the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  If that had been all, it would have been terrible enough, but it was only the beginning. They saw other things that morning, things so unspeakable that for the rest of her life Marrah could never think of them without shuddering. Shambah hadn't just burned; it had been attacked and looted.

  "Sweet Goddess Earth!" the captain of the raspa cried. "What terrible curse is this?" No one answered. Akoah and her younger aunt sat down on the ground, put their hands over their eyes, and began to moan. Arang hid his face in Marrah's dress. Cyen and Nacah stood side by side, staring at their city like people turned to stone. As for Marrah, the sight of Shambah in flames was worse than her darkest vision.

  She should have turned and run; they all should have, but they were in shock. Marrah took one step forward, then another. The others followed, and soon they were standing in what was left of the city. In front of them several streets ran past charred holes that had once been homes. A little while ago these same streets had been clean and smooth, paved with small white stones. The people of Shambah had set each stone carefully in the sandy earth, arranging thousands of them in intricate patterns. You could still see seashells and butterflies and flowers, but now, like everything else, they were dirty black.

  Dazed, they wandered through the ashes. There were signs of struggle everywhere: heaps of broken household goods thrown in smoldering piles; headless statues; a temple robe slashed to rags and half burned, stained on one side as if someone had tried to douse the flames with a jug of wine. The poor dogs of the city had been killed just as they'd been killed in the northern village: throats slit, heads bashed in. Someone had even tossed a litter of puppies on one of the fires. But there was worse, much worse.

  As they walked toward the center, they began to see human bodies. The people of Shambah had died horribly. Old men and women lay in the streets, hacked to pieces. Babies with smashed skulls had been thrown aside like so much trash. There was no sign of the younger women or children except for the bodies of a few young girls, but when Marrah saw what had happened to them she clasped her hands over Arang's eyes and made him turn away. Their bodies were naked, and a great sacrilege had been committed on them. There was not even any name for what had been done to those girls, but it was terrible beyond description and it had killed them.

  Cyen and Nacah lost their minds when they saw it. They walked from body to body, calling out the names of people they'd loved and pleading with the dead to return. "Don't go to the Mother without us!" they cried. "Don't leave us." Picking up babies, they cradled them in their arms, wiped the blood and ashes off their faces, and wept uncontrollably.

  When Marrah saw the slaughtered children, she came to her senses. "Come away," she begged. "Let your dead lie where they are. There's nothing any of us can do for them." She tugged at the men's clothes and grabbed their arms, and this time the terrified sailors helped her, but Cyen and Nacah pulled away.

  "We have to lay out our relatives," they insisted. "We have to put their bodies on the Towers of Silence so the Bird Goddess can accept their souls." They bent down, picked up the body of an old woman, and began to stagger toward the forest. "This is the body of Queen Aimbah," they cried. "How can we let her lie untended?"

  "In the name of the sweet Goddess," Nacah pleaded, "at least let us put my grandmother to rest."

  And so, hoping that after they laid Queen Aimbah's body on a tower, Cyen and Nacah would consent to return to the boat, Marrah and Arang and the three sailors followed them to the place where the Shambans laid out their dead and came on the worst horror of all: the young men.

  There were perhaps a hundred, and they'd not died easily. Most had been strangled, but the best and strongest had been spitted alive on the posts of the Towers of Silence.

  When they saw the massacre, Cyen and Nacah gave a cry of terror and let Queen Aimbah's body fall to the ground. There was no more talk of funeral rites. They just ran back across the smoking rubble of Shambah toward the sea, but it was already too late.

  As they passed the field of trampled barley, Marrah heard a pounding. She looked up and saw three beasts charging out of the forest. The beasts had short manes, powerful legs, glittering eyes, and bodies covered with shaggy fur. On their backs sat naked men — tall pale men with yellow hair that gleamed in the sun like dead bone.

