by Brian Braden
***
“Where does a patesi-le draw her power? From Psatina?” she asked Setenay
“A patesi-le draws her power from love, child. Psatina only taught us how to channel it. Love flows from a woman’s soul like warmth from the sun.” Setenay lifted her face to the midday sun and closed her eyes. “The wellspring of a woman’s soul is bottomless and only deepens with time. Never forget that and your magic will be limitless.”
***
Atamoda’s heart swelled with new confidence. Her voice and arms strengthened.
The ice sheet popped and crackled under her magic’s renewed assault.
Feel my power!
“Mother!” Kol-ok gasped. “The demons falter!”
A white wisp flickering in the water immediately before her caught Atamoda’s eye. Her cadence faltered, and her arms sagged as the drifting object drew her attention. At first she thought the demons had snapped another rope, its frayed end billowing in the current. She lowered her face and peered down, drawn to the sharpening image, as everything around her faded.
***
Atamoda paused her chanting to readjust her legs, which began to ache against the rough dock. She looked back at Setenay, lounging against her father’s upturned boat, eyes closed and sunning herself on the dock
“Old Mother, is there anything as strong as love?” she asked.
A cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow over the old patesi-le’s face. The old woman opened her eyes and let her gaze wandered off to the water. A chilly, unexpected breeze swept off the sea.
“Fear,” Setenay whispered.
***
A clawed fist clenched a knot of waving, gray hair. It thrust the lifeless head toward the surface. The corpse’s hair billowed back like seaweed.
Setenay’s dead eyes stared back at Atamoda.
Atamoda shrieked and collapsed backwards into the boat. The demons’ hissing transformed to cackling. They lunged en mass toward the flotilla.
Atamoda’s trembling arms finally seized in agonizing cramps as her world blurred into darkness.
Fresh screams penetrated her thoughts, accompanied by the sickening sound of ripping and tearing reeds. She felt a sudden lurch, the world shifted, and then freezing cold gripped her lower body.
“Ko-lok!” she heard Xva scream.
Warmth caressed Atamoda’s cheek. It increased to raw, almost painful heat as light penetrated her close eyelids.
Did Aizarg call a council? Someone must have lit the brazier atop the Köy-lo-hely? It feels good.
Atamoda briefly cracked her eyelids to a world on fire before the water and darkness took her.
***
“Wake up.”
Atamoda didn’t want to obey, but the familiar voice beckoned her.
Darkness lightened to gray, and gray congealed into a ghostly image. A blurry face slowly materialized, its details stubbornly refusing to focus. She squinted, unsure if her eyes lied.
He filled her vision, eyes brimming. She reached up and tenderly explored the familiar curves of his nose, cheeks and forehead until she plunged her fingers through his hair.
His hair.
Only one logical thought occurred to the patesi-le, one explanation for what she saw.
Am I dead?
She caressed her own cheek, wanting to know if she was still made of flesh.
She knew those eyes, the same eyes which greeted her after hours of bloody labor bringing Kol-ok into this world. He wore the same expression after saving Ba-tor from nearly drowning last spring. Sweet tears and a trembling smile painted a mosaic of relief and ebbing fear across her husband’s face.
The flesh and spirit are still one.
Atamoda closed her eyes, slowly wrapped her arms around his neck, and deeply inhaled his sweaty scent. With silent sobs, Aizarg tightly enveloped her. She savored each of his hot tears rolling down her shoulder and back.
From behind, little arms encircled her, soft breathing caressed her ear.
“Daddy is home, Momma! Why is your hair all white, Daddy?” Ba-tor asked, the horrors of the last few days banished in a single moment of joy.
Another set of arms hugged them as Kol-ok rested his head on Atamoda’s other shoulder.
Great Mother Psatina, if I am dead, then what a blessed death this is!
And then she remembered Setenay’s face in the deep.
“Aizarg!” she moaned and surrendered to racking sobs. Horror and relief clashed like the competing tides of the Black Sea.
In the bottom of a small reed boat, on the edge of a brittle flotilla of reed and wood afloat an endless sea, a family embraced.
