by Mary Mackey
At the sight of the waiting stakes, the youngest slave — a plump, dark-haired Tcvali — fell to her knees, dragging the others down with her. For a few moments, the women clung together in the dirty snow in a clumsy heap, calling on Zulike to help them, but — as Marrah well knew — Zulike was long beyond helping anyone.
At the sound of Zulike's name, Changar stopped and turned around. For a moment he stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the women with a slightly disgusted expression on his face, as if to say, Why are you females making so much trouble? Then he tossed the rope to the guards and indicated with a wave of his hand that they should pull the slaves to their feet and tie them to the stakes. Soon the nine women were bound and gagged and had taken their places around Zuhan's tomb.
As soon as Changar was satisfied that they weren't going to cause any more trouble, he pointed to the drummers, who took up the beat twice as fast as before. Again the crowd parted, forming a long aisle, men on one side, women on the other. In the distance, Marrah saw three black horses plodding slowly through the tall grasses. At first they were only formless blotches on the horizon, coming from a great distance like the dark clouds of an approaching storm, but as they drew closer, she could see they were pulling Zuhan's funeral sledge. Behind Zuhan, Zulike rode in lesser state, dragged toward the grave by two brown mares.
Even in death, the Great Chief had bodyguards. There were more than a dozen, all strong young warriors with painted faces, filed teeth, and clanking copper ornaments. They rode in single file on the best horses the tribe possessed, wearing splendid red hoods that stood out against the pale sky like tongues of flame. Each held a long spear or a dagger ready, as if death itself might stage a surprise attack at the last minute.
But they were nothing compared to Vlahan. Dressed all in white, he rode Zuhan's pale gelding with the air of a man who had triumphed over everything worth triumphing over. His head was bare and his face smeared with ashes, but his eyes were so cold and arrogant that even the drummers paused and stared in awe as he passed. Marrah expected to see Arang riding behind him, but there was no one else, only an aisle of crushed grass to show where the horses had passed. She looked down the aisle and saw the lopsided Hansi tents strewn along the edge of the river. Pale gray smoke rose from one or two cooking fires. Arang had been left behind.
Even she had to admit it was a stroke of genius. The new Great Chief of the Hansi was back in camp with the old people and the newborn babies. Vlahan wouldn't have to worry about him screaming when he saw his sister tied to the stake or doing something desperate when he saw Changar slipping the bowstring around her neck. It was the new chief's guardian who was bringing the old chief to his grave, and not just any guardian but the illegitimate son of Zuhan himself, dressed like a god and as proud as one. Anyone could see at a glance who really ruled the Twenty Tribes.
When Vlahan reached the tomb, he dismounted and handed the white gelding over to Changar, who killed and bled it with one quick swipe of his dagger, but from the moment Marrah saw that Arang wasn't going to be present she lost all hope and stopped caring. Let Vlahan strut and Changar chant; let the warriors lower Zuhan and Zulike into the tomb; let them kill half a dozen more horses and drink blood from the skull cup; let them smoke hemp, drink kersek, shoot at targets, throw their daggers, sing until they were hoarse, drum until they were numb, and beat their spears on the ground until the shafts split. She didn't belong to their world anymore. She belonged to the Mother.
The day passed. The nomads sang, drank kersek, and sang some more. The drums went on beating as the funeral games were played out and the victors crowned. Changar recited an endless ballad about Zuhan, and every man in the tribe added a verse. At midday there was a feast of roasted mutton, and later bowls of horse-gut stew were passed around by the women. As the warriors ate, the sky above Zuhan's tomb clouded over and turned the color of curdled milk. All the while, Marrah stood proudly. Sometimes she looked at Dalish, sometimes at Stavan, sometimes at Akoah, and sometimes at the slaves, but she no longer struggled. At first she felt brave but gradually the fear of death rose in her again, crushing her chest and making her mouth drier than the wool gag. The moment when the sacrifices would be made was drawing closer. Would it come now as Changar stepped forward and draped a long string of wolf teeth around Vlahan's neck? Would it come as the drummers began to pound out a different beat?
