Lakhoni

by Jared Garrett

  “My halkeen will assist in this ceremony.”

  Hearing the strange word, Lakhoni looked back at the Bonaha. The small man must have detected Lakhoni’s lack of understanding. “Surely Gimno has told you of these men. They are the Consecrated. Halkeen is the word for ‘consecrated’ in the language of our First Fathers.”

  Glancing about, the Bonaha gestured toward the fire. “Now come.”

  Lakhoni stepped forward, unsure of where he should be standing.

  “Gimno, you will purify.”

  Lakhoni felt Gimno’s familiar presence to his right as the man moved forward. “Yes, Bonaha,” Gimno said. He set his hand on Lakhoni’s shoulder and a slight comfort stole over Lakhoni at the well-known feeling of Gimno’s rough, strong hand.

  One of the halkeen stood near the fire with a long stick of some kind, with which the man was poking at the fire, spreading embers and coals. He was looking for something.

  Another man stood nearer the table sharpening a long, slightly curved knife, filling the room with a rasping sound. The knife was made of metal. Where do they get it all?

  The third halkeen had just finished sweeping where the hide had been with a bundle of dried grass. Now he slipped a soft-looking pouch off a short peg in the wall near the hearth. Crouching down, he shook out a pile of jagged bits. By the sound of them on the stone floor and the way they glinted in the firelight, Lakhoni guessed they were obsidian.

  “Now, Gimno, take your place at the fire,” the Bonaha said.

  Gimno took the place of the man who had been prodding the fire. The halkeen handed his stick to Gimno and moved toward the peg that had been holding the obsidian bits. He pulled a rod of some kind off another peg where it had been hung by a small leather loop.

  “Boy, what is your name?”

  Lakhoni tore his eyes away from what looked like sharp thorns on the rod in the halkeen’s hands. “Lakhoni.”

  “Lakhoni,” the Bonaha intoned. “You wish to join the Separated. The Living Dead. Those who will reclaim the Birthright.”

  The long pause made Lakhoni glance around, wondering if he was to say something. Gimno stared intently at him and nodded deliberately.

  “Yes, Bonaha,” Lakhoni said. First Fathers, please help me hide this lie. And please forgive me for it! He didn’t know if the Fathers’ teachings allowed for necessary lies, but Lakhoni saw no other way.

  The Bonaha nodded gravely. “And you willingly submit to this Trial of the Gate?”

  “Yes, Bonaha.” Lakhoni tried not to think too much about what he was getting into. The wickedly barbed rod continued to draw his gaze. He wanted to slow things down so he could think this through. He looked at the barbed rod, the obsidian chips, and Gimno standing at the hearth. What was this Trial of the Gate? Panic began to flutter in his chest. He knew that if he gave in to the panic and ran, he would be killed. And if he failed this, he guessed he would be very restricted in his movements.

  “This is a test of your strength of character, your determination, and your will,” the Bonaha said. “Your knees will rest upon the obsidian. You must be still in the face of that discomfort; showing your ability to stay and fight when all is pain. If you flee this, you will be known as a coward. Cowards are not warriors.”

  One of the halkeen appeared behind Lakhoni and gestured for Lakhoni to move to the pile of obsidian chips.

  “You will grip the thorny rod,” the Bonaha said. A burst of wild laughter rose in Lakhoni at the funny-sounding name.

  “And you must hold it tightly to prove your determination to fight alongside the Separated, even when it is painful and difficult,” the Bonaha said.

  The halkeen who held the rod handed it to Lakhoni. Lakhoni held it carefully at its ends, waiting for whatever signal he assumed would be given. Dread lodged in his core like a chunk of rotten meat. He tried to keep his breathing even, shouted mentally at his heart to slow. No, I can do this. Every warrior in the Separated must have done it. Gimno must have done it.

  “You will be purified with each stroke of the grooming blade. During the grooming, you must remain completely still—demonstrating your will to overcome all difficulty in the battle to reclaim the Birthright.”

  The Bonaha’s voice became soft. “Remember Lakhoni, you must not move. If you do, the grooming blade will cut you, and you will be scarred. A warrior must not have a scarred scalp.”

