“The halah sings alone this morning, without the voices of the marsh,” she said grimly.
Yes, that’s it. Without the underlying natural sounds, the male harmony sounded disjointed and out of tune. The men’s voices were like a man trying to gain a foothold on a steep, muddy bank. It slipped and restarted, unable to find its footing.
It was a lost song for a lost people and Aizarg wished himself deaf rather than listen. Then a voice came from within the party, strong and loud. Aizarg looked back to see Ood-i standing tall in his boat. He poled forward and stared straight ahead with hard, purposeful eyes. His deep voice resonated clearly and without stutter. Aizarg rarely, if ever, heard Ood-i sing.
Aizarg didn’t know why Ood-i chose this song to begin the journey of a war party, but felt the mood suddenly change. Aizarg smiled, as did everyone else. Aizarg added his voice, then Levidi, and then the rest of the men in the boats.
Setenay pursed her lips in a wry smile and nodded at this unexpected, but welcome omen.
In a matter of seconds, men from the shore camp and the arun-ki, still within sight behind them, latched on to Ood-i’s voice. The familiar song, buoyed by the inner joy and renewal of the human soul, didn’t rely on the sounds of nature to give it life and fullness.
It was the traditional Lo birth song.
From behind them, the ai began with a single voice. Levidi cocked his ear and smiled over to Aizarg.
That’s Alaya. Aizarg smiled back.
Soon, the full chorus carried across the water. The ai-halah followed the party for many miles as they slowly made their way east.
8. Virag The Slaver
The steppe dwellers told a story of a powerful Scythian warrior whose heart was so black he was shunned by his people. In their fear, they overpowered him, took his horse, and cast him out. On foot, with only his long spear, he wandered into the marshes.
Along the shore he heard the haunting ai-halah. Enchanted, he stood immobilized. As tears streamed down his face, his black heart was washed clean by the music. In his rapture, he begged Psatina to make him forever one with the music.
The goddess Psatina’s tears fell to the water, churning up the sandy soil around his feet. His toes turned to roots and his long spear became a stalk. To this day he stands as a cattail at the edge of the water, forever listening to the Song of the Lo.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
They reached Ba-lok’s shore camp by late afternoon and were surrounded by smiling faces eager for news. Gasps of amazement met Ba-lok’s announcement of the Council of War and Aizarg’s appointment as Uros.
More supplies, mostly food for barter, were requisitioned as Ba-lok and Aizarg discussed the next stage of the journey. They could not agree whether they should rest for the night or press on to the Sammujad trading outpost beyond the marsh, a three hour walk to the northeast.
Aizarg didn’t want the party to face the Sammujad at the trading camp exhausted, especially if Virag was present. The Lo may rule the water and the Scythians may rule the g’an, but Virag the Slaver held an iron fist over the Sammujad trading camps along the shore. They needed a guide to the Adyghe Mountains and he didn’t want to negotiate, especially with the likes of Virag, until they were rested. Ba-lok, in what Aizarg thought youthful overconfidence, insisted they should forge ahead without a guide.
Levidi and Ood-i stood behind Aizarg, while the villagers slowly gathered behind Ba-lok. Aizarg quietly tried to reason with him, but Ba-lok, confident in familiar surroundings, didn’t back down. His voice became louder and more agitated. Kus-ge emerged from the crowd, slid next to Ba-lok and touched him with a crooked smile on her lips.
Aizarg felt Ba-lok’s conviction harden with Kus-ge’s touch. Okta and Ghalen looked on with folded arms, obviously wondering how Aizarg would handle his first test of leadership.
Aizarg spoke coldly, “We’ll press ahead to the trading camp, but we will secure a guide. Shoulder your bundles, we leave now. The Uros has spoken.” He turned to gather his supplies and pull his boat onto shore.
Okta and Ghalen nodded at one another. Setenay didn’t look at her grandson as she pushed by him with her bundle to follow Aizarg.
Aizarg whispered to Levidi, “Watch him.”
“I understand,” Levidi nodded.
Ood-i took the lead, his step quick and purposeful as if he already knew the way. Everyone else fell in behind him.
