Mortal Consequences (13 page)

“I don’t know if you’ve been north, but the tundra is dying. Or sleeping. We don’t know which. Perhaps it’s some cycle that runs centuries, beyond the memory of our tribe. Howsoever, the Earthmother could no longer sustain us. The reindeer were scrawny, calves dropped stillborn, salmon ran thin …” She went on, listing small disasters that Sunbright already knew. Finally she came to,”… We knew we couldn’t remain, so we moved south, to the edge of the tundra. But immediately the cycle of our lives was broken, and we felt uprooted. With nothing to hunt or gather, we were bereft of work, lacking any way to make a living.

“Owldark did not help. He recounted dream after dream, led us hither and yon along the southern shore, aimlessly. We were not welcome in the villages of southmen, so many mouths to feed and nothing to trade, and their harvests have been poor.

“Blown by the winds, whipped from place to place, we finally stopped here, where Owldark commanded. His next dream would lead us on, but food ran low. Our reindeer could not walk many miles over stone and sand, so were eaten. With nothing to feed the dogs, we had to eat them, and carry our belongings on our backs. After a while, the strongest men and women went to Scourge, seeking work. They found a few jobs, the vilest chores southmen refused: shoveling fish too rotted to salt, breaking up old ships for firewood, wrestling and knife-fighting for sport. The townsfolk hate us, hate everyone, and mocked our barbarous accents and superstitions.

“Yet we’ve survived so far: no children have died of hunger. Yet none are born either, for our women’s wombs shrivel, like our spirits. And so have we languished for too long.” She laid her hand on the rim of a redware bowl as she said, “Even the water is brackish, half salt, not fit for cattle.”

Sunbright listened, stone-faced, through this sorry history, then he asked, “What of the council? Why do they allow this?”

Monkberry sighed and turned to the door, as if expecting someone, but there was only salt wind. “The council argued with Owldark, and each other,” she told him. “Some thought we must remain. The gods drove us from the tundra, they said: our own faults and sins brought it on. So we must linger in hell on earth as punishment. Others urge we go elsewhere, but cannot agree. Even our ancestral summer lands lie empty and fallow. Others would have us return to the tundra to die, like lemmings in the sea, or whales on the beach. Others brood over wine fetched in the village. Some wandered and didn’t return, we know not whence. Destroyed in spirit, some women married town men and no longer visit. Some youngsters have joined the emperor’s ranks as soldiers and been sent far away. Perhaps that is right, for nothing lies here for anyone.”

Frustrated and raging, Sunbright raised his hands, his fingertips brushing thatch. “What of Owldark?” he asked. “If the gods haunt his dreams, surely even he can find our true destiny!”

“Owldark tried. Despite the pains in his head, he trekked the wastes, fasting, scourging himself with thorns, beseeching the gods for an answer. Any answer. Then he didn’t return, and the hunters searched. They found his bones in a ravine. Wolves had eaten him, probably after he fell. So we lost our homelands and traditions and work, and now we have no shaman to guide us.”

“Not true,” stated Sunbright. His mother’s eyes peered. “See.”

Gently, he laid his hand atop the clouded, rank water in the redware bowl by his mother’s knee. Quietly, crooning an ancient winding air with a steady beat, he dipped his fingers one by one, sending ripples through the bowl. At each tap the cloudiness receded, until the water was clear.

“Mother of Magic!” wheezed Monkberry. She dipped a crooked finger in the water, tasted it. “It’s sweet! You are a shaman!”

“After my father and my forebears,” Sunbright smiled. “Actually, the salt is not gone, merely sunk with other minerals to the bottom of the bowl. You’ll have to scoop the sweet water before the salt dissolves again.”

“How? …”

Sunbright softened the truth by saying, “I came near death, and left my body, and descended into the earth and learned her secrets. Some. How to sort things into proper order, like separating salt from water. It’s a blessing and a curse, for my dreams are haunted like your husband’s.

“But I have the strength of spirit to face them. If necessary, I will brave the gods themselves and learn our fate.”

“Mind your own fate!” boomed a voice at the door. Sunbright saw a familiar face. The broad, craggy features of Blinddrum, his old sword instructor.

“Sunbright Steelshanks,” he said, “leave our village!”

