One Great Year (13 page)

Marcus ached to be saying goodbye. The love that he felt, this mother love, was like nothing he had ever experienced. The reality of having the most precious and vulnerable part of himself walking outside his body was overwhelming. It compared to the love he still felt for Theron but, in this lifetime, overshadowed it. The child was a miracle from Sartaña's own body, from her very flesh, and a child brings a helplessness and dependence that a lover does not. Theron was like fleeting smoke, but Amaru was present, real, and in jeopardy.

Marcus's losses were now so many. For each one in this lifetime there were a hundred more already survived, remembered, that were a burden casting their shadow on his heart. War was nothing new, and death and loss were a part of every life.

Amaru was courageously shuttled away by Malaya, and Sartaña left her chamber and moved out into the palace courtyard flanked by her personal servants and guards. She struggled to quiet the nervous tremors that shook her hands and legs, and she was glad that she had not eaten anything, certain that she would vomit if she had. She was conscious that she must appear calm and composed to reassure her people and to face whatever might come.

Sartaña walked directly to the two beautifully carved, massive stone thrones that rested in the center of the courtyard at the top of a stairway. Behind her an ancient arched gateway to the sun framed the scene and added to the spectacle of her beauty and courage. She took her seat and was painfully aware that the empty chair next to her would never again be rightly filled. Her grief assaulted her once again and mingled with the knowledge that she would very likely meet a cruel fate herself very soon. She continued to pray silently for Amaru, desperate that he should escape the wrath of the coming conqueror.

Sartaña waited. There was nothing else she could do. The sun moved overhead, warming her and causing beads of sweat to rise on her brow beneath the heavy diadem and prickle her spine. Finally a distant rumble grew to a roar as the conquering multitude passed the unprotected gates into the sacred city. Warrior after warrior marched, talked, laughed, and cheered as they followed their exultant leader to the central courtyard—a seemingly endless trail shrouded in a cloud of dust. The stench of sweat and blood filled the streets; the air was thick with their unfamiliar odor.

The citizens huddled in their huts, shaking with grief and fear. Some peeked curiously at the awful procession, instantly confused and terrified by the spectacle of spears and blood-soaked posts with the severed heads of their men stacked three and four high. Fathers, grandfathers, and friends all reduced to body parts and trophies and paraded ghoulishly through the familiar lanes.

The leader, Katari, climbed the stone steps unchecked, flanked by his personal guards. In his hand, dangling from his spear, he raised the severed head of their blessed high priest: conquered, staring in frozen shock, and still wet with fresh blood. Sartaña stared in horror at her mate's head swinging and bouncing with each step. His kind lips and laughing eyes were distorted and ruined. The grotesque object looked surreal, and her brain could hardly comprehend it. Katari ignored the dry blood on his skin; his thick flat forehead and wide nose were in direct contrast to the fine features of his victim.

The war was lost and the rewards were yet to be claimed by the victors. Sartaña, sitting erect and proud, concealed the fear bubbling up inside of her as she clutched the cold stone arms of her throne, her knuckles white and tense.

I have seen this before
, she thought inwardly, staring at her captor.
I've seen him before!
An icy hatred filled her as the sinister Katari approached. His face became familiar somehow. Suddenly Sartaña was filled with overwhelming panic as her Marcus-brain recognized the karmic code through the grime, the paint, and the blood; saw the red, cruel energy emanating in all directions and leeching into the very ground at Katari's feet. His dark life force had been visible to her from a great distance but had been splintered in many directions. Now he was near enough and focused on her so that she recognized him completely. Her unconscious intuition screamed at her in alarm, and she acknowledged the pure hatred in his eyes.

Helghul
, her mind bawled over and over. But she didn't know what it meant. She didn't have full recall. She searched her memories, panicking to understand. Her Marcus-brain was scorched by the sight and feel of him.

The conquering foreigner stopped in front of Sartaña, and he and the priestess met face to face for the first time. Not trusting her legs to hold her, she remained rooted to her seat as she wondered:
What will he do? Will he murder me here?
Endless gruesome scenarios played over in her head in the mere seconds it took for him to speak. He bent forward, his face only inches from hers. She felt the heat of his foul breath on her skin.

