Tears of the Dead (25 page)

When the red moon first kisses a Scythian maiden’s thigh, her mother bestows upon her the four daggers she will carry for the rest of her life. If she is of royal blood, she will receive five. The first dagger is named Vengeance, and must taste an enemy’s blood before the girl can taste the lips of her betrothed.

A Scythian maiden must take life before she can give it.

The Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

The slaver stewed in his own hate; rage rekindled against the Lo with every swell and each flash of lightning, a hot, irrational hate in a coldly rational man.

Why did he save me?

That question infuriated Virag more than his perpetual sea sickness, Spako’s snoring, the unceasing rain, or the excrement dumped an arm’s reach from his head every few hours.

Why did Aizarg spare my life?

A few weeks ago he would have attributed the Uros’s mercy to weakness, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe it wasn’t a sign of weakness, but it was still a mistake.

Virag pushed thoughts of Aizarg out of his mind and peered from under the canopy, occasionally wiping the water from his eyes and trying to forget his misery. His head pounded in a never ending headache. The contents of his stomach, a few chunks of rancid fish, banged against his gut, begging for release.

Spako groaned, curled into a ball so tight Virag would not believe it if he didn’t see it. Spako’s enormous bulk forced Virag to pull up his restless legs, desperate for relief from the occasional cramp. He would order Spako out to fend for himself among the Lo, but he needed the brute. Without Spako, he’d be defenseless. Spako was a witless oaf, but also the only leverage Virag still possessed.

The more you walk the decks, the faster you’ll grow accustomed to the sea, and the sickness will pass
, Aizarg had said.

Another of the man’s lies.

Virag wanted nothing to do with walking the decks. All his warriors, save Spako, had walked the decks. Now they were gone, taken by the waves.

Sickness or no sickness, I prefer this hell to the one exposed to the sea.

He hated the tiny boat, but he loathed the thought of drowning even more. Virag had come to hate many things and many people since Aizarg appeared at the outset of the flood.

The days following Virag’s confrontation with Ghalen blurred together. He ventured forth very little, dividing most of his time between vomiting and bailing. He passed the days doing exactly what he did now, peering out from under the canopy, watching the coming and goings on the adjacent rafts.

The nations surrounding the Great Sea, from Lo to Sammujad to Scythia, all knew him as the Marsh Fox. Before the Deluge, secure in his cocoon of power, the title amused him. Now he clung to it like a lifeline. The title held salvation. Virag must now become the Marsh Fox if he were to survive and exact his revenge.

Safe in his soggy den, the Fox listened and watched and waited.

Be quiet, be still. Let them forget I am here.

His stomach rumbled. Judging by the dimness of the light and restlessness of those on the surrounding rafts, the hour of rations drew near.

He kicked Spako. “Get up!”

The giant stirred, rocking the boat uncomfortably.

“Wake up, you idiot.”

Spako’s eyes glinted in the darkness. “Lord?”

“Make yourself useful and draw our rations. And be quick about it.”

Spako slowly crawled from under the tarp and slipped on the nearby raft with a thud. Virag noticed how much weight his body guard had lost since the Deluge began.

If he starves, he won’t be of much use to me.

He also instructed the oaf to listen and watch, but Spako wasn’t terribly useful in that regard. Virag needed news from beyond the cesspool, of what Aizarg and the men were doing. He also told Spako to bring back any reeds he could manage to steal.

No one knew when the rain would end. No one knew when they would make landfall. And no one knew when the fish would return. Rations grew thin, and bellies began to ache. Fear would soon take root among the Lo.

Virag counted on it.

He stretched his legs into the warm void left by Spako’s absence. Blood filled his knobby legs, and his joints cracked. The slaver lifted the blanket off the bulge he’d been reclining against and patted the carefully wrapped horde of dried fish.

Virag horded three-fourths of his ration, and half of Spako’s. Food would soon become the most precious of commodities. Virag grew up hungry. Famine was an old friend, and he’d come to relish the burning in his belly, a fire to keep his mind keen and hatred hot.

The sound of women’s voices approached above the noise of the rain. The Fox peeked from his den’s shadows. The wind and waves did carry most of the excrement way from Virag’s boat, but that didn’t matter. The women took pleasure in dumping their refuse as close to his boat as possible. Green slime and flecks of brown, peppered the bow, regardless of the unrelenting rain. Now, he didn’t care.

The closer, the better.
I can hear them more clearly.
His razor-sharp mind cataloged every person, each passing event. In only a few days, he knew every Lo woman by sight. The Lo women often spoke freely among themselves, forgetting the slaver reclined unseen only a few feet away.

They think of me like a dog.

Now the Fox waited in eager anticipation for the unsuspecting herd to come to the watering hole, carelessly dropping morsels along with their filth.

He quickly recognized the two approaching women as Minnow Clan, each bearing a clay pot on their hip.

A tall woman clothed in long, winter garb glided effortlessly over the rolling decks. Wild, gray hair framed her sunken, downcast eyes.

That hag is Ro-xandra, Ba-lok’s aunt. The Great Wave swept the barren widow’s husband, a Minnow elder, overboard. She’s quiet, but the Minnow bitches listen to her. Her bitterness may prove useful.

Behind Ro-xandra a short, frumpy girl, barely a woman, followed along, chattering incessantly. Clothed only in a summer loin cloth, her dark features and long, black hair hinted at a strong streak of Sammujad blood.

Ahh! Doinna, my stupid little songbird.
He’d learned more gossip from this girl than any other Lo wench. Engaged to a Crane man taken by the demons, her fate was now very much in doubt. Virag’s ears perked up, trying to pick out her words from the rain.

“You don’t think he likes her, do you?”

Ro-xandra shrugged. “She’s beautiful and wild. Men often desire the exotic. Perhaps Ghalen is one of those men, I do not know.”

