Marnej sat up. He ran his hands across his face, then through his dirty, straw-colored hair. He blinked as if he were caught between the worlds, then looked around, startled.
“Dárja?”
“I am right here!” she said, her annoyance flaring when she figured out he could neither see nor hear her. Marnej was no longer within the Song of All. Just like every other Olmmoš, she thought.
Reluctantly, Dárja pulled her thoughts back from the Song. Unrelenting silence gripped her. It brought her every fear to the surface. She had to fight the urge to turn back to the Song. Then, with a gut-wrenching shift, she succumbed to the leaden heaviness of the Olmmoš realm.
Marnej scrambled back in surprise.
“You left the Song,” she said. “Why did you leave?”
“I can’t control the voices,” he said. “I’m not like you.”
Dárja hugged her stomach as it dropped away from the rest of her body. “I don’t like being out of the Song.”
“Well . . . I don’t like being in it.”
“You didn’t object when we were in the forest outside that Olmmoš fortress.”
“And you didn’t seem to have a problem being out of it when you were swinging your sword at me,” Marnej answered.
Dárja narrowed her eyes, but said nothing more. What was there to say? Marnej was a thankless Olmmoš. She should’ve left him to rot with his own kind.
“Any signs of the soldiers?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“We need a horse,” he said, with such an air of authority that Dárja wanted to contradict him, just for spite. But her ankle had resumed its insistent throbbing. She hadn’t put weight on it since her first attempt to stand. Even if she could put weight on it, she couldn’t run. She thought of her beloved reindeer, who’d carried her into battle. There would be no reindeer this far south and the Olmmoš preferred horses.
Marnej stood up slowly. Clumps of brown earth stuck to the back of his sodden leather vest and seat of his breeches. He crossed the pit in one long stride, then reached up and grabbed the belts.
“Wait,” Dárja said. “You’re not going to leave me here!”
Marnej didn’t turn around. “You’ll be safe here while I go and find us a horse.”
Dárja struggled to her knees. “And what if you don’t come back?”
Marnej spun on his heel. “Do you believe I have no honor?”
Dárja’s hand went to her waist, where her sword should have been. She gripped the fabric at her side. “I know nothing of your honor. I know even less about your skill.” That last part was a lie, but she straightened herself as she knelt there, and pretended to be more brazen than she actually felt. “What if you’re captured by soldiers? I’d be left here to die. Get me out of this pit, then go get a horse. If you don’t make it back, at least I can crawl away.”
Marnej’s hands balled into fists. A muscle in his neck flexed.
Dárja sensed her sword on the ground by her knee, but she didn’t let her gaze waver from Marnej’s eyes.
“Fine,” he exploded as he released his breath. “But I can’t carry you out of this pit. You’re going to have to help me.”
“Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it,” she said.
Marnej tugged on the belts, pulling himself halfway up the side of the pit before dropping back down. He squatted in front of her.
Dárja let her relief turn quarrelsome. “I thought you said you couldn’t carry me.”
“I can’t,” he said, lacing his fingers together. “Put your knee in my hands and grab on to the belts. I’ll lift. You pull.”
Dárja picked up her sword and used it to limp forward.
“Can you climb with that?” Marnej asked, gesturing to her sword.
Dárja gave him a sharp look. She tossed her blade into the forest above, then put her knee in his hands, and grabbed high up on the tethered belts. Using her good foot to find purchase on the earthen wall, she pulled herself up as Marnej hoisted her toward the lip. Cresting the edge, her foot kicked loose a cascade of dirt down onto Marnej who sputtered and cursed.
Relieved to be on the forest floor, Dárja leaned against a tree trunk, her body shaking with the effort to climb out. She watched with bitter interest as first Marnej’s sword landed in the crowberry bushes, then the top of his head emerged from the pit. His fingers grazed the gnarled tree trunk a moment before she heard the sound of roots snapping. Marnej fell from sight, landing at the bottom of the pit with a bone-jarring thud.
CHAPTER SIX
“ÁIGIN,” BÁVVÁL BELLOWED AS he silently damned the incompetence of his army.
