The Chieftan

CHAPTER 6

And so the wagons rolled and creaked, and the men cursed, and there was the sound of chains, and, sometimes, the weeping, the lamentations, of the captive women, tied by the neck to the back of wagons.

Two days after the encounter with the youth on the snowy plains Hunlaki and Mujiin had returned to the column, their duties completed pending further assignments. Hunlaki did

volunteer for further service at that time, but his request, quite sensibly, was declined. It was understood that he had been, for most practical purposes, in the saddle for days. Accordingly he was doing little now but riding with the column.

Mujiin had not found Hunlaki much in the way of good company of late. He had, accordingly, for the last few days, left him much alone. Hunlaki seemed too often lost in his own thoughts. Indeed, he had been acting a bit strangely ever since the re-crossing of the Lothar. But Mujiin, who was very fond of Hunlaki, was patient. Heruls tend to be a patient folk. Hunlaki would doubtless come back to himself, as he always had before, after some of the simpler, more routine actions. Mujiin had no fear, incidentally, that Hunlaki would tell others about his embarrassment, that little contretemps, with the boy on the prairie, how he had been tricked, as though he might have been on his first raid, of how he might have been injured, or worse, if Hunlaki had not ridden to his succor. Mujiin did not fear this, for Hunlaki was not only of the tents of the Heruls, but one with whom he rode. Indeed, some years later, Mujiin would tell the story himself, as a joke on himself, and as a warning to young riders, about how Hunlaki had saved him, when he was new to the ways of war.

They had been on the march for several days.

Hunlaki, in this time, rode usually on the right side of the column. Sometimes he patrolled it, riding its length, back and forth.

The wagons, and the foot, moved slowly, and the prisoners, far too slowly for the taste of Hunlaki.

Hunlaki looked up.

The birds still followed, and their patience, as the days wore on, was less and less often disappointed. Many were now so swollen with food that they could not fly. Sometimes the dogs caught them. Bones littered the track of the column. Many of the more attractive women had been given rags to wrap about their feet, that they might not, in the cold and snow, lose their toes. Such a loss, as trivial as it might seem, would considerably reduce their value.

To one side dogs fought over a body.

Hunlaki was himself well aware that things were not as usual with him.

He had for two nights chewed on the fermented curds, and in the morning had had to tie himself in the saddle.

He had, several times, at night, when the column had stopped, and the fires were lit, made use of captive women, chained under certain of the wagons, put aside for the purpose. To be sure, as a rider, he could have his picks marked, a disk with his mark on it, tied about her neck, under the rope, reserved for him in the evening. The foot would make do with what was provided for them, not that some excellent women were not picked out for them. Sometimes Hunlaki used the women under the wagons as Herul women, but often, because they were women of an enemy, he put them in the pig position, even some very attractive women whom he had picked out earlier,

whom he had put his disk on, reserving them for the evening, that they might understand that they belonged to the Heruls, and what was in store for them, the long days of tending flocks and, in the evenings, the contenting of masters in the furs. To be sure, some of these women might be sold in Venitzia, some to the soldiers there, others to be put on the ships, to be sent far away, to distant markets. The soldiers at Venitzia had flame spears, which could burn a rider from a thousand yards. The Heruls did not attempt to penetrate the strange fences about the towns. They had seen animals lying dead across the wires.

Hunlaki recalled the riders he had fought against in the spring and early summer. That had been war. The folk they had just raided, those in the vicinity of the Lothar, mostly west of it, near the forests, were said to be related to them. Hunlaki supposed it was possible. But the two peoples seemed very different.

Hunlaki looked up.

The birds were about.

They had been about, too, on the plains of war, far to the east, even beyond the heights of Barrionuevo, and then in the north, on the plains of Barrionuevo, when those of the tents of the Heruls had met the riders, those related to the folk near the Lothar, in the spring, in the early summer.

Too, here and there, the birds were on the ground, sometimes almost at the edges of the column, feeding.

