The Curse of Tabigati

A few more strokes, and the longship rammed the slaver’s side, shattering oars. Some of the captives nearest the hull died instantly.

The oar to which Alisher was chained snapped and leaped from its lock. The impact hurled the youth—now shackled to a heavy length of broken timber—nearly to the center of the deck.

Grappling hooks flew.

Iron and rope bound the two ships together.

Alisher had barely regained his feet when he saw Irnam charging him with a drawn saber. The porter’s hands still gripped the fragment of oar chained to him.

He understood what was about to happen. He craved death—but not at this monster’s hands.

All the rage accumulated within him found release.

The broken oar swept through an arc and crushed his tormentor’s shoulder guard. The heavy blow dropped the overseer to one knee and knocked the saber from his hand.

The second stroke caved in his skull.

Alisher howled like a wild beast.

Several guards rushed toward that inhuman cry, but the youth’s labor-hardened muscles drove the oar fragment with ease. In his mighty hands, it had become a deadly weapon.

One attacker after another flew beneath the improvised club. Then a bearded northerner swung an ax at him.

Underestimating the timber’s weight, the berserker took the blow upon his shield and was immediately thrown into the rowing pit.

Iron-clad Norsemen surrounded Alisher.

“Stop!” The captain’s voice rose above the battle, and the slavers lowered their weapons.

“I am Captain Hasym al-Batum, owner of this galley. My men and I surrender to the victor’s mercy and appeal to the unwritten law of sailors.”

An enormous bearded man in scale armor climbed aboard the merchant vessel, a massive ax across his shoulders.

“I am Yorik Storm Wind. I accept your surrender and promise mercy. Order your warrior to lower his weapon.” The barbarian chieftain pointed toward Alisher.

“That is no warrior, honored sir. You are mistaken. He is a rebellious slave.”

The bearded man laughed loudly and motioned his warriors away from Alisher. Unsure how to behave, the youth lowered the bloodied timber.

“Very well, Hasym. We are more numerous and stronger. Give me half your cargo, share your provisions and water, and you may continue your journey. There will be no more bloodshed. Your nukers have already pissed their breeches, so the arrangement is fair.”

The man laughed, and his warriors joined him with loud guffaws.

“Valiant…” The captain faltered and bent in a bow. Perhaps he had forgotten the pirate’s name or had no hope of pronouncing it correctly. “Chieftain. We possess neither gold nor valuable cargo. We are carrying slaves to Sogdinia. All our gold remained in Ostos’s market, but I will share provisions and water.”

“Good. But slaves are cargo too, and worth money. A slave who knocked Asard himself from his feet is worth a great deal.”

The captain ground his teeth but nodded.

The bearded Norseman approached Alisher.

“What is your name, slave?”

“Vatyq,” Alisher answered, remembering his fellow captive’s advice.

“Beaten, then.” The barbarian chieftain laughed again. “Among my people, we say one beaten man is worth two unbeaten. Very well, Hasym. I will take this one and three women of my choosing, along with the food and water we agreed upon.”

The captain waved one hand. Several sailors hurried into the hold to carry out his wishes before the bloodthirsty Norsemen changed their minds.

The conflict appeared settled, but Alisher raised his timber again.

“I will never be a slave again—neither yours nor anyone else’s,” the youth said through clenched teeth, prepared to accept an honorable death.

The chieftain’s expression changed sharply. His voice became furious and promised nothing good.

“And you are prepared to die?”

Alisher set his feet and readied himself to fight.

“Yes.” His answer was so quiet that only those nearest heard, but his resolve did not waver.

Yorik stared in surprise at the slave, then at his brother climbing from the rowing pit. Rage boiled inside the clan’s finest champion. But the chieftain’s signal made Asard offer the captive his ax.

“Love chained me to an oar. Fate made the oar my weapon. With it, I will meet Tabigati,” Vatyq rasped. He spat into his palms and tightened his grip upon the timber.

“So be it!” Yorik roared.

Snatching a battle-ax from one of the Norsemen, he charged Alisher.

Despite his age and heavy armor, the chieftain moved with astonishing speed. He easily avoided the porter’s sweeping strike and countered at once.

