But for Sarg such things were unheard of. It seemed to require no effort at all as he raised his hands up, the top of the skull separating away with a barely audible pop. Barks of appreciation filled the yurt, counterpointed only by the wails of terror from the other cattle, who were clamped into their tables in such a way that they could behold what was in store for them.
A gurgling groan escaped the cattle's lips and he was still. Sarg looked down upon him as if insulted, and leaning over he lightly slapped the cattle's cheeks, setting the skull down before his eyes, which came back into focus wide with terror.
The brain was still sheathed with a gray fibrous layer. Cutting at the back Sarg peeled the layer up, as if removing the skin from an overripe fruit, to reveal the gray convoluted folds beneath, a gush of light-colored water running down the side of the cattle's head.
Sarg peered at the convolutions of the brian, the arteries pulsing, chanting softly, and after a long moment looked up at Jubadi.
"There are many rivers to cross, some pulsing with red blood, others with blue. I see fires of yellow and dark hidden paths."
He drew closer and then pointed.
"There! It floats above the coils of the brain, a white fleck, like the great ships that float on air. I see many of them, moving some to the east, others from the west. I see fire coming up to them. The blue, the color of the Yankee, is spreading over the gray field of death."
He looked up at Jubadi.
"It will be victory."
Wild shouts greeted his words. Tamuka joined in, even though in his heart he found doubt that the future could be thus foretold. For except in the rarest of moments, the divinations all sounded the same. But there was no feeling of kinship between those who walked as he did with the mysteries of their tu and those who read the brains of the cattle. The readers viewed the shield-bearers as rivals, while those of the white clan felt that though there was much that was truth in the shaman ways, there were truths revealed to the white that the divinators would never have revealed unto them.
Sarg then drew a long needle out of his pouch and held it above the convoluted mass of gray. Mumbling a quiet chant he slipped the needle in. The cattle's teeth started to chatter, strange words escaping its lips. The needle was withdrawn and inserted again. This time the legs started to kick, and then the arms. With an ease almost bordering on arrogance Sarg performed the Ujta Eag, the Spirit Dancing, his demonstration of how to snatch the animal spirit of the cattle and have it perform to his will. As he slipped the needle in, his whispered commands were acted out by the cattle. The yurt was silent, even the other cattle watched in silent horror, at the demonstration of the skill of a master divinator.
As Sarg turned to look back at the chieftains he revealed a smile of inner satisfaction at a task well done, as the assembly pounded the tables with their lists, more than one of them obviously nervous at the unnatural powers thus demonstrated. Sarg nodded to Jubadi and, kneeling down by the side of the table, placed his ear to the cattle's mouth.
Jubadi, standing up, leaned over the table, taking up a golden spoon which sliced into the cattle's brain where the forehead used to be. The cattle groaned, its legs kicking spasmodically. Jubadi chewed softly on the repast and then scooped again, and yet again, going deeper in. The cattle's teeth started to chatter, a gurgling hiss escaping its lips. The spoon went deeper, cutting in. Jubadi nodded to his comrades around the table. Tamuka lifted the golden spoon set before him, and leaning over he carefully scooped up a mouthful, careful not to dig down below the level of the cut. The brain was warm, melting in his mouth after a few chews. He scooped up some more, his spoon clicking against the others, grunts of approval echoing around him, the chieftains and their retinue at the lower tables watching in silence, more than one with moistened mouth eager for their own meal to begin. Sarg watched them, smiling, listening to the murmuring pleas of j the cattle drifting away as his mind was devoured, its eyes going wide in panic as vision disappeared, as f the essence of his thoughts and soul were consumed. The shaman's hand shot out, directing them to stop. Assistants came forward, unsnapping the table and levering it back.
Sarg took hold of the cattle's hands and drew him up to his feet.
The yurt was quiet as Sarg came around behind the cattle, the fingers of his right hand going into the cavity of the skull. The cattle started to shudder, its now sightless eyes rolling, a trickle of drool running down its chin. With a ghostlike shuffle it stepped forward.
