Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  The taller soldier, the one with a clearer eye, pushed Válde back lightly. “Friend, your story’s finished.”

  Válde allowed himself to sway backward onto his heels, keeping a grin on his face.

  “But the goat is on the roof of the farmer’s house and the wife comes out,” Válde began to tell the story, pulling at the sleeves of the two soldiers with good-natured humor.

  Together, the soldiers wrested their hands from Válde’s hold, then turned toward the stable. Over their shoulders, Válde saw Redde and Daigu leading two horses into the forest.

  “That’s my horse!” the taller soldier cried out. “Stop!”

  Redde and Daigu glanced back, surprise registering briefly as they swiftly mounted the horses to ride off. Before the two soldiers could find their footing, Válde lunged forward, his long knife in hand. He skewered the short one with a single thrust through the man’s back. The man screamed. His tall friend, just a pace ahead, spun to see his compatriot fall. Then, Válde’s blade slid through him. The tall soldier crumpled, his hands pressed against his middle as blood pulsed through his fingers. With a sickening crack, Válde wrenched the tall man’s head, letting the body fall forward as he headed for the stable.

  “Get the horses and get out,” he called into the stable’s dark interior, pushing past Beartu on his way in.

  “Grab the other one,” Herko cried, as he passed by.

  Válde reached for the reins, moving to follow Herko. The horse whinnied. The white of its eye was visible in the sliver of light that cut through the gloom. Válde reached out again, and this time his fingers wrapped around a long leather lead. A cart horse, Válde thought bitterly as he pulled the reluctant animal out of its pen.

  Hurling abuse at the gods who plagued his every step, Válde encouraged the horse to match his stride as he began to run. The horse, however, stood its ground, unmoving.

  “I do not have time for your cart,” Válde told the stubborn beast as he looked toward the hut. He grabbed hold of the horse’s mane at the base of its neck, then hopped, and sprang up onto the its back. The horse shook its head but Válde held on, kicking his heels into the animal’s sides. The obdurate beast began to lumber toward the road.

  “Not the road,” Válde swore under his breath, pulling on the reins. “Head toward the forest.” In an agonizingly slow arc, the animal finally changed its course.

  “Hurry up,” he hissed through clenched teeth, but his exhortations did nothing.

  Válde kicked his heels into the horse’s side even harder and was rewarded by a jerking trot straight into the thickest part of the forest. Small branches snapped in his face and large ones threatened to brain him, but he encouraged the horse to run. Gripping the animal’s girth with his thighs, he leaned low, his eyes watering from the lashing they received. The horse’s back was already slippery with sweat even though they were barely above a trot. Válde tucked himself closer to the animal. The horse hair stuck to his neck, itching, as he muttered oaths and invectives against any and all.

  When the forest thinned, Válde sat up to peer over the horse’s head. He caught a glimpse of movement. Herko, he thought. Then he saw a flash of color and Feles’s red head popped into view before disappearing into the cover of trees. Válde hoped all his men were ahead of him. A good leader should have made sure none were left behind. But in the rush to escape, he had become just a man. If any were lost, he would carry the shame.

  Válde hazarded another glance up, relieved to see that Herko rode directly ahead of him. In the distance, more men came into view. Válde gently slowed his horse. He had no desire to jerk the animal to a stop and land on his backside or worse. They’d had a rough enough beginning.

  “Well done, cart horse,” he said, patting its shaggy side where the heat of the animal rose like steam.

  Válde came alongside Herko, who had also slowed.

  “What happened back there?” Herko asked, nodding his head in the direction they had just come.

  “Soldiers,” Válde said. “I tried to get them back in the travelers’ hut, but they were the only soldiers I have ever met not interested in having a drink paid for by someone else.”

  Herko let out a gruff laugh. “It’s all that praying they do now.”

  “I don’t think we were seen,” Válde said.

  Herko shrugged. “I don’t think it matters.”

  “Because we have horses?” Válde asked.

  “No. Because we’re brigands and rogues, and it doesn’t matter who knows it,” Herko corrected him. “That’s all we are to those fish-bellied Believers. Why shouldn’t we act as charged?”

