Terrible Swift Sword (11 page)

Their thunder bothered him. The contemplation and fasting, the chanting of the shamans, the first cry for Shaduka, and then the great exultation for the appearance of Ulma Karzorm, these were the traditions of the Horde. But now they had even taken the guns of the cattle into that tradition, as if the voices of the Merki crying to the spirits of their ancestors were not enough, that the thundermakers had to be used as well to evoke their attention.

Tamuka, shield bearer, snorted with disgust. He stirred, looking about. Hulagar, shield-bearer to the Qar Qarth Jubadi, was looking at him, and nodded as if in understanding.

"The contemplation was disturbed," Hulagar sighed.

Tamuka did not reply.

"Come, they will start without us," Hulagar said, and with a creaking of joints and leather armor the shield-bearer stood up, offering his hand to Tamuka, who rose to join him, the two hoisting the oval bronze aegis of their exalted offices, swinging the shields into the harness over their right arms' shoulders.

"It was a moment of wonder, nevertheless," Hulagar said, looking toward the twin moons and then to the soaring fires across the open steppe beyond the cattle city of Cartha.

To the far horizon the fires now glowed. Once before, while spirit-walking, he had soared above the encampment and gazed down upon it as if from a great height, seeing, as the spirit ancestors would see, the power of the Merki filling the vastness with their light.

"I hope our fathers' fathers look down upon such a moment when again the horde stirs next spring to begin its ride," Hulagar whispered.

"They shall," Tamuka said, his voice distant.

Hulagar looked over at Tamuka and smiled, his fangs glistening in the moonlight.

"It is unseemly for the two shield-bearers of the loyal blood to be late," Hulagar said, and putting an affectionate hand on Tamuka's shoulder the two started up the hill.

The scent of the fresh green grass and flowers rose up with every step, cutting through the cool night air. In the moonlight the carpet of white petals of the etor, the wild flowers of spring that came after the first blooms of lavender and yellow, had been turned to deep red by the light.

The scent could not fail to evoke memories of the yearly stirrings gone by when, coming out of winter, the Horde had moved at last. The foaling season ended, the yurts were raised back onto their horsedrawn platforms, and as one the horde embarked eastward yet once more, the warriors spreading out in search of wild game, or swinging either north or south, toward Tugar or Bantag depending upon whom war would be waged against that year.

The great cry had died away, replaced by the singsong calling of the chant-makers, the incantations of the shamen, and the shouts of delight for what was to come. There were the other voices as well—over fifty thousand it would be this night—for each circle of yurts would have several and already he could hear their cries.

Reaching the crest of the hill, the great yurt ol the Qar Qarth was before him, its golden cloth illuminated by a hundred torches, the inside a sea of light as bright as day, shouts of laughter echoing from within. The entrance awning was raised high, on poles encrusted with gold and precious gems that twinkled like stars. Encircling the tent were the guards of the one hundred, the elite chosen of the Vushka Hush, first umen of the Horde, their ceremonial armor of silver flickering in the torchlight, nocked bows riding upon their backs, scimitars drawn, points resting upon the ground.

Passing through the circle of guards they were closely watched, but none spoke. For the hundred who were vouchsafed with the highest honor of guarding the Qar Qarth made a sacrifice to attend as they did upon their ruler: Their tongues were drawn out, since they stood present even at his most secret of conversations.

The two fires before the entrance into the vast yurt blazed wildly. Pausing, Tamuka bowed first to the west, and then to the other three quarters, before passing between the flames and on into the tent.

"Ah, I thought we would have to wait."

"I am honored that you would contemplate such a consideration," Hulagar replied, bowing low to the raised dais upon which Jubadi sat, with Muzta, Qar Qarth of the Tugars, to his right, and the heir Vuka to his left.

"Join me," Jubadi announced, "both of you."

Tamuka hid his pleasure before the circle of clan chieftains who gazed at him with envy, and he knew as well with a touch of fear. His opening speech at the meeting of the three Qar Qarths had opened the way for the agreement of peace between Bantag and Merki, ending a war of over ten years that had come close to crippling the horde. It had given them the breathing space needed for what was next contemplated.

Stepping unto the dais, Tamuka moved to the side of the circular table around which Jubadi, Muzta, and Vuka sat. Hulagar moved to the left of Jubadi, settling down onto the ground by his side. For a moment he hesitated, then he seated himself beside Vuka, the Zan Qarth whom he was sworn to aid and protect.

"I chose the fare myself," Vuka said, looking over Tamuka with a disarming grin that Tamuka returned.

"Then we shall fare well," Tamuka replied smoothly.

Since the day of the defeat before the cattle city of Suzdal he had stood by this one's side, fulfilling his obligation as shield-bearer; but it did not mean that he had to like the heir, or even more importantly to respect him as one worthy of his rank. In his heart he knew that Vuka had murdered his brother, and by the killing of the only other blood descendant of Jubadi had thus kept himself from the execution that should have been just his reward.

