The Gathering of the Storm

6

Attila was up for the dawn as it broke over the earth.

He stretched his arms and his chest and grinned into the rising sun. It was a good day for fighting.

By that first light he rode round and inspected the village and the wide rocky plateau on which it stood. The attack would come soon.

Orestes was soon at his side. ‘So they have not tracked us yet?’

Attila looked out towards the slate horizon. ‘Or they have not yet chosen to. Do they even know about us?’

‘If they had followed us immediately and attacked us in the night?’

‘It would have been glorious.’ He turned to his Greek blood-brother and laughed. ‘We would have been massacred to a man, of course. But it would have been glorious!’

Orestes turned away, shaking his head.

‘But it did not happen. I knew it would not. They will attack when I am ready for them. Not before.’ He looked away across the plateau again.

‘Get the men up,’ he called after Orestes. ‘And the rest of the village.’

He ordered the villagers to take their few oxen down to the valley and rope up thorn scrub and drag it back to the village. He ordered the children out onto the plateau to gather rocks and stones, as big as they could carry, ‘and no smaller than your own heads’, which he had them drop round the perimeter of the village in a great circle. The rocks lay scattered in the dust, only inches high.

‘A powerful defence, my master,’ said Little Bird, nodding his topknot solemnly, ‘if they attack on mice.’

‘Go and gather thorns,’ said Attila.

‘I?’ Little Bird’s voice was high-pitched with indignation. He touched his fingertips delicately to his chest and gave a sarcastic, incredulous little bow. ‘I? Am I a mere shrub-gathering peasant like these dung-bespattered yokels?’

Attila drew his bullhide lasso and advanced on him.

Little Bird went to gather thorns.

Attila had them drag the thorns within the circle of the rocks, and bind them all together with strong ropes in a smaller inner circle, except for one narrow section which he had them rope together separately, to be dragged in and out of its gap like a thorn gateway. He demanded more thorns, stacked wider, higher. They brought more, and then he wanted more. They had to travel further down the valley each time, grumbling, hands and wrists bleeding from long thin scratches, vulnerable with their thin, exhausted, slow-moving oxen, eyeing the far horizon as they returned to see when a line of black clad horsemen would appear up over the rim of the world and their deaths would be assured.

Next he addressed the tired villagers. ‘I take it you have spades? Hoes?’

The people nodded dumbly.

‘Bring them.’

Attila’s men looked at each other doubtfully. Spades and hoes won no wars. They were wielded by mere farmers, drudges of the earth. No nomad ever wielded a spade. Farming was good for the Goths. But not for Huns.

Attila ordered them from their horses and into line and pointed them towards the heap of crude farmers’ tools.

‘Noble warriors,’ he said, ‘it is high time you leaned how to dig a hole.’

Finally, when they had dug to the point of exhaustion, there was one more task. He had his men unload some mysterious bundles wrapped in canvas that each carried slung from his packhorse. The villagers saw that each packhorse had carried all this way three long, fire-hardened staves, cut from the northern forests. This was a treeless country and the sight of so much wood astonished them. But it was not for burning.

He had the children bring pitchers of water from the acrid lake and pour it out to soften the cracked and adamantine earth. When the ground had softened sufficiently, he showed them himself, wielding a long iron-headed mallet, and with a flurry of mighty blows, how it was just possible to drive each stake into the ground at a cruel angle. He had them set the stakes in a circle inside the thorn brake.

‘Inside, my lord?’ queried his men, puzzled.

‘Inside,’ he said. ‘The stakes are not for burning, but the thorn brake will burn only too well.’ He looked away. ‘Sooner or later.’

They did not understand him but, grumbling, they did all that he said. This madman, muttered the villagers amongst themselves, had already slain one of the warriors of the Kutrigur, as if to annoy them. You might as well annoy a hornet’s nest, or a herd of buffalo, run at them defenceless and naked, waving your arms and hallooing. What hope was there in that? What sense? He had slain a Kutrigur and then returned here for refuge. In their joy they had held a night-time feast, but now in the cold daylight they began to wonder again, and to doubt. He was a madman, with that sardonic smile, that harsh laugh. He loved adversity. Like a shaman who talks backwards, rides backwards on his horse, weeps when other men laugh, laughs when other men weep.

Yet something made them trust his grim-faced madness nevertheless.

He also had the villagers drive what livestock they could into the centre of the thorn brake, and store what fresh water they could in whatever containers they could. And he had them dismantle the wooden walls of one hut and take the wooden slats into the thorn circle and set them up again in the shape of a rough wooden tent, large enough for the villagers, all fifty or sixty of them, to crawl into on their hands and knees, tight-packed as salted fish in a barrel. A crude armour against enemy arrows, but it would suffice.

