07. A Long Road Ahead
The mood among those left behind at Nevalı Çori following the march of their brethren to the capital had been one of a deep and uncomfortable nervousness and worry. Although Andar had stayed behind with several of the other hunters, their constant and almost daily need to leave the village in search of fresh food in the absence of the rest of their people had left Sura and her two children feeling, at times, extremely scared and vulnerable. The women and children of the village had no way of knowing exactly how long their husbands and fathers would be gone for, nor could they know if it was even likely that they would survive serving in their king’s campaign against the west. For many of the women, it was almost as if they had already been widowed, with no guarantee that they would ever again have their loved ones return to restore the balance in their lives and for Sura, the reality of her husband’s imprisonment caused this feeling to become even more intense.
In spite of this, she had gone to incredible lengths to keep Harna and especially little Kirti’s spirits high, and while he was not away on the hunt Andar too had devoted a great deal of time and face to making sure that they were both kept distracted, happy and healthy. In truth, Andar had always somewhat envied his half-brother’s lot in life, he himself never yet having married or fathered children and he had embraced the opportunity to get closer to his niece and nephew, basking in the love and attention that they had always lavished on their uncle. It had been nearly a week since Skara had been cast in bonds and taken from them, and no messengers had yet been sent for nor arrived from Çatalhöyük to bring them any news of his situation. They could only hope and pray to the Gods that he had somehow found mercy in the court of He-Tauhasa.
On the morning of the sixth day, Andar returned from the hunt to find Sura weeping openly in the house that she shared with his brother, and had tried his hardest to comfort her. Both of her children had left to play by the river, leaving her to finally feel free to let her own guard down and once she had regained her composure, he asked her why she wept so. Fighting back tears, Sura responded with a question, “Andar, you are my husband’s brother. I know of the heresies that He-Xur has accused him, and I fear and understand that everything that he has said and claimed to have seen will not find favour among the Seers..” Again, she wept and again Andar consoled her, cooing and gently trying his best to calm her down.
She went on, “I can’t claim to know whether those warnings that he has given us carry any truth, but if my love does not return to us can we really let him go to his death in vain..? How can we just stay here and allow everything that he might give his life for to be made meaningless..?” As the words crossed her lips and the harsh reality that the love of her life might already be dead sank in, Sura finally completely broke down, sobbing openly and uncontrollably. Andar too had begun to feel a deep sorrow at this thought, however his own misery quickly turned to anger and he cursed Ihreikas and the Seers out loud and with every vile term that he could remember. “No-one should have such power as to strip a man of his life and livelihood over such trivial things.” he said angrily, “Where is the honour in such an act..? To hell with Ihreikas!” He burned, and she wept.
The two sat quietly within her home for a long while, and Andar decided to entertain the possibility that those things that his brother had believed and which had led to their situation might have some value. His thoughts turned to the Seers, and he considered much to his initial disgust that what the Watchers had told to Skara might in fact, somehow, have come from a place of wisdoms beyond his own ability to comprehend. After all, he had trusted in those stories their father had told them when they were younger, of the knowledge of the Ancients and of their almost godlike understanding of the ways of the world.
“Sura,” he asked her, “have you ever known your husband to be a man easily taken by the deceptions of others..? Can you recall a time that Skara might have ever been led from reason by those seeking to make a fool of him..?” Sura looked up at Andar, sniffed and wiped her eyes, now able to speak again, “I have always found him to be wary,” she replied, “even more so than most and sometimes even to the point where it has driven me to complete and utter distraction.” She laughed out loud for a second, reminded of the stubbornness and general skepticism of her husband whenever she had tried to spark up a conversation about the godhead, divine signs or the Seers’ abilities to interpret them. Andar went on:
“Skara spoke of our need to get to safety, to return to the plateau before another week passes. I have never in my life seen him so taken by the prophesies of any order, nor so deeply concerned at the possibility that all our lives might be in danger. I wonder..” he trailed off in thought, lost for a moment before continuing, “I wonder what might be gambled if we were to make such a journey and return. Those who have left for the capital will not arrive back at the village for many weeks, if everything that I believe Ihreikas has in mind will come to pass. We just might be able to make the journey ourselves, to reach the city of Uru-Mah which I too have seen and if in fact no great disaster comes to pass, we might also return without He-Xur, the King or anyone else becoming any the wiser.” He stroked his thick, blonde beard as he mulled the thought over, and the more that he did the more he began to feel as though not only could they pull it off, but that he might just owe it to Skara at least to try.