Hunlaki did not care for the birds.

Hunlaki turned his mount suddenly to the right, uttered an angry cry, kicked back into the flanks of the beast, and charged at a heap of birds, clambering about food. They squawked, and fluttered wildly to the left and right, and Hunlaki, angrily, wheeled his mount back, to the left, to rejoin the column. When he looked back he saw that one or two of the bolder birds had already returned to their feeding.

Hunlaki, like most warriors, hated the birds, the patient ones.

The dogs had been at it first.

The column was now in the vicinity of the heights of Barrionuevo.

Hunlaki saw a woman to his right, several yards from the column. It would have to be a woman of the people near the Lothar, for no Herul women were with the raiders. One would take the women, the children, in the wagons, when one made the long journeys. But one would not take them on raids. Sometimes one had had to fight, on the long journeys, even before they had found the sweet, grass-fresh plains of Barrionuevo. One tried to keep between the enemy and the wagons. Before battles, and at night, one put the wagons together, forming closures, sometimes rings of defense, the cattle, the animals, the women, the wealth, inside. No, of course, it was not a Herul woman. Hunlaki moved his horse toward her, circling her rather, that he might have her

between himself and the column. In a moment or two, the horse moving slowly, he saw that she had, indeed, wrapped several times about her neck, a rope. She had been gathering hineen, presumably for the cooking pots of the wagon driver, that behind which she would normally be marched prisoner. Hineen is somewhat rare but there were patches of it in this area. It is a pretty plant, coming in several colors. It is a spore bearer and blossoms, or, perhaps better, colors, in the cold. It sustains certain ungulates throughout the winter, which paw for it when the snow is heavy. Some of these animals come from dozens of miles away to find it. The spores of the hineen are carried about, partly by the hoofs of the ungulates. Heruls and the folk of the Lothar could also eat it. She was holding up the front of her skirt, which she had used as a basket, into which she had placed the hineen. It was very pretty, all the colors in the skirt. It seemed to be full now. Why was she dallying? And she was too far from the column. Did she think to run? Her calves were not without interest. She turned white, seeing Hunlaki approaching her. He had already freed his knout from the saddle ring.

Swiftly she knelt in the cold grass.

She put her head down and unlooped the free end of the rope, which she had wound about her neck, the end tucked in, that by means of which she would normally be tied to the back of a wagon. She then, her head kept down, lifted the free end of the rope toward Hunlaki, the other end remaining, of course, knotted about her neck. It was a placatory gesture, offering him, in effect, her leash. Hunlaki, from the saddle, looked down upon her. The wind moved her hair a little. The hineen had been spilled before her, before her knees, the skirt emptied.

“Look up,” said Hunlaki.

She looked up. She was trembling. She did not lower the leash.

“You are far from the column,” said Hunlaki. She was perhaps some fifty yards from it.

“I was gathering hineen,” she said.

Hunlaki’s hand tightened on the knout, held across the saddle.

“You are far from the column,” Hunlaki repeated.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you wish to be brought back on your rope?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“You have learned already to call Heruls ‘Master,’ “Hunlaki said.

“All free men, Master,” she said.

“You may lower your hand,” said Hunlaki.

She did so.

“Rewind the rope about your neck, as it was,” said Hunlaki.

She complied.

“Gather up, again, the hineen,” he said.

She bent to the task and, in moments, had replaced the spilled hineen within the basket of her skirt. She still knelt. One could now see her knees.

“Rise up,” said Hunlaki. “Return to the wagon.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She turned away from Hunlaki, and began to proceed toward the column. Hunlaki followed her. He was a little behind her, on her left. Doubtless she was much aware of him there.

“You were thinking of escape,” said Hunlaki.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“There is no escape,” said Hunlaki.

“I do not want to be marked,” she said. “I do not want to wear a device.”

