Marnej stuffed his still-bare feet into his boots, whose worn leather fit like a second skin. He’d proved himself on the battlefield. The Avr had said so.
“You’ve honored the Brethren of Hunters,” he’d said. “You are now a Piijkij.”
This last part rankled. Marnej had been raised a Piijkij. He’d been raised to hunt and kill the Immortals. He’d taken the Oath like all the others, and he’d upheld his promise. It had been the Avr who’d asked him to use his gifts. He’d done what was asked of him, but there’d been a subtle change in the Avr after that. Marnej felt the man’s eyes on him, as if he might prove treacherous, like his father before him. But Marnej owed his allegiance to the head of the Brethren of Hunters, if only for the fact the man had given him a home among the Piijkij, even after his father’s betrayal.
Marnej strapped his miehkki to his side. Little more than a moon cycle had passed since his sword had been bathed in Jápmea blood. Now, it was cleaned and honed, resting comfortingly at his hip, waiting. Marnej fell in step with the other Piijkij. Those more senior than him grumbled about the High Priest of the Believers who had commanded their attendance.
“. . . as if we were his personal soldiers.”
“It’s thanks to us he sits on that pretty throne of his.”
“I hear the one he shits in is even grander.”
“Doesn’t change the smell,” the seasoned Hunter beside Marnej said, then elbowed him. “Cheer up, whelp.”
Marnej snapped to attention, nodding with a half-hearted grin.
At the stable, Marnej saddled his horse before leading the beast out into the fresh morning air. The sun cut through the tops of the tall pine and larch trees, forcing him to shield his eyes. When they adjusted, he saw the girl seated on a horse with her hands tied together in front of her. Even so, she held her head high.
“What’s she doing here?” Marnej asked, covering his surprise with disdain.
“A reminder to the people that we’re the ones who saved their rotten hides from the likes of her kind,” a voice replied, then Bihto’s head popped up above the shaggy dun-colored back of a neighboring horse. A toothy smile split his square face as the aging Piijkij settled in his saddle with an appreciative grunt.
“Not much to look at, though,” Bihto added with a nod to the Jápmea girl. “All gristle. Like a cockerel. They say they had to pry the sword from her fingers.”
Marnej made a vague reply. He knew better than Bihto what the Jápmea girl was capable of. He had faced her once in a chance encounter. From the moment he’d seen her move, he’d known his father had trained her. At the time, Marnej had begrudged Irjan for stepping between them. But he now realized the gods had spared him that day. The girl was more skilled a Hunter than he was. It made him uneasy thinking he’d almost let her out of her cell to prove her wrong about his father. She’d been toying with him, just as she had when she’d wielded her sword against him.
“Only when the ravens have plucked out their eyes should you lower your blade against an Immortal,” Marnej said, quoting an old Brethren axiom.
“True enough,” Bihto agreed, nudging his horse into an easy walk beside Marnej.
Dárja squinted, but did not raise her bound hands to block the light. After the darkness of her cell, it took a long time to make out the shapes in front of her. Scents, however, assaulted her from all sides. Horse dung, leather, and the stench of the Olmmos. Dárja was by now inured to her own rank odor, and though she wished to bathe, she wore the dried bloodstains with honor. No one could look at her and question her skill as a warrior.
A fresh breeze from the east momentarily banished the circling flies. Dárja shook the hair from her face. She caught sight of a familiar profile from the corner of her eye. Without turning her head, she observed Marnej riding toward her. He passed without a glance in her direction. Dárja sniffed. She should’ve expected nothing less. She’d offered him the truth and he’d run from it like a frightened rabbit. Nor had he revisited her. His alleged interest in his father, Irjan, had been nothing but idle curiosity. He’s not worthy of his father’s love, she thought contemptuously.
Dárja looked around at the ugly faces of the Olmmoš. Their eyes were too big, too wide. She looked for the older Olmmoš, the one who’d often come to stare at her through the crude iron bars of her cell. The one with a broad, furrowed brow and shorn hair the color of ash. His powerful bearing suggested he held standing among the Piijkij. What he thought of her, she couldn’t tell. By torchlight, he would hold her unwavering gaze for a time, then walk away, taking the light with him.