12. Crest of Our Doom
“For virtue or sin, trial or torment,
That demon and god test mere mortal soul so?” – Amiran, Song of Atlas
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Ba-tor clung to her leg as Atamoda searched for answers. She recovered enough strength to stand and collect her wits, but events moved too quickly. Tendrils of smoky mist danced on the water, carrying the venomous odor away on the wind. The demons and ice vanished, though how, she had no idea. She eyed the water suspiciously, unwilling to let her guard down. Aizarg’s presence didn’t bring the expected relief, only a different sense of fear.
Atamoda knew she’d never feel safe again. All illusions of control were washed away, replaced with constant uncertainty and a gnawing coldness in the pit of her stomach.
They stood on one of the two wedding barges Aizarg and the quest party returned upon, now secured to the edge of the flotilla. The boat where she battled the demons lay partially submerged, one end ripped away, the other end still tied to the flotilla and filled with water. Atamoda’s gaze kept returning to the shredded boat, wondering how she survived.
Aizarg surveyed the floating island as the people crowded around them in a crushing semi-circle. Frightened and exhausted faces, from both Crane and Minnow Clan, pressed in. Some cried out for news of the quest. Others asked when the flood would end, and when the fish would return. Some beseeched the Uros if they were safe from the demons. Atamoda wanted answers, too.
But before she could ask any questions, Aizarg held out his arms and raised his voice. “We will convene a Council of Boats in due time. Until such time, prepare your boats and rafts for sail. Secure your gear and make your knots strong and true.” Aizarg glanced at the darkening sky. “Rough seas await us.”
After days of sleepless hell, she expected the Lo to demand answers. To Atamoda’s surprise, the people quieted and listened to their leader.
They share my hope. Perhaps Aizarg’s return signals the end to this nightmare. Atamoda pushed back the nagging feeling this was a fool’s hope.
“Above all,” Aizarg said, “We must stay together. Cling to one another, hold on and do not let go. Together, we will persevere and live to see the sun again. Separated, the Great Sea...” he paused, took a breath and resumed speaking, “...this Black Sea will claim us. Now go, and do as I ask.”
Black Sea?
Without a murmur, the Lo turned, quietly gathered their children, and returned to their boats. Atamoda leaned against her husband, fatigue rapidly overtaking her. His arm encircled her waist, supporting her with welcomed strength. She turned her attention to the quest party disembarking the barges one-by-one.
Levidi stepped forward and handed Aizarg a staff encircled with a strange, beautiful red metal.
He’s changed, too.
Beneath Aizarg’s best friend’s carefree and optimistic veneer, she detected a new hardness, as if Levidi aged a hundred years in only a week.
Haven’t we all?
Levidi kissed Atamoda on the cheek and gave her a squeeze. “Alaya?” he asked breathlessly.
Atamoda smiled wearily and nodded to the heart of the flotilla. “She cares for the children aboard the center raft.”
Levidi looked expectantly to his Uros.
Aizarg grinned and jerked his head toward the flotilla. “Go!”
Atamoda grasped Levidi’s arm. “Take Ba-tor with you and place him with the rest of the children. I need to talk with my husband.”
“Come, little man!” Levidi snatched Ba-tor under his arm and dashed across the crowded boats.
“Hurry back,” Aizarg called out after him. “We have much to do.”
Several men stepped off the wedding barge from behind Aizarg. They swayed across the bobbing deck in an alien manner, obviously unaccustomed to life at sea. A small, bald man with furs heaped over his shoulders, almost to the point it appeared he had no neck, approached her followed by six mountains of men with long, black hair and beards, and equally covered in furs. The small man reminded her of a marsh fox, the large men of wolves.
A-g’an.
Unconsciously, the wife of the Uros quickly straightened her hair, smoothed her tunic, and prepared to greet the guests entering her arun-ki.
The fox, sharp snouted with hungry eyes, smiled and bowed low. Atamoda remembered the demons’ toothy snarls and shuddered.
Virag! All thoughts of hospitality evaporated. Though she’d never met the marsh trader, she knew enough of his reputation to recognize him.
“You must be Atamoda, Patesi-li of the Crane. I am honored and humbled.”
“You brought Virag the Slaver here?” she spoke in a low voice through clenched teeth to her husband. “You brought him among us?”
