“Yeah.”
Anor fixed Lakhoni with a baleful glare. “Don’t snore any more. Corzon just stitched you up. I don’t want to have to make those lovely stitches useless.”
“I’ll do my best,” Lakhoni said, talking mostly to Anor’s back as the hostile man rose and walked away. There’s a future best friend.
As Lakhoni ate, Gimno stepped away from a group of people and approached.
“How do you feel?” Gimno asked.
Lakhoni shrugged carefully. “Not perfect, but not terrible.”
“Good answer.” Gimno lowered himself to the spot Anor had just vacated. “You get to learn what it means to be one of the Separated today.”
Something in Gimno’s voice caught Lakhoni’s attention. This sounded important. “What do you mean?”
“It’s more than living in a cave,” Gimno said. “It’s about living according to a certain set of principles.”
“Okay.”
“Eat fast. You don’t want to miss this.”
Lakhoni sensed the tension in Gimno. He gobbled the last of his meal in a few large bites. As he choked it down, he walked to the water bucket and got a drink. The water helped him swallow. Even with his hurry, he had to run to catch up to Gimno, who was the last person to leave the fire circle and head toward the large circle in the center of the cavern.
Their group was nearly the last to arrive. People stood in tight bunches, all facing the altar of uncut stones that Lakhoni had seen the night before. He noticed that the people had left a cleared path between the altar and the largest circle of huts. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on those huts.
Soon Lakhoni saw movement. A group of men strode from the large huts and made its way through the onlookers. When they got to the altar, they spread out, allowing Lakhoni to get a good look at them. Eight of them were tall and thickly muscled. Lakhoni did not like the look of them. Their skin was painted red from head to toe. Bones pierced their lower lip and their earlobes. Their heads were bald, save for a patch in the back, just above their neck. They wore leather loincloths, along with black belts and leggings. Each man had a unique tattoo on his back. Lakhoni saw one man with a bear, another with an eagle, and another with what looked like a wolf.
They each had a long dagger strapped tightly to their right leg. The blades had to be steel, but Lakhoni had trouble believing that these people could use so much steel on one weapon.
The group was led by a ninth man, who was smaller and had hair that stood straight out from his head like a porcupine. His body was painted red as well, with dizzying swirls of black on his chest, back, and arms.
Two of the tall men held a young man who appeared to be sleeping on his feet. They half-carried him towards the altar as he stumbled along. As they strode forward Lakhoni realized the young man was not sleeping, but had drunk several guts of wine. Why would they allow him to participate in their ceremony in such a state?
Looking closely at the altar, Lakhoni realized that it was just big enough for—
His eyes widened in sudden fear and shock. No. This couldn’t be. These people were kind and caring. He was imagining things.
The two men lifted the young man to the altar, laying him on his back and stepping backward one small pace, although they kept a firm hold on his wrists.
No. This is not . . . Dread filled him as the small man with the bristling hair slid a shining dagger from his belt. The small man, who had to be the leader of the Separated, raised his arms, surveying the crowd. Lakhoni thanked the First Fathers that he was in the back of the crowd so that the man couldn’t see his reaction.
“Brothers and sisters!” the leader called out in a surprisingly full voice. “We are the Separated!”
“We are the Separated!” repeated the crowd. Gimno stared at the leader, his eyes wide and intent. Gimno’s mouth was open, his tongue licking his lips as if he were hungry. Anor gave Lakhoni a strange smile, then turned his attention back to the man with the dagger.
“But we are united!” the leader said.
The crowd repeated this too.
Lakhoni’s swallowed, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face.
“We know the truth of this land,” the leader said. The crowd watched with rapt attention. Lakhoni fought to keep still, not wanting to draw attention. “We who follow the true God, the creator of the Great Spirit and this world, we know the truth. We follow the true God and we will inherit this promised land!”
The leader took a small step and was at the young man’s side. The victim squirmed weakly, his eyelids fluttering. “This is the promise! We will be strengthened by blood and we will take this land and serve our God.”
