The fire was out when Dárja woke. She rose slowly, mindful of what had happened the last time she sat up too quickly. This time, her head seemed steady. She turned to look for Marnej. He was gone. So was the horse. A sinking feeling pulled on her limbs. This time it had nothing to do with dizziness.
Dárja stared at the saddle resting on the ground. She told herself that Marnej wouldn’t have left her. Not after all they’d been through together. But doubt’s cruel and insidious voice began chipping away at her faith in him. What did she really know about him, other than he was Irjan’s son and a Piijkij?
But they’d escaped together. She hadn’t forced him to leave the Brethren behind. The Brethren had betrayed him. He’d chosen to flee with her. So why would he leave her now? He could’ve left her in the woods as they ran, or in the pit as she rested. But he didn’t. The horse, she thought accusingly. He wanted the horse. He’d been adamant that they needed a horse to have a real chance of escaping. But really, if Marnej were to have a real chance of escaping, he needed to be free of her. She was injured. Dead weight. I might’ve done the same, she told herself.
But that last part was a lie. Dárja knew she wouldn’t have left him behind because she hadn’t. She’d fought alongside him and helped him escape. Together, they’d run into the forest, where she’d helped him find his way into the Song of All.
“Coward,” Dárja swore out loud, but she also blamed her own foolishness. How could I’ve been so blind as to trust an Olmmoš?
“Coward,” she said one more time, bitterly. But haranguing the absent Olmmoš wasn’t going to change her predicament. She was alone and she had to face that truth. To spend more time wondering why wouldn’t serve her. She needed to do for herself what needed to be done. Cautiously, Dárja shifted onto her knees. Her whole body ached with the effort. Searing pain shot up her leg and was almost too much for her to bear. With trembling arms, she forced herself to crawl to the spreading branches of a young spruce. Rising shakily to her knees, she cut a long, sturdy branch, then dropped back to the ground, exhausted. As she caught her breath, Dárja whittled the branch’s jagged top with the edge of her sword blade, wishing she still had her knife. It was an ugly job, but at least no splinters would dig into her palm. When she finished, she used her sword and new staff to get herself to standing.
Placing all her weight on her good leg, Dárja used the branch as a crutch and limped back to the saddle blanket. Just beyond the blanket’s edge, beside the cold embers, lay a leather pouch and a carved wooden cup. She sat down carefully, aware of each throbbing limb, then picked up the pouch. It was heavier than she’d expected. She dumped the contents on the ground: cordage, a whetstone, a poultice and bone comb, and two smaller pouches. One contained tinder-makings. The other had a needle and thread. It was not much, but it was all useful.
Then her eye caught something reddish-brown in the dirt. It was flat and no bigger than her palm. Dárja picked it up and dusted off the dirt. She sniffed it, then held it to her tongue. Meat. She tore off a piece between her teeth and chewed, groaning with pleasure. It had been days since she’d eaten, though it felt longer. Her teeth and jaw protested with the effort, but she eagerly tore off another piece, savoring the flavor. Eventually, she would need to find water, but at the moment she didn’t care.
When she’d finished the last morsel, Dárja looked around for more. There was nothing but dirt, soot, and trampled weeds. Her disappointment was cut short by the sound of snapping twigs. She froze, listening. For one brief moment, she thought it was Marnej returning, then she heard the grunts and squeals of a bierdna and her cubs coming closer. The crunching sound of crowberry shrubs and saplings came from behind the stand of thick pine to the east. She squinted, looking for any movement, any glimpse of brown among the green. If the bears came through the trees they’d be directly upon her.
Dárja stuffed her supplies in the larger pouch and tied it to her belt. She slung the saddle blanket over her shoulder, then, using both her sword and walking stick, struggled to her feet. Pain flared in her ankle, and she almost crumpled. Stand and hold your ground, she told herself, her eyes trained on the eastern forest. The grunts grew louder, then she saw the rustling of the undergrowth. Sweat coated her face and back, cold and slick like eels. Dárja gritted her teeth against the pain as she raised the sword’s tip from the steadying ground. The high note of a cub’s cry sounded in the distance, then the deep grunts of the mother bear faded away to the south.
