Lakhoni

by Jared Garrett

  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “How did you do it?”

  “You will learn,” Gimno said. “In time. Come.”

  Lakhoni followed Gimno into the darkness of the deep, downward-sloping tunnel. He could only see the faint outline of the man a few paces ahead of him. They passed through three sharp bends and suddenly there was some kind of light source ahead of them. The sharp bend kept the light from reaching the entry shaft. Had the Living Dead somehow created this cave as a hiding place?

  After a few more twists and turns, the narrow tunnel they had been walking through opened suddenly into a massive, brightly lit cavern. Lakhoni had to shut his eyes tightly and blink quickly for a full minute before he could focus on the home of the Living Dead.

  This did not look like the eerie tombs that the stories said the Living Dead lived in. The cavern was wider around than his village and stretched as high as the tallest tree he had ever seen. The underground village was organized in a series of circles, the largest around the edge of the cavern, following the long wall. Many of these outer circles had fires burning in the middle of them and buildings that appeared to be houses.

  The next series of circles was farther from the walls. A stream of water bisected the huge cavern, and many of the second layer circles appeared to have been arranged around that stream.

  People washed clothes in some of those circles, while in others children played. He saw several groups of people working with wood and tools while others scraped at animal hides. Still other circles hosted basket weaving.

  In the very center of the cavern was a large, nearly empty circle, occupied only by a pile of neat stones. An altar. His village had one too, but nowhere near as big.

  “Not what you expected,” Gimno said. It was not a question.

  “Nothing . . .” Lakhoni turned toward Gimno. “How?”

  “We found it sometime after we followed Malganoza away from Zyronilxa,” Gimno said.

  “It just looks like a normal city,” Lakhoni said.

  “Yes, but it’s the city of the Living Dead. The Separated.” Gimno’s voice went deep, but Lakhoni heard a smile in it.

  Lakhoni grimaced.

  “Of course you’ve heard the stories. We’re ghosts, spirits who will steal you from your bed if you don’t mind your mother and father.” Gimno chuckled and started walking down a path that led through the middle of the cavern. These paths crisscrossed the stone floor, winding between circles and homes. “We don’t mind the stories. They keep people nervous.”

  “The tattoos help, too,” Lakhoni said.

  Gimno cocked a wry smile at the boy. “Yes. They do.” He quickened his pace. “Enough talk. I’m hungry.”

  Lakhoni followed closely, letting his eyes wander as they walked. How could they breathe with all these fires burning in a cave? He followed the smoke upwards with his eyes. A little smoke gathered at the top of the cavern, but it was wafting toward the far wall. There were several small openings above the tunnel entrance that he and Gimno had just come from. On the far wall were more holes. There had to be a current of air traveling through those holes that drew the smoke out.

  Gimno led Lakhoni to a circle of houses near the left side of the cavern. Entering the circle of homes, Gimno called out, getting the attention of several people bent over the fire. “Where’s my dinner?”

  A tall, raven-haired woman laughed loudly and detached herself from the group of people at the fire. Her head was shaved on the sides and back, her black hair growing only from the top. “Did you bring fresh meat or just this beat-up squirrel cub?” she asked.

  “Anor should have arrived long ago with my kill. What? Have you burned it and buried the evidence under my bed?” Gimno smiled at the woman.

  She smiled back. “No. I gave it to my other husband.”

  Gimno roared with laughter and caught the woman in a tight embrace. Lakhoni turned away, sudden grief slamming into him with the force of a charging bear. The exchange was too much like those between his father and mother.

  “Who have you brought us?”

  A hand took his chin, turning his head. He looked up into warm, smiling green eyes. The hand slid up his cheek to the top of his head, then to his wounded shoulder.

  “And what have you done to him?”

  Lakhoni glanced at Gimno.

  “Not me,” Gimno said, moving to the fire and spreading his hands before it. “Zyron’s attack dogs. His name’s Lakhoni. They left him for dead. He needs curing, Vena.”

