Helghul, her mind bawled over and over. But she didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t have full recall. She searched her memories, panicking to understand. Her Marcus-brain was scorched by the sight and feel of him.
The conquering foreigner stopped in front of Sartaña, and he and the priestess met face to face for the first time. Not trusting her legs to hold her, she remained rooted to her seat as she wondered: What will he do? Will he murder me here? Endless gruesome scenarios played over in her head in the mere seconds it took for him to speak. He bent forward, his face only inches from hers. She felt the heat of his foul breath on her skin.
“You do not rise to greet your new king … Marcus?” Katari hissed in a low growl audible only to her. Sartaña was startled by the use of her spirit-name, and her mind was reeling. Her ancient Marcus-consciousness spoke to her then, more loudly than before.
Helghul, she heard again in her head. Katari’s was the first face, the first eyes in which that karmic energy had been recognized, stronger and more evil than ever. Marcus surmised that Helghul had also learned a great deal since the days in Atitala.
“Helghul,” Sartaña unwisely uttered, with far more strength and defiance than she felt. Her response unwittingly informed Katari that Sartaña also had memory. The warrior was startled by the unexpected recognition. He regrouped quickly and masked his concern with a scowl, displaying his jagged, filthy teeth. He stepped back and reached his gruesome spear forward, dangling the monstrous head next to her face, taunting her. Sartaña closed her eyes and shuddered involuntarily.
Katari, laughing, turned to address his warriors and the villagers, who had begun meekly emerging to witness the inevitable transition of power. He raised his hands high in the air, still holding his spear, and effortlessly summoned silence. He walked to a nearby stone, only slightly shorter and wider than he. It had a thick, perfectly honed hole all the way through, into which he spoke. His voice was amplified to every corner.
“Hear me citizens … you see your master is my plaything, your warriors are no more. I, Katari, claim this land, these people, and all within its bounds. My warriors will garner the spoils of war and choose homes and wives among you. There need be no more bloodshed. Your daughters may stay and the elders, but your sons will fend for themselves. No warrior here will raise the boy of another man, only to have him slit his throat in his sleep some day. Women, do not think that you will take your children and run, it will not be permitted. Those who attempt to leave or to resist will die a cruel and painful death as others have before them. Any male child within the city walls by sundown will be executed,” he commanded.
“Priestess, you may address your people. Choose your words wisely,” Katari said, turning to her. She understood and proudly rose to speak to her people, most of whom had now come out of their dwellings and were in a state of extreme distress.
Sartaña moved in front of the speaking stone. “My people, good citizens, the battle is over and we have come to this wretched end. It is time now to save your children, to save our city, and to accept our fate. Our guardians have been defeated. Let the violence end today. Bundle your sons; put them in the care of the capable older boys. We will pray that the Great Spirit protect them and carry them to the bosom of a sympathetic neighbor,” she called out, strong and steady in her urgings and seething silent hatred in her belly.
Suddenly a quick movement to her left drew her eye, and in an instant her calm dissolved. “Amaru, NO!” she cried, lunging too late.
In seconds the ten-year-old boy was cut down by an assault of spears from Katari’s guard. The macabre head of his father, still in the murderer’s grasp, jiggled and jerked in protest of the death of his would-be avenger and only son.
Sartaña screamed and ran to her child where he had fallen, three spears perpendicular to his crumpled body, cutting deep into his young flesh. Her headdress of yellow and purple feathers clattered noisily to the ground behind her, its fine gold bent and ruined. Thick, bloody strands of her hair were torn out by the weight of it and lay in the twisted mess.
“Amaru! NO!” she cried, crawling under his bleeding frame and pulling him into her lap as though she were cradling a newborn.