The battle-ax passed over Alisher’s head as he barely ducked. The northern steel curved through the air and crashed down upon Vatyq from above.

The youth not only blocked the heavy ax stroke but stood against the chieftain’s strength and knocked the weapon from his hands.

Elated by his success, the captive raised his timber for the finishing blow. But the chieftain drove one shoulder into his chest and knocked him from his feet.

The youth crashed onto the planed deck boards, polished bright by years of wear.

A heartbeat later, the barbarian’s belt ax bit into the planks beside his head.

“Vatyq is dead. Rise, Thrasing the Unbowed.” The man extended a hand and helped him to his feet. “I, Yorik Storm Wind, jarl of Windale, name you brother and warrior of the Storm Winds clan.”

Chapter Five

Alisher-Thrasing’s life changed little when he changed ships. Discipline aboard the longship was harsh and enforced through punishments no less severe.

True, training in the warrior’s craft was added to rowing. Alisher was beaten constantly—with fists or wooden copies of battle weapons.

Asard struck him especially hard, seeking revenge for his defeat more than teaching anything.

It seemed every inch of the former captive’s body had received its share of blows and could hurt no worse. Then morning came, and everything began again: training, breakfast, rowing, more training, and lessons in handling the ship’s rigging.

The former porter had already learned what a sheet and sternpost were and where to find the mainstay.

Despite the provisions taken from the slaver, food and drink were scarce among the Norsemen. Water was their greatest problem. Despairing of finding another merchant ship, Yorik turned toward home.

Thrasing felt the northerners’ hostile glances constantly.

Everything became worse one night when a wave covered the Beacon of the Lord of Flame—the ship’s ward and talisman—with seaweed.

Jochen, a distant kinsman of Asard’s wife, especially despised the foreigner who had taken what the Norseman considered his rightful place. Whether deliberately or by accident, he handed the lamp to Alisher. Wet weed made its bronze surface slippery. The Beacon fell to the deck and went dark.

Angry rumors spread among the northerners.

The crew blamed the failed voyage upon the black-haired youth with the scarred face. When a violent storm struck as they approached their native fjords, the grumbling reached the captain.

Yorik was furious.

He promised to leave every malcontent at home on the next voyage—and throw anyone who refused to be silent overboard.

“You would raise an ax against your own kinsman?” Jochen growled. “First you publicly accept an outcast into the clan and name him your brother, and now you’re ready to murder your own people. Is this not the old witch’s sorcery?”

“Astrid? You lack the courage to speak her name, yet accuse her of witchcraft? Have you forgotten that famine and plague passed Windale by last winter?”

Yorik turned toward the crew.

“Which of you volunteered when disaster threatened the clan? Have you forgotten where the gold for this raid came from? Or is one of you prepared to challenge me and contest the chieftain’s mace?”

The Norsemen remained silent.

“You do not know the price the old sorceress demanded, because not one of you dared accompany my brother and me. Yet now you whine like jackals at my sworn brother?”

“He isn’t even a northerner,” Jochen persisted, though his voice had grown much quieter.

“And you? Are you a man of Windale? If you were not my wife’s kinsman, I would have fed you to the crabs long ago for that filthy tongue. Did the elders not choose you as Keeper of the Beacon? Who is to blame when the guard dog sleeps through a fox’s visit to the henhouse? Contradict me once more, and I will cut out your tongue. Thrasing is my brother. Heaven decided it.”

The arguments stopped, though resentment remained within the Norsemen’s hearts.

When women in mourning clothes came to meet them at the wharf, Alisher seriously wondered whether he should have allowed the overseer to cut him down.

As soon as the crew disembarked and dragged the longship onto the shore, the waiting villagers surrounded Yorik. They spoke for a long time, explaining something, and many had tears in their eyes.

Unable to understand their language or find anything useful to do, Alisher studied the land that was now to become his home.

After Ostos’s blazing sun, Windale’s overcast sky and piercing northern wind planted sorrow in the new Thrasing’s heart.

Rocky soil. Sparse vegetation. Low huts beside the shore. Neither palace nor castle. Only upon the hilltop stood a large building whose roof resembled the upturned hull of a longship.