Suddenly, she knew exactly when she and the others would be sacrificed: not while the drums beat or the men danced but at sunset. The nomads believed that at sunset Han went back to paradise to round up the stars and drive them out into the night sky. When Han went, she and Stavan and Dalish and Akoah and the slaves would go with him.
As if mocking her fear, a breeze sprang up, blowing the clouds south. The hems of the nomad's capes trembled, and the tails of the dead horses staked around Zuhan's grave fluttered. The wind was so strong it picked up dry snow from the top of the mound and scattered it like sand. Marrah closed her eyes as the snow blew into her face, stinging her cheeks. When she opened them again, the sky overhead was clearing fast. Soon the sun appeared, low and heavy, hanging just above the western horizon.
At the sight of the setting sun, the drummers suddenly stopped, and for a few moments everyone froze in place. Then Changar turned and bowed to the sun. "Great Han," he cried, "we salute you!"
"Great Han," the warriors responded, "we praise you!"
"God of our fathers..."
"And of our grandfathers..."
"Confounder of our enemies, who bathes the world in His blood..."
"At sunrise and sunset..."
Sure enough, the sky was turning blood red even as they spoke. Marrah watched in horrified fascination as the sun sank lower and lower. Above the glowing ball, two long narrow clouds lay pointed at one another like dagger blades. Behind them, streaks of vermilion shot into the vast heavens above the steppes, fading to the color of molten gold as they traveled east.
Changar had lifted his ocher-stained hands over his head so the red light of the setting sun turned his palms redder still. "Take your servant Zuhan to paradise," he cried. Suddenly he threw back his head and howled like a wolf, and the nomads howled with him. The cry of the Hansi wolf pack rose above Zuhan's grave, as lonely and terrible as death itself. The sound turned Marrah's bones to ice, but she had only a few seconds to stand there shuddering at the unearthly noise. Before the last yelp was out of the warriors' mouths, Changar grabbed the nearest bow, bent it, and loosened the string in one easy motion. Wrapping the ends around his hands, he strode over to the little dark-haired Tcvali slave and strangled her as quickly and matter-of-factly as a cook wringing a bird's neck.
If Marrah could have screamed, she would have, but the gag choked her into silence. The crowd cheered, and Changar stepped aside and motioned for someone to cut the body loose. A warrior came forward, a tall man with black hair and a. horse tattooed on his right cheek. Marrah recognized him as the tribe's best tracker, a man named Iktahan. Iktahan drew out his dagger and cut the cords that bound the Tcvali slave to the stake. For an instant the dead woman stood upright, swaying a little. Then her body pitched forward and she fell into the grave, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. She landed just to the right of Zulike and lay there in a heap with one arm draped across her face as if she were still begging for mercy.
"Happy bride!" Changar cried.
The drummers drummed, the crowd broke into the wedding song, and someone struck a pair of copper finger cymbals together. The nomad women linked arms and began to dance the circle dance they had performed at Marrah's wedding. Soon several small children were dancing with them.
As Changar moved on to the next victim, Marrah shut her eyes. She had seen enough. She felt sickened and completely powerless. They were all helpless; they could do nothing to defend themselves. They would all die, one by one, with Changar's bowstring around their necks.
But if her eyes had lids, her ears didn't. No matter how hard she tried, she c
ouldn't shut out the sounds. The horrible wolf howls were repeated, and more bodies hit the stone floor of Zuhan's tomb. When she looked again, seven of the stakes that had held the slaves were empty. Stavan must have witnessed the murders because there were bloody marks on his chest where he had strained against the ropes. Dalish stood like a statue — perhaps she had put herself into some kind of trance — but poor Akoah was coming to.
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes and lifted her head. Seven slaves were already down there with Zuhan, and Changar was about to send an eighth. As the diviner approached the next victim, Akoah realized what was happening and began to scream. The noise she made wasn't like anything Marrah had ever heard before: it was inhuman and terrible, and all the fear in the world was in it.
