The Yule King
by Marco Etheridge
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The cart road stretches away before him, leading down the open furlongs to the woodlands. The crusted snow is ankle-deep beneath his feet, but the foot claws give him purchase as he runs. Hidden behind the ramparts, the drum echoes: eight, nine, ten.
At the tenth beat, Luti veers to his left and drops over the ridge and onto a narrow trail that leads to the valley below. He hears a collective gasp from the onlookers lining the ramparts, a few shouts. Luti allows himself a grim smile. This is not what they expected.
This moment of inattention demands immediate payment. His foot catches on a hidden rock that sends him sprawling onto the snow. He slides to a stop and curses himself for a fool. His curses are cut short by the pounding drum. He scrabbles forward on all fours, regains his feet, then charges on.
Another fall will mean his death. He runs as he has never run before, mindful of each step. The snow is treacherous under the starlight. He strains his eyes, looking for any lumps that may hide an obstacle. Two furlongs to the flat ground of the fields. One furlong to go. The freezing air rasps his throat. Then the drum goes quiet. The hunters leap to the chase.
Luti reaches the frozen fields and risks a look back. A line of torches drops over the ridge, tracing with fire the path of his flight. The hunters are on him. Luti turns and runs.
His brain flies ahead, searching out the way. Four furlongs across the rutted fields and snow. And through the middle of the valley, the dark gap where a frozen creek carves a narrow gully. The first obstacle for prey and hunter.
He sees a ribbon of blackness cutting the gleaming snow and wills his legs to a burst of speed. At the very brink a desperate leap, his legs and arms sawing empty air. He tumbles as he lands on the far side, smearing blood into the snow. Then he is up again and running.
A wall of white rises on the far side of the valley, drawing closer with every stride. The chalk downs, the beacon of hope in his escape or perhaps his doom. The downs climb two roods and more above the valley floor. A sheep path zigzags up the downs, only wide enough for a single shepherd with a careful tread.
Luti knows this trail, but only in daylight and never in snow. Now his life depends on finding it, and quickly.
As the foot of the downs draws nearer, Luti hears shouts from behind. The hunters have reached the creek. He prays that some will fall.
His lungs burn as he reaches the chalk wall. The path begins here, somewhere very near, but he cannot see it. He swings his head and sees the torches drawing near. A quick count and a flicker of hope. Nine hunters now. Two have fallen to the icy creek bed.
Luti runs along the foot of the downs, his eyes searching the chalk face. There! A faint cutting up on the face of the cliff Sure of it now, he stoops to the ground and gathers stones, lumps of chalk, cradling the heavy load in his arms. Then he begins to climb.
The trail leads up and up. The valley floor falls away beneath his feet. The hunters close the gap, near enough that Luti can see their faces, orange and hungry in the torchlight.
Yes, come on, let the bloodlust take you. Push and struggle to be the first up the hill, the first to bring down the king.
Luti knows the bloodlust of the hunter. He has felt it course through his veins. Now, he is counting on that same blood hunger to save his life.
He reaches a point where the path doubles back on itself, climbing in the other direction. The hunters reach the first section of the path and surge upward.
Prey and hunters climb in opposite directions across the steep face. Then Luti does the unthinkable. Halfway across the second leg of the trail, he stops. Kneeling, he drops the stones and lumps of chalk to the cold ground. He grabs one stone with both hands and raises it above his head. Just as the first torch passes beneath him, he hurls the stone.
A dull thud knocks the torch spinning into the darkness and a body follows it down. The line of torches wavers. In the confusion, another hunter tumbles from the trail and his torch traces his fall.
Luti fires stone and chalk missiles as fast as he can fling them. Two more hunters fall to the fusillade, and the rest retreat down the path and out of range.
Flinging his last stone, Luti pushes himself upright. Hugging the chalk wall with his right shoulder, he creeps upwards until he is directly above the torches of the five hunters still on their feet.
Luti hears their angry shouts as they work themselves up to charge. He leaps to the brink of the trail and begins a mad dance at the sheer edge, risking a deadly fall. Lumps of chalk break away and plummet down, the beginning of a small avalanche. Chunks of chalk, stones, and snow rain down upon the trapped hunters. Two of them race up the trail to escape. The three slower hunters are not so lucky. The shower of debris sweeps them from the face of the downs.
