by Richard Nell
Ruka glanced at the young messenger and held back his laugh. Before touching the message he inspected the scroll. The vellum had been furled tightly around a wooden spool and tied with a leather strap, then sealed with wax. Ruka wondered for a moment if poison could be somehow rubbed or infused in the skin. He considered the herbs Beyla taught him, which he expected were all those available in the Ascom, deciding some could perhaps burn his hands, but little more.
He took the message and unraveled the leather, finding mostly common words written in a somewhat sloppy hand.
“Bukayag—if it is truly you—these messengers are my servants. If you are still the man I met in Alverel, the man who fought for a world of justice and mercy and wisdom, where love is never a crime, then I would meet you. Perhaps together we can make that world. Tell me when, and where, and I will come.”
They were the exact words he had uttered to Kunla two years before. Then he and Bukayag had killed her and ripped her corpse to pieces, and Dala would have seen that, too.
Ruka took his time with the scroll, as if he found reading the symbols difficult. When he finally looked up he met the young messenger’s eyes, deciding he held himself with dignity, and command.
A red sun hung on the horizon. The light colored the messenger’s face, and Ruka smiled when he saw the hole lit on his left earlobe where a chief’s ring should be.
“So. You are Birmun.”
All three men stiffened with surprise and fear.
“No.” Ruka shook his head. “She did not betray you. You betrayed yourself. Tell me, why shouldn’t I kill you, Birmun, son of Canit, who has been sent to destroy me?”
Aiden perked up now, his warriors shifting forward. Some half-drew blades or lifted knives and axes. The messengers’ horses sensed the danger and whinnied or pulled away as if to run, and the men had to soothe them.
“Well,” said Birmun, no sign of his fear in his voice, “that depends on what’s in the message.”
Ruka liked this answer greatly, as he liked the man’s calm. He indulged it. “Your mistress says she would like to meet me.”
“And will you?”
“Perhaps.”
Chief Birmun shrugged, holding the reigns of his horse idly.
“Then you have nothing to fear from me, shaman. Unless you mean her harm.” He met Ruka’s eyes. “Then I will kill you.”
At this ludicrous threat Aiden’s warriors surged. The few men who’d long ago moved to block the rider’s flight drew spears. Eshen’s knife slid free of his sleeve.
The messengers tensed, the sweat-covered steppesman drawing his little bow and readying an arrow.
Ruka waited and watched all the men, taking in every reaction, saving every expression to examine later. He laughed.
“Your boldness does you credit, chief. But you are correct in one thing—I have nothing to fear from you.” Some of the men grinned, and Ruka turned to them. “These are messengers and my guests. They are not to be harmed.” He extended a hand and felt the threat of violence disappear. “Come, cousins, your ride has been long and difficult. Sit and eat with us. In the morning, and with my blessing, you will return to your priestess.”
* * *
Later, Birmun wandered near the outlaw’s bonfire. He watched the hard, frightening warriors eye him, his horse and supplies, as if considering what they’d take first when he was dead.
After his somewhat tense ‘welcome’, the shaman’s men returned to their business of cutting down trees and crafting what might have been rope. Birmun wasn’t sure why, but he thought better of asking any questions.
Instead he stood with Dagmar and kept quiet, watching the hunters and cooks prepare a small feast. He watched Bukayag move about the camp alone, distracting men everywhere he went. Then he sat by the fire, and with great surprise, learned the outlaws had a skald.
Bukayag motioned and grunted, and the dark-haired and handsome man who’d taken his message climbed to a high stool near the camp’s center. He smiled as some of the men cheered him on, then his fingers danced across a lyre, and his deep, strong voice sang of Haki the Brave, and the ancient world.
Birmun had heard many skalds as a boy in his father’s hall, then later at celebrations in the halls of other Orhus chiefs. But as he watched this outlaw singer in an ancient woods—as he watched pink sunset light the trees of the quiet valley, he could not remember a better performance.
The men stomped their feet and cheered when the song was lively, then silenced and sat still when the skald’s voice and words became forlorn. When it was over they calmed and settled and ate and drank, mostly in groups or pairs and in silence, as if the mood of all had settled.