“You do not rise to greet your new king … Marcus?” Katari hissed in a low growl audible only to her. Sartaña was startled by the use of her spirit-name, and her mind was reeling. Her ancient Marcus-consciousness spoke to her then, more loudly than before.

Helghul
, she heard again in her head. Katari's was the first face, the first eyes in which that karmic energy had been recognized, stronger and more evil than ever. Marcus surmised that Helghul had also learned a great deal since the days in Atitala.

“Helghul,” Sartaña unwisely uttered, with far more strength and defiance than she felt. Her response unwittingly informed Katari that Sartaña also had memory. The warrior was startled by the unexpected recognition. He regrouped quickly and masked his concern with a scowl, displaying his jagged, filthy teeth. He stepped back and reached his gruesome spear forward, dangling the monstrous head next to her face, taunting her. Sartaña closed her eyes and shuddered involuntarily.

Katari, laughing, turned to address his warriors and the villagers, who had begun meekly emerging to witness the inevitable transition of power. He raised his hands high in the air, still holding his spear, and effortlessly summoned silence. He walked to a nearby stone, only slightly shorter and wider than he. It had a thick, perfectly honed hole all the way through, into which he spoke. His voice was amplified to every corner.

“Hear me citizens … you see your master is my plaything, your warriors are no more. I, Katari, claim this land, these people, and all within its bounds. My warriors will garner the spoils of war and choose homes and wives among you. There need be no more bloodshed. Your daughters may stay and the elders, but your sons will fend for themselves. No warrior here will raise the boy of another man, only to have him slit his throat in his sleep some day. Women, do not think that you will take your children and run, it will not be permitted. Those who attempt to leave or to resist will die a cruel and painful death as others have before them. Any male child within the city walls by sundown will be executed,” he commanded.

“Priestess, you may address your people. Choose your words wisely,” Katari said, turning to her. She understood and proudly rose to speak to her people, most of whom had now come out of their dwellings and were in a state of extreme distress.

Sartaña moved in front of the speaking stone. “My people, good citizens, the battle is over and we have come to this wretched end. It is time now to save your children, to save our city, and to accept our fate. Our guardians have been defeated. Let the violence end today. Bundle your sons; put them in the care of the capable older boys. We will pray that the Great Spirit protect them and carry them to the bosom of a sympathetic neighbor,” she called out, strong and steady in her urgings and seething silent hatred in her belly.

Suddenly a quick movement to her left drew her eye, and in an instant her calm dissolved. “Amaru, NO!” she cried, lunging too late.

In seconds the ten-year-old boy was cut down by an assault of spears from Katari's guard. The macabre head of his father, still in the murderer's grasp, jiggled and jerked in protest of the death of his would-be avenger and only son.

Sartaña screamed and ran to her child where he had fallen, three spears perpendicular to his crumpled body, cutting deep into his young flesh. Her headdress of yellow and purple feathers clattered noisily to the ground behind her, its fine gold bent and ruined. Thick, bloody strands of her hair were torn out by the weight of it and lay in the twisted mess.

“Amaru! NO!” she cried, crawling under his bleeding frame and pulling him into her lap as though she were cradling a newborn.

The boy was unable to speak or to focus, his eyes were wild with fear, and high-pitched squeals of agony escaped him. A small sword, not even a man-sized weapon, fell useless from his prepubescent hand to the dirt beside them. He writhed and twisted, pulling his right leg up to his belly; his left leg, obviously ignoring commands from his brain, remained limp and bent awkwardly in the dust. The wooden pillars protruding from his soft, young flesh swung and jerked as he moved, hitting against his mother as she frantically placed one hand to his cheek, trying to ease his suffering. Her other hand was pressed across his body to steady him against her and stop the flesh of his wounds being torn further by the protruding rods.