Two surviving torches dance up the steep path. The hunters scream their battle cries, incensed that their prey has turned on them. Luti can do no more. Now is the time to run, more swiftly than any doomed king has run before.
Luti almost misses the last turning. He catches himself one pace before stepping into thin air. Skidding and gasping for breath, he spins to the right. He wills his body to climb the last steep pitch that leads to the top of the downs.
The trail seems endless, climbing to the cold stars and beyond. Luti hears the hunters closing the gap behind him. He knows the race is lost. His legs falter but, somehow, he staggers on.
Without warning, the ground drops away beneath his feet. He lurches forward, stumbles, barely rights himself. He is atop the downs now, lurching across flat, open ground and untracked snow.
Behind Luti, the two surviving hunters crest the brink. They are coursing his track now, closing in for the kill. And far beyond the hunters, far away past the valley and the hill fort, the first glow of dawn laces the eastern horizon.
Luti throws every ounce of his strength into one last dash. Before him lies a dark wood, only a long stone’s throw away. If he can make it under the oaks, he may have a chance. The shadows of safety are close, but the hunters are closer.
Then a shadow detaches itself from the trees, a dark demon racing across the white snow. A whirring song fills the air followed by a harsh voice: “Get down, boy!”
Luti lurches and falls, whether out of fear or command, he does not know. His face breaks through the snow crust and his body goes limp. Torchlight dances across the snow, making it sparkle and gleam. This is the last thing he will ever see. He lets go one last breath and waits for the stab of a spear point.
Instead, Luti hears a whistle, a thud, and a groan. Something heavy falls to the snow nearby. Muffled footfalls on snow, two sharp wooden cracks, then another groan, another thud.
Luti raises his face from the snow and dashes a hand across his eyes. Before he can focus, a hand grabs him under the armpit and half-pulls him out of the snow. “On your feet, boy. Walk. I cannot carry you.”
His legs feel like jelly, but he tries to obey. He manages a few steps before looking at this man who has appeared from nowhere. A big man, half a head taller than Luti. In his free hand, the man holds a quarterstaff and a leather sling. Luti feels the grip under his arm loosen.
“Can you stand on your own?”
Luti has no words. He can only nod. He shakes his head to clear it, finds his balance, then nods again.
“Good. Do what I say, and you might live to see the sunrise. Quickly now, before those two wake up.”
The man sets off for the oaks, and Luti struggles to keep up.
“No, walk to the side. We must track the snow, make it look like an army was here. Yes, like that. Now, to the trees and back again. If those louts stir, I will give them another taste of my staff.”
Back and forth they go, circling the two human forms sprawled on the ground. Luti sucks in great lungfuls of cold air, feels the life return to his dead limbs. “Are they dead?”
“Nay, I do not believe so. And I’ll not kill them for you, though they may wish themselves dead when they come around.”
“I am glad they still live.”
The big man stops dead and shoots out his staff. The blunt end halts Luti in his tracks. “Are you indeed?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good for you, boy. Perhaps you will be worth the trouble. But now we must go, and swiftly. The dawn comes, and your friends will soon wake up. They may still want to put a spear in you.”
Luti looks to the east, shocked to see the growing glow.
“Day is coming.”
“Yes, it is. Do not believe that the dawn depends on your life or death. The dawn cares for no man. Come, we have a long path ahead of us yet.”
“Wait, sir. Please, what is your name?”
The big man lets go a snort. “My name is my own. Come, we have no more time for words.”
The stranger disappears under the shadows of the oaks. Luti follows, placing his feet in the footprints of the stranger. Once beyond the oak wood, the big man turns down a rocky gully. He chooses a path along the windward side, hopping along patches of stone blown clean of snow.
They stop in a natural alcove of boulders where a stream runs clear of ice. The stranger bids Luti wash his wounded arm, then binds it with a strip of linen. Luti drinks his fill. The icy water chills his guts but clears the fog from his brain.
After this brief pause, the big man leads the way further up the gully, hopping from rock to rock. Luti matches the man’s careful steps, a child’s game of follow-the-leader played with deadly seriousness.
A few furlongs up the gully, the man climbs the far side. They emerge in an open moorland. The sun is above the horizon now, and the world sparkles white and green. Atop the next rise is a ridge of bare rock and tumbled boulders. The stranger heads straight for this, as if toward a landmark.