“In the lands of the Heruls,” said Hunlaki, “such things are not necessary. Do you think we do not know who is slave, and who is not?”

She sobbed.

“There is no escape for you,” said Hunlaki, “no more than for the branded, collared girls of the civilized worlds.”

She was then near the column, and she stopped. She looked back at Hunlaki.

“There would have been no escape,” said Hunlaki. “The dogs would have come for you.”

“I am afraid!” she said.

“That is fully appropriate, as you are a slave,” said Hunlaki.

She looked up at him.

“Do you know what you must fear most?” asked Hunlaki.

“No, Master,” she said.

“That you might not be found fully pleasing,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Turn about,” said Hunlaki.

She did so.

She shuddered, not looking at him, as he, leaning down from the saddle, put the knout gently to the left side of her neck.

“Do not think again of escape,” said Hunlaki.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Hurry now to your wagon,” said Hunlaki. “Hope that you will not be beaten.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Hunlaki, his knout restored to the saddle ring, followed her, slowly, some yards back, until he saw her at her wagon. The hineen was placed in a hamper. He then saw her tied to the back of the wagon, where, already, there were two others. She looked back once, but Hunlaki turned his mount, and retraced his steps.

A light snow had begun to fall.

Somewhere, ahead, he heard the cries of a woman in labor.

Birds screamed overhead, circling.

“Ho,” said Mujiin, riding up. “I saw you with a woman. You are feeling better?”

“I am all right,” Hunlaki assured him.

“I saw you had her away from the column,” said Mujiin. “Did you knout her suitably? Did you make her kick well for you?”

“I did not knout her,” said Hunlaki. “I did not make her kick.”

“Did you put your disk on her, for this evening?” asked Mujiin.

“No,” said Hunlaki.

“She had good calves,” said Mujiin. “I saw. I will know her when I see her. I will put my disk on her for the night.”

Hunlaki shrugged.

“You do not mind?” asked Mujiin.

“No,” said Hunlaki.

“How shall I use her?” inquired Mujiin.

“As you wish,” said Hunlaki. “She is a slave.”

They were, as I have mentioned, at that time, near the heights of Barrionuevo. Indeed, in the late afternoon of the morrow’s march, one might be able, from the track of the column, if the weather were fitting, to see the festung of Saint Giadini.

It was shortly thereafter that the column halted for the night.

During the night some children were born, and cast to the side of the march.

They were dead shortly thereafter, and the dogs, and then the birds, had them.

Hunlaki that night dreamed of the actions of the spring and early summer.

In the morning the fires were quenched with snow and the beasts harnessed. That day began like most days on the march, not muchly different.

Hunlaki remembered the boy he had killed on the snowy plains, days ago, only days from the Lothar.

And he remembered the riders. He had admired them. He admired the riders, and the boy. It was too bad, he thought, that such a people must perish.

It was such thoughts that were in his mind when he rode past a newly born infant. It lay to one side, in the snowy grass.

He had ridden well past it, when he suddenly wheeled his mount and rode back.

“Away!” he called to one of the dogs, smelling at the tiny, living thing.

Hunlaki looked down at it, from the saddle.

It was tiny, and reddish, lying to one side, on bloody, pressed-down grass. It was a few feet to the left of the wagon ruts, if one were looking toward the rear of the column, to the right, if one were looking toward the front of the column. It was bloody. Mud, too, had spattered upon it, from the wheels of the passing wagons. It had been born, Hunlaki surmised, but minutes before. The dogs had not yet had it. The cord which had bound it to its mother was still with it, and a mass of bloody tissue, to which it was attached.

Hunlaki saw one of the large birds alight nearby.

