Twenty-Fourth Day of the Arc of Weeping, the 238th Year of the Star-Count
"Huang."
Old Shamag spat the word, tired eyes raised to the stars above.
Below her - beyond the foot of her lonely hill, the main street was silent. Sorrowfree, the canyon-people’s ancestral home, here at the edge of the vast, unforgiveable Ustar desert, had always been that street. Just a dell in the red mountainside, really – lined by humble homes and humble people. Camel-herds. Miners. Women of letters. Until the Journey. There were mothers amongst the Khortuun who blamed their southern kin, the Corvus, for roping them into it. Who had seduced their eager, adventurous youths with tales of glory and bloodshed. But that was a lie, of course. The Corvus blood-feud with their Huang neighbours had never been the Khortuun’s business – and the Corvus had never lied to them. In the end, the Bonadar – proud and loud, tall and gleaming – had left of their own free will. And now, as night blackened the land, the awful ruin of it all was all too clear.
". . . ."
It had been near the end of the year when their sons and daughters had returned to Sorrowfree. What remained of them, at least. Scarcely a single one of them did not bear a wound of some description – and the tales they told were black and bloody. Of arrows from foes unseen, of screaming men stabbing and shouting, of a foe caparisoned for war – red and snarling. And of many, many fallen. The Huang had hung prisoners from the ramparts, some said. To strangle. They had smeared stakes with poison and left them in deep pits, that their daughters might fall upon them unaware, like wild beasts. In the end, the Huang had defended their children and their gods like brave, determined mothers. And now scarcely a home in all Sorrowfree was not black with grief for it.
Grief that tore. Grief that raged. Grief that drowned all thought and choked all words. Children had sobbed for their lost fathers, and mothers wailed for daughters they would never see again. Fistfights had erupted on the Speaker’s Platform, as grief-mad men and surly women bartered words of blame and recrimination. Grief that soured into madness.
And now?
Now Shamag drew a deep, steadying breath - the night bitter all around her. And felt herself swoon. Her body was old and wrinkled now, her shoulders rounded and teats sagging. It was a wonder, almost, that the old women kneeling in the red Ustar dirt had once been a warrior. A Bonadar. But she had.
And now, as grief and madness roiled her people, she had scarce eaten for days. Nor slept. To hear gods speak, wise mothers of Sorrowfree knew, it was best to deny the body such things. So. High on a barren hilltop, Shamag thus stood before a heap of stones she had erected. Her old hands were calloused with dust, and bloody too, but it was done. The alter was ready. So she raised her eyes to the sky as the pungent smoke from a roasting camel-foal rose towards the fat, yellow disk in that black above. And called.
"MOTHER-MOON! I bring you meat and fat and blood! Great goddess! Hear me!"
The empty hills echoed with her shout.
And then?
Then there was a presence. Behind her.
A tall, strong woman in armor as black as smoke and night. The cape at her back flew as red as camel’s blood, and at her neck dangled a necklace of human heads as old and shrunken as the girdle of human hands around her waist. Her eyes glowed like lamplit amber, and her voice held a buzz like a swarm of locusts.
"Yᴇᴀʀs ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴀssᴇᴅ sɪɴᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍᴇ ʟᴀsᴛ, ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ," she husked. "Wʜʏ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍᴇ ɴᴏᴡ?"
"Because I need your help," Shamag croaked.
"Tᴏ ғɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏᴇ ᴡʜᴏ sʟᴇᴡ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɪɴ."
"Yes. Yes! And their people. And to stem our grief! And…" More words. The old woman felt them crowd in her throat and quiver on her tongue – but in their place came tears, hot and salty. Grief and exhaustion overwhelmed her. Her daughter, light of her heart, would never sing to her in the morning again. Ever. "I… We… Our children are dead!" The sizzling pop of fat mingled with the stench of burnt blood. It made her head spin and stomach roil. Her words came choking, halting - a then spilled past her cracked lips like a black and ugly rush; half a moan and half a prayer. "…We don’t know what to DO!"
Behind her - black and impossible, half there and half not - her goddess grimaced, teeth flashing like a host of spears. "Lɪsᴛᴇɴ." Smiling thinly, Shamag watched as the goddess pointed a blood-calloused finger to her necklace and girdle. "Dᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ – ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅs ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀs sᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴀʏ. Mᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜsᴛ ᴅᴏ."
Later, much later, Shamag descended, steps leaden. Back to pale, grief-sick Sorrowfree. And the Speaker’s Platform.
And a new day.