THE ATLAN CHRONICLES

     “It’s a garney day.”

     Hamut had to agree with Yad’s ominous assessment. The slate gray clouds that blocked the early morning sun added to the foreboding, along with the icy spring breeze that had plagued them during the overnight part of their journey. The three of them knew it should have been warmer at this time of the year in the river valley, but none of them had mentioned it, not even D’rouk, who was never slow to complain about anything. They kept their apprehensions to themselves, wary of giving substance to what their senses had perceived. Until Yad voiced what had sat unspoken on their minds.

     It was a garney day. The word Yad had used meant a situation rife with the potential for unpleasantness and evil, but barely held back, like a rotten egg, tipping on the edge of a table that needed only the slightest wrong movement to send it hurtling downward to crack open on the floor, disgorging its foul contents. A garney day indeed.

     “D’rouk, go ahead of us,” Yad ordered the older man, who responded with a toothy smile from his gray-bearded, weather-beaten face. “But stay off the trail. Go along by the river.” The old trail ran close enough for the river to be visible from time to time. It was possible to walk along the edge of the river bank and still keep eyes on the trail through the small trees and bushes that lay in between. She turned to Hamut. “I have a bad feeling about this day.”

     Hamut might have objected to her presumption of command. As the eldest son of King Olok, ruler of the People of the Wolf, as they called themselves, he was nominally in charge of this reconnaissance mission, but he understood Yad’s role, and knew he should rely on her skill and experience. She was attired in the leather top and breeches that all of his people wore when preparing for battle, with her blonde hair braided and pulled up tightly into a bun to prevent it from being grasped by an enemy. Almost as tall as him, Yad fixed him with a resolute stare as her fingers clutched at the wolf’s tooth that hung from a leather strap around her neck. Her valor in a decisive battle near here almost twenty years ago had earned that for her. Hamut had been there as well, as a five-year-old, armed only with a small curved knife known as a k’tsa. When his people fought, every man, woman and child took part. His function in battle then had been to slash at the legs of the enemy.

     “You’re expecting trouble?” he asked as D’rouk loped away.

     “Always.” She kept her eyes focused on the trail ahead. “We’re near the old battlefield. The spirits of the dead are restless. Something disturbs them.”

     “The strange people,” Hamut said. “The ones we have come to spy on.”

     “Perhaps. Or the people of the outside village.”

     The large community they were approaching was known to them as the “outside” village, simply because it lay outside of what they held to be the limits of their kingdom. Although from their high mountain village, Hamut’s people had taken control of two villages along the river valley, they had never intended to add the outside village to their kingdom. When warriors from the outside village attempted to expel them from the two river valley villages, King Olok met their challenge by defeating them in a decisive battle twenty years ago, after which he had simply let them be. The People of the Wolf maintained a garrison in the two villages they held, however, to prevent any further incursion from the outside village.

     There had been no commerce and little reason for contact with the outside village until recently, when reports had reached them of roving bands of aggressive wanderers near the village. They termed them the “strange” people, because their language and habits, from what they could tell, were very different from anything the People of the Wolf had ever before encountered. The mission that Hamut had undertaken, along with Yad and D’rouk, was to find out more about them, and to assess what kind of threat they might pose.

     A short distance ahead came the sound of the dulcet croon of the summer birds that nestled on the mountain lake of their home village, D’rouk’s warning signal. Hamut turned to Yad, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. With a nod, she moved quietly away from the little-used trail to find cover among the newly-blossoming shrubbery near the river. Hamut crept to the other side of the path, settling down among the long vestiges of last year’s cold, lifeless grass. He lay flat, the wolf pelt that he wore over his head and shoulders melting in with the brown, dead growth around him. As he looked up slightly to observe the trail, Hamut was aware that the wolf’s head that he wore on top of his own would be watching the scene as well through its vacant eyes, seeing things he could not possibly imagine, sending him instinctual messages that would guide and preserve him from danger. Only he and his father, King Olok, were permitted to wear the wolf pelt and share in the mystical power of its spirit.

     Preparing himself for whatever danger D’rouk may have indicated, Hamut checked across the trail. Yad had blended in well with her surroundings, making her location difficult for anyone on the trail to detect, but from Hamut’s vantage point he could see that she had an arrow readied on her bow. He reached for one of the three knives he carried, his preferred weaponry. Not as useful against a distant enemy, but at close range, a knife in the hand of a skilled thrower could be faster and just as deadly.