Aizarg placed both hands atop the strange, red-metal staff. His gaze hardened on her in a way she’d never witnessed before.
My husband returns a stranger. Sadness swept over her as she battled to control her emotions.
“They will be welcome among us.” Unfamiliar power filled his voice. He leaned in, voice finally softening to its old, familiar tone. “I will explain everything. Trust me, wife.” He straightened and spoke louder. “Virag, take your men and go to the center of the flotilla. You will be safest there.”
Virag nodded and spread his arms in supplication. Atamoda recoiled as the a-g’an lurched past, stumbling with each swell.
They are more helpless than children, worthless. Why did he bring them?
Okta stepped lightly off the raft, closely followed by a young man dressed in only a loin cloth. The boy walked the decks like an a’gan; his sandy hair and piercing gray eyes bespoke an unfamiliar tribe.
With a wide grin, Okta embraced Atamoda, lifted her off the deck and spun her around. “I knew it! No flood can kill the Lo.” Wrung with exhaustion, Atamoda’s head spun, but she steadied herself. For a moment Okta reminded her of Atta, and the sadness threatened to overwhelm her again.
Okta surveyed the flotilla. “Excellent, a floating arun-ki! How many clans?”
Atamoda looked back to Aizarg. “Minnow and Crane, but...” she began to speak of their losses.
“And the Carp?” Okta interrupted.
Atamoda shook her head.
Okta waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. I’m sure my people are afloat upon the goddess’s womb, waiting for my return.”
Atamoda heard doubt lurking beneath his bravado.
“I see familiar faces, Atamoda,” Ba-lok stepped up. The young sco-lo-ti’s bruised and battered face sparked more questions in her mind. “The Minnow are here. Where is my wife?”
She pointed south. “On the far side, among most of your arun-ki. She collapsed during the last assault, I know nothing else.”
Ba-lok dashed off across the decks without another word.
“Okta, inspect all the vessels,” Aizarg said. “Make sure they are securely tied to one another, but they use proper slip knots in case we need to quickly disband. Also, make sure each vessel is individually seaworthy.”
Okta nodded. “If I find any improperly pitched, they’ll have to be moved to the perimeter. We can’t have a waterlogged boat weighing down the center.”
“Agreed,” Aizarg said, and then cast a worried glance over his shoulder. “Does anyone hear that?”
“I hear nothing,” Okta said.
Aizarg shook his head. “I am tired, as are we all.”
“And you are?” Atamoda asked the grey-eyed boy.
“I am Ezra of the Hur-po, my lady.” Perhaps two years older than Kol-ok, Ezra bowed low and spoke in a strange, guttural accent.
A man’s will floats upon a sea of boyhood tenderness. Empathy and instant liking filled her heart.
Aizarg placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “My wife, I bring you...” Aizarg clenched his eyes and struggled for control. Atamoda placed her hand over her mouth in response to his pained expression, all thoughts of her battles with the demons vanished,“...I bring you a friend. He saved my life.” Aizarg struggled to finish.
What happened to them out there?
Without a second thought, Atamoda warmly embraced Ezra. “Thank you, Ezra of the Hur-po.”
Ezra stiffly allowed Atamoda to embrace him, but looked back to Aizarg as if seeking permission.
Atamoda turned to Kol-ok, who waited patiently, makeshift spear in hand. “Ezra, this is my son, Kol-ok.”
The two boys eyed each another, taking one another’s measure. Xva materialized from a nearby boat and dropped his spear before Kol-ok.
Aizarg cocked his head at Xva.
“Uros,” Xva said with determination. “Your boy is dead. Before you stands a man. If Atta were here, he would say no less.”
Aizarg turned to Atamoda. “Atta?”
Atamoda shook her head, tears beginning anew. “So many, Aizarg. So many have perished.”
Aizarg gripped Kol-ok’s shoulder and clenched his jaw, fighting back conflicting pride and sorrow.
“Two new men are forged upon the sea,” Okta nodded to Ezra.
“Yes,” Aizarg smiled and brought Kol-ok and Ezra under each arm. “Two new Lo men!”
“We need men, Uros,” Xva said. “We have so few.”
Atamoda caught her breath as a tall, dark girl, perhaps fourteen summers, stepped from the raft.
