Times of Bronze and Stone
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It is a time of myth and legend, the very gods themselves walk the Earth in the forms of man and beast. Rising from the Age of Ice, humanity has begun to build settlements far larger than any mere hunting camp, shaping copper and tin to make tools beyond anything before seen. They are becoming something new. And with the advancement of human culture comes new horrors, new tragedies. For mankind had discovered… justice.
These are the stories of those primitive times, when great chiefs and kings passed judgement upon any who opposed them…
The territory of the Kulwari Clan, Vale of Kulwirin, the Great Steppe, 241 years Post Revelation
If seen from above, perhaps through the eyes of Alexul, hawk-winged warrior god of the sky, the settlement would appear as a dark brown smudge against the landscape, a clump of wood and thatch dotted with the red glow of fires, nestled amongst the hills that bulged from the flat steppe. Looking closer, the keen-eyed lord of spears and blood would have seen, lit by the rising sun, a palisade of logs surrounding the crude huts of slaves and herdsmen, themselves surrounding the more complex, finely built houses of the warriors and lords of this clan. Dotted throughout the settlement were pens for cattle and sheep, the wealth of the most powerful clan within a moons-ride. If he had swooped down lower, the mighty god might have seen the signs of recent fighting: warriors walking with their spears of bronze and flint newly sharpened, their armour of leather and bone encasing their bodies instead of lying safely in their houses; horses and men both with fresh wounds, minor things that none the less testified to the brutal combat they had so recently been in. And if the winged master of battles had taken on mortal guise and strode the dirt paths of the settlement, he could perhaps have glimpsed a pale face framed by braided black hair peering out of a barred window set in the wall of one of the houses, the door and surrounding paths guarded by men with bared weapons and armour of bronze, a sign of both their rank and that of the prisoners therein. But the god was not there.
Halhara of the Ulvish Clan, daughter of the fallen Chief Radul, looked at the sun rising into the sky. This was it. This was the day she would die. In the distance, she could see the mound, the kurgan, where she and the others would pass from this world. Halhara only hoped that the axe was sharp and the headsman sober. There were stories, some of which she had heard around her clans’ fires, of executions that had taken several blows to sever the head. She had also seen how drink made a man sluggish, his strikes imprecise. Turning from the window, she could see her fellow prisoners stirring, each jolting to full wakefulness at the same realisation that had come to her barely an hour before. The room held about a dozen women and older girls, the wives, daughters and concubines of formerly great men. And now, Halhara thought, the full weight of how far they had all fallen was hitting home. Golden haired Therosa wrapped herself into a ball and wept, her mother Alkene embracing her. Several of the other women began praying, knowing with absolute certainty that soon they would be meeting the gods face to face. Halhara walked from the window to the huddle of genuflecting women, and began the familiar motions. One must always, after all, honour the gods.
As she mouthed the words and made the sacred gestures, Halhara reflected on her impending fate. She had never thought she would die like this. Growing up, she had always thought that she would die an old woman, surrounded by strong sons and beautiful daughters, or else perish in childbed whilst bringing the offspring of some great chief into the world. But then, a little more than a year ago, her father had raised a rebellion against his liege lord, drawing in several other nearby clans, including the Kenlaos Clan of Alkene’s husband. Despite the strength of their arms and the spears of their warriors, the rebels had lost, eight moons after they had first declared their denial of Kulwari rule. Halhara had been weaving with her mother when the news had come, of her father and his allies shattered by the forces of Clan Kulwari. Within a day, the warriors of the enemy clan had arrived at her home, sweeping aside the handful of old men and boys who had been left to guard the cattle and slaves.
Her mother had taken a knife to her own throat rather than face the indignity of capture. Halhara, however, had been knocked unconscious by a spear-butt to the head before she could follow her, tossed into a wagon and brought here, to the seat of Kulwari power. There, the warriors had thrown her into this guarded building with its barred windows, along with several other women from the rebel clans. She had expected to be ‘taken’ by the enemy warriors during the journey, or perhaps given to their chief or one of his champions as a reward. Instead, her fate was far more final. One by one, the women and girls had been dragged in front of the chief and his council, and then charged with having aided their husbands and fathers in inciting rebellion. Halhara had known that her father had promised her in marriage to one of the other rebel chiefs in exchange for his support, but still… The verdict was clear. For treason against her liege-lord, her king, as some great chiefs had taken to call themselves, Halhara would be taken to the great mound with the other rebels, and there beheaded by the axe.
Halhara remembered how the approach to the Kulwari settlement had been lined with stakes half-again the height of a man, each baring a severed head. Men and women, most little more than skulls, others still fresh. She’d recognised a handful as members of the rebel clans, warriors who had ridden out with her father, chiefs and their wives whom she had met in the time leading up to the rebellion. To her left had been the kurgan, a line of sharpened stakes lining the side nearest to her. Their points were bare, clearly awaiting the heads of the next unfortunates to die. It was then that she had seen the log at the summit of the mound. It was stained with blood, some of it certainly fresh. Halhara could see an indentation cut into the side, a place for the chin of the condemned to rest before the axe came down. She had turned to face forward, and nearly fainted in shock. There before her stood the gate of the settlement, and atop it were several more heads. Some had been familiar to her, but only one stood out. Her father. It had been then, that she had understood that she was going to her death.
The condemned young woman was jolted from her prayers as the door to the prison swung open. In walked four or so Kulwari warriors, dressed in cloaks of steppe-lion and wolf fur with hardened leather armour, small plates of bronze, bone, and boar tusk protecting the vital areas. Spears with sharpened flint points were gripped in their hands, and long knives and axes of bronze were sheathed in their belts. The tallest pointed at her and four other women, including Alkene and her daughter.
“Come, you traitorous strumpets! It’s time to meet the gods.”