Changar stopped with his hands poised in midair and turned toward Akoah. He had clearly intended to strangle all nine slaves before he sacrificed the concubines, but her wailing annoyed him. Sparing the eighth slave for the moment, he made his way to the other side of the tomb. As he walked, the wind blew at his wolf pelts and tossed his gray hair back like a horse's mane. His white-rimmed eyes and blood-red face made him look like a predatory beast, but the expression on his face was a human one. He was irritated.
As soon as the crowd saw Changar move in Akoah's direction, they knew he had decided to sacrifice her early. The drummers took up a new rhythm, and the women stopped dancing and began to sing.
Happy bride, happy bride,
you'll breathe the air of paradise.
Rejoice, rejoice!
But something was wrong. The song had a ragged edge; some of the women were off key, others seemed to have forgotten the words, and still others suddenly stopped singing. Perhaps it was the sight of Changar that made them stop. As he walked toward Akoah, he began to do strange things. First he hesitated; then, for no obvious reason, he stumbled. He steadied himself by catching hold of one of the empty stakes and stood for a moment looking puzzled. He passed his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. Then Akoah screamed again, and he turned on her as a man might turn on a barking dog.
"Quiet!" he shouted, but poor Akoah was past taking orders from him or anyone else. At me sound of his voice she began to throw herself from side to side like a woman possessed, wailing and pleading at the top of her lungs. Her black hair swung in a snarl; her eyes were white and half rolled back in her head; her lips were bloody where she had bitten them in panic. Marrah had once seen a rabbit cornered by a fox; the rabbit had screamed like Akoah was screaming, only Akoah's screams were worse because they made sense.
"Don't let him kill me!" she begged. "Please, don't let him kill me! I don't want to die! Help me! Marrah, help me!"
When she heard Akoah calling to her, Marrah went half crazy. She pulled at the leather thongs until they cut her wrists, but the thongs held and her cries were lost in the wool gag. There was nothing she could do except watch.
In the end, Akoah's death was mercifully fast. Changar strode over to her, slipped the bowstring around her throat, and yanked his hands quickly in opposite directions. Akoah's head jerked back, and she made one last sound, small and high like a wounded bird. Then she quivered all over and slumped forward, and for a moment there was silence.
Marrah closed her eyes. She was crying, but she hardly noticed her own tears. The sickness and grief inside her were so great that they swallowed everything, even her fear. May her soul find peace, she thought. May Akoah sleep with the Mother. She thought of Hoza and the Womb of Silence, the bones of her ancestors, and Mother Asha's blessing. Then she thought of Zuhan's muddy grave, and the terror took hold of her again. Soon she would hear the sound of Akoah's body falling on the stones, and shortly after that it would be her turn.
Determined at least to face her death straight on, she opened her eyes and discovered to her surprise that Changar had still not given the signal to cut Akoah loose. He was standing beside the corpse, looking at it in a strange way as if perhaps he had regrets. He scowled and blinked like some night animal that had ventured out in the daylight. A warrior was standing at a respectful distance, dagger in hand, waiting for the signal to send Akoah after the others, but the signal wasn't coming. A few moments passed and Changar continued to stand next to Akoah.
Something strange was going on.
The nomads began to whisper to one another. The drummers stopped drumming, the women stopped singing, the warriors stopped pounding their spears, and everyone waited for Changar to get on with the ceremony. Finally when it was clear that he wasn't going to give the signal, Vlahan rose to his feet. As he did so, his white cloak caught the wind and billowed out behind him like a sail. He looked fierce and commanding, every inch a Great Chief from the end of his red beard to the tips of his leather boots, but there was an odd expression in his eyes, one Marrah had never seen in all the weeks she had been forced to share his bed. It wasn't fear exactly, it was uncertainty. Vlahan blinked a few times and squinted like a man who had an irritating bit of sand under his eyelid. Possibly he was going to say something, but Marrah never learned what it was, because just as he opened his mourn, Changar bellowed like a gored bull. "Help!" he yelled.
At the sound of the word, the drummers threw aside their drums and leapt to their feet. For a few moments everything was chaos as warriors went for their daggers, women screamed, and children shrieked in terror. But before anyone could rush to Changar's aid, something amazing happened. The diviner turned his face toward the setting sun. For less time than it took a heart to beat, he stood there blinking up at the blood-red clouds. All at once, he threw his hands over his face.
