I – Band of Brothers
Slowly. That was the way. If you rushed things, you made noise, attracted attention. A hunter could never afford to announce his presence to prey. That way hunger lay. A slight rustle. Ba'lan froze. What had it been? He cautiously checked his position. No. He hadn't brushed against anything. The long grass cloaked his form but he was carefully avoiding touching it. He pricked his ears, his bestial face contorting with concentration. If he hadn't been so close to his target he might have lifted his head and checked to see if his prey had caused the noise, but he couldn't risk it – not at this distance. Instead he listened, straining to pick out any other noise. There! A noise, just on the edge of his hearing. As faint and as distant as it was, it was sure to spook the deer if they heard it. Ba'lan suppressed the urge to growl with frustration. Ghurlag. It must be. The damned runt could never sit still, no matter what was at stake. It wasn't like he was being asked to circle the herd like Ba'lan – like he had to outmanoeuvre some of the most paranoid and skittish creatures on the plains. All the brute had to do was sit tight and stay quiet.
More rustling. Other noises, slight steps, half-bleats from worried calves. The herd was unnerved. Gods above! This was ridiculous. Ghurlag had already spoiled one hunt today, and that burrow-rat he had blundered after the day before shouldn't be forgotten either. Out on the plains, food was hard to come by, and Ghurlag wasn't making it any frekking easier.
Well, there was no delaying it now- the herd was spooked and on alert- there was no hope of Ba'lan getting any closer to them in these conditions. Best to just try his luck now, while they were still here. He bared his yellowed fangs and gripped his bone-blade. The now-familiar weapon had been crafted from the thigh-bone of a wild horse, honed to a sharp, rough edge. His legs bent, he twisted in the dirt, trying to locate a target. Perhaps a nice buck- something to make a trophy from. Or just food. Food would be good. Tension rising, he thought of his empty stomach and leapt.
Ba'lan cleared the long grass in a single bound. He had a split second to take in the herd and spot his prey before they reacted. He was fast, and focused with hunger. But the deer were born to flee, and they were faster than he. He came within inches of a startled doe, his bone-blade skimming over her back as she bounded away in alarm at his sudden arrival. The herd had come alive in an instant, tearing away from Ba'lan and skimming out into the grass. Ba'lan tore after them, but he had no hope now. It was up to the others.
'Hroooaagh!'
Ghurlag sprang from his hiding place with a huge roar, swinging his bone-blade in huge arcs. Very impressive, but totally futile – the agile deer bounded around him with ease, avoiding his clumsy attempts on their life like the gnats that plagued him at night did. Too quick, too hungry night, tonight. Or maybe not...
A moan of pain – a deer had fallen. Ba'lan roared his appreciation. At least one of the band could do something right, then. But Ribbald was always efficient, in his own way. He had stayed nice and quiet in the long grass, and waited until a panicked doe was right on top of him, before rising up and slashing a nice deep cut in her side. The creature flailed desperately on the ground, but Ribbald was already standing over her, his features emotionless. Ba'lan roared again in congratulation as Ribbald hacked into the doe's neck, severing its spine. He rushed over, Ghurlag falling in step behind.
Ribbald stood impassively over his kill, his blade already wiped clean on a handful of grass. The fragile body twitched violently a few times, still in its death spasms. Ba'lan gloried in the sight of such purity and dignity being bled away by his brother's actions. Talking of blood... Ba'lan threw aside his bone-blade and fell to the ground by the deer's side, beginning to lap up the ebbing lifeforce like a youth suckling from his mother's teat. The nourishing fluid tasted good – he could feel it flowing down his throat, restoring the strength he had lost these last few days.
Across from him Ghurlag knelt at the creature's neck-wound and began to do the same, slurping noisily. Silent as always, Ribbald bent over and made a cut in the creature's side so he too could share in the deep red fluid. Ba'lan felt slightly uneasy as he realised he had taken the first share of what was actually Ribbald's kill. There wasn't much room for etiquette in the wild north, but this would have been cause for a challenge in any other situation, with any other gor. Then again, Ribbald wasn't normal. He was a warped one- he had been that way since birth. His face seemed to lack some muscles – he didn't display emotions like a truegor would. He never snarled in anger, nor did he smile. There were only the slightest tells to read his emotions from- small movements, twitches, his body stance. If you had been around him for his whole life like Ba'lan had, you learnt to read him. Most, however, found him an enigma. Of course the most significant effect of Ribbald's mutations was that the gor was completely incapable of speech. It wasn't that he couldn't form words in the Beast Tongue – though many gors suffered from that intellectual restraint, it was not what ailed Ba'lan's brother. Ribbald could not make sounds of any type, beyond a pathetic kind of wheezing or huffing. When he was younger, Ba'lan remembered Ribbald had once made a gurgling wail after being struck on the chest. It was the loudest sound he remembered the gor ever having made.