Even the other cattle were silent, eyes wide with horror at the spectacle of the shaman leading the walking corpse.
"So shall all the cattle be led by our Qar Qarth!" Sarg announced, and there were barks of approval at his words, and also for the fearful power he now displayed in leading one whose mind had already been consumed. The cattle was led to the center of the yurt and stopped, Sarg holding it up from behind as it swayed, mindless, a breathing corpse.
A young shaman came forward and, bowing low, presented Sarg with a golden flask and a flickering taper. The shaman poured the contents into the open skull and with eyes raised to the heavens called upon the ancestors in the ancient tongue of his order. He touched the flaming taper to the skull.
Screams of terror escaped the other cattle as a coiling tongue of fire rose up from the open skull, as if the cattle were wearing a towering crown of blue and yellow flames wreathed in oily smoke. With a grin of satisfaction Sarg stepped back, the cattle motionless, flames licking up from his open head, his sightless eyes rolling, convulsions trembling through his body. Tamuka felt a shiver of fear no matter how many times he witnessed the ritual—there was something ghastly about a mind, even a cattle mind, being thus consumed inside a flaming skull while it was still alive.
The oily flames flickered, exuding a dark cloud. As if his legs had turned to jelly the cattle finally started to sag, Sarg looking about the yurt with satisfaction that his sacrifice had remained standing for so long. The cooking of the brain inside the open skull continued, even as acolytes grabbed the still trembling body and dragged it back to the table. The cattle was hauled onto the table, and even as the flames continued to flicker Jubadi reached in with his spoon and scooped out the cooked delicacy, nodding with approval while Sarg placed his ear to the cattle's lips in case there were any final words. Vuka, with a usual show of bravado, took up a hunk that was still flaming and swallowed it, the chieftains shouting their approval.
Curious, Tamuka held the dying cattle's sightless gaze, looking into its dark eyes as it returned to the soulless dust. He watched without emotion as the eyes slowly rolled back in their sockets and the clenched jaw went slack. Sarg stood back up, a quizzical look on his features.
"Did he say anything?" Jubadi asked, nervously.
"He said two would die; he said it in our own tongue," Sarg whispered.
Jubadi looked around the table and at the clan chieftains.
"It is bad; it is of your own table," someone whispered.
"Two will die," Hulagar replied. "Rus, and the Roum—who else could it be?"
Tamuka could see a look of relief cross Sarg's features, replaced in an instant by hatred that he had been saved by one of the white clan. Yet he nodded in agreement.
"Victory will be complete, as the auguries say." Sarg announced, as if he had divinated it himself.
The tension slipped away into cries of lust for battle. With a wave of his hand, Sarg indicated that the other shamans could begin the rituals at each of the lower tables now that the most important one to decide the fate of the entire horde was completed. Criers went out of the tent, their voices rising, announcing to the waiting Horde the augury of good fortune. A thunder of voices echoed across the plains.
Shrieks of pain and terror filled the tent as the other shamans set to their work, while Tamuka leaned over, scooping out a large spoonful of his favorite food. The cooked brain was neither too firm nor too watery, dissolving after several seconds of chewing, and the five at the head table quickly scooped the crania
l cavity clean, their spoons clinking against each other as they jokingly raced to empty out the last drops of gray pink slush. Vuka, unable to contain himself, finished by running his fingers on the inside and then licking them.
The smell of meat filled his nostrils, and he looked up to see dozens of servants come into the tent bearing platters heavy with roasted limbs, trays overflowing with cracked bones, marrow oozing out, pies of liver and kidney covered with a golden crust, long links of sausages fried to a dark brown, and heavy cauldrons of blood soup and delicate sweetmeats covered with dark sugar.