The leader jabbed his dagger, quick as a heartbeat, into the man’s left hand. Lakhoni flinched.
The spike-haired leader stepped quickly around the altar. “By sacrifice, we become mighty!”
Lakhoni dropped his gaze as the knife fell again. No. This can’t be happening.
“These are the marks! This is the sacrifice! We will take this land back! We await our prophesied leader—he who comes from shadow but brings us to light.”
Lakhoni looked to each side, unable to watch. He was in luck; everyone else was staring with almost worshipful expressions. What is this? Why? He wanted to run, hide back in the hut. But surely the Separated would not accept that.
“As our ancestors have always done, we make this sacrifice on raised stone. Now we await the time when we will come back to light!”
The crowd surged forward after this last shout. Lakhoni stayed stock still, staring at the rock floor. He swallowed hard, every muscle in his body tight. He thought he might snap like a dry stick.
“We will come back to the light!” the leader screamed. The crowd repeated it, then it became a chant.
“Be cleansed!” the man screamed, his high-pitched voice carrying over the shouts of the Separated. Lakhoni opened his eyes as the crowd surged forward again. Lakhoni pushed backward, desperate to not be a part of whatever awful thing came next. But they were kind. They fed me, took me in.
He turned away as the Living Dead completed their cruel ritual.
Panic filled him. This was not right. He had to get out. He wanted to run, climb back to the surface, and leave this world behind. I thought they were good! He took a step backward, meaning to find the entrance to the cavern.
Gimno appeared before his terrified eyes. Lakhoni gasped, realizing he had been holding his breath in his paralyzed terror. “The first time is hard,” Gimno whispered, his big smile grotesque. The warrior lifted a hand to Lakhoni’s face. “But you are learning to be Living Dead now. This sacrifice purifies you too.”
Lakhoni fought to keep still. His body shook with shock, revulsion slamming inside of him and trying to burst free in a scream of pure fury and disgust.
“You will soon become a warrior for the true cause.”
Lakhoni closed his eyes for a moment. He could think of nothing that he could do or say. He wanted to learn nothing from these people. He had to get away.
Suddenly he wondered where the slain sacrifice had come from. He couldn’t have been much older than Lakhoni.
He opened his eyes. Gimno still stood there, watching him. Gimno caught Lakhoni’s gaze. “You will understand; I will teach you. I will make you a warrior and you will help me become a Consecrated.”
Lakhoni followed Gimno’s gaze to the eight tall, red men. They had to be the Consecrated.
Gimno turned back to Lakhoni. He wrapped his long arms around Lakhoni in a warm embrace. His whisper, its tones soft and kind, sent a bright flare of fear and fury into Lakhoni’s soul. “Welcome to the people of Promise.”
Chapter 10
Alone Among the Dead
Back in Gimno’s fire circle, Lakhoni tried to order his thoughts. Confusion fought with cold, clear horror. They had just sacrificed a person. The trembling struck again. He sucked in a breath, feeling that if he didn’t hold himself together he might fall into pieces or simply f
ade into nothingness.
The trembling faded as Vena approached. “How are you feeling, Lakhoni?” The clear concern in her eyes clashed harshly with the terrible thing she had just been a part of.
He opened his mouth to speak. Nothing.
“I am sure Gimno told you, but the first time is always hard.” Her hand cupped Lakhoni’s right cheek, her thumb softly running over his skin.
He nodded. How could this be? How could Vena care about his feelings when she was a part of spilling innocent blood? How many people had died at the hands of the Living Dead in their sick sacrifices?
“You’ve been through so much, Lakhoni,” Vena said. “Anybody would feel overcome. You are strong for still being able to stand.”
He nodded, still unable to speak. Vena guided him inside Corzon and Anor’s hut.
“You would do best to sleep some more.”
He nodded again, seeking his sleeping pad in the dimness of the hut’s interior.
“Tomorrow will be a better day,” Vena said. “You will begin to learn the ways of your new people.”