  “Brigands and rogues,” Válde repeated, Herko’s reasoning sinking in.

  Válde clapped the man on the back. “Well, at least you look the part,” he said, adding a teasing smile to the jibe.

  “I may look like one,” Herko said, running a meaty hand across his bald head, “but you—you smell like one. Did you ride that horse or mate with it?”

  Válde let out a laugh, savoring the release of tension as they made their way to rejoin the others

  “Where is Daigu?” Válde asked, his laughter cut short by sudden dread.

  “He’s gone off to bring up his food,” Redde answered.

  Confused, Válde turned his horse in a circle looking for the missing man.

  “He hit a low branch and knocked himself off his horse,” Redde said. “When he got his breath back, he crawled into the bushes.”

  “Daigu,” Válde called out, as he gingerly slid off his horse, tossing the reins to Herko. Behind to the left he heard a muffled voice. He followed the sound until he found Daigu, kneeling on all fours.

  “Should I leave you be?” he asked.

  Daigu nodded his head, his stringy hair covering his face.

  “If you do not stand up and walk out of there soon, I will come back for you,” Válde told him.

  The prone man nodded again, then arched in sickness.

  Válde retreated, satisfied.

  There were eight men, plus himself, and seven horses. It was enough for them to put much needed distance between themselves and the Believers’ army. And hopefully, they could get two more horses along the way.

  “I’ve seen better acting from a bellyaching bear,” Gáral said, coming to stand by Válde.

  Still flushed with the effort of the escape, Válde gave him a sharp look, but was surprised to see Gáral smiling. The lopsided grin sat awkwardly upon the man’s face. Even so, he was heartened to see it.

  “What I lack in artifice, I make up for with a sharp knife!” Válde said, bowing in Gáral’s direction.

  “Almost as sharp as Gáral’s tongue,” Mures muttered loud enough for the laughing Redde to hear him.

  “One could only wish, Mures, that your wit was half as sharp,” Feles said dryly, though his broken nose twitched, betraying his good humor.

  Mures’s mouth hung open in shock. “The Red Rock speaks,” he mocked.

  “The Red Rock made a joke,” Redde chimed in.

  “If we left it to you two, it would be all gas and belching,” Edo said.

  Mures and Redde turned to each other, feigning dismay. Then with a shrug, Mures said, “I’ve never encountered a fart that I didn’t find funny.”

  Laughing, Válde sat down on a fallen tree. Though dirty and ragged, he was pleased the men still had their spirit. Perhaps it would be enough to see them through to the future.

  Daigu staggered out of the woods, one hand pressing branches out of his way and the other wiping his mouth. Redde and Mures where the first to upbraid him.

  “Was it your plan to ride into trees so no one would ride with you?” Redde asked.

  “The horse doesn’t even want to ride with him,” Mures corrected.

  Daigu grimaced in their direction, now holding his hands to his gut.

  “Next time, Daigu, rely on the horse’s eyes, not your own,” Redde said, to the amusement of his friend Mures.

  “Can you ride
?” Válde asked.

  “I should think the answer to that is obvious.” Mures continued to laugh.

  Válde ignored him in favor of Daigu, “Can you?”

  Daigu nodded.

  Válde took the man at his word. “We have seven mounts, but one is a cart horse,” he said.

  “We should get moving,” Gáral opined, his habitual impatience serving a purpose.

  “Four to share and the rest on their own,” Válde said. The corners of his mouth then crept up into a smile. “Daigu, you should consider riding with someone.”

  Beartu stepped forth to pat the beleaguered man on the back. “I’ll take him.”

  Daigu grimaced but followed Beartu.

  Without comment, both Gáral and Herko mounted their own horses.

  Válde was not surprised by this. There was no love between Herko and Edo or Feles.

  “Come, Redde,” Mures said, “I’d like to ride with someone who’s not a bore.” He squinted mockingly at Edo.

  Válde would once again have to ride the cart nag. Gods help him if the horse could not keep up with the others.

  “We will switch whenever you wish,” Feles said to Válde, giving both Gáral and Herko a long withering look.

