Back from the War Plains

The men ran on the barren plain as soon as the time came when the morning frost melted by mid-day. That was the start of the war season. 

For the first battle of the season, they kept the old way, setting aside their seax knives and fighting with bare hands until some would finally die of exhaustion, culling the herd of the weakest and giving them the mercy of a hero’s death to be worshipped in heaven. A neighboring tribe had migrated from the east to hold this ritual battle and make worship to the war god while he shone bright red in the constellation of the ram. For this battle with a brother tribe, the rules had been set with sportsman’s terms. That would not be the case when the great king of the west returned. 

At the end of the first ceremonial battle of the season, camp was held for three nights while the dead were burned and their skulls cleaned with cedar oil. So were the customs in the time before the great king returned. They had fought the followers of the triune god for generations as they had fought the horse lords of the east. 

The great king and his army marched from the west four moons later when the dog star was conjoined with the constellation of the hunter. It was the hottest time of year, when no shadows could be cast and the skin crisped on one’s face. Battles would rage from first daybreak until midnight. 

The children of the forest forged their slaying knives from a vein of silver and iron that marbled the dark soil of the lowlands. The kingdom of the west had long swords of iron won from distant lands. They had come to pillage the lands east of the great river which for many years had been the border of their empire. 

I was unusually tall for a woman in this region, having the blood of the horse lords in me. For the purpose of stalking elk, a group of us had traveled five days south, including my husband, father, son not yet 10 years old, and our family horse. We were outsiders and yet my son begged to fight in the children’s battle that was happening just north of the war plains. He would join them as a man in six year’s time. 

“We are migrating people. Because of this we may never separate,” I told him. “If we left your sight, you might never see us again.” 

But by that time the battle had become a full scale war. The ritual rules of engagement followed with honor by the tribes of the forest would not be respected by the men of the west. As outsiders to this region, we were under no obligation to be drawn into battle, but we were drawn into battle all the same. 

My father, being skilled and in possession of a long-axe, mounted the horse and guarded our family as the battle spilled out from the fighting grounds and into the village streets. After some time, he was torn down by a man half bludgeoned by his axe. Before the horse went wild with terror, I jumped on her back. 

In a moment that lives forever crystal in my mind, I saw the great king, a shaft of light from his triune god shining down on him alighting his heavy iron crown, a symbol of the law he wanted to bring to this land as its emperor. 

Mesmerized by the sight of him, I rode deeper into battle until I too was knocked off our horse and forced to hold my own with a seax knife. The battle had gone on for hours and had developed into one on one fighting. I picked a fatigued man to spar with until he fell back, tripping on the leg of a fallen knight, at which point I dashed towards the edge of the battle. I was pulled, my ankle clutched in hand by a man already half cooked by the sun. I grated the skin of his forearm with my knife so that he would loosen his grip. I lunged free and dashed again towards the edge, keeping low, finally managing to tumble out.

I found my son hiding in the deep hollow of a gnarled oak tree and heard from him that his father ran in after me not to be seen since. 

“We will stay here until the horde grows thin,” I said, climbing the wide branches to survey from above. We waited until midnight. My husband, face and torso wet with blood that sparkled in the waxing moon, returned with our horse and my father’s long-axe. 

“Where is my father?” I asked.

“The lord of war has made a place for him in his halls.”

“He had a good death,” I said, and we walked northeast, putting the dog star behind us. 

After five days of tireless walking, we returned to our home at the foot of a vast mountain range that extended to the ends of the earth. The village was empty. Many round houses were gone indicating a migration the likes of which I had only known from stories. The horse lords of the east must have been scouted on the horizon.

“They would go north to the ocean,” I said.

Before leaving, we took the footpath that led deep through the mountains into a network of underground caves. This hollow land was sacred to our people. It was here that the hunter came to earth. It was here that the decapitated body of the old god lay.

The grain stores in the first chamber of the cave had been half emptied. We helped ourselves to all we could carry. From the weapons stores, I took a bow and arrow. Lastly we reached the inner chamber, the most sacred space where the hunter emerged from the water that bubbled up from the bottom of the pit.