The lithe man wound through the uneasy groupings of clergy and servants who stood about the Great Hall.
“Were you aware a group of Piijkij escaped from the Brethren Fortress?” Bávvál asked.
Áigin gave a passing glance to the prostrated soldier beside him. “It is the first I am hearing of it, my Vijns.”
Kneeling, the soldier looked up, adding, “It was only a handful of men.”
Bávvál glowered at the soldier, who prudently cowered.
Before Bávvál could say anything, Áigin said, “I can assure you that they will soon be dead.”
Bávvál was too hot and now too annoyed with the failings of his men to be so easily mollified.
“I don’t want them dead. I want them in chains. Here. Before me. I will choose when and how they die.”
Áigin inclined his head, seemingly unperturbed. The man’s placid demeanor served to further irritate Bávvál.
“What information have you gotten from Dávgon?” he demanded.
Áigin rearranged his clasped hands. “As you know, my Vijns, the Avr of the Brethren of Hunters is not easily persuaded to speak. It will take more time to convince him to do so.”
“No more time,” Bávvál said with a finality that commanded the room’s attention. Then an idea occurred to him. “How many of his Piijkij fill our cells?” he asked.
Áigin did not hesitate. “Near forty. Some men, but mostly boys and old ones.”
Bávvál stood abruptly. The force of his movement nearly knocked back the heavy chair. Those closest to him flinched.
“Bring Dávgon to me,” he said. “Now.”
Áigin stood rooted in place. His piercing eyes roved about the hall. “Perhaps this is a matter that would best be served by a private audience,” he said with a bow.
Bávvál did not let his ire overshadow the wisdom of the suggestion. “Then lead me to him,” he said.
Stepping down from the dais, Bávvál ignored the still-groveling soldier and eschewed the assistance of eager acolytes. He followed Áigin through the flustered crowd, pushing aside those too slow to move out of his way.
Once outside of the Great Hall, Bávvál kept a quick pace across the short distance to the defense tower.
“He has said nothing?”
“He has not, my Vijns. I have put pain to him that would break the sturdiest of men. If I continue, I will kill him.”
The two men passed through the prison’s guarded gate.
Bávvál dismissed a soldier’s bow with a curt wave, his plan coalescing. “I will break him. If he knows nothing of the Jápmea female and his own half-breed, then I will at least have the reward of seeing him in pain.”
“He does not fear for himself,” Áigin said.
Bávvál gave a mirthless laugh. “Dávgon has always prided himself on his fortitude. He will feel different when it is his beloved Piijkij who are made to suffer.”
The hitch in Áigin’s smooth gait told Bávvál that he had surprised his agent. But with those absurdly long legs of his, Áigin swiftly closed the gap. The two men walked abreast past the pit cells. The dirt walls muffled the defeated voices, but could not mask the stench of their bodies and excrement. Bávvál held his breath, releasing it when they came to the end of the passage at the base of the defense tower.
Áigin peered through the door’s slit before lif
ting the wooden bar from its iron cleats.
“Haven’t heard a sound from him,” the guard said.
Neither man acknowledge the grim-faced guard as Áigin swung the door wide. Bávvál swept into the cell. Despite the summer heat, the rock walls seeped with moisture. The bare-chested man inside raised his head off the ground where he lay hunched. Thick shackles stretched his arms taut.
“Bávvál,” he said, his voice a slur, “have you come to dirty your hands?”
Áigin lunged and grabbed a hank of the prisoner’s hair.
The man’s head shot up. A ragged gash of a mouth split the man’s otherwise pulped and misshapen face.
Bávvál leaned in, relishing the damage wrought upon the man’s body. “Could this be the Avr of the Brethren of Hunters? The man who led an Olmmoš army to victory over the Jápmea? You look much worse than the last time we met, Dávgon.”
“The last time we met, Bávvál, you betrayed me,” the man hissed like a cornered badger through his broken teeth.