Their hands were tied in front of them with rawhide cords, and Halhara was dragged out of the fortified house with the other prisoners chosen to die. A crowd had gathered, slaves and herdsmen, the wives and children of both high and low men of the clan. Halhara felt her legs begin to shake. She stopped them, drawing herself up to stand tall before the eyes of this most mighty of clans. She was the daughter of a chief. She would not weep.
Halhara strode forward to meet her fate.
These are the stories of those primitive times, when great chiefs and kings passed judgement upon any who opposed them…
The territory of the Kulwari Clan, Vale of Kulwirin, the Great Steppe, 241 years Post Revelation
If seen from above, perhaps through the eyes of Alexul, hawk-winged warrior god of the sky, the settlement would appear as a dark brown smudge against the landscape, a clump of wood and thatch dotted with the red glow of fires, nestled amongst the hills that bulged from the flat steppe. Looking closer, the keen-eyed lord of spears and blood would have seen, lit by the rising sun, a palisade of logs surrounding the crude huts of slaves and herdsmen, themselves surrounding the more complex, finely built houses of the warriors and lords of this clan. Dotted throughout the settlement were pens for cattle and sheep, the wealth of the most powerful clan within a moons-ride. If he had swooped down lower, the mighty god might have seen the signs of recent fighting: warriors walking with their spears of bronze and flint newly sharpened, their armour of leather and bone encasing their bodies instead of lying safely in their houses; horses and men both with fresh wounds, minor things that none the less testified to the brutal combat they had so recently been in. And if the winged master of battles had taken on mortal guise and strode the dirt paths of the settlement, he could perhaps have glimpsed a pale face framed by braided black hair peering out of a barred window set in the wall of one of the houses, the door and surrounding paths guarded by men with bared weapons and armour of bronze, a sign of both their rank and that of the prisoners therein. But the god was not there.
Halhara of the Ulvish Clan, daughter of the fallen Chief Radul, looked at the sun rising into the sky. This was it. This was the day she would die. In the distance, she could see the mound, the kurgan, where she and the others would pass from this world. Halhara only hoped that the axe was sharp and the headsman sober. There were stories, some of which she had heard around her clans’ fires, of executions that had taken several blows to sever the head. She had also seen how drink made a man sluggish, his strikes imprecise. Turning from the window, she could see her fellow prisoners stirring, each jolting to full wakefulness at the same realisation that had come to her barely an hour before. The room held about a dozen women and older girls, the wives, daughters and concubines of formerly great men. And now, Halhara thought, the full weight of how far they had all fallen was hitting home. Golden haired Therosa wrapped herself into a ball and wept, her mother Alkene embracing her. Several of the other women began praying, knowing with absolute certainty that soon they would be meeting the gods face to face. Halhara walked from the window to the huddle of genuflecting women, and began the familiar motions. One must always, after all, honour the gods.
As she mouthed the words and made the sacred gestures, Halhara reflected on her impending fate. She had never thought she would die like this. Growing up, she had always thought that she would die an old woman, surrounded by strong sons and beautiful daughters, or else perish in childbed whilst bringing the offspring of some great chief into the world. But then, a little more than a year ago, her father had raised a rebellion against his liege lord, drawing in several other nearby clans, including the Kenlaos Clan of Alkene’s husband. Despite the strength of their arms and the spears of their warriors, the rebels had lost, eight moons after they had first declared their denial of Kulwari rule. Halhara had been weaving with her mother when the news had come, of her father and his allies shattered by the forces of Clan Kulwari. Within a day, the warriors of the enemy clan had arrived at her home, sweeping aside the handful of old men and boys who had been left to guard the cattle and slaves.
Her mother had taken a knife to her own throat rather than face the indignity of capture. Halhara, however, had been knocked unconscious by a spear-butt to the head before she could follow her, tossed into a wagon and brought here, to the seat of Kulwari power. There, the warriors had thrown her into this guarded building with its barred windows, along with several other women from the rebel clans. She had expected to be ‘taken’ by the enemy warriors during the journey, or perhaps given to their chief or one of his champions as a reward. Instead, her fate was far more final. One by one, the women and girls had been dragged in front of the chief and his council, and then charged with having aided their husbands and fathers in inciting rebellion. Halhara had known that her father had promised her in marriage to one of the other rebel chiefs in exchange for his support, but still… The verdict was clear. For treason against her liege-lord, her king, as some great chiefs had taken to call themselves, Halhara would be taken to the great mound with the other rebels, and there beheaded by the axe.
Halhara remembered how the approach to the Kulwari settlement had been lined with stakes half-again the height of a man, each baring a severed head. Men and women, most little more than skulls, others still fresh. She’d recognised a handful as members of the rebel clans, warriors who had ridden out with her father, chiefs and their wives whom she had met in the time leading up to the rebellion. To her left had been the kurgan, a line of sharpened stakes lining the side nearest to her. Their points were bare, clearly awaiting the heads of the next unfortunates to die. It was then that she had seen the log at the summit of the mound. It was stained with blood, some of it certainly fresh. Halhara could see an indentation cut into the side, a place for the chin of the condemned to rest before the axe came down. She had turned to face forward, and nearly fainted in shock. There before her stood the gate of the settlement, and atop it were several more heads. Some had been familiar to her, but only one stood out. Her father. It had been then, that she had understood that she was going to her death.
The condemned young woman was jolted from her prayers as the door to the prison swung open. In walked four or so Kulwari warriors, dressed in cloaks of steppe-lion and wolf fur with hardened leather armour, small plates of bronze, bone, and boar tusk protecting the vital areas. Spears with sharpened flint points were gripped in their hands, and long knives and axes of bronze were sheathed in their belts. The tallest pointed at her and four other women, including Alkene and her daughter.
“Come, you traitorous strumpets! It’s time to meet the gods.”
Their hands were tied in front of them with rawhide cords, and Halhara was dragged out of the fortified house with the other prisoners chosen to die. A crowd had gathered, slaves and herdsmen, the wives and children of both high and low men of the clan. Halhara felt her legs begin to shake. She stopped them, drawing herself up to stand tall before the eyes of this most mighty of clans. She was the daughter of a chief. She would not weep.