“Damned good,” said Dag with a mouth full of hard bread.
Birmun nodded and remembered where he was. He’d been just as enthralled as the men, staring and forgetting for the moment what peril he was in. When at last he looked away he blinked in amazement to see a young woman.
She stood near the tents and watched the skald, too. The warm sunlight lit her light brown hair so it looked golden red. She wore leather breeches and a long cloth shirt like a man, and Birmun saw wetness on her cheeks. She noticed his attention, and retreated inside the near-by tent.
“Eat. The catch is fresh.”
Bukayag emerged from the woods like a hunting dog and Birmun almost reached for a weapon. His heart fluttered and for a moment he despised himself for the fear. He glanced and noticed Dag and even the Arbman looked similarly startled.
The shaman seemed oblivious. He settled on a log near the fire and gestured at one of the spits holding rabbit. Birmun nodded politely. He leaned forward to cut a piece with his knife, and for a time they sat and listened to the fire.
“Chief, would you bloody look at that.” Dag pat a greasy hand on his knee and pointed at the camp’s edge.
A group of men stood near a huge, wide elm. One was by himself near the trunk, another directly before him inspecting a flat, wooden bench. The man at the tree had a cloth tied over his eyes, and his counterpart lifted a stone from the bench, drawing laughs and cheers from the onlookers as he seemed to prepare himself to throw.
“Gods. I’d heard of this but never seen it. You mind?”
Birmun shook his head, and Dag winked and went to watch. Bukayag looked up from greasy hands and a rabbit’s thigh at his lips.
“You should be careful here, chief. Even games are full of danger in the South.”
Birmun glanced at the shaman’s strange eyes, but he wasn’t worried. Dag wasn’t a young man, nor prideful or easily offended. He wouldn’t cause any trouble. Still, the shaman’s words stuck in his mind, and he found himself watching while he ate.
“Bedrag, they call it.” Bukayag said later, his voice holding almost an edge of contempt. “It just means ‘deceiver’ in some old Southern tongue. The rules are simple. One man chooses a rock, a small knife, or an axe, the other covers his eyes. The thrower hurls with whatever strength he wishes, at whatever part of the man’s body he wishes. The onlookers count and the weapon is thrown on three. The blinded man knows it will come, but not which weapon, or where. He chooses to stand, or move.”
Birmun nodded, but didn’t see the point. “Do they wager?”
Bukayag snorted. “Some. They do it to show their courage, to win honor, to pass the time. The men who play usually like each other.” He leaned again to the fire for more rabbit. “They throw only the rock or the knife. If they choose the knife then they aim for an arm or leg, and if the man stands he takes a small wound and hides his pain. The others douse the cut in arog and toast him for a fool. Later they will sing his praises.”
“Danger without purpose.” Birmun shook his head. “It seems foolish.”
The shaman chewed a leg and Birmun tried not to watch as his sharp, angled teeth bit into the rabbit’s bone. Bukayag looked into the flame as he spoke.
“In the steppes, tribesmen make a game of chasing goats or horses into pens. There are few rules. Even boys as
young as ten winters play, and all carry clubs and knives, and use them. Sometimes they die.”
Birmun didn’t know what to make of this, or the tone. He shook his head and shifted on the moss-covered rock he’d chosen as a seat, more uncomfortable by the moment. Bukayag almost whispered now.
“Below the beltway, cousin, mothers name infants only if they survive two winters. Some of these men here have lost as many as ten children to sickness and cold. Most have lost pieces of their bodies, to frost or corruption. Some have left their mates and stopped trying, choosing a simple life of serving a warrior. So tell me, chief, with such an existence, should men not grow a contempt for life? Is that foolish, or is it wisdom? How else could a man stay sane?”
Birmun watched the shaman speak and felt enthralled, just as he’d been with the skald. He stared at this strange man in the firelight, his words spoken as if the suffering were his—as if the fate he described were some burden weighing heavy on his shoulders.
