by Brian Braden
Where there is Spako, Virag is nearby.
The two a’gan seldom ventured out of their boat, but the Uros commanded all to this gathering. Ba-lok and Kus-ge’s tardiness irritated her. Atamoda grew weary of Kus-ge’s games.
Okta stepped out into the rain. “We are all here, Uros.”
Aizarg placed both hands on the staff, and stood with his legs spread slightly apart. “The Nameless God promised a new land, not a calm sea. We drift at this god’s mercy, knowing neither which way the current drifts or the wind blows. The only power left to us, is our choices. The choice I make this day is that we remember the lost. Today, we speak for our dead.”
Women wailed and men cried out as emotions, bottled up since the first demon attack, bubbled to the surface. Many fell to the decks, succumbing to their grief.
“Who speaks for the Minnow Clan?” Aizarg asked.
Ba-lok stepped forward into the rain, accompanied by Kus-ge. “I speak for my dead.”
Kus-ge emptied her bag of ashes into the water before they returned to their places.
Atamoda stood dumbfounded.
She emptied her entire bag!
Last night, she gave Kus-ge specific instructions to only pour one third of her bag into the water. Both she and Kus-ge would have to perform the ceremony for Okta and Ghalen’s clans, neither represented by a patesi-le. Ashes would also have to be poured for the a’gan, as called for by Lo tradition.
Neither Aizarg nor any of the men noticed the hard stares exchanged between the two women.
She did it on purpose.
“Who speaks for the Crane?” Aizarg asked the crowd. By tradition, an Uros must speak for all. In all ceremonial affairs regarding his clan, a surrogate must speak for him. Last night Aizarg selected his surrogate without hesitation.
Xva left his place next to Sahti and stepped next to Atamoda. “I speak for the Crane.”
Atamoda carefully lifted her bag, releasing only a smattering of dust into the sea.
Aizarg raised an eyebrow, but Atamoda ignored him.
Xva sat back down next to his wife.
“Who speaks for the Carp?” the Uros called.
“I do!” Okta shouted defiantly. “And I do not know who lives or doesn’t among my people. When I have an accounting of the dead, I will speak for them. Until that time, they all live in my heart.”
Inside, Atamoda sighed in relief. Now she’d have enough ashes to complete the ceremony.
Obviously not satisfied with Okta’s answer, the Uros pressed the issue.
“I understand your hope, sco-lo-ti. But we were spared by the hand of the Nameless God. Is your faith so strong to believe that all your people survived? Perhaps it would be wise to symbolically honor the dead, while praying for the living?”
Okta crossed his arms and would not be swayed. “If the Carp do not join our arun-ki before we reach land, I will mourn and remember.
Ghalen stepped forward next to Okta. “I echo Okta’s sentiments. I speak for my brother, Ma-sok, sco-lo-ti of the Turtle. In my heart, my people live. I will mourn and remember when either my hope dies, or we reach land without them.”
Aizarg nodded. “So be it.”
Kus-ge glanced at Atamoda and the bag of ashes in her hands. “We must remember, we must mourn! Sethagasi demands it.”She knows I don’t have enough ashes for the complete ceremony. She’s trying to dishonor me in the eyes of the people.
Aizarg looked out over the Black Sea. “Perhaps in this we should also break from the old ways.”
The waves picked up, and the deck began to rock as Aizarg continued the ceremony. “It is I who speaks for the a’gan among us, lest we not remember them and their dead.”
Atamoda looked to see if any of the a’gan were watching, but only Sana and Ezra looked on. Spako’s head no longer bobbed at the back of the crowd and Virag was nowhere to be seen.
She hefted the bag, now filled with too many ashes for the rest of the ceremony.
Aizarg continued, “It is I who speak for the Lo. It is I who speak for the lost clans, and I who beseech the Nameless God to watch over them, keep them safe and bring us together where gentle waves lap against a sandy beach and green shoots reach for a warm sun.
