From The Toll of Fortune: An Indo-European Origin Saga

Wolf and warband advanced westward and with each night the Hunter’s Moon drew near. Two days before it rose they reached the once mighty Old River. If the ease with which they forded it was any indication, Wolf had no doubt now of how desperate the drought was. Past midday they crested some hills that rose above its floodplain and beheld the first sign people in two days ride: a retinue of men atop a distant esker. The men sprouted as tiny umber spikelets piercing the smooth contour of the ridge against a smoky pastel background. More spikelets appeared. Wolf lead the warband further until he counted nearly a hundred men standing out in relief against the afternoon sky, most holding spears.  In sight of those men Wolf called the warband to stop and wait. The warband’s halt was noticed by the ridge-men as a sign of truce and a small posse descended from the ridge. It made no effort to hurry.

The posse consisted of about thirty men on foot, all armed with clubs, copper daggers and copper-tipped spears – unlike any the warband had seen. The warband, however, made no effort to dismount, save Wolf and Scorns-Pain who sought a parlay. Three men walked forward across dry grass to speak and the warband girded their belt-ropes and held-tight their daggers.

“Halt!” Cried the fore-man who’d come to greet them. “We are men of the Broad-Eave Hall. You pass into our lands without license. State who you are and your purpose.” The speaker was a full head shorter than Wolf and his voice rasped at each velar. Wolf was still familiar with the dialect and drew nearer to him.

“I am Wolf, son of Bear, and that is Scorns-Pain, Band-Father of the Swiftfeet of the Western Arēyan Clan. We travel from far to the east to meet a fate which has yet to be decided.”
Wolf’s cryptic words stymied the speaker’s mind momentarily and he continued speaking, “I have not heard of the Broad-Eave Hall. Are you new to these lands?”

The speaker flinched his tawny brow, skin flaking from his neck. “I am Kneel-Right. I command the army you see on that hill, and that which you cannot see beyond it. These are troubled times traveler, we do not brook passage across our lands no matter what reward Fate hoards for its reavers.”

“We do come reaving. We seek passage to the mountains to the west – that is all. From my memory these lands were settled with the Farm People of the Old River, and they were accustomed to welcoming men from the east, even those who ride.”

Kneel-Right scoffed a moment. “The Old River People are gone, those that remain now pay us tribute. As do all valley dwellers and Farm People – as you call them.” The last words he spat through his embouchure with disdainful resignation. “But let me discuss with my captains,” he continued to count the warband’s numbers and attempted to hide his alarm at the size of the beasts they rode. Wolf stared into the whites of his eyes, buffeted as they were with foamy bitot spots athwart the pupils. “Do what you must, Kneel-Right. We wait here.”

Kneel-Right returned with his two retainers back to the posse where they conversed. Wolf and Scorns-Pain scrutinized every gesture. There was a much animated discussion at first. Wise-Hard paid close attention as well, approaching Wolf on horseback. One by one several of the warband riders approached to inquire. The Broad-Eave posse soon noticed the horsemen’s shifting posture and Kneel-Right put an end to their bickering, and then returned to Wolf.

“Wolf and Scorns-Pain, riders of the East, pray, tell what is the purpose of your voyage.”
“We seek the western mountains and the answer to our sorrows: the brave dead of our Clan lie unburied and unsanctified there. We seek to recover them so they can rest with the Earth Mother.”

“Do you always travel in a mighty warband to reclaim old bones?”

Wolf did not take the bait of Kneel-Right’s trivializing candor. “These are troubling times. And we would go to any trouble to ensure that even the least of our Clan rests with our ancestors.”

“Then perhaps our aims are not at odds. We too have suffered great loss to this Blight you see around you. If you travel west of here you will eventually find the Broad-Eave Hall. There you will find my father, Kin-Lord of the Broad-Eave Hall, who was once called Famous-Spear. Mighty and powerful is my father, and lofty is the Ever-Flower Throne on which he sits. But these times test the mettle of even the strongest. Of late he has seen domains diminished and now threats from the wild descend from the mountains. Perhaps we share a common enemy; perhaps not. But my father is a generous man and he will reward any warband suitably that can sunder the serpent that strangles his long-halls under the eaves of the mountain.”

“And if we seek for your Broad-Eave Hall you will not stop our passage?”

“Your passage will be welcomed. I will send a herald. We would escort you ourselves but we must head south to the great river to defend against our enemies there. Fear not. Famous-Spear will welcome you warmly and I will do my best to meet you there.”

He and his men bowed low and turned around, jogging off without making too much haste.

“Do we take him at his word?”

“How do we find this hall?”

“Could this be a trap?”

Scorns-Pain offered wisdom: “If they intended to slaughter us they would have escorted us and used trickery. Nonetheless we should head north and seek this hall from a different route to avoid ambushes. We can find guides along the way.”

“Grass-Fox,” Wolf asked, “Do you recall these lands, this ‘Broad-Eave Hall’ or it’s ‘Kin-Lord’?”

“I cannot recall. My recollection grows dimmer since the Wolf Rite, and of these areas I remember nothing. Certainly nothing of a great dwelling where a kin-lord sits on a throne.”