Sunbright exploded to his feet and almost bashed his head through the thatch roof. Clambering to free Harvester’s pommel, he shoved past Knucklebones and outside. Blinddrum was a huge man, taller even than Sunbright, but fell back before the warrior. Unbeknownst, other folk had gathered, returned from meager jobs in the town now that the late-summer day was ending, so the tribe looked almost populous, a couple hundred at least. Most were dressed in tall, battered boots and long shirts of either deer hide or faded cloth, and fighters still sported the distinctive roach and horsetail of the Rengarth Barbarians.

But many men looked like strangers, townsmen, with full heads of hair grown out and scruffy beards soiling their faces. Yet all were familiar. Sunbright recognized Thornwing, the other sword instructor, and his cousin Rattlewater; and Leafrebel, Forestvictory, Archloft, Rightdove, Goodbell, Mightylaugh, Magichunger, and Starrabbit.

Emotions churned within Sunbright. A wave of homesickness and relief made him want to embrace the lot, laughing and crying. Yet their stony faces chilled his heart. Some wouldn’t even look at him, as if he brought shame to the village.

Blinddrum stated, “You were pronounced dead when banished, Sunbright. Leave this place of the living. None here commune with the dead.”

“You are the dead!” Of all Sunbright’s thundering emotions, anger won out, and he practically screamed, “You shuffle around this hellhole like zombies! You forsake the old ways, let them trickle through your fingers! You abandon pride to cower here like mongrels! Half of you don’t even look like Rengarth! What say you to that?”

But not even insults stirred them. Blinddrum and Thornwing marched off. Magichunger and Starrabbit spat. Others looked at the rocky ground or turned away. Curious children were cuffed around and dragged off. Monkberry and Knucklebones crept forth, agonizing at how Sunbright was ignored. For a moment the barbarian wished he were dead, rather than see his people like this, and be unable to help them. But why talk if they wouldn’t listen?

“Mother!” cried the shaman in desperation. “What do I do?”

Tears fell from Monkberry’s chin as she said, “Nothing I know. We’ve no wisdom left.”

“There must be something!” Knucklebones spoke up. “Some way to make them listen, and pay attention. I don’t know your ways, Sunbright. What is sacred to them? What honor must they obey?”

“Nothing. I don’t know …” he said. The warrior-shaman scanned the scabby village with slumped shoulders. Returned to his tribe, sought for so long, he saw only their backs. “What can you take from people that have lost all?”

Then his eyes fell on the round common house, and the trickle of smoke rising from it.

“Unless…”

“Unless what?” asked the thief.

But Sunbright ran like a child for the common house. Wondering, Knucklebones caught Monkberry’s hand and they tripped after him.

Sunbright shoved through the retreating crowd, jogged to the common house, and ducked inside to the smoke and haze. Despite themselves, the Raven Clan crowded the entrance to see what transpired.

Madness, it seemed. Sunbright took old Iceborn and Tulipgrace by the shoulders, begging their pardon, and towed them away from the sacred council fire. Then, shouting, the young shaman drew back a boot and kicked the smoldering embers. Ashes and smoke flew in a cloud. He stamped and stomped the fire pit until his moosehide boots were scorched and sparks dappled his skin. In a minute, the fire was out.

Stepping from the fire pit, coughing in smoke, Sunbright pushed past stunned barbarians into sunlight. Sneezing, he crowed in mad glee, “There! If the sacred fire is the heart of my tribe, then my tribe is now truly dead! And since only a shaman can kindle a council fire, it will stay dead! So am I, a dead man, returned to a tribe of dead people!”

This idea, both new and old, sank in slowly. Sunbright saw confusion and shock on their faces. And for the first time, the animation of hard thinking, something they’d been denied.

Sunbright gave them more to chew on. “Think! Do the dead hear? Let me test. Hear this?” People fell back as he drew the long, fearsome, hooked blade Harvester of Blood over his shoulder. Inverting the blade, he used the leather-wrapped pommel to thump Blinddrum on the breastbone, then continued, “I, Sunbright Steelshanks, dead or alive, challenge you, Blinddrum, to combat! Else I name you a stinking, dung-eating, bastard, mongrel dog! Do you hear that?”

“I hear,” Blinddrum murmured. His broad, simple face was uneasy. “I accept.”

“Good!” Turning, Sunbright thumped Thornwing on her skinny chest, and said, “I challenge you! Would you be a barb-lipped, bottom-feeding sculpin picked clean by gulls, or a free and proud barbarian? Do you accept, or be named coward?”

“I accept,” she said drily. “But like it not.”

“I care not if you like or dislike, only that you hear! You, Archloft! Was your mother a maggot, and your father a pusworm, or will you fight me? Good! You, hold still! I name you nest-robber, and egg-breaker! Fight me? Fine!”