Aizarg looked back at Okta. The Sco-lo-ti of the Carp hesitated for a moment at the edge of the reeds. He looked back once to the sea, and then plowed ahead into the reeds with determination.
Aizarg knew it took great courage for one of the Carp Clan to walk the shore, let alone penetrate inland.
If he is afraid, he masks it well. Okta’s wife, the clan’s patesi-le, told him he would have to build a boat before he could depart the land as an act of purification.
In single file, they disappeared into the tall reeds and put the Great Sea behind them.
***
“Marsh men strolling upon the steppe are like fish flopping on the shore. Even a child can walk along and scoop them up.” Virag the Slaver smacked his lips and talked around a mouthful of food. “If I give what you seek, it will only get you killed. Run back to the swamps, before a Scythian makes a bowl out of your skull.”
Ba-lok lurched forward, ready to leap across the fire at the slaver, but Aizarg clutched his arm and held him fast. Aizarg gritted his teeth.
Ba-lok must control his passion or the Slaver will goad him into doing something rash. He would have preferred Levidi sitting next to him during these negotiations, but protocol and honor dictated he bring his second.
Yurts, round semi-permanent tents covered in animal hides, were erected haphazardly where the lush marsh met the dull brown steppe. Aizarg and Ba-lok negotiated with Virag in the largest yurt.
Virag laughed and spat a piece of gristle into the fire. He squatted before the flames in Sammujad fashion, as if ready to pass excrement. Aizarg thought he smelled like he already had. The entire camp reeked of offal.
Virag fished another piece of roasted horse meat from a wooden bowl. An outcast among the Sammujad, he was exiled to the marshes long ago. There he built a trading empire and set himself apart from the Sammujad. He commanded a small army of loyal warriors who enforced his will and brought him fresh stocks of slaves and trade goods. Many sco-lo-ti traded fish and cloth with Virag for bronze and pottery. He traveled the coast, moving from camp to camp.
Instead of wearing his hair and beard long, he plucked his body clean. He wore a loin cloth in Lo fashion, but kept a curved Scythian dagger tucked in its drawstring. A man without a people, he bought loyalty with flesh and goods. Some called Virag soulless. Aizarg disdained him, but like many sco-lo-ti, did business with Virag out of necessity.
Two Sammujad warriors stood motionless behind Virag. In the flickering shadows their bare chests shimmered with oil, as did their dark hair and long beards. Bronze swords hung loosely from their leather girdles. In their hands rested massive Sammujad spears called sagar. Their sagar were crossed low behind Virag, lest they slice open the yurt’s roof. The thick, straight shafts were carved from a single piece of dark hardwood and tipped with iron, not bronze. The only known weapon capable of stopping a Scythian horse charge, the sagar’s power kept the Sammujad clinging to some semblance of independence at the edges of Scythian territory.
Virag leaned back on a pile of blankets and pillows, belched and scratched himself. His hard eyes rested on the two men. Aizarg remembered the snake crawling over his foot in the Valley of the Beasts. He wanted to conclude his business with Virag as soon as possible.
“Let me try to understand what you two have told me,” Virag mused, studying the dirt under his long yellow fingernails as if they held more fascination than these two men. “You want me to provide a guide to take your party to the Adyghe Mountains to find the Hur-po? For this you’re willing to pay a handsome price in dried fish, furs, and blankets.”
&nbs
p; He pursed his lips and nodded as if mentally tallying the Lo offer. “Very handsome. I cannot hide my surprise at this strange turn of events. I’ve never known of marsh men wandering more than a spear’s throw from the water. Well...a few.” His smile turned dark. “But now they wear my brand on their flesh.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Excuse me, that was rude. Nevertheless, you tell me the world is coming to an end, and our salvation lies with the Hur-po...or these ‘Narim’ or whatever.
“Friends, the Hur-po are many, many days away. Trust me, they hold no secrets. As for these Narim; tales told by hags around the fire. If it is the gods’ will the world must end, then what can mere mortals do to stop it? If I provided you a guide, I would surely lose some of my best customers and a guide to the Scythians. Therefore, there is no real profit in it. I cannot, in good conscience, do so.”