  He could almost believe the Bonaha was concerned about him, but the glittering hunger in the small man’s eyes belied that. He glanced down at the obsidian. That shouldn’t be too bad. The thorns on the rod looked to be somewhat barbed. If he could hold it just so, he might be able to avoid jabbing them into his hands.

  “Now kneel, Lakhoni.”

  Chapter 15

  Purified

  The fire flickered gold and red. His eyes felt dry and tight. He blinked and turned his head. The obsidian chips were gone, replaced in their soft leather pouch. Pain still throbbed from his knees, where he’d knelt on the jagged obsidian. That had been just the beginning. The places on the backs of his hands and tops of his feet, where the coal had ‘purified’ him, had already been soothed with a sharp-smelling, cooling ointment.

  He sat on one of the hide-covered chairs in the Bonaha’s home, Gimno tending his knees and hands. His body was loose, jittery with released tension. One of the halkeen held the thorny rod, cleaning it carefully with a bristle brush. Lakhoni tore his eyes away from the thorns, forcing his hands to stay still for Gimno to wrap them in soft bandages.

  Lakhoni remembered each scrape of the blade across his scalp, each touch of the hot coal. The stabbing in his hands and knees. At first, he’d forced himself to be still, commanding every fiber of every muscle to hold fast. But the pain had been too great and had nearly shattered his concentration.

  Then he found a place to put the pain. A place he could watch everything happening and envision each source of pain channeling the agony into a deep well that couldn’t be filled. He saw each bone in his body, each tendon, each muscle. How did I do that?

  And then it had ended and he’d half crawled, half fallen into the chair with Gimno’s help.

  If the ritual had been meant to purify him, it had worked, although he felt even more distant from the people of the Living Dead. As Gimno wrapped Lakhoni’s hand, after making sure no thorns had remained behind, Lakhoni reviewed the words of the Bonaha. The small man had intoned a heavy chant with each stroke of the blade across Lakhoni’s scalp. Things about proving will and devotion to the Great Spirit. About becoming part of the chosen Separated.

  And somehow, at the same time, thoughts of Alronna had carried him through, helped him stay in that place deep inside. She was out there. She was waiting for him. She didn’t know he was coming, but he would find her.

  Gimno’s hand on his shoulder had broken him out of the pain-redirecting trance. He’d come to, instantly blinded by the fire, every chewed and stabbed and burnt and scraped part of his body crying out.

  “Now stand,” Gimno had said.

  “Arise, Lakhoni of the Separated.” This time it was the Bonaha who spoke. “Sit down a new being, a new man. A warrior of the Living Dead.”

  Lakhoni had flexed his leg muscles, pushing himself up. He got halfway up when he swayed, fresh pain in his knees making them buckle. His bones ached.

  Gimno caught him under his arms and eased him into the padded chair where he now sat.

  He wondered how long he had been in the trance, forcing fresh waves of pain into a place deep inside. How had he found that place? How could he find it again?

  A halkeen appeared again, handing Gimno fresh bandaging cloths and a gut of something that sloshed. Another followed, carrying a sachet filled with something that smelled crisp like a new morning.

  “As it must be, Lakhoni,” the Bonaha said. “You have done well. Your will is strong.”

  Gimno placed the sachet, which was moist to the touch against Lakhoni’s lips. “Hold this.”

  Lakhoni obeyed,
gently pressing the small packet to his mouth. Whatever it held felt incredibly cooling against the fire pulsating there. Gimno continued wrapping Lakhoni’s wounded feet.

  “And now Gimno administers to you and his Rite of Consecration is completed,” the Bonaha said. “Two rebirths in one day.” Lakhoni turned to see the Bonaha pouring the contents of a clay bottle into an ornately carved wood cup. The Bonaha took a long sip. “A good day for the Separated.”

  As Gimno ministered first to his knees, then his hands, mists in his brain finally dissipated. I passed. And Gimno’s a halkeen.