Sura looked up at her husband’s brother with wide doe eyes, and for the first time in days he saw in them a small glimmer of hope. She too knew that there was every possibility that Skara had not been truthfully informed of those events that he had believed would come to pass, however with his future uncertain and her facing the very real possibility that she might never again be held in the arms of the man to whom she had given herself, she felt that such a journey might in some small way vindicate him.
“Andar,” she said softly, “I think we should go. For your brother’s sake, I think we should take those left in the village and go to the plateau. If for nothing else, and should the worst come to pass, we would be forever remiss to ignore Skara’s warning. We must.” They each drew a heavy breath, both finding new hope in the prospect of the journey and relieved that they might at least have the opportunity to validate Skara’s fate, whatever it might be. “We should speak with the others,” Andar said, “prepare provisions and take our people north, if only to be safe.”
As the first light of dawn reached over the tree line atop the western ridge, Skara, Omer and his three boys left the rustic log cabin that they had called their home for so many years and made their way cautiously into the dense woodlands to the east. They had not been visited during the night by any of the King’s huntsmen, Skara guessing that they too had made camp somewhere below the ridge and he knew that they would more than likely resume their pursuit as soon as morning had broken. The five of them had gathered and tied a small store of food, stones and arrows in bundles of heavy cloth which they then fastened across their shoulders, and set off along one of the many trails that Omer’s sons had carved into the hillside.
The journey was slow going at first, as the forest to the east was extremely old and had grown out of a sharp incline, and the uneven ground was still very damp and in some places made finding a foothold quite difficult. About an hour into their descent, the group reached a wide granite shelf on the side of the hill that opened out into a steep cliff face overlooking the valley, and the four of them paused momentarily to assess how they might best navigate their way down to the bottom. Omer had suggested that they continue to their left, working their way along a more even path which followed the ridge north before allowing them to gently descend to the lower slopes. Asher however argued that they should ascend the shelf south and then climb down the bare rock face, as this would mean that they would reach the bottom quicker, and that their pursuers might be thrown off their trail as their feet left the soft ground of the forest floor. The two bickered at length about which option was the most sensible, prompting the other three to sit and rest momentarily by the wayside.
After several minutes spent debating, the group suddenly heard the unmistakeable crack of branches breaking underfoot, before the air was split by the cry of a man who had fallen into one of many pits the boys had dug to trap game along the ridge. All five men froze instantly, peering into the harsh morning light and strained to hear whether there were any further noises when all of a sudden, three dark figures ran wildly from the trees below and called out to them, rushing to ascend the rocky outcrop and met them in combat. They had been spotted..! Omer quickly beckoned his three sons to move past him and ordered them to climb the rise and make for the rocky cliff that Asher had earlier suggested they descend. He and Skara held their spears out wide, and they too backed away from the approaching men, closely following Omer’s sons to the edge of the cliff.
The hunters were closing distance rapidly, their war cries filling the air as the five took turns at carefully finding their way off from the rise on which they had been trapped. Several more arrows whistled past them, missing their mark as one of the hunters stopped still and fired in an attempt to strike them before they descended past the rocky lip. Skara knew that they would not all be able to make it over before their pursuers reached them. He turned and dropped his weapon, and realising that they held a slight advantage in finding themselves on higher ground began hurling large stones from the outcrop down the incline in the direction of the attackers.
Several of the smaller rocks caused their pursuers to lose their footing, but the hunters were still gaining speed and within moments, one of them had caught up to the party, wildly waving his spear about and trying to land a blow on Omer who did his best to block the sharp point of the other man’s weapon. The three of them tussled and fought to hold their footing until eventually Skara and Omer formed a barrier by crossing their spears and managed to hurl the man back, sending him rolling away in the direction that he had come.
Omer knew then that they would not stand a chance at defeating the three men in close combat once they had all reached the party. Skara was a solid fighter, and on any other day might have been able to hold his own against two such men but he was still tired, and his injured feet prevented him from holding ground as well as he otherwise might have been able. Omer himself was no longer the strong and robust man that he once was either, however as he looked around them a plan quickly dawned on him. They might not have had a chance in close combat, but there was a way that he might be able to knock the men from the ridge and send them crashing down into the forest below. He quickly turned to Skara, ordering him to “Follow my boys down into the rocks – take them off this god-forsaken cliff as fast as you can and leave these three to me. Go, now..!” He shoved Skara roughly back towards the southern end of the rise, and turned once more to face their attackers.
