by Richard Nell
Before the sun rose above the trees of their clearing, Dagmar settled and died in Birmun’s lap. The shaman’s herbs had stopped him from calling out in agony, and he smiled briefly at Birmun before he closed his eyes and did not open them. They sat together as the sun rose.
“I am sorry for his death,” said the shaman, who then stood as if some decision had been made. “But still the light comes, and we must get started, and turn our minds to the living.”
Birmun felt numb, and beneath this only a vengeful misery that hated every man in Bukayag’s camp. “Started with what? Burying my retainer?”
Bukayag released a breath and turned towards his tent. “No, Birmun. These men will see to him. They will have taken no pleasure in his death, and treat his body honorably. You must start your journey home to your priestess. I am coming with you.”
Chapter 49
Birmun woke with the sun and forgot where he was. His hips pulsed with a dull ache and he sat up and at least remembered the days included torturous riding. Then he saw Bukayag looming over other men near the still burning fire.
The bandits or whatever the hell they were brought Birmun water and fresh-cooked rabbit, as well as some roots he couldn’t identify. They’d apparently cared for his horse, removing some of the items the Arbman had criticized, and adding at least one waterskin. He felt embarrassed because he didn’t know who to thank for it. He looked for Dag to ask, then remembered, and no longer felt like thanking anyone.
“Good morning.” The shaman approached and nodded in respect. He wore a plain cloth shirt and trousers, with leather riding leggings and a dark cloak. “Did you get a little sleep?”
Birmun knew he should return the gesture but felt too bitter to force himself. “I’m ready, if that’s what you mean.”
Bukayag ignored or didn’t notice his lack of respect. “I assume you’ll want your…steppe-man, to come along with us?”
“My scout. Yes. Will you bring any warriors?”
The shaman’s strange eyes seemed to sparkle at this, as if the question amused him. “No, Chief, the gods protect me. Now stand. The pain will get no better until you move.”
For a moment Birmun couldn’t believe he’d say such a thing now, then realized the shaman meant his physical pain. He groaned and lifted himself, feeling weak and rather small as he stood next to Bukayag.
The warriors in the camp did not hide their stares, though Birmun soon realized they looked at the shaman and not him. A man near as tall as Bukayag eventually approached them as they readied the horses. He wore a bronze circlet, and a chief’s earring and Birmun assumed this must be the famous Aiden of Husavik.
“Should we not accompany you, shaman? Let me send at least a few men. Or send Egil in your stead. Surely the skald can speak for you by now. Who will tell us the will of the gods?”
Bukayag put a hand to the man’s broad shoulders. “I will take Egil. I may need his silver-tongue. Make as much lumber and rope as you can, then enough wagons to haul it all North. Have no fear, I will return in four days.”
The way he announced his return sounded more like prophecy than estimate, and the big chief nodded as if completely satisfied. A smaller warrior with a Northern accent came next.
“I am sworn to you, lord. Let me follow, at least.”
“Serve me here, Eshen. Help these men do what is required.” He grinned and nodded to the many onlookers, and mounted a riding horse. “Come, Chief. As you can see, I have a great deal to do.” He clicked his tongue and spurred the animal forward without waiting, and Birmun reluctantly mounted and followed.
He wanted to see Dag’s corpse before he left, but he knew he’d be refused. He glanced around at the hard Southerners around him, their scars and cunning eyes, their impressive weapons and armor, trenches and stockade. To his shame, as he left this place alive he felt first a great wave of relief, reflected in the same look in the Arbman’s eyes. He grit his teeth and put his knees to his horse’s flank, and followed Bukayag out from the gate.
* * *
They rode in silence for a time, and it soon wasn’t clear to Birmun whether Bukayag or Medek was leading.
In either case both men seemed entirely comfortable on horseback, and to know precisely where they were going. Even the crippled skald rode well and looked at ease. Between the pain, the long night, and his own shortcomings, Birmun felt a growing agitation.