Halhara strode forward to meet her fate.
This is a 'testing the waters' type post, I'll continue the story if it's well received.
PART 2
The crowd stood there solemnly for a moment, as the last of the prisoners was led from the house by the Kulwari warriors. Then almost immediately, the jeers and taunts began.
“Traitors!”
“Killers!”
“Enjoy rotting on a pike!”
Halhara tried to keep her head aloft as the spear-wielding men closed ranks around them and led the assembled women down the winding dirt path to the wooden gate. They would not break her, or make her bow to their rage. The prisoners walked to their deaths as a single mass, some clearly bearing their imminent deaths better than others, while some marched with their heads down. Each woman wore the customary ankle-length dress of wool and flax, dyed with the ornate colour patterns that showed their formerly high status as wives and daughters of chiefs and great warriors. For the most part, their hair was woven into braids, either trailing down their chests and backs, or wrapped around their heads in complex knots.
As the dirt crunched beneath her bare feet, the prisoners shuffled along to the howls and thrown insults of the Kulwari. Halhara could not understand why they had been doomed to die. There had been war between her clan and the Kulwari. Her father and his men had broken oath and sought to usurp their lord, and proved too weak to be worthy. She would have understood if the Kulwari had enslaved her or given her to one of their champions; such had been the fate of women from defeated clans for time immemorial. So why were they killing her, or the other women? Did they expect her to have betrayed her father, to have informed the Kulwari ‘king’ of her clans’ plans? All along the path to the gate, the people of the enemy clan kept up their insults and jeers.
“Prepare to die, Ulvish scum!”
“Gods dam you all!”
“Come on lovely, why so glum? One quick whack and its’ over!”
They now approached the gate itself. Two massive pillars shaped from whole tree trucks formed the posts, with a third lying atop them. Halhara could see the short spikes of sharpened wood lining the top, each bearing their grislily trophy. Her fathers’ head still adorned the spike just to the right of centre.
The group and their escorts passed under the gate, several of the women openly weeping. The smell of rotting flesh drifted down from above, and Halharas’ gorge rose. She and her fellow prisoners would soon be rotting on spikes of their own, just an hour or so from now… a sob racked her body as her composure crumbled. Straightening, she brushed her thick black braids forward so that the trailed down her chest. Best to position them out of the path of the axe, ensure a clean blow. Ahead of them lay the twin rows of wooden stakes topped with heads, lining the path to the kurgan. A crowd of Kulwari herders and minor warriors was already gathering along the route, eager to bear witness to this latest round of executions. Voices began to call out to the approaching prisoners.
“Time to get what you deserve, traitors!”
“Death! Death to them all!”
A few paces ahead of Halhara, Therosa of the Kenlaos stumbled, shivering in obvious terror. About the same age as Halhara, the golden-haired chieftain’s daughter was dressed in only the combination blouse and shift that formed the basis of women’s clothing, without the over-blouse and mantel that most of the others wore. Though of finer make and better coloured, Therosa’s dress offered no more protection against the morning chill than that of the average slavewoman.
Fear and cold, it would seem, was preventing her hands from being still.
Under the watch of their bronze-carrying guards, the prisoners left the path leading past the kurgan, already blocked by the crowd of on-lookers, and took a fork to the right, before coming up behind the mound of earth and stone. There, a slope of compacted dirt led up to the summit, and the chopping block. A figure stood next to the carved piece of wood, a long-handled axe clearly gripped in their hands. Halhara stared up at the instrument of her imminent demise, fear boiling up from her stomach, before one of the guards shoved her in the small of her back.
“Move it, traitor. It’s time for you to face the gods.”
With prods from spear-butts and the muttered orders of the Kulwari warriors, the twelve women were driven up the slope, walking to their deaths like cattle. Before long, Halhara and her compatriots stood at the top, staring at the scene before them.
The crowd of clan members, many of them women and herders, hurled insults and abuse at the prisoners as they came in sight. About ten warriors stood between the mob and the kurgan, with many more maintaining order around the perimeter. Wouldn’t do for the condemned to be torn apart before they could be killed, would it?
Halhara tore her gaze away from the mass of enraged Kulwari baying for her blood, and turned her attention to the piece of wood upon which her neck would be severed. And the man who would wield the axe. An upright log of what looked to be oak, perhaps three feet tall, with a crescent-shaped section carved out of the side facing Halhara. She knew that this was to accommodate the shoulders of the victim, while a smaller, triangular indentation on the other side held the chin.
Her executioner was dressed in a greying tunic with a cloak of bull-hide covering his back, a mask like a human skull over his face. The axe with which he would dispatch the assembled women was as long as a mans leg, thicker than a spear shaft, with a great blade of bronze affixed to the end. Such a weapon… That much bronze could have made half-a dozen spearheads, or two of the long knives, swords they were called, that had come from the Southlands.
A fitting weapon, to take the heads of chieftains’ wives and daughters of great men.
A priest, clad in robes of white wool and untanned furs, stood just behind the block, raising his hands as he faced the howling mob. A headdress of stag antlers adorned his head, the skulls of ravens and foxes dangling from the prongs. Halhara wondered how often the precariously balanced headwear fell off or obscured his vision, before chiding herself for the blasphemous thought. It was impious, to think such things before meeting the gods.
“People of the Kulwari, harken hence, and witness the deaths of these traitors. In wicked conspiracy with their kinsmen, they sought to challenge your chief, he whom the gods have set over you and given dominion over all lands. We entreat Othrin of the War Shout, and Samtwil Deaths’ King, to stand in judgement over these foul…”
As the priest droned on, Halhara could only sit and wonder which of them would die first. One of the girls, like herself? Perhaps a former wife, or one of the concubines? The priest finished his evocation, and the first name was called.
“Alkene of the Kenlaos, wife of the traitor chieftain Ganryon!”
