by John Ringo
Mike smiled and nodded, his face blank. He wondered if that meant he was really supposed to be high priest. Pass, thank you.
"I hope you won't mind if I ask a few questions," Mike said. "I've learned, through painful experience, to ask about the hidden details of Keldara rituals."
"Kildar," Genadi said, coming up at his elbow, "there is no hidden trap. You must simply . . . eat your way to the top of the hill. Father, indeed all of us, will chant the dead. A girl will be by your side carrying a big platter filled with all good foods. Another will be by your side, carrying beer. At a certain point in the chant, you will take a sip of beer or eat some of the food. You take a bite of the food and then throw the rest to the side. You take a sip of beer and then pour some upon the ground. I will warn you, however, that we circle the mound three times. I hope you stopped eating a while ago."
"I think I can do that," Mike said. "As long as I don't take big bites."
"Thank you, Kildar," Father Kulcyanov said. He lifted his eyes to the mountains and then nodded. "Soon, we will begin."
The Keldara had gathered near the trail up the dun, a winding beaten-down path that was reinforced with slabs of rock. It might have been a bad day for a festival but Mike was pretty sure it was a great night for a ceremony like this one.
The Keldara called the night Samman, very much like the Celtic Samhain. For them it was the time of ending, when the spirits of winter rose, the night when the unquiet dead could walk free. Many of the Keldara had made masks for the evening, most out of woven barley straw. Samhain was the origin of the holiday called Halloween in the U.S. and England but hadn't always been about children gathering candy. It was a time when the summer was dying and winter's power rose, a time to battle the power of death and the old gods of evil and darkness. The masks were designed to frighten away spirits as was the chanting, dance and songs.
Father Ferani walked through the throng, carrying a large wooden case. Father Kulcyanov took a massive battle-axe from the case, turning to the trail and holding it in front of himself, upright in a two-handed grip, the head at the level of his nose, as if in salute. Then he looked to the sky again, clearly checking the light level, and gave a great shout:
"Ay, Samman seaol Latrach! Uraim Na Mair Imakt!"
With that the drummers began tapping on their drums, a slow, syncopated rhythm as Father Kulcyanov began ascending the hill.
Behind him walked Gretchen, carrying the barley effigy of the "Old Woman." Stella and Lydia appeared at Mike's elbows, quite suddenly, and Lydia nudged him to fall in next.
"Each third time that Father Kulcyanov says 'Imakt,'–" Lydia whispered, handing him a shallow bowl of beer, "drink or eat then pour the rest on the ground. Try to get it off the path for the Father's sake."
The bowl was fired clay, with a handle on either side. Mike had read of one similar somewhere, probably in The Golden Bough. He took a sip and tossed the rest to the side, narrowly missing Stella.
"Careful, there," the tall brunette said, grinning and handing him an oat cake.
Mike took a bite out of the cake and tossed the rest down the hill.
"This seems awfully wasteful," he whispered.
"The dead are hungry," Lydia shrugged, handing him the refilled bowl. "Would we fail to feed our honored dead?"
Mike took a sip at the appropriate point in the chant, poured it out a bit more carefully, then looked over his shoulder. All the Keldara had formed up in something like a conga line. At the front were six drummers, keeping the pace. The rest were repeating the refrain of the chant and on the "Latrach" they'd stamp down, hard. The whole massive hill rumbled with it.
"Wake the dead, indeed," Mike said. Bite, toss. "Father Kulcyanov normally eats, too?"
"Someone feeds him," Stella whispered. "But it's so hard for him to keep in time, now. And when the cake is dry . . ."
It was all Mike could do to keep up with the eating and drinking; he couldn't imagine leading the chant as well. But the two girls kept him supplied in time and he kept up with the group, eat a bite, toss, drink a bit, pour.
But even eating a "bite"—and they got smaller and smaller—and drinking a bit—and the sips got to where he was barely touching his lips—he had a hard time managing the entire climb. By the time they got to the top it was full dark, the wind howling, and he was more than a bit drunk. And, oh yeah, stuffed to the point of throwing up.
The turf on the top of the dun had been carved into seats and the two girls led him to one on the north side, directly behind where Father Kulcyanov was standing and still leading the chant. Gretchen, with the barley figure, was on the east, Mother Lenka with a flagon of beer was on the west and, as the group gathered, still chanting, Oleg appeared out of the darkness on the south. He was bare-chested in the cold and probably appreciating the roaring bonfire in the center.
Mike's senior team leader was a bull of a man, standing over two meters and broad of body with flax blonde hair cut into stubble. He looked, at that moment, very much like a Viking of old.
". . . Imakt!" Father Kulcyanov roared, stopping the chant by raising his axe over head, still vertical. "The time has come. Let the Rite begin!"
He turned to the right and, marching in the goose step he had undoubtedly learned as a young man in the Red Army, walked to Oleg's position.
"Do you accept the responsibility of dummart?" Father Kulcyanov roared. "Do you stand ready to face the Gods?"
"I do," Oleg answered.
