The Sire Sheaf
Russ L. Howard Library for House of Howard Publishing
The King of Three Bloods:
Book One: The Sire Sheaf
Book Two: The Frightful Dance
Book Three: Witan Jewell
Book Four: The Isle of Ilkchild
Book Five: The Bok of Syr Folk
Book Six: The King-Queen
Book Seven: The Scynscatha
Book Eight: Brekka
Book Nine: El Yid
Book Ten: The Evil Ennead
Book Eleven: Rebirth of the Elven-Gods
TheKingofThreeBloods.com
TheKingofThreeBloods.com/fb
Copyright © 2017 by Russ L. Howard
Cover Art: Deranged Doctor Design
Formatting: Deranged Doctor Design
Publishing: House of Howard Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-945130-16-8
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Website: TheKingofThreeBloods.com
Facebook: TheKingofThreeBloods.com/fb
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Battle of Frink Glen
Chapter 1: The Commission
Chapter 2: The Haligryft in the Umpqua
Chapter 3: The Three Ruffians
Chapter 4: In the Camp of Onamingo
Chapter 5: The Golden Fawn
Chapter 6: Sagawis the Sagacious Hag
Chapter 7: Meny the Scholar
Chapter 8: The Thunder Horse
Chapter 9: Eclipse at the Elk Spirit Lake
Chapter 10: Placing the Ring in Standing Bull’s Nose
Chapter 11: The Rings of Heaven
Chapter 12: Sur Sceaf’s Restraint
Chapter 13: The Wayfarer
Chapter 14: The Pit and the Pitters
Pronunciation Guide
Glossary of Names
Author Biography
Acknowledgments
I extend my gratitude to Paula Riggs whose tireless editing spanned seven years, much of which required her to endure my corny jokes, and to her husband Carl who had to endure the many blood drenched battle scenes in the book. Much appreciated help came from Jeff Day in preserving my sanity through dealing with my hated computer and for computer and technical assistance above and beyond waking hours. Particular thanks to Susie Stokes for her exquisite artistic talents and formatting despite her own busy schedule, and she, too, gave endless hours of technical direction. I give praise to my beloved wife whose constant feed-back and aide has always inspired me, and to my son, Adam, who gave continuous encouragement and deeply thought out opinions when asked. I thank my many children and my devoted friends who repeatedly asked, “Is it done yet?” Unto them I say, “Here it is.”
PROLOGUE: The Battle of Frink Glen
In the year 577 Hrus-Syr-Os:
The autumnal air kicked up the resinous breeze of the desert floor laden with the scents of artemesia, sage, and juniper. It was approaching hot noon. Mouths were dry and muscles strained. Marching at a fast pace, hundreds of tramping men stirred the desert dust into choking clouds, adding to the discomfort of the yet unproven young blood Herewardi troops. All were called to participate in a practice maneuver of mock combat. They knew not where nor when their opponent would strike.
Nine fyrds of one hundred and forty-four zealous volunteers had been put on high vigilance by their commander, Lord Prince Sur Sceaf of Witan Jewell. He knew the limits of his men and how hard they could be pushed and still be battle ready.
Each warrior was armored in chain mail beneath a scarlet woolen surcoat and carried a full complement of weaponry including tomahawks, scramasaxes, sabers and swords. Each man also bore an elongated lindenwood shield reinforced with metal bands.
The young Prince Sur Sceaf led the column of warriors, ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen winters. It was all but unheard of for a young blood commander to be given the command of an army of fyrds, especially at the stripling age of seventeen winters. Yet Sur Sceaf enjoyed the full confidence of his father.
As this was his first official command, Sur Sceaf was determined to execute his duties in an exemplary manner. According to his father, the Council of Wizards planned to send a fyrd commander to the Apache Nation in the Arid Zone and the Buffalo Nations in the Montan to build alliances in anticipation of a greater united effort between the diverse Tribes of the West.
