In An Age Before – Part 308
Now Háma led his hunters through the blizzard, cleaving to the thin patches 'twixt drifts where the wind had scoured the grass well 'nigh clean. He did his best to follow the path he had traced into his memory as he had looked out from the walls of Súthburg. They met none as they passed the dike, and amazed they were that their foes had set there no guard. The road leading from the fortress through the coomb was deserted. Then, through the maze of Dunlending shelters they slipped, silent as shadows amidst the swirling snow 'til finally they came 'nigh the foot of the eastward ridge, and then they began to climb.
Great was their hardship in that winter landscape of chilling cold and bitter wind. Swathed in scarves and heavy woolen garments, they trudged with slow determination 'neath their arms and the weight of their packs, each foot set with care before the other on a game trail leading uphill through the trees. By then the hunters had no fear of being revealed to their enemies for they could barely see the lowland behind them through the storm. The hours of darkness passed as with gasping breaths and gritted teeth they climbed, determined to succeed for the sake of their people.
Dawn broke on the 20th, and with his party, Prince Háma looked down into the coomb. In the last hour, the snowfall had trailed off and now the leaden morning light revealed the panorama spreading at their feet.
To their north lay the fields at the mouth of the coomb whither thin columns of smoke rose from a handful of the foemen's shelters buried in snow. Southward they espied the dike with the lines of the road and the Deeping Stream that pierced it, and before the dark fissure of Aglarond, the great wall and citadel of Súthburg looming dim amidst a haze of fog. They were amazed at how far they had come and hope filled their hearts. After a couple handfuls of trail mix to break their fasts they continued uphill, determined to set a camp and then begin the hunt.
O'er the next fortnight, the hunters stalked their prey with grim determination. In the uplands, they found roe deer, bighorn sheep, and even some starving boars in a dell where a creek still ran 'neath a sheet of ice they could break through. The deer and sheep they knew by their tracks, the boars by their rooting in the snow. All these they shot or speared and with a dozen to shoot, few animals escaped them once discovered.
Their greatest successes came during the first week when they took five roe deer after spooking several family groups off their trails and into deeper snow. They made no distinction 'twixt bucks, does, and young for desperate need drove them to shoot whate'er they could.
With their axes, they cut grass, sedges, and the upper branches of various shrubs. These they left to tempt the mouflon sheep with easy forage lying atop the snow, and when the creatures forced their way into drifts to graze, they shot them dead from downwind blinds. Háma and his Men slit their bellies, dumped their entrails to lighten their carcasses, and then dragged them to the cliffs o'erlooking the coomb where they dropped them down within the Deeping Wall.
From each carcass, they had taken sufficiently for their own sustenance, yet still, many hundreds of pounds of meat they were able to provide for the survival of their people. In the nights, Helm and Eadmundr, Fréaláf and Hild, looked up to the heights above the fortress and saw the twinkling flames of the hunters' campfire. Then they gave thanks that they still survived and enjoyed success in their hunt. Yet as the days passed, prey grew scarcer for the long, cold winter had been deadly to both Man and beast and the snow had spared few.
By 27 Narwain, their eighth day, Háma was leading his Men further afield. The party followed their prey south through the highland east of the Deeping Coomb and the few creatures they took had to be broken down so they could be carried back and dropped to the refugees who waited in the fortress.
Day by day, the exertion took its toll on the hunters, having to walk for hours through the snow whilst laden with kills and resisting the cold. They began to weaken and their concentration suffered, and their judgment was dulled as well. In such demanding conditions, only a small lapse could prove deadly.
On the 28th, they were weaving their way along a trail that skirted the tree line on the eastern side of Thrihyrne. The glare of the noon sun on the snow was blinding and through squinted eyes, the hunters forced their way forward. They had reached a bay 'twixt arms of the mountain and above them, sun and shadow split the upslope snowfield with a harsh, crisp line. As e'er, the wind blew down with cruel intensity.
Perhaps the daily demarcation of light and dark had weakened the layers of accumulated drifts. Perhaps somewhere above, a fissure had opened as gravity tempted the increasingly unstable fathoms deep powder to seek a new level. Perhaps 'twas simply ill chance that set the Men in the path of an avalanche.
There was scant warning. A few seconds' rumbling that grew to thunder was all they heard. Then, terrified glances upward revealed tons of snow leaping downhill towards them as if it were a scouring wave on a steep beach. Its violence filled the air with scintillating snow rather than foam or spray as it charged down, swifter than any horse.
Six Men, half the hunting party, were swept off the trail and into the depths of the bay. It happened as if in an instant, so abruptly that they had not even a chance to cry out. A few fathoms away, the six survivors stared in disbelief, too shocked at first even to give thanks for their own deliverance. As the rumbling died away and the fresh field of snow settled into a simulacrum of stability, they sat or knelt on the trail and wept for their lost friends. There was 'naught else that they could do.
That evening, they stacked stones to make six cairns along a rock shelf on the edge of the cliff above the fortress where the sharpest eyed amongst Helm's host might mark them. Into each, they set a pennant made from a branch and a strip of green wool cut from an extra cloak.
What poor memorials for such valiant Men, Háma thought as he shivered beside his fire that night. No barrows in which these sons of Eorl may sleep the long sleep. I pray Béma they meet their sires and win honor amongst the greatest of them for they deserve no less. They gave their lives for their people as surely as any Rider felled by a foeman's blade.
The next day they turned from the highlands and hunted in a dell where they had taken boar a week aforetime. On this day, the 29th of Narwain, they found a small sounder of wild swine drinking from the stream and rooting in the freezing mud that their hooves had disturbed along its banks. The six hunters approached from downhill, partway up the sides of the dell, to remain downwind and away from the creek's path where they reckoned the surviving boars would flee.