At last it was done and he nodded with some satisfaction. The thorn brake now stood as high as a man, sometimes higher.

‘Yesukai,’ he called.

The eager young warrior rode over.

He nodded at the thorn brake. ‘Jump it.’

Yesukai patted his horse’s neck and hesitated. ‘My lord, it is too high. And the staves…’

‘Then take it at a gallop.’

‘But I cannot gallop over those rocks.’

Attila nodded and smiled. ‘Quite.’

After a meagre breakfast the next day, Attila took Geukchu and Candac aside and spoke to them quietly. Then he sent them off with their twenty men, and the entire troop of one hundred packhorses, and all but twenty of the warhorses. At this even his most loyal warriors looked dismayed and bitter. Not only must they dig holes in the earth, like ignoble farmers, but now, it seemed, they must fight on foot, their beloved horses taken from them. They watched for a long time as Geukchu and Candac and his men hazed the horses far out across the plateau towards the south, and finally over the horizon and were lost to sight.

Attila kept his own, of course. He mounted his beloved, ugly, tireless skewbald, Chagelghan, and his closest men mounted likewise. He and Orestes rode out ahead, with Chanat and Yesukai behind them carrying the slain Kutrigur warrior, still bound to the long stake, slung between their horses.

‘We will be back before noon,’ he called to his men and the anxious villagers. ‘So will the Budun-Boru!’ And he laughed.

They rode across the grasslands and through the ominous high shale gully and then out onto the plain, heading for the river. They did not halt, though the other three warriors felt their stomachs churning, their hands sweaty on their reins and bows, their scalps and their upper lips beading with sweat, their hearts hot and strained in their chests. Surely they would die now, today. But they had thought so before, under his command, and they still lived.

They walked their horses slowly and steadily across the plain towards the river and the vast encampments of black tents smoking sullenly in the still early-morning air. Both men and horses could smell more men and horses, dung smoke, the presence of the tribe. They crested the last rise, the last possible place of refuge and cover, where Yesukai had startled the partidges into the air. Then onward and downward to the edge of the camp, feeling as exposed as infants. They tried not to grip their bows too hard.

A crude ceremonial way led down the slope to the camp. They skirted it and rode around. The way was lined with stakes, and on each stake was impaled a human head. Kites and crows were feeding on them. Everywhere there were totems of witchcraft, crucified birds nailed to crosses, figurines of feather and fur, eyes hollowed out from wooden masks, mouths agape and crying out in silent horror. Chanat eyed the totems and sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. Such evil would not wash away for generations.

The Kutrigur set out no watchmen, such was their power and reputation. The four horsemen were almost in the camp before anyone noticed. And then one or two men moved silently across their path, reaching for their spears, looking more puzzled than anything else. One or two called out angrily, Who were they? How dare they ride into their camp uninvited? One nocked an arrow to his bow but Attila turned and looked at him and shook his head and the bewildered warrior let his bow drop.

At the heart of the camp was a wide, dusty circle, and the greatest tent of all with a high central tentpole cut from a single larch. They stopped and waited, and soon enough a man stepped out of the great tent, still wrapping a richly embroidered blanket around his shoulders. He stood tall again and looked at the four horsemen. He had a nose flattened by a terrible blow, heavily hooded eyes, and a face pockmarked by some old disease. His face was without expression, as befits a chieftain.

‘Who are you that dare invade my domain?’

‘We come from the village,’ said Attila, jerking his thumb back towards the high plateau to the west.

‘You lie,’ said the chieftain. His brow darkened. ‘We have tracked you for many days from the west. You know it well. Why have you come to that village now? Why do you stop there? What is your purpose? Tell me, before you die.’

For a time the strange bandit king returned no answer. And then at last he said, ‘My answer would not be within your understanding. ’

A ripple of disbelief at such insolence went through the gathering warriors.

The Kutrigur chief looked around. Most of his men were mounted now, bows in hand.

Attila, too, glanced around. The circle about them was not yet complete. He spoke again. ‘We bring you our offering, our tribute. A fine carcase.’ He smiled grimly. ‘In weight not less than a man, as you have stipulated.’

Turning his horse, he grasped the hopsack that lay draped over the slain warrior and snatched it off.

A gasp of disbelief ran around the circle. In that moment, before the disbelief had transmuted into fury and vengeance, Attila kicked his horse into a violent gallop. The other three did likewise, Chanat and Yesukai letting the stake with its burden of bloated corpse fall to the ground in ignominy.

