Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

  Gáral bit back his response, letting Herko’s affront go unremarked upon. If they were to have any chance of success, they needed to work together. But the comment rankled, and though he focused his attention on winding his way through the snowy landscape, Gáral relived the anger and shame he had endured by not being able to protect the Avr. He should have convinced Dávgon of the danger the boy posed. But he could not countermand his leader. If only I had killed Marnej, Gáral thought, allowing the rest to remain unsaid. It was in the past. Nothing could be changed. All that remained was their plan, and whatever came of it.

  Emerging from the trees, Gáral was surprised to find they were on a cart path. He had been prepared for a long and tedious slog. But it was barely first light, and to the east, rose the outpost’s palisade wall, and beyond that the defense tower. Even at this distance, Gáral could see that guards posted at the gate had slowed horse and cart movement to a trickle.

  “We are in the gods’ graces,” Gáral enthused. “It is a large garrison and not some goat-shed outpost.”

  The two picked up their pace as they crossed the white expanse before the garrison. Gáral recalled an old rhyme taught to them as boys by an elderly brother who’d had a keen interest in fortified defense. “Keep the forest at bay and your enemies away,” the old man had counseled, wagging a finger. As if any of the boys he taught would ever oversee the building of a fortress. Still, as Gáral stepped over steaming piles of dung to weave his way through the mounted soldiers, he reflected on the fact that sometimes a forest was not made of trees.

  Keeping a relaxed and confident stride, Gáral approached the gate.

  “You there, viel’ja,” the sentry called out.

  Gáral stopped. From the corner of his eye, he saw Herko draw back. He looked over at the guard, prepared for a fight.

  “Lead these men to stable their horses,” the sentry said. “Then have them presented to the commander.”

  Gáral nodded, like a good soldier, then took hold of the bridles on either side of him. Keeping his eyes lowered, he glanced over his shoulder as he started walking. Herko had followed his lead. As the two of them guided the mounted riders forward, Gáral scanned the area ahead, spotting the stables at the northwest curve of the palisade wall.

  Outside the stables, he waited as the lead riders dismounted. Handing the reins to Herko, he whispered, “See what you can find out. I will meet you back here,” before adding aloud, “Make sure these horses are groomed and fed.”

  As Gáral gestured to the dismounted riders to follow, he caught the eye of a weathered soldier. The man’s brooding stare unnerved him, but Gáral kept his voice even as he said, “This way.”

  Stopping at the base of the defense tower, Gáral felt the soldier still watched him. He feigned a casual look over his shoulder, as if he were making sure he had not lost any in his charge. The man who had taken such an interest in him rubbed his stubbled beard, observing the outpost around him. I have become as nervous as Edo, Gáral thought, climbing up the steps, the man now forgotten.

  At the top of the sloped wooden causeway, two guards stopped him.

  Gáral said, “Riders here to see the commander,” hoping he had guessed correctly where the outpost leader had sequestered himself.

  “What name do I offer?” the sentry asked.

  The riders came forward, pushing Gáral out of the way and nearly off the top of the walkway.

  The weathered one said, “I offer the name Niilán.”

  As the guard escorted the riders into the defense tower, Gáral descended the causeway. From his vantage point, he saw that, far from being a worthless errand, his commission to deliver the riders had brought him to the ideal spot to survey the entire outpost. He took a moment to watch the comings and goings, his attention resting on a cluster of three long huts with snow-covered roofs. Smoke rose from two. One likely served as the cook hut which meant the store rooms were nearby. Gáral bounded down the causeway, mindful of the soldiers milling. They had cloaks but no furs. They were common soldiers. No men of rank. Still, Gáral was conscious to not make eye contact as he walked with the airs of a man who had his orders.

  When he arrived at the stables, Gáral found Herko inside, picking out the hoof of a grey mare.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Herko looked up, letting go of the horse’s hoof. The animal snorted. “Picking shit out of hooves. Have your eyes failed you?”

  Gáral flexed his hand. He dearly wished to hit Herko. Hard.