"Then face the Gods in the name of the Keldara!" Father Kulcyanov said, handing over the axe.
He goose-stepped back, completing the circle, then raised his hands.
"Father of All, look down upon us!" he bellowed, holding his hands to the sky. "We bring food for your Son that he might bring back the spring!"
There'd been a lowing of cattle as he was marching back, and out of the darkness they were led. Most were being led by the team leaders but they had a lot of help. The cattle were oxen, steers that were used for carting until Mike had brought in tractors. These had been fed-up, stalled was the old expression, and were fat and ready for the slaughter.
Vil was leading the first one, holding a pole that was attached to the ring through its nose, and two more Keldara males followed with nooses in their hands.
"Ay, Samman seaol Latrach! Uraim Na Mair Imakt!" Father Kulcyanov started to chant, still holding his hands up.
The whole group joined in as the two Keldara fixed the loops around the ox's back legs and held it in place.
On the second repetition of the chant, at the ". . . Imakt," Oleg struck downwards, severing the ox's broad neck in one massive cut.
Blood from the stricken animal sprayed across the nearest spectators, who were on their feet chanting and stamping. The entire group let out a cry as one of the Keldara girls slid a basin under the slaughtered beast's neck, catching as much of the blood as she could.
Another of the oxen was brought out of the darkness, taking up the western position by Mother Lenka. Again it was held in place by three men as Oleg slashed downward. Another group of Keldara, this time including Adams, was splashed by the blood.
On the south, Vil had been handed the basin filled with blood and with a cry splashed it in a circle, starting towards the fire and raising a fragrant smoke like cooking beef, then out over the Keldara.
Mike was standing, now, but he was fighting what was going on around him because the Keldara, normally incredibly reserved, were descending into hysteric frenzy. The drums, the chanting, the stamping feet, was turning into a giant dance of ecstasy, fueled by the blood rite they had been denied for so long.
Pavel had collected the blood on the west and he sprayed it into the fire and through the group, liberally dousing Mother Lenka, who raised her hand to taste of it, letting out a scream that sounded very like orgasm.
Now it was Mike's turn and Sawn was leading this ox, who was fighting as hard as he could to get away. Oleg had come around the fire, his body covered in blood, eyes wide a
nd staring, and Mike winced as the axe came down.
It was like getting hit by a water from a spray nozzle on a hose. As the ox twisted in death it sprayed the whole group, which went absolutely frantic. The bucket of blood from Sawn wasn't really necessary.
On the east it was Yosif and he made sure to liberally douse Gretchen, who was pretty wide-eyed since all she could do was stand there holding up the effigy. She hadn't gotten into the frenzy because she couldn't but she had a very strange look on her face. It made Mike wonder exactly how long ago the Keldara had stopped committing human sacrifice. She looked . . . fixed on the fire. As if psyching herself to be thrown into it.
A fifth bull was slaughtered on the south and a sixth on the north, splattering Mike again, and then Father Kulcyanov shouted something Mike for the life of him couldn't catch and people picked up both Mother Lenka and Gretchen and carried them towards the fire. The group was so frenzied Mike started forward; he could see Adams moving as well. He wasn't sure either one of them could stop the hysterical Keldara before they tossed the two women in the bonfire but he was damned well going to try.
But at a cry from Father Kulcyanov, the effigy was thrown into the fire by Gretchen to another scream from the crowd. It was covered in blood so there was another smell of steak being overcooked.
Both Mother Lenka and Gretchen were dropped, rather unceremoniously, and the drums broke into a different rhythm. Father Kulcyanov stepped back, looking as worn as Mike had ever seen him, and settled onto one of the turf benches, holding his chest.
There was still a big pot of beer by Mike's seat, courtesy of Stella, who was now dancing around like a mad thing, covered from head to toe in blood, so he picked it up and poured some, holding it out to the old man.
"Thank you, Kildar," Father Kulcyanov wheezed. "I think this may be the last year I can do the Rites."
"Which will be too bad," Mike said. "Because you do them very well."
"It must be a warrior," the old man said, taking a sip of beer and catching his breath. "One who has taken lives and seen the face of Fir. There are, were, so few left. I held on . . ."
"And you've got a whole new crop," Mike pointed out. "I'd hate to skip a generation, though. Talk about that another time. Do you have anything else you need to do?"
"No," Father Kulcyanov admitted. "Except figure out a way to pry Culcanar out of Oleg's hands before he kills someone with it."
The ceremonial axes of the Keldara were named and Mike now recognized the axe he had wielded in the spring festival. The damned thing was a monster, a real man killer.
Mike looked over at the team leader, who was apparently doing some sort of an axe dance and was pretty much out of it, and winced.
"Let somebody else handle that," Mike said. "Me, maybe. I can stand in, right?"
"Yes, Kildar. I'd appreciate it."
"Well, this looks like a party for the youngsters," Mike said, standing up and gesturing to Adams and Nielson. He couldn't find Vanner for a minute then spotted the intel NCO. He was covered in blood, dancing with one of the female intel specialists, and completely out of it.
