Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi

by Braden, Brian

  “We should be thankful we didn’t shame ourselves further this evening,” Okta said, his words dripping with regret. His eyes were far away as he stared up at the stars, his hands behind his head. “I want to wash myself off.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Ghalen mumbled. “I am the only unmarried man here. It’s too bad I had to leave the yurt. I wonder where that plump, black-haired wench ran off to.”

  “Hush!” Setenay screeched and threw a pebble at Ghalen.

  “Ow!” Ghalen smirked and rubbed his cheek in mock pain. “Come on, old woman! It will be cold tonight. Why would you deny a man a companion to warm his mat? I seem to remember you are no longer a married woman.” He winked, opened his blanket, and patted his mat. “Why don’t you come over here and keep me company?”

  The rest of the men snickered.

  Setenay knelt on her mat, folded her arms, and turned up her nose. “I am too much woman for a man like you. Besides, I would exhaust you to the point you would be useless. We need your spear arm strong and ready for the difficult journey ahead.”

  The drunken men erupted into laughter. Ghalen smiled and rolled over. “You are breaking my heart, holy woman.”

  “You’re lucky that’s all I’m breaking!” Setenay said with a mock scowl.

  Aizarg grinned at the playful banter between possibly the oldest woman in the world and Ghalen, who many considered the most eligible bachelor in the Lo nation. Sarah giggled next to him.

  Her laughter took him by surprise. It carried an unexpected sweetness, an innocence he didn’t expect. Aizarg looked down at the little woman sitting next him.

  “Why do you laugh, girl?” Aizarg tried to sound stern.

  “That man, Ghalen, had better watch out!” She pointed and covered her smile, whispering while trying not to laugh. “He’s taunting a lioness! Even I can still see the fire in the old woman’s eyes. He might wake up and really find her in his bed.”

  Aizarg looked up and frowned, considering her words. For a split second an unwelcome image filled his mind before he could push it aside, an image of the ancient patesi-li naked and mounting a shocked Ghalen.

  And he laughed. Aizarg didn’t just laugh, he doubled over and howled. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the pressure and anxiety of the last three days erupted in a spasm of uncontrollable laughter. Every time he tried to force the absurd image out of his mind, it came back with increased clarity.

  Sarah’s childlike laughter bubbled over too, and that only fed Aizarg’s laughter. With the exception of passed out Ba-lok, the rest of the party sat up and considered the pair as if they had lost their minds.

  Aizarg’s laughter quickly spread to the rest of the party. The cleansing laughter floated through the slaver’s camp and drifted into the marshes.

  ***

  The fire died down to red embers as they waited for the rest of the party to fall asleep. Aizarg needed to talk to Sarah alone, without distractions. He felt it important to find out what lay ahead of them, to digest and sort out any new revelations she might provide.

  Like a good slave, Sarah sat with eyes downcast and arms folded in her lap, patiently waiting for Aizarg to speak. He sensed her anxiety.

  Aizarg dearly wished for Atamoda’s presence. He desperately needed her now. Part of him wanted to wake Setenay, but knew the old woman needed sleep.

  From time to time Sarah shivered, still dressed in the thin slave garb.

  “You are cold. I will get something to warm you,” Aizarg whispered.

  She looked up at him in the starlight. “Thank you.” A special beauty came through in her eyes, even in the darkness. It spoke of tenderness and trust, two attributes he felt certain should not have survived the slaver pens. A familiar, unexpected, feeling took root in his heart.

  I understand how Ood-i fell in love with her.

  Aizarg quickly looked away, stood up, and went to his mat. As he rummaged through his bundle for an extra blanket, his hand struck something hard. He pulled out Atamoda’s li-ge amulet and stared at it. He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled.

  How do I begin with this woman-child? What would Atamoda do?

  Without thinking, he placed the amulet around his neck, and then pulled out the extra blanket. He sat back down next to her, but didn’t give her the blanket.

  “Lean over,” he said flatly.

  “What?” she responded, confused.

  “Do as I said, girl. Bend over and pull your hair up away from your neck.”

  Unsure, the slave girl closed her eyes and complied.

  “Bend over farther,” he said and pushed her head down until it fell almost between her legs, exposing the entire sweep of her backside to him.