But Ribbald was a strong gor, if a little passive at times, and that qualified him well enough for brotherhood. Mutation held no fear for the Children of Chaos, and none found Ribbald's dysfunction alarming or even unusual. Ba'lan decided to make sure that Ribbald got the choice cuts from the meat, by means of an apology.
The blood flow was starting to slow now that three hungry gors were draining the corpse. Ba'lan wiped his mouth and stood up. He could see no sign of the rest of the deer. He doubted they'd find them again. That brought his mind right back round to Ghurlag.
'You were making noise' Ba'lan growled at his brother. Ghurlag looked up, rebellion open in his expression.
'Whut?' he snapped, blood dripping from his facial hair. Ba'lan glowered at him.
'While I was moving into position, you were rustling around, you idiot!'
Ghurlag stood up so he was on Ba'lan's level. In fact, Ghurlag was slightly taller than Ba'lan.
'I arnt no idiot, don't blame me if YOU spooked the herd'
Ba'lan snarled wordlessly at this attitude, and lashed out, his claws tearing flesh as the blow dropped Ghurlag to the floor. He was angry enough at his stupid kin-gor without being provoked. And Ghurlag's rebellious attitude was rubbing at him. He was the eldest of the three, and definitely the smartest. Ghurlag needed to learn his place.
And it seemed like he had. The stricken gor stood up slowly and submissively, the blood from his wound mixing with that he had been drinking.
'Learn to stay still' admonished Ba'lan. Ghurlag made no response. It didn't matter. Ba'lan had re-established his dominance. Now to divide up Ribbald's kill.
***
Somehow the meat seemed heavier than it had looked on the carcass. It was a common illusion, probably brought about by the slender frame of the deer. Ba'lan shifted the dripping mass on his shoulder, feeling the slickness of more blood seeping down his muscled back and collecting near the base of his tail. He paused and looked around. To his side, Ghurlag was stomping through the undergrowth, the same sullen look plastered across his features that he had had since the dressing-down over Ribbald's kill. Ribbald was a few paces behind, carrying the largest load.
Always seemed to be the way. Ba'lan tried to balance out Ribbald's passive nature, but his self-interest always seemed to get the best of him. At least he tried though. He shot another glare at Ghurlag, who was swinging a leg around absently and stomping on some bug on the ground. Ribbald's other kin-gor would have no qualms about letting him do all the work. For a moment Ba'lan wondered how far Ghurlag would be able to push before Ribbald rebelled. That would be an interesting sight.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had bigger issues to wrestle with. The most pressing issue, for once, was settled. They had eaten their fill at daybreak as they tore apart the deer carcass, and there was enough left on their backs to keep the three brothers going for a few days – over a fortnight if they starved themselves. That would be long enough for them to find something else. Caribou herds were around somewhere – they had been following the trails for a while.
That was part of the second issue. The brothers had been drifting ever southward since they had been forced out of the herd, up in the mountains, for no other reason than the fact that food was easier to come by, the further south you went. That was one of the reasons the Children of Chaos pushed southwards so relentlessly. North, past the old herd in Norsca, in the Wastes, there were only a few sources of sustenance, and none so easily subdued as the meal Ba'lan had slung over his shoulders. He was not afraid of conflict by any means – he had fought bravely in the old herd's raids on Norse villages, but the harshness of an environment that forced you to hunt your own kind for food was something he cared not for, even if the brothers could have made their way past the Sea of Chaos into those daunting lands.
The other side of that coin, though, was that down here in the south, Ba'lan and his brothers were further from the grace of their gods. The deer herd they had stalked at dawn had shown no sign of the mutations that normally marked creatures within the realm of the Ruinous Powers. Ba'lan was as devout as any of his race, and the distance from his gods was discomforting, even knowing as he did that he could never truly be beyond their reach. Norsca was not part of the Wastes proper, but it was close enough for a true Child of Chaos to feel the dark winds guide him. Ba'lan missed that cruel comfort.