He remembered Yusuf Bey’s garden and the gleam of Zamira’s black eyes. Grief tightened still further around his heart. Now the brand of slavery was not the only thing separating them. Hundreds of leagues of lifeless sea stretched between them.

After a time, Asard approached. He pushed the youth’s shoulder, pointed toward the large building, and mimed walking.

“You and us go there. Understand? All ours go there.”

There was neither hatred nor anger in the northerner’s eyes. He slapped Alisher’s shoulder once more and started along the narrow path between enormous boulders.

All Windale had gathered inside the building—men, women, elders, and children. The hall was noisy. Everyone spoke, unfamiliar words merging into a strange, anxious melody.

Alisher understood none of it, but their gestures made one thing clear: something terrible had happened, and Yorik would have to do something equally terrible in response.

Storm Wind’s face became grim and serious. The Norsemen shouted for a long time, then wept. At last, Yorik beckoned Alisher closer.

The youth obeyed.

Though it was only September, Alisher was thoroughly chilled and gladly approached the fire burning at the center of the hall.

A long speech followed. The former captive understood only the names Yorik, Asard, and his own—Thrasing.

The chieftain turned toward the man from Ostos and continued in the language of the Sultanate.

“I presented you to my people. But disaster struck while we were away. A terrible affliction has fallen upon Windale. Nearly all the livestock died. Now hunger and sickness are killing the people. It is a strange disease. The animals first cough blood, then perish. The women say thick fog covered Windale before it began.

“I must go to the wise woman, but she will not receive us without a human sacrifice. That is why I took captives from your ship. Lately, I have had to visit the mountain witch far too often. Death in the ritual is kinder than a slave woman’s fate in Sogdinia.

“I also told them of your courage. They will accept you as one of their own, Thrasing.”

“Must all the women die?” Alisher asked, hoping the chieftain had simply expressed himself poorly. In Ostos, only lambs were sacrificed.

“Of course not. Only one. I will choose the oldest. The others will have a chance to please local men, bear children, and gain families. Otherwise, sooner or later, all of them will end beneath the knife of ancient, all-seeing Astrid. But why are you troubled? Has one of them caught your fancy? Tell me, and I will allow you to take her as your wife.”

“The woman I love remained in Ostos. I am not her equal, and they sold me into slavery while trying to force me to reveal her name. So no.”

“Love is love, but a man needs a woman’s tenderness. Without it, he hardens into a cold, heartless creature.”

“Without her eyes, life holds no sweetness for me. That is why I longed for death. My heart breaks at the thought that I will never see her again.”

Alisher looked at Yorik.

“Take me to the wise woman instead. Give the girls a chance. I’m not even a warrior. I spent my life carrying bales through the bazaar. I was never handsome, and now I bear this scar and a slave’s brand. Your warriors think I bring disaster. Remember how close they came to mutiny.”

“So be it, Thrasing. I understand. A slave’s collar is much lighter than a warrior’s armor, and death is release. But we believe only a warrior fallen in battle can find peace in his heart. You possess a warrior’s heart.

“It is a pity to surrender it to the old hag, but I will not dissuade you. She foretold that I would meet a great warrior. When you felled my brother and then knocked the weapon from my own hands, I honestly believed you were that warrior. Perhaps she was simply mistaken. Or perhaps I saw only what I wished to see. Either way, it shall be as you ask, Unbowed.”

The chieftain turned toward his people and spent a long time translating their conversation for the now-silent villagers.

They made a bed for Alisher in the great hall and brought him an enormous piece of veal roasted over coals and a piece of baked dough that served northerners in place of flatbread.

He felt wretched. His full stomach reproached him for his choice.

So what if the sky was gray and sullen? So what if the air was cold? The land around him was beautiful. Black-and-gray mountains stretched far into the sea’s blue like the tentacles of some unknown ocean creature.

Something white lay upon their peaks, strange as the local people’s skin. Their eyes were blue—blue as the sky above Ostos—and their hair pale as ripe wheat.

The girls were beautiful too.

Not as beautiful as Zamira.

Zamira…

His heart shattered into tiny pieces again. To her, he was only a contemptible slave.

No. His decision was right. If he could not give Zamira happiness, he could at least give three women from the ship a chance.