Lakhoni could think of nothing to say to that. He wanted to learn to fight like them, but he was sure he would lose his soul if he had to watch another human sacrifice.
He had to get away. But would they let him? Now that he knew where they lived and what they did, they might not let him leave alive.
He carefully lowered himself to his sleeping pad as exhaustion took hold of him. The soft, woven mat under him squeaked gently as it accepted his weight.
He had to leave the cave. He would wait for the right time, when they allowed him outside. Then he would get away and find his way to Alronna.
He could still feel the pressure of Gimno’s fingers on his forehead and cheeks. It made him feel dirty, corrupt.
Lakhoni got to his feet and grabbed a soft, worn knit cloth. He dipped it in a deep bowl of water that sat on a table in the middle of the hut. Using the cloth, he scrubbed his face and forehead as quickly as he could. Even though Gimno’s hand had appeared clean, the sacrifice—no, the murder—made Lakhoni feel corrupted just by being touched.
Lakhoni crossed back to his bed. He lay down, careful to lower his left shoulder first. As his head touched the pad, a twinge of hot pain flashed from the crown of his head down into his jaw. He stiffened as the pain throbbed for a few moments and let his breath out slowly as he forced his body to relax. It won’t be long, he thought. And if he picked up some training and skills while he was with the Living Dead, so be it.
* * *
Gasping, Lakhoni fought free of a dream of angry, dead young men with his parents’ faces on them, reaching for him. Cold air hit his face at the same time the smell of old fires assaulted his nose. His heart hammered in his chest.
In the hut, in the cave. The sleeping mat under his back.
Only a dream.
But Lakhoni knew that Salno had always said that dreams were more than just silly things that happened during sleep. Dreams meant something—they were often the way the First Fathers spoke to their children. It was for the people to interpret the dreams correctly.
Lakhoni understood the images he had seen: the altar and the young man, his parents’ faces. But what was he to do? Was the young man asking for justice too?
Lakhoni lay on his mat for what felt like hours. Night must have fallen, for he heard the soft breathing of Corzon and Anor nearby.
First Fathers, help. He sent his silent pleas heavenward, hoping they could find a way through the layers of rock over him to the sky far above. I know my duty. I will do it, at least as well as I can. Warm tears slid from his eyes and down his cheeks. There were a lot of people around him in the huge cavern, families and tribes. More people than even in his village. But he had never been so alone. I don’t know how, but I will do my duty. Just . . . please help me.
Sleep slowly overcame Lakhoni as the weight of the night and the events of the past few days pressed down upon him.
Chapter 11
Signs
Lakhoni marveled at the sight before him. Blue—vast, pale, and glimmering in the dawn light—stretched from horizon to horizon. Mist clung to the great mountains far to the west. The tallest, Sinhael, had its tip completely obscured by the gauzy clouds that never left the mountain—as if they were the breath of some mighty being that inhabited the peak. Sinhael—Heaven’s Tower. Lakhoni wondered if it was true what Lamorun had told him, that some of the First Fathers had climbed the mountain and disappeared, supposedly taken up to the heavens.
He tore his gaze from the mighty peak and drank in the sights of the surface world, feeling like he could consume the trees with their deep green leaves and needles, the taste of a fresh day, the feel of new air on the skin. He could consume it and become one with it, leaving a world of bloody nightmares and painful training behind.
He sighed. He would never have thought that after only four weeks of being underground, he would feel as if he were coming back to life on his first journey to the surface.
“Cub!” Gimno’s voice rasped, sounding like a porcupine’s quills against stone. “Wake up!”
Lakhoni rebuked himself for his reverie and cast about to find Gimno.
The tall, tattooed man leaned on a nearby tree. “Will you be joining us today?”
Lakhoni forced a smile—it was becoming easier. He noticed that with each day that passed since the young man had been murdered, the fake smile and enthusiasm became easier to force. Nothing else horrible had happened and he grew more and more able to conceal the emptiness that skulked in his soul.