The two nearest guards seized Alkene by the shoulders and dragged her from the assembled prisoners. Golden-haired like her daughter, the woman wore a dress of clue and yellow, though without the shawl or cloak she would have worn before her capture. Like Therosa, her arms shivered from the morning chill. Her hair was not arranged in braids like most of the women assembled, but coiled and woven atop her head to form a ridge or arch from one ear to the other. Halhara realised that the ornate style, intended as a symbol of status and authority, would make a useful handle by which to grasp her severed head.
Struggling against the grip of the warriors, Alkene was brought to the block. As she passed, Halhara heard her whispering a prayer to Amneli, the Great Goddess of Life and the Earth. The guards forced her to her knees, pushing her forward until her neck lay upon the block. The executioner raised his axe high above his head, readying for the blow.
Alkene was struggling, desperately attempting to rise and flee. The two warriors kept their hands firmly on her shoulders, keeping her in place. Halhara felt the anticipation building…
The axe struck. Bronze flashed in the morning sun and blood splattered the life-giving earth. Halhara watched as the guards let go of Alkenes’ shoulders. The limp body, the collar of its fine dress stained crimson, sagged to the ground and keeled over onto its side. The executioner reached down to somewhere behind the block, and lifted up the bloody head of the dead woman. Halhara noted with morbid realisation that the man was indeed gripping it by the braided arch of hair. The executioner handed his prize, almost delicately, to the priest. As he did so, Halhara glimpsed the slack expression upon Alkenes’ pale face. The priest turned, and walked down the slope of the kurgan.
Towards the row of stakes.
The crowd stood there solemnly for a moment, as the last of the prisoners was led from the house by the Kulwari warriors. Then almost immediately, the jeers and taunts began.
“Traitors!”
“Killers!”
“Enjoy rotting on a pike!”
Halhara tried to keep her head aloft as the spear-wielding men closed ranks around them and led the assembled women down the winding dirt path to the wooden gate. They would not break her, or make her bow to their rage. The prisoners walked to their deaths as a single mass, some clearly bearing their imminent deaths better than others, while some marched with their heads down. Each woman wore the customary ankle-length dress of wool and flax, dyed with the ornate colour patterns that showed their formerly high status as wives and daughters of chiefs and great warriors. For the most part, their hair was woven into braids, either trailing down their chests and backs, or wrapped around their heads in complex knots.
As the dirt crunched beneath her bare feet, the prisoners shuffled along to the howls and thrown insults of the Kulwari. Halhara could not understand why they had been doomed to die. There had been war between her clan and the Kulwari. Her father and his men had broken oath and sought to usurp their lord, and proved too weak to be worthy. She would have understood if the Kulwari had enslaved her or given her to one of their champions; such had been the fate of women from defeated clans for time immemorial. So why were they killing her, or the other women? Did they expect her to have betrayed her father, to have informed the Kulwari ‘king’ of her clans’ plans? All along the path to the gate, the people of the enemy clan kept up their insults and jeers.
“Prepare to die, Ulvish scum!”
“Gods dam you all!”
“Come on lovely, why so glum? One quick whack and its’ over!”
They now approached the gate itself. Two massive pillars shaped from whole tree trucks formed the posts, with a third lying atop them. Halhara could see the short spikes of sharpened wood lining the top, each bearing their grislily trophy. Her fathers’ head still adorned the spike just to the right of centre.
The group and their escorts passed under the gate, several of the women openly weeping. The smell of rotting flesh drifted down from above, and Halharas’ gorge rose. She and her fellow prisoners would soon be rotting on spikes of their own, just an hour or so from now… a sob racked her body as her composure crumbled. Straightening, she brushed her thick black braids forward so that the trailed down her chest. Best to position them out of the path of the axe, ensure a clean blow. Ahead of them lay the twin rows of wooden stakes topped with heads, lining the path to the kurgan. A crowd of Kulwari herders and minor warriors was already gathering along the route, eager to bear witness to this latest round of executions. Voices began to call out to the approaching prisoners.
“Time to get what you deserve, traitors!”
“Death! Death to them all!”
A few paces ahead of Halhara, Therosa of the Kenlaos stumbled, shivering in obvious terror. About the same age as Halhara, the golden-haired chieftain’s daughter was dressed in only the combination blouse and shift that formed the basis of women’s clothing, without the over-blouse and mantel that most of the others wore. Though of finer make and better coloured, Therosa’s dress offered no more protection against the morning chill than that of the average slavewoman.
Fear and cold, it would seem, was preventing her hands from being still.
Under the watch of their bronze-carrying guards, the prisoners left the path leading past the kurgan, already blocked by the crowd of on-lookers, and took a fork to the right, before coming up behind the mound of earth and stone. There, a slope of compacted dirt led up to the summit, and the chopping block. A figure stood next to the carved piece of wood, a long-handled axe clearly gripped in their hands. Halhara stared up at the instrument of her imminent demise, fear boiling up from her stomach, before one of the guards shoved her in the small of her back.
“Move it, traitor. It’s time for you to face the gods.”
With prods from spear-butts and the muttered orders of the Kulwari warriors, the twelve women were driven up the slope, walking to their deaths like cattle. Before long, Halhara and her compatriots stood at the top, staring at the scene before them.
The crowd of clan members, many of them women and herders, hurled insults and abuse at the prisoners as they came in sight. About ten warriors stood between the mob and the kurgan, with many more maintaining order around the perimeter. Wouldn’t do for the condemned to be torn apart before they could be killed, would it?
Halhara tore her gaze away from the mass of enraged Kulwari baying for her blood, and turned her attention to the piece of wood upon which her neck would be severed. And the man who would wield the axe. An upright log of what looked to be oak, perhaps three feet tall, with a crescent-shaped section carved out of the side facing Halhara. She knew that this was to accommodate the shoulders of the victim, while a smaller, triangular indentation on the other side held the chin.