  “Save your energy,” Herko said, nodding at Gáral’s poised hand. “I’ve no fight with you.” He stretched his back until it cracked in a quick succession of pops. “As soon as you left, the guards from the gate approached. I couldn’t pass them without rousing suspicion. I’ve been here, stooped over, caring for these brutes. But I can tell you which are in the best health, and I overheard the guards mention that the riders we brought in came from Hassa.”

  “Word of our deed must have spread,” Gáral said, his flush of anger cooling. He clapped Herko on the back, enjoying the man’s wince.

  “Let’s find what we need and leave these soldiers with something else to talk about.”

  Niilán and the Mehjala garrison commander stood to clasp arms.

  “I wish you good fortune in your hunt,” the commander said.

  “We will camp on the outskirts and travel tomorrow,” Niilán answered, turning to leave.

  With a rush of wind, the door to the commander’s quarters flew open. A breathless sentry entered. “Fire at the stables, sir!”

  Niilán suddenly found himself at the back of a crowd pressing through the room’s door. Outside, he saw smoke rising from one of the squat structures. Soldiers ran in all directions as the garrison commander clattered down the causeway, shouting orders. Those soldiers who had their wits about them had organized a bucket chain leading from the well to where the flames licked up the structure.

  Finally free of the men blocking his way, Niilán raced ahead. His one thought was their horses. He could not afford to lose a single one.

  When he reached the stables, the shouts of men were drowned out by the frightened screams of animals. A handful of soldiers ran out from the black interior, coughing, leading out wild-eyed horses who reared and fought to run away. Niilán charged inside, his nose and mouth covered by the crook of his arm. Thick smoke stung his eyes. He squinted as he moved further in, but could see nothing beyond the smoke and the voracious glow of the fire as it devoured the wooden walls and the hayloft above.

  A tumble of rafters crashed down, spreading a fresh wave of heat. Niilán drew back. His flesh felt crisped, as if he were roasted upon a spit. He ran from the building, his chest burning.

  Outside, Niilán dropped to his knees, gasping, choking on the fresh air. He grabbed at the nearest soldier.

  “The horses?” he croaked.

  “They’re out,” the soldier said, tearing himself away to rush off.

  Niilán scrambled to his feet, his eyes watering. Through the blur, he saw the horses corralled together near the gate. He staggered to the makeshift enclosure, searching for Osku, silently berating himself for not bringing Matti. Standing a head above any man around, Matti would have been easily spotted.

  As Niilán neared the corral, men rushed past him shouting, “Close the gates!”

  He grabbed one of the gatesmen. “What has happened?”

  Before the man could answer, the horses broke free as a new panic swept through them.

  The soldier shoved Niilán back, but Niilán held on. “What has happened?” he shouted again.

  The man wrenched himself free without answering.

  Jostled on all sides by men scrambling to catch the horses, Niilán heard Osku’s deep voice berating a soldier. Niilán made his way into the tumult of men and beasts and found his man, holding firm to the reins of his horse and another. Niilán grabbed hold of one set of reins, surprising Osku, who rounded on him with a ready kick and a curse. When h
e saw that it was Niilán, he shouted above the din, “They set fire to the stable and stole horses!”

  In an instant, Niilán knew who they were. Fury clouded his vision. He mounted his frightened horse. With Osku beside him ready to ride, Niilán shouted at the gatesmen. “Open these gates or I will kill you where you stand!”

  “Of all the stupid things, Herko,” Gáral yelled as they raced away from the garrison.

  “You won’t be complaining when we use these bows to pick off soldiers from a distance,” Herko shouted, shifting the hefty quiver of arrows onto his back.

  “We were to get uniforms! Not weapons,” Gáral fumed.

  Herko leaned closer to the horse to lessen the jolting gait. “What good’s a uniform without weapons?”

  Gáral drove his horse on, leaving the damnable Herko to his own fate. He threaded the sparse trees. Branches snapped his face. Gáral’s eyes watered in pain, but he kept riding, all the while blaming Herko. When he reached the meeting point, Gáral brought the horse to an abrupt stop, almost tumbling head-over-ass onto the pointed rocks.