Servants unclasped the table and dragged the corpse out, wiping the floor beneath him before scattering fresh-scented grass and flowers down and then clamping the table shut again. Within seconds the eating board seemed to groan under the weight of the meal spread out before them. Reaching for a long section of leg bone, Tamuka grunted with delight as he broke it open with his teeth and then used the marrow as a dip for the heavy, grease-coated sausages. There was little to talk of—one did not waste breath on speaking when a long day of lasting was being broken at last.
Chant-singers stood in the dark corners of the vast yurt singing of the noble lineage of the Merki, starting with Puka Taug Qarth, the father ancestor who had first led his people through the portal of light, and then of the countless begetting of generations afterward, their song accompanied by the low, hair-raising groan of the single-string strummer, the strident sounding of the nargas, the great war horn, and the incessant rolling of the chant drums. The cries of the last of the offerings finally drifted away, the open skull flickering with fire. The members of its table looked about with pride, for to have the last crier was a good thing, while those of the yellow clan looked downcast, for their offering had expired before the skull even had been lifted. Low curses were hurled as the shaman slinked out of the tent to hide his shame. Following the older form of the ritual, the table with the last to die had the now empty skull filled with oil and reignited to provide a lurid light for the feast, the body underneath the table a source of raw meat which could be sliced off during the course of the meal.
More servants came in, bearing great platters of thinly sliced meat, drawn from the bodies that had been alive but moments before, the raw flesh of the Moon Offering. With a ceremonial flourish Jubadi held a sliver aloft and then cast it into the smoking brazier set at the foot of dais, an offering to the ancestors.
Leaning back, Tamuka scooped up a handful of the raw flesh, nodded with pleasure at the full-grained texture of the meat, and dipped it into the marrow. He ate the repast with relish. Tankards of fermented horse and cattle milk were brought in and set down, the clan leaders exclaiming noisily over the rich brew, tossing their heads back to drain the draughts in a single long gulp, their voices rising, barking, laughing, shouting ribald taunts to each other.
Caldrons of hot blood, freshly drained, were set at each table, the warriors eagerly shoving at each other, dipping in their now empty tankards, more than one of them grabbing hold of the iron bucket, snatching it away from his rivals and tipping it up, the hot sticky foam running down their faces, splashing off the leather armor. Howls of protest greeted the strongest, and it was good that nothing more than cutting knives was allowed, or there would have been more blood, Horde blood, splashing.
Jubadi, as was his right, took the bucket without a struggle and drained off but half, and in a show of diplomacy offered the rest to Muzta who took the drink, finishing it in silence.
The frenzy of eating slowed and long sonorous belches echoed about the tent, acolytes of the shamans interpreting each as to the portents revealed, the warriors nodding approvingly since all were promised more horses, and offspring. The number of kills was not discussed, for after all it was cattle they were facing this year, and there was no honor, no raising of stature in the hunting of game, no matter how skillful or deadly their foes now were.
At last the sight of another kidney pie, browned sausage link, or finely broiled rib was enough to turn his stomach, and Tamuka leaned back from the table with a groan. There was some slight dishonor in being the first to finish, but as a shield-bearer he felt no need to worry about such trivialities. He saw a quick look from Vuka, a thin smile lighting the Zan Qarth's features, as if Tamuka had revealed some weakness. With a noisy display Vuka took up an entire leg bone and cracked it open with his teeth. Raising it up on end he sucked the marrow out, tossing the empty husk over his shoulder.
Fresh tankards of fermented milk were brought it, and taking the offered drink Tamuka merely sipped at the contents, letting the feeling of contentment settle in.
"We eat well at the table of our Qar Qarth! Ten circlings of life to our Qar Qarth Jubadi!" Gorn, chieftain of the clan of the three red horses cried, leaping atop his table and raising his tankard in salute. A mighty shout echoed up from the tent to be picked up by the wives, concubines, and children who had gathered outside the yurt. The cry echoed down from the hill, sweeping out to the vast encampment, hundreds of thousands of voices calling out the name of Jubadi.