More than anything Sur Sceaf wanted to be the voice of the Herewardi in these upcoming negotiations, and so focused all of his energy into passing this test. To a man, all of his elder brothers had distinguished themselves in one way or another. He would stand as their equal, if chosen as the ambassador to the tribes.
The destination on this campaign was the oasis of Beaver Marsh, now five miles north, which would provide the weary troops with the rest and refreshment they required. The desert landscape was already changing, with juniper and yellow pine forests on either side, serving to funnel the passage of his army into the grassy marshland that lay ahead. Although the shade on both flanks beckoned, it created too great a threat of ambush, though, in truth, no signs of enemy encroachment had been detected by the scouts as yet.
Even so, Sur Sceaf had warned his men to be on the alert for an attack.
Crooked Jack held out his sack of chaw. Though not a usual habit of Herewardi, chewing the sweet-smelling tobacco leaves served to keep the dust and grit out of their teeth as well as keeping their dry mouths moist.
Sur Sceaf’s mouth was as parched as the dust he trod. He gladly accepted the cured dry tobacco weed.
Jacky Doo shoved a wad into his parched mouth. The leather-faced old warrior remarked, “My lord, I find myself most impressed by these peach-fuzzed lackbeards of yours. Though it pains me to admit, these boys are the most capable and eager that I’ve encountered in my many days in the service of your father. I haven’t heard so much as a mumbling word or complaint from even the youngest among them. Not a word, and that despite the afflictions of mites, midges and mosquitoes.” As if to prove his point, Jacky slapped at a mosquito that had dared light on his arm. “Damn blood-sucking marsh flies! Don’t they ever get enough?”
Mendaka held out both bare arms. “Look, Jack, no flies on me!”
Jack gave him a look of sarcasm. “That’s because you taste like bear shit.”
“It’s because I smear crushed ants on my skin. Only thing that keeps ‘skeeters from biting.”
Jack grunted. “Me, in the past I’ve used pennyroyal, but it only grows in the valley, there ain’t a sprig nor pip to be found growing in this worthless powder they dare call soil.”
Sur Sceaf sighted a patch of apple green directly ahead that he knew to be the cattails and snake grass marking the beginning of the marshes. Flights of water fowl took to the air, letting him know that strangers must surely be at hand.
Sur Sceaf spun around and yelled, “Enemy forces likely ahead. Prepare for ambush. If it is, we’ll know soon enough so be ready to execute the Arundelean Maneuver upon my signal. Remember your training and do not break marching formation! Let them believe we are blindly walking into the jaws of their trap!”
Sur Sceaf knew that the spot where the two forests converged was the most likely place for the enemy to engage them.
With resolute expectation, he said to Jack and Mendaka, “Get ready! Gird up your loins and prepare for conflict. It is a good day to die!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a shrill cry split the air and tattered enemy banners were spotted silhouetted against the towering timbers from whence the enemy now poured forth in all directions, like ants from under an overturned rock.
Clad in khaki with faces hidden by turbans of black cloth, the enemy forces advanced in columns, brandishing swords and spears as numerous as the quills on a porcupine’s back. From the eyes of any competent military strategist, Sur Sceaf’s positioning of his troops was suicide. His men absorbed the first wave of the attack with a pronounced thud and clash of shields, then began fighting back.
Swords clashed with swords, shields parried spears. Men fighting shoulder to shoulder suffered bruising blows. Many stumbled and fell. Sur Sceaf waited until the enemy moved in to finish off what appeared to be a hobbled Herewardi force, then signalled for the lurs to be blasted. Immediately, Sur Sceaf’s seemingly vulnerable fyrds recoiled like a striking serpent and formed into an impenetrable phalanx of shields that brought all progress of the enemy to a screaming halt.
Caught off guard and frustrated with the sudden turn of fortune, the enemy reacted with confusion, but slowly regained traction, only to wear down as Sur Sceaf’s fyrds repeatedly rotated columns, moving each tired cohort to the rear while rested troops moved forward to continue the battle. The exhausted enemy could not maintain the same pace.
