Marnej interrupted, “But how old is that? How many seasons of snow?”
Ello snorted, “We don’t measure those. I mean, we do, but . . . they aren’t important.” She paused, frowning in concentration. Then her smile returned like the sun from behind the clouds. “I think I’m between twenty-four and thirty-two seasons of snow, which makes Dárja close to eighteen seasons of snow. But I’m not certain of that. She always seemed older to me. Perhaps because she spent so much of her time apart from us.”
Marnej toyed with the empty bowl in front of him. “You mean with my father?”
Ello’s face scrunched. The freckles on her nose briefly overlapped.
“I mean, Irjan,” Marnej said.
Ello’s features smoothed. “Yes. Dárja was mostly with her bieba when we were children and then later too,” she said. “Although, I do remember playing with her occasionally.”
“And Úlla?” Marnej asked.
Ello snorted again. “I don’t think Úlla ever played with Dárja or anyone.”
“No, I mean how old is Úlla?”
“Oh. She’ll be in her fifth measure this Guovassonásti return.”
“That doesn’t seem so much older than you,” he said, unsure of how many seasons of snow that was.
“Well, no. Not like Birtá and Tuá and Ravna.” Ello pushed her bowl away to the center of the table. “They are all beyond their sixth measure.” Then Ello paused as if something had just occurred to her. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen seasons of snow,” Marnej said proudly.
“Oh,” Ello said with an uptick of surprise.
“What?” Marnej asked, instantly wary.
“I thought you were much older. But you’re so young. Like Dárja,” Ello said, her disbelief evident in her appraising look. “I just assumed that because you’re Olmmoš . . .” she didn’t finish her thought.
“So in Immortal time,” he began.
Ello burst out laughing. “Immortal? Is that what your kind think?” She gaped at him, her mouth open, stunned. Then she recovered herself with a knowing look. “Well, we certainly don’t live forever. We’re not like the gods. Only they are eternal. We just live longer than your kind.”
“My kind,” Marnej repeated, realizing he still thought very much like an Olmmoš.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, blushing red to the roots of her auburn hair. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just. It’s just. Well, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give offense.”
Ello’s abject expression made it impossible for Marnej to stay irritated. He smiled to reassure her. “You didn’t give offense. I’m just trying to understand.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It must not be easy for you.”
Marnej shrugged. “I just want to understand.”
Ello stood, then leaned across the table to pick up her bowl.
“Why did you sit down with me?” he asked, again curious about this nieddaš in front of him.
“Because I think you’re handsome,” Ello answered without hesitation.
Marnej felt the tips of his ears burning.
Ello let out another hearty, carefree belly laugh. “And because I was hoping you’d sharpen my tools.” She wiggled her thin, arched brows at him then laughed even harder at his astonishment.
“That was far too easy,” she said, when she regained her composure.
“What was too easy?” a sharp voice asked.
Marnej and Ello both turned at the same time to see Úlla standing at the end of the long table.
Ello’s face fell, and Marnej muttered under his breath.
“There is more firewood to chop,” Úlla said.
Marnej bit back the harsh words waiting to fly from his tongue, remembering Kalek’s admonition.
“You’re right,” he said, standing up. He smiled at Ello, noting that she was really quite striking. “Thank you for my lesson today. I look forward to the next.”
Marnej started to walk away to return his bowl, when he heard Ello behind him. “And don’t forget, you agreed to sharpen my tools.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
GÁRAL AND VÁLDE APPROACHED the travelers’ hut outside of Hassa from the north. Twice now Gáral had reminded Válde that stealth was not required. Rather, they needed to appear as forthright as possible.
“Like two binna herders looking for work,” he had said.
But Válde felt stripped bare without his miehkki.
“Short knives are good enough for gutting farmers,” Herko had said.
“But not enough for soldiers,” Válde grumbled, laying his sword in Feles’s hands.