Now with only six, all bore bows, but they also carried spears for 'twas not uncommon to have to finish off a wounded animal, and all pigs could be vicious. Better to have the distance of a spear for that rather than a sword. Therefore, ere they nocked arrows on their bowstrings, they each also planted a spear in the ground, upright and within easy reach. Then they chose targets and drew.
When Háma released the first arrow, the other five hunters loosed in rapid succession. Four of the swine were struck, two to their deaths and another left thrashing on the ground. The fourth charged with the rest of the sounder as they bolted. Most fled downstream as expected, but several ran partway up the inclined sides of the dell and one, a large matron with an arrow in her shoulder, fixed her charge on the hunter lowest on the slope.
In a panic, he dropped his bow, snatched up his spear and barely managed to raise it towards the charging suid. The point gouged into the animal's flank at a poor angle, the shaft shivered with a sharp 'crack', and then the swine gored the hunter with her tusks.
With a cry of pain and rage, he swept his sword from its scabbard and hacked frantically at the pig, cutting her deeply about the neck and head as she tried to shake the spearhead and the still-attached length of splintered shaft from her body. Finally, the hunter fell forward, driving his blade through the animal's side and into her heart as he collapsed atop her.
By then, a second arrow had finished the struggling third swine and the hunters hastened to aid their fallen comrade. Alas, there was 'naught that they could do. He groaned and rolled onto his back, leaving his sword impaling the matron as she made weak trotting motions ere her legs stilled. The Man held his gored belly, trying in vain to staunch the gushing flow of blood.
Háma came and pressed his own hands to the wound. Their eyes met and both knew he would not survive. He was too gravely wounded to mend and not even the king's healer could have changed his fate.
"With hickory I should have shafted my spear," he mumbled, "yet thrice it held in battle against Dunlendings."
"Ash is fine wood for spears shafts, my friend. This day thou simply met a greater pig," the prince said. The stricken hunter tried to chuckle in response, but blood came from his lips.
"I have fought my last…and was worsted by a she-pig," he said. "I can hear my sires laughing."
"Thou sought to provide for thy people and thy foe lays vanquished. Thy sires shall honor thee," Háma told him. They were the last words the Man heard.
The prince received no response. The flow of blood had ceased with the stilling of his heart and Háma cleaned his hands in the snow ere reaching up to close his eyes. Then he drew the hunter's sword from the swine's side, cleaned it on her belly fur, and set its hilt in his hand.
Whilst their carcasses were still warm, the hunters butchered the boars, disemboweling, flaying, and hewing off heads, hocks, and tails to lighten them so much as they could. Then, being only five and having four carcasses and the body of their fallen friend to haul back to the ridge, they cut saplings and constructed travois that could be dragged with much labor through the snow. 'Twixt the poles they lashed the boar hides and the hunter's cloak, so to support their loads. 'Twas all uphill from the dell and night had fallen ere the exhausted party returned to their camp o'erlooking Súthburg.
After dumping the carcasses into the coomb, they collapsed inside their shelter, only taking time to kindle a fire ere falling into a deep but troubled sleep whilst huddled in their bedrolls and cloaks. Eleven days had passed since leaving the fortress and they had lost seven of their original compliment of twelve. Their hunting would be more difficult, more dangerous, and less productive thereafter.
In the morn, they woke and built a cairn for their fallen comrade. For the first time, it held a body rather than only the memories of Men lost in an avalanche. The broken shaft of his spear served to hold the pennant that whipped o'er his grave and its point flared in the sun, its glint visible from the watchtower of Súthburg. The five surviving hunters divided his remaining arrows.
They spent more time that afternoon arranging the poles from the travois to enlarge their camp. 'Twixt parallel rows of stacked stones, they wedged the saplings at an angle to form an A-frame, and then lashed together their crossed upper ends. O'er this frame, they laid the hides of the boars and some deer, and then buried it all in a couple feet of snow. It formed a protective vestibule opposite the entrance of their existing shelter, a windbreak to hold their packs, bows, quivers, spears, and a stack of firewood.
'Twas just as well that they had spent the effort when they did, for that eve, more snow began to fall. The hunters spent the night of 30 Narwain in retreat from another half-foot of powder, bored, cold, and worried. At least, now that their numbers were reduced, they could all find comfortable space 'round the fire.
The morn of 1 Nínui dawned clear but bitterly cold, and if the winter were to break in a fortnight as they hoped, it gave no sign. They spent a short while stamping down the fresh snow in the most traveled areas of their camp; to the wood pile, the latrine, the head of the path downslope to their hunting grounds, and to the o'erlook wherefrom they dropped meat to their people. That done, they retired to their shelter to reheat a parfleche of oatmeal with which to break their fasts.
Afterward, their sense of duty drove them out into the bitter morn's chill. Shivering 'neath their layers of woolen shirts, tunics, trousers, and cloaks, they took up their bows and spears and went hunting. If they enjoyed any blessing that day, 'twas that the new snow was light and made walking easier than if it had been dense and wet. It also kept their boots and feet drier, for wet feet in freezing weather could become a matter of life or death.
Following their bitter experiences with the avalanche and the labor of climbing up from the dell, they chose to stalk mouflon along the ridge tops in the highlands. They reckoned that the mountain sheep would be more easily tempted by forage lying atop the snow now that 'twas more deeply buried and they deemed their chances good. An hour trudging uphill brought them to a col with many outcroppings where they had enjoyed success aforetime. Soon, they had marked tracks.
Háma and his hunters dug down through the snowpack with their gloved hands and cut grass, sedges, creeping thyme, and the tops from divers species of shrubbery. These they left strewn atop the stony ground and then waited downwind with their bows amongst the outcroppings.
Now it took a couple of boring, shivering hours ere the sheep made their appearance as they circled through their range. As aforetime, 'twas a herd of mixed-age rams, but this time, they numbered just o'er a dozen.