A column attacked Sur Sceaf’s men from the rear only to be met with a shield wall that hurled the attackers so aggressively back that they were forced to yield by throwing down their arms and raising their hands. After two hours of the most intense fighting, the enemy commander cast down his flag at Sur Sceaf’s feet and yielded the victory to the seventeen year old commander. The young bloods cheered while the enemy host shouted their approval of their victory and saluted them with shaking spears.
King Rus-Syr-Os of Fort Rock removed his turban, releasing his thick chestnut mane. Sur Sceaf’s brother-in-law’s grin was a white slash in the midst of his full beard. “We thought we had your asses, lad. Your sister warned me you were a sly fox on the tournament field and that I better not believe my eyes if you extended anything to me that looked like an easy victory.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “Alas, I should have listened.”
Starkwulf, the much acclaimed bush master and master of crypsis, strode up and shouted over the cheering host, “That was some damned good maneuvering, Surrey. Where did a lackbeard of your age come up with those tactics? I’ve never seen anything like it!”
Sur Sceaf gave his light beard a proud stroke. “It is written in the Bok of Arundel. He employed the tactics of turtle phalanxes and rotating columns in his campaigns throughout the Taxus during the First Wave of Pitter Aggression from the East. As you see it has many advantages.”
King Rus rubbed his shoulder. “Your young men fought so fiercely, I began to believe this was a real battle. I must commend you for resurrecting the tactics of King Arundel. This idea of rotating columns will allow us to defeat hosts many times our numbers as you proved here today.”
Sur Sceaf hid a triumphant smile. Brimming with pride, he said, “I am honored by your praise, my lord. Now, if you don’t mind, I hate to announce prematurely that Mendaka and I shall get our knocks and cuts tended to at Di-Ahman.” Sur Sceaf removed his helm and wiped his sweat-soaked face with the kerchief embroidered with protective runes given to him by his young bride of ten months, Paloma.
Rus frowned, deepening the lines beneath the shock of sweat-drenched chestnut hair. “But while the maneuver is still fresh in my mind, I need you to instruct me in the intricate details of this ancient tactic, now newly revived. It flies in the very face of logic, which is all the more reason it shall prove to be successful against the Pitters.”
Starkwulf acceded with a nod. Sur Sceaf idolized this imposing warrior, who had trained so many young bloods in the tactics of deception. Even now, he found it hard to believe that this noble man with fierce green eyes managed the largest sheep station in the Seven Kingdoms and took more to his domestic side than his military skills.
Starkwulf, half pondering, declared, “This may shorten the time we had anticipated to ready ourselves for an offensive onslaught against the Pitter Empire. Ilker of Leakey has presented his case for a pre-emptive attack for the past three years to no avail. This may offer him an additional persuasive argument, though I doubt the Council of Wizards will grant him their stamp of approval.” He smiled. “Surrey, I, too, wish to learn the intricacies of this maneuver. I don’t wish to pressure you, but I must leave for Zamora on the morrow, as I received a pigeon message from my station foreman that Pitter hell rats have been detected in the outlying areas. Though this may yet be another false alarm, I dare not take the risk with my family virtually unprotected. Of late we have observed the Pitters become more daring and emboldened in Herewardi lands with each passing moonth.”
Sur Sceaf realized it would be the height of impropriety to refuse such a request from two of the noblest warriors in the land, but he had also promised Paloma to return in time for the birthing. Even though he might be throwing away any chance to become the coveted ambassador to the Apache and Buffalo Nations, he had to be true to the word he gave his wife. This was, after all, a scheduled royal birth, and his presence was required, that his child’s heritage be assured a royal behooding.
Just as he opened his mouth to explain the conflict of interest, Crooked Jack stepped forward, and in his familiar gruff tone, asserted, “My lords, suffer me to run you through the techniques in place of Lord Sur Sceaf and Lieutenant Mendaka. I assure you, I am fully versed in the intricacies of this tactic. I ask this boon as Lieutenant Mendaka is even this moonth a newlywed, and only agreed to assist us provided we return to Di-Ahman before nightfall of today.”