“Well, you can’t go strolling in there with a pair of swords claiming to be dung-reeking reindeer herders,” Herko had pointed out, ever the pragmatist.
It had been a strange reversal of roles, but Herko had been right. Irritatingly so.
Other than their swords, not much remained to distinguish them from any other Olmmoš. They had long ago surrendered the emblems of the Piijkij, and their escape from the Believer soldiers had coated them with enough grime and evidence of hard living to challenge their mothers to recognize them.
Not that any of them had seen their mothers since they had learned to walk. Most had been sold or given to the Brethren by their families who had one too many mouths to feed. After twenty seasons of snow with the Brethren, Válde had only a vague recollection of what his mother looked like. She was only a halo of wispy golden hair and a yeasty smell.
Gáral thumped Válde on the shoulder before opening the squat door. He folded back the reindeer pelt and entered the travelers’ hut. Válde followed Gáral’s impatient lead and was greeted by a wall of smoke and the stench of the fetid room. Válde swallowed his disgust as he scanned the clothing and faces lit by fire and torch. Assured that the hut contained no soldiers, he wound his way to a pair of low stools near the hutkeeper’s barrels where Gáral had positioned himself.
The two of them rubbed their hands together, coaxing blood to flow.
“Food or drink?” the hutkeeper asked. Her pendulous bosom almost touched her thighs as she leaned forward to cup a hand to her ear.
“Food,” Válde said.
“Drink,” Gáral grunted.
The keeper nodded, then pushed herself straight to shuffle the short distance to the barrels.
“Keep a clear head,” Válde warned.
Gáral snorted. “Keep your own counsel.”
The woman returned, handing a cup of juhka to Gáral and a greasy bowl of stew to Válde. A lump of congealed fat rose to its surface, threatening to change any idea Válde had about eating. Hunger, however, won over his better judgment. He slurped from the bowl, watching Gáral tip back his cup. At least the juhka is palatable, he thought, envious.
Válde lifted his bowl to his lips, listening to the muffled conversations around him. Over the bowl’s rim he regarded the huddled folk scattered in pairs about the hazy room. But it was the group of five nestled at the far end of a long communal table that drew his attention. Their loud garrulous voices rose above the other murmurings. They must think the juhka palatable as well, Válde thought. He nudged Gáral lightly to guide his attention to the table.
“I tell you we were better off with them Immortals running around and us none the wiser of it,” one of the five lamented, his vowels long and slurred.
“Shhh,” another warned.
The first waved off his friend. “A man can speak his mind.”
“Keep it down. You don’t want soldiers hearing you talk,” the friend said with a furtive glance around.
“I hear there’s a regiment headed this way,” a third man added, draining his battered wooden cup. “My brother’s a farrier. He got called to the Stronghold. Sixty horses needed shoeing before they left.” He held his cup forward and waited for it to be refilled.
“And?” one of them prodded.
“And what?” the man with his cup out said.
“And, what about
the regiment?”
The man banged his cup on the table. The cautious friend shushed him.
“My brother said they’re going to fortify the temple garrisons against them Hunters.”
The hutkeeper shuffled over and filled the cups.
“I served with them in the battle,” the first man tapped his chest, spilling some of his juhka.
“We all did,” another pointed out.
“They were a tough lot,” someone deep in the corner said. “I’d never thought they’d be the sort to be killing women and children.”
“Cowardly, if you ask me,” the one with the farrier brother shook his head.
Gáral paused with his second round of juhka halfway to his mouth. His eyes flashed over the cup to Válde, who scratched the side of his beard and nodded imperceptibly for Gáral to keep drinking, worried that the man’s temper would flare at the offense. Gáral, however, kept his gaze loosely scanning the room. Válde was grateful for his comrade’s forbearance because even he was sorely tempted to beat these drunkards for the answers he wanted and be done with them.
The five in the corner fell silent, some drinking, others perhaps too far gone to make the effort to talk.
