Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  “Are you ready?” Marnej asked.

  “Yes,” Dárja said. Her voice held steady.

  Marnej flicked the reins, guiding the horse through the trees, heading north.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FROM WHERE NIILÁN SAT he could see most of the gathered men. The trackers had long since returned to join the watch rotation. The rearguard, however, had not yet arrived. Niilán rubbed his hands together over the fire as he silently dismissed the possibility that the runners had met the same fate as the scouts. He doubted the Brethren would have doubled back. They were seasoned fighters. They would expect an army to follow the scouts.

  Through the fire’s smoke, Niilán observed his men as they went about their routines. The experienced soldiers not on watch closed their eyes, taking rest while they could. They knew that once the rearguard arrived they would likely be marching through the night. The new recruits sat with their knees hugged to their chests. They searched the shadows with nervous eyes, waiting for something to happen. Niilán had seen a lot of these fresh faces on the way north to fight the Jápmea. Most of them had not come back.

  In hindsight, he had no more business being on a battlefield than any of these boys. He had been a farmer, a bad one at that. Niilán and his family had survived because of his wife’s family. But even with their charity it had not been enough. Each summer brought a new mouth to feed. Every other winter, the season of snow would lay claim to a life. His wife would mourn the child, then her sorrow would turn to hate that she would direct at him. In turn, he would go in search of a friendly face and cup of juhka at the travelers’ hut.

  Niilán did not begrudge his wife her feelings. He was, by his own admission, a man singularly blighted when it came to crops and livestock. Barley died in the field under his care. Goats’ milk soured at his touch. Still, he had ignored the first call for soldiers, telling himself he was needed to tend to his crops and livestock, however poorly. All the same, one night he had been dragged from his bed by rough men who had informed him he was no longer a farmer but a soldier in the Believers’ army. Niilán had struggled briefly and received a lashing for his effort. One sharp taste of the whip had been all he needed to know that his life had taken an unimaginable turn for the worse.

  That night, Niilán joined a long line of tired farmers and herders headed to fight the Immortals. Had the gods appeared and prophesized that before the next season of snow he would have fought in and survived the greatest of all battles, Niilán would have dismissed it as a drunken vision of a wind-pissing farmer. But here he was, no longer a wind-pissing farmer, but a seasoned soldier with no farm to return to.

  Again, Niilán did not fault his wife. She had believed him dead. In her place, he would have thought the same. He had been pitiable as a farmer. There was nothing in his character to indicate he would be any different as a soldier. But it had been a revelation to him to discover that he was actually glad about how matters had turned out. He no longer had to worry about mouths to feed or whether the barley would survive too much late rain. Plus, he no longer had to grovel before his wife’s family for their handouts. He was now a soldier, and surprisingly adept at his new calling. But victorious armies were different than armies at war. In war, it only mattered what you could do with your sword, knife, and shield on the battlefield. Now, he had to contend with men who liked to give orders while standing far removed from danger. The Brethren might be traitors, but at least they had led from the ranks and fought in the battle, he thought with a certain nostalgia.

  “Sir,” a sentry called out. “The rearguard approaches.”

  Niilán stood. The fire warmed his back as he regarded the approaching foot soldiers and the mounted guard behind them.

  “Niilán!” the commander shouted, riding forward. The man’s florid face was even more red than it had been the last time Niilán had seen him, and he briefly considered the possibility that a blight still plagued him. All eyes turned to him when the commander shouted his name again.

  Niilán’s urge to stay rooted made for a long, awkward pause before he finally stepped forward to help his superior dismount.

  Feet on the ground, the commander tossed his cloak back over his shoulder with a flourish. The braided colors of his rank were wrapped around the waist of his yellow tunic. “Give me your report,” he ordered.

  The setting sun cast an orange hue upon the commander’s sanguine face, reminding Niilán of a ripe duordni—a berry he had never liked.