“It would be better if Dala knew you were seeing her,” he said at last, though he regretted it almost instantly. The shaman looked disturbed from a pleasant reverie and turned his head, staring for long moments before he spoke.
“Better for who, Chief?” As usual his tone held an almost slight mocking note of arrogance, which only heightened Birmun’s annoyance.
“Better for both of you. Varhus is surrounded by men who mean to kill you. No doubt she’ll want to meet somewhere further away, or at least…”
“We will enter at night. Who better to lead me than the Chief of the nightmen?”
Birmun’s words died on his lips, and he saw the glint of a grin on the shaman’s lips. The constant feeling of being slightly ridiculed was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“Perhaps I’ll lead you to your death instead,” he answered.
The words leapt out, and left him very much aware of the bigger man’s strength and confidence. He forced himself to hold his gaze, hoping to at least appear as an equal.
Both the skald and the Arbman’s brows raised. The shaman looked at their reaction, then back at Birmun. He tilted his head slightly, and laughed loud enough to disturb the birds.
“I like this man, Egil. But if you’re going to threaten someone, cousin, it would be better if you were prepared to kill them.” The shaman pointed at Birmun’s saddlebags, and he looked down to all at once realize his weapons had been stripped. The shaman smiled. “If riding annoys you so, why not walk for awhile and rest the animal? I shall walk with you.” With this Bukayag lifted his leg and dismounted.
The Arbman narrowed his eyes, and spoke for the first time since they entered the stockade. “Too slow already. Much time wasted. I never agree to…”
“Perhaps we should all walk, save for Egil.” The shaman’s face and voice gained an edge of menace, and he stared until Medek seemed ready to bolt or draw his bow. When he didn’t obey, the giant stopped walking. “Get off your horse,” he growled, voice cracking like a whip. The Arbman sighed loudly and dismounted, and with agony Birmun did the same. Bukayag’s face regained its amusement at once.
“Did you know a man can out-run a horse over enough distance? In fact, I have found no animal he can’t outlast. This is quite something when you consider it.”
Medek rolled his eyes in answer, and Bukayag revealed his sharp, crooked teeth. “I have run down deer on foot. And the book of Galdra describes ancient armies who could only march at their horse’s pace. They both overheat, you see. I believe men’s sweat prevents this. Isn’t that interesting?”
Birmun felt trapped in some bizarre dream, and half nodded and half shrugged as he walked in silence. He didn’t understand this strange man in the slightest, and felt constantly uneasy around him. Every so often he also remembered he bad been tasked by the matriarch herself to kill him—that he had the temporary loyalty and trust of a thousand men—at least some of whom were away from their families—for the singular task of killing him.
Yet Dala wished only to speak. She believed whatever threat he posed was not nearly as dire as the corruption in the Order itself. She seemed even to believe he might be her ally, though Birmun didn’t see how.
And if he truly was, or could be, would she try to wield him as she had once wielded Birmun and his nightmen? Would she try to turn him and his killers against the chiefs and the Order? Why should he listen to her?
Whatever this Bukayag was, he was no simple man to be manipulated or toyed with. He was a leader of fierce warriors. He could read runes and everything about him was uncomfortably sharp. He was already an ou
tlaw and free, with his own plans and resources, whatever they were.
Birmun flushed momentarily because he too had little interest in helping Dala at first. In truth, she had seduced him. He denied this for a time, telling himself that it was accidental. But he had since learned her mind and seen her manipulate the men and women of the mountain, just as she manipulated the Order. And slowly, he had admitted the truth. He glanced at Bukayag.
Would Dala try and seduce such a man as this? Or at least lead him to believe she might? How could he ever believe it was true? He was so ugly to be almost inhuman.
But then…Dala was very convincing. And if anyone could accept such a man—an outcast or heretic, Noss-touched and discarded, it was Dala. It was one of the reasons he loved her. But if she took Bukayag as a mate she would force Birmun to allow it, or to kill him. He would certainly choose the latter.
He turned subtly and roamed the shaman’s long, powerful limbs with the corner of his eye, thinking: or more likely, I’d get myself killed.