  “I know you are not familiar with our rites and traditions, my boy,” the Bonaha said. “So listen closely. Gimno will continue to train you, as is his right. But you will shoulder some responsibility for the protection and sustenance of the Separated. When the wounds of your Trial have healed sufficiently, you will receive your first symbol.”

  Lakhoni wondered at that for a moment, but the Bonaha indicated the tattoo on his chest. “This first symbol is that of the Separated. You become worthy of a new one each time you take a life in defense of the Separated.”

  Understanding immediately what the Bonaha implied, he looked down at that tattoos covering Gimno. The tall man had to have hundreds.

  Hundreds of ‘symbols.’ Symbols of death.

  He wondered what was meant by ‘‘in defense of the Separated.” He remembered the young man.

  As Gimno’s gentle hands wrapped his injuries in soft, soothing ointment and cloth, Lakhoni knew what “in defense” meant.

  Murder. And they intended Lakhoni to join the ranks of these murderers.

  The ritual had worked more than they would ever know. Absolute clarity filled him.

  No. I won’t be a murderer.

  Chapter 16

  To Betray the Dead

  Soft popping and hissing emanated from the hot coals. Lakhoni sat several feet away, finding the heat uncomfortable on his burns. Vena approached the fire, kneeling in front of it and using a small wooden paddle to arrange a space for the bread stone, which sat just outside the fire pit. After a short time, she placed the stone into the coals and put the paddle down.

  Turning, she moved toward Lakhoni. “Ready for more ointment?”

  Lakhoni met her eyes. “Yes.” The sachet he had received in the Bonaha’s hut the previous day had lost its potency after being applied to his mouth, feet, and hands. The places the coal had touched throbbed in time to the beat of his heart.

  “How is the rest of you?”

  He heard concern in her voice. He remembered her face as she surged toward the young man who had been sacrificed. How could a person be made up of two completely different sides? Gimno’s touch had been so gentle in treating Lakhoni’s injuries, but then right after, back in the Bonaha’s home, Gimno had undergone the process of becoming red like the other halkeen. He had murdered countless people and would now help the Bonaha—help the Bonaha do what? Sacrifice innocent people? Groom young warriors? What else did the halkeen do? Apparently they still hunted, since Gimno had departed with the other men this morning, leaving Lakhoni behind to recover from his Grooming.

  Lakhoni forced the thought out of his mind. “They’re not terrible. I think they will be better in a few days.”

  Nodding, Vena went into her hut. Noises followed and soon she emerged with a small cloth packet. It glistened in her hand. “Take this. When Corzon returns from the hunt, we will have him treat you also.”

  Lakhoni nodded and took the packet. And will Corzon, or Anor, or any of the others earn a tattoo today? Not for the first time, Lakhoni wondered whether being on the hunt often meant doing something other than searching for food. Of course, I am seeking the death of the king—who is also the enemy of the Separated. Will the king’s death be the cause of my first tattoo? The thought sat heavily in him.

  He was grateful that he had never let slip to Gimno or any of the other Separated that he believed Alronna was alive. He was certain that if they knew of his belief, they would never stop watching him. But they thought his entire village and family had been destroyed. They had no reason to suspect that he might not be totally devoted to the Living Dead.

  Powerless frustration at not being able to leave this instant and find Alronna built in him again. It was as if the world was conspiring to make his family’s death go unpunished and to let Alronna suffer at the hands of Zyron’s dogs. He felt as if he could shatter the stone under him with one slam of his fist.

  He thought back to the tattoos covering Gimno. Could it be that Gimno didn’t see the deaths that earned him those tattoos as murders? Is killing the king justice or murder? The thought drew him up short.

  Justice, it had to be. He pressed the packet from Vena to his lips. Zyron was a murderer and death was answered with death, as ordained by the Great Spirit. But where does it end?

  Lakhoni focused on the cooling sensation from the packet he held to his mouth.

  I must rescue Alronna, that is clear. But am I the one to bring justice to a betraying king? Visions of his slaughtered family and friends made his stomach churn. He stared at the rock wall of the cavern, trying to rid himself of the images.

  Zyron’s men had killed Lakhoni’s father, mother, and the people of his village. Death must be met with death. And who else is there? Who else is left?