Finally Wolf pronounced, “Very well, let us head north and then cut south-west and learn something of this Broad-Eave Hall along the way.”

*

The warband headed north along the east side of the great esker where Kneel-Right’s warriors had stood. They slowly climbed its slopes and rode its crest until night fall, then made camp somewhere high, keeping sentinels in a distant rearguard to watch for followers. Early the next day they set out north again, no one followed. By late morning Wolf lead the band back to the south-west, across another bourne, and through some dried sedge. Then by midday the warband came across a small group of travelers not unlike the ones who ate the horse meat in the raw. They were willing to converse but refused to guide to the Broad-Eave Hall. Later on they encountered more travelers heading east again none would help them find the hall.

“You must all be as mad as you look, riding atop beasts and all. It isn’t natural. And surely you are mad if you seek out the Broad-Eave.” Said one soul to Wolf.

“We come from there, we are lucky to be alive. We would never go back. These are no longer our lands – our Gods have left.” Told another.

“A great wickedness dwells there now,” spoke a man of the Broad-Eave Hall,  covered in sores and smelling of purulence. “A wickedness that has risen across these lands in tandem with their reach.

“They say the hall-dwellers are mighty now, but they have short memories – not long ago you would have passed it without notice. But now none dare stand against it.” Told a last traveler to Wolf.

The warnings were eerie. The truth of this hall would become evident soon enough – if only they could find a damn guide, Wolf thought.

At last, in a clearing, they came across a stumbler. A filthy wanderer lurching from leg to leg in drunken stupor.

“Ahoy wanderer!” Wolf cried, getting his attention without difficulty. “We seek a guide, and it looks like you seek a direction. Show us the way to the Broad-Eave Hall, and you can help yourself to this skin of mead.”

The drunk planted his feet and lifted his head to see his interlocutor and cheered when he saw the skin. He hobbled to his side but Wolf’s horse neighed nervously and the man kept his distance.

“Your beast knows not to trust a drunk. Smart beast!” The wanderer cheerfully said.

“He is smarter than you will ever know, drunk or sober. Take us to the Broad-Eave Hall and the skin is yours.”

The wanderer considered Wolf’s proposition like a gambler making his final bet, and cast his luck with the warband. “Give me a sip first,” he said holding out his crooked arm.

The others warily eyed the stranger, but Wolf tossed him the skin. The wanderer took a long, satisfying swig before handing it back. “That is good mead, friend. Now. Where to? The big Hall?”

“Yes, the Hall they call ‘Broad-Eave’”

“Very good.” He began walking briskly towards the south. “Why you would head there I cannot understand. Most everyone wants to leave that place. But a bunch of fine-looking warriors like yourselves must have good reasons. Even your beasts don’t seem to mind. I am called Stone-Stack the Warden of Hay, lately of the very same Hall!”

“A Wayward Hayward!” Rhymed Word-Tree to great delight among the weary warband.

“Wayward? My path is my choice. I am not wayward!” Hay-Stack retorted rhetorically.

“How come you so far from your fields, warden of the Hall?” Wolf asked.

“They do things a different way now. I did not like the new way. They asked if I would change my way. I said ‘Stone-Stack does not change’. They threatened to cut-off Stone-Stack’s stone sac. The next day Stone-Stack was gone. Better to starve, I say. That was many seasons ago.”

“You still wander. It seems you do not starve then.” Scorns-Pain ventured.

“I steal what I can, scrounge what I can’t steal. But even scrounging has become hard.”

The warband followed Stone-Stack’s lead south through a valley. Gradually the trees gave way to bare hillsides riven with gullies. Stumps covered the rills like beard-stubble. The sound of crickets gave way to the bony whistle of the wind. Over more creeks with nothing but stony paths to recall the rush of spring melts and summer pools. Some alder brush survived below a rock face where the roots grabbed at the edges. At last they came to a small gorge where an ancient yew tree still stood, ganglionated with vines. Here Stone-Stack stopped and told the warband to do likewise.

“Come no further.” He warned, his jaunty mood now overturned.

Stone-Stack fumbled through the brush and disappeared for a moment. Then his mutters were heard. They grew louder. “No. No. No no no. NO!” He grasped his way back out of the bushes in a panic, waving and crossing his arms. “We cannot go any further.  You cannot be here!”

The terror on his face turned to anguish and as soon as he found his footing he sprinted off, up the other side of the desiccated vale. He didn’t even try to grab the skin of mead.

Wolf dismounted and walked to the bushes and through them. Inside them he saw Stone-Stack’s terror strung across the bark of the dead tree: trophies of a carnal deracination. From limn to limn hung blackened testes of dozens of former men. A few penile shafts decorated the macabre garland, bent in black decay. Wolf had seen enough. Nauseated he returned to the warband.

“Go behold if you like, but gird your gut.” The others showed their confusion and some dismounted to see for themselves. “Wherever we are this is no land for men.”

A.J.R. Klopp (@ThirteenFathers) is a former astronomer, attorney and trader