Knox of the Bloom

Chapter 2: Capard Hornbeard's Hall

The warriors nodded at Knox and patted Tapa as she scuttled past. They were huddled between the palisade, avoiding the light rain, leaning against the squat gate which had been pulled aside for the arriving clan-members. The warriors passed around a clay mug of what smelled like fire-water, anything to help keep a man warm, Knox supposed.

'Good hunting?' asked the one-eyed guard.

Knox showed his empty palms. 'Yeah, I have a handful of hares up my arse, just wait until I pull them out for ye.'

The other two guards laughed as Knox strode past them smiling and entered the camp. With the cold wind hissing up from the valley from both sides, the camp looked deserted. Small huts were set up against a small jut of rock, their thick layers of hide keeping those inside warm. The folk mostly lived outside of the hall until the frost came.

Capard Hornbeard's hall was a misshapen collection of debarked logs stacked one atop the other and secured with stones in places. It was roughly made in a circle with five stout chimneys made of rock and hardened clay peeping up from the roof, wafting black smoke into the morning air. Men said that the roof itself had been salvaged from one of the unusual ships the Bronze Men used to cross the sea. The strange beast that had been its figurehead now sat over the doorway, its amount of detail always fascinated Knox, with its double wolf head snarling in two separate directions, each mask had been painstakingly carved, showing fur, fangs and muscle tone.

The hall sat above a high ridge, having a clear view of the valley on each side, and the rolling hills beyond, with forest sloping away toward distant lands beyond. Old-Sister's village was a few days march from the ridge; smoke from their camp was just visible on clear days, but hidden beyond clouds of mist and vapors today. The camp also gave the old chieftain a good viewpoint for any approaching danger before it could climb the steep ascent. There were piles of rocks and boulders not far from the hall for that very same reason. Deep, bounding laughter sounded from inside as Knox pushed his way through the heavy door.

He squinted, trying to see through the mixture of smoke--weed-smoke, smoke from the peat hearth and smoke from the orange moss that Capard Hornbeard and his Five liked to enjoy--though he couldn't stomach the stuff himself. The Five sat nearest to Hornbeard, each man named after the gift received on becoming one of his best warriors, those most dedicated to their chieftain, and who no longer answered to their names given to them at birth.

There was Bronze-Shield, who had the said item lying across his knees, using it to eat and drink from. Flint-Blade, who was quiet and watchful as always, smoking his pipe while in deep thought. Yew-Bow was there, the weapon and quiver propped against the wall behind him. Rabbit's Paw, laughing and spraying spit into his unfortunate companions' faces, like always. Clay-Jug--who was just this moment refilling the item with fire-water--and almost falling over into his chief's lap after stumbling.

These were his Five, but there was also White-Fang, the young and sour kinsman of Capard Hornbeard, and he was quiet and brooding, as always. Disliked by many in camp, White-Fang had only gained a place by Hornbeard's throne by being kin to the old man, or kin to his kin. The old chief liked to fashion his clan after the Old Ways, men who were chosen by the Gods to rule. He loved nothing more than boring his guests to slumber with each new moon with these tales, except Knox that was. As a boy Knox had many times been the last awake, wide-eyed and listening to the old man. Of the giant gods who would eat an entire clan if they did not sacrifice enough blood during their rituals. Of mountains that would open up and swallow unwary trespassers.

Knox snapped himself out of the daydream, shutting the door behind him.

Yes, the Five were his best fighters, his right-hand always ready with dagger at his side and shield at his back. The other groups were content, though, where they sat, passing around skins of fire-water, gourds of ale, and as Knox took in the scene, Clay-Jug noticed the new-comer and nudged the old chief. Hornbeard's one eye squinted through the dingy light and smoke, baring his few yellow teeth left in a warm smile. The ancient horn tied into his massive beard wobbled, caked with foam. The horn was one of many taken from a giant Stag from olden times, when they'd still roamed the lands, and was two hands long.