He checked his knew armament: the war-chief’s handgun holstered under his vest, the goatherd hetman’s hog-leg shaped handgun strapped to his left thigh, the club-lantern on his left hip, his smith’s hammer on his right hip, and the scalping and gutting knife behind his belt-buckle. He now felt fit for battle, wanting only a noble arm, preferably a sword.
Mother, I shall seek a noble arm worthy of dismembering giants, gutting wyrmes and beheading prophets!
Somehow, from some previous incarnation among the Young Tribes, he remembered how to kick and coax his iron-horse into action, and was soon thundering across the land, back to the Great Processional Road, headed west, to the caravan of the One Prophet among Men.
Feel me mortal prophet!
Hear my snorting steed!
Did you prophesy my coming?
Do you wait with neck bared for the heavenly stroke?
I come regardless, mortal.
Hear me, fear me, soul-seer—I come!
He now called into the sky. Across the rising mountains with his great booming voice,
“I come, prophet, for your head! Your mountains shall not hide you man, for I am War!”
Yule, being a god birthed for war in his mother’s vengeful womb—having sowed herself with Father’s stolen seed—had senses beyond those of men. His hearing and scenting abilities were those of the wolf, his powers of sight those of the hawk, his tactile sensitivity that of the snake. So, even as he rode his thundering iron-horse up the Great Processional Road into the foothills of the distant mountains, he had his every sense, his every god-power, on guard against enemies and in search of them as well.
The riding was good, the enemy grazing poor.
Eventually, after a score more leagues, he noticed the lair of a wyrme-rider, a nice handsome tradesman’s home, next to which the awesome mechanical beast was tethered, and besides which was a woodpile…and, an axe!
Yes, in days of yore, I spattered the fields of gore with a battleaxe. I remember heads tossed in the air, limbs loped to earth, the moans of widowed battle-wenches. I remember!
Yule took the next side track that gave access to the tradesman’s home. He soon laid his iron-horse to rest beside the great mechanical wyrme, admired the thing, and proceeded to the door of the house, where a tall, bearded tradesman awaited him with suspicion in his steady eyes.
Yule approached the man extending the hand of friendship, “Good day, good man, I am Yule, and I would like to purchase that fine axe, and pay for the fitting of my iron-horse with a suitable scabbard.”
The man took his hand and shook it firmly. “What are you offering? That’s a fine double-bladed fire-axe—been in the family for forty years. I’ve refitted the hickory handle twice and she’s sharp enough to slice panties without mussin’ up the patch.”
A fire-axe by Mother! Why I should just give over all of the warrior’s parchment coin. Who is in need of trade with a weapon like that! Is my name Barter or War?
As Yule opened the heavy wallet of his foe and withdrew all of the many folded notes, stacked a finger girth deep and assigned with varying values, and handed it to the tradesman, the man whistled, “Yes sir’ee, she’s a fine axe. My name is Phillip Maxim, and I’ll have her strapped to your chopper within an hour. Have a seat right over here and I’ll bring you a beer.”
Yule sat contentedly drinking beer from small wine bottles as Phillip affixed an axe-scabbard to the right side of his iron-horse. When the thing was done, Yule sat and enjoyed a fourth beer with Phillip and discussed the man’s journeys, his leather trade, and the activities of the iron-horseman—who were apparently still pagans, or at least still venerated some of the Old Gods such as Yule, for the dominant clansmen were named Pagans—who were now gathering for clan meetings called ‘rallies’ at this time of year, being the end of summer, which was their peak riding season.
After many pleasantries Phillip handed Yule his coat-of-arms token for his leather trade—which was not his primary business, as he was mostly a mechanical wyrme-drover—and gave him a farewell salute, which Yule acknowledged with a kingly nod.
Yule stopped and stood before the iron horse, now girded for war, and looked up into the eyes of the tall Phillip of Maxim and intoned, “War thanks you, Phillip of Maxim—I thank you.”
Phillip seemed concerned for his newly discovered master and said, with the arching of an eyebrow, “This is Pagan territory and they ride with the Chosen Sons and other clubs. You’re the only Hell’s Angel I’ve seen in Maryland since I was your age. Be careful now.”
This man had been a veritable priest to him, a priest of war, and he wished to bless him with a blood rite. So Yule held up his empty bottle, crushed it to powder in his grinding hand which he commanded not to bleed, poured it into his mouth, which he gave permission to bleed, and gargled with it furiously. He then stopped upon mounting the iron horse and spit a plume of blood and ire into the sky, into the face of the North Wind from whence Father’s ire did rise, kicked the iron horse to life, and ripped it off the ground with a standing jump, turning it full around in midair with the muscles of his matchless hips and sped off, wanting to leave Phillip of Maxim with the confidence that his family axe would be well wielded in the coming war.
His mouth felt raw and jagged as the blood trailed from his open mouth by the action of the speeding wind. But the wounds of a god heal when he wishes them healed, so long as he stayed true to his Creator, and so did his bloody mouth mend in the rushing wind, in the still morning of his glory hunt.
War was ready for battle and he harbored a smug sense that battle was not ready for him, not in this degenerate age. Well, he would see what he could do to bring back to life man's most venerable tradition. War was, after all and being a spite-free deity, benevolent after his own fashion.