The boy was unable to speak or to focus, his eyes were wild with fear, and high-pitched squeals of agony escaped him. A small sword, not even a man-sized weapon, fell useless from his prepubescent hand to the dirt beside them. He writhed and twisted, pulling his right leg up to his belly; his left leg, obviously ignoring commands from his brain, remained limp and bent awkwardly in the dust. The wooden pillars protruding from his soft, young flesh swung and jerked as he moved, hitting against his mother as she frantically placed one hand to his cheek, trying to ease his suffering. Her other hand was pressed across his body to steady him against her and stop the flesh of his wounds being torn further by the protruding rods.
Moaning, tears poured from her. Her Marcus-brain was reeling and had no voice at all. In this dire moment there was no higher brain, no time for enlightened thinking; there was only survival and instinct. There was only the love of a mother and her child, a love-bond superior to and stronger than all others.
Suddenly his writhing and howls ceased. Amaru went limp in her arms, his young eyes staring, frozen in surprise, as his spirit was released. She fell, useless against her grief, and collapsed in anguish. In that moment she longed to die. Life was too cruel, too sad, and not worth living at all; first her mate and now her son. In the time it had taken the sun to cross the sky, her world had completely unraveled.
Sartaña prayed to join her son in death and was too overwhelmed to entertain the anger that tried to take hold of her. Her Marcus-voice broke through, reminding her that Amaru’s soul was safe and well, and that her people needed her guidance, but she couldn’t listen. The greatest part of her lay murdered in the dirt. Her pain was blinding and unbearable. Mercilessly, Katari bent behind her and whispered in her ear.
“The fool merely saved me the effort of the hunt.”
Without a second thought, a howling Sartaña raked her fingernails across the stubbly cheek unwisely close to hers. Katari jumped back, clubbing Sartaña in the face with the blunt end of his spear. The blow jolted her and sent blinding white sparks to the pain center of her brain. She splayed on her side, unconscious beneath the corpse of her boy. At least for the time being there was peace and respite from her pain.
Katari ordered them removed, wiping his stinging, bloody cheek with the back of his hand, his Helghul-brain fuming at her impudence. His hatred for Marcus was further ignited and burned profoundly. At that moment he began formulating his plan for how to best use his fellow Atitalan to his utmost benefit.
Helghul wondered about this reunion. What cosmic intervention and meaning did it have for him? What purpose did it serve? He was pleased but not surprised to have discovered Marcus in that place of spiritual importance—it was certain to be inhabited by an Emissary. The men, however, had not crossed paths since the night of the exodus, though he had often hoped they would. His last memory of Marcus was gleefully watching him ashore, whipped by the violent storm, frantically running and calling to Theron. He could still feel the triumph he had experienced as she had struggled against him and was prevented from joining her unworthy lover.
Helghul had met many other Emissaries in past lives, and he had recognized and manipulated them easily. He worked ruthlessly toward his own purpose: to further the Darkness and add doubt and fear to the world of man. To create chaos, to rule, and to dominate, dividing the people from one another and crushing the hopeful, positive energy of his fellow Atitalans.
Marcus having memory and recognizing him had been a surprise. Who would have given Marcus the memory potion? Certainly not White Elder. It was an act of defiance unexpected of an Emissary. The new revelation changed things for Helghul and made Marcus a more formidable enemy than the other Atitalans. Marcus could be a danger to him with his past-life memory and understanding. He must be carefully dealt with.
Katari had contemplated murdering the priestess and eliminating Marcus. But understanding the reincarnation process as he did, and knowing that Marcus could be reborn only to face him again and possibly have the upper hand in the next scenario, he decided instead to keep his foe captive and under his control.
Stone-at-Center entered an age of tyranny and servitude such as it had never known. Katari immediately settled into the palace. The rotting, severed head of the high priest was still attached to the new leader’s spear, which leaned carelessly disregarded in the corner of the very room where the deceased had once lived and loved in life. It was soon to be baked, smoked, and shrunken, eventually to be worn as a trophy on Katari’s grisly belt.