If it had not been for Vuka they would have taken the cattle city of Roum, yet beyond even that fault it was obvious that Vuka was not fit to lead th« Horde. He vacillated between insane audacity in a moment of passion and acts that could be interpreted as cowardice in his moments of contemplation. Yet Jubadi now refused to see this, interpreting foolhardiness for bravery, and deceitfulness in the shrewdness required of a Qar Qarth. Jubadi could not see that the direct heir, the one legitimate son acceptable to the clans, was guilty of fratricide committed to save himself, though the rumors were whispered in all the tents. Hulagar, as befitted a shield-bearer to the Qar Qarth, had spoken of this suspicion, and had nearly paid with his life. If the injunction which made the person of the shield-bearer sacred had not been in place, Hulagar would have lost his head before the accusation had even been half spoken.

A terrified shriek of anguish filled the tent, and, looking up, Tamuka saw their meal coming in, dragged along by two of the tongueless ones, Sarg Qarth, eldest of the shamen behind them. This one was male, well built, with the dark tanned skin of the Cartha. The human screamed in terror—most of them usually did—and Tamuka viewed the display with disgust, while many of the clan Qarths laughed gruffly, hurling taunts. Servants came out from behind the dais, opening the table up like a scissors that was hinged only on one end. The cattle was pushed forward, his guards now grabbing hold of his arms and legs, lifting the writhing form into the air. Sarg Qarth came up to the side of the table and, bowing low, directed the guards as they pushed the cattle's head into the clamp. This was tightened down, holding him firmly in the center of the table, and closed back so that only the head was above the board while the rest was pinned beneath.

The cattle struggled and shrieked, trying to turn its head, but the clamp was tight. Its arms and legs underneath thrashed and kicked.

"He'll bruise his flesh," Vuka said, shaking his head, and the clan chieftains laughed appreciatively.

Other offerings were brought in to the lower tables, so that the tent was filled with wild shrieks of terror. Tamuka looked at them with a vague sense of disgust. The least they could do would be to sing a death chant, to take this with some dignity, rather than to beg so pitifully. It only aroused in him a sense of loathing, a desire to be done with it and get on to the main course.

Sarg Qarth, as eldest of the shamen, now set to work. The other shamans stood beside the lower tables, waiting for this most important of auguries, which would apply to the entire horde, to be performed.

The curved blade flicked out from his belt and he held it before the cattle's eyes, at the sight of which the cattle shrieked even louder. It was good sign— he did not weep or, worst yet, swoon—and all took this with barks of approval. With a deft single motion the scalp was cut across the forehead, above the ears and around to the back of the head, straight down to the bone, and there were more grunts of approval for Sarg's skill. To nick an ear would mean the hearing of bad news, the accidental gouging of an eye would mean to behold an evil sight, if it fainted evil would arrive without warning, which of course would apply to all of the Horde.

Sarg leaned over the head, which was tossing back and forth violently, watching the pattern of blood fall.

"It is to the north," Sarg announced, and there was an expectant pause, for all knew that was the direction they would ride. But whose blood was being foretold?

Now came the most delicate part of the ceremony. Sarg Qarth reached into the long slender pouch by his side and drew out the curved saw. Though rivers of blood were running into the cattle's eyes he could still see the blade and knew what it meant. A howling shriek of pleading rose from his lips.

"It will be theirs," Sarg announced, and more than one of the clan chieftains leaned back, raising a roar of triumph.

There was now an expectant hush as Sarg mumbled his incantations, passing the saw around the cattle's head in a circular motion. With the lightning action of a striking serpent Sarg grabbed hold of the cattle's head with his left hand and, leaning over, cut into the bone above its right ear—a difficult maneuver which Tamuka could not help but admire. The cross-over cut was an act of bravado that only the most accomplished would attempt, especially for this, the most important of divinations. If he should fail in cutting correctly the auguries would be bad, and there was silence, except for the rasping of the blade and the hysterical screams.

Sarg's arms knotted with the effort. Several strokes, pink foamed bone spraying out, then
shifted further back, cutting again, working his way around. The cries of the cattle suddenly grew weaker and there was a murmuring. After all, many of them did faint at this point, for they were only cattle, but it would be bad if this one should suddenly die, ending the ceremony before the final auguries had been obtained. Not once did his saw break through into the brain, but always stopped just at the edge.

The cutting continued, and the table was soon covered with a circle of bone chips and pink splattered loam. Sarg cast the saw aside and ran his fingers up underneath the cut scalp, refusing to lower himself by taking direct hold of the skull. For after all, only the youngest of shamans removed the skull in such a manner, still not sure that they had cut through all the way around and thus wanting a firmer grip when they pulled. On rare occasions a shaman would pull upward and only the scalp would come away. Though the augury was bad, Tamuka remembered seeing it and finding the entire thing to be vastly amusing: the humiliated shaman holding nothing but a bloody hunk of hair while the cattle appeared to be wearing a white cap. Such a mistake had been performed on the Yankee Cromwell, who had said nothing throughout, his eyes wide with some inner madness that had rattled the shaman as he'd performed his duties.

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.