The four were already galloping among the black tents before any of the Kutrigur warriors had overcome their astonishment and marshalled their anger enough to act with sense. And then they were in pursuit.

Attila dragged spears from the ground as he rode and pulled down tents into adjacent campfires. His men did likewise, leaving a trail of scattered wreckage behind them. They galloped through the tents as a hare runs through the grass beneath the jaws of a predator, zigzagging furiously to left and right, never allowing their pursuers to follow a neat, straight line. The air was filled with dust and enraged cries and the thunderous galloping of dozens-of hundreds of flying hooves, and the arrows began to whistle. The four crouched low in their saddles and no arrows found their target. It was as Attila had thought: the Kutrigur were numerous and cruel, but not greatly skilled. It was a relief to know, as another arrow whistled and smacked wide into the side of a tent as he passed. A woman ran out of it, screeching like an angry fowl, and their pursuers were slowed further by a mother’s fist shaken angrily in the faces of their horses, their path strewn with fiery obscenities.

Finally they were free of the camp and galloping across the grassy plains to the narrow gully and the high plateau, the pitiful protection of the village and the thorn brake. There was now no ducking and weaving, but a gallop as straight as an arrow’s flight for home, their pursuers not two or three hundred yards behind. Occasional arrows zinged around them but nothing slowed their mad gallop, and nothing could speed it, either. Their squat, fearless horses were at full stretch, with their thick, muscular necks outstretched into the wind, their lips drawn back over their teeth, their legs moving in so fast a flurry through the dusty air that they could not be seen or reckoned. The Kutrigurs came on, but the gap could not be closed.

The four horsemen galloped into the gully and up the narrow slope, between the high dank sides, the drumming of their horses’ hooves and their own wild shouts and cries echoing off the walls and about their maddened ears, and they began to whoop and holler with glee. As he galloped, Orestes fitted an arrow to his bow and, almost as if for recreation, or in a spirit of pure inquiry perhaps, curious as to whether it could be done, he half turned in his saddle, pulled the powerful bowstring back to his chest, and bent low to sight it. When the first of their pursuers appeared at the end of the gully, jostling clumsily with each other to come first through the narrow gap in bellowing pursuit, he let fly the arrow and the sound of it thumping into a warrior’s chest reached his ears even as he galloped away.

The narrow defile rang with the cries of the dead man’s comrades as he toppled from his horse and fell in their path, his wrist tangled in the reins. His horse reared out of control and the others barged into it, and heeled their horses over its rider’s prostrate form in their insatiate fury to get at his killers. The sounds of screaming horses and jostling men squeezed into so narrow a gap echoed off the high walls, as four raiders rode onwards.

Suddenly Chanat’s horse tripped among the grey rocks scattered treacherously over the high plateau, lying concealed among the grey grasses as they fled amongst the ovoo s where the wind soughed and sighed and the funerary pennants fluttered. His flying horse stumbled and buckled forward, the sound of its breaking cannonbones echoed in the clear air. As it fell it revolved, it seemed, in a perfect circle over and over, its rider flung far clear into the grass and landing on his back with a thump. The other three were already a hundred – two hundred – yards off when they realised. They jerked up their reins and stopped and wheeled.

It couldn’t be done.

Chanat raised himself painfully from the grass where he lay on his elbows and shook his head clear.

The Kutrigurs were at full, crazy gallop, not four or five hundred yards away, a little uphill. Chanat lay almost halfway between them and his king, who would get to him only moments before the enemy.

It couldn’t be done. Chanat would die.

If they came back for him they would all die.

It couldn’t be done. It would be madness.

Chanat got unsteadily to his feet, rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes and looked down the grassy slope at the horde of approaching horseman. His three comrades saw him tense and he stood very still. Then he turned his back on his approaching enemies and looked up the slope towards his old comrades. He raised his right hand and he was steady now, all shock and unsteadiness gone. He threw back his grizzled old head and the copper torc strained tight around his strong, muscular neck and the sun flashed on his broad copper-skinned brow and he smiled. Then in one swift movement he turned away from them, drew his sword and held it two-handed above his head, roaring his last defiance at his enemies and death and all the world.

The Kutrigurs howled down upon him.

It couldn’t be done.

Attila, Orestes and Yesukai drove their heels into their horses’ flanks and pounded back down the slope to meet them. Three against a thousand.

Arrows should have rained down upon them now, but the Kutrigurs were coarse and unskilled warriors, as they had seen, and could barely gallop and shoot at the same time. The horde held their spears low and leaned forwards eagerly in their saddles and came on.