  “Válde, get out here. Now!” Gáral yelled. The cold wind pulled the words from his mouth, leaving quaking silence in their wake.

  “Válde!” he yelled again.

  The others emerged from the thick forest just as Herko arrived.

  “Do you have the uniforms?” Válde asked.

  “Yes,” Gáral almost spit the word out, “but the alarm was raised at the outpost. We are followed.”

  Válde tensed. “How?”

  Gáral snarled at Herko. “Do not ask.”

  “Here,” Herko grunted. He handed out two bows with a pair of full quivers. Edo took one, Feles the other.

  Válde looked to Gáral for answers.

  “Do not ask,” he repeated. “There’s no time. We need to put distance between us and the outpost. Now!”

  Válde signaled. The men mounted.

  “What direction?”

  “The Great Valley,” Gáral said. “At least there we will have the advantage of a lookout if we need to shoot those arrows.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  VÁLDE CAME TO A stop, surveying their location. The darkening sky gave no sun marker, but he knew by the hills they were east of the Great Valley.

  “Pull out the uniforms,” he said, dismounting. “If they catch up, the uniforms may prove useful.”

  “If we keep going, they won’t catch up,” objected Herko.

  “Herko’s right,” Gáral said. “We should keep going.”

  “That is fine for you and Herko,” Edo said. “You already wear your uniforms.”

  “The animals need a break,” Feles said, wiping ice crystals from his horse’s neck.

  As the men dismounted, Válde looked to Gáral. He expected to see defiance and disdain. Instead, he was surprised to see resignation. Gáral untied the roll of tunics and cloaks from his saddle. He handed them down to Válde. “Hurry up, Herko,” he said. “The sooner these uniforms are on, the sooner we can get moving again.”

  Herko grumbled, but unstrapped the roll of clothing behind him, handing out the stolen uniforms. The men shivered as they stripped off their outer layers to replace them with the soldiers’ tunics. Donning the thick cloaks, some of the men thanked the gods for the warmth, while others bemoaned the need for the disguise.

  While the men tightened belts and refastened weapons, Válde said, “If we are followed, I want to lay a false track from here.”

  “And what if they hunt you down?” Gáral asked pointedly.

  “Then I will have succeeded in drawing them away.”

  “No. You’ll only have succeeded in getting yourself killed. That would leave us short on horses and Gáral to lead us,” Herko said, disgusted. “I will ride with you.”

  “So, two swords will make a difference?” Gáral scoffed.

  “No, but three might,” Feles said, taking a step forward.

  Gáral’s hand shot out to stop Feles. His expression darkened. “You lead the others to the ridge,” he ordered, meeting Válde’s appraising look.

  “We will lay tracks to the south, then come up into the valley through the southern gap,” Válde said.

  “That shit-cursed place,” Herko spat.

  “You can stay behind and practice your skill with a bow,” Gáral said.

  Herko rose into his saddle. “To let Válde meet the same fate as the Avr by relying on you alone?”

  Gáral lunged forward, ready to pull Herko from his horse, but Feles blocked him.

  “You think I would not change that day if I could?” Gáral fought to get free. “I would gladly have sacrificed myself if I could have stopped the Avr from trusting Marnej.” He pushed Feles aside. “I should have killed that boy when I had the chance.”

  “It was the Avr’s choice!” Válde boomed. “He knew Marnej was a traitor’s spawn. He chose to listen to him anyway. Now, the longer we stand here arguing among ourselves, the closer we are to our end. Come with me, Gáral, or go with the others. Either way, mount your horse and ride.”

  To Feles he said, “If we do not meet up with you within the day, take it as a sign of your leadership. Ride for the cave.”

  When the gates finally opened for Niilán, he shouted to the sentries, “Which way did they go?”

  The soldiers pointed south.

  Niilán knew he could not follow the tracks by himself without risking a confrontation with an unknown number of Piijkij. But in the time it would take him to reach his men and return, he might lose the fresh horse tracks. Niilán’s own mount pawed the ground. Any riders who came from the south would easily obscure the tracks he wished to follow.