Even so, he would not stand aside. He would fight for Dala and his own honor, even if he would lose.
Bukayag blinked and looked straight at Birmun with his obscene, knowing smile, as if he’d sensed the inspection—or as if he could somehow read Birmun’s thoughts and meant to savor the knowledge of his own superiority. Then he looked away, and the moment passed.
“Perhaps a song, Egil, to pass the time,” said the shaman in a pleasant tone. “Our skald is a very fine singer.”
The well-groomed and dressed cripple blinked awake atop his mount. He removed a lyre from his saddlebag as if without pleasure, but changed instantly as he began to play.
Birmun listened and drifted from his own thoughts and worries for at least a moment. He resented the shaman’s commands, his advice and his knowledge, his infuriating smile. But soon Birmun’s legs began to feel better as the party walked. The music seemed to calm his agitation and reminded him to breathe the fine, valley air while he could. And slowly, perhaps sadly, he had to admit—whatever else was true about this shaman, whatever hell or god had spawned him, he was often right.
* * *
It took them two full days of long travel to reach Varhus. At first Bukayag had made Birmun uncomfortable, but by the end of the journey, he frightened him.
First and foremost it seemed the man hardly tired, and did not sleep. After the long, grueling days of travel, even the Arbman would slump to his rest, and Bukayag would begin clearing the camp and building a fire without a word of complaint or concern about the efforts of the others.
As night fell he collected firewood. Once, as Birmun woke in the dark for a piss, he found the shaman whittling.
Only a sliver of moonlight had showed the world in pale grey, and Birmun saw Bukayag’s golden eyes reflecting in the gloom like an animal’s.
“Would you like one?” he’d lifted his hand in the darkness.
Birmun had mumbled a thanks and took it, then later by the fire stared at the incredible detail and craftsmanship—the perfect, thin wings of some bird with huge eyes. It also had two intricate runes carved on its back, though Birmun could not read them.
“Thank you for the gift,” he said again awkwardly in the morning. “It’s beautiful. What is it? And what does this say?” He pointed.
Bukayag smiled and Birmun thought perhaps beyond the sharp teeth and ugliness there was genuine pleasure, if still a trace of mockery.
“It is an owl,” he said. “I suppose you don’t have them in the North, or in the city. It is a fine, wise hunter. The runes say ‘night chief’.”
Birmun cleared his throat but didn’t know what else to say. He raised the carving in thanks, unbalanced again by the man’s strange ways.
And it wasn’t only him who noticed.
On the second day, as Bukayag stepped away to examine a plant or Bray knew what in a field, Medek moved close to Birmun and whispered. “This man is demon. He watches in night with evil eyes. I see him. I leave. Now.”
Birmun looked to see if they were being watched because he thought that a very bad idea. “You promised to take us both ways,” he whispered back, hoping the near-by skald couldn’t hear them.
“Demon knows way, don’t need me.”
“I don’t care, I want you leading us.”
“No. I leave. Before the night. I not sleep with it watching me.”
“You’ve been paid, and you’ll bloody well…”
“Is there a problem?”
Both men silenced at the deep sound of Bukayag’s voice. Birmun nodded in respect.
“No, shaman. A minor disagreement.”
The Arbman glared but held his tongue, and the moment passed. Throughout the day though the tension felt strangely physical and ever-present, as if the shaman had some evil aura that wore at the tribesman and drove him mad. Medek soon took to quiet muttering, his posture stiff and alert. When night fell at last he looked almost frantic, terrified, his eyes scanning the horizon, his hands moving restlessly about his horse.
“We should camp here,” declared Bukayag when the mountain was in sight. He dropped from his horse without pause or another word, and the Arbman squinted. Birmun saw sweat glistening on his neck.
With a last furtive look, the scout clicked his tongue and dug in his knees, and sprinted his mount away from the clearing.
Birmun called out in surprise, but didn’t move, flinching as a light sparked near his head. It was as if a fire had been lit in the air, and he looked to find the shaman stepping forward, his body leaned back, his arm wreathed in flames.