He pushed the large wooden bowl full of meat towards the two men. “Enough. Eat and forget. I know you stilt dwellers don’t keep slaves, but enjoy some of my stock this night. Enjoy my hospitality this evening. If you are bent on death, you may proceed east in the morning, but without my guide.”
Virag’s stubborn reluctance to even entertain the idea surprised Aizarg. When it came to Virag, everything was for sale. Aizarg assumed, for the right price, Virag would eagerly provide whatever Aizarg desired. However, Aizarg slowly realized the way to the Adyghe Mountains wasn’t for sale and decided further negotiations might prove dangerous. Virag had sliced men open for the slightest offense.
Aizarg told Virag of Setenay’s prophesy, but he did not tell the slaver about the Valley of the Beasts and the fish exodus. He didn’t know why, but he felt divulging the omens might prove a mistake. He also made it clear to his men before they entered the trading camp that they were not to address him as Uros. The less Virag knew the better.
Aizarg delicately steered the conversation away from Virag’s offer of women without offending him. He felt like a man perched precariously on a light boat in heavy seas. Err too far to either side and he would drown.
“Thank you, Virag, your hospitality is renowned.” Aizarg nodded and took some meat with his right hand. “I’m sure your stock of women is of the finest quality. However, our business is pressing and we leave before daybreak, so we cannot exhaust ourselves on wine and women. If we cannot secure a guide, perhaps we can trade for bronze and sagar?”
Virag rolled his eyes and laughed scornfully.
“You Lo and your unfathomable custom of bedding only one woman is beyond me! However, business is business. Yes, I have bronze, and only the finest. Before you show me your fish, bring the rest of your men into my yurt. Virag will not be accused of being a poor host. However, your witch will stay outside.”
Aizarg never intended for all his men to enter Virag’s yurt, but now he didn’t have a choice. Several slave women and children filed in with bowls of steaming meat, porridges of wild grains and nuts. Wine skins appeared and were passed around. Aizarg took a token drink then handed it to Ba-lok, who took several generous swigs.
Aizarg shot him a warning glance. He leaned over and whispered to Ba-lok, “A drunk second is no good to the first.”
Ba-lok met his eye and took another swig.
Aizarg shook his head and turned his attention to the slaves.
Poor souls.
The serving women were nude, thin creatures with dead eyes. Each bore scars on their backs from Virag’s whips, the skin around their necks rubbed raw from his collars. Some of their faces were disfigured from beatings, with twisted noses and toothless mouths. Most were small, dark Sammujad wenches, but a few were obviously Lo. This infuriated him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Lo youth were instilled not to wander too far from shore, but some never listened. They were lost to their people forever.
Occasionally, Virag slapped one hard on the thigh or back for being too slow and laughed in wicked glee. In the firelight, he looked like a demon.
A guard fetched the rest of the men into the yurt. Each bowed to their host and settled cross-legged across the fire from Virag.
Aizarg met each man’s eyes as they filed in. He knew what they were thinking, as they’d dealt with Virag before. They wanted to conclude these matters and be on their way. Ba-lok, on the other hand, ate heartily. To Aizarg’s relief, Levidi sat at his other side. Aizarg quietly informed them of the night’s events, but he had to choose his words carefully. He could not appear to be whispering, as that would offend their host.
Ood-i didn’t enter the yurt. Okta caught Aizarg’s quizzical expression and shrugged his shoulders.
Virag intently studied each of them while tapping his right index finger against his cheek. He remained silent for several minutes.
“Seven...my men reported seven of you. I count three sco-lo-ti of the Lo Nation, two strong spears, and the witch outside. That leaves one unaccounted for. I will be offended if he does not avail himself to my hospitality...,” he trailed off.
Anger boiled in Aizarg’s chest. He imagined Ood-i enjoying women and wine somewhere in the trading camp. If so, he’d send him home immediately, quest or no quest. He couldn’t suffer such a liability on the open steppe.
Virag leaned forward and continued with an astonished expression. “You seek a guide and Sammujad weapons. Aizarg, my mind and my gut do not agree with each other. When this happens, I always trust my gut. Do you know what my gut tells me now?”
“What, friend?” Aizarg said flatly.
