by Tara Maya
“Good luck with that.”
“You will pay.”
She was so petite and helpless that the implacable promise should have been laughable.
Umbral did not laugh.
He spun another weave of darkness and blindfolded her.
Finnadro
The song of battle thrummed in his ears, and Finnadro gloried in it. The song had no past, the song had no future, just this moment, just this NOW. He was but a string plucked by the eternal melody. No hesitation, no trepidation, no fear at all could touch him when he was in the song, when he became the song. He soared.
Finnadro evaded when Hawk thrust a broken arrow at him. In the next blink, a wolf tackled Hawk, bowling him onto the ground. The wolf would have torn out Hawk’s throat, but Finnadro barked, “Stop!”
The wolfling growled, letting lip rise to show canine, but did not bite. Finnadro picked up a spear and pricked it to Hawk’s throat, enough to raise a single seed of blood. The song of kill and be killed still roared in his ears, but he beat it back.
“Paro, is that you?” Finnadro asked.
The golden-eyed wolfling cocked his head.
“Change back to a man, if you still can, and bind him.”
Paro growled again. This was the hardest moment for a wolfling—or a man. To let the song go. To back away from a kill. To show mercy.
If it was a mercy.
“I need him alive,” Finnadro added.
Paro changed into a man. He still had legwals on, another good sign. Wolflings who retained humanity took their clothes with them through their change, but wolflings who grew wild were more likely to be naked, even as men. Paro refashioned the leather straps from Hawk’s own chest harness to tie his hands behind his back.
Hawk had been the last enemy still fighting. The foot warriors who could flee had long since fled, and the Raptors had either flown away or fallen.
Everywhere Finnadro looked, bodies lay half buried in blood, slush and mud. This was his least favorite part of battle. He freely admitted that the wolf in him—and all men had some wolf, did they confess it or not—enjoyed the fight itself. The aim of the arrow, the burn of flexing muscle, the honed focus, the hunt and evasion, the growl and snap, the kill. War was love in another form.
But the aftermath was something else. Bone-tired, no longer elated by fear, still one had to force one’s tired body to do the ugly work. Dragging bodies across the field, binding the prisoners for the Chase, purifying oneself of murder, dividing the wounded between those who would go to the Healers and those who would go to the Deathsworn. Ugly work.
The Green Lady, disheveled after her own battle against her Orange sister but still painfully beautiful, sparkled into the air in front of him.
“My Henchman!”
“My Lady.” He went down on one knee. “I thank you for our victory.”
“It was no victory, I fear. The True Enemy has deceived my Sister and me both. All of this was but a game for him, a distraction, while he stole from us what he wanted all along.”
“My Lady?”
“The White Lady has been taken. Once again, I must beg your aid to save her.”
“Where has she been taken?”
“It is veiled from me. There is a wound in the world, and it is growing. It saps my strength; it steals the future from me. Finnadro, I love my sister, I cannot bear for her to be harmed. If you love me, find her.”
Vessia (Present)
Vessia’s captors, Vumo (her husband’s brother) and Amdra (her niece), had put a sack over her head and tied her to a horse. At first she was so furious, she just wanted to hurt Vumo. It was hard to bite through the sack, and her hands and feet were tied together, but she did get in some elbow action. It pleased her to hear Vumo grunt in pain. He never retaliated, only held her firmly, stomach down, over the horse in front of him while she thrashed trying to fling herself off. His horse plodded at a leisurely pace, equally indifferent to Vessia’s efforts.
“Can’t you ride any faster?” Amdra’s piercing voice could be heard clearly through the wool sack.
“She’s making it difficult.”
Not difficult enough. Vessia would never escape this way. Even if she could wriggle off the horse, perhaps breaking her ankle in the fall, or worse, what then? She couldn’t untie herself. She’d roll or crawl for a few scoots at most before they scooped her up again. Wasted fury was no escape plan.
She stopped wiggling. Hopefully, Vumo would think she was exhausted already because she was old and weak and unable to fight as well as she used to. That shouldn’t be too much of a stretch to believe since she was exhausted, old, weak and unable to fight as well as she used to.