At first, Birmun had wondered why Dala should want to meet and perhaps ally with this strange son of Noss. But he felt they shared something, some sense of burden, responsibility. And whatever else was true, and to his shame, he felt a sort relief—he had no desire to fight this man.
As the evening passed he stole many glances at the now silent Bukayag. His ugly features flickered in the firelight, strong jaw always chewing. He sat mostly rigid, his long limbs planted like the legs of a chair, bright eyes either staring far away, or furtive, as if watching for danger.
Purposeful, Birmun thought as he watched him. Restless, like a hawk.
The men still playing bedrag roared. Birmun turned to see one of the warriors had dodged aside, only to observe with chagrin he’d fled from a softly lobbed stone.
An older man shook his shoulders and took his place next, then tied the cloth around his eyes himself. He gestured and boasted he’d never once fled from rock or iron, and ‘let whichever weak-armed coward test me as he pleases!’
A huge thrower moved opposite to many cheers and then laughs when he took the stone. When it died down and the men counted, on three he reached back his whole body and arm into a mighty hurl, and whipped the little bullet hard. It caught the old man square in the crotch.
The veteran groaned and hunched, putting his hands on his knees, and some of the onlookers cringed or covered their mouths. He took off his blindfold and looked at the thrower before he shook his head.
“I think…”, he took a steadying breath, “I think I’ve had my last son, brothers. And good riddance.”
The men howled. Even Dagmar looked to join in as the Northerners wiped their eyes and helped the old warrior sit.
“You must be very loyal to bring your priestess’ message to me yourself,” Bukayag said. Birmun snapped his eyes back to the shaman, and found him expressionless.
“I do my duty, as my father did.”
“Ah. So your father was a chief. Do you have a matron? Children?”
“No.” Birmun tossed the now meatless bone in his hands to the fire. He didn’t like the shaman’s tone, feeling manipulated or mocked or playing a game he didn’t understand. Bukayag seemed to sense his discomfort. He said nothing for a time, then leaned forward with an almost arrogant grin.
“Dala is a very beautiful, young woman, isn’t she?”
Birmun felt his face grow slightly hot and was glad the man wouldn’t be able to see it in the poor light.
“We’ve met before, Dala and I,” said the shaman.
“So she told me.”
Bukayag smiled, though Birmun felt no warmth in it. “She must trust you greatly. Did she also tell you I ripped her old mistress apart with my bare hands, and that she watched and did nothing?”
Birmun fought the urge to meet the man’s gaze, and also the urge to rise from his seat and run. The shaman had leaned forward, his whole face changed, his shoulders and limbs slouched as if ready to strike. Birmun kept his composure and shrugged as if it made no difference.
“She said you killed her. How is not important.” With this he turned back to the fire as if the conversation were over, and for a time neither of them spoke. Bukayag broke the silence, his tone returned to something almost friendly.
“The men and their game.” He pointed as another Southerner stood brazen against the tree. “There is a difference between courage, and contempt for life. But sometimes, either will do.”
With that Bukayag stood, and walked toward the tents, and Birmun sat alone for a time. He considered the strange shaman and his words. He thought on his years as a nightman, the nights of blood in Orhus as he served Dala’s will, and all the strange twists of fate that led him to this place. His eyelids drooped enough he considered laying down to sleep.
“Ye callin’ me a coward?”
The tone and direction of the argument jerked Birmun awake. He glanced back with interest but little concern, at first. Then he spotted Dagmar.
“No, brother, and I don’t say it now.”
“Ye wagered I’d move, so ye think I’m a coward. Don’t hide wit’ lies.”
“No, I…I meant no offence. The other men…”
“Are true brothers and warriors who ha’ stood before a tree. But not ye. Now I’ll have satisfaction.”
Birmun felt himself sweating instantly and stood, fear coursing through his body as he looked around the clearing for Bukayag. He found the shaman standing in the dark near a tent, already watching.
“He will stand,” Birmun called as he came closer, knowing there must be violence to end this. “He’ll stand next at the tree. And you throw. That should be enough.”
The tall, wiry Southerner turned to see who interfered. His body was slim but fashioned as if from iron, exposed limbs sheathed in hard-earned muscle. He sneered and seemed ready to reject this, but another of his brethren spoke.