“Mourn while the sea and sky allow.” Atamoda turned the bag upside down and spilled ashes for those who were not of her people. The wind began to blow, carrying some of the ashes over the crowd.
28. The Boundary
The Scythians called it Limita, the Lo and Sammujad simply called it the Boundary. Predators dwelt where short, brittle grass met tall, lush reed. Some peered outward to the steppe, others inward to the marsh. Here, the meek timidly poked their heads from the undergrowth and sniffed the air for the scent of danger. Creatures foolish enough to leave their element usually met with death.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
In the thundering midnight, Virag walked the deck.
At first, he crawled along the edges of rafts, between huddled groups of sleeping Minnow Clan families. Between the constant roar of the rain and hissing braziers, they did not hear him. Even if they did, they didn’t bother to stir. Hunger began to take its toll, driving most to states of lethargy and sleep.
He knew this day would come, when he’d have to venture forth from his fetid cocoon. If she had not drawn him out, he would have delayed this day as long as possible.
Last night she strolled by again, excrement pot in hand. The Snake dumped the pot so close to his boat some of the excrement bounced off the hull. Before he could get angry, she leaned over, as if examining something in the water, and spoke just loud enough he could hear her.
“Tomorrow night, at the storm wall. Avoid the Crane side of the flotilla, leave your dog.”
As he passed across the Minnow vessels, he found himself better able to stand. His nausea seemed to subside with each step. The waves possessed a rhythm. He could not dance to it, but he found himself able to at least tap his toes.
He stumbled forward past the last Minnow raft and stepped onto one of the barrier boats, steadying himself against the storm wall. It had changed since the last time he was here.
The Lo fashioned a crude covering for the wall of sticks, made of leaves interwoven with salvaged reeds. He guessed this would prevent water from collecting in the bottoms of the boats. They also fashioned a walkway from poles and sticks along the inside of the storm wall, precluding having to step into each boat as one made their way along the inside of the wall.
Like last time, the waves roared loudest at the bow, though he couldn’t see them in the darkness. This time, however, he wasn’t as afraid. He felt his way around the wall until he found the opening to the bow raft.
Virag squinted, trying to see if she waited here as promised.
“Step through the opening,” she called from beyond the wall.
The Fox took a deep breath and inched his way through the opening and into the pitch blackness, one hand gripping the wall for dear life. Until now, Virag thought she chose this place because no one would see them together. Now he knew better.
She wants me at a disadvantage, to negotiate on her own terms. Damned if she will see me afraid.
He let go and stepped out into the pelting rain and sea spray.
***
Before the Cataclysm
Her breath came in gulps. The long, dry grass caressed her thighs as she sprinted along the no man’s land separating the steppe from the marsh, the Lo from the steppe dwellers. Her long, black hair chased after her, dancing in eternal breeze that existed between the worlds of water and grass.
The Boundary held magic for her, a place few dared dwell. The Limita demanded caution.
This place is only for the strong. I am death. I am death.
Sweat poured between her breasts, covered only in a light deerskin scrap. The five iron knives tucked into her waist thong rubbed hard and cold against her bare skin. She pushed herself harder, delighting in the way her long legs felt as they stretched t
o their limit. The dark woman wanted to run forever, away from one life and toward another.
She imagined herself on horseback, flying across the steppe toward the distant mountains.
East, ever east.
She erupted through a hedge of tall, yellow grass into a clearing. A squat man with bear skin heaped over his shoulders bolted upright and spun around. He brandished a sagar in both hands, eyes wide in surprise above a thick, curly beard.
Sammujad.
He wiped the back of his hand across his greasy smile. “Hey, boys, come on out here. A little rabbit has stumbled into camp.”
Sammujad emerged from the surrounding brush, each bearing a heavy sagar spear, the long shafts used to halt Scythian horse charges. Six in number, they casually surrounded her. She reached behind along her thigh and withdrew her longest knife, the bone handled beauty with a straight double-edged blade she called Wrath.