Then like a bell on a clear and crisp morning, the one hidden in the corner said, “Well, a regiment headed here isn’t good news. Even if they do hunt down and kill those rogue Hunters. Horse riders and foot soldiers require food and shelter and we’ve had poor harvests. We can barely feed ourselves, let alone a regiment of hungry mouths.”
“I tell you it was better when them Immortals were living hidden away,” the first man reprised his original lament. “At least there was no army making you fight or forcing you to feed them.”
His friend filled the man’s cup, speaking over him, “Did you hear that Árvet’s sow escaped the pen and walked into the house? Árvet’s wife was inside and when she heard snoring behind her, she turned to scold Árvet and found the sow laying before the hearth and Árvet asleep in his chair!”
The five men broke out into roars of laughter, then continued to speak about Árvet’s bad fortune.
Gáral raised his eyebrows and hinted at leaving. Válde waved over the hutkeeper and gave her payment, which she held close to one eye to examine before dropping it into her apron pocket. The two Piijkij stood, pulling their cloaks tightly about them, then walked slowly through the room like two men who were not looking forward to the cold and dark world. Once outside, the pair picked up their pace, winding their way north into the trees where they met the rest of the Brethren.
“They spread lies,” Gáral barked, before Válde could think of how best to share the news.
Beartu’s expectant face fell. “What do you mean?”
“They accuse us of killing women and children,” Gáral spat.
“But we did not,” Edo sputtered, his anger flaring. “Nor would we ever!”
“No, Edo, we would not,” Válde said to calm his indignant friend as he gauged the impact of the news. The expressions varied but the mood of the group was dark.
“There’s got to be a better way,” Dáigu said.
“There is,” Herko said. “We live up to their lies. Let’s give them something to fear and gossip about that’ll at least be true!”
Muttering, like an unsettling wind, rippled through the group.
Gáral’s eyes honed in on Válde. “We have been too mild.”
“And what would you have us do?” Válde asked, concentrating not on the insult given but where they might actually succeed.
“Burn the temples,” Gáral exploded. “Let’s see if the gods will answer their prayers when their temples are in ashes.”
“Yes.” The others chorused.
Dáigu and Edo, however, shifted, one uneasy and the other sullen.
“All men should be heard before we decide our future,” Válde said, his belief in this absolute.
“Protect us from Edo’s honor,” Redde mocked.
The others smirked, even the normally stern Feles.
Edo’s small features pinched into an even tighter cluster. “Laugh if you must. Once we begin down this path, we will not have a moment’s peace until our end.”
“Is peace what you want, Edo?” Gáral challenged, his vulnerable pride giving him stature. “Because, if it is, you can leave now and try to find a peaceful corner where you can keep your honor warm.”
“Gáral! Enough,” Válde said, his own patience balanced on an edge. “Edo has a right to speak. His voice is as strong as yours.”
Válde turned to the seething Edo. “What you say is true. There will be no peace. A regiment has been dispatched to hunt us down and end us. They are to fortify the garrisons as they travel. If we are to strike, as Gáral has suggested, we cannot wait. We must strike before the outposts receive reinforcements, while they are still unaware.”
Válde stepped in front of Dáigu, who had yet to speak. “And you? What is your say?”
Dáigu’s normally comic features were harshly set. He dipped his head with the air of resignation.
“So, we are in agreement,” Gáral stated, receiving enthusiastic support.
Válde noted the arrogant twist of Gáral’s mouth.
“Hassa has a temple,” Válde said, meeting the challenge.
Herko grinned. “Not for long.”
Darkness hid the Brethren as they crept to the edge of the snow-dusted forest. The Believers’ temple lay in the middle of crudely built log and turf huts. From the southeast, thick smoke rose from the garrison, weaving its way up through the lowlying mist.
“Starting the fire in these wet conditions will be difficult,” Feles said.
“Not if we get inside,” Herko corrected him, his restlessness evident.
