Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi

by Braden, Brian

  Sometimes the ice mists lasted only a few hours and sometimes they lingered for days. The Sammujad said the ice mists gave the grasslands life by stealing it from men’s souls. Linger too long in the ice mist’s embrace, the elders said, and the cursed fog would drag you to heli-dar.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  Aizarg balanced precariously in his reed boat and tried to keep the mountains of water from swamping his tiny craft. His pole and paddle were gone.

  He stood in the center of the boat, adjusting his weight by swaying right and left and trying to feel his way from crest to trough. In the darkness, he desperately searched for the next crest before snapping his bow around and surfing down the wave’s face, survival from wave to wave his only thought.

  Two titanic waves closed in on him, each building to impossible heights and squeezing him into a narrow channel. Aizarg reached out and touched the sheer cliffs of water on each side, but quickly pulled his hands away from the frigid water.

  Lightning flashed across the churning sea. Aizarg ducked and cried. Another bolt struck the top of the waves. Then another, and another, until the sky flashed on and off in a never ending succession of strobes. With each flash came a clap of sound so loud Aizarg covered his ears.

  The lightning parted the black curtain and revealed how high the surrounding waves truly were. From the bottom of the liquid canyon he could barely see the wave tops. Trapped between warring giants, the waves could collapse and crush him any second.

  In a single flash he saw figures atop of the waves. In the next flash, they came into focus. Scythian Death Slaves floated above the turbulent foam. The skeleton warriors stared down on him with vacant eye sockets. The top of their skulls were shaved off, trophies for the Scythian warrior who slew them.

  In another flash they were gone.

  “Psatina, help me!” he gasped.

  “The water is filled with the tears of the dead!” A voice faintly rose above the howling wind. Aizarg put a wet finger in his mouth and tasted salt. Something else covered his hands. In the lightning he saw they were covered with sticky, black pitch.

  A new deafening rumble rose above the maelstrom.

  Aizarg looked up to see the waves collapsing together, cutting off his escape. Then he saw an overpowering shadow atop the waves, riding high above the point where the waves tumbled together. Enormous and solid, the waves crashed harmlessly against it as it slid into the trough and hurtled straight for Aizarg.

  A mountain within a mountain.

  The waves suddenly overwhelmed Aizarg and he fell into the churning abyss. The frigid waters paralyzed him and he sank into the blackness. Black hands grabbed at his ankles and pulled him down.

  ***

  “Aizarg! Wake up! Wake up!”

  Aizarg opened his eyes, disoriented, and shivering uncontrollably. A thick fog enveloped everything.

  “Sit up, Aizarg, ice mists are upon us!” Okta shook him again. The cold and Okta’s fear cut cleanly through the haze in Aizarg’s mind.

  With great effort, Aizarg lifted himself into a sitting position. Water saturated his mat and dripped from his hair. Aizarg’s clothes were soaking wet from a frigid humidity that burrowed deep into his bones.

  I forgot about the ice mist! Aizarg shook off the terrible dream and tried to put the present reality into perspective. The War Council discussed and planned for many dangers on the quest. Unfortunately, the delegates failed to consider the ice mists.

  I pray this doesn’t prove a fatal oversight.

  Aizarg only encountered the ice mists a few times in his life, but clearly understood their brutal truth. They killed by leaving nothing dry, nothing warm. For the Lo, being caught at sea enveloped in their ghastly embrace, unable to find the shore, was equally dangerous. That’s what Aizarg felt like now, far out to sea with no sense of direction.

  He stood and stretched his limbs. The soggy ground squished beneath his feet. As quickly as his numb fingers allowed, he folded his wet belongings and rolled them in his mat.

  Once Aizarg packed his belongings, he stood and turned to Okta. “Do your people possess any lore which might aid us?”

  “Very little, Uros. We call these mists the Gray Death. The War Council was hasty. We failed to consider this possibility,” Okta said, teeth chattering.

  Aizarg thought he smelled something. He sniffed the air, trying to get a better sense of direction.

  “I smell the shore, the taste of where the sea and land come together. Do you?”

  “I smell nothing,” Okta said. “We are far from home, Uros.”

  “Perhaps I am imagining it.” Aizarg shrugged it off and considered the corpse of last night’s fire, now only a muddy, black pit. “We will restart the fire.”

