The Wolves of Tarhalle
Artunae never forgot the sight of the hill-fort. Standing meters above the surrounding forests, the hill was a rippling wave that started at the wooden wall, and ended at the massive final ditch. The roadway that led into Tarhalle was curving, snaking through the waves of earth to the gateway. Filled with men and beasts, the line stretched into the surrounding, limitless woodlands. His black eyes took in the sight, the eyes that had seen the massacres of tribes and villages.
Artunae was like many of the Tarhallii, tall, black eyed, with blond or red hair, a full beard, and fond of wolf or fox pelts. Today he wore a cloak of wolf fur, with a bronze helmet, crowned by several white and gray sea-gull feathers. Wearing only bracae of blue-green colors, he was proud to show blue woad streaks of kills. Fifteen on each side, then smaller dashes for lesser men killed.
Artunae leaned against his war-spear, watching the lines of men slowly lurch forward, then stop, then lurch, like a drunken worm. Seven years of warfare had brought Artunae to his homeland. Tarhalle had never given up the idea of control of the Aedui, the Parisii, the entire Gallic land. Artunae had done campaigning, leading spearmen, archers, chariots, across the fields of the Seine, the ridges of the Mastiffs, the islands of the west. Tarhalle had thus become powerful, stretching from the ending land in the north, to the Seine and the island hill of the Parisii, and then to the south, to the border mountains, separating the Tarhallii from the Iberian tribes.
Now, years of conflict had ended, as the the great war-chief Gargallo had conquered the Parisii in the north. Artunae had led a horn of the great bull, circling the hill-fort from the south, across the Seine in wooden boats, fighting the Belgae, the Nervii mercenaries, and Germanic men hired by tin and bronze to fight for the Parisii. They fought, and they died. Artunae waited for his land assignment, hoping for a small hill-fort in the south, where grapes grew for wine, wheat fed the many, and bulls were slaughtered every midsummer's night. He could raise a family, a herd of horses, and his grandsons.
The hall was brilliantly lit, for the roof windows were open, revealing the ruling family of the Tarhallii. Gargallo, in a fox pelt cloak, red bracae, knee length oxhide boots, and a large bronze helm with a swooping eagle, the tailfeathers replaced by white streamers. His face was scared by blue-woad, his blue eyes almost becoming the paint of the face. At seven feet, he was tall by Gaulish standards, even more so against the Greek traders who landed in Marsaille.
Sitting on a animal pelt mound, he awaited the next war-chief. Several were there, awaiting their land alotments, all hoping for the hill-fort of the Cargalii in the southern lands of Tarhalle. Gargallo smiled slightly, knowing what each did, and their rewards. Sitting beside him was his eldest son, Ergar. Born seventeen years ago, he was his father's charioteer, and the next to rule the Tarhallii.
At last, the six foot Artunae, with his blond hair, and red-handed streak. Artunae was sometimes over-zealous, often going to the great island to the north, raiding Maden, and the other tribes. His sea-faring skills were never in question.
Shifting in the seat, Gargallo nodded to his Druid scribe, who began reciting, from memory, the land alotments to the war chiefs.
"To Dudenae, lord of the Sistinae, I give you the island of Houdarae, built by the gods, open at low tide. To Faratane, lord of the Rutarsi, the land of the Sarducae, in the west, on the end-lands. To Girlagae, lord of the Unstere, the land of the Joscii, at the Loire headwaters. To Scargolii, lord of Helstaar, the lands of the Havares, on the northern coasts." As the Druid stopped to remember the final two land alotments, he saw the two chiefs. Artunae, over-zealous and brutal, daring and swift. His son, Ergar, charioteer, lord of the Undarinii, northern horn leader against the Parisii.
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