The south also held other, less spiritual dangers. Ba'lan remembered the tales told by some of the older gors in the old herd. On the other side of the Troll Country he and his brothers now roamed lay the human land of Kislev, where the country was patrolled by feirce horse-warriors. Ba'lan didn't know much about normal humans, but the old gors had spoke with something like respect in their voice when they mentioned the warriors of Kislev, and that was enough for him to be wary. So he had to find a balance. It was his responsibility, as the leader of this pitiful herd.
Suddenly he realised what was happening. He was letting himself get caught up in weak, fallable thought again. He snarled to himself gently and started walking angrily. He tried, Gods above, he tried! But he kept finding himself lost in his own mind. He was smarter than he should be, he knew. A hint of shaman, they had called it in the herd, and shunned him when he showed it in his speech. He had no magical ability- no link with the Gods, but he had a trace of cunning beyond a normal gor's capacity. It meant he could observe and understand what his fellows could not, but it also wore at his courage, he knew – he lacked the self-confidance true gors displayed in their every action. Ghurlag was the only one of the band of brothers who could be considered a normal gor – sometimes Ba'lan envied him that.
'East' he grunted to the others, as his temper cooled and he allowed himself to think once again. They looked at him quizzically. Their southward journey had thus far had a westward drift, pulling them out onto the plains.
'We have come too far from the mountains' he said, by way of an explanation. Instantly he regretted it. A leader did not explain in a beastman herd.
'I fear nothing' spat Ghurlag, 'Why should we run and hide in the shadows of the mountains we just left?'
Ba'lan growled and dropped his haunch of meat. It seemed Ghurlag was still not subdued from this morning. His hand strayed to where his bone-blade was strapped to his side by a leather belt, then away. He did not wish to kill his brother, however irritating the rebellious runt was.
Ghurlag dropped his load also, waiting where he was to see what Ba'lan would do. His oxen face was twisted in anger – it seemed that he was as irritated with Ba'lan as Ba'lan was with him. Ba'lan started to stride towards his kin-gor, noticing that Ribbald too had dropped his load, and was standing impassively by it. As far as he ever showed any emotion, he now seemed exsparated with the constant tension between his kin. The shaman-touched part of Ba'lan's brain agreed with that sentiment. The rest, however, was focused angrily on his other brother.
Lowering his head, Ba'lan began to charge, as if he meant to gore Ghurlag with his horns. Ghurlag did not flinch but dropped into the traditional wrestling pose, ready to attempt to stop the charge and tumble his brother. Ba'lan didn't know if his brother could pull that rather tricky move off, but he had no intention of finding out. At the last moment, he halted his charge, spinning on one hoof to lash out with his other. The surprised look on Ghurlag's face was nearly as satisfying as the solid thump of his cloven hoof driving into Ghurlag's chest, driving the gor to the ground.
But that wasn't enough this time. Ghurlag lept up with a roar, and tackled Ba'lan as he was recovering his balance. Ba'lan found himself slammed to the ground, Ghurlag's clawlike grasp pushing him down. He punched upwards, but the grip barely shifted. His brother was getting stronger, he realised. Four more punches to the gut, and Ba'lan was able to shift his weight enough to rise up off the ground, shoving his brother away with a roar. A flurry of blows rocked him. Ghurlag was getting faster as well. Anger pulsed through him, lending him strength. How dare his brother dispute his authority as eldest? His fist connected with Ghurlag's jaw. Hard. As he stumbled, Ba'lan shoulder-barged Ghurlag to the floor and leapt on him. Filled with fury, he began to pummel his brother's face bloody, the return blows bouncing off his chest growing weaker and weaker. He growled in pleasure as his fists began to draw blood. Suddenly a hand clasped Ba'lan's shoulder, restraining him. He snarled as he turned to face the new threat, then stopped as he saw it was Ribbald. He must have been a fearsome sight at that moment, snarling with rage as he sat astride his foe – but Ribbald couldn't have shown fear even if he felt it. The blank gaze of his brother's goatlike face spoke volumes to Ba'lan, and he turned to look at Ghurlag, his temper cooling as he realised his brother was unconscious, bloody wealts across his skull.
