Basungs would have been expected, in this vicinity, if they dared to cross the Lothar.
“Proceed with your work,” said the leader of the Heruls.
The Herul at the sledge, putting the ax into the snow beside him, head down, the handle upright in the snow, broke to the side two, then three, of the ribs of the horse.
He then reached within the remains of the rib cage to draw the body out of the cavity.
In a moment the leader of the Heruls looked back toward the sledge.
“Utinn?” he asked.
The Herul stood by the sled, upright, waist deep in the snow, as it had drifted there, not moving.
“Hurry!” said the leader.
There was something odd about the attitude of the figure, as it stood.
“The head, the head is wrong!” said the Herul nearest the leader.
“Atlar!” said the leader.
The other dismounted Herul was reluctant to approach.
“Atlar!” snapped the leader.
The second Herul waded through the snow to his fellow. He put his hands on him, and lowered him, half to the snow. He moved the head, and looked back at the leader. “The neck is broken,” he said. “He is dead.”
“How can it be?” asked one of the Heruls.
“Utinn is a shaman,” said the Herul nearest the leader. “He has died to go to the land of spirits, and will come back, with knowledge, and secrets and medicine.”
“Utinn was not a shaman,” said the leader of the Heruls, looking about, uneasily.
“He will come back,” said one of the Heruls.
“One does not come back from broken necks,” said another. “It is not like the coming back from the magic death, the sleep death, the trance.”
“It is done by spirits, in the pay of the men of Ifeng,” said another Herul. Venitzia was known among the Heruls as Ifeng. Among several of the other tribes of the area it was known as Scharnhorst.
“It is the magic of the brothers of the festung of Sim Giadini,” said one of the Heruls.
The brothers had not discouraged such beliefs among the Heruls.
To be sure, it was unlikely the Heruls posed any great threat to the festung itself. They did pose, of course, a possible threat to festung villages.
“Utinn did it to himself,” said one of the Heruls.
“Then he is a shaman,” said another.
“He was not a shaman,” said the leader.
“How did it come about?” asked one of the Heruls.
“I do not know,” said another.
“I am afraid,” said the Herul nearest the leader.
The leader of the Heruls looked about. The country was desolate. The snow was white, and calm.
He then returned his attention to Atlar, the body of Utinn, and the sledge, half buried, half lost, half obscured, in the snow.
“Atlar,” called the leader of the Heruls, calmly, at the same time freeing the butt of his lance from the stirrup holster.
“Yes?” rejoined the Herul addressed, releasing the head of Utinn, which, loosely, as though tied on with rope, dropped into the snow, near the body’s left shoulder.
“Step back,” said the leader, quietly.
The Herul moved back, wading backward in the snow.
“Pick up the ax,” said the leader, quietly.
Atlar, uncertainly, not taking his eyes off the sledge, put out his right hand, as we shall have it, as is our practice, for the sake of ease, and simplicity, and grasped the ax.
“Lift the ax,” said the leader of the Heruls, patiently.
Atlar lifted the ax, with two hands, the tentacles wrapped about the shaft, back, over his head, puzzled, and looked to the leader, astride his mount, a few yards away, in the snow.
“Kill it! Kill it!” suddenly screamed the leader of the Heruls, gesturing toward the sledge, with its weights, with the point of the lance.
But at that very moment with a cry of rage and power, a cry, perhaps, even of war, a mighty figure, more than half again the size of a common man, seemed to rise up from the surface of the sledge, unexpectedly, suddenly, like lightning, like a springing lion, seemed to rise up even from the body of the horse, stark, dried, cold ribs of the horse, brittle and dead in the cold, breaking, bones scattering in its emergence, like a striking snake, like a lion, springing through sticks and straw, seeming to rise up, like a hurricane, like a lion, snow flung to all sides, and Atlar, a yard of a great blade emergent from his back was lifted over the figure’s head, impaled, the ax lost in the snow.
The figure stood there, in rage, snarling, surely more animal than man, for just a moment it stood there, the body of Atlar held high, squirming, bleeding, over its head.
But in that moment, in that brief instant, we may surmise, as would be expected of one trained in the school of Pulendius, it had located each of the Heruls.
Of the mounts of the Heruls about, of which there were seven, five of which Heruls were astride, and two standing nearby, without riders, in the snow, hobbled, their two front feet tied together with the reins dangling from their bridled snouts, the five shifted, startled, one bucking, throwing his rider into the snow, while of the two hobbled, one sank to its knees, squealing, a leg broken, and the other, trying to run, fell to its side, rolling, struggling, in the snow.
The war cry tends to inspirit and energize its utterer, but, perhaps more importantly, it can, if not anticipated, momentarily freeze the responses of the enemy or prey. The roar of the lion has a similar role, it would seem, at least in the latter particular. The moment of inactivity is often all the predator needs to effect his purpose, to strike a blow, to reach a critical point, to shorten a distance.
With another cry the mighty figure, snow thrashing about its legs, they forcing that great body through the snow, had hurled Atlar from the blade and rushed upon the nearest Herul and mount. An upward sweep of the great blade smote away the head of the horse, and it spun away, and there was a burst of blood which drenched the snow for yards about. The rider slid off the back of the horse. The mighty figure turned about, again, and again the blade flashed forth cutting through a Herul’s leg at the thigh, cutting even the girth strap holding the saddle and the horse, too, sank to its knees a lateral slash marking the blade’s passage. Another horse reared over the figure and the blade slashed out opening the belly, disemboweling the animal, the rider pitching away, scrambling up, in the snow. The horse thrashed, squealing, rolling about, its legs caught in the loops of its own intestines, its frantic movements tearing them out of its own body. The leader of the Heruls wheeled his mount away, some yards in the snow, and then turned it, his lance descendant, at the ready. He called to his men. There had been six. Utinn and Atlar were dead. Another, Utak, had crawled away, dragging a bleeding stump, leaving a river of blood in the snow. He had collapsed ten yards from the sledge. The rider who had been thrown, his horse bolting at the sudden, unexpected appearance of the figure, had now recovered his seat. Another rider, whose horse had been decapitated in the figure’s rush forward had hurried to Atlar’s frightened, hobbled animal, slashed the hobble, beat the horse to its feet, and mounted. The rider who had lost his saddle when his rearing horse had been fended back, with the fierce stroke of the terrible blade, some five feet in length, hurried, afoot, away from the sledge, to join the leader of the Heruls. The figure with the hilt of that terrible weapon in his two-handed grasp, panting, stepped away from the horse, which, wide-eyed, rolled about amongst its own intestines, these gushed forth upon the snow, bright, steaming from body heat, glistening and tangled, enmeshed.
Four Heruls there were then, three mounted.
One lowered his lance and charged.
“Wait!” cried the leader of the Heruls, but the fellow had already, with a cry of rage, kicked back with his spurs, and his mount, squealing in pain, was plunging forward through the snow.