Her executioner was dressed in a greying tunic with a cloak of bull-hide covering his back, a mask like a human skull over his face. The axe with which he would dispatch the assembled women was as long as a mans leg, thicker than a spear shaft, with a great blade of bronze affixed to the end. Such a weapon… That much bronze could have made half-a dozen spearheads, or two of the long knives, swords they were called, that had come from the Southlands.
A fitting weapon, to take the heads of chieftains’ wives and daughters of great men.
A priest, clad in robes of white wool and untanned furs, stood just behind the block, raising his hands as he faced the howling mob. A headdress of stag antlers adorned his head, the skulls of ravens and foxes dangling from the prongs. Halhara wondered how often the precariously balanced headwear fell off or obscured his vision, before chiding herself for the blasphemous thought. It was impious, to think such things before meeting the gods.
“People of the Kulwari, harken hence, and witness the deaths of these traitors. In wicked conspiracy with their kinsmen, they sought to challenge your chief, he whom the gods have set over you and given dominion over all lands. We entreat Othrin of the War Shout, and Samtwil Deaths’ King, to stand in judgement over these foul…”
As the priest droned on, Halhara could only sit and wonder which of them would die first. One of the girls, like herself? Perhaps a former wife, or one of the concubines? The priest finished his evocation, and the first name was called.
“Alkene of the Kenlaos, wife of the traitor chieftain Ganryon!”
The two nearest guards seized Alkene by the shoulders and dragged her from the assembled prisoners. Golden-haired like her daughter, the woman wore a dress of clue and yellow, though without the shawl or cloak she would have worn before her capture. Like Therosa, her arms shivered from the morning chill. Her hair was not arranged in braids like most of the women assembled, but coiled and woven atop her head to form a ridge or arch from one ear to the other. Halhara realised that the ornate style, intended as a symbol of status and authority, would make a useful handle by which to grasp her severed head.
Struggling against the grip of the warriors, Alkene was brought to the block. As she passed, Halhara heard her whispering a prayer to Amneli, the Great Goddess of Life and the Earth. The guards forced her to her knees, pushing her forward until her neck lay upon the block. The executioner raised his axe high above his head, readying for the blow.
Alkene was struggling, desperately attempting to rise and flee. The two warriors kept their hands firmly on her shoulders, keeping her in place. Halhara felt the anticipation building…
The axe struck. Bronze flashed in the morning sun and blood splattered the life-giving earth. Halhara watched as the guards let go of Alkenes’ shoulders. The limp body, the collar of its fine dress stained crimson, sagged to the ground and keeled over onto its side. The executioner reached down to somewhere behind the block, and lifted up the bloody head of the dead woman. Halhara noted with morbid realisation that the man was indeed gripping it by the braided arch of hair. The executioner handed his prize, almost delicately, to the priest. As he did so, Halhara glimpsed the slack expression upon Alkenes’ pale face. The priest turned, and walked down the slope of the kurgan.
Towards the row of stakes.
PART 3
The crowd of Kulwari looked on as, with a meaty squelching sound, the priest drove the severed head down onto the left-most stake. Alkenes’ sightless eyes were mostly closed, the features on the paling face slack. The breeze sweeping in from the steppes tousled stray locks of hair that had come loose in the journey to the kurgan and subsequent fall to the ground. The effect was one of tarnished pride, of one formerly high and mighty brought low by fate. Several of the men, and indeed a few of the herder women, mocked the impaled head.
“Serves you right, haughty bitch!”
“Not so smug now, are you?”
“What’d they expect would happen, the gods themselves descending to aid their rebellion?”
One of the men, a lesser warrior by his leather and fur armour and flint-tipped spear, turned to the fellow clansman on his right.
“Is it really necessary to kill them? I mean, they couldn’t have done anything to stop their husbands, and women of good breeding like that shouldn’t be wasted like that…”
The other man snorted. Just like all the young, wanting to get their peckers wet. This would show all the other clans what happened if they rebelled. Both to their men, and those who abetted them. With all those who had aided the rebellion against the rightful lord of the steppe and first king the clans had ever known dead, the Kulwari would have shown their irresistible power over their rivals and vassals.
As Alkenes’ headless body was dragged away by the warriors, Halhara stared at the bloodstained wood of the block. Right up until the great bronze axe-head had connected with the neck stretched across the block, she had not quite believed that the Kulwari would really kill them. Yes, they had had knowledge of the plans of their respective chieftains, and had aided them through facilitating marriage alliances and convincing their kin to support the rebellion. But they could never have done anything to stop that, and to execute the wives and daughters of chieftains instead of giving them to worthy men among ones’ own warriors was folly! The priest had returned from mounting the first head of the day. Lifting hands stained with Alkenes’ blood, he called out the name of the next victim.
“Therosa of the Kenlaos, daughter of Ganryon!”
Halhara looked away as the girl in question began screaming in fear. The Kulwari warriors standing to the side marched over and took hold of Therosas’ shoulders. The shrieking collapsed into sobs as the blonde-haired girl was dragged forward. Like herself, Therosas’ hair was arranged into thick braids, three of them trailing down her back. Like the grey and blue patterns on her skirt, the style showed her former rank as the daughter of a chieftain. Halhara hoped, for the girls’ sake, that the braided hair did not impede the axe when it fell.
Halhara looked on as the executioner took hold of his axe again. Once again, she thought of how many spearpoints and daggers could have been made from its blade. Such a quantity of bronze, that the axe was wielded by anyone except a chieftain was absurd. Everything about the Kulwari was so strange. Halhara remembered her father telling her of how the once minor clan had risen in power when he was still a boy, with ample supplies of bronze acquired through trade of all things, and armies of slaves tilling great fields of wheat rather than raising cattle. Their sudden change from raiding their neighbours to vassalizing them had clearly brought them prosperity. But still, the way that they were breaking from tradition in executing high-born women…
She was torn from her thoughts as Therosa began to plead with the warriors, her sobs giving way to actual words as she desperately resisted the march towards the block.