  Lakhoni looked around, the pain of the cruel torture he had just undergone still aching in him. He thought of the terrible ritual with the young man, the pleasure these people seemed to take in causing pain and death. And it all seemed pointless, or that the entire point was to cause pain and suffering.

  There is nobody left but me, and Alronna when I find her. Clarity filled him. He would rescue Alronna, get her to a safe place, and then be the agent of justice. But I will not make the king suffer. He will know why justice has come to him and who has brought it. Then he will die as swiftly as a blade falls.

  Swift justice. He would not cause suffering and watch it with the hunger he had seen in the Bonaha’s eyes as the small man had described the ritual of grooming and purifying.

  And how did such a small man gain control over all of these people? It sounded like they’d had a different leader at the start of their journey. Malganoza.

  Lakhoni considered what he knew about the beliefs of the Separated. They had been robbed or mistreated by King Zyron, for one thing. Which was clearly not an uncommon thing. He guessed that many of them were survivors of attacks on their home villages. This would be a good reason to dislike King Zyron. But he had gathered that a lot of the people in the community had left Zyron’s people by choice. Why would they leave? The people of Zyron hated the Usurpers because their leader had stolen the kingship from the oldest brother in the days of the First Fathers. Was this the birthright the Bonaha had talked about? Lakhoni tried to remember what the Bonaha had said at the sacrifice. Something about a prophesied leader coming from shadow. The leader would lead the Separated back into the light. And then something about an inheritance. Was the Bonaha supposed to be that leader?

  Lakhoni sat on the stone ground, eyes focused on nothing, the cooling ointment tasting fresh and clean on his lips. His path forward was clear, but he felt like understanding the Separated was still out of reach. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but as the hunters began appearing in the circles, he forced his attention away from his repetitive thoughts.

  Corzon appeared in the circle, his incredible nose leading the way. Anor followed. They each carried a pair of rabbits. Anor also held one end of a long pole on which a cleaned buck hung by its legs. Gimno, his body a deep red, held the other end. His tattoos could still be seen through the red dye that permanently covered his body now. Apparently the ritual included a pool of incredibly hot water with red dye paste stirred in and Gimno having to stay under water long enough for the man to nearly black out.

  Through talking with Gimno in training, Lakhoni had learned only a little about what it meant to be one of the halkeen of the Living Dead. There was t
o be a ritual sometime in the near future, during which the Separated would accept Gimno officially as a halkeen. Until that time, Gimno lived mostly the same life he had before. After the ritual, Gimno had said, a halkeen spent his days with the Bonaha, serving and helping with rituals and other important labor for the benefit of the Separated.

  Gimno appeared to think of Lakhoni as the son he had not yet fathered with Vena. Lakhoni had been surprised, although he didn’t understand why it had never occurred to him, to find that three of the young girls in Gimno’s circle were his daughters.

  After a few minutes while women directed men in the arranging of the meat, Corzon approached Lakhoni. “Let me take a look.”

  Lakhoni nodded, lowering his hands.

  “Open a little,” Corzon said.

  His lips in danger of splitting, Lakhoni carefully parted them.

  Corzon hummed to himself quietly as he examined Lakhoni. He removed the bandages on Lakhoni’s hands, feet, and knees as well.

  “Healing well. A couple more days and you’ll be able to hunt again.”

  Lakhoni grunted in acknowledgement. And soon I’ll get away from you people.

  “Not that we’ll be hunting for much longer. The season is turning. We smelled snow today,” Corzon said.

  Winter was coming fast. The image of soft, white flakes flashed behind his eyes. Winter would be perfect. He could leave on a day when the snow was falling. If he timed it well, the snow would cover his tracks. Then the Separated wouldn’t be able to track him. All signs of his passing would be gone by spring.

  He had to heal and learn fast; he would need as much training as possible to get away from the Separated and to get to the king. Turn the training against them. They had taken him in, healed him and fed him. Will this be a betrayal? The question hung in his heart as Corzon bandaged his hands with soft leather.

  He pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. If he had to lie to get away and betray the training and trust of the Separated—he would do it.