  "Run!" she screamed, but they were already running as fast as they could. The horses thundered over the field, kicking up clods of dirt. As they drew closer, one of the riders let out an earsplitting cry, raised his bow, and took aim at the captain of the raspa. An arrow whistled past Marrah's ear, and she saw the captain suddenly leap into the air like a wounded deer and fall to the ground. In the moment of horror before they were all overtaken, she saw another warrior bend down and swoop up Nacah by the hair. The man grinned and made a slashing movement with his knife, and Nacah screamed. The man screamed too, but it was a scream of triumph. In his hand he held something terrible spattered with blood.

  The third warrior rode past them and wheeled around. His beast reared, and Marrah saw two powerful legs and two great hoofs coming down on her. Screaming, she turned and ran, and the man pursued her, herding her toward the edge of the field like a cow. Her breath burned in her chest, but she kept on running. Every time she tried to turn, he cut her off; every time she went one way, he was there before her. It was like some kind of terrible game. At last, totally exhausted, she stumbled, and as she fell, he bent down, caught her by the hair, and jerked her into the air. She smelled the rank odor of the man and saw his grinning face, painted with blood and ashes and yellow lines. His eyes were the same color as Stavan's, but they were hard and contemptuous.

  She yelled and flailed out with both hands, and her nails scraped against something. A thin line of blood appeared on the man's cheek. For an instant he looked surprised. Then he gave a roar of anger, threw her to the ground, leaped off his horse, and began to beat and kick her. She tried to ward off the blows, but there was no way she could defend herself. Crying and almost senseless, she lay face down in the mud as he struck her again and again. When he was finished, he turned her over, and spat on her. Then he raised his knife, slipped the blade under the edge of her dress, and cut it from neck to knee in one swift movement so that she lay naked in front of him.

  She put her hands over her breasts and tried to move away, but he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her flat, knocking the wind out of her. She lay there, panting and terrified. She had no idea what was coming next except that she was soon going to die. Later she found out that instant death wasn't usually the fate of young women taken in war, but mercifully she didn't know what the nomads did to their female captives.

  She could see now that the man wasn't naked after all but wore a leather loincloth. A string of wolf teeth hung around his neck, mixed with other things that looked like they might have once been temple adornments. Most of the ornaments were clay or copper, but here and there a bit of gold glinted. Like Stavan he was tattooed with blue marks, but they covered his whole chest and part of his face. His hands were spattered with blood, and there was more blood matted in his hair. He looked fierce and terrible, like some kind of animal that had just attacked and eaten its prey.

  "Let me go!" she screamed.

  The man smiled at her in an ugly way, exposing a row of uneven teeth. He reached down and started to unhook the wide leather belt that held his quiver and scabbard, but before his fingers found the bone buckle, one of his companions rode up in a spray of mud and a thud of hooves. Pointing to Marrah, the man cried something in a harsh, guttural language that sounded like Hansi, although she couldn't understand it. The warrior who'd been about to take off his belt looked annoyed. He said something to the rider — something angry by the sound of it — grabbed Marrah by the arm, and pulled her to her feet. Still grumbling, he pulled a leather thong out of his hair, jerked her wrists behind her back, and tied them so tightly she cried out in pain. Then he put the flat of his hand on the back of her neck and shoved her in the direction of
the newcomer. Bruised and sobbing, she stumbled forward, scarcely able to see where she was going.

  The second man was carrying a long spear that reached almost to the ground. Putting the point in the middle of Marrah's back, he forced her to walk in front of him. Every step she took was agony, but with the possible exception of a cracked rib nothing seemed broken. As she limped across the field, she saw Nacah, Cyen, the captain, and one of the sailors sprawled in the mud. All four looked dead. She felt sick with grief and terror, but at least Arang was nowhere in sight and neither was Akoah. Perhaps they'd escaped somehow. The thought gave her hope.

  The rider herded her toward the forest and down a path that had probably once led to the place where the people of Shambah washed their clothes. Whenever she slowed down, he grunted a rough command and prodded her between the shoulder blades. After a while, she smelled smoke — not the smoke of Shambah but the smoke of a campfire. Someone was cooking meat. The horse must have smelled the smoke too because it made a strange, high-pitched sound, and an answering sound came from up ahead.

