My Enemy, My Brother

Posted by Cynthia on August 13, 2009

My Enemy, My Brother 

By Cynthia Rodiana

Copyright: October, 2006

Turov Grigorovich Alenin had been tracking the Ghourlesh warrior, Gann, for three days. The pale warrior, swift as a snow leopard, face and body painted white, was out there…somewhere.

The trail led Turov on a northwesterly heading away from his Northlander settlement; yet neither did the Ghourlesh’s path take him back toward his own village. Turov had slept the night beneath a clump of evergreen bushes and now, since just before sunrise, he crouched inside the heavy foliage, watching. Turov swore silently as his knees and back ached for having spent over an hour scrunched in his hiding place. The Ghourlesh had stopped forward progress. His trail twisted and turned back on itself. He knew he was being followed. Turov’s eyes scanned the dark wood across from him then down to the base of the trees where piles of snow still lay heavily shadowed and unmelted even under spring’s warmer temperatures.

The Ghourlesh could be sitting on one of those clumps and Turov knew he would never see him. A startled bird flew up several branches. Turov smiled. The bird knew something strange, but not unexpected, moved beneath its roost.

Turov readied his sword, stretched the stiffness out of his shoulders and made ready to run. Before his knees could resume their complaints, an unusually tall, slender, yet powerfully built Ghourlesh crept to the edge of the wood. Turov could see his pale face, surrounded by dreadlocks, looking left, then right and then tipping against the glare to look for traces of his pursuer in the snow and mud in front of him. Satisfied, he slowly entered the small clearing dragging a thickly needled bough behind him to hide his passing.

There will be no escape for you today, fiend, Turov thought. Three days chasing you is enough.

The Ghourlesh neared the center of the clearing. He couldn’t hide. Turov drew out a long dagger and leapt from the bush as a battle cry burst from his throat. In spite of his size, Turov was fast, but not fast enough to avoid the Ghourlesh, who threw himself to the ground, rolled toward him and shoved the branch between his legs, tripping him.

Turov cursed as he hit the ground and rolled to his feet. He should have anticipated that move. Turning quickly around, he saw the Ghourlesh stood with dagger in one hand and sword in the other.

“Why do you follow me, Northlander cur?” the Ghourlesh demanded, settling into his stance.

“Why do you sneak up on our village? Trying to steal?” Turov growled back.

“If I had wanted to steal, you would have never seen me,” the Ghourlesh said and charged. He pulled up at the last second, causing Turov to swing at air. The Ghourlesh brought his sword down across Turov’s back, but his great frost bear cloak kept the blade from cutting him.

Turov spun back, his sword low, aiming for the Ghourlesh’s knees. The tall warrior leapt high to avoid the swing and landed in a slick patch of mud. His foot slipped and down he went on one knee. Off balance, he tilted toward Turov, whose dagger flicked forward and sliced open a shallow gash on the Ghourlesh’s forearm.

“First blood!” the Ghourlesh shouted, righting himself.

Turov grinned as he whirled his sword overhead, changed his hand position and drove the point of the sword into the mud between the Ghourlesh’s legs.

The painted warrior shook his wooly head and looked up at Turov with a raised brow and wry grin.

“I’ve grown accustomed to my balls being where they are. Be so kind not to lose them for me,” he said.

Turov laughed as he sheathed his dagger, retrieved the sword and held out a hand to help the Ghourlesh up.

“Do you paint them white too?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Not really.”

“We should tie a bell on yours now that they are hidden under that big gut. What woman could find them,” the Ghourlesh said and tapped Turov on the belly with the tip of his sword.

“Ahh, Gann, I keep telling you, nothing better than a good rut and a good meal afterwards,” Turov said, putting his arm around the Ghourlesh’s shoulders and giving him a friendly shake.

Gann shook his head and laughed. “I know there is still a shortage of women in your village, but you can dream and hope for one that will have you. Someday your appetite for bear fat is going to kill you.”

“Then I will die happy,” Turov said, patting the sides of his belly.

“Maybe, but it took you a day longer to catch me this winter than last,” Gann said, wiping a trickle of blood from his arm.

“You just came up with some new tricks, that’s all. How was your winter? Any news to report?” Turov asked.