“I’d say you found yourself a pretty little mouthful, Bolian.” A wiry man approached, licking his lips. She smiled invitingly, hoping he’d come closer so she could slice off his testicles.
“Back off, Wadim,” the man named Bolian challenged. “I saw her first.”
“And you can be the first to watch me mount her!” Wadim’s nostrils flared in challenge. The two men lunged at one another, sager extended.
The fools will fight each other before they try to rape me. She’d seen it before, knowing how such animals thought. She also knew when wolves fight, the rats move in for a morsel.
She spun around just as another warrior tried to seize her. A moment later, he writhed on the dusty ground holding his neck, bright red blood spurting between his fingers.
The men stopped fighting and stared at her, jaws agape.
It wasn’t the kill I expected, but it is enough.
She waved the dagger playfully at her pubic area before running her tongue over the crimson blade. “Anyone else want to try their luck?”
The two other men forgot their feud as they watched the last of their companion’s life dribble way. They lowered their sagar toward her, finally united in purpose.
She narrowed her eyes and crouched, Wrath extended out ahead of her.
I am strong. I am death.
“Enough!” a high pitched voice commanded from the clearing’s edge.
The bald man, small and lean, pushed his way through the undergrowth across the clearing. Naked except for a Lo-style loin cloth, he delivered sharp backhanded slaps in both directions as he passed between Bolian and Wadim.
She could never understand how small men could often dominate obviously stronger, larger men.
The woman lowered Wrath, and stepped over the cooling corpse.
Then again, maybe she could.
The bald man approached her, eyeing her as if she were a commodity.
Her blade rested against her thigh, pointed downward but ready. She fingered the hilt, wondering what the bald man would do.
He doesn’t take unnecessary chances. I have that in my favor.
The Fox came agonizingly close, trailed by his giant henchman. Her blade hand twitched, he mind calculating the rewards of simply killing him versus letting him live.
The slaver leaned in. His stink assaulted her with a thousand terrible memories.
So close.
“Familiar situation we find ourselves in, eh?” he said. She smelled his sour breath and saw his blackened teeth. “Isn’t this how I caught you the first time, a foolish girl treading The Boundary without a shred of caution?”
“I’m not longer a girl. Get out of my face or you’ll see how foolish I can be.”
He glanced her up and down, and laughed. “No, you are most definitely not a girl anymore. You’re also late,” he continued. “I thought I trained you better than that.”
She slowly slid Wrath into the gap above the small of her back.
***
The bow raft pitched and bucked, absorbing the waves’ assault and sparing the rest of the arun-ki the sea’s rage. In a matter of seconds, his furs were soaked and heavy. He wished he’d left them in the boat as peered into the blackness along the wall, trying to see where the voice came from.
She came into focus a few paces away, a pale image against the darkness. She reclined against the wall, back flattened, legs and arms spread wide. The Snake wore nothing except for a waist string, where he discerned the dull glint of knives. Long black hair clung to her breasts, which rose and fell with each deep breath. Head tilted back, she let the spray wash over her with each wave, as if making love to the sea.
If the Lo could see her now, naked with only her daggers, they would know her as I do.
Virag swallowed hard and licked his lips at the sight, remembering the first time he’d seen the Snake, when he thought her only a stupid child.
She’s thinks she can use her body to disarm me...she might be right.
Blood pounding, Virag grinned in the darkness.
On the boundary between arun-ki and the watery abyss, the Fox had just wandered into the Snake’s pit. Virag knew he may have made a dangerous mistake, but he enjoyed the game nevertheless.
Gambling and combat both begin with an ante. So let it begin.
“Do you still want to kill me?” he asked, beginning dance of words. Whether it would become a dance of death he did not yet know.
“Yes,” she said without opening her eyes.
***
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“He’s late, too. He, however, has the gold, and can be as late as he damn well pleases.” Virag chuckled and walked over to the body. “And the cost of replacing this man will be taken from your payment.”