“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I foreswear allegiance to the Kenlaos! I’m young and healthy, I’ll make a good concubine, please…”
The Kulwari redoubled their efforts, reaching the bloodstained wood as Therosas’ pleas devolved into wails. The pitiable sound, Halhara thought, should have moved even the baying mob below to show mercy.
Halhara kept her eyes up, looking out at the crowd of clans-people howling for another severed head. In the corner of her vision, Therosa was forced to her knees and shoved forward and down until her neck lay across the block. One of the warriors, clothed in leather armour and plates of bone, took hold of the girls’ braids and pulled them over the front of the block, until they dangled to either side of Therosas’ face. The Kulwari executioner raised the great axe, the morning sunlight glinting off the sharpened, bloody bronze. The weeping girl, the top of her golden hair visible past the curve of her back and shoulders, continued to beg. Just as Halhara thought that mercy would be granted, the axe fell.
THUNK!
Blood gushed as Therosas’ head disappeared from view. Halhara looked away. To witness a girl her own age suffer such a violent fate, knowing that she would soon meet the same end… it was too much. The sounds she had made whilst begging for her life had been a thing of horror unto themselves, and a disgrace besides. That a daughter of a mighty chieftain would lose her composure in such a way would have been unthinkable. Halhara hoped that she would see no more of it before her turn came.
Before the eyes of the Kulwari, the severed head dropped from the block, spurting crimson across the already blood-stained wood. Hitting the ground, it rolled for a single pace, and came to rest. The crowd watched as the priest strode over and, reaching down, lifted the bloody object into view. As with her mother, he descended the slope and mounted his ghastly burden upon one of the stakes. The young womans’ cheeks were stained with tear-tracks, her eyes wide and vacant. The three braids, each thicker than a mans’ thumb, were caked with blood which stained the chin and what remained of the neck.
The crowd had let out great sigh when they saw the axe fall. Many of those present occupied the lower ranks of the clan, and though their betters still ruled over them, it gave no small pleasure to see those accustomed to being exalted above all others butchered like hogs, as herders could be if their masters were minded.
As the body was dragged away, blood still dripping from the stump of the neck, Halhara desperately tried to avoid shaking in fear. To lose her dignity before the eyes of these people would disgrace both herself and her clan. As the priest returned from mounting Therosas’ head on its stake, she saw his eyes drift to her. Was he considering granting her the mercy not shown to Therosa? Unlike the Kenlaos girl, she was still standing tall and proud, rather than weeping and pleading. No such insipid weakness marred her stance, she had shown nothing but the bearing of a chieftains’ daughter. Surely, her life would be spared and given as reward to a great man of this clan.
The voice rang out once more.
“Halhara of the Ulvish, daughter of the traitor Radul.”
Her heart sank.
This was it.
She would die.
Dimly, through her shock, she felt the guards’ hands wrap around her arms and drag her forward. As they neared the block, the stench of blood became all too obvious. Just how many people had lost their heads upon its wood in the last moon alone? A shove, and she was kneeling upon the red-stained earth, the bloody wood barely a foot below her chin. The priest was muttering some invocation of the gods, asking that they judge the souls of those executed this day. Halhara strained to prevent her terror from showing itself on her face. This still didn’t make sense, she was the daughter of a chieftain. This sort of summary death was only visited upon herders and other slaves, those who had defied their masters. Halharas’ lord had been her fathers, not the chief of the Kulwari, so how could her submission to her chieftains’ plans been treason?
A forceful hand upon each of her shoulders and Halhara found her chin pressed into the blood-soaked wood of the block. Looking down at the soiled ground, freshly stained with the crimson vitae of the two victims before her, panic sized her. She was going to die, her blood spilt upon the life-giving earth, in the name of a chieftains’ pride and not as tribute to the gods, as sometimes still happened if a people were hard-pressed.
As her heart beat faster and faster and her breath caught in her throat, Halhara turned her eyes from the soil immediately below the block to the foot of the kurgan. Past the line of stakes awaiting heads, and the two already occupied, the mob of Kulwari clanspeople were growling in anticipation of the next execution. She sensed movement above and behind her, and the crowd seemed to take in a collective breath. The axe had been raised and was about to fall, oh gods, oh gods, oh g…
PAIN
She fell dizzyingly spiralling, falling end over end.
Nausea but not nausea, and PAIN.
Pain everywhere below her chin but no other sensation, not even the presence of those body parts.
Soil and sparse grass rushed towards her vision, swirling with sky and reddened wood.
Her cheek connected with the ground and cold rushed through her and her eyes flickered shut.
Darkness came and Halhara of the Ulvish passed beyond all sensation.
The crowd watched as the priest lifted up the head of the most recent traitor to die. As he strode down the slope of the kurgan and mounted it upon a stake, the face became visible. The eyes of the severed head were closed, the mouth hanging open and slack. The tongue partially protruded, with the braids of black hair practically dyed red with blood. The crowd cheered at the sight. Strange, how the death of a young and pretty woman, one who would have been an asset to the clan, could be a cause of celebration instead of disapproval and sadness. The priest called out the next name.
“Mirani of the Bethwir…”
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Halhara took in a deep breath as she was jolted to consciousness. The scent of lilac and woodsmoke filled her nostrils, and every part of her body ached. Never, in all her life, had she felt like this. And why was she kneeling on the ground. What could possibly…
The axe.
The chanting Kulwari.
The blood.
Oh Gods…
Halhara, daughter of the great and mighty chieftain Radul of the Ulvish clan, stood up, stumbled, fell to her knees, and vomited. Thick black ooze came out.
She was dead. Dead. But where… The ground on which she knelt was oily black stone, and the air was filled with the smell of burning. Was this…the Ashen Place? But she was not truly a traitor, the gods would not have sent her to the realm of unending torment!