  “Uros,” Okta continued. “We both know there should be smoldering embers in the fire, but it is cold. The grass and dung are saturated and we have no wood. Flint and tinder will be of no use.” Okta leaned in closer. “The Gray Death may last days. Our only hope for warmth is to keep moving.”

  Aizarg shouldered his pack and tried to peer into the mist. Pale figures moved slowly and stiffly as they packed their belongings. Okta’s council sounded reasonable, but the thought of moving through the thick mist gave him pause.

  I cannot even see their faces. It will be easy to lose someone.

  “Let us gather everyone together while I consider your advice,” he told Okta.

  Aizarg bobbed his finger from silhouette to silhouette, counting his people. He recognized burly Ood-i and compact Levidi kneeling next to one another. Ghalen, tall and straight, assisted Setenay’s thin, bent shade. Sarah stood apart, her back to the group.

  Something about how she stood struck Aizarg as unnatural. Before he could ponder this further, Okta grasped his shoulder.

  “Where is Ba-lok?” Okta said.

  “BA-LOK!” Aizarg shouted. The men joined him, but the gray wall robbed their voices of vitality.

  “He went up the hill on watch last night,” Aizarg said. “Levidi, go up the hill and get him.”

  Levidi started off, but stopped and slowly turned around, “Yes, Uros, but...which way is the hill?”

  Unable to regain his bearings, Aizarg knelt down and examined grass. The soggy ground eradicated any trace of Ba-lok’s trail.

  Setenay and the men gathered around Aizarg.

  What do I do now?

  “I think the hill is that way,” Levidi said weakly and pointed. “I’m sure I can find him.”

  “No,” Aizarg said. “I will go up the hill and look for Ba-lok.”

  “I caution against it,” Okta said. “If you become lost...”

  “I will not lose Ba-lok,” Aizarg pushed past Okta. “I cannot ask any man to risk what I would not brave myself.”

  “No, Aizarg,” Levidi begged. “Please, let me go!”

  “No. That is my final word.” Aizarg looked up to the sky, but the thick fog kept the sun’s position a mystery. “Wait for my return until the cold becomes too unbearable, and then depart to the north. Stay to the low ground.”

  “Uros,” Ghalen said softly. “We have no way to determine north. We could walk in circles between the surrounding high ground and easily become lost.”

  “I will not leave Ba-lok!” Aizarg said.

  “If we do not start walking, we’ll all freeze!” Okta gritted his teeth, barely able to keep his voice under control. He chewed his mud weed rapidly, nervously.

  Ghalen spoke in a calm, measured voice. “Uros, we could all search for Ba-lok together. We may become lost, but we’ll be as one. And we’ll all be walking, keeping warm.”

  “Yes,” Aizarg felt relieved. Ghalen’s advice was a lifeline. Then a new thought occurred to Aizarg.

  He remembered the Black River and his failure to string the rope across the river to pull everyone to safety. He reached into his pack and removed his rope.

  “Everyone tie the rope to your waists and then each other. That way we can’t lose one an
other. Prepare to march. We’ll proceed slowly this way.” He pointed to the grayness beyond the dead fire pit where he thought the ground went uphill. “Stay close enough to see each other. If you become separated, stop and we will backtrack to find you.”

  Without another word, the party shouldered their bundles and began tethering themselves to each other.

  Setenay approached Aizarg in a slow, deliberate shuffle. She tightly grasped his arm. “We will not find Ba-lok,” she said with a cracking voice. The mists seemed to attack her, leaving her skin colorless and lips tinged blue. She trembled as her eyes darted from place to place, focusing and then moving on. Aizarg peered into the mist, trying to see what she saw.

  “What is it, old mother? Why won’t we find Ba-lok?”

  She swallowed hard. “Last night...I dreamt of the dead.”

  Last night’s dream suddenly flashed in his mind’s eye.

  “Ba-lok remains in the world of mortal flesh,” she continued. “It is we who are no longer upon the g’an. We are caught between the worlds of flesh and spirit. Wander all you wish, but you will not find him, and he will not find us.”

  “Setenay, these are common ice mists,” Okta interjected, trying to sound confident.

  “Your eyes behold one reality, mine another.” She tightened her shawl over her shoulders, never taking her eyes off the gray curtain.

  “What do you see?” Aizarg said.

