Will Hino, the Iroquois god of thunder, help Nightwolf in his quest for revenge against the Viking raiders?
Nightwolf's Vengeance
by Michael Sutch
Their trail was clear. They had made no attempt to hide it, thinking no one would follow.
Sunlight dripped through the leaves of the canopied forest and spattered the trail with splotches of golden light. Here and there small creatures rustled the underbrush or flitted from tree to tree. The air was moist and cool, smelling freshly of rain. Nightwolf moved noiselessly between the trees, hardly marked by the animals and birds in his path, let alone by human eye or ear. His own senses were finely focused, searching for any movement, any sound, any odor that was foreign to this place.He stalked the wind which blew lightly from the west. And it was the wind that brought him the first faint trace; the stink of unwashed body. He halted then and crouched with head bowed and eyes closed, listening. There was a whisper of laughter far ahead and a high voice raised in a protest that was cut short with the dull sound of flesh hitting flesh. He growled low in his throat, though it was more a vibration than a noise. He wanted to run, then, but caution held him. The voices were far away, but the stink was near.
He eased forward, breathing deeply. The smell came from ahead, to the right of the trail. There should have been noise as well; the rasp of breath, the impatient stirring of tension or boredom, the unguarded scratching of an itch or a smothered cough. These men were not woodsmen. They made constant noise even though they thought themselves silent. Except here, there actually was silence. When he reached the place where the man was hidden, he saw why. His blond hair was matted with blood. He was unconscious, though still breathing. Nightwolf drew his knife and put an end to that.
He ran then, heedless of the branches whipping his face and body. The way led down a bank and across a slow moving stream whose water was murky with churned mud. Several large rocks had been turned by the passage of the men, leaving their clean, bright faces up. He stopped before crossing to study the ground and counted six sets of prints; the two girls and four others. Then he moved again, three steps on the surface of flat, friendly stones and he was over. He passed through a fringe of willows and up the bank on the other side.
The forest gave back, opening into a large glade. The grass and the blue and red and yellow wild flowers were still dewy with the moisture of a retreating bank of fog. The low-lying cloud swathed the far end of the glade like a gray blanket, but overhead in the bright sunlight and the bright blue sky was the thunder god Hino's consort Rainbow. Thunder growled like drums from the forest still shrouded in cloud as if announcing the presence of the god. Nightwolf smiled at the omen.
Ahead, just visible in the embrace of the fog were struggling figures. The two girls fought with their strange, outland captors. The sobs and cries of the girls were mixed with the deep laughter of the men. Keeping to the edge of the forest, Nightwolf eased silently forward. He drew the arrow he had recovered, one of the strangers' own, that has missed him in the battle at his village. The arrow had a sharp, wicked metal arrow head. He notched it to the taut bowstring.
He halted when he was within a hundred paces of the melee. The strangers were not aware of him as they were too engrossed in their game of stripping the girls. They were large men, unlike any he had seen before, with hair like gold and eyes the blue of the wild flowers. Their skin was pale white. They wore small round hats that gleamed like silver in the sun and had horns twisting to either side. Their clothes were baggy cloth in shades of brown and they wore leather boots that came high to mid-calf. Each carried a round metal bossed shield and either an axe of bright metal or a long metal tipped spear.
He raised the bow and arrow as offering to the spirit of the thunder god. "Hear me Hino! Bless my arrows. Let them strike the evil men as your arrows of fire strike all who do evil!"
A low growl of thunder answered him and he shrieked a defiant war cry. The outlanders turned as one man, the girls abruptly forgotten at their feet. When thunder again rumbled off the distant cloud-covered hills the strangers raised their own weapons to the sky and shouted with fierce joy. All four voices spoke the same name in an exultant pean, "Asa Thor!"
Nightwolf guessed they too worshipped the god of thunder. He did not understand how men capable of doing the evil things they had wrought among the people could expect Hino to answer their call, but it didn't matter. His arrows would be the thunder god's justice and, incidentally, his own vengeance. He prayed that he was worthy and that it would be so.
Two of the men with hairy faces took little running hops toward him and threw their spears. Nightwolf was surprised at their accuracy. He had to step aside and duck down at the same time to avoid being skewered. When he rose to his feet again he saw that all four were charging toward him. He raised the bow, pulled the arrow to his cheek.
"Let my arrow strike as yours would, Hino," he said, and released the shaft at the leading outlander.
The arrow streaked true and as it did so, lightning flashed from the clear sky and followed in the arrow's path, only faster, until at the last moment it seemed that the arrow flared with flames. Then the lightning forked in four directions and struck each of the outlanders simultaneously. The awful crack of the bolt knocked Nightwolf down and left his ears ringing in the crashing thunder.
It took long moments before fear left him. Then he sat up and stared uncertainly around. The white men were dead. Their golden hair was smoking and blackened beneath their metal hats. He raised his voice in a song of thanks to Hino. At least, he thought he did. He could hear nothing. When he closed his eyes all he saw was a streak of white light. He shook with dread at the power of the god of thunder.
Sometime later he felt the hands of the girls urging him to his feet. He opened his eyes and let them help him walk, one on each side, their shoulders offering support to his arms. Now they could return home to the cries of the injured and to the wailing for the dead. But they could make that walk without shame.
(c) 2014 by Michael Sutch