It seemed the season had been hard on them, for they were skinnier than their kind was wont, even during a normal winter. 'Twas good fortune for the hunters, for mouflon normally foraged at morning and evening, but the scarcity of exposed edibles had forced them out during the mid-afternoon when they would usually take a rest. Like 'aught else in this land, the depth of snow had brought hunger to the bighorn sheep of the White Mountains.
If the prey numbers a dozen and one then the hunt ye should shun lest misfortune come, Háma muttered 'neath his breath. Each of the hunters knew that ancient adage, but desperate times called for desperate measures and they consigned the old wisdom to empty superstition. After all, 'twas meant for normal hunting parties of a dozen.
They let the sheep eat 'til the forage was well 'nigh gone. Those not taken would live longer for it, perhaps surviving 'til their next hunt. Being a party of five, they sought to shoot only five of the mouflon for 'twas all they could carry back. Slowly and carefully, they rose to clear the rocks with their bows, and then they drew and took aim. Good fortune and practiced skill guided their arrows that day and five animals dropped when they loosed their shafts.
But there were another eight sheep and all of them panicked. They bolted through the outcrops where the hunters stood, heedless of 'aught, and with their mass and their horns, they struck down two Men without any thought of revenge. The hunters were simply in their way. Then they were gone, leaping from rock to rock and disappearing into the broken ground amidst the snowdrifts and exposed stone.
Even whilst lightened by hunger, still each animal weighted 'nigh twelve stone. In their wake, two Men were stricken, one with a dislocated knee and broken lower leg, the other with a shattered hip and thigh. They lay on the ground groaning and crying out in aguish with limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Háma and the other two hunters hastened to them, their prey forgotten.
If the prey numbers a dozen and one then the hunt ye should shun lest misfortune come.
For the hunter with the dislocated knee and broken shin, they were able to set the bone and splint the leg with two sections taken from a spear shaft. Two of his friends supported him on their shoulders when they walked back to camp.
Worse was the plight of the Man with the shattered hip. Trying to set his broken thigh proved so painful that he passed out cold and that was merciful. They splinted his upper leg in the same fashion as the other Man's lower leg, but tied the upper ends of the splint 'round his waist at the top so they could lay him on a travois of spears and drag him back to camp. He remained unconscious the whole way. At least this time, they were traveling downhill.
Only after the wounded hunters were as comfortable as they could be did Háma and the other two return to collect their kills. By then, the carcasses were frozen and could not be field dressed. The trio was forced to make two trips to haul the five carcasses back to the camp so they could be dumped into the coomb. Night had fallen ere they were done and the hunters gathered 'round their fire for another cheerless meal, roasting a leg of mutton hastily hewn from one of the sheep.
That night, the only further treatment the hunters could offer their wounded was a tea of willow bark. Steeped for a half-hour after simmering for a quarter-hour, the deep burgundy decoction offered pain relief and fought inflammation. 'Twas not so potent, but far more available than a preparation of poppy sap and 'twas the only simple they had to hand.
If it cut the Men's pain by a quarter, that could be deemed a generous estimate. The hunter with the broken lower leg groaned and rest eluded him as he struggled to find a comfortable position in which to recline.
The Man with the broken hip slipped in and out of consciousness, crying out whilst awake and moaning in his delirium. His face was pallid and soaked in sweat even as his skin felt chill. 'Twas surely shock atop the physical damage that bedeviled him. 'Round midnight, they marked that his belly was rigid and distended. Even the lightest touch brought a scream of pain.
Háma traded glances with the other two and was met with downcast eyes and shakes of their heads. They deemed that a fragment of his shattered hip had likely punctured some organ or vessel, leaving the stricken hunter bleeding into his abdomen, and there was 'naught that they could do for it. They reckoned that by dawn, his suffering would done.
The prince remained awake that night, keeping the willow bark tea warm and feeding the fire. He was loath to call it a deathwatch, but 'twas just so. The hunter with the broken hip expired just ere dawn. He ne'er said 'aught, nor waxed lucid. He simply ceased breathing. Háma laid a hand upon his head and offered what blessing he could that his spirit would come with honor to the house of his sires.
Somehow, it seemed that the other three hunters sensed his passing, for shortly they awoke, one after another. The prince met their eyes with a shake of his head and they cast their glance upon their friend's corpse. A few words they exchanged in memory of his life, and then Háma and the two uninjured hunters lifted his body from the shelter and brought him to the growing row of cairns.
They interred him there 'neath a pile of stones with a view down into the coomb where he could keep a silent watch o'er Súthburg e'er after. The morn of 2 Nínui saw another pennant fluttering and another life lost to the Long Winter.
'Twas a somber start to the thirteenth day of their hunt. The mood in camp was morose with morale at an all-time low. Háma blamed himself for their misfortune and felt he had led his company poorly. Fate had obviously turned against them of late and perhaps he had beguiled himself into believing that he could make a real difference to the survival of his people. He knew doubt now and it gnawed at him, leaving him less decisive.
All three of the other hunters deemed that their own chances of survival were diminishing with each loss and each day that passed. The Man with the broken leg imagined being left alone in the shelter after the others met some dark and unforeseen fate, and there he would freeze or starve to death, depending on whether 'twas firewood or food that ran out first. Of them all, he alone now had no chance of returning to Súthburg.
Eventually, a grim determination was restored to their hearts, or perhaps 'twas a grim resignation, but for all their doubts, by nature, the Eorlingas were neither quitters, nor prone to despair. Without a word, the prince rose and tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, then went to the new vestibule and began moving split logs within reach of the Man with the broken leg. The two sound hunters rose to aid him. When he donned his cloak, pack, and girt his weapons about him, they followed his lead. None of them debated this decision; he was their captain and they had come thither apurpose.