  “My eyes still slumber,” she replied.

  Clammy fingers of doubt crept across Aizarg’s spirit.

  “You heard the patesi-le,” Okta whispered again, the fear still rising in his voice. “If she says we cannot find Ba-lok, then we should heed her council. We must leave.”

  Aizarg paused for a few moments, desperately hoping for a clear answer.

  “Whether we are in the world of flesh or spirit, it does not matter. I must search for Ba-lok. Stay together and follow me and stay within an arm’s length of the person in front of you. We’ll proceed slowly and find the hill where he kept watch.”

  Setenay shook her head. “As you wish, Uros.”

  They fell into a loose line behind Aizarg and prepared to march into the fog. Sarah’s back remained turned to the group.

  Ood-i looked over his shoulder. “Sarah, come. Let me tie the rope around your waist.”

  She remained motionless. Aizarg couldn’t detect a single shiver or even an indication she was breathing.

  “Sarah,” Ood-i repeated softly, with concern. “We must go.” He approached within a few feet of her and stopped.

  Head down, Sarah’s wet, stringy hair hid her face.

  “Sarah, are you all right?” Aizarg called out.

  “Sarah?” Ood-i hesitantly reached out to touch her, his hand only inches from her shoulder.

  Sarah suddenly spun around and raised her head. Ood-i gasped, stumbled back and fell. Sarah’s eyes were white orbs, as blank and featureless as the surrounding mist. Her skin began to glow with a soft, electric blue aura.

  “Do not touch her!” Setenay screamed.

  “She is bewitched!” Okta cried out.

  “No one touch her!” Setenay shouted again.

  The blue aura surrounding her condensed into glowing tendrils that snaked around Sarah. They probed her, lifting and moving parts of her deerskin blouse and hair. Sarah gave no indication of awareness.

  “We must save her!” Ood-i lunged forward, but Setenay snatched his tunic.

  “No! She is possessed. The spirit is not harming her, but if you touch her it may not be so gentle with you.”

  “What is it? What must we do, Setenay?” Aizarg asked, rapidly feeling overwhelmed by events.

  Setenay spoke with impatience as if Aizarg were only a child. “Sometimes there is nothing to do! This spirit has chosen her and we are powerless.”

  “Chosen her for what?” Levidi asked.

  “I thought you said the spirits were gone from the world?” Okta spat his words at the patesi-le.

  Setenay turned a merciless gaze on Okta, “The spirits are gone from our world. As I told you before, we are now in their realm!”

  “Are we dead?” Ghalen said stone like.

  “Not yet. Whether we stay alive depends heavily on what we do next.”

  Levidi grabbed Aizarg’s tunic. “Sarah’s feet do not touch the earth!”

  The men shrank back except for Ood-i, who stood shoulder to shoulder with Aizarg. Setenay also held her ground.

  Sarah hovered inches over the ground, as if lifted by strings stretched between worlds. Her arms were slightly outstretched with palms up. Her head tilted back as glowing tendrils swirled around her with greater intensity. Her blank eyes frightened Aizarg the most, as if her soul had fled.

  “We must run!” Okta shouted. “We must run before this demon kills us all!”

  Like an anchor that suddenly finds purchase in a swift current, Aizarg found his courage.

  “Hold your ground!” Aizarg called to his men. “If your patesi-le does not flee, neither will you!”

  As Sarah glided past them, the air seemed to warm.

  “She is leaving!” Ood-i untied the rope from his waist and followed her before Aizarg could stop him.

  “Ood-i! Come back!” Aizarg shouted after him.

  Setenay looked up at Aizarg. “Ood-i follows his heart. Love is his faith and guide, a torch thrust ahead of him into the unknown.” She paused. “What do you have faith in, Uros of the Lo?”

  The farther Sarah floated away, the brighter she glowed. The spirit possessing Sarah illuminated the fog around her, silhouetting Ood-i’s broad frame as he melted into the blue glow.

  Aizarg made up his mind. “Love...yes, and hope. Hope is my faith, hope that this mysterious spirit beckons us for good.” He raised his voice and his boar spear and motioned forward. “We follow Sarah. Come!”

  Setenay followed her Uros into the gray wall and the men filed in behind them.