Sur Sceaf gave his mentor a grateful look. “I apologize for wishing to take my leave, my lords, but I must pray you this indulgence. My beloved wife, Paloma is due to birth our firstborn any time now. It is a scheduled birth according to Herewardi calendaration to arrive precisely on the Holy Equinox as is befitting a royal. Mo Mo Sis Sagwi intends to give Paloma squaw-root to induce labor if needs be. In fact, she may have already done so, and as you know, it is a hard ride back to the Unequa Stream before sunset.”
Rus gave him a smile of approval. “As the Great Longfather Howrus declared, ‘in times of peace, devotion to family supersedes all other business.’ You have proved to be a fine strategist this day, Young Prince. I have all confidence that you shall represent the Herewardi well in the negotiations. And that will be my recommendation to the Roufytrof.”
Starkwulf clasped Sur Sceaf on the back. “I shall pray to Freya that your young wife gives you a healthy baby, a strapping youth worthy of kingship or a beautiful daughter to mirror your lovely sister, the Great Queen Va-Eyra. After all, it is in the fullness of time that the Woman Seed will come in our greatest hour of need. I feel in my bones that this time is near at hand, perhaps in this rising generation.”
Rus motioned in the direction of Di-Ahman. “Starkwulf speaks aright. Go! Succor the wives of your youth and rejoice in their breasts, but I shall miss having a krug of high desert ale with the likes of you two fine warriors.”
Mendaka stopped dead in his tracks and hesitated. “Did you say, high desert ale?”
The king grinned. “Indeed! Only the best for a job well done. Starkwulf and I shall drink a sumbel to the two of you. Surrey, my dear wife, the queen and the Roufytrof shall hear my praise of you. And as for you, Mendaka, I shall commend the Thunder Horse for producing a brave of no less than equal praise.”
***
It was quickly approaching sunset when Sur Sceaf and Dak rode parallel to the crystal clear Silent Stream and into the Unequa Camp at Di-Ahman, domain of the much revered and honored Chief Thunder Horse and shaman of great acclaim.
Where the Unequa
Stream dumped its icy waters into the Lake Di-Ahman, many tipis lined the shore in orderly rows. Succulent smells rose from the cooking pots hanging from metal tripods. Powerful totemic symbols adorned each tipi, some with bear claws, some with serpents, others with owls.
Thunder Horse’s camp was set off from the main village in a grove of pine, Sitka spruce, and ghost trees, their bleached branches accented by hanging lichens and mosses. The five family tipis were brightly decorated with potent medicine symbols denoting the true office of the Thunder Horse as a shaman and chief. Mendaka’s tipi abutted the sedge-filled peat bogs along the lake shore.
Sur Sceaf’s tipi sat next to Mendaka’s and was adorned with a totem featuring a flight of nine Swans and a congress of Ravens. The green Eye of Howrus above the door flap watched over all who entered or exited.
Mendaka’s slender bride, Little Doe, came running to greet them, her dark hair shining like a raven’s wing in the last rays of the day.
The warrior leapt from his horse to embrace her, only to be met by a startled look from her. “Dak, what happened to your head? You’re bleeding. I thought Surrey was only taking you to training.”
“It was just training, but Surrey took the challenge of pitting our young blood fyrds against King Rus’ seasoned warriors. By all accounts they should have beaten us. And, well—all I can say is, things got heated. Rus and Starkwulf were determined to teach the young bloods a lesson, but, in fact, we taught them one.”
“For Tah-Man-Ea’s sake, why don’t you wear a helm like Surrey does?”
Dak gave a quirky turn of his mouth. “I can’t stand the heat. Perhaps if it were cooler I would have worn one of those cooking pots on my head. I still can’t understand how the Herewardi endure them. They bake your head in the sun and melt your brains.”