If there was ever any doubt in Bávvál’s mind about the need for this man to die, it was banished in that instant. Even beaten and bloodied, Dávgon looked ready to fight. Bávvál steepled his hands in front of his mouth, letting the curve of his smile show behind.
“Let us agree we were both the agents of betrayal. You simply had the misfortune to be less skilled in treachery’s finer points. Perhaps, if you had spent less time practicing with your sword and more time observing the politics of the faithful, you would not be in this position.”
Dávgon’s face darkened behind its mottled, bluish hue.
“If I had not practiced wielding my miehkki, you and the rest of your faithful Believers would be dead by the Jápmea blade.”
“That is true, Dávgon.” Bávvál brought his hand to his heart before adding, “and the gods thank you, as I thank you.”
Dávgon lurched upwards, straining the bonds of his chains. He lashed out with a kick that landed across the High Priest’s face.
Stunned by the pain, Bávvál staggered back, pressing his hand to his cheek. He sensed more than saw Áigin jump forward. But he heard the satisfying sound of bones being broken. When his eyes stopped watering, Bávvál beheld with savage delight the heaving mass that had once been Dávgon, Avr of the Brethren of Hunters.
Bávvál wiped the oozing blood from his mouth and nose onto his sleeve. The streak of red was vivid on the white background. “Hold him up,” he ordered.
Áigin grabbed Dávgon by his shoulders so that he sat in front of Bávvál.
The High Priest bent forward, his hands on his knees for support, but wary of the kneeling man. “The Jápmea and the half-breed, where are they?”
A cough burbled up through the prisoner’s throat, followed by what sounded like a laugh. Bávvál’s brutal kick to the man’s stomach changed the tone of the laughter to a wheeze. Áigin raised his fist but Bávvál stopped him.
“Leave him with his humor,” he said with a knowing sneer.
The sun’s harsh outline softened with a passing cloud. Bávvál lowered his hand which shaded his eyes from the midday heat and glare. He was pleased to see the villagers pushing against the backs of his soldiers, their eager faces peering over shoulders and heads. Whispers grew in anticipation as the solemn procession of counselors and clergy entered the circle. Their flaxen robes had been replaced by red vestments, which set them apart from the muted yellow of soldiers’ uniforms and the dull browns and greys of villagers. When the crimson pageant reached open ground it stopped, then parted. A herald raised a short length of polished goat horn. The resounding tone commanded attention, even in its distant echoes.
With his head raised just enough so that he could gaze down his nose, Bávvál advanced to accept a hasty flourish of homage. He then paused in the center of the circle with his hand raised. The whispers died away. Bávvál heard the banners snap above his head as a wind picked up, freshening the stale air that reeked of unwashed bodies and fermented fish.
The herald stepped forward. He drew himself up to his full height with his horn by his side.
“Those gathered here will stand witness to the just punishment of the Brethren of Hunters,” the herald called out. He walked the circle’s boundary as he continued, “By sheltering those they have been sworn to kill, the Piijkij, these Immortal Hunters, have brought upon themselves the gods’ wrath. Be it the deed of one or many, justice holds all accountable.”
The herald paused. Bávvál nodded his head.
“Guards, bring forth those whom the gods have chosen for judgment,” the herald cried out, stepping back.
Onlookers to the right parted. Their jostling caused a flurry of disgruntled abuse. But they fell silent when the guards dragged forward a man. His bare torso was bruised and caked with blood. His head hung forward under its own weight and the tops of his feet dragged across the ground as the guards carried the man by his arms. Stopping beside the herald, the guards lifted the man’s slack head by the hair.
Bávvál stepped forward. “Dávgon, Avr of the Brethren of Hunters, brother among the Piijkij. With full knowledge and free will, you harbored a Jápmea among the Brethren. You trained the creature with the intention of using him to extend the control of the Brethren and to deepen the power of the Avr. You have given your soul to darkness. You stand before the gods charged with betraying your own people.”
Bávvál paused to survey the crowd. He could tell that his words were having the desired impact. His pleasure, however, was cut short by a strangled voice.
“I see no gods before me. Only a weasel, pretending to be a man.”