Without words, they took the trail back to the col, to hunt the mouflon again as if for revenge. This time, they marched further, to a place whereat they had not hunted aforetime, and there cut forage for the sheep. Again they set their ambush downwind, but this time, they climbed high atop the outcrops, well above the sheep, so as to shoot down upon them. Then they waited in silence, daring the animals to show themselves.
After an hour, the mouflon came 'nigh, and they numbered eight. They were surely the survivors of the prior hunt. If they were suspicious of the fodder laid before them for a second day in a row, they showed it not. Perhaps hunger ruled them, or perhaps they shied not because each of the rams had escaped aforetime and this time, the place was different. It mattered not. As soon as they began feeding, Háma and his two hunters sent arrows into them.
Now unlike the ill-fated hunt a day ago, they maintained no silence. Once they began loosing their arrows, the Men shouted and cursed the sheep at the top of their lungs as if the beasts might understand. They screamed battle cries and prepared to shoot again as swiftly as they could, as if 'twas Orcs or Dunlendings that they opposed rather than just animals.
Startled by the sudden onslaught and the noise, the sheep froze for a fateful moment, allowing the hunters to shoot again. Three more were struck, though none to the death. Rather, they were sorely wounded and lay, kicking and thrashing on the ground as the last pair finally took flight.
From the height of an outcropping, one of the hunters actually had time to cast a spear at the fleeing mouflon, striking one in the hindquarters and causing it to tumble. In a fey moment, he leapt down onto a lower rock and then to the ground, snatching his axe from his belt as he landed. Then with a scream that would have frozen a foeman's blood, he hacked at the sheep's head and neck, raining blows on the creature 'til it died. He was still yelling like a maniac ere he dropped his weapon, bent o'er his knees, and panted to regain his breath.
Standing o'er the mutilated mouflon, he looked o'er and saw Háma cursing at the top of his lungs as he drove his spear o'er and o'er into the body of one of the sheep that had not died by an arrow. The third hunter was hewing the neck of another with his sword, screaming wordlessly as if possessed. The animals were long dead ere the Men stilled and stood, staring in shock at the violence they had wrought as tears streamed down their faces.
We have been taken by a madness and are become Berserkers! Háma thought in horror as he sat amidst the litter of bodies.
It took some time and many deep breaths ere tranquility returned to the hunters. The cold air helped. Strangely, they each felt lighter and freer after, relieved in part from their earlier doubt and despair. The outpouring of wrath had been cathartic and cleansing, as if their blind animal rage had restored a sense of balance in their hearts. Of course, they were not the kind of Men to be preoccupied with delving their own emotional states, and so with shrugs and sheepish grins, they set to work butchering their kills ere they froze.
Háma groaned and shook his head in irritation after disemboweling the mouflon he had stabbed so many times with his spear. The point had pierced its gut and intestines, spilling their contents and soiling the meat. He repeatedly filled the cavity with snow and rubbed away the waste matter, yet despite the added labor, he condemned himself not. He methodically did the work, feeling his calm returned.
The other two hunters were likewise occupied. They shook their heads at the messes they had made of their kills, but dressed the carcasses and prepared them for transport. They half-flayed each animal, tied the edges of the hides to paired spears, and then like beasts of burden, dragged the meat back to their camp. Their labor was great and their progress slow, but as aforetime, they were glad that most of the way led downhill. By that evening, they had hauled the seven mouflon back to their shelter.
After splitting off a side from one of the sheep, they dropped the rest into the coomb. 'Twas a wealth of meat, 'nigh fifty stone or seven hundred pounds that they sent to their people in Súthburg that night.
The hunters spitted a rump roast and with their injured comrade, waited with watering mouths as it cooked. The rest of their meat they cached in the snow 'neath a cairn of rocks to frustrate any scavengers like carrion fowl that might be drawn 'nigh. That night, they began to eat whilst the roast was still bloody rare, even the Man with the broken leg.
In Súthburg that same night, Fréaláf came to his father after seeing the carcasses that the hunters had sent. They had borne troubling signs.
"Father, a riddle vexes me this night," he said, and Eadmundr canted his head in question, bidding him continue. "Six and one-half carcasses of mountain sheep the hunters have gifted us this eve, yet their condition beworries me."
"How so, my son?" the Lord of Súthburg asked.
"They were mutilated, slain many times o'er judging by the wounds they bore. They seemed ill-treated apurpose, suffering violence far beyond what hunting would beg, as if Orcs had killed them for sport. If 'tis the work of Háma and his Men, then I deem it a dark-portent."
"Perhaps the hunt went ill and they were forced to defend themselves from wounded prey whilst cornered on the heights," Eadmundr said. "We cannot know."
"What thou say is true, and yet…each carcass bore wounds sufficient for many deaths," Fréaláf said, doubtful. "If I read the signs aright, 'twas the work of only a few, for four were shot dead as one would expect."
Again, the Lord of Súthburg cast his heir a questioning glance. He was curious now to hear what his son had seen; the testimony of the mouflon's flesh.
"Four died by single arrows, three cleanly whilst the fourth bled out more slowly. 'Tis the other three that trouble me. One bore many slashes from a sword, another both a spear wound and o'er a dozen gashes from an axe, and the last bore thirteen stab wounds from a spear."
"That does sound excessive," the lord said, shaking his head. For several moments, he sat silent in thought, and then he asked, "How many cairns did the watch count this eve?"
"Eight, father. Háma's company can number no more than four now."
"And they managed to slay seven mouflon rams in a day of hunting," Eadmundr mused. "I find that commendable, regardless of how it came to pass."
Fréaláf nodded in agreement with that, though it checked his worries little.
"I shall hope that they have not run out of arrows," he said, "or soon we may see prey ripped apart with bare hands and teeth."