Luti grows weak as they climb the long moor. He has not eaten since last night. Lack of food and the shock of the chase sap the last of his strength. Just as he is sure he cannot take another step, the big man vanishes around a huge boulder.
Luti leans against the massive rock, gulping deep breaths. Then he steps around the rock, but there is no one in sight, only a dark hole leading who knows where. The opening is a rough rectangle formed by two upright stones and a flat lintel. It looks more like a tomb than a cave. A tingle of fear climbs Luti’s spine, but the open ground holds more peril. He steps inside.
* * *
The big man is on his knees, striking a flint over a pile of tinder. Luti sinks to the stone floor. Before he can say a word, the tinder catches a spark and flares to life. The stranger holds a tallow candle to the tiny flame, and a warm glow illuminates the chamber.
By candlelight, Luti sees bundles and a tidy stack of firewood. A hidden refuge well prepared. The stranger begins building a proper fire around the kindling. As he reaches for the firewood, the sleeve of his tunic stretches back, exposing the bare skin of his forearm. Luti stares at the man’s arm. The missing puzzle piece falls into place. The stranger’s forearm is marked with a thick scar.
Words sputter from his mouth before he can stop himself. “You are him!”
The man turns from the growing fire, his face lit by dancing flames. “Eh? Him who, boy?”
“You are Vatto, the Yule King who escaped. You bear the scar.”
The big man chuckles and the sound fills the chamber. “Figured it out, did you?”
“Then it is true!”
Silence as the man feeds more wood to the fire. Satisfied, he leans back on his haunches. “Come here and warm yourself.”
Luti obeys, scooting close to the fire and holding his hands over the warmth. He fights down the hundred questions trying to push past his tongue. He watches as the man reaches for a bundle, unties it, and removes two strips of dried meat. “Eat.”
The taste of dried venison warms Luti’s tongue. Nothing has ever tasted better. His benefactor holds out a water skin. The water inside is clean and cold. Luti feels life unfurling inside him, like a new fern frond breaking through the snow.
The big man chews his venison while staring into the fire. “Yes, I was once called Vatto. That name is many years gone, but you may use it, if you like. It happened years before you were born and on this very morning.”
A pause then, broken only by the flickering flames.
“What is your name, boy?”
“I am called Luti.”
“A good name. It will be remembered for many years. You did well, choosing the downs. A choice that shows wisdom. And now what further wisdom will you show, I wonder?”
“What do you mean?”
“You must choose a new path and a new life. You cannot go back.”
“But I must go back. This is all a lie, all of it.”
“It is, but are you willing to die to set truth to the lie? Know this, young Luti: if you are seen again, the black robes will kill you or send someone else to kill you. That is their way. They let others do their killing for them.”
“But more young men will die, the next year, and the next.”
“Aye, perhaps they will. I have seen them die. Every year I make the journey back to this place, hoping to see one young lad escape the hunters. You are the first.”
Luti looks around the chamber while his brain screams in his ears. Just at the edge of the light, he sees a raised rectangle of stone. “Is this place a barrow?”
“Aye, the barrow of some small chieftain from the time before the hill forts. Plundered long ago. It was empty when I found it. I am no grave robber.”
A thought rolls through Luti’s skull, louder than the drumbeats of that dark dawn. An empty barrow for a dead king. The dead Yule King. But the king is not killed. It is the tradition that must die, not the king. The sun is already shining on a new day without a care for the blood of men. All those sacrifices for nothing.
Then a certainty, clear and calming. “Vatto, I thank you for saving me. I owe you my life, yet I would ask another favor.”
“Ask then.”
“Will you help me stop this killing?”
“You mean go back to the people and tell them their belief is empty?”
“Yes.”
“A very dangerous thing to ask of me.”
“I believe your words. But with your help, I have this dawn survived a great danger. No one else should suffer such a trial. And we can stop it. Will you help me?”
The chamber is silent save for the sound of Vatto scratching his beard. Luti holds his tongue.
Then Vatto smiles. “I take your coming as a sign. Aye, I will help you, Luti.”
The fire in Luti’s brain quiets. He will stop this madness, even at the cost of his life.
“I thank you, Vatto. I am in your debt. And now we have a year to prepare.”
Copyright © 2024 by Marco Etheridge
