The Eagle & the Wolf - Prologue
The Eurasian Steppe
AD 395
A small knot of Hun horsemen cantered through the night, their long hair and shaggy goatskins flapping, their flaming brands spitting and crackling in the moaning gale. In the wake of these warriors rode two very different men, weaponless and wearing holy robes. Were there anyone else out in this vast wilderness, they might have thought this pair inhuman, owing to their strikingly tall and pointed skulls.
‘How will the child die?’ asked the young disciple, his face webbed with concern.
The shaman stared down at the baby swaddled in his arms. Bluelipped, weak, defenceless. ‘The bite of the cold.’ He looked ahead, across the torchlit feather-grass, and on into the black, bitter wilderness. Something howled out there. ‘Or by the claws and teeth of predators.’
‘Is there a chance he might still live?’
‘Only Sky Father Tengri or his divine brothers can save him now,’ said the shaman. He gestured ahead, the bells and crescent moons tethered to his staff tinkling. There, emerging from the gloom, was a low mound, topped with a weather-beaten stone altar.
As the warrior escort ascended the mound, they struck up an eldritch throat-song, vapour puffing from their mouths and nostrils. It was a strange sound that caused the air to shiver. Dismounting on the crest, they formed a circle around the altar. All eyes looked upon the niche in the stone, and the iron sword resting within, with a mixture of fear and respect. It was no ordinary blade. Legend said that it belonged to Daichin, War God of the Huns.
The shaman laid the bundle in his arms before the altar. The infant screamed, its tiny limbs thrashing. A goat kid – held by a hunched soothsayer – bleated in distress too. The shaman shook his staff once more and boomed: ‘Tengri, Lord of the Eternal Sky, Watcher over we Horsemen of the Four Winds. We gather here at the sacred table of your brother, Daichin the War God. We ask of you, great one: is there a future for this sickly no-name?’
The baby and the goat fell quiet.
Silence reigned.
All looked up and around. There were no constellations to read in the moonless sky. No cries of an animal to liken with the infant’s spirit. Even the wind dropped, as if afraid that its whistle might be interpreted as a premonition. It was as if they were in a cave, deep underground.
The shaman’s face remained blank and cold.
The young disciple’s tall forehead wrinkled with anguish.
‘What am I to read into your silence, Sky Father?’ the shaman asked the heavens.
Nothing.
His head dipped a little. ‘It seems that . . . we must read the bones.’
The soothsayer took his cue. With a slash of his dagger, the goat kid fell limp; there followed wet, sucking sounds as he pulled the skin from its body like a glove. With a crack of bones and a spreading stench of guts, the soothsayer disarticulated the kid’s skeleton. Finally, shining with blood, he held up and scrutinised the goat’s scapula.
‘Well?’ the shaman asked.
‘The bones are smooth, Wise One. There is nothing to be read. No future at all for this no-name.’
The shaman beheld the infant for a time. ‘Thus, Tengri has spoken. We are done with this one. He has no name, and never will.’ He turned his back on altar and child. The savage winds picked up again, and a wolf’s howl sounded in the distance. ‘Come, let us leave this place,’ he said, mounting his steed. As he led the group down the slope, the wolf howled again, closer. Tonight would be the baby’s last, he knew, as was Tengri’s will.
‘Wise One,’ a breathless voice stopped him.
He looked over his shoulder to see the young disciple, lagging behind, still not even back on his horse. His first thought was to chide the laggard, until he too saw what the young man had seen, and was struck dumb.
The War God’s sword was gone from the altar. Instead, it lay beside the baby, reflecting torchlight onto the infant’s face, showing fire in his eyes. Whispering broke out amongst the warriors. One by one, they slid from their saddles, fell to their knees and uttered prayers, rocked with awe and fear.
The shaman’s heart pounded. Had the babe moved the weapon? Impossible! But moved it was, as the shamanic priesthood had long foretold. ‘The chosen one?’ warriors whispered, eyes affixed on the babe. ‘He who will unite the Horsemen of the Four Winds?’ Thunder crawled across the heavens. ‘The Tarkhan,’ The shaman croaked, his mouth dry. ‘The ruler of all.’
‘The War God has spoken, granting this baby his power,’ said the hunched soothsayer. ‘The power to shake the nations, to level mountains.’
‘Name him, great one,’ one of the warriors whispered to the shaman.
‘Name him,’ many others echoed.