Gann shrugged. “Same as always. The old die in winter, the babes are born in spring. Not so many raids lately. The truce between our village and that odd Northlander tribe – the Volkurod – north of the Dolina Patokavi is holding. The Dolina is the new border, more or less. Now, as this winter is my turn to say what we hunt, I have something all together different. Come, the trail is this way, if you can make it.”

“Bah, if I knew what crazy chase you were leading me on, I’d beat you there,” Turov said and matched Gann’s gait stride for stride.

The morning passed in relative silence as Turov followed Gann’s lead and noticed that their path had started to move in an easterly direction that would take them near the Dolina Patokavi, a valley of streams. It was a rocky, marshy area where many tributaries flowed together to form the Zolota River that continued south and created a magnificent falls going over the cliffs of the Old Gorge.

“Not much to hunt in the Dolina Patokavi,” Turov said as the brilliant rays of the afternoon sun flared through the trees.

“I will tell you when we get there,” Gann said quietly as if he didn’t want to be heard. “I don’t want you scared and running home.”

“Scared? Who do you think killed the frost bear that gave me this cloak? Scared,” Turov snorted. “This would be a good spot for tonight. Good shelter for a fire and lots of wood for burning.”

Gann paused and looked around. “Agreed. We’ll have to push hard for the next day or two with the terrain. Might as well have a good, warm sleep.”

The sun was setting by the time the fire was burning and a rabbit was roasting on a makeshift spit. Both men had put aside their weapons and rummaged through their packs.

“Ahhhh, here we go! A little something before dinner,” Turov said, pulling out a cloth bundle. He untied it to reveal fist-sized, dried fruit and nut balls shimmering with a coat of thick honey. He handed one to Gann and bit into another.

“I still can’t figure out why mine don’t taste as good as yours,” Gann said, relishing the fruity smell, while his tongue savored the sweet spices.

“It’s all that weird paint you wear. Gets into everything.”

“We don’t wear it every day.”

“You are like snow every time we hunt.”

Gann raised a brow. “Really? You have never seen me without it”

“Never. Not even when we were boys.”

“On the other hand, where would my fierce reputation be without it,” Gann said and sat up straighter and puffed out his muscular chest. “Speaking of my fierce, Northlander-killing reputation, what have you brought me this year for killing you?”

“Something you have wanted for a long time,” Turov answered. He licked the honey from his fingers and wiped his hands on his pants before digging into his pack. He pulled out a medium-sized but powerful crossbow. Its dark, reddish wood had been smoothed of old nicks and new lacquer made the wood glow warmly in the firelight. Turov’s name, carved into a pale strip of birch with ash smudged into the recessed letters, was inset on the bottom of the stock.

“You are not serious,” Gann said, surprised. “You love that crossbow.”

“Yes, but I have a new one. I’ll show you later. Now watch,” Turov said. Carefully, he stuck the tip of his dagger along the edge of the inlay and gently pried up the wood and turned it over. “Once you parade this around as your spoils for killing me, turn the wood over. I put your name on it. Not as good as a woodcarver could do, but you can still read it.” He put the inlay partly back into the inset and turned it so Gann could see. He saw the appreciation and lingering surprise in his friend’s dark eyes. “Now, what do I get for killing you?” he asked, replacing the wood.

“Something special too. What do you think? Is this the tenth winter we have gone on these little forays?” Gann asked.

“Guess so. We met when we were ten or eleven winters near as I can remember.”

“I say it is ten winters of friendship that never should have been with all the hatred and misunderstanding between our people,” Gann said, pulling a cloth-wrapped bundle out of his pack. “It is possible that this gift has shed Northlander and Freeholder blood, but I give it to you, because where two can be friends maybe there is hope for more…someday.”

“You dream the impossible, my friend,” Turov said. “There is too much blood spilled between Ghourlesh and Northlanders. We both mistrust the scheming Freeholders. Hell, the Nyrgaard are Northlanders and they would kill us all given the chance.”

Gann pulled up on the cloth and out rolled a long dagger in a fine leather sheath. Slowly, with a certain reverence, he pulled the weapon free. The handle, carved of bone, had several inscriptions on it. Old stains gave the letters and symbols form. The blade, newly sharpened and polished, glimmered in the firelight.