“It tells me you are a war party! Or, at the very least, a scouting party. But my mind says this cannot be. The Lo idea of war is hiding in the mud. Yet, here in my yurt three Lo sco-lo-ti ask for guides and heavy spears for an expedition deep into foreign lands. I am truly intrigued.”
“You know our intentions, Virag. We only seek the way and means to turn the wrath of the gods.”
“Perhaps. Men go to war for many reasons...riches, glory, women. But men like you, Aizarg, only go to war for one reason,” Virag grunted, leaned back on the blankets, and took a deep swig of wild berry wine. “Fear.”
Virag studied the fire with a distant gaze. “Men only fear if they think they have something to lose. Something they love. Ahhh, and men love so much! Even if you take away all he has, a man will fear for his life. Men are only truly free when they no longer live in fear.”
Virag’s nostrils flared with simmering rage. He motioned to the yurt wall behind Aizarg’s party. “Do you see that, Aizarg?”
Aizarg and his men turned and saw a sagar hanging from the wall, a weathered human skull tied to the end. Aizarg looked back at Virag and nodded.
“My father was burned alive in front of my mother and me for supposedly offending the chieftain. My mother was impaled, alive mind you, on the chieftain’s sagar while I was forced to watch. As a warning to wandering Scythian raiders, he erected the spear with her still struggling body outside the village and tied me to it. I was only in my sixth summer.
“She struggled for life for two more days. She couldn’t scream or moan, but I felt every wiggle of the spear. When she finally died, they dragged her body to the distant marshes and dumped it, spear still attached. They left me for dead next to her, where I stayed until the stink and thirst drove me away.”
Aizarg and his men exchanged glances, worried where this tale might be leading. Virag didn’t look at his guests, his eyes were focused beyond them.
“Weak and near death, I wandered until I found myself drinking deeply on my belly at the shore of the Great Sea. I don’t remember passing out, but I do remember waking up.” His eyes lightened and a faint smile touched his face. “There, on the shore, I heard the ai-halah for the first time. I thought it was my mother’s spirit calling for vengeance.”
Virag’s voice trailed off. Aizarg thought he saw a deep sadness in Virag’s eyes. For a moment, Aizarg felt pity.
Virag’s beady eyes came back into focus and he looked around. A sinister grin crossed his face. “When the music faded, litt
le Virag didn’t turn into a cattail,” he cackled. “Instead, I returned to my mother and struggled for hours to pull the heavy spear from her stinking corpse. Eventually, I had to break her jaw open with a stone. I returned to the marsh to hunt and fill my belly. I lived. Do not doubt I loved my mother, though she was the last human I can honestly say that about.”
Virag’s dark mood charged the room with potential danger. Aizarg desperately tried to think of a way to get his men out. Virag leaned forward as if sensing Aizarg’s building apprehension. “That skull you see tied to the sagar’s tip…” He pointed behind them. “That is the skull of the chieftain who killed my family. He begged for his life before I impaled him with it. He learned too late what I am trying to tell you now — our lives are not truly ours. Love nothing, even your own life. Cut the bonds which bind you and make them your slaves. Once you make peace with this fact and lose your fear of death, life can be enjoyed to the fullest.”
He leaned back and shook his finger at Aizarg. “Yes, this is the reason. I smell the stink of fear upon you and your men. Well, not all your men. Your young buck there...” he motioned to Ba-lok. “...is too young and full of piss to be afraid.” He sneered and waived a dismissive hand at Ba-lok. “Heed my words. If what you say is true, and all we know is coming to an end, then the will of one man cannot stop it. Let go, Aizarg. Just let go...”
A pall settled over the party like thick smoke. Aizarg didn’t know what to say. The slaves moved toward the walls and away from their master’s sight.
Virag took a swig of wine. “So where is this seventh man? Why does he offend me by not joining me in my yurt?”
As if on demand, Ood-i emerged though the flap.
Virag’s eyes lit up and he leapt up toward Ood-i.
“Ood-i!” The darkness and rage instantly evaporated.
Ood-i held out his arms and embraced Virag. Aizarg and Levidi looked at each other in stunned amazement.
“It’s good to see you, old friend!” Virag beamed.
“And you!” Ood-i responded with a large smile. These men apparently had real affection for one another, though Aizarg couldn’t fathom why.
Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi Page 6