“Separate fires will make quick work of it,” Redde added, for once serious in his suggestion.
“Best to cut between those two huts,” Gáral said, pointing. “The large one there and the small to the left.”
“Gáral and I will go first,” said Válde. “We will signal for the rest to follow. Dáigu, you stay behind with the horses. If we are caught you owe us no loyalty.”
Dáigu did not protest.
Válde followed Gáral across the open ground, keeping low as he ran. When they reached the long hut, they hugged tight to its straight lines and deep overhangs. As they moved, Válde strained to hear if any soul stirred in the dismal gloom. But to his ears, he and Gáral were the only two about on this dark, freezing night.
At the corner of the long hut, Gáral stopped. Válde peered around him. They had another long stretch of open ground to cover before reaching the temple.
“Let’s hope no one is about,” Gáral said, echoing Válde’s own thoughts.
Before Válde could acknowledge the comment, Gáral sprinted across the grey expanse of snow. Válde ran after him, his eyes sweeping the open ground until he reached the temple’s low, sloping wall where icicles as thick as sapling branches menaced from above.
Gáral crept along the uneven wall, his lead hand searching for an entrance. He swore under his breath. “We will have to try the front.”
Válde inched around Gáral to take a look for himself. If they pressed close to the roughhewn wall, they would only be visible when they reached for the front door. Voices on the path startled them. He and Gáral flung themselves onto their stomachs. This time it was Válde who cursed under his breath.
“Shh. The sentry will hear you,” a loud voice slurred.
“We are the sentries,” the other chuckled.
The two soldiers crumbled into hysterics, falling into each other as they laughed.
“Shush,” one said, recovering himself enough to stand.
“Shh,” said the other, with an exaggerated gesture.
The two bodies staggered past the temple, their renewed laughter fading into the haze.
Válde and Gáral jumped up and darted forward. Gáral pressed against the door. It creaked, but did not move.
“It
’s barred from the inside,” he said.
Válde scooted forward to the next corner, then craned his neck around the edge.
“There is a stable,” he said, looking back to Gáral. “If there is livestock . . .”
“There’s a kitchen,” Gáral finished the thought and slipped around the corner of mounded snow. With four long strides, he reached the lean-to stable that jutted out from the temple’s southern wall.
Gáral lifted up the latch, grinning as the door swung open.
Válde could not help but grin back. “Go signal to the others. I will scout the kitchen and get torches ready.
Gáral disappeared around the corner as Válde entered the stable’s dark interior. The pungent smell of animals and their dung replaced the fresh, cold air. Válde’s mind raced ahead to anticipate obstacles and possibilities. Chief among his concerns was the chance that a cook resided beyond, or worse, armed men. The stable livestock rustled, aware their quiet evening was about to be disturbed. The roosting chickens awoke to protest with a rolling cluck, and the goats, contributed a few mournful bleats. Válde crossed the stable toward the sliver of light that winked beyond the pens.
At the door, he pressed his ear against the rough planks. No sounds from beyond alerted him to danger, but a cautious internal voice halted his advance. It would be better to have the strength of men behind him if they were to face armed guards.
Válde crossed back to the edge of the stables, careful not to bump into the dozing sheep and curious goats. Moments passed as an eternity as he waited impatiently for the others.
Greeting their arrival, he whispered, “There is light beyond the far door there. No sounds. But I cannot be sure if there is anyone beyond.”
“Kill any that you meet quickly and quietly,” Gáral said to those behind him.
At Válde’s signal, the first of them rushed through the kitchen door, weapons at the ready to discover an empty kitchen with embers glowing in the hearth. Emboldened, the men pushed out into the hall, their desire for a fight growing. Gáral stalked back across to the kitchen, returning with four lit torches.
Válde spoke up as Gáral dispensed the torches. “One man sets the fire, the other keeps guard. The first out, release the animals and head for the woods.”
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 23