piss. It will do ye well to begin learning who rules and who slaves," returned the shorter of the pair.

"Not so quickly," began the other man rising to walk toward the woman. "What be in it for me should I accommodate dry leathers?"

"Sit down," said the bigger sentry. "We've orders not to injure what we bring to market. The wench will not open herself to you and knows that it would be our heads to disobey."

"I'll no break bones, but leave bruises only. There's no law against bruising two-legged meat, returned the shorter sentry almost gaining the woman's location.

One sentry sat between Connor and the captives while the second stood over the woman who had spoken out. With their attention distracted in conversation and banter, he crept closer. With by three strides separating him from the fire, Connor leapt forward, sword extended. The woman's expression never wavered as the tip of his blade contacted the sitting sentry's neck and rode along four feet of razor-edged steel, grating on neck bone. As his blade travelled its distance to hit the hilt guard, the woman kicked out with her bound feet at the sentry's shins next to her. The guard yelped in pain and instinctively stumbled backwards away from the woman's feet. Before he had recovered his balance and drew his sword, Connor's blade carved a diagonal trough of flesh from one shoulder to the opposite thigh. Blood spurted and flowed in an increasing deluge as the man crumpled straight to the ground without vocalising a protest.

"Where be the rest of thy band?" asked the woman, who had provided the distraction.

"There is but one other, my son," Connor said. "Tarn, come forth."

Tarn jumped to his feet and sprinted into camp. The sight of the ghastly wounds sent mild currents of revulsion through him until he reasoned they looked not a lot different than the animals he had skinned and cleaned. Still, it was unnerving to see a human being delivered to death up close and personal for the first time.

When he reached his father's side, Connor said, "Take my knife and cut their bonds. And then douse that Vulcan fire."