After each of his visits, Dárja would close her eyes, weighed down by the leaden silence of the Olmmoš world. The torchlight would still flicker behind her lids for a few moments more. She’d shiver, overwhelmed by the lifelessness of everything around her. She would let her inner voice go out in search of the Song of All. In search of her kind. But she heard no answer. No other voice but her own. Desolation would incite her to try again and again to find that precious connection she so craved. And when that failed, she tried to fashion Irjan’s face in her mind’s eye. But the visions always faded before she could outline his features. She worried she was forgetting what he looked like. She worried she was forgetting the one who had loved and cared for her better than any guide mother could have.
Then the oppressive darkness would take possession of her. It would contort her doubts into deep-seated dread. He’s probably already forgotten you, she’d taunt herself. And she deserved it. She’d said such terrible things to Irjan. But she’d been so angry. Her whole life had been shaped by his love for his son, Marnej. Her future traded for his. She’d left Irjan resolved to prove she was a warrior, even if her body would never change. The single-mindedness of her purpose had fueled her on the battlefield. It had made her relentless. It had kept her alive. But now, living meant little if she could not tell Irjan that she regretted her anger.
The squat horse beneath her jerked into motion. Dárja grabbed a hank of the horse’s mane to keep herself from falling off. The reins, tethered to the Olmmoš rider in front of her, stretched taut. The horse’s broad back was uncomfortable. She felt as if she were an unwieldy load. When she rode upon her binna, she and the reindeer were one. They rode quick and sure with their songs entwined. She would never understand why the Olmmoš would want to ride a creature like a horse whose spirit had been broken.
A wet splat landed on Dárja’s cheek, jarring her once again. She let the spittle of the passing Piijkij ooze down her face. She glared at him, then raised herself to her full height. Her eyes ahead, she thought about all the Olmmoš she’d killed on the battlefield. She hoped a good number of them were Piijkij. Dead in their own shit and offal, she thought with grim pride. And if she got the chance, she would make sure more would follow their comrades before death claimed her. She didn’t fear her death. In fact, part of her welcomed it. Better to die than to live among these people, as Marnej had done. Better that Irjan never know his love for his son had been so sadly misplaced.
Dárja began to hum to herself. At first softly, then, as probing stares turned in her direction, she raised her voice to recite the battlecry of her kind.
We are the Taistelijan.
We are the warriors of the Jápmemeahttun.
Our swords serve our kind in death,
Our knowledge our continued life.
We walk into battle to end what was long ago begun.
Dárja had never uttered these words aloud, outside of the Song of All. But it felt good to use her voice. Her next chorus grew even louder, demanding attention.
From farther up the line she saw Marnej turn in his saddle. Even at this distance, Dárja could see his shock. He gawked at her as if he had never seen her before. She sang a third chorus as a shout, as though she meant to be heard in the Pohjola.
“Shut her up,” someone growled.
Dárja opened her mouth, then crumpled forward, grunting as pain exploded in her arm. She only just manag
ed to grab hold of the saddle before her weight carried her over the side of the horse. She squeezed tight her eyes. Her breath was a shaky wheeze, but she willed herself to sit up. The blow to her arm had ripped apart the tender new skin that had formed on her battle-wound. Blood seeped fresh and red through the old brown stains on her sleeve. She did nothing to staunch the blood. Rather, she began to hum again, low and insistent, a new refrain forming in her mind:
I am the voice of one brought to life by truth.
And by my sword that truth shall be set free.
I am watched over by the stars, but my destiny is my own to make.
Marnej turned back around, his pulse racing. He’d heard that chant before. He’d been lost in one of his visions and one voice had built upon another until every fiber of his being had vibrated with the power of that chorus. We are the Taistelijan. The chant had wound its way through him, seeking out his doubts, his desires, his soul. He’d felt their heartbeats. He’d known the Jápmea pride and their power. He’d seen their flashing swords and green fields and felt the pull to join their ranks. We walk into battle to end what was long ago begun.