A spear seemed to form from nothingness. It was as if it grew like a plant from the shaman’s hand, emerging from fire and darkness. Bukayag released it with a grunt, and it sailed fast and hard across the considerable distance, piercing the Arbman’s back.
Medek grunted and flailed and twisted off his mount, collapsing to the dirt. For a few moments he moaned and shifted on the ground as his horse sped on, and Birmun stood mute and stared. When he finally regained his senses, the shaman was watching him.
“He was going to betray us both, Chief.”
Birmun said nothing though he felt the urge to disagree. He considered trying to fight, or flee, but rejected both as foolish.
“You knew it, surely,” the shaman added. “He is not a man of honor. He would have fled straight to the priestesses and told them Bukayag the Bastard was alive and well, and that his appointed slayer and their High Priestess were both in league with him.” Here he shrugged. “I don’t blame him. It is true. And the Matriarch would have rewarded him well.”
Birmun watched Medek’s dying struggle in the grass, and couldn’t resist another thought. “He despised you and called you demon, shaman. I suppose that had no influence?”
Bukayag’s eyes narrowed. “I have heard such talk all my life, and far worse. As a nightman, surely, so have you. To escape it is simple, if intolerable. Simply say nothing. Do nothing. Be nothing.”
Birmun met the man’s eyes and felt a strange sort of shame in the words. He had known, of course, the Arbman couldn’t be trusted, and now suspected Bukayag was right again. He considered his next question, and his heart raced.
“The fire, and the spear. How…how did you do that?”
Bukayag’s face fell as if the question disappointed him. He drew his sword. “Rest, Chief. Tomorrow will be a long ride. You wouldn’t want to be exhausted before your mistress.”
With that he walked to the dying Arbman, who raised one arm helplessly, trying and failing to speak. The shaman batted it away, and pierced his heart without hesitation.
Birmun laid out a fur blanket with wide eyes and a busy mind, again feeling numb. Egil sat on a rock near-by and strummed his lyre, humming a low, deep sound. Birmun listened for a time, thinking nothing in the world could make him sleep after the last two days. Then he knew only darkness.
Chapter 50
Birmun jumped when the skald woke him. He blinked and found a strange thing in the handsom
e bard’s eyes—maybe sympathy, or pity.
“Peace, brother,” he said softly. “Night is here, and my lord is waiting.”
Birmun groaned and stood with some difficulty, rolling his neck and shoulders. The dull ache of travel still rippled up and down his body. He saw a small mound of dirt near the camp and realized Bukayag had buried the Arbman while he slept, leaving a stake etched with runes and a small circle of rocks.
“In the steppes,” the shaman said, as if knowing Birmun watched, “men are burned, not buried. But we can not risk a fire. I made him one of Vol’s rings because he was competent, that was clear.”
Birmun had no idea what to say to this, so instead mounted in silence, and the other men did the same. They crossed the final distance to Varhus in silence, too, and it occurred to Birmun as they approached that he had never much worried about scouts, or even watchmen.
With a thousand warriors fortified on a mountain, the idea that someone might actually attack had hardly entered his mind. Having seen Bukayag and his men, even with their numbers so small, perhaps he should have.
His nerves wore thinner the closer they approached, and he realized he didn’t know exactly how they’d enter. A stockade had been built surrounding the entire base of the camp with a single gate. He turned to Bukayag to point this out, but the shaman spoke first.
“I thought we’d sneak over your little fence. Is the stockade manned?”
Birmun opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. A few men always stood at the gate, and others guarded supplies and weapons and other things of value. But in truth he had not prepared for men attempting to sneak inside, either.
They left their horses tied to a tree a short distance from the base, then crept to the stockade.
“After you,” Bukayag whispered, crouching. Birmun lifted himself to the top and looked around. He saw the littered garbage of camp life, empty carts and the mess remaining from a day of business and travel. Some few puddles of water reflected the dim light. But he saw no guards.