  “Which direction do we travel?” Redde asked.

  “North, and then east,” Válde said, flicking the reins.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  BÁVVÁL’S FUR-EDGED SLEEVE CAUGHT the lip of the plate before him, catapulting food into the air. The soft cheeses and ripe fruit landed with a wet thud upon the dais, the chair, and his lap. Three acolytes hurried to assist the High Priest, but their rushed and clumsy efforts only created more of a mess.

  “Áigin,” Bávvál shouted above the clucking of concerned priests and servants. “Áigin.”

  The man materialized beside Bávvál like a wraith. He was too thin, too tall, and too quiet—a scarecrow masquerading as a man.

  Bávvál shoved the steward who wiped the red stain from his robe. The hapless man toppled backward, knocking over a bishop who had strayed too close in his fawning efforts.

  “Too many hands and not enough thought,” Áigin said.

  The acerbic comment infuriated Bávvál with its astuteness. “Bring the rider to me,” he commanded, fending off the ministrations of those around him.

  “Yes, my Vijns,” Áigin answered, bowing, before disappearing into the buzzing crowd.

  Bávvál batted away the last probing hand. “Leave me alone,” he barked as he shrugged off his soiled garment.

  The milling crowd parted, and Áigin took a direct path to the High Priest, his boney arm supporting a soldier covered in filth from head to foot.

  The shambling man in Áigin’s care held a stained burlap satchel. Hands flew up to cover nose and mouth. Some in the gathered cortege turned away in disgust as the pair crossed the hall.

  “The gods thank you,” Bávvál offered the formal greeting.

  “As I thank the gods,” the bedraggled soldier said, his voice shaking. The pitiful man attempted to kneel, teetering forward dangerously. Áigin grabbed hold of the soldier to act as a counter-balance.

  “Stand . . .” Bávvál motioned, encountering as he did the wafting onslaught of rotting flesh. He instantly covered his nose and mouth with one hand, indicating with the other for the soldier to hurry.

  “My Vijns, I am Jonsá. Soldier in the western regiment,” the rider said.

  Breathing through his mouth, so as not to have the putrid odor invade his nose again, Bávvál said, “Give me your news.”

  “Those Brethren too craven to fight, who sought to escape, have been slain by our army,” Jonsá recited, unwrapping the bundle he carried. “They’ve been punished by the gods through the righteous order of the High Priest who commands the army of Believers.”

  Jonsá held two severed heads aloft. Bávvál drew back. The stench was even more overpowering now that the decaying flesh twisted in the air.

  “I have traveled west with this news and return now to honor you, my Vijns,” the soldier said, placing the heads at the High Priest’s feet.

  Bávvál flapped his hand at the closest man in his retinue. “Take the heads, Rikkar!”

  The startled counselor flinched as if he had been hit.

  “Put them on the pikes outside, beside Dávgon’s skull,” Bávvál said with muffled gusto. “A leader should not be without his disciples. Even in death.”

  Rikkar took an uncertain step forward, his normally proud face filled with loathing as he bent over. Carefully he picked up the gruesome tribute by the hair, holding the heads far away from his pristine robes. As he turned sharply on his heels, the vile relics slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a gut-turning splat.

  Áigin tossed the soiled burlap from the soldier’s hands to Rikkar’s feet. The counselor glared at him, then lifted the hem of his robe and prodded the heads onto the cloth with a reluctant toe. He raised the burlap corners, tied them together, and, this time, mindfully carried the rotting heads away.

  “The people and the gods know their will has been done,” Bávvál said, endeavoring to restore some decorum as he settled back in his chair.

  “And what of the Piijkij who fled with the Jápmea female?” he asked.

  Jonsá cast a worried glance to Áigin. “I do not know, my Vijns.”

  Weariness hung upon Niilán like a second skin. They had covered more than ten leagues a day in less than half as many days. And, while the foot soldiers, like himself, looked like dirt-covered beggars, Niilán could not help but notice with resentment that his commander and the mounted soldiers appeared fresh and ready for action. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking that his group of men remained intact, then turned to face the looming gates of the Believers’ Stronghold.