Skara was reluctant to leave his uncle, but sensed in his tone that he had figured out a plan with which to deal with the three and so turned and began to make his way down the rise. As he gripped the rock face, he turned to look after his uncle one last time, calling out, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Omer. Hurry up and follow us to the bottom, and don’t try anything foolish..!” He found his footing and slowly began to make his way down the cliff as Omer sized up the three men who were all now nearing where he stood, and then turned his attention toward a large pile of boulders he had earlier noticed lying against the face of the rise.
In the split second that he stood there sizing up which of the rocks he would choose, the face of his brother Agar flashed into his mind. He remembered the events of that fateful night, during which his own pride had caused him to lose the dearest person in his life. He recalled his failure to move that one final stone which then dragged his brother from the cliff on which he had stood and out into oblivion below. From out of the emptiness that he had felt ever since that day, he suddenly found a deep well of anger, a rage that fountained up within him and which would give him the strength that he knew he needed to protect his nephew and his own sons. No longer would he remain crushed by the events of that night, so many years ago. No more would the burden of his own failing strength hold him back. No more..!
Omer let loose a monstrous roar that boomed throughout the valley and turned to reach for the largest boulder that sat by the wayside. Skara, himself only just over the summit of the ridge raised his head over the top when he heard his cry and was just in time to witness his uncle grip a massive stone of incredible size and heave it off of the ground
For the first time since they were reunited, Skara did not see the grizzled and weary man that had greeted him so distantly the night before. Instead, the Omer of his youth was there, the knots and threads of the powerful muscles in his back tightening and holding fast as he tore the boulder from its position and hoisted it up to the height of his chest. The three hunters were mere yards away from Omer at this point, the bowman running to join his comrades in the fray but as he roared they stopped dead in their tracks, realising what was about to happen. Omer turned slightly as he held the stone aloft, calling back to Skara, “Move, child – go quickly and take my boys to safety..!”
He then pivoted left and with a resounding cry, tossed the massive stone in the direction of the hunters. The boulder was almost three feet wide, and the ridge on which they stood only slightly wider and so the stone crashed to the ground with a loud boom and rolled directly into the three men, immediately barrelling two of them off over the side of the cliff face and into the dark forest below. The third man was too far from the edge, and was quickly crushed into the earth by the weight of the stone which moved over his writhing body like a rolling-pin with a sickening crunch. The stone continued down the way for another thirty or forty feet before finally crashing over the edge of the ridge and down into the sea of green below and Omer stopped to catch his breath, peering over the ledge to see if there was any sign of the two hunters that had been forced off of it. As he coughed and struggled to regain his composure, he found the two of them lying prone in the dirt at the bottom, several feet away from each other. The drop itself must also have been a good forty feet, and to his relief neither of the assailants appeared to have survived.
He clicked his tongue as he walked over to the third man, finding the weight of the boulder to have crushed his skull and burst his torso open like a fresh fruit, leaving a smear of dark blood trailing behind it as it rolled away. Satisfied, Omer nodded and thought to himself, “For what it’s worth I may be old, but by the Gods when push comes to shove – I’m still the second strongest man in the valley.” He then prayed a silent prayer for his brother, and dedicated his feat to the memory of the only man in his life to have bested him in a show of strength. Omer turned and began to move back to the southern edge of the ridge to rejoin the others, however just as he was about to call down to the four of them, the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end and something in the back of his mind made him somehow aware that he was once again not alone on the trail.
From where he stood, Omer could see that Skara and his sons had already cleared the cliff face and moved out to take up a position where they could see him from the ground below. As he leaned over and was about to call out to them, the look of horror on their faces immediately prompted him to turn once more towards the northern end of the ridge, in the direction of where the hunters had left the trees moments earlier.