Moaning, tears poured from her. Her Marcus-brain was reeling and had no voice at all. In this dire moment there was no higher brain, no time for enlightened thinking; there was only survival and instinct. There was only the love of a mother and her child, a love-bond superior to and stronger than all others.

Suddenly his writhing and howls ceased. Amaru went limp in her arms, his young eyes staring, frozen in surprise, as his spirit was released. She fell, useless against her grief, and collapsed in anguish. In that moment she longed to die. Life was too cruel, too sad, and not worth living at all; first her mate and now her son. In the time it had taken the sun to cross the sky, her world had completely unraveled.

Sartaña prayed to join her son in death and was too overwhelmed to entertain the anger that tried to take hold of her. Her Marcus-voice broke through, reminding her that Amaru's soul was safe and well, and that her people needed her guidance, but she couldn't listen. The greatest part of her lay murdered in the dirt. Her pain was blinding and unbearable. Mercilessly, Katari bent behind her and whispered in her ear.

“The fool merely saved me the effort of the hunt.”

Without a second thought, a howling Sartaña raked her fingernails across the stubbly cheek unwisely close to hers. Katari jumped back, clubbing Sartaña in the face with the blunt end of his spear. The blow jolted her and sent blinding white sparks to the pain center of her brain. She splayed on her side, unconscious beneath the corpse of her boy. At least for the time being there was peace and respite from her pain.

Katari ordered them removed, wiping his stinging, bloody cheek with the back of his hand, his Helghul-brain fuming at her impudence. His hatred for Marcus was further ignited and burned profoundly. At that moment he began formulating his plan for how to best use his fellow Atitalan to his utmost benefit.

Helghul wondered about this reunion. What cosmic intervention and meaning did it have for him? What purpose did it serve? He was pleased but not surprised to have discovered Marcus in that place of spiritual importance—it was certain to be inhabited by an Emissary. The men, however, had not crossed paths since the night of the exodus, though he had often hoped they would. His last memory of Marcus was gleefully watching him ashore, whipped by the violent storm, frantically running and calling to Theron. He could still feel the triumph he had experienced as she had struggled against him and was prevented from joining her unworthy lover.

Helghul had met many other Emissaries in past lives, and he had recognized and manipulated them easily. He worked ruthlessly toward his own purpose: to further the Darkness and add doubt and fear to the world of man. To create chaos, to rule, and to dominate, dividing the people from one another and crushing the hopeful, positive energy of his fellow Atitalans.

Marcus having memory and recognizing him had been a surprise. Who would have given Marcus the memory potion? Certainly not White Elder. It was an act of defiance unexpected of an Emissary. The new revelation changed things for Helghul and made Marcus a more formidable enemy than the other Atitalans. Marcus could be a danger to him with his past-life memory and understanding. He must be carefully dealt with.

Katari had contemplated murdering the priestess and eliminating Marcus. But understanding the reincarnation process as he did, and knowing that Marcus could be reborn only to face him again and possibly have the upper hand in the next scenario, he decided instead to keep his foe captive and under his control.

Stone-at-Center entered an age of tyranny and servitude such as it had never known. Katari immediately settled into the palace. The rotting, severed head of the high priest was still attached to the new leader's spear, which leaned carelessly disregarded in the corner of the very room where the deceased had once lived and loved in life. It was soon to be baked, smoked, and shrunken, eventually to be worn as a trophy on Katari's grisly belt.

Katari's brutal warriors had performed as commanded and now rested, rewarded with their new shelters and women. Murdering the high priest's heir publicly in such a ruthless manner had ensured the maximum co-operation of the citizens and eliminated Amaru as a future threat. Fear was a powerful tool and one that Katari encouraged and used readily, along with material reward of course.

The male children had been expelled to fend for themselves with little more than a water flask to sustain them. Even the very youngest infants were ordered out and were swaddled and tied to the backs of the older children. Terrified and confused, the parade of young boys, many crying and begging their mothers to allow them to stay, was marched away at the point of a spear. Toddlers wailed and screeched, dragged by the older boys, whose parents had warned them in no uncertain terms what would happen if they disobeyed.