  ***

  Aizarg trailed several paces behind Sarah while Setenay and Ghalen brought up the column’s rear. Ghalen carried Setenay’s bundle and walked close by her side, his extra tunic wrapped around her shoulders. The ice mist seemed to renew its attack on her. Sometimes she murmured strange chants under her breath. Occasionally, Ghalen wrapped his arms around her frail body, trying to warm her and whispered tender words of encouragement. When Ghalen and Setenay fell behind the rope grew taut and Aizarg ordered the group to slow. The spirit possessing Sarah seemed to sense this and also slowed down.

  The damp, heavy cold robbed them of the will to speak. Aizarg couldn’t feel his toes; his soft deerskin shoes were soaked. His clothes were completely drenched and the bottoms of his breeches were splattered with mud. Every breath seemed to freeze his lungs and chill him from the inside out.

  The men trudged forward like deathly shades. Hair pasted to their faces, they appeared as if freshly emerged from the water. Okta, the most affected, looked ashen and struggled to keep up.

  Perhaps the mist is stealing our souls, Aizarg thought as he watched Okta’s vaporous breath melt into the fog. Maybe it has already taken Sarah’s.

  Aizarg’s thoughts turned to Ba-lok. He felt guilty for leaving him, but at this point, every step, every decision he made on faith.

  Faith in what? A glowing spirit that has seized my daughter?

  The line suddenly snapped tight around Aizarg’s waist.

  “Levidi! Help me!” Ghalen called out.

  Aizarg looked back to see Setenay stretched limply over Ghalen’s forearm. Levidi hurried over to take Ghalen’s sagar, but Ood-i stopped him.

  Ood-i took Ghalen’s sagar. “Levidi, you have enough to carry already.”

  Ghalen swept Setenay into his arms and held her close to his chest. “She’s freezing. She won’t last much longer,” Ghalen pleaded to Aizarg.

  I cannot do this without Setenay.

  “We must keep walking, it’s our only hope.” Aizarg turned to go.

  Sarah was gone.

  N
ow the spirit has abandoned us.

  Suddenly, Okta slumped to the ground.

  “Okta! You must get up! We must keep walking,” Aizarg tried to lift Okta, but he sagged to his knees.

  “It’s all right, Uros.” Okta’s speech slowed and slurred. Black mud weed juice dribbled down his beard. “I only need a few minutes to rest. I’m getting warmer. Perhaps the ice mist is lifting.”

  It wasn’t getting warmer and the mist was as thick as ever. He tried again to pull Okta up by his tunic, but Okta fell over and squished onto the saturated ground.

  “Please, Uros,” Okta murmured, losing consciousness. “Give me a few moments to rest.”

  “Levidi, help me!” Aizarg shouted. Together, they put Okta’s arms over their shoulders and lifted him.

  “Walk!” Aizarg ordered the party. “Ood-i, you will lead.”

  “Sarah is gone. Which way, Uros?” Ood-i asked.

  Despite Aizarg’s best efforts, panic seeped through his voice. “I don’t care...” he waved his hand. “Straight ahead.”

  Ood-i grasped Aizarg’s bicep. “Strength, Uros.”

  Aizarg suddenly noticed Ood-i wasn’t stuttering. Who is this clear-eyed, lion of a man?

  Without another word the group shambled on.

  Gruesome images filled Aizarg’s imagination; the party falling, one by one, and freezing to death as he helplessly watched.

  Then, a new image flashed in his mind, of Atamoda and the boys waiting for him to return. He tried to grasp Atamoda’s li-ge around his neck, but his numb hand couldn’t feel it.

  “Uros!” Ghalen shouted from behind him.

  Aizarg turned and saw Ghalen looking away into the nothingness.

  “Hold him and don’t let him fall,” Aizarg ordered Levidi and slid out from under Okta’s arm.

  Aizarg came alongside Ghalen. “What’s wrong? What do you see?”

  “There, Uros!” Ghalen nodded into the nothingness. “Someone is coming.”

  Ba-lok! He hoped against hope.

  “Who?” I see noth—” Aizarg rubbed his eyes and looked again.

  The fog plays tricks on my mind, Aizarg thought as the blank wall of gray seemed to congeal at certain points, like pulling a string on a garment and watching the material bunch up. The apparitions didn’t approach from within the fog as much as they gelled into existence. At first he saw one, and then two, and then many. The shades were barely discernible, melting into one other and then reforming.