Tamuka felt a cold shudder run through him at the voicing of such power, a mighty cry that shook even against the gates of the everlasting heavens.
Jubadi stood up, holding his arms out, his features alight with the effects of drink and of the power, and stepped up unto the feasting table. Chieftains of the clans stood, shouldering past each other, clamoring up unto the dais. Tamuka drew back.
Grabbing hold of the table they hoisted it up, platters of meat sliding off, with Jubadi standing in the middle. Warriors, who in their own right commanded umens of ten thousand now fought with each other for the honor of bearing their Qar Qarth. Table raised high, they carried him out of the yurt, through the high flaps, raised so that Jubadi did not have to lower his head to anyone or thing.
As he emerged from the tent the shouting across the vast plain rose up into a wild deafening thunder, a screaming chant.
"Qar Qarth, Qar Qarth, Qar Qarth!"
Tamuka looked over at Hulagar, whose voice was added to the thunder, and then behind him to Vuka, who stood in silence, tankard in hand, a look of lust in his eyes for the power thus displayed. And in his heart Tamuka felt the power as well, and struggle though he did with all the teaching of his clan, he felt it holding him with a desire stronger even than when Yuva the courtesan came into his tent for pleasure.
Startled at what he was feeling, Tamuka saw that Vuka was staring at him with a cold grin, as if the Zan Qarth had suddenly read the thoughts of the shield-bearer rather than the other way around.
He looked away.
Noisily the chieftains brought Jubadi back into the tent. His features flushed, Jubadi looked down at Hulagar and smiled.
"That is our power, that is the power of the Hordes!" Jubadi barked, and not waiting for the table to be lowered he leaped down to the dais.
"The cattle of the north, the Rus, the Roum will feed us until our bellies burst, until the grease pours out of our mouths when we turn our faces to the sun!"
Hulagar nodded, saying nothing.
And how many of ours will rot in the sun? Tamuka wondered. The plan was good—he had helped in the shaping of it, something unheard of for a shield-bearer—yet even Jubadi had now conic to admit his worth, knowing as he did of the ways of cattle war.
"Let not one of them be left alive, let us scorch the world of them," Tamuka said quietly, and his words caused Jubadi to turn.
Hulagar looked over at him, shaking his head as if in warning. Jubadi still wanted to believe that when their power had been cast down the cattle would again return to being docile slaves, ready to fashion what was needed, ready to offer their flesh for the tables of the Hordes, which could then continue their never-ending ride, to pursue undisturbed the hunt and the sport of war against their own kind.
"You have drunk too deeply, shield-bearer, to my son," Jubadi snarled, his voice heavy with menace. "We fight as I have directed, and we shall win as I have directed. When they are defeated the
y will be subjugated, but to slaughter all would destroy forever our way of life. Thus I have commanded, thus shall it be."
Tamuka bowed low, cursing inwardly at his folly for having spoken out of turn but guided by some inner voice which he could not deny, and which as shield-bearer he was expected to voice.
"I have drunk deeply," Tamuka replied, "but the voice within is not touched by drink."
Jubadi looked at him coldly.
"I shall retire," Tamuka said, holding his head low and backing down from the dais.
Turning at the entry to the tent he stepped out into the cool air, breathing deeply.
"Tomorrow we ride!" Jubadi roared, breaking the tension, and the exulting shouts of the chieftains drowned out the silence.
Tamuka walked between the fires of cleansing, bowing low to the four corners of the world.
Though he had withdrawn with honor it was obvious to those who stood outside that he had spoken words out of turn, for he was but shield-bearer to the Zan Qarth and not invulnerable to censor as was Hulagar. The vast assemblage outside the tent offered the half-bow that was befitting his rank, but none spoke to him. He was, after all, of the shield-bearers and thus held in superstitious awe, but it was obvious as well that he was not quite in favor at the moment.
Terrible Swift Sword Page 10