"Get Father Kulcyanov down the hill," he said to Nielson. "Ass-Boy, you and me got a job."
"What?" Adams asked, trying to wipe some of the blood off his face. "When you said it would be bloody . . ."
"Yeah," Mike said, licking the back of his hand. Tasted like raw steak. "See Oleg?"
"Yeah," Adams said, uncomfortably.
"We gotta get the axe out of his hands."
"Oh fuck."
"I'm not going to track this shit through the caravanserai," Mike said, looking at the doors. He had a rather nasty cut on his arm he was ignoring. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Nobody was dead and that was the important thing. The next time, though, he was going to sit on the south and pry the damned thing out of Oleg's hands right after the last sacrifice.
"Fuck it," Adams said. "It's late. We just strip right here and head for the showers." The master chief was unscathed. Well, except for a few hairs that had been cut slightly shorter when he ducked the axe. Given that he was damned near bald . . .
"Works for me," Mike said, pulling off his shirt. "And we'll just burn the clothes."
"I think some of the Keldara were starting to strip when we left," Adams said. "They probably had the same idea. Damn, these pants are stuck on!"
Mike walked into the great room of the caravanserai, holding his blood-soaked clothes under one arm, and paused, froze really, at the sight of Daria and Anastasia playing chess.
Daria Koroleva was Ukrainian, blonde and nearly as beautiful as Anastasia with, if anything, a better figure. She had been kidnapped into the sex-slave trade in the Balkans where Mike had rescued her from a snuff house. Since she was a trained secretary, and he'd needed somebody to keep up with the administrative side of the mission, he'd dragged her along. And when he offered her a job she'd jumped at it. They'd been lovers from time to time as well. There really wasn't much there but lust and some friendship but she was a great administrative assistant.
The two were both frozen, wide-eyed. Since they'd both seen him naked he could only presume that it was the blood.
"It got a little messy."
"I can see that," Anastasia replied.
"So we thought we'd just go take a shower," Adams said, walking past.
"Good idea," Daria said, tittering.
"So, I guess I'll see you two tomorrow," Mike continued, heading to the stairs.
"Okay," Anastasia said. "Try to keep from tracking things up too badly."
"I will," Mike said. "Oh, and Anastasia?"
"Yes, Kildar," the harem manager said, her hand over her mouth but the smile in her eyes.
"Could you make sure that before the Rite Gretchen has had a bath?"
Chapter Five
"You look perfect," Anastasia said, picking a bit of lint off of Mike's shoulder.
"I look like a fucking fruit," Mike replied, frowning. "This getup . . ."
"You always say that the Rite is for the benefit of the young lady," Anastasia said, playing with a curl of hair. "Not for you. And ladies like it when you dress up."
"I know that," Mike said, fiddling with the God-damned lace ruff. "But, God, I hate this!"
The Rite of Kardane made virtue of necessity. The Keldara had long had the custom of dowry. Dowry was a poorly understood function of many early societies. The first year or so of marriage was a tough time for a new couple and women just had less economic worth in agricultural societies than males. Among other things, they spent a great deal of time pregnant and less able to do work. Dowry was a response to this, providing the young couple with a starter fund.
In the Keldara, dowry was set at the approximate income of the male for one year. When it was first explained to Mike, the sum of five hundred rubles or equivalent in materials seemed laughably small. But it was a function of how very poor the Keldara had been before his arrival.
The issue had first come to light in regards to Lydia and Oleg. Lydia's family simply did not have the available cash, at that time, to pay her dowry. Mike, therefore, offered to just grant them the funds. Lydia was a fast-coming intel specialist and Oleg one of his top team leaders; just handing them the cash, more, seemed like a natural action.
However, the Keldara also had a hatred of debt that was deep and abiding. Thus Mike simply handing them the money with, in his eyes, absolutely no strings attached was out of the question. A debt of honor would remain. In a way the Keldara were more stuck on honor and propriety than Japanese giri and gimu.
There was, however, one clear alternative: The Rite of Kardane. In Western Europe, the term was "droit du seigneur."
In most feudal societies, the very bodies of the "serfs" were owned by the lord. And many lords required that the first person to "open" a virgin be themselves.
The Keldara may have been tenant farmers, may have had various overlords over the years, but calling them "serfs" must have always been a stretch. But the pre
ssure must have been there. The Ottomans, for example, were big on virgins. So were the Tartars, who had clearly been in the area. Hell, the Russian tsarist lords rarely left a lady "pure" for her marriage bed. However, at some point they had made a "virtue" of both problems; in return for a young lady's "virtue," she would be gifted with her dowry.
When Mike finally understood what they were saying he nearly had a heart attack. While Lydia was a . . . well, a fucking hotty, the guy he was going to be leaving to sloppy seconds was . . . his top team leader. Oleg was going to be at his back with a weapon a lot. Not to mention being a fucking ox. Pissing him off was very low on Mike's list of things to do. And Mike couldn't imagine "the Rite of Kardane" not pissing him off totally and permanently.