The Spriggan by ZuiderZee zuiderzee98@hotmail.com Adventures of an Amazon Hobbit: Part 3 "Your looks are hardly prepossessing-" Volmor didn't finish his observation immediately, pausing for a long moment to scrape something red and thick from the sole of his boot. The rain-darkened slab of mountain granite under his huge foot ran dark and gory in a trickle of substances, definitely organic. More than a few of the onlookers gathered at the meeting place reckoned that mess had once been part of an enemy (human or otherwise). Volmor wouldn't have cared much. He let out a satisfied grunt. The fifty or so scruffy tribesmen encompassing him grunted in assent. Something was up. That fine, drenching drizzle got into their hair, their beards, their battle gear, wetting the dried blood that had crusted there, rendering the stubborn stains into red rivulets that chased down their bodies. Fifty or so fighting men stood in shallow puddles of water tinged with old, dark, telltale red. The ring they formed was tight. The meeting place was not their encampment, only a secretive hollow in the woods used for war rites and the settling of disputes not welcome in their true steading some miles away. There were no women here, no children, no old people or animals, not even a single structure to betray the hand of man. Still clutching their mostly wooden weapons, the fighters forming the inside of the ring got an unobstructed view of the much smaller figure standing and facing their current, self-appointed chieftan. Volmor they all knew from decades of eking a living out of the timbers and tarns of Dundrsgir. Volmor who had in his reckless youth earned the name "Greenshoulders" for his shifting pattern of bruises on his upper arms and neck from wrestling bouts which he seldom won. Too tender for the tussle it was rumored, but he could kick and hurl the heavy axes of both stone and bronze and rarely miss his mark with a simple fire- hardened spear of ash wood. The other, whom only a fraction could see because of the way the circle of onlookers was arranged on the rocks, stood perhaps half Volmor's height and was nowhere near the new chieftan's fabled girth. Whereas Volmor stood stiffly like something that had pushed up out of the rock and rooted there, showing the strength and yet the great effort of having done so, his "guest" was a shifting, wriggling character, feet and head always in motion like a child forced to sit through a long ceremony. Not a captive. Captives were not welcome in the gathering place. This was a place of challenge and preparation. Only the capable were allowed here. Wounded, beaten foes were dispatched on the field of battle, or driven far away. Status was decided here, skill was tested, fates were decreed. Vainun the old, the keeper of the rites had died without a successor. This left the guarding of law and tradition in Volmor's hands for the moment. Vainun was sorely missed. With so many decades of existence behind them, Volmor's tribe had become civilized and subtle while at the same time retaining a culture of quick and terrible violence. Volmor rested his huge hands on his hips where weathered horse-hide belts ran around his middle like bands on a barrel. Cut off from a better view by those men in the front with loftier status, the less revered, less valorous of the raiding band wondered in hushed tones over whose looks Volmor debated. Many of them heard Volmor's boot scraping on the rocks and imagined the chieftan remarked about the filth he'd wiped underfoot. Not only could they not see over the hefty forms of their betters in front, but dared not push or prod for a better view. Whomever Volmor was talking to (if that one was still alive) must surely have been lying down, kneeling, sitting or perhaps uncommonly short. If it had been someone worthy of the chieftan's consideration, then at least his head would have been visible from the back of the crowd. It wasn't. Volmor, while not a waster of time, had a bad habit of not finding his voice in time, leaving gaps of silence. There were a few coughs in the foggy air. Torches licked at the moist air with a continuous hap-hap-hap-hap-hap-hap. A tired, wet wind pushed through the fortress of beech trees beyond the mass of jumbled rocks. Boughs creaked ominously as though the trees were similarly anxious for a glimpse. Real silence would have made the lull in Volmor's harangue unbearable, but the lack of speech had just the right effect. "This has been a day of fortune to me and those who were faithful enough to stand by me through the past winter. Much now is mine for the taking- Gigurd is slain, his warband drowned or fled, his steading cannot be defended save under the most pitiful circumstances. Even while he thrived, Gigurd never had much pride. All the same rumors will arise that all that went on came only by treachery. I need no such tales abounding!" The ghastly remains of Gigurd's clan, now only so many bloodstains that were now washing off the victor's bodies and clothing spoke of a sustained, hand- to-hand clash. There were enough wounded among Volmor's band to show the fight was not a complete rout. It had been just another skirmish at first-a display of cudgel-waving and insult-hurling as the two competing chieftans of the neighboring clans met half-expectedly at the falls. Having buried two of his children before spring finally came, Volmor was bitter and with much to prove to his non-committal comrades in arms. Volmor was little more than an equal to the others. He was still dubbed by his old name, "Greenshoulders"-only Gigurd had truly