  “The advanced scouts are dead,” he said without emotion. “Their weapons have been taken. Their supplies as well. Tracks heading northwest from here suggest the Piijkij are on foot.”

  “The men?” the commander asked, craning his neck to look around Niilán.

  Niilán moved out of the man’s way. He pointed to where the dead lay side by side. The commander walked around the bodies but did not bend down to examine them, then his eyes darted around the gathered soldiers. Lowering his voice, he said, “There’s no need for this tale to spread. It weakens us. Sends the wrong message.”

  “What is the wrong message?” Niilán asked before he could stop himself.

  “Weakness,” the commander said with irritation. “The gods have no love for weakness. Nor does the Vijns. Nor do I.” His attention shifted back to the bodies. “The Vijns and his people will hear how this army found and killed the escaped Piijkij.”

  Drawing close to Niilán, the commander said, “Cut off their heads. Choose four of your men to ride. Have them spread word of our victory over the last of the Brethren. But I want the heads lying in front of the Vijns before my regiment returns to the Stronghold.”

  Disbelief made Niilán careless. “You want the men to lie? To claim their dead comrades are the escaped Piijkij we seek?”

  The commander glowered. “There is no lie.”

  “And their bodies?” Niilán asked, barely able to swallow his disgust.

  “Without the head, the bones of a man are no different than any other,” the commander said, turning to swagger back to the milling rearguard. Over his shoulder he added, “Bury them if you must. Or leave them for the scavengers.”

  The man’s retreating figure gave Niilán a target for his silent outrage. He had not felt this sick since his first moments upon the battlefield. In fact, he wished he were back in that chaotic mêlée. He might have saved them all this man’s leadership by running him through with his sword. But wishing the past changed was as useless as wishing his crops had not failed. Niilán was one soldier, a good one, but not one with power.

  At least I can choose my men, he thought. Though they will not thank me for it.

  “Find Matti and Joret,” Niilán called out to Osku and Jonsá. “Meet me back here.”

  The two shared a look but said nothing. They left without asking their purpose.

  Niilán stood over the fallen scouts. He studied the faces of each dead man. One had a hawkish nose. Another had ears that stuck out. Yet another had a wide brow. These details made the men individuals. They had died heroes but their commander would turn them into traitors.

  Niilán glanced back at the man encircled by several fawning subordinates. He would never have led them into battle. He would have hung back, shouting orders and berating soldiers who feared to advance. Likely, he would have been the first to abandon his men to their fate. Niilán thanked the gods he had been spared this man’s authority in battle. He thanked the gods for the Piijkij who had fought at his side until the very end.

  Looking back to the dead men, Niilán reasoned with himself as he came to terms with what he’d been tasked to do. He knew they would feel nothing. Even so. To cut off a man’s head condemned his soul to wander the forest, forsaken by the gods who could not recognize him. Of all his actions—his failure as a farmer, his bloodlust in the battle, his relief at losing his family— this one, the one he had just been charged with, was the one that he feared would damn his soul.

  When the four soldiers appeared at his side, Niilán gave up
worrying about what might happen to concentrate on what must happen.

  “We will take them to the Piijkij encampment,” he said, then bent and hefted one of the dead scouts onto his shoulder. The body sagged against him, releasing a vile stench. Niilán took the lead without comment, avoiding his men’s questioning looks. He had orders to follow. But, if this ruse went awry, he had no doubt his commander would denounce him.

  At the abandoned camp, Niilán laid down the body he carried, then waited for all the others to be gathered before him.

  “The commander has ordered that you each ride to share the news of the Piijkij defeat at the hands of our soldiers,” he said to his men. To avoid discussing the obvious fact that the Piijkij had not been defeated, he added, “You will carry their heads as proof.”

  “But they’re our scouts,” Osku said. “Our men.”

  “The commander says they are Piijkij,” Niilán said, keeping his voice even and hating himself for it. “These Brethren were slain by our men. They have felt the Believers’ power.”