  That’s when he saw the mark seared on her thigh. It was Virag’s brand, a burn scar in the shape of a circle with a spearhead cutting though the middle.

  Aizarg clenched his teeth to control his anger. He placed his fingers under her slave collar until it almost choked her.

  “Please, no...” she begged, fighting back the tears while in the power of this stranger.

  Aizarg ignored her and pulled the bronze knife from his belt. With one clean slice, he cut the collar from her neck.

  “You can sit up now,” he said.

  She sat up, astonished, and rubbed her neck.

  He held the heavy leather collar away from his face, pinching it with two fingers. It curled to retain its former shape as if clinging to a foul memory. The outside of the collar felt rough, the inside worn smooth with sweat and misery. He examined the place where it had been fused around her neck with brass rivets.

  Aizarg imagined the young girl’s terror as she knelt in a smoky, filthy yurt while one of Virag’s henchmen permanently riveted the collar around her neck. Aizarg could almost hear her screams as the monsters seared her flesh.

  “The fire is dying,” he said, dangling it in front of her. “Throw something on it to keep it burning.”

  “I...I thought you were going to...” She started to cry.

  “As long as you are among my people, you will never have to fear that possibility again. Now, burn this abomination or I will.”

  She took the collar as if in a trance. Sarah stood and slowly walked to the fire. There, she remained for several minutes, examining the collar in the dull red light.

  He expected her to cry, or otherwise show some form of emotion. She didn’t.

  She cast it into the embers. A shower of sparks flew up around it, but it didn’t burn. Instead, it smoldered with an evil, oily smoke.

  Aizarg somberly looked on as Sarah calmly threw bundles of reeds and scavenged wood onto the fire until the flames danced high and completely consumed the collar.

  Flames silhouetted Sarah’s slight body, arms tightly wrapped around her shoulders. She showed no reaction to her new freedom.

  Aizarg came up behind her and placed the blanket around her small shoulders. He finally saw her face, graced by a faint smile. She looked like someone lost in pleasant memory until he saw a single tear slide down her right cheek.

  Aizarg didn’t know what to say in the face of her tranquility. “Are you well, child? I thought you would be happy. Your reaction seems a bit...subdued.”

  “Oh, I am Uros, I am!” Her face lightened. “I am also thankful, and not only to you, but to the one who promised me I would one day be free.”

  “Did Ood-i promise you that?”

  “No, not Ood-i. Since I was sold into slavery, I prayed every night to the spirits of my ancestors for deliverance.” She looked back at the fire. “But they were mute. Then, one night, a beautiful spirit of mist and swirling wind came to me in a dream. She looked through me with fiery eyes like blue stars. The spirit made three promises, the first of which was I would be freed by my lover’s king.”

  The hair stood up on Aizarg’s forearms. He held up his palm. “Please! Tell me no more. These are matters for the patesi-li. Setenay will share words with you, not I. Then she will tell me what is proper for my ears.”


  She looked confused, but nodded. “As you wish.”

  He took her delicate fingers into his large, calloused hand and led her back to the log.

  “We do not abide slavery, it is abominable to us and the goddess. I hereby deem what Ood-i paid as a ransom for your freedom, not a price for your flesh. It is something we often do to free our lost daughters from the slaver’s whip. You are a free woman.” Aizarg patted her knee like a father.

  She smiled and closed her eyes like someone suddenly released from intense pain. “Thank you, dear Uros!”

  “Ah, ah, ah!!” He held up a finger and cautioned her. “Don’t get too excited. This is a debt you must repay my people. You must lead us to the Narim.”

  She frowned. “But Uros, I was going to do that, anyway.”

  “I know, but now you are bound to do so, and you are also bound to follow my rules. And my first rule is you must never again share a mat with Ood-i. He is married, and by Lo tradition cannot sleep with another woman. It is forbidden.”

  The joy ebbed from her face. Her shoulders sagged and her face dropped. “Yes, Uros. I swear to it.”

  “Also, I do not want to know what happened between you and Ood-i. Setenay will also take care of these matters, as such affairs are better left to patesi-le and not men. I have more pressing questions which need answering.”