“I have never seen you carry this weapon,” Turov said, noticing the crossguard was inlaid with precious stone.

“I haven’t until this hunt. It belonged to my grandfather. He died this winter,” Gann said, softly.

“I am sorry to hear that. But you should keep it for yourself, or give it to your sons one day,” Turov said, quietly. He saw sadness come to Gann’s face. He should say something. Something to ease the loss, to show he understood, but he didn’t know what else to say and felt bad as he remained silent. Gann always knew the right words.

“I thought long about this, but no. It needs to go to you,” Gann said, turning the blade and watching the firelight dance on the silver surface. “My mother has borne no other son, only daughters. You are the only one who has ever felt like a brother to me and that is why I want you to have it.”

Again Turov felt uncomfortable. He felt the same, so why couldn’t he say it? He took a breath and tried to speak. He fidgeted, his gaze cast about, searching for his lost words. He noticed Gann’s smile and nod that he understood his silence. “What does the writing mean?” Turov asked, hesitantly.

“This line means “good hunting”. This is my grandfather’s name and my name written in our symbols,” Gann explained, pointing. “I don’t know the Common Language well enough to write your name, sorry.”

“Then here is to good hunting and brotherhood,” Turov said as they exchanged gifts.

“Maybe on our twentieth hunt we will exchange our sons and they will learn, one by one, not to hate,” Gann said, wistfully.

“Perhaps,” Turov hesitantly agreed, struggling to see the vision his brother saw.

Two days turned into three as they were slowed by fierce, fast-moving storms that pelted them with the last of winter’s hail and fury, making their way muddy and slippery.

“Next hunt, we don’t head out until early summer,” Turov said, sinking to his ankles or higher in deep mud and foundering like a hapless deer.

“You wouldn’t sink so far if you didn’t weigh as much as a frost bear,” Gann laughed.

“Ooof! Enough!” Turov said, tripping again and kneeling in the mud. “These boots must have twenty coats of bear grease, so I’m walking in the creek bed. I’m still wet from the rain anyway.” Turov splashed through a shallow water. The cold still came through the leather even if the water didn’t. Sometimes he walked along the tops of rocks. “Eh? What is this now?” he mumbled. He was scouting his next path, when he saw what looked like someone hanging on the edge of an ice layer that covered a much deeper, swifter running channel. He saw an arm flail.

“Gann! Gann, hurry! Over there!” Turov shouted, pointing, as he ran.

Gann saw a head and shoulders barely managing to stay afloat. They reached the channel at the same time.

“Hurry, stretch out.  I’ll slide you further if you can’t reach. Looks more solid here,” Turov said, kneeling.

Gann quickly dropped his pack and knelt on all fours, trying to keep his weight even as he slid out across the ice.

“I can’t reach. Push me!” Gann said, seeing a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen winters clinging to the ice. “Give me your hand!”

 The Northlander boy looked at him. Horror spread across his face as the white Ghourlesh image came toward him. His eyes started to roll back.

“Grab him! He’s gonna go under!” Turov urged, pushing Gann again. Gann grabbed the boy by his cloak, one-handed, and then with the other as Turov hauled them back to shore.

“He has passed out from the cold,” Gann said, untying the wet cloak from the boy’s shoulders.

“More like your face scared him to death,” Turov said as he started stripping the boy’s wet clothes off. “Not sure how he lasted as long as he did. He’s a scrawny runt for a Northlander.”

“He’s from the Volkurod tribe; the one north of here. None of them are very big,” Gann said, pulling off the boy’s fur boots. “They have a taste for zvernaghi, which is pretty lean. Don’t like it myself.”

Turov took off his bear cloak and rolled the boy into its warmth. “I’ll get a fire started. We might be able to save him.”

“I’ll hunt up some rocks for firestones. That should help,” Gann said.

Darkness settled over the forest and still the boy slept near the sizable fire, wrapped in the heavy cloak. Every so often Gann or Turov lifted the cloak to change out the cooled firestones and replace them with hotter ones along the boy’s back, careful to put one under each of his hands and on the bottoms of his feet to fight frostbite.