Eadmundr nodded to his son. They could both imagine the prince and his company after a fortnight, now reduced by two in three, sitting huddled in the cold 'round a small campfire and expecting 'naught more than to die upon the frigid heights. They each wondered if the prince was amongst the living or the slain. Privation, isolation, dwindling hope, and the unmeetable demands of a desperate duty…t'would leave any Man at risk of losing his mind, of becoming a Berserker. Yet neither spoke of these things aloud, for giving voice to a fear could make it real.
The morn of 3 Nórui dawned 'neath leaden skies though the hunters smelt not that taint of moisture in the air that spoke of snow. They rose, cut some slices from the roast for their breakfasts, and made sure there was ample firewood, water, and willow bark tea within their injured companion's reach.
The 3rd marked the fourteenth of their hunt, the end of their first fortnight in the highlands, and as they had on the last day of the past week, they would not seek prey. Instead, they would venture downhill to the tree line to seek deadfall for their fire. If fortune favored them, they would spend an uneventful day cutting and splitting a week's worth of firewood and doing 'aught else required for the maintenance of their camp.
A week aforetime, on 26 Narwain, they had still been a company of twelve and the work had taken 'til mid-afternoon. In the past five days, they had lost six to an avalanche, one to a boar, and one to a ram. Another lay stricken from such labors. So today, they numbered three and the fallen deadwood nearest to their camp had already been collected a week ago. They expected a full day of labor and hoped they would not have to cut a standing trunk, for the ringing of their axe would be heard far and wide. Even so, they brought their woodsmen's axe and a steel wedge.
Now they set off downhill towards the tree line and soon began gathering fallen branches and limbs. Many trips back to their camp they made with armfuls of split logs and cut limbs. After they had stacked wood inside for the Man with the broken leg and then refilled the vestibule, they began adding to the woodpile that they had arranged as a windbreak shielding the uphill side of their shelter. With each trip, they estimated how many days they could feed their fire.
'Round noon, they kenned that they would needs revise their reckoning. Whereas aforetime they had allowed their fire to die during their days out of camp hunting, now they had an injured comrade. The fire inside their shelter would needs be kept kindled all day and night lest he freeze. Háma and the two hunters who were still sound of body deemed they would have to roam further downhill to gather the necessary firewood.
By late afternoon, the trio of hunters reluctantly admitted that they were still o'er two days short of a full week's worth of firewood. They faced the choice of ranging beyond three furlongs for deadfall, or felling one of two dead pines within a furlong. Of course, there were pros and cons to each course.
Going further to collect deadfall would be safer, but carrying armfuls of split logs 'nigh half a mile was a great expenditure of labor and very time consuming for the return it offered. Felling a dead tree was a hazard, yet only a dead tree could provide firewood already seasoned and easy to burn.
The dangers of cutting down a snag were many. Such a tree might or might not be hollow, bug eaten/infested, or rotten within, and any of these causes could render the labor a waste, for little sound firewood would come of it.
Dead trees also meant dead or rotten limbs and bark, a potential arsenal of clubs and bombs o'erhead, and liable to fall with no warning at even a single stroke of an axe. A seemingly small branch in the crown might not actually be so small when seen on the ground, and falling from a great height could easily break an arm or shoulder, or crush a skull. Worse, such a falling limb might strike the boughs of living trees as it dropped and deflect or rebound off of them at an unexpected angle, making the hazard yet more unpredictable.
In cutting any tree, the loggers cut notches from opposite sides of the bole to leave a narrow residual thickness spanning the center of the trunk's breadth that acted as a hinge, its position determining the direction of the tree's fall. With dead trees, that hinge was potentially weak, unreliable, or in the case of a hollow or rotten tree, absent. And there was no guarantee that the trunk would remain intact as it fell. 'Twas liable to fracture, splinter, or even shatter upon impact, forcefully scattering splinters and fragments like an explosion.
The season too increased the danger. While winter allowed woodcutters to fell trees whilst bare of leaf making their forms easier to see, it also brought snow and ice that made footing hazardous. Slipping whilst swinging an axe could cause a grievous injury and hampered any urgent retreat when the tree began to fall.
Despite these challenges, Háma's party decided to examine the two dead pines nearest to their camp, hoping that at least one could provide the firewood they required. Both were within a furlong of the camp and of similar size, with trunks 'round a foot thick and heights 'round six fathoms. They were thus relatively young specimens, for this species would mature with a height of up to nineteen fathoms and a trunk 'nigh five feet in diameter. They were slow to grow and survived up to the tree line in the mountains¹. Why these two had died, the hunters could not say. ¹(Description intended to fit Pinus cembra, the Swiss Stone Pine, a slow-growing type of white pine native to the Alpine and Carpathian highlands. These trees can live 500 to 1,000 years.)
The first tree they checked was closer to their camp but grew 'nigh the rim of a ravine. To fell it, they would have to work at the edge of a steep drop and that would mean remaining closer to the trunk as it fell. Retreat would be unavailable on the side away from its fall, a very dangerous situation.
A few careful taps with the heel at the back of the axe head revealed solid wood, not the drum-like sound of a hollow, rotten trunk. The base of the tree at least was sound. There was good firewood to be had.
A glance up showed a barren crown of branches devoid of needles and cones. The tree had been dead many seasons; long enough for wind and weather to strip it of foliage and twigs. They also marked plaques of lichen on the trunk, the chalky, blue-green patches showing clearly against the brownish-grey bark.
After weighing all factors, the Men decided to check the second tree, somewhat further from their shelter, but standing on a manageable slope amidst a copse of its own kind.
Immediately, they marked its broken crown. The uppermost trunk and branches had snapped off at a jagged angle. The hunters had collected those parts a week aforetime and the wood had been burnable. Still, 'twas an ill-omen for it foretold a rotten core, hollow and easily broken.