Katari’s brutal warriors had performed as commanded and now rested, rewarded with their new shelters and women. Murdering the high priest’s heir publicly in such a ruthless manner had ensured the maximum co-operation of the citizens and eliminated Amaru as a future threat. Fear was a powerful tool and one that Katari encouraged and used readily, along with material reward of course.
The male children had been expelled to fend for themselves with little more than a water flask to sustain them. Even the very youngest infants were ordered out and were swaddled and tied to the backs of the older children. Terrified and confused, the parade of young boys, many crying and begging their mothers to allow them to stay, was marched away at the point of a spear. Toddlers wailed and screeched, dragged by the older boys, whose parents had warned them in no uncertain terms what would happen if they disobeyed.
“I’ll be good, Mama.”
“Please, Mama,” so many little voices rang out. “Let me stay.”
“Why can’t you come?” the voices wailed, but on and on they moved, bewildered and lost before they were even outside the walls.
More than one young mother was unable to bear the parting and chose to take her own life and that of her children rather than sending them to the certain death outside the gates. Their huts were emptied and they were buried without ceremony, without prayer, and without respect.
Women continued to disappear in the weeks following the expulsion of the boys, unable to live with what they had done, searching for their lost children. Most of them were dragged back to the city in varying states of hopelessness, hysteria, and injury without their children in tow. They were punished publicly as an example to deter others.
A dark, heavy pall blanketed the region. The devastated citizens sadly accepted their new high priest and self-pronounced king and were as helplessly divided as the spoils of war.
Despite his disdain for Marcus, Katari was a wise and strategic leader who clearly understood Sartaña’s influence. She was born of a highly revered family and was believed to have been ordained by the gods. The people were devout, and Katari intended to use her influence to control them. As he plotted, his plans for Sartaña reached beyond her role as the high priestess.
Two days after the death of her son, Katari sent an order for Sartaña to appear before him. He reclined nonchalantly, cracking a peanut and popping its meat into his mouth. The shell fell to the floor, adding to the heap already there. His breastplate and thin beard were littered with crumbs and casings, and he breathed loudly as he chewed. The ruler looked up from his food as Sartaña entered the large chamber, formerly her husband’s private room. She still wore the blood-stained dress she had been wearing days before and was held on either side by a guard. Her hands were bound tightly in front of her, and a large bruise had swelled on her cheek where the butt of Katari’s spear had struck her. Though her eyes were puffy from crying, there was no sign of tears as she stared hatefully at her captor.
As she entered, an unpleasant odor of rot mingled with body odor and smoke assaulted her immediately, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was so unlike the scent of copal incense that used to draw her in. It was the first time she had been there since the invasion, and it pained her to see this pig of a man lounging so disrespectfully and familiarly in her mate’s space. She noticed the head so casually overlooked: rotting, stinking. She forced herself to look away. She was determined not to cry in front of him, but for a moment a wave of nausea twisted her belly, constricting her throat, causing her mouth to water.
She turned her gaze toward the opposite side of the room where the bedroll lay, soft and inviting, a place where she had found so much pleasure and tenderness in times past.
Katari studied her as she adjusted to the scene. Even in her grief Sartaña was striking to look at. Her nose was prominent, and her mouth was full and sensuous. Her thick, luxurious hair hung to her narrow waist in loose dark curls, concealing the missing patches that the headdress had torn from her scalp. Katari let her wait while he dropped more discarded shells and chewed noisily.
Sartaña studied him, trying to reconcile the memories of Helghul that had been flashing back to her constantly over the past two days. Clearly there was something Marcus wanted to convey to her. Helghul’s dark, prickly aura was obvious, and he revolted and offended her in every way—even without warning from her higher self. He had murdered her husband and her son and conquered her city; it was obvious he was a beast. Why had they been brought together?
Katari’s energy raised the hairs on the back of her neck and arms, and she shuddered involuntarily. He felt her hatred and enjoyed it. He stood and walked around her, looking her up and down lasciviously. He stopped directly in front of her and finally spoke.