“But she’s a-g’an...” Doinna sputtered and looked down insecurely at her small breast and formless hips. “
A
Scythian!”

Ro-xandra’s lip lifted, as if she were too tired to manage a full smile. “Yes, but a penis doesn’t care about that, does it? And you are not the only eligible young Lo maiden in the arun-ki. Ghalen spends much of his time with the Crane. His loyalty lies with Aizarg and not Ba-lok. Su-gar is also beautiful and unmarried. When she ceases mourning, she may win Ghalen’s hand.”

“What does Su-gar have that I don’t?”

Virag stifled a laugh. Squat Doinna would have barely been suitable as a serving wench in his yurt.

Su-gar, however
...
I could have fetched excellent trade from any Scythian lord for a night with her
.

“Anyway,” Doinna shrugged and stuck her nose up in the air. “I hear tell Su-gar has eyes for another man.”

Ro-xandra raised an eyebrow. “Be careful what you say, girl.”

“It’s true! Everyone knows it.”

“Atamoda owns the Uros’s heart.”

“I wish Ghalen would notice me,” Doinna sighed and poured her pot into the sea.

Ro-xandra put a hand on her hip and considered the girl with contempt. “We’re running out of food, the men struggle to keep the arun-ki afloat, and all the young worry about is what is between their legs.”

Doinna harrumphed, and then turned back toward the Minnow Clan’s rafts. “At least what’s between my legs still works. Anyway, there isn’t anything else to do, so I might as well find the pleasures of a man to keep me busy.” She walked away, leaving Ro-xandra staring incredulously after her.

Ro-xandra spoke softly, never taking her eyes off Doinna’s receding figure.

Virag heard every word.

“Laugh and love now, foolish girl. Let Ghalen, or any man for that matter, drop his seed between your thighs. I hope you enjoy it. When your belly swells like Sahti’s, and your stomach burns with hunger, you will curse every second of that pleasure. When you hold your emaciated infant to your dry breast, do not come begging me for morsels.”

Ro-xandra spit into the water and slowly followed Doinna into the crowd.

She knows the food will soon be gone.
Virag sensed deep bitterness dwelling in Ro-xandra, and, if properly bent to his will, it might prove useful
.

He smiled to himself, taking pleasure in turning Okta’s insult into strength. He was about to recede into the boat’s depths when she emerged from the arun-ki’s warm heart, small pot in hand. Judging by the way she casually swung her arm, he knew it wasn’t full. The dark beauty gracefully traversed the pitching decks, casually glancing everywhere except toward his boat.

She never comes here.

He planned to eventually seek her out, but it pleased him she made the first move.

The slaver recognized a fellow predator. Like him, she had no place among the gentle Marsh people. She slithered in plain sight for all to see, but only Virag recognized her.

“She wants to know what I’m doing,” he muttered to himself. “I want to know what she is doing, too.” The Fox leaned forward, barely sticking his snout from the den.

She held the pot out into the rain and dumped its meager contents into the water. Their eyes briefly met before she looked away and disappeared into the ruddy light, never looking back.

The Snake slithered away while the Fox crept back into the den.

Perhaps it’s time I learn a thing or two from the Snake.

Virag’s stomach growled. Irritated, he wondered what kept Spako.

***

The Sammujad giant towered over the Lo at the end of the line snaking into the arun-ki’s center, where the holy woman they called Atamoda doled out the daily food ration. The decks buckled more than usual as he cast a wary eye on restless white caps, which seemed to glow in the gray twilight.

The decks shuddered as another enormous wave broke over the storm wall, spraying mist over everything and momentarily dimming the braziers. Those ahead of him in line barely flinched and continued to talk casually to one another. Spako trembled, his empty stomach heaved. He only wanted to slink back into the boat with his master, curl up and die.

He closed his eyes and hugged the mast even tighter. Spako wanted the nightmare to end, dreading whenever the Master commanded him to fetch their rations. Once a mighty warrior, he now felt as helpless as a child.

He did not know why the strange Lo god spared him and took the rest of his Master’s henchman. Master said Spako was good for only two things, looking fierce and killing.

Spako knew how to look fierce, that was easy. But killing, he didn’t like killing. He’d do it if he must, but it made him feel bad, like the sea did now...sick inside. Thankfully, Master said Spako was too clumsy to be a good killer, so usually Spako only had to stand behind Master’s couch with a spear and look fearsome.

Now the others were dead and Master told Spako to do many things he wasn’t good at, like listening and remembering. He hoped Master didn’t ask him to kill, because he felt sick enough.

The deck below lurched and dropped with greater frequency. Spako had walked the deck when it had been worse, but now it frightened him more. He gripped the mast even tighter, trying to catch his breath.

I cannot breathe.
He wanted to run, but fear paralyzed him. He hugged the mast tighter, knowing any minute the raft would disintegrate below him, sending him into the depths where the demons awaited. Spako slid down to the deck, desperately wanting something solid to make the world stop shaking.

Several women and children ahead of him in line began to giggle and point.

“Look at the mighty Sammujad!” One of them said. “He cowers like a baby.”

Thunder boomed and another wave jolted the flotilla. Too terrified to even feel shame, Spako hid his face. Once, they would have trembled in his presence, but now he played the fool for their amusement.

“The Sammujad is going to soil himself!” one of the women cackled before the rest joined in.

“Leave him alone!” A woman shouted. Spako heard pushing, a wet slap and someone yell, “Ouch!”

“Get back in line and leave this poor soul alone,” her voice came again. He wanted to open his eyes, but couldn’t. The mast was safe, and that was where he would stay.

“He’s just a stupid a’gan, Su-gar,” an older female voice said, perhaps the woman who cackled. “He knows nothing of the sea. Why do you care?”