Those closest to Bávvál gasped, but the rest of the crowd stood too far away to hear the doomed man’s insult. Bávvál signaled to the herald.
The man’s booming voice rose up again. “Bring forward the Brethren.”
The crowd pressed in tighter.
Bávvál leaned in closer to the prisoner. “You think yourself unbroken. But, Dávgon, before this day is over, you will beg me for death.”
The High Priest stepped back, his attention on the soldiers who led forward a group of what appeared to be walking corpses. The crowd drew back at their sight, then edged closer when the tattered prisoners, mostly boys and old men, were arranged in front of the High Priest. Bávvál again gestured to the herald.
“You, who call yourselves Piijkij, who are the Brethren of Hunters, are brought before the High Priest of the Order of Believers to atone for the crimes you have committed against the gods and their people. Step forward and meet your fate.” The pronouncement complete, the herald stepped back. Shouts from the crowd were met by nervous laughter and jeering.
Bávvál raised his hand, calling for silence. “The deeds cannot be undone. Yet, the gods teach that mercy and atonement can be partnered with punishment when justice is served.” Bávvál paused to gauge his listeners, prisoners and gathered villagers alike. Assured he had their full attention, he continued, “I say to those of you in chains, foreswear the Brethren’s Oath. Pledge soulful obedience as a true Believer and you will find mercy.”
Some in the crowd clapped to show their approval. Others taunted the prisoners.
“But,” Bávvál said, then waited for the crowd to settle. “Cling to your calling as a Piijkij and you will meet judgment’s blade.”
A cheer rose up through the crowd. Bávvál felt their bloodlust and it fed his soul.
“Come forth, each of you, and choose!” he called out, letting his words crescendo.
Sweat trickled down the High Priest’s spine. The guards holding the Avr brought Dávgon forward, then forced him to his knees.
“Dávgon, I want you to see this,” Bávvál said casually, as if he spoke to a friend. To the other prisoners he commanded, “Stand before your gods and choose!”
A giant soldier pushed forward the first hollow-eyed Brethren. The sagging, aged man looked to his leader.
“No. Bihto,” Dávgon said, shaking his head.
“I am a Piijkij,” Bihto said.
The crowd booed. The giant soldier unsheathed his dagger, then drove it through the man’s ribs and into his heart.
Bihto arched, his mouth wide as if to scream. Only a gasp escaped before the light left his eyes. He fell forward onto his knees, then onto his belly. The crowd erupted with a roar. The soldier leaned over, grabbed the body by its feet, and dragged it to one side. Villagers shoved their way forward to spit upon the corpse.
“That is one for you, Dávgon,” Bávvál said, as if they played a game of stones.
The High Priest waved impatiently to another soldier who pushed the next man forward.
“Choose,” Bávvál said. His command reverberated.
“I am sorry, my Avr,” the man whispered to Dávgon. Then he raised his voice and said, “I foreswear my Oath. I renounce the Brethren.” The crowd cheered, and the soldier shoved the man to the other side, away from his former brothers-in-arms.
“And that is one for me,” Bávvál said. “Can you see how this game is played, Dávgon?” He paused to wait for an answer. When none came, he continued, “I wonder who of us will win?”
Bávvál snapped his fingers. A thin and reedy prisoner stumbled forward, pushed by a guard. Tears streaked his dirty face. He looked more a boy than a man.
“What do you choose?” Bávvál asked loud enough for all to hear.
The youth froze, his eyes upon some lost horizon.
“What do you choose?” Bávvál repeated.
The youth swallowed. “I am Piijkij,” he said quietly.
The soldier moved up.
“No!” Dávgon screamed.
For an instant, a spasm of terror passed across the youth’s face, then blood burbled over his full lips, and he collapsed. The soldier tossed the limp body with the other in front of the Avr of the Brethren of Hunters.
Dávgon doubled over, his head straining to reach the ground where the bodies lay.
“Oh no, Dávgon, you must watch,” Bávvál said, then motioned to the guards to lift the prisoner’s head. “We have so many more of your loyal Piijkij to speak with.”
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 5