For now, she must be docile. Lull their suspicions.
So far, she had only one thing in her favor, which was that they were riding horses instead of Amdra’s raptor, Hawk. If they had been flying, the journey would have taken only a day or two. Overland, it would take a full turn of moon. If they had to cross the Boglands, it could take two moons. The longer the journey, the more chances Vessia had to escape before they took her to the Orange Canyon tribehold.
She knew who waited for her there. Once back in his power, she would never escape.
At first she had no idea why Hawk was gone, or how soon he would be back, but listening to their terse conversations, she learned that he had been captured alive by the Green Woods tribe.
Vessia had an idea how she could turn that to her advantage.
Hadi
A ragged cheer rose from the throats of the defending tribesmen as the last of the Orange Canyon warriors fled the field. In truth, though, there was little to cheer about, Hadi thought. He had never seen such devastation. There was more blood in the field than snow, and more prone bodies than men still standing. The air already thrummed with gathering flies, and the greedy caws of ravens. He himself was still on his feet, though his arm ached from a slice so deep he could see the meat.
It was time to gather the wounded and the dead. Hadi scoured the field for Lost Swan clansmen. First he gathered up the remnants of Bojo, head and body separately. He found Uncle Logodi lying on his back, not dead, but groaning with a shattered hip. Logodi wept when he saw Hadi. They both knew that Logodi would probably be visiting the Deathsworn. Even if evil fae did not foul the wound, as they surely would, how could a hunter survive if he could not walk? Hadi carried his uncle to where the wounded were gathering under the direction of the local Tavaedies.
When he went back to the field, he found Yodigo. Dead. Worse than dead. The Raptor attack had ravaged him, turning his corpse into a monstrosity. Oh, Jensi, I’m so sorry. How would he tell her?
At least she will never see what they did to her husband, Hadi thought as he packed the entrails back into the corpse as best he could. There was nothing he could do to restore the shredded limbs. And I will never tell her.
They had won. But what a price.
Hadi heard footsteps behind him and swung his spear wildly, almost decapitating a Green Woods tribesman in fur legwals. Hadi didn’t recognize him.
“Do you want help?” the man asked.
“Uh…”
“I’m Paro.”
“Right.”
“We fought together.”
“Right.” Hadi rubbed his head. “It’s all kind of a blur.”
“I was on four legs at the time.”
“Oh. Oh!” Muck and mercy. “The wolf.”
“Yes.” Paro sounded bitter. “The wolf.”
“I, uh, owe you a lifedebt I think. Um. Maybe more than one.”
“Give me your sister in marriage.”
Hadi stared at him.
“I’m kidding,” said Paro, with no smile.
Hadi laughed weakly.
“I can help you place the body in the jar.” Paro gestured to the dismembered pieces of Yodigo.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Hadi said, “But I think Jensi would prefer I handle the body of her husband rather than a…you know.
Please don’t kill me.”
Paro showed no immediate signs of rabidity. He stood there a moment, then walked away. Hadi sighed in relief. Then he looked down again at the tangled intestines and splattered brains at his feet, and wished he could have taken Paro’s offer.
The other clans gathered their dead and wounded too. Then those who were able helped gather the enemy dead, since they could not be left to fester either, bitter foes though they had been. The Tavaedies moved amongst the tribesfolk as they travailed, giving directions and providing organization.
Hadi helped other warriors place the dead into large jars and roll them through the woods to a Deathsworn menhir. The wounded who were past saving had to be brought to the same place, and left in rows. The Deathsworn would give them mercy. Figures in black already waited there, like ravens ready to fight over offal from a hunter’s kill. Hadi shuddered. He was careful not to look directly at them, or go anywhere near them. Some said that even to touch a Deathsworn meant you had to join them.
He returned to the battlefield again, but there were no more bodies to carry. A female Tavaedi dressed in pine branches approached Hadi. “You look as though you were about to collapse,” she chided him. “Go to the Rainbow Labyrinth Tavaedi in yellow, over there—and have him take a look at that arm.”