  Osku stared at him, his disbelief evident. Niilán met his gaze, steadfast. “Go requisition your horses and prepare to ride. It will be done by the time you return.”

  The four riders departed, grumbling among themselves. Niilán noted that none of them dared ask him his part.

  When their yellow uniforms disappeared into the green forest, Niilán grabbed a body under the arms. He dragged it toward a thick, fallen pine tree beside the cold fire ring. With a rough heave, he rolled the heavy body onto its stomach across the tree’s trunk, then pulled off the soldier’s cloak, and peeled back the tunic collar. Dried lines of sweat and dirt ringed the pale neck. Niilán laid his blade upon the taut flesh.

  His stomach revolted as his mind hastened to find a way forward. He remembered how, as a small boy, his mother had once put a hatchet in his hand. The chicken’s head was caught between two nails on a tree stump with its neck stretched out. “Do it,” his mother had said. The wings had flapped and the screams echoed. His hand had shook. “Do it,” she had said, “or I won’t feed you ever again.”

  Niilán raised his sword. With more strength of will than physical effort, he severed the dead man’s head from its body. The head rolled off into a patch of bearberries. The body lay across the log as if in repose. Niilán swallowed. His tongue was thick and dry. He grabbed the scout’s legs, careful to make sure the gruesome wound faced away from him as he pulled the body aside. Then, with grim precision, he severed the heads of the remaining bodies.

  With the last one done, Niilán slumped to the ground. His strength drained from him. He sat back against the log. The scent of warm pine mixed with his dizziness. He leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, but recoiled at the sight of them.

  When Osku and the others returned, they each gave him a lingering look before their attention furtively slid away. Niilán got to his feet. He took the dead scouts’ cloaks and wrapped each head in the fabric, tying the ends together. He recalled his wife carefully sewing a shroud around each of their dead babes. She would hand him the small bundles to bury. His eyes were always downcast. As were they, now.

  From atop his horse, Jonsá hesitated then held out his hand. His mount shied, avoiding contact with the crude satchel. Unwilling to hold on to it, Jonsá wrestled with what to do with the heads. In the end, he dismounted and attached the bundles to his bedroll.

  As if in solemn ritual, each man bowed his head before taking hold of what Niilán proffered. But he doubted that this simple, heartfelt gesture would be enough to stave off the misgivings they all shared.

  “The burden weighs more than what you actually carry,” Niilán said, wanting to acknowledge their sacrifice. Osku persisted in his indifference. While Jonsá’s normally amiable nature had turned morose with this duty. Niilán hesitated, aware that these men might never be the same again. “You know the truth. You have been asked to spread lies. I cannot tell you how this will play out in your days and nights, but I do know that it is a duty shared by us all.”

  The men nodded, their expressions grim. Matti sat in his saddle, looking like he would rather be behind a horse and plow. And Joret’s restless hands fiddled with his reins.

  “The news must be shared,” Niilán said, confirming his own resolve as he shored up that of his men before he doled out their directions.

  “Jonsá, go west. Osku, north. Matti, east. Joret, south. Travel to as many farms and villages as you can before returning to the Stronghold by the new moon.” He paused, then added, “Do not add yourself to the Brethren’s tally.”

  These last words were an afterthought, but a salient one. Whatever falsehoods they were about to tell, the Brethren remained a threat. Still, Niilán could not shake the feeling that the real danger ranged much closer to home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARNEJ BUMPED AWAKE. HE sat in front of Dárja, who held the reins. They’d traveled unnoticed through the forest for three days. Dárja had been anxious to quicken their pace, but he had been careful not to tax the animal. They would not be gifted another horse if they ran this one to ground. So far, they’d been fortunate, but he knew that fortune was fickle, often choosing the most inopportune moments to shift.