     Before long, a lone figure appeared on the trail, walking toward them. He was dressed in the fashion of the people of the river valley, wearing a loose brown tunic that came down to the knee, cinched by a leather belt at the waist. Lean and fit, with a trace of gray in his close-cropped dark beard, the man hurried along, looking anxiously back from time to time.

     Hamut thought to stand up and challenge the traveler as he approached his position, but the spirit of the wolf spoke to him, assuring him that his quarry would not escape, and that he must stay hidden. From the corner of his eye he could see that Yad hadn’t moved; she was following his lead. He wondered why an unarmed man from the outside village would be heading directly into the territory of the People of the Wolf. If they didn’t stop him here, the regular patrols nearer the village would intercept him. There had been only minor skirmishes since the battle twenty years ago, enough to make outside villagers wary of confronting any warriors of the People of the Wolf, but this man seemed more concerned with what was behind him than with what lay ahead. Patience, the wolf spirit whispered to his mind.

     Hamut slowed his breathing. The man glanced worriedly over his shoulder again, and began to break into a run as he neared the point where Hamut and Yad lay hidden. Shifting his eyes back to where the traveler had looked, he saw what had caused the reaction. Three armed men loped along, still some distance away, but gaining ground with a smooth and determined pace. They must have passed D’rouk’s position. Hamut briefly wondered why he hadn’t given them another warning signal. The one in front brandished a sword, as did his companion a little behind him on his right. Further back on the leader’s left, the third man nocked an arrow in his bow as he ran. Hamut had never seen anything like them. They were dressed in what looked to be metal plating around their torsos and metal caps on their heads. The People of the Wolf wore only leather in battle, a wooden shield their only other protection.

     Wait, the wolf spirit counselled.

     The archer, while barely breaking stride, let go an arrow that landed squarely in the traveler’s back. Incredible, Hamut reflected. Could even Yad make such a shot? He glanced in her direction. She was focused entirely on the archer, her bow drawn.

     The leader of the group had reached the fallen traveler, a few short body lengths from Hamut’s position. He raised his sword for a killing blow. Now, said the wolf spirit. Now. In one fluid and easy motion, Hamut stood and flung his knife at the man, who lurched as the blade buried itself just below his right ear. He dropped his sword and tried to bring his hand up to the knife, but seemed unable to reach it, his arm uselessly waving in the air before he crumpled to the ground. At the same time, Yad let loose an arrow at the archer, who had already prepared his bow for another shot. Hamut turned to see the archer’s head snap back as Yad’s arrow pierced his left eye. The third man, startled by Hamut’s sudden appearance, was slow to react. He watched with dismay as the archer fell, looked in the direction where Yad had hidden herself, then stared for a long moment at Hamut, as if he were assessing his options. Then, sword raised, screaming unintelligible words, the man began running toward him through the long brittle grass.

     Hamut drew his second knife. “The spirit of the wolf is with us!” he shouted, voicing the traditional battle cry of his people.

     His opponent moved more swiftly than Hamut would have thought, and was almost on top of him before he could hurl his knife. Not waiting to see the result of his throw, Hamut made a quick dive and roll to his left, just as the sword came crashing down on the spot where he had been. He finished the roll by springing to his feet with his third knife in hand, leaving the wolf pelt behind in the grass. No further action was necessary. The man was on his knees, his sword beside him while he clutched at the hilt of the knife protruding from his throat. As he did so, an arrow struck his left ear, the force of it pushing him over to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

     Hamut looked up to see Yad advancing toward him.

     “Your first kill is dead,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as she came closer. “I’ll go check on mine.”

     “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, pointing at the arrow. “He was dying. I could’ve handled it.”

     Yad shrugged. “Oh, I know. I wasn’t trying to help you. Actually, I missed. I was aiming for that metal bowl he’s wearing on his head. I wanted to know if an arrow would go through it.” She tapped on the helmet with her knuckles. “Doesn’t look like it will.”

     “What about the traveler? Is he dead, too?

     “I don’t think so. At least not yet. I heard him moaning.”

     “Where’s D’rouk? He should have been trailing behind those three.”

     She stared at Hamut with hard eyes. “There can be only one reason. I’ll go back up the trail and look for him. While I’m at it, I’ll scout to see if there are any more strange ones like these. If I don’t come back, you’re on your own.”

     Yad extracted her arrow from the man’s head and wiped it on the dry grass.

     “Can’t even clean it off on his clothes,” she complained. “All that metal he’s wearing.”