Out of the same forest wall strode a fourth man of staggering proportions, dressed head-to-toe in blood red cloth and who sported a familiar polished chest plate emblazoned with the unmistakable sign of the running ram. From the bottom of the ridge, Skara immediately recognised this to be the King’s champion, who now stood stoic at the foot of the rise and glared up at Omer from behind his scarf, his two dark eyes burning at the other man as he sized him up. Strapped to the warriors left arm was a wide, dark wooden shield, also adorned with the white emblem of Ihreikas and in his right hand he carried a cruelly fashioned pike that was fitted with a row of heavy barbs along its length, and which opened out into a long and vicious polished obsidian blade at one end. Skara could not believe that He-Tauhasa had sent his greatest fighter to pursue him, and was immediately frightened for his uncle, calling out:
“Omer, you cannot stand and fight this man, you must trust me – quickly, make your way down to join us..!” He was suddenly frantic, knowing that his uncle would already have grown tired from his earlier confrontation and feared that he would not be able to defeat the other man who was already ascending the outlook with long measured strides to meet him. Even by the way he moved, Skara could tell that the champion was a highly seasoned fighter, in no way exhibiting the same foolhardy gusto that the three other hunters had shown in rushing to meet them in combat. The warrior held both his arms high at right angles, and carefully navigated the ground ahead as he closed in on Skara’s uncle.
Omer however was not afraid, and as soon as he could make out the insignia of the house of He-Tauhasa quickly made up his mind that if this was an opportunity to slay a direct representative of the same ruling class that he so secretly despised, he was going to take it. He called back to Skara, declaring boldly, “I have no fear of the King and his servants, boy – stay where you are and pay close attention, and you might just learn a thing or two.”
“Allow me to show this overdressed city-dweller how we fight in the hills.”
He kneeled briefly to collect both his own spear and the one that Skara had dropped earlier, and stood his ground as the other man advanced. Skara realised that Omer knew nothing of the soldier he was about to face, and so told his cousins to stay put before rushing to reascend the rock face and join his uncle, finding the way back up the cliff much slower going than the descent. He had only secured his first foothold when the champion closed the distance between himself and Omer, and the two finally met in combat. Wasting no time, the warrior in red proceeded to swing his awful weapon in wide, sweeping arcs, controlling it with one hand and with a powerful continuing motion attempted to force Omer back to the far edge of the ridge.
Omer was at first unsteady on his feet, backing away slowly from the other man as he watched him deftly handle his weapon and tried to figure out how best to break his defences. He took both spears and, waiting for the champion’s blade to swing right-to-left across his body, crossed his weapons in its path, stopping the soldier’s advance. As he held the other man’s weapon steady, he launched a powerful kick at the warrior which landed square in his chest, causing him to stumble back several feet and withdraw his weapon. It was Omer’s turn now to attack, and he skilfully swung both his spears in a circular motion around his body and ran towards the champion, hoping that he might land a quick blow and catch him off guard, however his opponent quickly recovered from the kick and again moved towards Omer with his shield outstretched, absorbing every strike as it came.
Seeing this from the cliff, and still too far from the top to join his uncle, Skara felt powerless watching the two men face off. While his uncle was still a large man with a solid frame, his opponent appeared to be much younger and by far the quicker of the two, handling his weapon with an incredible dexterity for a man of his size. As the champion edged closer to Omer, he completely surprised him by breaking into a sudden sprint and rushed shield-first into his spears. Omer’s attack was stopped short and he was knocked backwards and onto the ground, from where he quickly swung his spears at the other man’s legs to try and create distance between the two once more. The champion merely danced around his weapons for several seconds before first trapping one underfoot and then the other which forced Omer to release his grip on the handles as he lay prone in the dirt and now completely defenceless.
At this point Omer realised that he was in serious trouble, and as his opponent leaned back to swing his savage pike over his body and down toward his head he quickly drew two short hunting knives from his sides and again crossed them to block the warrior’s weapon, its heavy stone blade coming to a stop mere inches from his face. The champion was clearly beginning to grow frustrated at the older man’s resilience, and swing his pike even harder several more times at his opponent who succeeded each time in blocking his strike. Just as Omer felt that he might try to raise himself up to his feet, the champion sharply jerked his weapon on its axis, sending the back end quickly and powerfully into the other man’s unprotected groin. Immediately Omer saw stars, doubling-over where he lay and for a split second, he completely let his guard down. Skara had nearly reached the summit of his climb and was just in time to peer over its edge to see the champion standing over his uncle who was lying bent and in terrible agony.