  Suddenly, without warning, a woman started screaming. The scream wasn't like anything Marrah had ever heard. She froze, paralyzed by the horrible, high-pitched cries. The rider grunted and prodded her impatiently. She looked back and saw him regarding her with indifference. The terrible screams evidently meant nothing to him. He seemed used to them.

  She limped on, and the screams stopped just as quickly as they'd begun. They crossed the stream on a fine wooden bridge, built no doubt by some Shamban carpenter. The rails had been carved with goddess signs; brightly painted flowers and vines twined in a triangle of fertility, and small, pretty butterflies fluttered along above the water. Marrah stared at it as if she'd never seen a bridge before. Already it seemed to belong to another world.

  They started along the opposite bank, following a smooth, white-shelled path. After a while they came to a clearing. Once it had been planted with chick-peas, but now it was so thrashed up it looked like a muddy pond. A fire was burning in the center of the trampled space, and a dozen or so warriors sat near it watching meat roast on a wooden spit. Their horses were hobbled nearby, peacefully munching what bits of bean vines were left.

  The most chilling thing about the scene was how normal it looked. The men seemed relaxed and even slightly bored, as if the atrocities they had just committed were all in a day's work. Some of them were sharpening their weapons; others were talking; one even appeared to be taking a nap. Heaped up on a blanket beside the sleeping man were things he and his companions had stolen from the city — gold and copper temple adornments, mostly, but other things too: mirrors, knives, woodworking tools, cups, fine linen skirts, fishhooks, a child's doll with a clay face and a red skirt, even several links of sausages. There were clay wine jars scattered around the clearing — no doubt also taken from Shambah, since most displayed a brightly painted butterfly stamped on one side. It was common to reuse wine jars — a good one could last as long as twenty years — but two-thirds of these were broken, and as Marrah watched, a warrior finished off the wine in another and threw it over his shoulder.

  When the men saw Marrah, several of them got to their feet, smiling in the same nasty way as the man who had beat her, but the rider said something gruff to them and they sat back down looking disappointed. The man herded her over to the booty at spear point and indicated that she should stand still on pain of being run through. Then he wheeled around and rode out of the clearing.

  She stood absolutely still for a few minutes, afraid he might come back and kill her. Her whole body ached and she was trembling with terror, but she was also so angry she could hardly think. No one had ever hit her before; no one had so much as ever raised a hand to her. She glared at the warriors, who were paying no attention to her, feeling humiliated by her nakedness. Ordinarily she didn't mind being without clothes in hot weather — in Shara she swam naked in the ocean all summer — but these men had turned nakedness into something that made her feel vulnerable.

  She examined the bruises on her arms and thought of how these men, who were sitting so convivially around the fire chatting with one another, had burned Shambah, massacred its people, killed Nacah and Cyen and the two sailors, and done the Goddess only knew what to Akoah and Arang; and for the first time in her life she knew what it was to want revenge. If they'd touched her brother, if they'd so much as harmed a hair on his head, she'd —

  What would she do? She stood still, paralyzed by rage and fear and appalled by the fierceness of her own hatred. The beastmen had called some sort of evil into the world that could infect even peaceful people. They were frightening enough in themselves, but equally frightening was the idea that she, who had always worshiped the Goddess Earth and kept Her commandments, could long to kill them.

  The men laughed at some joke and she turned away, repelled by the sight of them. Slowly, step by step, she started to move toward the forest, hoping none of the warriors would notice her until she was close enough to the trees to make a run for it, but they were as sharp-eyed as hawks. She hadn't gone more than ten paces before one of them jumped to his feet, came over, grabbed her by the wrists, and pulled her to the ground. She sat down so hard her stomach turned over and her teeth slammed together with a click. Putting the tip of his knife under her throat, he uttered a quick, harsh command. Marrah didn't have to speak his language to know what he meant. She nodded to reassure him that she understood.