Hadi clutched his arm dazedly. “There are others more injured than I. It can wait.”
She pursed her lip, but couldn’t really argue with that. “Then perhaps you should go with the others returning to the tribehold and have your womenfolk tend you.”
“Can’t,” mumbled Hadi, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Ah. How many have you killed, little nephew?”
“Not sure.” His head was still fuzzy. “Just one, I think, but I chopped off the arm of another, and though he ran with his comrades, he might yet die.” Even magic couldn’t keep a man alive after so much blood had poured out of him, Hadi knew with sick certainty.
“‘We’ll say ‘two,’ then, to be safe,” the Tavaedi advised him. “Go wait outside the sweat lodge. That’s where we will perform the Purification Pattern.”
“I shouldn’t…near you.…I’m all mucky…” Hadi said, not very clearly. What he meant was that he should not be around women until after he cleansed himself of the stain of murder.
“I’m a Tavaedi, nephew, I can’t be contaminated by you, fear not. We will start the Pattern soon.”
He agreed he would go. However, he paused to recover his spear first. Like his dirk, it was part of his birthright, one of the few objects he would take with him when he left Lost Swan to join his bride’s clan. He would need to notch it with his kills.
The tribehold walls were broken now. The trees had been ripped out, the stumps were charred. In one spot, even the boulders had been chewed to pieces. He climbed over the rubble.
He finally found the other warriors awaiting purification. Most of them leaned against the curved outer wall of the sweat lodge, waiting their turn to go inside. Tavaedies let in batches of men, a dozen at a time. At this rate, the ceremony would eat the remainder of the day. Hadi sat on a rock. He drowsed and then jerked awake when something brushed him. He shouted in alarm, still half in a nightmare, thinking that the Orange Canyon warriors had returned and he had to kill another one who would not stop staring at him with unclosed eyes.
“Hadi, Hadi, it’s just me!” said Tamio, who had touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Tamio.” Hadi took quick, deep breaths. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t in the battle. Did you kill someone too?”
“Yes,” said Tamio, with a frowny quirk of his mouth. He had changed clothes since Hadi had last seen him. Now Tamio wore blue wool legwals and tunic, and carried a white jar painted with blue waves instead of a basalt club. “Nine notches for my Bullshead Staff. But for now I’m here to help them dance Blue. I have that Chroma too.” Seeing Hadi’s confusion, he added, “In the Purification Pattern.”
Hadi held up his hands, which were still grimy with blood and dirt. “I had a man’s guts in my hands, Tamio,” he said plaintively. “What kind of dance can wash that off?”
“Hadi…”
“Will your dance make me forget what it felt like to crush a man’s eyeball with my thumb?”
“No.”
“Will your dance make me stop seeing that Raptor tear apart my best friend?”
“No.”
“Then what good is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I didn’t want to kill them,” Hadi said. “I never wanted to kill anybody.” Yet if he hadn’t, they would have taken Jensi, Tibi and Dindi and other girls and hurt them in bad ways. “But I’m not sorry I killed them. I’m not sorry.”
Tamio knelt by him and took his hands. Tamio poured warm water, melted snow, over Hadi’s hands and washed them.
Tamio
Clearing corpses and purifying killers consumed the whole day. Tamio helped with both tasks. Though grueling work, he welcomed the labor, which spared him from thought. He wasn’t ready to think yet. The womenfolk meanwhile had kept busy restoring order to the tribehold as best they could despite the destruction. A few of the subterranean homes were intact, but many had been pulled out at the root. These were caved in with dirt and unlivable. The women raised tents for all those who were roofless. Only the captives were not given tents. They were bound to stakes outside, next to fires, but otherwise untended. Many died of their wounds, or the cold, overnight, and these were simply carried to the Deathsworn menhirs at dawn to join the rest of the dead.