"I can't see!" he howled. Taking a step backward, he stumbled. He grabbed for the stake to steady himself and caught the sleeve of Akoah's tunic. The material held; then there was a ripping sound, the sleeve slowly parted from the tunic, and he was left with a handful of white felt. He made another desperate grab for Akoah and missed. For a moment he tottered on the slippery edge of Zuhan's grave, his arms flailing in the air. Then he lost his footing and fell in.
After that everything happened at once. As Changar fell, other people started screaming that they too were blind and the whole crowd went mad. Women wailed, fell to their knees, and covered their faces with their shawls. Warriors shouted that the sun had gone out. When they tried to run, they stumbled into each other. In their panic they trampled their own wives and children and pushed one another into Zuhan's grave.
If Marrah hadn't been tied to the stake, she would have gone into the grave with them, but the leather thongs were strong and the knots held. She stood like a woman lashed to the mast of a small boat as the storm of violence raged around her, and as she watched the sightless nomads trampling one another, she understood: Hiknak had put the powder of invisibility into the kersek!
But that wasn't all Hiknak had done, for as Marrah stood there, unable to move, Hiknak herself appeared. Her blond hair was braided back out of her face, and she had thrown away her shawl and hiked up her tunic so she could run like a man. There was a look of triumph in her pale gray eyes — no, not triumph, ecstasy. Hiknak was a woman filled with the ecstasy of revenge. In her right hand, she held one of Vlahan's daggers. If Vlahan could have seen her, he might have screamed even louder than he was already screaming, for if ever a woman looked ready to send a man back to the Mother, it was Hiknak. The only thing that saved him was Zuhan's tomb. He was on one side of the pit, caught up in the panicked crowd, while Hiknak was on the other. If she could have got to him, he would have been a dead man, but she couldn't, so she used his dagger to cut Marrah free instead, and then she freed Stavan and Dalish.
As soon as they could move, they ran for their lives with Hiknak leading the way. By then the crowd on their side of the grave had thinned out, so it was possible to avoid the stumbling warriors. Later, Marrah was to marvel at how invisible they were at that moment. No one raised an alarm; no one came after them; not a head so much as turned in their direction as they fled into the tall grass.
Stavan grabbed a bow and a quiver from one of the fallen warriors, she picked up a dagger, and Dalish made off with a bow and a spear.
Hiknak had seen to everything. There were horses waiting for them, saddled and ready to ride; fast lean horses, some of the best in the herd. Stavan waited for Marrah, Hiknak, and Dalish to mount. Then he was up too, kicking his stallion in the ribs, and they were riding around the great herd with the cold wind biting their faces and the pounding of the hooves in their ears.
"Arang!" Marrah cried, and they turned toward the camp, scattering horses and cattle.
The sentries had been given kersek too. When they heard the sound of five riders coming up fast, they ran for safety, tripping over their own feet and bumping into the beasts they'd been set to guard. Only one had enough presence of mind to throw a spear in their direction, but it fell harmlessly, and they left him behind, screaming of betrayal and stabbing at thin air.
As the Hansi tents drew closer, Marrah saw that the camp was practically deserted. Only a few very old women milled around in panic, their brown shawls flapping in the wind. A few of the guards who had been left to watch over Arang were stumbling from tent to tent, trying to raise an alarm, but everyone of fighting age was blind. On the edge of camp, half a dozen fierce-looking warriors were riding in wild circles screaming threats and yelling war cries that would have frozen Marrah's blood if they'd been able to see her. As she and the others galloped past, two of the armed men collided with each other, and their horses reared, throwing them to the ground. Marrah thought of how hard the priestesses of Nar would have laughed at the sight.
Into the camp they rode, scattering fires and sending the old women scurrying for cover. Zuhan's tent was still pitched in the same place, and Arang was standing outside. He had on a warm cape, stout boots, and a pair of winter leggings. There were two bundles on the ground beside him, several bows, and three water skins neatly filled and tapped shut. Marrah couldn't help thinking he looked like a traveler waiting for a boat.