Trembling slightly as the anger left him, he got up and walked away a little. His heart felt uneasy – the tension between him and Ghurlag was getting worse – it had been since they had left the mountains – since they left the herd, in fact. That was probably the cause of it all. Out here, just the three of them, they were forced to interact much more than normal, and there was no-one to contend with but each other. In the herd, Ba'lan was aware that he and Ghurlag had got on much better. The three brothers had often had cause to band together to face off against other gors. Their position as the most junior beastmen in the herd (aside from the Ungors, of course) meant they were often pressured to defend each other. Perhaps all they needed was some company, some distraction. He turned around, much calmer. Ribbald was nudging Ghurlag with his hoof, and as Ba'lan watched, the silent gor reached down and pulled his kin-gor upright. Ghurlag looked a bit sluggish and dazed, but he was fine. He saw Ba'lan watching him and adopted a submissive posture – but not before a sullen look passed across his bruised features.
Ba'lan sighed quietly and decided it was best to pretend he hadn't seen it. He went and picked up his load, and the others did the same.
'East' he said, and they set out once more.
***
The deer-flesh crackled and seared over the fire. It wasn't strictly necessary to cook the meat, but Ba'lan had felt like a fire tonight. There was the risk that smoke might attract unwelcome attention from Kislevites or a northern warband, but the warmth would be worth the gamble. Ghurlag hadn't offered any complaint – he had even gathered the wood for the fire. Ba'lan suspected that he craved the warmth to soothe his bruises. He could sympathise. Since he had calmed down, his chest had started to feel decidedly sore where Ghurlag had battered it, and the heat of a fire might ease that pain.
Aside from warming his aches, he wanted the fire because he was planning on cooking the deer-meat before they wrapped it in leaves and tossed it in their pouches. Cooked meat seemed to keep better than raw meat. He knew that the Norse humans used smoke and salt to preserve their meat, but he had no salt and he didn't know how to smoke meat – at least he didn't know well enough to risk spoiling it. He had announced what they were doing before he had started cooking – hoping to avoid needless confrontation over him cooking more than they could eat. Ghurlag had merely snorted and gone back to squeezing blood from his wound. The Children of Chaos healed quickly, and Ba'lan knew that in a day or so his brother would be practically unmarked by their scuffle.
Ba'lan cast his eyes away from the fire and out into the night. Up above, stars twinkled brightly in a beautiful scar of light across the dark. It shone brightly here on the plains, but trailed away to the north. He wondered breifly if it meant anything. The Dark Gods often shifted the alignment of the stars when they had great plans afoot. Through the dark he could just about make out the outline of the mountains that they aimed for.
The reason he wished for the shelter of the mountains was simple. Out on the plains to the west they were exposed, and thinly numbered as they were, they would be easy pickings for Kislevite horse-riders or mounted marauders from the north and west. The mountains to the north were too close to the old herd's hunting grounds for them to head back that way, but the east was an unknown entity, where they might be able to carve out a living, as well as some small glory, perhaps. He didn't bother to tell the others his reasoning, though – it would only rack up more accusations of cowardice from Ghurlag.
He scuffed the dirt with his hoof. Perhaps he was a coward. Shouldn't a true gor race to find his foes? Should he even now be bashing on the walls of some Kislevite fort, daring the man-flesh to come out and face him?
'You're doing it again'
Ba'lan looked around. Ghurlag was watching him from where he sat on a jutting rock. For once his tone was not challenging.
'You're lost in your skull again' he said, accurately enough. 'Playing with your thoughts'
Ba'lan nodded, not sure where this was going. Ghurlag seemed amiable enough, for once, but that might all change. His brother stood and walked to stand next to Ba'lan. A heavy clawlike hand grasped Ba'lan's thick shoulder-muscles.
'You keep us on a good track, brother, and lead us to good food – I don't mean to question you more than you do yourself'
Ba'lan blinked in surprise. Had he knocked some sense into his brother when he pummelled him? This was more insightful and respectful than he remembered Ghurlag ever being before.
The hand on his shoulder guided him to face back at the fire. His brother pointed at the sizzling flesh. Ribbald was carving chunks of cooked meat from the joint and laying them on the
'We feast' he said, the Beast-Tongue word sounding unnaturally peaceful in Ghurlag's mouth. Ba'lan was a little off-balance by this odd behaviour, but the prospect of conciliation was temptation enough. And he was hungry, after all.
'We feast' he replied.