Turov had just finished his turn at the stones, when he looked up and noticed Gann sitting very still, listening, his eyes, his face taking on a wild countenance in an attempt to commune with the darkness and the things that lurked within it. Sensing Turov staring at him, he held up a hand for silence. A moment later the silence was disturbed by a distant howl; a wolf-like howl, but eerily different. No call of the wolf pack answered back, but it answered itself with a growling, gnashing sound that sent shivers through Turov.

“What the hell?” he murmured and even Gann finally shivered.

“Volkurod,” Gann whispered. He drew his sword from its sheath then spanned his new crossbow.

Turov took the hint. “What fiend of Rasduu hunts in these hills?”

“It is called a volkurod and it is what we have come to kill,” Gann answered. “No one has seen one near our village in more than fifty winters, but now, one has come to hunt. It has killed livestock and only one man out of four survived its recent attack.”

“And the two of us are going to kill it?” Turov asked, unsure.

“Most certainly we are, killer of Ghourlesh warriors and frost bears,” Gann replied.

“But what is it? What makes a sound like that?”

“It is a fearsome beast, like a wolf, only much bigger. It runs with no pack and hunts alone. Worse, it fears no man and will hunt him as prey.”

“But you said this boy is a Volkurod…” Turov said, confused. “Not sure what the runt could kill.”

Gann took one last look in the direction of the howl then picked up a wineskin and drained half of it. He tossed the sack to Turov, who finished it.

“This is the legend of the volkurod as the Ghourlesh know it,” Gann began. “A long time ago when my tribe came to this place, the Northlander tribe of the Volkurod had already been living here for time beyond knowing. Some say back to the time before Deauxama, when wild magic roamed the hills. They say that the fiercest of their warriors captured wolves bare-handed and somehow turned them into these creatures. But since Deauxama destroyed all magic, they can only pretend to create these volkurod by killing them and wearing their skins. No one knows where these creatures really come from. These Northlanders are strange and wild. And Northlanders think the Ghourlesh are uncivilized,” Gann snorted. “If they ever saw this tribe that lives on the very edge of anything that could be called civilization, they would think otherwise.”

“All these years, how have I never heard this?” Turov wondered.

“Same as my people. We know the Volkurod tribe is there, but we had all forgotten about the beast, until a few months ago.”

“And no one knows where they come from?”

Gann shrugged. “We don’t. Maybe they do. Wonder if the boy will sleep all night?”

“Maybe. Looked like he had taken a beating before he fell into the water. Ribs are all bruised. He can watch while we track this beast down and kill it. Show him how real men hunt,” Turov said.

The bear cloak suddenly flew back into a pile and the boy jumped to his feet. His fingers dug at his bony hip thinking to find his dagger, but found only bone and flesh. He looked at Gann with not quite the terror in his eyes as before.

Gann smiled at him, trying to reassure him that he was safe.

“Finally waking from your swim, boy?” Turov said. The boy stared silently at him then looked to the fire where his clothes were stretched over a log, drying.

Turov looked at Gann. They shrugged as he still didn’t speak. Instead, the boy dove for his clothing and dagger as if they would stop him. Turov laughed; amused the boy would think they would harm him, especially after going to such pains to keep him alive. Turov reached for the bundle of honey balls, thinking they would ease him, but the boy bolted and ran toward the trees and into the cold and dark.

“You’re very welcome. It was our pleasure to save you from freezing,” Turov shouted after him.

“I told you they were strange,” Gann said, taking a sweet. “And speaking of strange, we have that other issue between us to settle. Let us say whichever of us deals the volkurod its death blow can lay claim to the prize. No hard feelings.”

“I still say my need for it is greater,” Turov said with a frown.

“Men often let their needs and wants blind them, destroying a more perfect truth. Is possession of the prize a greater value than the brotherhood we share?” Gann asked.

Turov thought for a moment. “No, it isn’t, and the contest is fair. Agreed.”

*  *  *

“How many miles do you think the runt can follow us before he drops from hunger?” Turov said as he knelt to look at tracks in the mud. Gann had found the volkurod’s trail and both felt they were closing on it fast.