  The man grinned a long, slow grin, as if it pleased him to have such power over her. Reaching down, he grabbed her pubic hair and pulled it so hard she yelled. Then he cut off a tuft, stuck it behind his ear, and sauntered back to his companions, who laughed and slapped him on the back as if this were a great joke.

  After that she sat still, not wanting to risk attracting their attention again. Soon the rider who had left returned with another rider, a big man with long brown hair and a curly brown beard. The brown-bearded man wore a number of copper bracelets on his arms. Obviously he was someone of importance, because all the other warriors rose to their feet when they saw him coming, and even the sleeping man was kicked awake.

  Riding up to Marrah, he looked down at her thoughtfully. There was no greed or hatred in his eyes, only a kind of cool appraisal. He made a quick motion with his index finger, and one of the warriors instantly ran over, pulled her to her feet, and cut the leather thong, setting her hands free. The blood surged back to her wrists, stinging her fingers. The brown-bearded man pointed toward the forest.

  "Kashw?" he demanded.

  Marrah shook her head. The word was definitely Hansi or something like it, but it meant nothing to her. Stavan had only taught her a few things: "yes," "no," "it's a beautiful day," "I love you."

  The man looked disappointed, as if for some reason he had expected her to speak his language. He persisted, but she just kept shaking her head. Finally he gave up. Reaching into the pouch that hung from his war belt, he produced a gold bracelet and threw it at her. She tried to catch but missed, and the thin circle of gold fell spinning at her feet. She knew it was going to hurt to bend down and pick it up, but that was what she was expected to do, so she did. When she saw the bracelet up close, she gave an exclamation of surprise. It was the one Stavan had given her when they took their summer vows. The warrior who beat her must have stripped it off her arm while she was lying in the mud. She hadn't even missed it.

  "Votoah?" the man demanded, pointing first to the bracelet and then to her.

  "De." She nodded, offering him one of the few words of Hansi she knew. She hoped he was asking if the bracelet was hers because she'd said yes. She pointed to the pale band of skin on her upper arm where the bracelet had been for so many months. Slipping it over her wrist, she pushed it into place.

  Encouraged by the word de, the brown-bearded man let loose another barrage of incomprehensible questions. She shrugged and shook her head. At last he stopped trying to get her to understand. Pointing to the pile of booty, he said a few words to one o
f the warriors who were standing at a respectful distance, watching the whole interrogation. Then he turned, kicked his horse, and rode out of the clearing.

  Although she didn't understand what had happened until much later, she could tell immediately that the warriors were no longer treating her with contempt. The man who had put the knife under her chin and cut off her pubic hair came up to her with downcast eyes and said something that might have been an apology. Motioning for her to make herself comfortable on the blanket, he sorted through the loot, pulled out the best linen dress, and, instead of tossing it at her, handed it to her with a sort of half bow. The dress was the long kind that older, important priestesses often wore on ceremonial occasions. Embroidered with Goddess signs and bordered with tiny blue beads made of clay, it must have been woven in the temple workshops of Shambah. As Marrah slipped it over her head, she wondered if perhaps it had belonged to Queen Aimbah. The linen was cool against her bruised flesh, and she settled into it gratefully.

  But the warrior wasn't finished dressing her. Next he selected a belt, a tunic, a cape, and a white towel of the sort priestesses used to wrap delicate ceremonial objects in. As if that weren't enough, he then went over to one of the horses, opened a leather carrying bag, and drew out a pair of boots and some matted fur leggings. Marrah stared at the pile of clothes in amazement. Surely he didn't expect her to put all of them on, not in such hot weather.

  But he did; in fact, he insisted. Since there was no way of knowing what would happen if she refused, she climbed reluctantly into the outfit, which was warm enough to carry her through a winter in Xori, only managing to hang onto her sandals when it became clear that the boots were much too large. When she had finished rolling up the ends of the leggings so they wouldn't drag on the ground, the man motioned for her to drape the towel over her head so that it covered her hair and part of her face, which was ridiculous, but once again she obeyed. By the time she was dressed to his satisfaction, she felt like someone costumed for one of the comic roles in the Snake Festival.