  The woman, Vena, caught Lakhoni’s gaze. “Yes. Food, rest, and healing. Welcome, Lakhoni, to the Separated. You have come home.”

  Chapter 8

  Family of the Dead

  Lakhoni wondered if the spirits of his family and friends were frowning on him in disapproval. He sat on a smooth, gently cupped stone just a pace from the large fire in the middle of Gimno’s family’s circle. In one hand he held a thin stone platter, and in the other a blade Gimno had lent him. Slicing tender mouthfuls of venison from a still-juicy chunk Vena had carved for him, he felt as if the suddenly pleasant circumstances were somehow a betrayal of the leaden grief that still filled him. Gimno’s extended family spread around the area in the middle of the homes in Gimno’s circle, many of them laughing and chatting, but mostly just producing an all-too familiar harmony of voices and chaos.

  He should be grieving. He had never finished the dance. He should never have left the village untended.

  He should be doing something to make his village somehow hallowed ground. He had no right to be enjoying such a meal and such company. His family, his friends—they deserved more. Their deaths—so violent, cruel, and stupid—cried for answer. And Alronna, wherever she was, had to be terrified. An image came to him of her laughing with friends back in the village. He had to find her.

  The venison, so juicy moments before, tasted like dry grass in his mouth. He reached down and lifted his cup to his mouth. The cool water helped him choke the meat down.

  Lakhoni looked down at his plate, at the pink and red juices of the roasted meat. His gorge rose. He fought it back, setting the platter on the stone ground. He looked up, praying nobody had seen him. He didn’t want to insult his hosts. He didn’t want them to know how weak he was. He wanted to learn to move like a ghost; he wanted to be able to strike fear in others the way these people did. He got to his feet, his heart thumping rabbit fast in his chest.

  No, he wouldn’t run from the Separated. But he couldn’t allow the gaiety around him to steal his purpose. He had to focus. Alronna needed him. The blood of his people cried to him from the ground, pleading for justice.

  “Lakhoni.”

  He turned, realizing only then that tears were wetting his cheeks. He quickly scrubbed them away, keeping his face down.

  “Your wounds,” Vena said. “You need treatment. And you need rest.”

  He glanced up, briefly meeting her gaze, then looked away. “I’m okay.”

  “Gimno told me what happened to your head. You’re not okay. Not yet, at least.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he stood silently.

  Her hand brushed his cheek, moving to his uninjured left shoulder. It felt strong, warm, and kind. “I’m so sorry, Lakhoni.”

  Her words touched the grief he held in his core. His throat tight, he mumbled, “I’m okay.” He was done with tears. He would hold the grief inside and use its heat to push him toward his sister.

  She pulled gently on his arm “Come with me, we will get that side fixed and take a closer look at your head.” Her green eyes met his again. “And I will show you where you will sleep. You are part of Gimno’s tribe now, so you will stay in this circle.”

  Lakhoni walked next to Vena, listening and looking around. He wanted to know his way around so that he was not so dependent on these people.

  “Anor and Corzon have space in their hut,” Vena said. “We will lend you what you need until you can get your things from the village.”

  Th
ey came to a hut on the outskirts of the communal circle. Vena preceded him in. When he stepped into the dimness, he saw that another person was already there, sitting on a short, hide-covered rock at the far side of the hut.

  “Lakhoni, this is Corzon. He is good with injuries. Will you let him look at your head, shoulder, and side?” Vena said.

  Lakhoni nodded.

  Vena squeezed Lakhoni’s shoulder once more. “Get some sleep,” she said, her voice soft and difficult to hear over the tumult outside.

  She left and the animal skin door fell back into place behind her. Lakhoni turned and peered at Corzon in the dim light of the hut. Corzon stood and Lakhoni realized that this man was the tallest person he had ever seen. He must have been nearly a full hand-length taller than Gimno.

  Corzon smiled and made a sound of disapproval. He moved to the doorway and hooked the skin to the side, letting more light into the small home. “I’ve got to be able to see what I’m doing,” he muttered.