  She nodded. “I will help in any way I can.”

  “First, can you really lead us back to your homeland?” Aizarg asked.

  He saw determination in her face as she spoke her next words, “Oh, certainly, Uros! I can recall every step, every hill, every stream between here and Hur-ar. I have a memory as sharp as your knife. Besides, the way is still fresh in my mind, as Virag has made the journey several times since he bought me.”

  “Hur-ar?” Aizarg asked.

  “Hur-ar is the home of the Hur-po. It lies at the foot of the Adyghe Mountains and the realm of the Narim.”

  “So, these Narim, they are real?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, Uros! They are as real as you are.”

  “How far is Hur-ar and the Narim?”

  She spoke in hushed tones, glancing over at Virag’s yurt as if he would burst forth any second and drive a spear through her heart. “The way to Hur-ar is a closely guarded secret. It’s two or three days to the east. We must follow a hidden depression between two hilly ridges. This path will lead us almost the entire way there.”

  “Two or three days!” he gasped. “We were told it’s at the edge of the world. We thought it was at least a seven day walk.”

  She cocked her head and stared at him as if he were a child. “I’ve heard your people are isolated upon the waters, like children who’ve never left the womb. The world is much, much bigger than you think, Uros.”

  “How big?” Aizarg’s eyes were wide in wonder.

  She shrugged. “Virag’s caravans have trekked around the outskirts of the steppe. The ice wastes to the north are at least a two-week journey.” Her face darkened. “The Aryans in the east are probably the most accurate about where the world ends. They say the world ends where the Scythians begin.”

  “This is probably true,” Aizarg said grimly. “How does Virag get past them?”

  “Virag pays them off in food, iron and...” she winced. “...other things. In return, they let his caravans pass unmolested. The way to Hur-ar is his most lucrative trade route. My people possess great wealth. He would sooner see the world end than divulge its location.

  Something didn’t make sense to Aizarg.

  “Keeping this trade route a secret was so important to Virag he wouldn’t provide us a guide. Why, then, did he sell you to us?”

  She frowned and looked at Aizarg quizzically. “Isn’t it obvious, Uros?”

  “No, child, it isn’t.”

  She laughed like a bubbling stream on a spring day. Sarah leapt at Aizarg and tightly hugged his neck. “You are so much like Ood-i! Are all the Lo so wonderfully ignorant?”

  Aizarg couldn’t help but embrace her in return. “Well, tell me!”

  “It’s because I am just a woman, and a stupid slave girl at that. In Virag’s black heart, he could never fathom I could lead you back to Hur-ar.”

  Aizarg considered her words. None of the a-g’an valued their women as equals like the Lo. He, nor any Lo man, would ever off-handedly underestimate a woman.

  “Well,” Aizarg laughed. “Let’s keep your splendid intelligence a secret until we are far from Virag’s camp, shall we?”

  ***

  Sarah slept snuggled next to Setenay for warmth as the fire faded to glowing embers. Aizarg sat alone on the log, his boar spear on his lap. His chin rested on his fist as he leaned over, deep in thought. Sleep eluded him as his mind raced from trouble to trouble.

  Sarah’s tale of the spirit with fiery eyes filled his mind.

  He pondered this and many other things when he heard someone move next to the fire. He looked down to see Ghalen rise from his mat.

  “It’s a little cool this evening,” Ghalen said, rubbing his arms. “You need to sleep, Uros.”

  Aizarg nodded, but said nothing as Ghalen threw the last of the bundles on the fire. The bundles quickly leapt into flame atop the hot coal bed. Glowing embers drifted high into the starry sky.

  Ghalen smiled and rubbed his hands together. “A good fire!” Aizarg saw Ghalen’s breath in the firelight.

  Ghalen turned to lay back down when he saw Setenay and Sarah snuggled under the blanket in the cold shadows. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. He looked up at Aizarg with a twinkle in his eye and winked. “I did offer to keep her warm tonight.”

  Ghalen then slid his mat closer to the fire. He turned, bent on one knee, and gently lifted the old woman in his arms. She didn’t wake, but instead snuggled into his chest. With the utmost care, he swiveled and slowly set her down on his mat. With equal tenderness, he lifted Sarah and placed her next to Setenay and covered them with both his blanket and their own blanket.