The thought of meeting the Faceless One held little terror for his young, courageous soul. After all, his beloved was destined to become her priestess. Surely the goddess could not be cruel or terrible.

The strain of recent days and the ordeals Alisher had endured finally claimed him, carrying the youth into the land of dreams and interrupting his thoughts.

He went where he could once more gaze upon the stars beneath the gentle murmur of sweet-voiced Zamira’s words.

Chapter Six

Alisher was awakened before dawn. They brought him snow-white sacrificial clothing and the hide of an ayu, a polar bear. It was enormous, large enough for the youth to wrap himself completely inside it.

No breakfast was served. No one feeds a dead man.

They offered only a cup of peculiar liquid smelling of honey and hops. Detecting alcohol, Alisher refused. He had never drunk in his life, and beginning just before death seemed foolish.

He stepped into the yard. A strange arba waited outside the doors. Instead of two large wheels, it had four smaller ones, and an enormous draft horse stood in its traces. Alisher had never imagined a horse could grow as large as a camel.

Yorik sat upon an almost identical mount. Even his enormous figure seemed small against the black giant.

“It is time, my brave Thrasing. Blood must be spilled at sunrise. Windale will remember your sacrifice for its salvation. The first boy born after the plague disappears will bear your name.”

Asard pointed toward the wagon, then took the reins.

The road climbed constantly, forcing the youth to hold the rails so he would not slide backward and tumble ignominiously to the ground.

Once Windale’s torchlights vanished behind them, the low northern sky opened above Alisher, strewn with stars. He had never imagined there could be so many.

The youth studied the gemstones scattered across the heavens, searching for familiar constellations. Ahead shone the dipper of the Great Bear, with the Little Bear nestled above it.

Alisher remembered Zamira’s charming smile as she spoke so eagerly of Tabigati’s stars—and sang.

Fear of the inevitable end paralyzed his reason, yet his heart tried to distract him from dark thoughts with sweet memories.

He recalled the strange song Zamira had sung when they first met. His lips whispered the words like a prayer—his final message entrusted to the wind for the woman he loved.

I ask you—love me forever,

even when the rains stand in our way.

Even if love beneath the moon cannot last,

do not believe it.

Just love me.

Love me when morning

suddenly enters your home.

Do not forget me for even a moment;

remember me, though grief grips your heart…

The wagon stopped at the entrance to a small cave beneath a mighty granite cliff. Neither damp nor mildew breathed from its dark interior. Only a gentle fragrance of herbs filled the air and carried his cares away.

Yorik shouted something in the Norse tongue. The shaggy hide covering the entrance, burdock burrs clinging to it, was pulled aside.

A stooped old woman emerged, leaning upon a crooked staff from which a candle burned inside a glass enclosure.

She spoke with the chieftain for a long time.

Meanwhile, scarlet light from the approaching dawn had begun staining the eastern sky. Alisher watched the stars go dark one by one, hiding from the face of day.

“They are like people. They are born and die. Some shine for ages. Others kindle before dawn and fade before they understand what is happening. But each has a purpose.”

The old woman’s voice was creaking and unpleasant, yet she spoke the Sultanate’s language with almost no accent.

Alisher started. He had not noticed her approaching the wagon.

“One cannot escape fate, and living without love is like living as a stone. The years may be long, but they hold no joy.”

The youth jumped down.

“Come inside. Winter is approaching, and the winds grow crueler. You could easily fall ill. Come, dear boy. What is your name, my falcon? And why did they place a slave’s mark upon you? It is still fresh, like those welts and scars. Come. I have tea—not jasmine, certainly, but lingonberry is very good for you.”

Convinced the old woman was merely distracting him before a sudden killing blow, Alisher cast off the hide and stepped boldly into the cave, allowing the wise woman a clearer target.

He had heard caravan guards at the bazaar say that when a blow was true, there was no pain at all.

The wind tousled the porter’s hair again, as though demanding the song’s completion. Answering his heart, he sang once more.

I ask you—love me forever.

Never dare forget.

I ask you—love me forever,

though the years may pass.

Let every candle gutter out.

Let them tell you I have died.

I ask you—love me forever,

for even as I died,

I still loved you…

Something struck the stones behind him with a loud clatter. The boy flinched and fell silent.