  “We should stop soon,” Marnej said. “The horse needs rest and we need to eat.” They’d had little chance to forage or hunt for food, and Dárja had long ago consumed what few rations they’d taken from the dead scout.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “We should keep going.”

  Tired and lightheaded from hunger, Marnej didn’t want to argue with her. They’d finally reached an uneasy truce where she afforded him a cautious level of respect that had made their time together, if not agreeable, at least bearable. But the horse needed rest and food and so did he.

  “Maybe your reindeer can run all day on nothing but air and the Song, but this is a horse and it needs to rest and forage.” Without waiting for her to object, he pointed to a grove of birch saplings and lichen covered rocks. “That looks like good forage there.”

  Marnej couldn’t see Dárja’s expression but he observed how her hands gripped the reins. Her injury had made her no less willful. After a long moment, however, she eased the horse in the direction he had pointed. At a patch of bright green club moss, she let the reins fall. The animal dropped its head to eagerly feed on tender shoots.

  Marnej swung his stiff leg back around the horse’s rump. With an unceremonious groan, he jumped to the ground, jolting his spine and his limbs. When the painful tingling faded finally, he stretched his tight muscles, yawning.

  Dárja waited for him to help her off the horse.

  He was gentle, but she still winced when her foot brushed the ground.

  “How’s your ankle?” he asked.

  “Better,” she said.

  Marnej didn’t call her on the lie.

  The horse raised its head and nudged Dárja’s shoulder.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said, as if she and the animal had shared a private thought.

  The horse went back to grazing, and Dárja limped over to a large boulder. She leaned against its rough surface. The yellow lichen blooms sloughed off as she slid down to the ground.

  “I’ll see what else there is to forage,” Marnej said, waiting to see if Dárja would argue.

  She didn’t. In fact, she’d closed her eyes, resting her head at an odd angle.

  That’ll hurt, Marnej thought. He moved to right her, then stopped himself. Instead, he walked around the rock to where their horse now feasted on seed-heavy grasses. He had hoped to find bilberry bushes full of nearly ripe berries. But those closest had been picked clean. No animal is this thorough. The thought made him wary. He scanned the distance for a long moment before moving farther afield.

  Marnej was out of sight of the boulder when he finally found the ripe, almost black bilberries. He dropped to his knees and pulled off a handful of plump berries, stuffing them into his mouth. They burst, sweet and tart all at once. He began t
o strip the bush of its fruit, mounding the berries in his palm. Bright blue juice dripped between his fingers. Then beneath the leaves of the bilberries, he spied the yellow crown of a guobbâr. Marnej cut the fleshy mushroom off at its base and nested it upon the berries he held, imagining what it would taste like with onions and browned butter. His mouth watered as he swept his free hand through the undergrowth, determined to find more mushrooms.

  Dárja’s voice broke the afternoon’s stillness. Marnej froze, cradling the small cache of food he’d accumulated, as he perceived the distress in her muffled words. He jumped up, dumping the forage on the ground. He ran to where he had left Dárja, his miehkki drawn. Prepared for a fight, he almost tripped over Dárja’s still sleeping body.

  Relief washed over Marnej as he slumped against the rock. Dárja moaned, her legs twitching as she continued to sleep. The boulder’s warmth against his back felt comforting as he slid down to sit beside her.

  “Dárja. Wake up.” He shook her shoulder.

  Dárja’s eyes popped open. She sat up. Her hand sought the blade on her belt. She looked wild, as if she’d seen some horror that she could not escape.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, his hand still upon her shoulder.

  Dárja’s eyes fixed on him. She shook free of his hand.

  “I’m fine,” she said, but her voice wavered.

  Marnej drew back. “I thought the soldiers had . . .” He trailed off.

  “I’m fine,” Dárja said again with more force than she had intended. Her stomach knotted, then gurgled with emptiness.

  “I managed to find some berries and a mushroom,” he said. “But I dropped them when I heard you call out.” He stood up not meeting her eye. “I’ll go get them.”