Marnej’s stomach turned at the memory. He’d thought he’d glimpsed the future, but his visions had betrayed him, and he’d led the Olmmoš into an ambush. His hands suddenly felt slick. He released his grip on the reins and wiped his palms one after the other on his coarse linen sleeves. The fabric’s rough weave snagged on his scabs, tugging them just as the Jápmea girl tugged upon his thoughts.
She’d known about the voices. She’d spoken of them as if he should understand her meaning. But he hadn’t understood. He only knew the voices had always been there. They’d been a comfort in childhood, then a cause for concern as he grew up. Marnej thanked the gods the Avr had not asked him to seek out the visions again, because doubt now plagued him. He could no longer tell himself it was the gods working through him, nor would he accept that it had been the Jápmea.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR THE BETTER PART of two days, the Brethren of Hunters’ procession had moved slowly through the countryside. They had passed fields and farms where families came forward to point or just stare at the Jápmea girl. In the villages, people lined the narrow path. They jeered as the prisoner passed, throwing whatever was at hand at her. Dávgon was pleased that the Jápmea girl reminded people that the Brethren’s victory had finally made them all safe. Our victory, he thought. And it was their victory. They had tracked the Immortals. And they had led the soldiers into battle. Without the Brethren, all would have been lost.
Dávgon looked over his shoulder at the Jápmea girl who rode with a straight back. She sneered through muddied features, as if it were he and not she who smelled of rot and death. But no amount of pride could change the fact she was his prisoner. Perhaps the last of her kind, he speculated with some regret, loathing the prospect of giving his prize to the High Priest. Bávvál had so little vision. He would probably just kill her in some crude display, when there were so many more interesting possibilities.
Dávgon searched the company for Marnej. He spotted the boy’s blond head amid the grizzled grey of the veterans. He watched the boy ride. Nothing about him seemed worthy of suspicion. Still, the matter of the Jápmea ambush at the outset of the battle disturbed Dávgon. At the time, Marnej had been as surprised as the rest by the trap. Were it not for that, Dávgon would have believed it a deliberate betrayal. But the young Piijkij had proved useful in the end. Jápmea blood ran through the boy’s veins. How much, he did not know. Less than Irjan, to be sure. But the boy was no less talented than his father. It begged the question of what might come of mating him with the girl. The secrets I could learn, he mused. The power I could wield. The Avr turned forward again, determined now to keep his prize.
Ahead, the Believers’ Stronghold loomed. It was a hulking structure above a barren morass. The great swaths of trampled marsh were the same lifeless brown as the defense picket and the inner palisade beyond. Indeed, the only color for a league around were the long banners of the tower. Dull yellow on a fading blue background, the Ten Stars of the Bear bent and twisted as the banners snaked across the cloud-dotted sky.
Dávgon held up his fist. The retinue came to a stop. At his signal, the advanced guard dismounted and approached the gate. Their footfalls thundered across the bridge planks. Dávgon sat astride his horse, noting with growing irritation that their arrival had gone unheralded. Not even a sentry, he thought as he followed his men through the arched battlement. It was just another example of Believer carelessness that he would change. Discipline would prevail under the Brethren’s guidance.
A pair of dusty and disheveled soldiers came running forward with short pikes in their hands. As they neared, the Brethren’s advance guard closed ranks to stop them.
“The Avr of the Brethren of Hunters enters for an audience with the High Priest,” one of the Piijkij boomed.
“By whose order?” the larger of the two soldier’s challenged.
Dávgon bristled at the insult. His men answered for him, casting aside the two soldiers as if they were nothing more than sacks of grain. The soldiers moaned and rolled on the ground but seemed unwilling to rise again. Dávgon rode forward, his advance guard clearing the way with weapons drawn. Some of the Believers’ soldiers milling about took interest in the arrival of the men who had so recently led them into battle. More, however, hurried off, intent on avoiding the work the arrival of the Brethren entailed.