  In the better light, Lakhoni watched Corzon go to a large stone box and dig around in its contents. Corzon was not only the tallest man Lakhoni had seen; he also had the largest nose imaginable. It was magnificent; it jutted out nearly straight from under Corzon’s eyes, then dropped like the side of a cliff. It then came back to his face in another straight line.

  “Lakhoni, is it?” Corzon said. He sucked his upper lip into his mouth, working it for a moment. “Well, let’s take a look.” Corzon stepped back toward Lakhoni. “Go on,” he pointed at a smooth stone, “have a seat.”

  Lakhoni obeyed, trying not to stare at the incredibly skinny man’s nose.

  “Give it up,” Corzon said. “You’ll never tear your eyes away from Nose Mountain.”

  It took a moment to sink in. Lakhoni burst out laughing.

  “Yes, it’s quite the feature. A gift from my father,” Corzon said. He lifted Lakhoni’s right arm. “Keep it up please.” He prodded gently at the wound in Lakhoni’s side. “Keep your eyes open; the Mighty Nose sometimes forms its own weather system. You might see clouds.”

  Lakhoni snorted. Then he hissed as Corzon found a tender spot.

  “Right. This is going to need some sewing up.”

  Lakhoni sat quietly as he watched Corzon putter around in his box again. When the tall man returned, he carried a small pouch and a drinking gut. He handed the gut to Lakhoni. “Why doesn’t it just fall off my face? That would be a gift from my mother. No woman would marry this nose, so I will always be my mother’s baby.”

  The aroma from the drinking gut hit Lakhoni hard. Some kind of fermented fruit drink. “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Take the pain away. The sewing will hurt. A lot.”

  Lakhoni lifted the gut to take a swig. He stopped just before he got there. I will take this pain. This is my consecration. Nothing will stop me from saving Alronna. And if revenge will bring justice, I will do that too. Taking this pain is the sign of this oath.

  He lowered the gut. “I can handle it.”

  “No, you can’t,” Corzon said. “Drink the wine.”

  “No,” Lakhoni said. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears and he worried he might offend Corzon. “No, really. I want to feel this,” he said.

  “You’ll still feel it with the wine in you. But you won’t pass out from the pain, and I need you to stay upright until I’m done.”

  Lakhoni considered for a moment. No. He had to show his dedication. His people had died painfully and he had survived. This wasn’t a penance, but a sacrifice of his own blood on the altar of justice. He stared straight ahead. “Just do it.”

  Corzon rested an angry gaze on Lakhoni. “You will scream like a pig, cry like a baby, and then faint like a woman.”

  Lakhoni met Corzon’s eyes. “My village was destroyed. My family murdered.” He forced his muscles to relax. “Do your sewing.”

  Corzon shook his head and grimaced at Lakhoni’s foolishness. He handed Lakhoni a strip of leather. “Bite that. Try not to faint.”

  Lakhoni put the leather in his mouth. The first poke of Corzon’s needle in his side was not bad. The sensation of the thin twine sliding through his skin was a little worse.

  It was the pulling of the two sides of injured flesh together that sent the blackness before Lakhoni’s eyes. NO! He fought the darkness away, trying not to think about the gouts of flame-like pain searing his side and spreading to fill his body. The needle pierced again, the twine slid again, and the raw agony tore through him again. His teeth felt as if they would slice through the leather in his mouth. His breathing came quickly, desperately.

  “Not too late for the wine you know,” Corzon said.

  Shaking from exertion and pain, Lakhoni shook his head.

  Corzon muttered something disapproving and continued with his work.

  After a few more pulls on his damaged flesh, Lakhoni remembered what his father had taught about pain. How you could direct it out of your body if you were one with the earth. He imagined the pain was a kind of energy flowing into him, then sliding down his legs and out into the stone underfoot. This helped only a little. Maybe it gets better with practice. The agony was still there, especially each time Corzon tugged the two sides of the wound closed. Lakhoni’s fingers practically dug into the stone seat as he forced himself to bear the pain.

  Corzon stood and stretched his long legs, his job finished. “Well, you haven’t passed out yet. Not bad.”