The remainder of the captives had to be dealt with, however, and Tamio was curious to see what the Green Woods custom was. They did not keep slaves, or redeem hostages, nor did they make human sacrifices. If they didn’t keep them, sell them or kill them, then what? He heard mention of a “chase” and wondered if they fed them to the wolves.
There was also the matter of deathdebts. Each clan had its share. Broken Basket, Tamio’s clan, alone had seven. Kemla’s clan, Full Basket, had another eleven and Hadi and Dindi’s clan, Lost Swan, had fifteen, since so many of them had made the journey to Green Woods tribelands. This was a devastating blow to so small a clan. Their elders, who had stayed behind in the Corn Hills, would not be able to rebuild without strong men. Lost Swan was now a clan of widows and orphans.
Tamio went with Hadi to break the news to Jensi about Yodigo’s death.
There was nothing in that task he relished.
Jensi was not the only woman, or even the only new bride, who singed her bangs and painted her face like a white skull that day. Many Green Woods clans were just as small, or smaller than Lost Swan had been, and a higher proportion of their womenfolk had joined the battle as warriors. Whole clans were essentially gone, reduced to a few toothless elders, with none to pay their deathdebts. War Chief Nann counted the dead for these.
The Green Woods tribesfolk made special arrows, black and fletched with crow’s or raven’s feathers, which they called Raven’s Arrows or just Ravens. One arrow for each deathdebt.
The next day, everyone met in the Great Lodge. It was a solemn assembly, attended by many widows (and a few widowers) with hair streaked in ash and faces painted like skulls. War Chief Nann stood in front of a huge quiver of Raven Arrows. One by one she called out the names of the dead. She gave out the arrows for her own tribe first, many dozens of them, then the Rainbow Labyrinth arrows.
“Who will pay the deathdebt of Barigo of Broken Basket?” Nann asked.
Tamio stood up. “I will.”
He claimed three in all, of his clan’s seven.
More names called, more Ravens distributed. Kemla took one, Tamio noticed.
“Who will pay the deathdebt of Yodigo of Lost Swan?”
Hadi stood up. “I will.”
He walked forward to take the Raven Arrow from Nann.
When he sat down again, his sister Jensi squeezed his hand.
Only days ago, Tamio would have spoken for Yodig
o. He exchanged a sober nod with Hadi.
But then Nann asked about the next dead warrior from Lost Swan and Hadi spoke for that one too…and the next…and the next.
Tamio shook his head at him, but Hadi ignored him
Hadi stood for every one of his clan’s dead. Fifteen.
Not all the Ravens were claimed. Some clans had not enough living to speak for them.
War Chief Nann said, “We will not let any of our dead or the dead of our allies go un-avenged. I will see that the other arrows find heroes to fight for them. All those with Ravens may join our raid into Orange Canyon, where we will make them pay in blood for the woe they have visited upon us!”
A second quiver of arrows were brought forth. These were painted green, fletched with white dove feathers: the Doves, or lifedebts, to be paid. Lifedebts “stood on the shoulders” of deathdebts, meaning lifedebts had to be paid first.
“By tradition,” said Nann, “The keeper of the lifedebt may demand from the debtor whatever he wishes. Since there were so many lifedebts born in the battle, however, some of which cannot be properly known or counted, I ask that the same price be set on all of them. Each Dove shall be redeemed with seven jars of goods, or else, if this wealth cannot be found, a year and a day of service. If two are in each other’s debt, or to each other’s kin, the debts, of course, balance each other.”
After the ceremony, Tamio sought out Hadi. “Are you mad? Fifteen?”
“I had no choice,” said Hadi. “The rest of the clan will return to the Corn Hills to try to rebuild our clanhold. Every hand will be needed for that. I’m the only one useless enough to spare.”
“But Hadi. Fifteen? I’m not sure you can win one fight with an Orange Canyon warrior, never mind fifteen.”
Any other young buck would have bristled at the slight, but Hadi just hunched his shoulders. “Yeah.” Then he managed to look even more miserable. “Might be sixteen. Tamio, have you seen Dindi? Jensi and I looked everywhere for her. I figured she must be with you…?”