Dárja let the tip of her blade hit the ground. She swayed forward, leaning onto the pommel. Her vision swam, and sounds seemed to be filtered through thick wool. She drew a long, shuddering breath. When her eyes finally focused again, she found herself staring at the ash of the cold fire-pit and the forgotten saddle. There was truth undeniable.
Marnej was gone. She couldn’t count on his returning, and she couldn’t just stay where she was, waiting to be discovered or set upon by wolves or bears.
Dárja pushed herself up straight. She shifted the saddle blanket which had fallen across both her shoulders like a shroud. Using her sword and walking stick to support her, she took a tentative step. A vision of the long journey ahead rose, daunting and depressing. And then questions, sharper than any blade, cut her to the quick. What if she made it back? Could Irjan forgive her? Would he? Wasn’t it better to wait here for her end, listening to the sounds of the birds, the trees, and the wind?
Dárja stilled her mind and concentrated. The tendrils of the Song of All began to wrap around her. Longing to be within it, she sent out her own song, each word rising from her heart.
I am daughter of the gods.
I am sister among the Jápmemeahttun.
I started my life at my Origin, with sadness and joy as my companions.
I braved dangers and met enemies, and can see the truth of friendship.
I go into the world to meet my destiny, knowing that the stars watch over me.
A jumble of voices swelled, then rushed across her internal world. They filled her mind, quelling hollow doubts. The voices wound together into the most beautiful chorus, more uplifting than any music. Her soul reached out, wanting to join with everything around her.
Then she heard a song of longing and sadness. It spoke of once running free across the plains. It lamented the weight it now carried. It yearned for freedom. The song was so strong and yet so foreign that Dárja’s own song faltered as she listened. A horse, she realized, suddenly aware of her body and the pain in her ankle. She fell forward as unbearable heaviness claimed her limbs again.
“No,” she cried out, keeping her eyes shut tight, trying to call back the Song.
Sitting on hands and knees, Dárja finally opened her eyes.
Marnej towered above her, seated on the soldier’s horse.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NINE BRETHREN SAT in front of the sputtering fire, covered in grime. They leaned in to take turns cooking rabbit meat skewered to their knife points. They grumbled, but exchanged few words.
Those who had eaten stared off into the distance, swatting at the bloodsucking chuoika. A couple of the men stretched out on the ground with their eyes closed, either impervious to the tenacious insects or too exhausted to care.
In the distance a branch snapped.
The nine men sprang to their feet, their weapons at the ready. They scanned the twilight forest surrounding them.
“South. Twenty paces. Behind the fallen larch,” one of the men whispered.
“Circle and surround,” said another.
The men scattered into the forest. Their footfalls disappeared into the startled rustling of birds. They moved from tree to tree, listening for each other and what else lurked in the shadows.
The yellow of a soldier’s tunic appeared from behind a stand of larches. His easy movements were like a deer that had not caught danger’s scent. The soldier took two cautious steps before a Brethren grabbed him from behind and cut his throat. The soldier gurgled and fell to the ground. A fleet
ing spasm contorted his body.
“Ivvár,” a voice called out, then more yellow tunics emerged from the surrounding forest.
“Here!” cried one of them.
The soldiers drew together. Too late, they recognized their mistake. Before any could make use of their brandished weapons, they were set upon. In an instant, it was over. They were dead beside their comrade, their yellow tunics soaked red with blood.
Without posture or comment, the Brethren disappeared back into the forest cover to await another attack. When none materialized, the cawing of the crow brought them forth, one by one. As they circled the bodies, one man prodded the dead with his scuffed boot. Another squatted to rummage through a soldier’s pouch.
“Beartu, take the pouches. Feles, Válde, their weapons,” a sharp voice commanded.