  On the palisade, where banners had once flown, the pikes were crowned by rounded shapes. Even at this distance, they could not be mistaken for anything other than human heads. Niilán’s stomach knotted as the ranks of soldiers carried him forward toward the gruesome sentinels. He felt their unseeing eyes staring, judging him for his part. Niilán lowered his own eyes to watch the dusty footfalls of the soldier in front of him until the whispers and pointing of the advanced ranks drew his reluctant gaze upward.

  “The Vijns put the last of the Brethren’s heads on pikes.” The men on either side of Niilán passed on the news with unwarranted satisfaction. But he could not do the same, not when the voices in his head condemned him.

  Those marching in front came to an abrupt halt, followed by a ripple of disgruntled shouts and invectives. Niilán shifted back to avoid the scuffle, and felt a soft squish beneath his heel. He lifted up his dung-smeared boot to confirm what he already knew. Shit coated the cracks and tears of the old worn hide. Niilán cursed the mounted phalanx, their privilege, their rank, and their tender feet in kid-leather boots.

  Pushing continued on all sides as soldiers raised their voices.

  “Get off my foot you fat moose.”

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “I just want to sit down.”

  Niilán disregarded the comments and questions, intent on staring daggers into the straight backs of the mounted soldiers with the Ten Stars of the Bear emblazoned on their cloaks. If he’d had enough saliva to spit, he would have.

  Then, far up in the ranks, Niilán heard a voice shouting for quiet.

  “It’s the High Priest,” someone said, repeating what someone else had said, heedless of merit or truth.

  From where he stood, just inside the wooden palisades, Niilán could see nothing that gave him any useful information. Just horses’ asses and the backs of men’s heads. Then the mounted soldiers broke ranks, allowing a small figure dressed in deep blue to come into view. Halfway up the bridge to the defense tower, the figure held up his hands, his words lost in the din.

  A few men dared to shush the others. Niilán left them to their futile task.

  When quiet finally descended, whatever opening remarks had
been made were lost forever and they were none the wiser. Then, like the rush of fire come to life, voices from the front reached Niilán.

  Those around him rushed to join in at the tail end, saying, “As we thank the gods.” Like good soldiers, Niilán thought, failing to make the same effort himself. Instead, he focused on the High Priest ahead, willing his ears to catch some part of what was said. He thought he heard praise for their actions as soldiers and true Believers.

  The crowd surrounding Niilán shouted their support of whatever had been declared but unheard this far back. The soldiers began chanting, “Juhka. Juhka.” Their faces were alive with anticipation. Then the chant turned physical as men jostled their way forward. Niilán’s attention, however, was drawn to a tall, gaunt man with greying hair to his shoulders and a soldier’s yellow tunic. The man stood out like a scarecrow among the clergy who were clustered like bright, plump berries.

  As Áigin wove through the restless foot soldiers, the bright yellow of his new tunic stood out among their dirty, faded uniforms, an oversight he now regretted. He had but a moment to consider his error when the pushing and shoving of unruly men sent him sprawling to the ground. Áigin swore loudly as shuffling feet surrounded him. The swirling dust coated and choked him. Then as quickly as he had fallen, helping hands brought him back to his feet again.

  Now almost as filthy as the other soldiers, Áigin reprised the role he had intended to play. “Many thanks, friends,” he said to the men who steadied him. “My legs won’t carry me much farther.”

  “We’re glad to see the end of ten leagues a day,” two of the soldiers commiserated. The agent murmured his agreement, all the while observing the other men around him and their conversations. Grousing and complaints echoed everywhere, but nothing spoke of sedition or unrest. However, the juhka had yet to flow. Strong drink made the weak bold and the wary honest.

  As the sun dipped to the horizon and silhouettes lengthened across the Stronghold’s palisades, Áigin moved about, ducking in and out of groups of men. Sometimes he poured the juhka, listening to bawdy jokes. More often than not, good-natured ribbing mixed with complaints about worn feet, aching backs, and lack of food. But that was nothing new in a soldier’s life or outlook.