“I just wanted to give your old legs a head start,” Lakhoni said.
Gimno’s eyes went wide. “My old—?” A moment passed and Gimno barked an appreciative laugh before moving through the trees.
Lakhoni joined the man and the rest of the warrior party, feeling nearly naked in the chill air. He wore only leather breeches with a thick strap around his waist, which held a short knife. But the chill of the day—it was nearly winter—made him long for the tunics he had left at his village.
Gimno set a fast pace, snaking between the trees and around or over brush like the panther on his chest. The tall man and the other Living Dead didn’t make a sound. Lakhoni, on the other hand, still had trouble running without pain in his side. His head had healed, but his side was taking longer to recover. He was sweating before the sun had moved more than a hand-span upwards in the eastern sky.
After another hour of running and gritting his teeth, Lakhoni knew where he was. A stab of apprehension filled him. His jaw aching, he called out to Gimno. “To my village?” Fear of what he might find and feel slowed his steps. Would the fire have consumed everyone?
“Of course,” Gimno said, slowing to a walk. “You must claim your property.”
My property?
He remembered. When Gimno had first appeared and led him away, the tall man had said something about everything in the village being Lakhoni’s, since he was the only survivor.
“Come along, cub.” Gimno slapped Lakhoni’s healed shoulder. “If it were not difficult to do this, there would be no point in it. You will be stronger afterward.”
The sympathy in Gimno’s voice sounded real to Lakhoni. As he lengthened his stride, Lakhoni tried to resolve the many different sides of the tall man. Gimno was happy to see a young man murdered but then could express sympathy, love, and even a sense of humor. He smiled with Vena and joked with Anor. He was stolidly patient as Lakhoni practiced complex patterns of thrusts and feints with a stone dagger.
Gimno slowed, then stopped, turning toward Lakhoni. “We are here.”
Lakhoni peered through the trees and realized he had not been paying attention to the last few minutes of the journey. He and Gimno stood behind the hut that had been Salno’s, distinctive for the intricate carvings on many of the stones making up the walls. His eyes darted from hut to hut, something inside him telling him that someone else might have survived, that at any moment he could see movement.
Nothing.
Lakhoni stepped out from the shelter of the trees. The sun was over his left shoulder, so he had to take a few more steps to leave the forest’s shadow. A chill, not from the autumn day, passed through him. He crossed the village grounds towards the well. He passed the well and within moments stood before the dark jumble that remained of the bonfire. The coals and embers must have stayed hot for a long time, because he could only see black, gray, and white ash.
“You must let the dead go,” Gimno said, his steps quiet as he crossed the village center. “They know nothing of you now.”
Lakhoni squeezed his eyes closed, seeking strength from somewhere inside. I won’t let them go. I will not betray them like that.
“But never let your anger leave,” Gimno continued.
Again, the tall man’s apparent ability to understand Lakhoni’s thoughts threw him off guard.
“Your anger,” Gimno said, “will carry you through the pain and discomfort of learning to be one of the warriors for the Separated. Your anger will remind you in the dark of night, when you want to cry yourself to sleep, when your body feels like a skinned bear, why you fight.”
Lakhoni mulled that over. “But you keep saying that I should never fight angry. That when I am fighting, I must be completely without feeling or emotion.”
Nodding, Gimno smiled. “Yes, you remember well. But this anger is the type of anger you put in your soul, letting its heat fill you.” Gimno looked up into the blue sky and surveyed the trees surrounding the dead village. “This is pure anger, not the shallow kind you feel at a slight or offense.”
Lakhoni stepped back and turned, making for his old home. Memories of conversations and happy moments with his family glowed warmly, but now the house sat derelict, the stones resting tiredly atop each other. “So pure anger is what you put away, banking it like a coal for a time you will need it.”
Gimno’s grunt confirmed to Lakhoni that his understanding had been correct. “Yes. Put it away, but not too far. Where you can reach it. It will give you strength.”
Lakhoni Page 5