A few taps with their axe confirmed this. The bole was hollow as a drum, and what remained standing was but a shell. With a groan, they abandoned it, for the danger in felling it and the poor quality of the firewood taken from it together dissuaded them from expending the effort. They turned back to the first tree despite its hazardous position.
After returning to the first pine, they circled it, carefully seeking any evidence of holes. Where branches fell, the open breach in the bark would invite both insects and rot. Oft times, such holes were excavated by owls and other birds seeking a sheltering site for their nest. This was true of living trees as well as snags. Yet as if fate begged them to fell this tree, they found 'naught suspicious.
Finally, their survey complete, Háma looked to his remaining two hunters with a questioning expression. They traded nods of agreement. Despite the inherent jeopardy of its position at the edge of a ravine, they would try to fell this tree. They needed the wood and 'twas their best prospect. None of them gave thought to what they would do when they again sought firewood a week hence.
Being their leader, the prince took the axe o'er the protests of his Men, and with great care, swung it at the uphill base of the tree. They would first cut away the wedge of wood on the side in the direction they intended the trunk to fall. In this way, they hoped to assure that the trunk would not fall into the ravine if it gave way untimely, and if it did, at least its fall would be more predictable.
As soon as his axe struck the wood, Háma jerked his head up, looking warily at the branches o'erhead. Yet there came no 'crack' of breaking wood and no branches fell. With a few words, he charged one hunter to keep watch on the crown and the other to keep watch on the trunk. Hoping then for sufficient forewarnings of falling 'widow makers', he began to swing his axe.
Now chips flew as Háma chopped away the wood to cut the uphill notch and 'naught fell to stay or injure him. Being softwood, the wedge he cut out of the pine's trunk rapidly grew. The axe rang and the wood gave all assurances of being sound and solid. Finally, with sweat on his brow despite the freezing air, the prince gauged the depth of his cut and deemed it sufficient to form one side of the 'hinge'. He retreated beyond the shadow of the crown, set the axe head on the ground, and rested his hands upon the handle's end, catching his breath and eyeing the tree.
It stood unwavering, the notch cut just 'nigh halfway through, and the three Men considered this highly encouraging. After a while, the prince handed off the axe and the next hunter walked to the opposite side of the tree so that he stood at the edge of the ravine. Háma had taken his place, carefully watching the crown for loose or falling branches. With a nod that he was ready, the hunter swung the axe and it bit cleanly into the trunk.
Stroke by stroke he enlarged the cut on the opposite side of the bole, chopping the notch that would open as the tree fell. Again, it seemed that the branches would remain attached and on high as the notch grew deeper and wider. Halfway through, he took a break and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then he hefted the axe and resumed his chopping. Soon, the notch was done and he stood back, but the tree fell not, nor did they hear 'aught of creaking or the tell tale thumping of wood fibers tearing free in the hinge. It seemed the snag wished to stand a while longer.
The trio of hunters stood 'round, watching and waiting, and straining their ears for any sign that the tree would fall. Instead, it stood as if defying them, with only an inch of heartwood at its center supporting its bulk. The longer it remained, the more astonished the hunters grew.
Finally, after trading glances and shrugging, the Man with the axe re-approached the tree. He raised the axe and with the butt, gave it a moderate blow above the notch that accomplished 'naught. Exasperated at its recalcitrance, he turned the axe and took a hearty swing. The blade struck the hinge squarely and bit deep.
Immediately, the trunk gave an earsplitting 'crack' and began to tilt uphill as if t'would fall just as they hoped. At the same time, its sudden lurch caused a shock to leap through the frozen wood as its angle from vertical increased. This angle, like an upside-down pendulum with its fulcrum at the bottom, meant that as the top swung from vertical, the distance traveled grew increasingly the higher up it went. Where the stress from the movement proved too great for the strength of the dead wood, the topmost two fathoms of the trunk broke free.
Inertia initially coaxed the freed crown to remain in position as the matching end of the trunk fell away, and when it too began to fall, it fell not straight down. Instead, the lower end where it had been attached swung to follow its attachment point on the trunk and the rest began to tumble in the opposite direction, towards the edge of the ravine.
Watching the crown break free, Háma cried out, "Branch!" at the top of his lungs. Then he watched in horror as the Man with the axe froze by reflex for what seemed an eternity ere trying to leap aside.
On the icy ground, the hunter's boots bit not and his feet slipped out from 'neath him, dumping him onto all fours with the axe still clutched in his hands.
The trunk too reacted to the loss of its upper third, its fall becoming a twisting jerk to the side.
In the next moment, rather than tilting o'er the 'hinge', the bottom end of the trunk tore free and kicked out to the side. The Man tasked with watching the trunk was too startled by this turn of events to even react, and truth be told, he had not even a heartbeat's grace anyway. The lower end of the trunk struck him down as if t'were a club in the hand of a great cave troll.
The upper section of the trunk made a half-flip, turning upside down ere sweeping the crouching Man with the axe off the slope's edge and into the ravine ere it tumbled down after him. 'Twas so sudden that he went without even a scream.
In shock, Háma watched as the trunk hit the ground and rolled a couple fathoms downslope, just far enough to crush the Man it had struck. In the aftermath, he stood gaping in amazement, barely believing what he had seen.
Eventually, the second son of Helm went to look into the ravine, for there was no question that the Man crushed by the trunk was dead. Háma just felt numb, still in shock from the horrifying turn of fortune. From the edge of the ravine, he saw that the third hunter lay at the bottom of the ravine, and whether slain by the fall or by the upper trunk and cage of branches that encased him, he could not tell. But to add to his already immense sorrow, there was no way that he could scale those rocky vertical drops, encrusted with ice and snow. Without ropes and the aid of several Men, he could not recover the dead hunter's body. And somewhere 'neath the ruin of his friend lay the axe without which he could not free the other dead hunter from the fallen trunk.