“Hard telling, but I am not so sure he is the only one following us,” Gann said, scouting ahead.

“I was hoping you weren’t going to say that,” Turov said, rising.

“It has caught our scent.”

“Figured as much when I saw those newer tracks next to old dung. What do we do now?”

“Walk back to back and don’t sleep until we kill it,” Gann said, with half a smile.

“You don’t fool me, brother,” Turov said, ill-humored. “Surprising, or being surprised by a beast is one thing, but being hunted by one…it is not right.”

“No, but we kill it, and a whole village will sleep,” Gann said. “Let’s keep moving and see if we can reverse the trails.”

By nightfall Turov was cursing with every step. Every time they thought they were about to come upon the creature the trail disappeared into a creek bed or doubled back on itself making them lose time trying to decide which was the freshest mark. Even the boy, who still shadowed them, failed to amuse him.

“Let’s stop here for the night,” Gann said, finally feeling Turov’s frustration. “The area is wide open and not too close to the trees. We’ll take turns standing watch just in case it is as bold as it appears.”

“A big fire tonight. Maybe it doesn’t like fire.” They each picked up an armload of wood before walking to the center of the clearing, dumped it and went back for more.

Near as Turov could tell, the hour was approaching midnight. In a while, he would waken Gann, who slept across the fire from him, weapons at the ready. Several times he felt he was being watched and got up to walk the perimeter. The boy was nowhere to be seen. The forest felt unnaturally quiet. He imagined he heard breathing, breathing that wanted to let loose a growl, much like he did. He untied his bear fur letting it fall.

“Gann!” Turov called, but not loudly. “Gann, wake up.”

“What?” Gann said, nearly awake.

“Something isn’t – Rasduu’s daemons!” Afansay shouted as the howling volkurod, its head as high as his, burst from the bushes and charged them. Turov rolled to one knee and grabbed his crossbow. It was on them before he could fire a shot.

Gann’s sword flew from his hand as the beast’s jaws clamped down on his upper left arm and started shaking and dragging him away from the fire. Turov fired his shot. It struck the beast’s shoulder, staggering it. It dropped Gann, howling in pain. Its red eyes glared at Turov. Gann scrambled away, his arm dripping blood and hanging limply. One after another, Turov hurled fist-sized rocks from the firepit into its face and chest giving Gann time to run.

“I can’t feel my arm,” Gann said, breathing hard, his chest pounding under the white paint. He grabbed up his crossbow and bracing the butt of the stock against his stomach, fired. The beast lunged. The bolt pierced its soft belly near a hind leg. The volkurod whined and tried to pull out the shaft with its teeth. A dark flow discolored the gray fur.

Turov clamped his sword under his chin as his foot ground the crossbow’s stirrup into the ground as he tried to span the weapon before the beast charged again. Gann pulled out a dagger, but he knew it was useless against the beast’s thick coat. The volkurod gained its feet. Head low, it stared at Gann and crept forward. Both men felt its deep-throated growl reverberate through their bones.

“It has my scent, my blood, as we will have his,” Gann said, poised to throw. His blood hissed as it fell onto fire-heated rocks. He loosed the dagger. It stuck for a moment in the volkurod’s muscled chest and fell out. Gann wavered slightly as he hefted his sword.

Turov took aim, sighting between the creature’s eyes. As if sensing its peril, the volkurod broke off, spun in circle and charged. The arrow-tipped bolt ripped up the side of its face and tore off an ear, but it kept coming, and coming for Gann.

Turov howled with rage. Blood-lust screamed in him as the madness of killing consumed him. He charged the volkurod head-on, sword overhead, clutched in both hands. The sword slashed through the softness of its black nose and slammed into its jaw breaking off bits of teeth. Blood sprayed and flowed heavily from the gaping wound. The volkurod’s tongue lashed out licking at the wound, swallowing its own blood, tasting its own death. Turov’s howled curses and strokes of his flashing sword were relentless, hacking at everything he could see through the haze of madness. The beast broke off and fled into the night.