  “Gods plague the lot of them,” Niilán swore and spurred his horse west to where his men were camped.

  Less than a league separated Mehjala from what remained of Niilán’s regiment. Thirty men was a group small enough to move quickly and large enough, he hoped, to rout the last of the Piijkij. Niilán pushed his horse faster along the cart path, feeling as if each moment were a lifetime.

  When he reached the edge of their encampment, the relaxed movement of his men drove him into a fury. There was no way for them to know of the events at the garrison. Still, he had expected them to be ready to ride. Niilán heard the sound of a horse behind him. He spun to see Osku draw up short, his horse snorting.

  “Get the men ready to ride,” Niilán shouted. Not bothering to dismount, he continued to bellow orders. “Have someone commission a cart from the garrison and pack what remains. Have him head south. If fortune rides with us, we will be at the Stronghold to greet him with Piijkij heads on the picket.”

  Niilán rode up and down the ranks of rushing men. His exasperation drove him to crude threats and snarling epithets.

  “Hurry,” he growled at a young soldier who had dropped his saddle and startled his horse. “You had better be on that horse the next time I look your way, boy, or you will wish that your mother had drowned you at birth!”

  Finally, with the last of his men mounted and Osku by his side, Niilán galloped back toward the cart path heading south. As they neared the garrison, Niilán slowed. He looked back to reassure himself the others still followed, even though he knew he could rely on Osku to keep the men apace.

  In the fading light of the already-gloomy day, Niilán turned his attention back to the cart path. His eyes swept to either side. They had already ridden at least two leagues beyond the garrison, and as he had feared, the tracks he had seen earlier had been trampled into an unrecognizable mush of snow and mud.

  “Keep an eye out for signs of horses veering off,” he yelled back to his scouts, hating every moment of the struggle to balance lost time with the chance of losing the trail.

  “Here,” called one of the scouts.

  Niilán joined him and was emboldened to see two sets of tracks leading southeast through lightly forested ground.

  “Follow them,” he ordered the scout, bringing his own horse abreast.

&nbs
p; Now that they had clear tracks again, the plodding pace of the scouts made Niilán want to skin them alive. Still, to rush might mean losing the trail.

  “They stopped here,” one scout called back to Niilán.

  Niilán rode forward, then dismounted to examine the tracks. The snowy ground was a mash of prints. Both men and horses had trampled the area. There were, however, several sets of clear tracks leading south. Niilán circled the area, scanning the hill to the north. Just beyond his waiting men, he noticed several trees with green, low-slung branches. The surrounding trees were still plump and white with snow.

  Niilán pushed his way through riders and shying horses.

  Trudging up the incline to the trees, he saw that branches had been cut. “They’ve tried to cover their tracks,” he shouted, looking to the ridge line.

  Niilán ran back to his horse. “Osku, take half the men and ride to the ridge. Then make your way into the valley. I will take the rest and head south. Meet at the southern entrance to the valley if you have not encountered the Piijkij. Sound the alarm if you do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE SLED CARRYING DÁRJA and Úlla shushed along the overhung path. Dárja felt the menace of the snow-laden pines. To keep her growing sense of unease at bay, she delved deep into the Song of All, taking comfort in the familiar choruses, as she searched for one in particular.

  Dárja had heard Marnej’s song not long after she and Úlla had begun their journey. She listened for him now. Though she could almost sing his song as her own, she couldn’t find the refrain within the chorus. Beside her, Úlla sat as imperious as always with her hands resting upon her belly. The very likeness of a mother bear. Úlla’s song was now strong beside her own, but it had wavered at times. And that gave Dárja cause for concern.

  “How much farther must we travel?” she asked Úlla, unable to ignore her growing disquiet. “Can you tell?”

  Úlla gave her a long look before she closed her green, erminelike eyes. The crease between her brows deepened. After a moment her eyes fluttered open. An odd half-smile graced her lips, as if she couldn’t decide the true measure of her feelings.