“Gáral, you give orders without a backing,” the squatting man said as he rifled through the soldiers’ clothing.
Signing to the others to do as he said, Gáral confronted his challenger. “Herko, you have too easily become a scavenger.”
The squatting man grunted without looking up. “I take what I need. Nothing more.”
“What of the rest of us?” Gáral asked, coming to stand directly behind the man.
“If you did the work of killing, then take what you need,” Herko said.
Edo, the youngest in the group, reddened. “You shame the Brethren.”
Herko’s head shot up. “We’re all that remain.” He gestured in a circle. “We’re not the Brethren of Hunters. We’re a scrabbling lot of men, more dead than alive. The sooner you understand that, Edo, the better off you’ll be.”
Edo sprang forward, his sword leading, but an arm held him back.
“He’s right, Edo. We’re not the Brethren of Hunters any longer. We’re the hunted.”
“My oath still stands,” said Edo, shaking himself free. “So does yours, Redde, and yours, Herko!”
“Oath,” Herko hooted. “We took an oath to protect the Olmmoš from the Jápmea. Which we did. And when we finally succeed in driving those creatures from this world, the weaseling dirt-turners turn against us. There’s no honor! There’s no oath! There’s only this day and the next, until we all are hunted down and killed by the same soldiers we led into battle. That’s our reward.”
A couple of heads nodded in agreement.
“You may be right, Herko,” another voice broke in. “The oath we took to protect the Olmmoš may no longer bind us. But honor does. How many of your friends did you see die the day the soldiers attacked our fortress?”
“Too many!” Herko shouted.
“Did they fight with courage and with honor?” the other asked. “Válde, you’re using pretty words to ennoble a slaughter,” Herko said.
“I am asking you to honor your friends, your brothers who have died,” Válde said. “Do not dishonor them. Avenge them.”
“Enough!” Gáral shouted. “If we stand here arguing like sheep herders over the price of wool, then we will find ourselves facing an army.”
Válde did not move. Instead, he examined the haggard faces of each man in the circle.
“Let us take their weapons and turn them against the soldiers, against the Believers. Let us be avenged!”
The last word hung in the air, holding the men in place, even as Gáral encouraged them to move.
There were murmurings of assent.
“If we take this course,” Herko spoke up, “then I trust you’ll not stay my hand to spare the life of every dirt-turner.”
“Herko, do not think so low,” Válde said.
The man puffed himself up ready to answer, but Válde cut him off. “Is the farmer tilling his field the one who brought down Mikko and Lasse and Oaván?” he asked, naming off men close to Herko who had died defending the Brethren fortress. “Let us avenge our comrades on those who acted against us. On those who betrayed us. The Believers are our rightful enemy. They and their soldiers. Let us raze the temples, and let the gods claim their messengers.”
The chorus of agreement grew excited.
Gáral endeavored to intercede but was shouted down.
Válde gathered the dead soldiers’ weapons.
“Listen,” he said, raising his voice above the others. “We may be hunted, but we are still Piijkij. Let us use our talents and skill to strike fear in the hearts of those who chose to turn against us.” He handed out the weapons he had gathered. The men fitted the extra blades alongside their own sacred miehkki. The new weapons lacked the beauty and history that Piijkij blades possessed. But, in a fight, they would cleave flesh just as well.
Beartu, who had gathered the soldiers’ pouches, shared them out among the Brethren. Herko did not object. It seemed that Válde had found the one thing that could stem the tide of his dissent—revenge.
“We should return to the campfire and douse its flames,” Válde said. “We do not have much time to put distance between ourselves and those who track us.”
The others agreed, returning to their campsite to gather what few items remained to them.
Standing at the clearing’s edge, Válde called out, “Gáral, douse the fire.”
Gáral scowled. “So we are to take orders from you now?”
“Leave it be,” Herko said, picking up a fallen branch. “You’ll get your turn as soon as Válde’s honor gets him killed.”