“Edda hears. T’is is a fair offer, Brack. Let ‘em stand. I’d like ta see.”
A few others near Dagmar grunted in approval. They held flasks of arog, and moments before had been laughing and enjoying the game. It seemed they’d gotten to like the man enough to help him, or at least didn’t like the disruption. The Southerner growled and gestured angrily at the tree.
“Stand ‘en. We see who’s a coward.”
Dag glanced at Birmun, who shrugged, and the older man walked rather unhurriedly to take his place.
A dangerous tension still hung in the air, though the men returned to their jokes and drinking and many others came to watch the excitement. One of the less drunk warriors walked to the tree with a strip of dark cloth and winked to the onlookers as he tied it around Dagmar’s head.
Birmun’s palms sweat, but he expected this would keep his man alive. The Southerner would no doubt throw the knife or even the axe, but Dag would do the sensible thing and move. The thrower would call him a coward, the men would all have their laugh, and that would be that.
“Vol is watchin’,” called one of the bystanders. A few others told Dag to go left, or right, or ‘don’t duck, little brother, Brack loves when a man ducks’.
Birmun was glad for the jokes, and hoped they eased some tension. All at once the noise dimmed as Brack lifted the throwing axe. He held it up to show the crowd, and most of the men grimaced or glanced at each other but said nothing. Birmun took a breath and hoped the man didn’t intentionally miss, trying to hit Dag as he moved.
The older warrior who’d apparently taken charge of the counting waited for quiet, then put his hands to his mouth like a horn. “Wune”, he shouted, his accent thick and heavy. The gathering silenced entirely, and the old warrior shouted ‘due’, and at last ‘threy’.
Birmun held his breath, and Brack spun his body expertly, throwing with all his might.
The axe spiraled through the air on target. Birmun would have shouted but he had time only to twitch and squeeze his fists as the weapon sailed end over end. Dagmar didn’t move.
The weapon struck—handle first, directly into his gut.
&nb
sp; The weight and force of the throw alone dropped him to a crouch. His hands sunk to his knees as he coughed and retched. The crowd half gasped, then half roared their approval. Men laughed and took it up, and it went on for several long moments until the anger on Brack’s face became obvious to all, and Dagmar removed the cloth and stood. The thrower’s voice was tight.
“You think so little of my skill, you don’t even move? Do you insult me again?”
Birmun twitched and couldn’t believe the old man hadn’t moved, and that he’d been such a damned fool. By the frowns and grimaces from the other men, he could see they felt this insult wasn’t fair. But still they said nothing.
Dag put his hands on his knees again to hold himself upright, then gestured at the other old man who’d been counting.
“Oh I’da moved,” he panted, and groaned. “But you Southerners can’t bloody talk. Didn’t know that was counting.”
Birmun blinked, and the Southern warriors took turns meeting each other’s eyes. The first man’s howl of laughter became a roar that engulfed half the camp. Even Brack eventually allowed a smirk and a nod, and as he turned away the threat of violence vanished like smoke into the night.
Birmun damn near carried Dag back to their fire in disbelief, and eased him to the earth.
Later, still resting together by the fire, his father’s old retainer clutched his stomach, his face pale. “I know, I know,” he whispered. “Trust me I know, but I was a dead man if I moved, Chief. These men are mad.”
Birmun snorted, thinking damn the shaman to hell but he warned me, just glad the older man hadn’t died in a duel. They ate some more rabbit and drank mostly water and a little arog, joking to ease the pain.
But the night wore on. Dag’s groans grew louder and soon he waved away the drink. His eyes turned slick with wetness and with Birmun’s help he tried to empty his bowels twice but passed only blood. On his third attempt he slipped and fell to the dirt, and stared at the night moaning his children’s names. Birmun held his head and shouted for help.
Only the shaman came. He looked at Dag’s gut and face and brought herbs he poured down the man’s throat, but these too came back up. He spoke softly, like a loving mother in the man’s ear, and soon looked to Birmun and shook his head.