regarded him as the leader. A damned outsider had acknowledged him. Not even Volmor's wife, Brayoula had openly called him any sort of leader. His sons had died before their manhood rites, but they too looked to older, more seasoned men in the tribe when danger threatened. Often had Volmor been tempted to abandon the clan, but once done, he'd be labeled an outsider, a traitor, forced to go it alone and robbed of all status. Livestock would be afforded more respect than him. Today had been lucky. Lucky indeed. Volmor, never again "Greenshoulders" if he had anything to say about it, wasn't about to let anything spoil it. Blessed with better eyes than most and a proficiency with the sling, Volmor felled Gigurd, (his only true admirer) before the usual exchange of threats and bluster had escalated to the level of hostility held as fitting for outright warfare. There had been some lobbing of sticks and husks, but for the most part, both sides might have expected to walk away from the waterside and return to their respective steadings unscathed. Deprived so early of their leader, shock and confusion struck Gigurd's band even as he crumpled to the rocks, an orb of lead from Volmor's sling buried in his breastbone which the hurtling missle had split messily into four unequal pieces. Fleeing with more speed than was wise on the spray-slicked rocks adjacent the falls, Gigurd's men scrambled for cover and higher ground only to slip and stumble crazily in retreat. More men than could be afforded to win this fight or defend their territory were lost over the edges into the rushing water and drowned despite Volmor's warning to stand and fight. Volmor's men made their way carefully down to the water's edge and closed with the dazed, waterlogged warriors, many of whom had dropped their best weapons and had to make do with knives if these too had not been lost. Those who had the sense and valor to meet Volmor's best put up a brittle resistance. It had ended soon. Volmor continued, "I trust many among this band who now stand here to say that I overcame Gigurd and his forces with well-measured force, not utter savagery. Much less than the brutality he frequently threatened he'd show to me. I had little to say to him and his folk and so to drive them from their steading at the rivermouth seems wise and fair. And so I need no one from the outside allying with me now." "This isn't about acceptance in your clan!" An outraged voice jumped in on the heels of the chieftan's announcement. " "You wintered with Gigurd!" Volmor came back with uncharacteristic haste. "It is rare an outsider is permitted here, let alone one to whom Vainun the Old would have called one of the Kriirlings. Your kind was not born in the shadows of the mountains of Cror, nor in the mists of the tarns of Nyannin. Your ancestors never heard the blaring of the horns of Amhoum or danced in the fires Volavad who flew down from the sun. A Kriirling is not under our law. We cannot punish you as we might a man from the heritage of which I have just spoken. But nor can we protect you! You are free to go your way and leave this land, but the goods you traded and won in your stay with Gigurd must stay within his steading. A place we will burn to ashes. If you attempt to leave with any swag that might slow you, you will be considered our foe and we will not be merciful if you are caught. No cart, steed, boat, sled or servant can be employed. You carry nothing on you now-I suggest you leave as you are now and not return to Gigurd's steading. I doubt anything you left there is not already pilfered-they know full well of our coming." Again came the murmurs of assent from the crowd. Those at the back finally found the bravery to try to slip around or climb to see who had the audacity to confront their chieftan. A Kriirling? Kriirlings could be simply anything from another bloodline, not even a human bloodline. It sounded just like a woman. "What is this Kriirling, Greenshoulders?" Crushfoot, a guide who had lost his status in the same accident that had seen all the toes on his right foot mashed badly enough by a falling rock to warrant their amputation, shouted his question as he pushed heedlessly past his betters to the front. He almost made it and was shoved back. Crushfoot had little to lose. At least he still knew the waterways. No one trusted him enough to guide the way to a good tree to piss against. "Must anyone else see?" Volmor beckoned everyone closer. The ring which had stood virtually motionless for minutes gradually opened and thinned, allowing all the members of the war band to cluster shoulder to shoulder. They milled in their bloodied boots, wondering if this newcomer was an enemy. Those expecting a shriveled witch-woman in the gaudy scarves and robes and baubles were disappointed. "Come on, come on, gather 'round. Step closer-get a damned eyeful!" The unaccountably short, but clearly matured female of a race none there could determine adopted Volmor's hands-on-hips posture and stood defiantly, regarding the crowd more like a common audience. Well-muscled for one so short, she had a strange combination of small and large joints. Bull-hide boots, weathered and supple from use rose to mid- calf, partially covering threadbare woolen stockings. Knobby knees peeked out from holes, lending a beggar-like appearance. What had once been a pair of bright green breeches had been cut down bit by bit, leaving her thighs vainly exposed. What color her shirt had been was anyone's guess, but it was gray now, hacked down in the same style as the breeches, leaving her