The shaman felt an invisible hand around his neck. Not strangling him, but compelling him to speak, wringing one word from his lips.
‘Attila,’ he said huskily, ‘his name will be Attila.’
‘How will the child die?’ asked the young disciple, his face webbed with concern.
The shaman stared down at the baby swaddled in his arms. Bluelipped, weak, defenceless. ‘The bite of the cold.’ He looked ahead, across the torchlit feather-grass, and on into the black, bitter wilderness. Something howled out there. ‘Or by the claws and teeth of predators.’
‘Is there a chance he might still live?’
‘Only Sky Father Tengri or his divine brothers can save him now,’ said the shaman. He gestured ahead, the bells and crescent moons tethered to his staff tinkling. There, emerging from the gloom, was a low mound, topped with a weather-beaten stone altar.
As the warrior escort ascended the mound, they struck up an eldritch throat-song, vapour puffing from their mouths and nostrils. It was a strange sound that caused the air to shiver. Dismounting on the crest, they formed a circle around the altar. All eyes looked upon the niche in the stone, and the iron sword resting within, with a mixture of fear and respect. It was no ordinary blade. Legend said that it belonged to Daichin, War God of the Huns.
The shaman laid the bundle in his arms before the altar. The infant screamed, its tiny limbs thrashing. A goat kid – held by a hunched soothsayer – bleated in distress too. The shaman shook his staff once more and boomed: ‘Tengri, Lord of the Eternal Sky, Watcher over we Horsemen of the Four Winds. We gather here at the sacred table of your brother, Daichin the War God. We ask of you, great one: is there a future for this sickly no-name?’
The baby and the goat fell quiet.
Silence reigned.
All looked up and around. There were no constellations to read in the moonless sky. No cries of an animal to liken with the infant’s spirit. Even the wind dropped, as if afraid that its whistle might be interpreted as a premonition. It was as if they were in a cave, deep underground.
The shaman’s face remained blank and cold.
The young disciple’s tall forehead wrinkled with anguish.
‘What am I to read into your silence, Sky Father?’ the shaman asked the heavens.
Nothing.
His head dipped a little. ‘It seems that . . . we must read the bones.’
The soothsayer took his cue. With a slash of his dagger, the goat kid fell limp; there followed wet, sucking sounds as he pulled the skin from its body like a glove. With a crack of bones and a spreading stench of guts, the soothsayer disarticulated the kid’s skeleton. Finally, shining with blood, he held up and scrutinised the goat’s scapula.
‘Well?’ the shaman asked.
‘The bones are smooth, Wise One. There is nothing to be read. No future at all for this no-name.’
The shaman beheld the infant for a time. ‘Thus, Tengri has spoken. We are done with this one. He has no name, and never will.’ He turned his back on altar and child. The savage winds picked up again, and a wolf’s howl sounded in the distance. ‘Come, let us leave this place,’ he said, mounting his steed. As he led the group down the slope, the wolf howled again, closer. Tonight would be the baby’s last, he knew, as was Tengri’s will.
‘Wise One,’ a breathless voice stopped him.
He looked over his shoulder to see the young disciple, lagging behind, still not even back on his horse. His first thought was to chide the laggard, until he too saw what the young man had seen, and was struck dumb.
The War God’s sword was gone from the altar. Instead, it lay beside the baby, reflecting torchlight onto the infant’s face, showing fire in his eyes. Whispering broke out amongst the warriors. One by one, they slid from their saddles, fell to their knees and uttered prayers, rocked with awe and fear.
The shaman’s heart pounded. Had the babe moved the weapon? Impossible! But moved it was, as the shamanic priesthood had long foretold. ‘The chosen one?’ warriors whispered, eyes affixed on the babe. ‘He who will unite the Horsemen of the Four Winds?’ Thunder crawled across the heavens. ‘The Tarkhan,’ The shaman croaked, his mouth dry. ‘The ruler of all.’
‘The War God has spoken, granting this baby his power,’ said the hunched soothsayer. ‘The power to shake the nations, to level mountains.’
‘Name him, great one,’ one of the warriors whispered to the shaman.
‘Name him,’ many others echoed.
The shaman felt an invisible hand around his neck. Not strangling him, but compelling him to speak, wringing one word from his lips.
‘Attila,’ he said huskily, ‘his name will be Attila.’
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Hope you enjoyed the intro! You can pick up a copy of The Eagle & the Wolf from all good bookstores.
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