He knew not how long he stood staring down into the ravine as the wind blew 'round him and the light grew dim. A fell day, a day of shed blood and dismal fate passed as the gloaming grew, the world fading to night as his spirit sank 'neath the burden of his failures. He simply could not believe how so much had gone wrong so quickly.
'Twas full dark ere the prince shook himself from his stupor. His fingers were numb and he could barely feel his feet. His heart felt as numb as his hands. Slowly, as if he were a wight, he staggered his way uphill, step by step, barely aware of his surroundings. As a Man bespelled by some sorcerous incantation, he trudged on 'til he came to the shelter. He barely recognized it.
When he entered, the Man with the broken leg looked at him in shock and asked whereat his companions were and would they come later bearing more wood. Háma looked at him as if he were a stranger. Without a word, he did off his cloak and sat beside the fire, staring blindly into the flames. Time passed and the injured hunter grew more fearful at his silence.
"Nay, they shall come ne'er again," he finally whispered, and said 'naught after. Eventually, he collapsed onto his back and fell into a tormented sleep.
On the morn of 4 Nínui, Háma rose not, but lay staring at the ceiling of the shelter. The hunter with the broken leg was beyond fearful by then, for it seemed his friends were lost and his lord had lost his mind. He laid some wood on the fire where the spitted roast had finally cooked through, and he hoped its scent would rouse the prince and call him back to the world.
The hunter soon marked that his lord's eyes were open, but he moved not nor spoke. The mood grew increasingly awkward 'til he could bear it no longer.
"My lord, pray have some roast," he said softly, "thou ate not yesternight." By this point, he scarcely hoped for a response.
Yet Háma shifted his eyes to the Man and replied, "No such appetites any longer have I, yet still there is a labor I must do."
"My lord, what betid? Whither came those who went with thee yestermorn?"
"Fallen, my friend. Fate took them in its cold hand. I must build their cairns else none shall recall them to their kin."
Ignoring the devastated look on the other hunter's face, the prince donned his cloak and gloves, tore two strips of green cloth from a tattered cloak, and then staggered from the shelter. He took wood from the vestibule and added it to the pile in the shelter. Next, he dug out the remains of the sheep. This too he gave to the Man with the broken leg, an act that set ice in his heart for it seemed his lord intended not to return.
Háma chose two branches from the woodpile and then made his way to the o'erlook at the edge of the ridge. For a while, he cast his glance down on Súthburg. Then he turned from the fortress and gathered stones.
The first cairn he raised and set a branch atop it with a pennant of green torn from a cloak whose owner no longer had need of it. Though it bore no name, he assigned it to the Man crushed by the trunk, and now the row of cairns numbered nine.
Stones for the second cairn he gathered, and with increasingly cold-stiffened hands, began to set them one atop another. Taller the cairn grew and this one he assigned in his mind to the Man swept off the edge of the ravine. As he set stone atop stone, he marked that he had run out of space on that high stony shelf in which to set any more. Yet two still remain alive and perhaps one shall have a memorial ere the last dies alone and unremembered.
That morbid notion occupied him a while and he imagined having to find a larger space on a different shelf for the body of the Man with the broken leg, for that cairn would hold a body. No memorial shall be laid for me and that is fitting, for I was the leader of a failed company lost in the snow, he thought. He shook his head at that depressing conclusion and went to set the branch with its poor strip of green cloth into the top.
With a grunt of effort, he went up on tiptoes to reach, and he planted the bottom end of the branch amongst the rocks of the cairn. Then, as he pressed it down into the stacked stones, his feet slipped on the icy ground and his legs shot out, dropping him face first onto the bare, frozen shelf.
The blow stunned the prince and he felt his front teeth shatter against rock, then he realized that his legs had 'naught 'neath them. For a moment, he kenned that he was sliding and in the next moment, he was in freefall looking up at the sunny sky. Oh for crying aloud!
Háma struck the cliff face twice whilst dropping fifty fathoms. Mercifully, he was unconscious when his broken body lodged in a crevice hidden halfway down the eastern ridge of Thrihyrne, being then equally three hundred feet above the Deeping Coomb. Thus, the prince ne'er returned to Súthburg, and with his company he was deemed lost in the snow on an ill-fated mission to find supplies. The Man with the broken leg either starved or froze to death ere spring, but none e'er learnt for sure.
By noon on 4 Nínui, the presence of two new cairns had been marked by the watch and that tiding came to Marshal Eadmundr and Helm King.
"Ten they number now, my lords," Fréaláf said to his father and uncle, a somber expression ruling his features. "Alas, we cannot know which two hunters yet survive."
Eadmundr nodded to his son for that grievous tiding, but Helm clenched shut his eyes in pain. Somehow, by some parental sixth sense, he knew in his heart that his son had perished. Strangely, he had felt 'naught at the passing of his heir Haleth a half-year aforetime, but then, he had no reason to suspect it. Neither had he felt 'aught regarding his daughter.
"No more shall they hunt the highlands," he said, barely loud enough for the others to hear.
"That we cannot know, brother," Eadmundr said, for he still held hope.
"I know," Helm replied with certainty, "and I need not toss up the entrails of beasts as they do in Mundburg to divine the death of my son."
To this, the others could only remain silent, for they knew 'naught by which to gainsay or agree with him. After an awkward interlude, Fréaláf continued.
"The quartermaster reckons that in two days we shall have consumed the last of the sheep."
"I have heard tell that already, three of our elders have perished from forgoing their rations in favor of their children," Helm said, shaking his head. Eadmundr nodded in agreement, for that same grim tiding had come to his ears as well.
"Our only recourse is to stretch rations," Eadmundr said.
"Father, the soup is already little more than hot water with a vague taint of mutton," Fréaláf said.