As the champion stood over him, he raised his head and stared at Skara from across the ridge. Skara screamed at his uncle to get up, and the soldier in red raised his left arm toward him, pointing first at Skara, and them in a motion imitating the cutting of his own throat dragged his thumb across the width of his neck. Skara’s blood ran cold and he knew what was about to happen yet he was still too far away, still unable to reach him in time to stop it. His cry rang out across the valley as the champion spun his weapon around, and gripped it tightly in the middle with both hands before quickly and savagely plunging the stone blade deep into the soft flesh of his uncle’s throat and down into his chest, twisting it as he did. As Omer tried to draw breath, dark, rich blood fountained out from the wound at the top of his chest, and the cries of his three children pierced the air as they too watched on in horror from the bottom of the ridge.
The champion’s blade stayed embedded in his opponent for several moments as he stood still and simply watched the other man, waiting for him to die. It was as though the experience had become cathartic; the screams filling the air, the sound of men choking on their own blood. The act of killing had slowly become a joy for the King’s champion, and after seeing Skara in his halls for the first time and then on the battlefield within the great arena, he had approached Ihreikas to request leave of the city in order to carry out his sentence personally. “Execution is one thing,” he had thought to himself, “but a fair fight, combat amongst equals and the hunting of men – this is what a true champion craves.”
The warrior withdrew his blade from Omer’s neck as his writhing body finally became limp, and he wiped the blood from its edge on his quarry’s cloak before turning his attention to Skara, who had finally ascended the top of the ridge. Killing Omer was incidental, but he was pleased with the effect that it would have on Skara and knew that the anger such an act might instil in him would provide good sport.
As soon as Skara clambered over the edge, tears still in his eyes to face him, several arrows soared through the air from below the ridge having been fired by his three nephews at the other man. The champion took a knee and held his shield low, catching all three as they reached him. Skara did not wait for their next volley to arrive, moving towards his opponent and stopping ten or twelve feet away from where he stood. He threw his arms wide to show that he was unarmed and, shaking with anger, called out to challenge him:
“You,” he began, pointing at the soldier, “I know you, I remember you from the halls of Ihreikas. Do you remember me..? You have taken something from me this day, and by the Gods I will make you pay in kind.” He stopped to think then for a moment about how he might go about making true on such a threat, deciding cleverly to appeal to the soldier’s ego. He pointed to the body of his uncle, continuing, “This old-man that you have killed, he was nothing to you. You are a warrior of the King, are you not..?” The champion paused for a moment, breathing heavily and then solemnly nodded, still standing over Omer’s inert body.
Skara continued, “Then honour your king in fair an equal combat. Fight someone who might challenge you, someone who might beat you,” the champion stiffened and inhaled deeply and audibly through his nostrils. The very idea that he could be bested in single combat brought him close to a rage, but Skara finished, “Fight me, champion. Hand me my uncle’s weapon, that I might strike you down and prove that you are a weakling and a coward after-all..!” He laughed derisively and the champion stood still, however Skara could now see that he had gently begun to shake, his massive, broad shoulders quivering ever so slightly as he finally achieved total apoplexy.
The red soldier took several paces back from his fallen opponent, his eyes darting warily left to the boys in the forest as he did and spoke then for the first time. Out from behind his red facecloth came an awful voice that rattled with such a deep and coarse tone that it almost resembled the crunch a heavy boot might make on a gravel road. By his pronunciation alone, Skara could instantly tell that the other man no longer owned a tongue, perhaps taken as punishment for an earlier transgression of his own, as the following words, “You – fight..!’ burbled up crudely and uncomfortably from the champion’s throat.
The warrior pointed to the fallen spears by Omer’s side, gesturing for Skara to pick them up and his breathing suddenly became heavier as he began to work himself up into the kind of frenzy that he needed to sustain in order to last in combat with a man of Skara’s stature. Skara walked over to Omer, his heart filling with sadness as he was finally able to take a closer look at his uncle’s body, and then he too began to feel an anger rising from within. “This man,” he thought to himself, “has robbed me of the chance to know my father’s brother. This man has killed a hunter of the Tau line, and has taken my nephews’ father from them before his time. This man.. will pay with his life..!” He scooped up both weapons and raised his powerful arms wide in a bold gesture of defiance.
“Vengeance rides on swift wings,” he thought coldly, “and mine will fly fast and true.”