Hunlaki dismounted and examined the infant. It seemed sturdy. It was crying. Hunlaki did not really know why he had turned back or why he had dismounted. It felt very warm, which seemed strange to Hunlaki, as it was lying in the pressed-down, cold grass. Its small limbs flailed about. Hunlaki did not care for the crying. “Be quiet,” said Hunlaki. Another warrior, mounted, stopped nearby. “Stand aside,” said the warrior, “and I will trample it.” Hunlaki did not respond. “Let us play the game of lances,” suggested the other warrior. Sometimes the infants of the enemy were used in the game of lances, instead of the cloth ball or melon. Hunlaki waved the warrior on. Two other warriors rode by, looking at Hunlaki strangely. Then Hunlaki, embarrassed, remounted, to continue on his way. He saw the dog move a little closer. Its mouth was open. Its tongue was out, and moved about its teeth. The crest was back flat on its neck. Even the bird, which we shall call a vulture, moved forward a little, awkwardly, as such things move on the land. Hunlaki looked down, again, at the infant. Then he looked at the dog, and then at the bird. Then a second bird alit. Hunlaki had seen living infants drawn about by afterbirth, across the prairie, being fought for by the dogs. He had seen them torn to pieces, too, by the birds. Hunlaki again dismounted. He crouched down beside the small body. Curious, he put his hand to the afterbirth. It still retained warmth. The blood, the fluid, on the matted grass was still sticky. To be sure, it was cold, and that would slow its drying. But clearly the child had been born but shortly before, perhaps only minutes before. Hunlaki wiped his hand on his cloak. He then looked about, at the dog, and the two birds. He drew his knife. He put one hand on the infant’s head to hold it steady. He put the blade to its throat. He withdrew the blade. He cut the afterbirth away, leaving enough of the cord to knot, which he did. He then resheathed his knife and lifted the small life in his hands, looking down at it. He stood up, holding the child. One could see the mountains quite clearly from where he stood. Looking down he was surprised to see something he had not noticed before. Near where the child had lain, almost under where it had lain, thrust under the matted grass, as though it might have been concealed there, bloody, was a medallion and chain. They seemed of rich stuff. Hunlaki took this chain, with its medallion, and slung it about his neck. In a little while he had rejoined the march. The infant, within his cloak, warm against his body, was asleep. Later in the day Hunlaki found a wagon in which rode a bitch with her pups. At the teat of the bitch, with her pups, the infant eagerly suckled.

Late that afternoon, from the track of the column, in the distance, looking like part of the mountain itself, partly lost in the clouds, could be seen the festung of Saint Giadini.

“What have you there?” had asked Mujiin, curious, riding up to Hunlaki earlier in the day.

Hunlaki showed him.

“That is not a Herul,” said Mujiin.

“No,” said Hunlaki.

“Kill it,” said Mujiin.

“No,” said Hunlaki.

“It may grow up to kill you,” said Mujiin.

“That is true,” granted Hunlaki.

Toward evening he rode alone up the high, narrow, treacherous path to the festung.

“If we do not accept this,” said Brother Benjamin, “what will you do with it?”

“I will leave it on the plains, for the dogs,” said Hunlaki.

“We will accept it,” said Brother Benjamin.

“It has suckled on the teat of a dog,” said Hunlaki. “If you have dogs, a nursing dog, it can feed.”

“There will be nursing women in the village,” said Brother Benjamin. “What is its name?”

“I do not know,” said Hunlaki.

“It has suckled on the teat of a dog?” asked Brother Benjamin.

“Yes,” said Hunlaki.

“Then it must be a little dog,” said Brother Benjamin. “We call it ‘Dog.’ “

Hunlaki touched the infant with an exploratory tentacle, and then placed it gently into the webbed fingers of Brother Benjamin.

“Oh,” said Hunlaki, “this was with it.” He removed the medallion and chain from about his neck and put it with the child, in the arms of Brother Benjamin.

“Do you know the meaning of that thing?” asked Brother Benjamin.

“No,” said Hunlaki.

“I will keep it for him,” said Brother Benjamin.

Hunlaki then remounted and rode down the long trail to the plain, leagues beneath. By the next morning he had caught up, once more, with the column.