Quickly, she turned her eyes to her surroundings. She was kneeling on a circle of the dark, oily rock, which extended for about twenty paces around her. Beyond that, vast trees with trunks thicker than a horse was long reached into the sky for what must have been two hundred paces. The branches spread out to cast the entire area in darkness, save for the circle around Halhara. Well, this was clearly not the Ashen Place, but then where was it? If this was the Realm of the Gods, wouldn’t she be kneeling before them as they judged her life?
Something was watching her, she could feel its eyes on her. Halhara spun around, as a shape formed out of the shadows of the forest. The shape of a man. Others appeared, from behind tree and amidst brush. The dark forms approached, and as they stepped into the light, Halhara saw their full forms.
People, clothed in animal skins and dirt. Not one of them held a weapon more sophisticated than a sharpened stick, and Halhara could not see anything on their persons that was well-made or of good craftsmanship. Who were these people?
The first to show himself, a tall man with a strong chin but no beard, came closer. Halhara realised then that she was naked as a babe, and that her full young breasts were visible to this strange man. The man made no attempt to touch her, and simply spoke. His language was strange, the inflection and sound of the words different from Halharas’ own, but she understood.
“Hello, radiant woman. I take it that you just died?”
She nodded, still stunned.
“Then I welcome you to the Forest Eternal. Now, we should probably be going. The gods will be hunting through here at any moment and we do not want to be here when they arrive.”
The crowd of Kulwari looked on as, with a meaty squelching sound, the priest drove the severed head down onto the left-most stake. Alkenes’ sightless eyes were mostly closed, the features on the paling face slack. The breeze sweeping in from the steppes tousled stray locks of hair that had come loose in the journey to the kurgan and subsequent fall to the ground. The effect was one of tarnished pride, of one formerly high and mighty brought low by fate. Several of the men, and indeed a few of the herder women, mocked the impaled head.
“Serves you right, haughty bitch!”
“Not so smug now, are you?”
“What’d they expect would happen, the gods themselves descending to aid their rebellion?”
One of the men, a lesser warrior by his leather and fur armour and flint-tipped spear, turned to the fellow clansman on his right.
“Is it really necessary to kill them? I mean, they couldn’t have done anything to stop their husbands, and women of good breeding like that shouldn’t be wasted like that…”
The other man snorted. Just like all the young, wanting to get their peckers wet. This would show all the other clans what happened if they rebelled. Both to their men, and those who abetted them. With all those who had aided the rebellion against the rightful lord of the steppe and first king the clans had ever known dead, the Kulwari would have shown their irresistible power over their rivals and vassals.
As Alkenes’ headless body was dragged away by the warriors, Halhara stared at the bloodstained wood of the block. Right up until the great bronze axe-head had connected with the neck stretched across the block, she had not quite believed that the Kulwari would really kill them. Yes, they had had knowledge of the plans of their respective chieftains, and had aided them through facilitating marriage alliances and convincing their kin to support the rebellion. But they could never have done anything to stop that, and to execute the wives and daughters of chieftains instead of giving them to worthy men among ones’ own warriors was folly! The priest had returned from mounting the first head of the day. Lifting hands stained with Alkenes’ blood, he called out the name of the next victim.
“Therosa of the Kenlaos, daughter of Ganryon!”
Halhara looked away as the girl in question began screaming in fear. The Kulwari warriors standing to the side marched over and took hold of Therosas’ shoulders. The shrieking collapsed into sobs as the blonde-haired girl was dragged forward. Like herself, Therosas’ hair was arranged into thick braids, three of them trailing down her back. Like the grey and blue patterns on her skirt, the style showed her former rank as the daughter of a chieftain. Halhara hoped, for the girls’ sake, that the braided hair did not impede the axe when it fell.
Halhara looked on as the executioner took hold of his axe again. Once again, she thought of how many spearpoints and daggers could have been made from its blade. Such a quantity of bronze, that the axe was wielded by anyone except a chieftain was absurd. Everything about the Kulwari was so strange. Halhara remembered her father telling her of how the once minor clan had risen in power when he was still a boy, with ample supplies of bronze acquired through trade of all things, and armies of slaves tilling great fields of wheat rather than raising cattle. Their sudden change from raiding their neighbours to vassalizing them had clearly brought them prosperity. But still, the way that they were breaking from tradition in executing high-born women…
She was torn from her thoughts as Therosa began to plead with the warriors, her sobs giving way to actual words as she desperately resisted the march towards the block.
“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I foreswear allegiance to the Kenlaos! I’m young and healthy, I’ll make a good concubine, please…”
The Kulwari redoubled their efforts, reaching the bloodstained wood as Therosas’ pleas devolved into wails. The pitiable sound, Halhara thought, should have moved even the baying mob below to show mercy.
Halhara kept her eyes up, looking out at the crowd of clans-people howling for another severed head. In the corner of her vision, Therosa was forced to her knees and shoved forward and down until her neck lay across the block. One of the warriors, clothed in leather armour and plates of bone, took hold of the girls’ braids and pulled them over the front of the block, until they dangled to either side of Therosas’ face. The Kulwari executioner raised the great axe, the morning sunlight glinting off the sharpened, bloody bronze. The weeping girl, the top of her golden hair visible past the curve of her back and shoulders, continued to beg. Just as Halhara thought that mercy would be granted, the axe fell.
THUNK!
Blood gushed as Therosas’ head disappeared from view. Halhara looked away. To witness a girl her own age suffer such a violent fate, knowing that she would soon meet the same end… it was too much. The sounds she had made whilst begging for her life had been a thing of horror unto themselves, and a disgrace besides. That a daughter of a mighty chieftain would lose her composure in such a way would have been unthinkable. Halhara hoped that she would see no more of it before her turn came.
Before the eyes of the Kulwari, the severed head dropped from the block, spurting crimson across the already blood-stained wood. Hitting the ground, it rolled for a single pace, and came to rest. The crowd watched as the priest strode over and, reaching down, lifted the bloody object into view. As with her mother, he descended the slope and mounted his ghastly burden upon one of the stakes. The young womans’ cheeks were stained with tear-tracks, her eyes wide and vacant. The three braids, each thicker than a mans’ thumb, were caked with blood which stained the chin and what remained of the neck.