“Yorik! You said you did not find him,” the old woman exclaimed, pinning the chieftain beneath an angry stare.

“There was no treasure. A galley, yes, but no cargo. All we gained were three slave women and this youth who longs for death. Not a coin. Not even meat. We ate rutabagas on the voyage home.” Asard spread his hands.

“If treasure means nothing to you but glittering stones and metal cursed by the demons of Hell, so be it, Asard. From this day forth, that is the only plunder you will find.”

The old woman looked toward Yorik.

“He is the Unbowed, as you commanded. I named him brother. But his heart is shattered into splinters, and he volunteered to come here. He will never become Windale’s pride. That is why I said I had not found him,” the fearsome Norseman whispered, defending himself before her.

“Very well.” The witch waved Yorik away and took Alisher by the elbow. “Wait here.”

“And the plague?” Asard demanded, suddenly alarmed.

“Wait here, I said.” Astrid barked the final words in Norse, but Alisher understood from her tone alone.

The wise woman angrily pulled the hide across the entrance. The fire in the hearth swayed in perfect time with the curtain.

The cave proved quite small inside. Shelves in the corners held simple utensils and crockery. A rope stretched diagonally beneath the ceiling, hung with drying bundles of herbs. Against the back wall stood something like a tapchan piled with mattresses and cushions.

“Will you have tea?”

Alisher shook his head.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t poison you.” The old woman laughed hoarsely and patted the bewildered youth’s shoulder. “Sit, dear boy. Where did you learn the secret song?”

“If it is secret, how do you know it?” Alisher asked warily, unwilling to betray his beloved even now.

“Clever and courteous. Well done.”

The gray-haired woman exposed one sagging breast. Directly above the nipple, darkened with age, lay the dragon mark.

“I am a former High Priestess of the Faceless One. Since you know the song, surely you know that the High Priestess serves the goddess for only ten years before another takes her place.”

“No, I didn’t know. Why?”

“Then you remain ignorant of the most important truth.”

Saddened, the wise woman poured tea into two bowls and offered one to the youth.

“Until I hear your answer, I will not decide whether you deserve that knowledge.”

Whether from strain or stress, Alisher suddenly decided to tell the old woman his story.

He recounted everything, beginning with the moment he saw the girl and mistook her for a lake peri. He spoke of their secret meetings and long conversations beneath the moon.

Only the name of the woman who had settled forever within his heart remained unspoken.

“Yorik truly is fortunate. He found you after all.” The old woman smiled and placed one palm against the youth’s chest. “May I?”

The porter did not immediately understand what permission she sought, but he nodded.

The wise woman remained silent and motionless for a long time, as though in a trance. Alisher did not dare disturb her. Then a peculiar smile blossomed across the old witch’s wrinkled face.

“Yes. That is it. That is exactly how the Chosen One’s heart sounds. What did your peri tell you of Tabigati?”

“About the contest with Iblis. About how she restored the children of the first sultan and his wife, Syar… Ser…” Thrasing struggled to remember the name, as if someone had stolen it from his memory.

“Sigrun,” the witch corrected, shuddering at the name. “She received her share as well, and rightly so. She tasted her own poison at last. But that is another story. What else?”

“The daughter with the mark. Aisha, first among the Chosen…”

“And that is all?”

“That is all.” Alisher nodded firmly.

“Drink your tea. You need strength, and it will help your wounds close faster. I will wrap some of the blend for you to take. I gather it here in summer. It would raise a dead man to his feet, and on a young fellow like you it will clear away every illness and sore at once.”

Alisher swallowed the infusion. Calling it tea was generous, but the fragrance of herbs and dried berries was unique and surprisingly delicious. The youth drained the bowl in one draught.

“I told you that you would like it. More?” the wise woman offered kindly.

Alisher nodded, deciding refusal would be rude.

“Then listen. That is not the entire story. Tabigati and Iblis have contested one another for centuries. But sooner or later, the prophecy must be fulfilled. Otherwise, it is not prophecy at all, merely a tale.”

The fire in the hearth twitched strangely and turned scarlet.

The old woman only grinned again, tossed another log into the flames, and added, “He must know. It is only fair.”

The flame embraced the offering and turned yellow. Astrid returned to the table.