The men looked to Válde.
“We travel west,” he said.
“Bastards will feel the cut of my blade,” Herko murmured with certainty as he swept away their tracks with the bristles of the pine branch.
One of the foot soldiers stood at attention. “Sir?”
The chuoði olmmái looked down his helmet’s nose guard.
“Your order, sir?” the soldier asked.
The mounted commander removed his helmet, revealing a face dotted with angry red splotches. He wiped his sweat-plastered brow with the back of his hand.
“Take two groups of ten. Fan out. Search for the scouts.”
“Sir.” The foot soldier hesitated. “The mounted men have speed. They can reach greater distances than those of us on foot.”
The commander swatted the midges that buzzed his freshly shorn head. “We’ll not waste horses on this search, Niilán. Besides, foot soldiers are closer to the ground and able to see their tracks.”
Niilán disagreed but he kept his tongue. Little was ever gained by challenging those above him.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
With Niilán at the fore, the two groups of men fanned out into the woods. Some of these twenty-odd men had experience, but most were young and green. They had probably joined the Believers’ army in the flush of excitement after the victory over the Jápmea. They were farmers’ sons with no prospects or the third, fourth, and fifth sons of families with some land and wealth, but not enough to share. They were young and brash, but their swords wavered in their hands, and they jumped at the sound of every mouse that scampered out from under a bilberry bush. Older than most of the foot soldiers in his squad, Niilán had fought in the battle against the Jápmea and had survived to return to a family and farm already lost to him.
When the woods thinned enough to sight the sun, Niilán paused to look west. He estimated they had covered at least a league, maybe more. The light had changed since they had made their way through the dense forest, and the growing shadows made him wish his men had more training.
“Over here,” a panicked shout echoed through the trees.
Niilán made his way over the soft mounds of moss, lichen, and berry bushes. Urgency pushed him to see what the soldier had discovered, but he did not want to risk twisting his ankle on a hidden rock and wind up lame. A sure way to end up dead.
His men stood in a stunned circle. By the expression they wore, Niilán suspected death was an unfamiliar sight.
“Do not stand there like sheep in the rain,” Niilán yelled. “Set up a four-man sentry. The rest of you look for tracks.”
He pushed
his way through the new recruits who continued to gawk at a pile of dead bodies.
“All right,” he said, breathing through his mouth to keep the foul stench of blood and shit at bay. “You have seen them. Now go back to looking for tracks.”
As the men scattered, Niilán knelt to examine the fallen scouts. It seemed to him that death had become predictable in its shape and forms. Like so many on the battlefield, these dead men lay with limbs in awkward positions, their eyes open, staring and lifeless. The blood-smeared cuts and gashes were no longer red and vibrant, but brownish. This is what we will all look like, he thought glumly. He reached out and touched the flesh. No longer warm. Then he tried to shut the staring eyes. The lids were stiff, unmoving.
Niilán stood up, drawing the attention of those closest.
“They have a half-day on us,” he said with the certainty of a weary soldier.
“What are we to do with the bodies?” one of the sentry asked.
Niilán wiped his hands together as if to clean them.
“We can either carry them back to the rearguard or we can leave them here for the wolves and ravens to pick over.”
He let the new recruits’ shock play out without comment. Glorious battles were the stuff of legends and joiken sung by drunken men seated before a fire. Dead bodies left to elements and scavengers were the reality behind the tales of high deeds and heroism. It was a hard lesson to learn. But once mastered, never forgotten.
“We need the horsemen,” Niilán said.
“We’ll lose more time as we regroup,” answered the sentry.
Niilán respected Osku’s opinion. They had served together before. He knew the man did not waste his words needlessly.
“You are right. But I have no desire to come upon the Brethren with these unseasoned recruits.”
“But that’s cowardly,” one rosy-cheeked youth objected.
Niilán looked him over. Arrogance swelled the boy’s broad chest and stubbornness squared his jaw. Niilán wondered if he had ever been that young.
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