“Nice breasts, Marcus,” he taunted, reaching out and roughly grabbing her through her blood-encrusted dress. Bits of nut flew out of his mouth as he spoke, and Sartaña stepped away from him, unable to use her hands. She had dreaded this.
Katari made eye contact with her for the first time, and a sharp pain shot through her skull to a bulging gland throbbing behind her eyes. The discomfort was hers alone and he smirked at her, seemingly unaffected. He grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and wrenched her head back as he spoke menacingly into her ear. “I intend to take you as a wife. I want a child, a son to unite the people.” Sartaña winced painfully at the word son.
“You disgust me! I will die before I let you touch me!” she snarled through clenched teeth, hoping to provoke him, hoping he would end her misery on the spot. Sartaña looked strong and defiant, her jaw jerked forward and her eyes on fire. But the truth of it was that she was tired, exhausted and beaten by the death of her mate and son and her inability to help her people. She had entirely lost the will to live.
“You are weak, as you always were! A cruel, unloved dark soul!” she goaded. Katari slapped her hard—once, twice, blow after blow. She was stunned, but she would not be silenced. She fell to the floor but her diatribe continued. “You are a pawn, used by darker souls like a fool,” she continued, Marcus urging her on, sure if she continued that Helghul would murder her, releasing her tired soul to the Universe.
Sartaña begged for death with her venomous attack. Enraged by her relentless curses, Katari wanted to silence her but refused to strike a fatal blow. He was determined she would bear his child; he would own her, control her.
“You will die when I decide,” Katari shouted. He nodded to the guards and they released her and took a step back. “I like to know exactly where your spirit resides, it eliminates any chance of surprises.” Marcus understood that Helghul saw him as a threat. “It is my plan that you will bear me a son. He will be a king accepted by the people, and he will be wise and powerful, unlike your foolish first-born, who I happily destroyed.”
Sartaña threw herself on him, her bound hands working together feebly to strike blows. Katari easily pushed her off and she slammed to the floor, unable to break her fall.
The guards hauled her up painfully, and she cried out against their grip and against Katari, spewing more hatred at him. He approached her now, the guards easily constricting her struggling frame.
“Oh, the hopelessness, the despair!” Katari gloated, holding her chin tightly in his coarse hand, his foul breath onl
y inches from her nose. Then dropping his voice he added, “I feel your despair, Sartaña. You reek of it! I taste it and it arouses me. Have you considered it … killing yourself?”
“Never!” she said defiantly. Marcus knew that suicide was not an option. It brought disharmony in the afterlife, and he would never find Theron if he was stuck in limbo, his energy trapped and suffering in the world between.
“You’ll wish for death,” Katari warned, and in one motion he grabbed the collar of her dress and tore it clean down the front, exposing her breasts. The guards were fiendishly excited by the show and held her more cruelly, twisting her arms over her head. Katari directed the guards to turn her around, not wanting to look into her eyes. He lowered his trousers to his thighs and lifted the shredded garment still covering her. Excited by his power over her, he then entered her violently from behind, tearing her tender, fragile skin. Katari pushed her away when he was through, and she was taken back to her guarded room on the far side of the palace.
Sartaña had screamed and struggled that first time Katari had forced himself on her, but she quickly realized that the fight thrilled him. Regardless how much she resisted, he would injure but not kill her, though she wished he would. In the weeks and months that followed, Katari came to the small, plain chamber where she was imprisoned many times. She chose to lay limp and lifeless, though he struck her and goaded her mercilessly to try to elicit a response from her. He bombarded her with cruel comments about her dead son and husband, but she refused to rise to the bait. Her courage and self-control enraged him, and he was often unable to maintain an erection.
No matter what she did, he beat her, but through all of it Sartaña was comforted by her Marcus-brain. Her inner spirit offered some strength, aware that there must be a reason that she was still alive. There was a purpose and lesson to be learned in every lifetime, whether it was known or not.
One Great Year Page 10