     Yad jogged over to the fallen archer, putting a rough foot on his neck while she tugged out her arrow, wiping it off across the archer’s face and beard. She stopped for a moment to study the man’s bow before hurrying away. Hamut put his wolf pelt back over his head and shoulders as he watched her go, then retrieved his knife from the throat of his enemy. He had an idea how he would clean it later, along with his first knife. He walked across to the bodies on the trail. The traveler was still moaning, moving his arms as if he were trying to crawl away. The arrow that protruded from the man’s back appeared different to Hamut, longer than those his people used. Yad would not take that one. She never used an arrow she hadn’t made herself. Hamut would not remove it either. Sometimes to do so could hasten death, and he wanted the man alive a little longer so he could question him. After that he would likely have to kill the traveller himself, not out of cruelty, but out of compassion. His wound could not be treated, and he would die a slow, agonizing death.

     Hamut knelt down by the man’s face. He was breathing, but blood was seeping out of the corner of his mouth.

     “Who are you?” he asked. “Where were you going?”

     The man stirred slightly, staring at Hamut’s knee with bleary eyes. “Basian,” he said, giving his name. “Village leader. Need help. Wanted wolf people to help us.”

     Hamut struggled to understand Basian’s raspy voice. The language of the river villages was similar to his, but with different inflections and word usage. “Why would you want our help? We’ve been enemies for years!”

     “They surround us. The Waniot.” Hamut assumed this was their name for the strange ones.

     “No one getting out. Mean to kill us all.”

     “How is it that you escaped?”

     Hamut waited for the answer while Basian coughed up some blood. “Raft,” he said eventually. “Didn’t guard river. Should have…stayed on it. Afraid… Can’t swim… Thought…”

     “Raft? Where?”

     “Just back…there. Tied…” Basian stopped for a moment in an apparent attempt to gather his strength. With his eyes opened wider, he moved his head to look at Hamut’s face. “Help us!” he cried, his words slow and forceful. Then a shudder passed through him, his hoarse breathing stopped, and he lay still.

     Hamut went over to the other body beside the traveler and tugged out his first knife. “Waniot,” he said, trying out the strange sound of the name as he cleaned both his knifes by wiping them on the dead traveler’s clothing. “Waniot,” he repeated, talking to the dead warrior. “You are to be our new enemies, it seems. From what I’ve seen today, you may be more worthy opponents than these weaklings from the outside village. We’re sure to meet in battle again.”

     Worthy opponents indeed, Hamut reflected. They had approached in a battle-ready formation, spread out, though they were chasing an apparently unarmed man. The archer had hung back as a defensive cover, readying another arrow even before he could have been aware that anyone was lying in wait for them. And the last man was no coward. He knew another archer had taken out his, but refused to run or surrender. Instead he charged at Hamut, prepared to kill him or die trying. The Waniot were definitely warriors, the equal of his own people. Maybe even better. The thought unsettled him.

     Yad approached, moving effortlessly with a swift, flowing stride. Hamut was amazed by her agility. Though she was almost as old as his mother, she could still keep up with the fastest of their warriors.

     “D’rouk is dead,” she said, not even breathing hard as a result of her run. “Arrow in the back. The fool! He must have come out to the trail after the outside villager passed by, not waiting to see if anybody was following.” She shook her head. “We can’t leave him there. He should have a proper funeral pyre. We’ll have to carry him back.”

     “Not a good idea. We’d be moving much too slowly. There’ll be more of them coming when these ones don’t return,” Hamut said, indicating the body of the man he had killed. “Waniot he called them. They’re sure to pick up our trail easily.”

     “Then we stay and fight.”

     “There’s a better solution. The traveler they killed was the leader of the outside village. He said the Waniot had surrounded it and were going to kill everyone. He wanted our help.”

Yad frowned. “Surrounded the whole outside village? Must be a lot of them.”

     “We’ll have to find out. We can send a scouting party to approach the outside village from the western forest. We can’t use the trail again. They’ll probably be guarding it. Anyway, Basian said he escaped on a raft, but left it upriver a short distance. It must be just beyond where D’rouk had positioned himself. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. We can put him on that and let the river take us back.”

     “A garney day,” Yad muttered as they trudged up the trail to find the raft.

     Hamut took a last glance back at the dead Waniot. They would not be content to take over the outside village, he imagined. Sooner or later they would head down toward the other villages of the river valley. Then they would fight.

     A fight to the death, the wolf spirit said to him.

     Whose death? Hamut wondered.

     The wolf spirit did not say.