  Without another look back at Aizarg, Ghalen flopped on Setenay’s bare mat beyond the inner fire circle and almost instantly began snoring.

  10. Death Slaves

  “To walk the g’an is to wage war. To walk the g’an is to die.” – Lo Proverb.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  At dawn they struck camp. Aizarg concluded his business with Virag while making sure he kept Ood-i and Sarah out of the Slaver’s sight. They waited back at the campsite until Virag returned to the comfort of his yurt.

  Aizarg laid out the trade goods in front of Virag’s yurt and signaled the slaver’s henchmen he was ready to conduct business. Virag emerged from his yurt with furs tightly wrapped around his shoulders, squinting against the rising sun as if he found it offensive. He made cursory inspection of the goods and muttered, “They’ll suffice.”

  Two of Virag’s warriors brought forward the heavy spears and laid them before Aizarg. Aizarg and Virag spit into their palms and grasped forearms.

  “Good luck, mud dweller. The next time I trade with Scythians I’ll be sure to look for your skulls tied to their horses.” With that, he gave the sun another disapproving glance then returned to the warmth of his yurt.

  Ghalen and Okta retrieved the sagar as Levidi went to fetch Ood-i and Sarah. In single file, with Aizarg and Sarah leading the way, the band trudged onto the open steppe. Except for Sarah, everyone kept looking over their shoulder at the marshes. A fog swirled in front of the trees and soon all traces of the lush vegetation and reeds vanished. The sun rose over the dry steppe.

  Aizarg, Uros of the Lo Nation, led a scouting party beyond the realm of the Great Sea and into the g’an.

  ***

  By mid-morning they found themselves many miles east of Virag’s trading outpost. With a wary eye, the men marched with spears pointed high as a warning to strangers. Setenay kept pace in their midst, showing no indications of fatigue.

  The sky, a paler shade of blue than over the Great Sea,
faded to dingy brown on the horizon. The morning breeze stirred the grass like waves on the water.

  Ghalen and Levidi walked a few paces ahead with little Sarah in between. Barefoot and dressed in one of Aizarg’s extra flaxen tunics, she hurried to keep up with the men’s long strides. It covered her slight body like a robe. She reminded Aizarg of a child dressed in her father’s clothes.

  It pleased Aizarg that Ghalen and Levidi were here. His pleasure at having his best friend along was obvious. Ghalen, however, was as close to a true warrior as the Lo could muster. He stood almost half a head taller than Aizarg, and a full head taller than Levidi. While the other men carried their unwieldy sagar pressed against their shoulders with both hands, Ghalen carried it comfortably in one hand. The heavy bundle and boar spear on his back didn’t appear to burden him. He strolled easily, head high and long sandy hair blowing in the breeze as if this were a hunting expedition along the shore.

  The other men were sullen, each alone with their thoughts and fears. Some men were more alone than others. Ood-i shuffled along, slightly removed on the group’s left flank. He hadn’t spoken since they left the camp.

  Aizarg never thought highly of Ood-i, but no one did. Now Aizarg’s feelings for Ood-i turned more to thoughts of pity. He is a Lo brother, from my own arun-ki, and I don’t even know him..

  On the opposite flank from Ood-i, Ba-lok stumbled along, pale and bleary-eyed. Suddenly, he dropped his sagar and bolted to the tall grass, where he fell on all fours and vomited. He arched his back and croaked until his stomach had nothing left to expel. The stink of bile mixed with sour wine filled the air.

  The reek of Virag’s yurt still follows us.

  Aizarg looked away, not wanting to see his lieutenant humbled so. Setenay shook her head. Levidi picked up Ba-lok’s sagar and waited until he finished.

  Ghalen laughed in his easy manner, grabbed Ba-lok by the arm and pulled him up. Ghalen and Ba-lok were almost the same age, but Ghalen, even with his light-hearted spirit, appeared much older.

  “Ba-lok, when this is all said and done, please remind me to visit your clan more often,” Ghalen bellowed as he dusted Ba-lok off. “You, my friend, know how to enjoy yourself!”