With a madman’s delight, he poked Archloft, Goodbell, Magichunger, Forestvictory, others: anyone who’d ever wielded a sword, saying, “I challenge you all, and anyone I forgot! And why? Because I cannot leave the village until the duels are done! This custom would I have levied on Owldark had I been a warrior and shaman, but at the time I was only a boy. Well, that boy is dead, and a man returned! Blinddrum, when shall we fight?”

“Whenever you wish,” replied the swordmaster. “No, wait. An hour. T’will give you time to visit your mother, and commend your soul. For after an hour, you visit the gods.” With that, Blinddrum turned away, as did the rest.

Sunbright was left alone, inverted sword in hand. Knucklebones and Monkberry came forward, having lingered at the back of the crowd. The thief wept from her one good eye. “Why did you do that, Sunbright?” she sobbed. “Why come back just to die?”

Huffing with exhaustion, as if he’d run twenty miles, Sunbright sheathed his sword, and said, “In part, it was your idea.”

“My idea?” Knucklebones shook small fists in his face. “You really are mad! You’ll be killed! And I’ll be left alone. What’s the point anyway?”

Surprisingly gentle, Sunbright enfolded the small woman to his chest, kissed her tousled dark curls, and said, “Oh, Knuckle’, if only life held simple answers…. Come, I’ll try to explain, not that I understand it well myself.”

Seated in Monkberry’s hut, Sunbright shared rations and sipped water from a canteen.

“You asked what tradition I could invoke that would make them listen. Killing the council fire was one. Yet I’m still banished—unless I have promised a duel to satisfy an insult. It’s the only way I can remain with the tribe.

“And I can’t leave, for they need me. They need someone—the gods must believe—and I’m the only one who’s come. If nothing else, I must make them think, and return to themselves. I must rekindle the fire in their minds. Keeping alive customs, habits, and traditions—even mishmashing them when necessary—is a shaman’s job. By challenging everyone, I can stay a long time and work.”

“And get killed!” objected the thief. Angrily she thrust his canteen away. “You’re a fine swordsman, a wonderful fighter, but even you can’t fight nine dozen duels! You’ll be hacked to pieces all at once, or a little at a time!”

“But in between, I can talk to folks, and think how to save us.”

“Until you’re dead,” Knucklebones spat.

“Until a miracle occurs.”

In their short hour, Sunbright talked to his mother about the old ways. Monkberry knew them all, for her husband had been the tribe’s shaman for decades. Knucklebones listened raptly to a new world of tradition and legends and superstitions. When Monkberry finally asked Sunbright where he’d been in the years past, the shaman only smiled and shrugged.

“Around,” he said. “Working here and there. Seeing the sights the empire has to offer. Meeting Knucklebones. I was lucky in that.”

Dimly the warrior recalled the days when he’d first left the tribe, how he’d hungered and thirsted for revenge night and day. Then later, after sojourning in hell, he’d become a man, and known that one day he would return to his tribe, and walk amidst them scarred and powerful and mysteriously quiet, for he’d learned true strength lay within, and he could just quietly rejoin his people. And now that he’d really returned, he found himself in an unpredictable role, the preserver and savior of his tribe. Which just went to show, he supposed, how men made plans, and the gods made men fools.

“Yet it’s my destiny to save this tribe from extinction.” He was surprised to hear himself speaking aloud.

His mother smiled and squeezed his broad hand with her twisted one. “Yes,” she said, “your destiny, and our miracle.”

Sunbright smiled back. “Knuckle’?” he asked.

The thief rolled one eye, and answered, “It must be my elven blood that finds this stiff-necked barbarian pride a lot of claptrap and folderol. You need a miracle, I agree, but we’ll help however we can.” She squeezed both their hands.

A voice boomed across the village: “Sunbright Steelshanks! Come out and fight!”

Sunbright dropped both hands to creep outside. “Excuse me,” he said to his mother. “The shaman has a patient.”

Dusk came early to this rocky wasteland, for the Channel Mountains cut off the sun. In darkness, Sunbright found the tribe waiting for him. Silently, Blinddrum led the way. Boys and girls toted torches with hardwood handles split at the top and jammed full of poplar bark. At the center of the crooked village, tribesfolk had rolled up rocks to make a rough arena. There were over three hundred barbarians now, including many who’d moved to town but had been fetched back by runners. The shaman smiled to see the changes. His coming—for good or ill—had already made an impact on the tribe.