“Fiend! Coward! Come back here! I’ll kill you!” Turov screamed into the chaos; his sword held high in one hand. “I’ll kill you!” Unbelievably, he saw the Northlander boy running through the clearing after the volkurod. “It will kill you, runt!” he shouted, but the boy ran on. Turov sank to his knees, trembling, as the fury faded.

“Turov…help me.” Gann’s voice came too quietly to his ears.

Turov stumbled to his feet. Turning, he saw Gann collapsed on his knees and leaning heavily against his sword stuck in the soft ground.

“Great Deauxama!” he swore and ran to him. He took Gann beneath the arms and helped him to lie back.

“No…no,” Gann said, struggling to sit. “I will not… meet my death…on my back.”

“You are not going to die.”

“I am. It tore the vessel…under my arm. I can’t…staunch it.”

“Let me see,” Turov said, gently lifting Gann’s limp arm. Bright crimson pumped forth. “Maybe we can cauterize it?”

“Too late. The cold…it comes.”

Turov sat down and let Gann rest against him. He tried to feel for the vein to close it, but all he felt were shreds of torn flesh. His hands grew red and sticky.

“This can’t be,” Turov said, his voice faltered. “I…I…my brother.” One arm circled Gann’s chest tighter. His heart, his words were in his throat, his despair freezing them there. Gann grasped Turov’s forearm, comforting him.

“Forget words…brother…let your actions keep…my dream, our impossibility…alive,” Gann whispered. His grip on Turov’ arm lessened.

“I will. I swear to you,” Turov said, fiercely, holding him tighter.

“The prize…be a blessing to you. Tell…your sons…teach them…our…ways,” Gann murmured. His head rolled against Turov’s chest.

“No, no,” Turov mumbled. He felt for a pulse. It was fading. “We were to hunt with our sons together…for a lifetime…not these mere winters.” The pulse was gone. He felt stunned. The shock made his senses reel. “Nooo!” he howled up to the blackness where Gann’s spirit hunted in the great sky without him.

*   *   *

Turov smeared the last of the white powder left in the jar onto the Ghourlesh warrior’s body that lay horribly still on blankets in a shallow grave. He was careful to get the face just right before using his finger to trace the Ghourlesh symbol of mourning onto Gann’s forehead and those of the great warrior hunter onto his cheeks. Satisfied, he sat back to look at his work. The blood was mostly gone and the beloved crossbow was safely tucked in the fold of Gann’s arms with his name showing on the stock. With a last look, a deep sigh of grief, Turov covered him head to foot with the frost bear cloak then pushed the damp, cold earth back into the hole.

Through the long night, sitting amidst his sorrow, he didn’t hear any more howls of the volkurod. Maybe it ate the runt. Maybe the boy managed to kill it. Or maybe they were both lost or drowned in a swift-flowing channel. He didn’t really care, but, if the creature lived, he would not let it find Gann’s scent and dig up his bones. After an hour’s work, he had rolled several large rocks and some smaller ones over the grave. He considered leaving Gann’s sword standing between the rocks, but wanted no attention to the spot. He wanted him left the way he had put him. Instead, he found a handful of early spring flowers, plucked them and laid them over the rocks.

“They suit you, brother,” he said. “You were always the finest hunter, the finest warrior, but more important was your vision, your way with words and my lack of them, which you always forgave.”

*   *   *

It took Turov a week to return home. Now washed of mud, his face, the back and sides of his head clean-shaven, leaving only a pad of short, dark hair on the top of his head, and a gold earring in each ear, he was headed back north, but mostly west. In a couple of days he came upon an impoverished Freehold settlement. No one bothered or dared to ask the fierce-visaged, heavily armed Northlander what he was doing there.

He had come to claim the prize. The daughter of a poor farmer that both he and Gann had unexpectedly fallen in love with a winter ago. Too young to be let go then, but more important, how to decide which of them would have her. There was an odd shortage of women in Turov’s clan, while Gann wanted her as an example to further his vision of peace in the North. Turov realized that he was the answer to both. His clan would frown upon a Freeholder, but there was no clanswoman available to him, no other of age to give him sons.

Turov knocked and a grim-faced farmer answered.

“Where is the ghoul?” the farmer asked, seeing Turov alone.

“Your enemy, my brother, has died an honorable death. I have come for my wife.”