A Scythian!
Aizarg followed her gaze and motioned to the girl. “I present Sana, Princess of Scythia. She, too, is welcome among us. This was Setenay’s will. She placed her in Ghalen’s charge until we can decide what to do with her.” Aizarg paused and took a deep breath. “Setenay...”
Atamoda placed her hand on his chest as she remembered the face in the water. “I know.”
Sana bowed her head slightly. Her dark beauty reminded Atamoda of Kus-ge, but without the arrogance.
“Welcome, Sana.” Atamoda gestured to the center of the flotilla. “Make your way to the center raft and find rest and food.”
Ghalen emerged behind Sana. “You heard her. Get moving,” he barked.
Sana scowled at Ghalen.
He carries wounds on his heart. They all carry fresh wounds.
“Father?” Su-gar brushed past Atamoda toward the wedding barge, searching its empty deck. She turned pleadingly to Aizarg. “Where is my father?”
Atamoda scanned the empty wedding barge and then looked to Aizarg. His expression told her everything.
Su-gar crumbled to the deck.
“The demons took Ula first,” Atamoda said to Aizarg as she knelt to comfort Su-gar. Su-gar’s mother, Ula, dove into the water to swim to Atamoda’s hut, only to be killed by the water demons. When Atta, a village elder, dove in to save her, the demons took him, too.
Su-gar sobbed face down on the deck as Atamoda rubbed her back, unable to find words of comfort.
“Atamoda, take her to the center raft with the others,” Aizarg whispered.
“Give her a moment!” Atamoda snapped. She regretted her tone the minute the words escaped her mouth.
“Our moments are running out.”
Sana stepped around Aizarg and knelt next to Su-gar and Atamoda. The Scythian considered Atamoda as if asking permission. The patesi-le nodded, curious as to the girl’s intentions.
Sana lifted Su-gar’s chin and stared into her eyes. The Scythian brushed the wet strands of Su-gar’s dark, wavy hair f
rom her cheeks as the girl’s sobbing subsided.
Sana whispered into Su-gar’s ear, though Atamoda could not hear the words.
Su-gar considered Sana quizzically as her sobs vanished. She nodded, and then Sana leaned in again and whispered something else. Su-gar stared off into the distance, listening intently.
Is she casting a spell on her? For a brief moment Atamoda considered intervening.
Su-gar’s breathing slowed. She wiped her eyes and nose and refocused back on Sana as a hint of a smile touched the Scythian Princess’ mouth.
Su-gar sniffled and straightened her hair. “Help me up, Atamoda.”
After standing, Su-gar turned. “What is your name?”
“I am Sana.”
“Sana, come with me, and I will show you where there is food and rest.” Su-gar locked arms with Sana and led her to the flotilla center.
Everyone, including Ghalen, looked on in stunned silence. Ghalen’s gaze lingered on the two women, his expression softer.
“Ghalen,” Aizarg said. “Much needs to be done. Go fetch Levidi. I need him.”
Ghalen hurried away as Atamoda turned to Aizarg. “Tell me what happened.”
“The demons led us to you. I knew we’d find someone in danger if we followed them.” Aizarg hefted the staff. “This banished the demons.”
Atamoda finally took a good look at the staff. The alien red orb, like glittering metal blood, tapered and wrapped around a plain wooden shaft.
“It’s your boar spear!”
He slowly nodded, never taking his eyes off hers. The staff and the grim expression on his face frightened her more than any demon.
“You’ve been touched.” No, she knew that wasn’t the right word.
He’s been called.
Somewhere on their quest a strange god transformed her husband into an instrument of divine will. She reached out to touch it as her husband considered her intently. Atamoda’s stomach knotted. Her fingers trembled as they drew closer to the strange metal.
“You should have seen it, Mother!” Kol-ok interrupted, coming between them and breaking the spell. “A giant pillar of fire! It surrounded us and...”
Aizarg shook his head and raised his finger. “Kol-ok, I need you and Ezra to do something.” Aizarg point to where the remaining ropes anchored the flotilla to the submerged köy-lo-hely. The anchor boat’s bow began to dip as the water deepened with each passing minute. “Cut the ropes and free this floating arun-ki,” Aizarg said.