Lighting a torch, I could see the records of our people etched into the cavern walls–the star map, the calendar of feast days, and the chronicles of godly visitations.

Loading up our packs and family horse with supplies, we set off for the two months journey to the northern sea. In this duration of time, the sun fell back from its ferocious pursuit and the days grew shorter. Frost returned at night and along with it came heavy rains. We followed an old deer path we had learned of as children, spending as many nights as possible in caves.

As we reached the territory of the northern raiding tribes, villages sprung up along the ancient path, and we had to venture deeper into the forest. The journey had become unbearable for my son who developed rot on the bottom of his foot. We rested briefly, but the time of the all dying was fast approaching. We needed to reach the northern keep by then.

Out of desperation, we started traveling on the main road. It wasn’t long before we gained the attention of a nearby village. The seafaring northern raiders were neither friend nor foe since they were not organized under one banner, but rather did as they pleased.

“You have come to us on the last feast day before the all dying,” said a man at the head of a group of warriors. “You may not pass without paying tribute to Whoten.” It was known that Whoten now lived with the dead in the land of elves.

We offered grain, but they would not accept it.

“We need blood,” said the man. The crowd behind him nodding.

We offered to hunt for them, but they shook their heads.

“We will take the child to the elven mound where he will be bound to them in service.”

My husband grabbed the long-axe and stepped in front of where our son sat mounted on the horse. I jumped on the horse’s back squeezing my son into the horse’s neck as I gave the command to charge, but the warriors struck at the horse’s legs until they buckled, toppling us to the ground. The horse fled into the woods. A group of warriors disarmed my husband while another separated me from my son. They chased us out of the village, and we ran in the direction of our horse as they carried our son to the elven mound.

After a time, our horse made herself known to us, and we walked in the direction of the elven mound, a hollow hill where one’s soul could be taken by the elves within. We approached the ceremony concealed by the surrounding bush. My husband ventured forward to abduct the boy, but fell back after seeing a ring of armed warriors encircling the mound. Slowly the whole village gathered for the ceremony as the light grew dim and the full moon began to rise. We crept closer, the darkness and din of the crowd as our cover.

The ceremony began as the moon hung heavy above the mountains. My son was instructed to walk nine times around the elven mound. He followed the instructions as the crowd watched. We counted his circumambulation and on the ninth rotation, he fell to the ground. The crowd cheered. Finally, I charged past them, throwing my arms around his limp body.

“You have taken his soul to the elven realms. Let us take his body so we may give him a proper burial by our customs.”

Their leader approached me. “Very Well,” he said, and the crowd dispersed until it was just me, my husband, and our horse, standing over our son.

We determined to take his body the three days journey to the northern keep. Securing him to our horse, we continued on our way undisturbed until we arrived at the ocean-sprayed cliffside where our tribe was said to travel in times of danger.

We approached the keep from the west where there was a large fortified entryway. The monks of the keep let us in. Our kin must be somewhere inside, but we were of singular focus. For three days our son lay lifeless, but there were stories of returns from the elven world that had been made with the proper ritual. We inquired after any shaman and were told of an old crone just outside the keep who was cunning in the ways of elves.

To find her, we followed the path of a winding creek deep into the forest. Her home was built of black stones with a roof of stacked logs. We knocked on the door, and she answered promptly being at the hearth watching over a bubbling broth.

We explained our situation. She told us we must act tonight, a day later and the child would be lost.

At nightfall we ventured deeper into the forest, the moon still bright and round though starting to wane. A crispness filled the air as it began to snow.

She took us to a pond, frozen by the cold and glowing in the moonlight. We were instructed to set our son on the ice.

“What if it breaks?” I asked.

“It must.” she said, and we set him down. Nine times nine she stamped the ice around him with a staff, and with an eruption of icy water, he was submerged. Throwing her staff aside, she plunged her arms into the water. Hearing his screams, I jumped in after her. My husband joined, and we pulled him out together.

My son was returned to me from the elven kingdom with only two signs of elf strike, the side of his hair was a shock of white and one eye was clouded a silver gray.

“I can see your dreams,” were his first words.

We offered our gratitude to the crone who asked for our next deer in return.

We headed back to the keep, ready to see our kin.