The crowd had let out great sigh when they saw the axe fall. Many of those present occupied the lower ranks of the clan, and though their betters still ruled over them, it gave no small pleasure to see those accustomed to being exalted above all others butchered like hogs, as herders could be if their masters were minded.
As the body was dragged away, blood still dripping from the stump of the neck, Halhara desperately tried to avoid shaking in fear. To lose her dignity before the eyes of these people would disgrace both herself and her clan. As the priest returned from mounting Therosas’ head on its stake, she saw his eyes drift to her. Was he considering granting her the mercy not shown to Therosa? Unlike the Kenlaos girl, she was still standing tall and proud, rather than weeping and pleading. No such insipid weakness marred her stance, she had shown nothing but the bearing of a chieftains’ daughter. Surely, her life would be spared and given as reward to a great man of this clan.
The voice rang out once more.
“Halhara of the Ulvish, daughter of the traitor Radul.”
Her heart sank.
This was it.
She would die.
Dimly, through her shock, she felt the guards’ hands wrap around her arms and drag her forward. As they neared the block, the stench of blood became all too obvious. Just how many people had lost their heads upon its wood in the last moon alone? A shove, and she was kneeling upon the red-stained earth, the bloody wood barely a foot below her chin. The priest was muttering some invocation of the gods, asking that they judge the souls of those executed this day. Halhara strained to prevent her terror from showing itself on her face. This still didn’t make sense, she was the daughter of a chieftain. This sort of summary death was only visited upon herders and other slaves, those who had defied their masters. Halharas’ lord had been her fathers, not the chief of the Kulwari, so how could her submission to her chieftains’ plans been treason?
A forceful hand upon each of her shoulders and Halhara found her chin pressed into the blood-soaked wood of the block. Looking down at the soiled ground, freshly stained with the crimson vitae of the two victims before her, panic sized her. She was going to die, her blood spilt upon the life-giving earth, in the name of a chieftains’ pride and not as tribute to the gods, as sometimes still happened if a people were hard-pressed.
As her heart beat faster and faster and her breath caught in her throat, Halhara turned her eyes from the soil immediately below the block to the foot of the kurgan. Past the line of stakes awaiting heads, and the two already occupied, the mob of Kulwari clanspeople were growling in anticipation of the next execution. She sensed movement above and behind her, and the crowd seemed to take in a collective breath. The axe had been raised and was about to fall, oh gods, oh gods, oh g…
PAIN
She fell dizzyingly spiralling, falling end over end.
Nausea but not nausea, and PAIN.
Pain everywhere below her chin but no other sensation, not even the presence of those body parts.
Soil and sparse grass rushed towards her vision, swirling with sky and reddened wood.
Her cheek connected with the ground and cold rushed through her and her eyes flickered shut.
Darkness came and Halhara of the Ulvish passed beyond all sensation.
The crowd watched as the priest lifted up the head of the most recent traitor to die. As he strode down the slope of the kurgan and mounted it upon a stake, the face became visible. The eyes of the severed head were closed, the mouth hanging open and slack. The tongue partially protruded, with the braids of black hair practically dyed red with blood. The crowd cheered at the sight. Strange, how the death of a young and pretty woman, one who would have been an asset to the clan, could be a cause of celebration instead of disapproval and sadness. The priest called out the next name.
“Mirani of the Bethwir…”
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Halhara took in a deep breath as she was jolted to consciousness. The scent of lilac and woodsmoke filled her nostrils, and every part of her body ached. Never, in all her life, had she felt like this. And why was she kneeling on the ground. What could possibly…
The axe.
The chanting Kulwari.
The blood.
Oh Gods…
Halhara, daughter of the great and mighty chieftain Radul of the Ulvish clan, stood up, stumbled, fell to her knees, and vomited. Thick black ooze came out.
She was dead. Dead. But where… The ground on which she knelt was oily black stone, and the air was filled with the smell of burning. Was this…the Ashen Place? But she was not truly a traitor, the gods would not have sent her to the realm of unending torment!
Quickly, she turned her eyes to her surroundings. She was kneeling on a circle of the dark, oily rock, which extended for about twenty paces around her. Beyond that, vast trees with trunks thicker than a horse was long reached into the sky for what must have been two hundred paces. The branches spread out to cast the entire area in darkness, save for the circle around Halhara. Well, this was clearly not the Ashen Place, but then where was it? If this was the Realm of the Gods, wouldn’t she be kneeling before them as they judged her life?
Something was watching her, she could feel its eyes on her. Halhara spun around, as a shape formed out of the shadows of the forest. The shape of a man. Others appeared, from behind tree and amidst brush. The dark forms approached, and as they stepped into the light, Halhara saw their full forms.
People, clothed in animal skins and dirt. Not one of them held a weapon more sophisticated than a sharpened stick, and Halhara could not see anything on their persons that was well-made or of good craftsmanship. Who were these people?
The first to show himself, a tall man with a strong chin but no beard, came closer. Halhara realised then that she was naked as a babe, and that her full young breasts were visible to this strange man. The man made no attempt to touch her, and simply spoke. His language was strange, the inflection and sound of the words different from Halharas’ own, but she understood.
“Hello, radiant woman. I take it that you just died?”
She nodded, still stunned.
“Then I welcome you to the Forest Eternal. Now, we should probably be going. The gods will be hunting through here at any moment and we do not want to be here when they arrive.”
Just like with your previous stories, I appreciate how you humanize characters by exploring their final thoughts in depth. Having them end up in an afterlife of sorts also softens the tragedy and horror while leaving just enough to the imagination in regards to what happens next.
Yeah, I wanted to end it in a similar way to Days of Revolution 2, but I didn't have as good an idea of where she'd end up. Need to really nail down that aspect of it.
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