  Lakhoni tried to get himself back under control.

  “Your side will be fine. No major damage, just torn flesh.”

  Lakhoni nodded.

  “Now your head.”

  Lakhoni reached up and pulled the leather from his mouth. “No problem. It’s tough.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The head was worse. Apparently Corzon had to do some sewing up there too, and it hurt even more than his side had. Several times, Lakhoni was certain he was going to faint from the pain. Each time, an image of his mother or father would flash behind his eyelids and he would find a way to fight the blackness back again.

  “You’re tougher than you look.”

  Lakhoni opened his eyes, the pain in his jaw telling him how hard he was biting on the leather strap.

  “But now it’s time for sleep.” Corzon pulled the strap from Lakhoni’s mouth.

  As Lakhoni waited for Corzon to prepare a sleeping mat and a blanket, he tried to picture his next steps. He would find Alronna. If she still lived, he would rescue her and—and what? Kill all the king’s raiders? Kill the king?

  Sleep overcame him moments after he lay down. His dreams were bright, lit by a blazing sun. He moved through them like a panther through a jungle, confident that all around him feared and trembled.

  Chapter 9

  Sacrifice

  Stretching carefully, Lakhoni sat in the quiet of the hut, blinking sleep from his eyes. The interior looked much like his family’s—no, his—hut back in the village. Sleeping mats were arranged against walls, leaving space to walk in the middle of the one-room home. Stone and wood boxes acted as dividers between the sleeping mats. Pouches, hides, and water guts hung from hooks pounded between the large, gray stones of the walls.

  The smell was different. Lakhoni was used to the fresh, just-awoken air that greeted him each morning at the village. Here in the cavern, there was a distinct aroma of old smoke. But Lakhoni also smelled a fresh aroma—meat of some kind—and even something that smelled like flatbread.

  He emerged from the hut, noticing on his way out that he was the last to awake, and found himself in a scene much like the one of the previous evening. Many people crowded the fire circle, most of them with a hunk of meat impaled on a knife or steaming from a stone platter. Vena stood at the fire with three other women, using long, flat boards to remove flatbread from the stones surrounding the fire.

  He stood, unsure of himself. Hunger, stronger than he had experienced in days, awoke at all the good smells.

  Vena noticed him. “Lakhoni! Finally! Come
get some food.”

  He straightened his shoulders. He would not be cowed by the unfamiliar. He walked to the woman, accepting a platter of meat and bread.

  “You’ll find water in the bucket,” Vena said, indicating a wooden bucket off to the side.

  He nodded and moved back toward the hut where he had spent the night. He sat on the stone ground just outside the hut and dug in. He couldn’t chew fast enough; the waking of his hunger had awoken his nerves as well. Dull pain set in on his side and his head throbbed in time to the working of his jaw. It wasn’t as bad as the night before when Corzon had done his work, though, so Lakhoni ignored it. He would have to be careful to not break the thread holding his wounds together.

  A young man, probably only a year older than Lakhoni and obviously very strong, sat down next to him, chewing a large bite of meat.

  “You snore,” the stranger said around the chunk of deer in his mouth.

  Lakhoni chewed for a moment and swallowed. “What?”

  “And you talk in your sleep.”

  Confused, Lakhoni studied the fellow. He understood after a moment. “You’re . . . uh . . .”

  “Anor,” said the stranger.

  “Yes. The hut.”

  “Right,” he said. “That’s why I could hear you snore. I bet the king of the Usurpers heard you snore!”

  “It can’t be that bad,” Lakhoni said.

  “Oh it is,” Anor said, wrinkling his nose. “And you need a bath.”

  Lakhoni looked at the fellow. “Are you always this pleasant?”

  “Yes.” Anor tore another huge bite off his meal. “Do you always sleep until lunch?”

  Taken aback, Lakhoni looked around. Of course. There was no way to tell what time of day it was down here. No wonder he felt so rested.

  “No,” he said. “Only when I snore.”

  “Lakhoni, right?”