The mounted procession followed the advanced guard through the Stronghold until they reached the stables. At the long, overhung corral, Dávgon signaled for the rest of his men to dismount. The ground fairly shook as their boots landed on the dirt. A haze of billowing dust swirled around restive hooves and anxious feet, then settled back down on the unwelcoming earth.
The Jápmea girl sat upon her horse with her head held high as if she commanded the men around her. Dávgon’s appreciation of her brazenness waned. He muttered to a man beside him to pull her down. The Piijkij nodded, stepped forward through the horses, and yanked the Immortal from her saddle. She writhed on the ground for a moment, then gathered her breath and released a stream of abuses that could not be ignored.
“Silence her,” Dávgon called out.
Rough hands pulled the girl to her feet, but she ignored the two men at her side to stare fixedly at him as her voice rang out.
It is I. Truth calls me.
And by my honored blade, the honest word shall set me free.
I am safeguarded by the stars, but my hands shape my future.
Though her phrasing was old and stilted, Dávgon understood her well enough. “Keep her quiet,” he said as he turned on his heel to march through the ornate doors that marked the sanctum of the Order of Believers.
The hall buzzed with interest as the normally smug clergy peeked over each other’s shoulders with wide eyes. Parting just enough to allow Dávgon and his retinue to enter, the onlookers closed ranks in an awkward crush. The High Priest sat in his garish chair upon the dais at the room’s far end. The man’s finery was wasted on him. Sickly, with the aspect of a rat, Bávvál would have been culled early had he come up through the Brethren ranks.
Whispers trailed Dávgon’s footfalls.
He stopped well short of the dais, greeting the High Priest with a curt nod and no further deference to the man’s title.
The small man stood, overshadowed by the carved bears on the flanking pillars, then stepped forward, dragging his long cloak the length of the dais. Bávvál’s dignity, however, was undone by the sweat that coursed down from his temples.
“What treasure have you brought me, Dávgon?” he asked.
The Avr’s muscles tensed at the man’s possessive tone. “We have our Jápmea prisoner,” he said, emphasizing ownership.
The priest smiled coyly. “Just the one?”
“We killed the rest,” Dávgon said, his rage at the priest’s lack of respect building.
The High Priest nodded app
reciatively. “Yes. Yes. The tales of the Piijkij are all I hear of these days.”
“The deserving should be lauded when the Jápmea are defeated,” Dávgon seethed.
“Indeed! And we wish to hear of your campaign in great detail. In fact, I have sent for my bishop to record the events for posterity.” The High Priest looked over his shoulder. “Ah, here he is now. Dávgon, I believe you are acquainted with Rikkar. He has just become my bishop. A reward for his faithful service to the Believers and his Vijns.”
Dávgon’s hand touched the hilt of his sword, the bitter taste of bile rising in his gorge.
“Rikkar had the most interesting things to tell me,” the High Priest clapped his hands in mocking delight. “He said you have within your ranks a Jápmea. Now, perhaps he meant this girl you bring me, but I think not.”
The High Priest dropped all pretense. “Dávgon, did you really believe I would not find out that you rely upon a Jápmea for your battle plans? Or, have you been blind to their cunning infiltration of your company? Because, I know firsthand it is easier to gain access to your Brethren than to a woman’s skirt.”
“Lying rat!” Dávgon spat as he rushed the High Priest with his sword drawn.
Dárja kicked the Piijkij to her right in the knee. She pulled herself free from the other Hunter with a wrenching twist of her entire body. The effort carried her to the ground. She rolled backward, avoiding the crush of rushing boots as the whole room spasmed with men fighting and dying.
Dárja saw Marnej rooted in place, slack-jawed. She tore the gag from her mouth.
“Marnej, run!” she yelled, then sprang to her feet.
Dárja shoved her way through the tumult, crashing into a door at full speed. The stout barrier held. Someone grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. She raised her bound wrists to clobber her attacker and caught the corner of Marnej’s chin. He staggered back but kept his grip on her.
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 3