shoulders and upper chest bare to the cold and damp. Muscles moved under her tan skin like mighty serpents writhing and curling under the finest mesh. A baldric, crafted by a master, encircled her ribs under her jutting round breasts. Bosses of bronze glittered in the firelight. There was no sheath attatched, and the baldric was not the right length to serve as a real battle harness, but it gave many there a good idea of what treasure she might have amassed and hoarded at Gigurd's steading. Her bald head gave her large, rounded ears nowhere to hide except perhaps in the flopping folds of a large ribbon she wore in the lonely shock of blond hair that drooped over her forehead. The rain made both ribbon and forelocks lay heavily on her stubbly pate. She had shorn her crown rather than having gone bald, making her age even harder to determine. Bronze triangles which were actually runic characters twirled slowly from her lobes. A sword of the same brownish metal, forged too crooked to be sheathed, rested on a nearby rock. Crushfoot hummed thoughtfully. Had he alone noticed the sling looped casually around her arm? Or the pouch presumably stuffed with sling bullets or stones carried over the small of her back? "You're barely enough for an eyeful!" Someone called from the dark. "But always an earful, you honking goose!" "Is this the way hoydens talk to any of us?" Crushfoot snorted. As much as he was disliked, there were quips of "well-said" and "hear- hear!" Volmor let another of his wretched silences wear on. If he was the leader, he would have to decide with greater speed than he had before. "I'll be worse than a hoyden to you or anyone who up and says what I'll do and what I won't because he thinks he's better than me." The little newcomer said. Volmor huffed. "What is your name, Kriirling?" he said. If he was to be the keeper of law, he would at least do things fairly. Time was getting on and the rain and the cold were making him ache. The torches in the hands of the onlookers became faces in themselves as they moved forward, lighting the rocks where he stood. The flames continued to hap-hap-hap-hap-hap in the mist and the beech trees creaked in the gathering darkness. Volmor suddenly remembered how he and Gigurd had come to be in the same place at the same time. The elk herds were converging. Three had been killed and quickly dressed, left guarded while Volmor and most of the band had continued to the falls for fresh water. "I was called Rhoh-Gillolla-Lu by Gigurd. My true name has no meaning in this land." "Just as good as another." Volmor said. Gigurd at least named you fittingly, but not to flatter. Your value is dubious since he couldn't define you better. Very well, Rhoh-Gillolla-Lu, we will decide this over supper. My men are starved and cold. Have the fire pit prepared. A want it high and hot. Rhoh-Gillolla- Lu-" "RhohG will be enough." "And I will decide our terms over venison. We shall gnaw bones and decide how best to proceed. Have the kill cut into joints fit for a chieftan of these woods. She who is just as good as me will match me bite for bite, swallow for swallow and thus earn my respect. Hasty now!" Hustling into action, the fire pit was loaded with dead branches and after many failed attempts the fire was lit and stoked. More heavy wood was thrown onto the flames and the heat and the light were enough to drive away the cloying mist. The wood crackled and split apart, throwing sparks into the sky. More blood was spilled as the clan's more adept hunters butchered the three stags, spitted the cuts and arranged them over the fire. Grease sputtered as they cooked. Volmor had eaten raw meat before and encouraged a large portion to be served immediately. It was cut in half, each half weighing as much as his own brawny arm. "You throw your jaw around well enough when you talk-can you use it to eat with the same energy?" So saying, Volmor bit into the tough venison, tearing off a greedy mouthful. Laughter rose up with the firelight as his guest was handed her portion. "How badly do you want your treasure? I never guested with Gigurd.was he as miserly with his portions as I've heard tell?" Crushfoot got in closer than one of his standing should have, but like his chieftan, he'd had misfortune and was trying to reassert himself. "Don't answer yet, just-as-good, you'd better sink your teeth into that tough venison, it's very bad manners to refuse to eat with a chieftan!" Something made Crushfoot hush himself. The "hoyden" also had an impressive physique, though she was half the height of any man there. The firelight made RhohG's eyes look feral and capable. Had everyone else misjudged? She took the steaming, messy joint of venison in both hands. The splintered bones at either end showed where the ax had fallen. Crushfoot assessed with the eyes of a map-reader. RhogG's hands were that rare, strong, but clever sort that might undo the toughest knot in the thickest rope, but in another minute, thread the tiniest needle with hair-thin thread. Archers would envy such digits. "Fetch wine!" RhogG yelled, snapping her quick, tan fingers. The slayer of Gigurd snatched a quick breath and buried his bearded face into a scalloped-out area of his venison joint, chewing around a stubborn tendon. He looked over the top to see that his guest hadn't started yet. He smiled and continued, letting the heated juices run down his neck into his shirt. Tomorrow Gigurd's steading would be burned, his people driven off and all gathered here now would see why Volmor, formerly "Greenshoulders" was their leader. To be continued.