"That I have also heard, yet what other recourse have we?"
"Send forth another hunting party," the young lord said. "I shall lead Men west this time."
Though Eadmundr disfavored sending forth his son, 'twas Helm that spoke against it.
"To the east, the highlands would be far more difficult to drop food from. The coomb lies not 'neath those heights as it doth in the east and game shall be scarcer should thou hunt on Thrihyrne. Only the lower lands host deer and pigs."
"Then I would hunt sheep on the heights," Fréaláf said, but the king shook his head 'nay'.
"Only at the last did Háma hunt the mouflon. Aforetime he sent roe deer and boar from the lower lands, and I reckon his labor was great in carrying the carcasses up to the ridge. When his party was reduced, he was forced to hunt sheep on the heights. I would be loath to lose thee and another dozen in an even more ill-fated sortie."
The young lord could not but bow his head to his king and accept his counsel. All he had said made sense and with but a moment's thought, he too could see the wisdom in his words. Still, the plight of his people sat heavy on his shoulders, heir of the Lord of the Westfold that he was.
"My lords, I know not what else to do." His voice sounded plaintive, even to his own ears.
"Sometimes, as Men there is 'naught we can do," Helm said. "If winter breaks in ten days as it hath aforetime, some shall starve but some shall survive." And to himself, he whispered, "May Béma have mercy upon us."
Hearing from the king's lips that there was no hope for a solution was hard for Fréaláf. A king was the caretaker of his people. It seemed that in one decision, Helm had both given up hope and consigned his hope to their god. As a son of the plains and a scion of the Horse Lords, 'twas a bitter pill to swallow that he could not take fate in his hands and wrest salvation by his efforts.
As hunger grew in Súthburg and each day brought tidings of more deaths, all marked the increasing grimness of their king. As suspected, no further food was forthcoming; Háma's hunt was done and it seemed that Helm's fears were confirmed.
'Twas at midnight on 6 Nínui that they first heard the Horn of Helm, a heroic note that blasted forth from 'nigh the gates and echoed back from the Deeping Coomb and the walls of stone surrounding the fortress. They reckoned that note was heard by their enemies beyond the dike, for it rebounded many times ere finally fading away.
On that night, Helm King put off his sword and forewent his shield. He carried forth no spear, only his horn as he sortied afoot from the postern door into the wintery night.
By dawn, Helm had returned unscathed, chilled but hale, whilst atop the dike the bodies of four Dunlendings stood, impaled upright on their own spears. Many of the soldiers saw this from the Deeping Wall and jubilantly wondered what fell ally their people now had that roamed through the invaders' camp. The sight raised their spirits and word was passed to the people in the caves where it raised their morale too. For the first time in weeks, they spoke of more than the winter and the lack of food.
Eadmundr and Fréaláf met with him that morn o'er bowls of hot water that tasted vaguely of mutton, and they marked that the king was grim, but with a fell light in his eyes.
"A new bane besets our foes," Eadmundr said to make conversation, for his brother-in-law had spoken not that morn. "A slayer of our enemies sent by Béma himself, I wager."
"Aye, four have been set as trophies atop the dike," Fréaláf added.
To their astonishment, Helm said only, "But they had no food to offer."
That night, the night of 7 Nínui, when the horn sounded again at midnight, Fréaláf was watching from the doors of the keep. He saw the tiny shadow of a figure slipping from the postern door and starting off 'cross the frozen fields heading towards the dike. In haste, he rushed to the Deeping Wall and from there kept watch for several hours 'til he saw more bodies being raised on the dike.
He was still standing watch when Helm slipped back into the fortress. I am freezing! Fréaláf thought as he watched his lord and king return weaponless to the keep. How did he endure the cold to slay those foemen and then return as if unaffected? Here at least the walls cut somewhat of the wind. Out there…
Dawn revealed five more bodies impaled on the dike, and this time, they were Corsairs. At their fast-breaking that morn, when Eadmundr remarked on it, (needlessly it seemed, for already that gossip was rampant in the citadel), Helm said only, "They too had no food. What, I wonder, do they live on? Can Men survive on snow alone?"
When they were alone after, Fréaláf told his father what he had seen. It seemed their king had taken up a solitary battle against their enemies, marching out at night to worst them with his bare hands.
"He seems unaffected even by the cold," the young lord said, shaking his head in amazement.
"'Tis said that at times, warriors forsook all comforts and lived only to worst their enemies," Eadmundr said, "and in a frenzy, slew them with 'aught they had, even teeth and bare hands."
Fréaláf nodded at his father's words, for they implied what he himself had come to suspect.
"Cold, hunger, the loss of a son, and the lack of any remedy he can muster against nature have left our king fixed upon the one foe he can assail, to the exclusion of any other concern."
The Second Marshal nodded in agreement, and in their present plight, what father could not imagine a similar sorrow and if hobbled by fate, a similar rage.
"Our king has become a Berserker. I fear for him," Fréaláf said. "I fear for us."
"'Tis a sad day when fate grow'th so dire as to drive thus a lord of the House of Eorl," Eadmundr said. "Would that Haleth were here to take counsel with his father."
They shared sad nods of agreement at that thought but had found no way to amend Helm's affliction and so they parted company for a time.
Now Fréaláf sat up late, bedeviled by the situation and fretting for his people. At midnight that night, when Helm's horn rang again in the Deep 'neath a thickening o'ercast sky, he made up his mind. No other answer to this plight have we bethought, and though he is charged with the defense of Edoras, Haleth is next in line for the crown should Helm fall. That appears more likely with e'ery passing day. Tidings too he should hear of Háma's fate. He must be summoned hither…I must summon him hither.
With his decision made, the heir of the Lord of the Westfold began packing a travel bag.
To be Continued
TheWizardofSoda: Thanks for adding "In An Age Before" to your story alerts list. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.