The three skidded to a halt beside Chanat and Yesukai leaned down, off his saddle and seized him round his chest, under his arms, and with a terrific heave pulled him up. The old warrior kicked out in rage and Yesukai’s horse almost toppled sideways under the double load, fighting furiously against the pull of the earth. Attila and Orestes drew their horses round and glanced back. Only a few horses’ lengths between them now. The very air was deafened with cries. Some of the lead warriors were at last nocking arrows to their bows, others drawing swords, pushing themselves up high in their saddles to land the final fatal blows.

The two fired off a bunch of arrows as they turned and galloped away uphill. The Kutrigurs were almost on their horses’ tails. It was impossible that Yesukai should escape them, his horse burdened with Chanat as well. But they must try. They could not be defeated here now, not with all the world still left to conquer.

Attila slashed out and cut the warrior across the chest. He had almost pulled alongside them, his sword arm raised. He tumbled into the dust at blinding speed, his riderless horse continuing to gallop alongside them with its tongue lolling from its foaming mouth. The Kutrigurs’ horses were not so hardened as theirs. But still, it was impossible that they should survive this. They were almost surrounded. More Kutrigurs were surrounding them, some of them smiling. They would take their time. Some cantered easily uphill and still kept pace with their own exhausted mounts at desperate gallop. They would be taken alive. They would be kept alive for many days. They would be half flayed with great skill by the Kutrigur women, then bound and laid across anthills out on the steppes, to be devoured by a million tiny mouths over several days.

Yesukai’s strength and pride knew no bounds. Chanat sat behind him now, and they both fought, from horseback, slashing to left and right. The Kutrigurs mocked and veered and laughed. None seemed to carry lassos. But soon they would be brought down. It was a game to them. Soon they would end it.

Suddenly, with bewildering speed Kutrigurs started to fall back and go down. The air was torn with horses’ high screams and filled with belches of dust. Meaty thumps, and then, above those sounds, the whistle of arrowshafts in the air. Ahead of them, the doomed four saw a line of horsemen sitting their still and patient horses atop the rise, firing arrow after patient arrow, motionless otherwise, their aim sure and steady, finding a target every time in a pursuant warrior’s chest.

In the camp Little Bird had grown hysterical, talking of snakes again, and Csaba had ordered the troops of Juchi, Bela and Noyan, the three rocklike brothers, the sons of Akal, to ride out on the few horses remaining in the thorn corral. It was their steady troop of men, a line of unmoved thirty, who now fired their arrows undaunted into the approaching horde.

The four on their three horses galloped into them with their hearts aflame with pride in their people and their fearless comrades. The line parted magically before them and they rode on through. The land levelled out across the flat plateau and away in the distance they could see the village with its meagre thorn brake. The three brothers and their men behind them continued to fire with murderous accuracy, quite expressionless, their horses still and steady beneath them, and the Kutrigurs, reeling in ferocious confusion before this onslaught, slowed their horses and stopped. Men cried out and toppled, horses jostled, the slope was already strewn with their own dead. They howled in fury.

And then they began to fall back.

The brothers and their men waited until the Kutrigurs were in full retreat, then turned and cantered back to the village after their king.

The four and then the thirty slowed their horses and walked them carefully over the strewn rocks. The thorn gate was dragged open and they rode in through the narrow gap between the last of the staves, now set bone hard in the dry cold ground, and the gate was pulled shut behind them. They fell still gasping from their horses, bowed down, doubled up, reins still in their hands, laughing. The horses foaming with sweat, saliva drooling from their lips, leg muscles trembling, but never panicking, never sagging with despair. Not for them the rolling eyes and flicking ears of high-strung berber steeds with their prancing gait and glossy beauty. The horses of the Huns endured.

The men were gasping and laughing, all except for Chanat, who stood a little apart, scowling bitterly.

Yesukai lay stretched out in the dirt on his back. ‘The gods rode with us today,’ he gasped. ‘By my horse’s arse they did.’

Attila fought for breath, too, as one of the village women used a wet rag to clean the blood that ran from his left shoulder.

‘They did,’ he muttered. He looked over at Chanat. ‘Did they not, Chanat?’

Chanat harrumphed.

The men laughed.

‘And you, sons of Akal. “Akal’s trident”, we should call you. You did well.’

The three taciturn brothers looked as pleased as they ever did.

‘Right.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The tribe will be here soon. And this time they will not be turned back so easily.’ He looked up and scanned the low hills away to the south. ‘Geukchu and Candac and their men…?’

‘We have not seen them, my lord, since they rode out this morning. ’

‘With the horses,’ added another.

He nodded. ‘Good. Then to your stations.’