He pointed at the big man. “Spako, drag this piece of garbage into the open steppe so we don’t have lions sniffing around.”
His henchmen assembled in the center of the clearing, all leering at her. She’d been in the depths of the Marsh Fox’s den before and knew some of their faces, including that of the corpse cooling on the ground. The rest of these men would also one day feel the Wrath’s kiss. Today, she had to be pragmatic.
Patience. The instrument of her vengeance would soon be here.
Virag turned and gazed at her, as if wondering what she might fetch on the block. He pointed to her thighs. “You’re leaner since I saw you last. I approve. Pity I had to let you go. You’d been far more comfortable in my yurt.” He rubbed his cheek and examined her face. “I expected he’d buy you, but I never expected he’d set you free.” He shook his head in genuine bewilderment. “No, I didn’t see that one coming.”
There is much you won’t see coming.
All around them the brush erupted in an explosion of branches and leaves. Horses bearing warriors clad in glittering bronze galloped into the clearing from every direction. The Sammujad hastily formed a circle, sagar bristling outward, as Virag dashed to the center.
Her heart leapt.
The horsemen encircled the slaver’s meager force. To her, the Sammujad appeared crude and barbaric compared to the magnificent armored warriors. They pointed black, polished lances down toward the Sammujad. Even their horses wore armor.
She whispered a prayer to her dark gods the horsemen would slay Virag and his men on the spot.
We don’t need them anymore.
One horseman trotted to the fore, his breastplate sparkling like the sun, jewel encrusted sword dangling at his hip. A light chain mesh hung from his golden helm, covering all of his face except his eyes. She knew immediately it was him.
He dismounted and waved off other horseman, who dutifully lowered their lances.
“What is the meaning of this?” Virag demanded.
The towering warrior removed his helmet, freeing dark, curly locks which tumbled over broad shoulders.
To her, he might as well have been a god.
“Can’t be too careful, slaver. We had to make sure it was you.”
“Careful? Of course its me!” Virag spat and pushed his way out of the circle. The Fox an
d his wolves looked small, so helpless compared to the Golden Lion. She wanted to laugh with glee.
“Who else would be here, waiting on you? I have the goods, Prince Bal-eeb. Let’s get this business over with.”
The warrior threw his helmet at Virag, who barely caught it and stumbled back a few paces.
“We do business when I say we do business.”
The warrior looked about, a sparkle in his eye, as if trying find something. “Where is my Marsh Flower?”
She pretended to pout and strolled forward. Horse and man parted for her.
Virag rolled his eyes.
Bal-eeb grinned and took her by the hand. He turned to the nearest mounted warrior. “Set up a picket in case any of Tuma’s raiders picked up our trail. Send a message to our main force and tell them we made it, proceed as planned. Set up camp, no fire.” He considered Virag dismissively. “We do business when I return.”
Hand in hand, the Lion and the Snake vanished into high grass.
***
“He’s dead,” Virag stated flatly, wondering if she’d accepted that fact in her heart.
She didn’t respond.
“The City of Gold is gone, perhaps even under our very feet. If the great wave came from the north, then Hur-ar met its fate before the steppe.”
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness the raindrops pouring off her pale face became visible.
We’re all pale now. No matter, I never much cared for the sun anyway.
An odd thought crossed his mind.
Has she been crying?
“If you invited me here to kill me, please get on with it. I’m cold and wet. I’d rather be cold and wet in my boat. Otherwise, I’m leaving.” He turned to go.
“What would our dear Uros think if I told him why you had those wedding barges?”
Ah, so it begins.
He turned to face her. She now stood tall, balanced on the edge of a barrier boat, waves sloshing over her calves.
She’s trying to show me she’s in charge, comfortable on her turf, flaunting her power. Virag grudgingly admired her. He mentally kicked himself for even entertaining the thought she’d been crying.
“I think he’d be none too happy, witch. And I believe he’d be equally interested in your role.”
