Chapter Seven

Late into the morning, the women of the White Steppe clan stripped the raiders' corpses and retrieved items of value, while a dozen village men prepared a mass funeral pyre that began as a shallow pit dug in the middle of a wooded clearing. Were it not for the smell of decaying flesh and the predators the bodies would attract, they would have left the corpses where they lay to rot. The mass funeral pyre was built several hundred yards outside the village's boundary. One man unceremoniously lit the mound of wood and bodies and remained to ensure the inferno did not spread to the surrounding forest. No prayers were offered. No eulogies extolling a noble enemy were spoken. Burial rituals were not afforded to slavers who attacked unprovoked under the cover of darkness for no reason other than to gain riches from the sale of human cargo. Such acts were considered cowardly and without honour, for an Asgardian's greatest wish was to either claim victory on the battlefield or to die well fighting.

To be captured and enslaved, to lose one's freedom, equated to a punishment worse than death. And though women did not often choose the way of the sword, each generation produced a handful of women who chose to walk the path of the sword-maiden — a sect of warrior known and respected for their fierceness in battle.

For in Asgard, a person was not judged by their gender or their looks, but by their deeds. When a person made a statement of intent, it immediately became an oath and it was taken as a matter of fact that it would be fulfilled. Actions and deeds were everything.

Connor had taken leave of Asgard seven winters earlier. He was without a mate, without siblings, and his parents had preceded his arrival in Valhalla before he departed Asgard for Atlantis. Except for a pair of second cousins, both male, no female family member resided in White Steppe, or within six day's hard travel. Bride theft often resulted in females leaving their home villages to live among their husband's clan.

Talena had asked permission to prepare Connor's body for the ceremony. She was, after all, a cousin from a neighbouring village. Indeed, cousin was the familiar title allotted to just about any person of Asgard not born in one's specific village and who lived in a neighbouring village. Bride theft and the resultant relocation of the women to nearby villages ensured an extended family tree flourished. This national practice promoted peace and goodwill and a certain amount of sharing of resources among neighbouring villages but encouraged tribalism among farther-reaching clans where family ties were not so prevalent and hunting grounds were zealously protected.

And while Talena prepared Connor's body for burial, word spread that no villager was to disregard Connor's last request to have his son alone stack wood upon his pyre, those words were interpreted as the actual construction of the pyre in which a village elder instructed Tarn and not the collection material. Many a thoughtful eye followed Tarn's effort to collect, carry, and drag branches and small logs. Some commiserated in respectful silence with his loss, while others who remembered Connor looked on thoughtfully, almost whimsically when they sighted Tarn. As though by magic, Tarn discovered an unending supply of four and five-inch diameter logs less than ten feet long on the periphery of the village. On the far side of the village from where Tarn built his father's pyre and searched the east village boundary for fuel, two pairs of men chopped wood while a third pair distributed it judiciously, and not without a good deal of stealth.

One of the village's female elders brought Talena oil with which to anoint Connor's corpse. Another woman set ceremonial furs and dyed leather clothes nearby.

While Talena worked, Tarn gathered wood, oblivious to hunger or fatigue, and the sympathetic faces that beheld his dark and grieving eyes. At dusk, when Tarn had collected twice as much wood as was necessary, Connor's body was laid atop the pyre.

The village shaman stepped forward, introduced Talena and Tarn, and then regaled the village with Connor's braveness in battle ending with his ultimate sacrifice. At the shaman's signal, Tarn raised a flaming brand above his head.

"Hear me Vulcan," he began, speaking the words his father had spoken over his mother's pyre, "a mighty warrior comes unto Ye this night. Set a place at Thy table for him among the honoured. Grant him in death, what he gave Thee in life."

Tarn solemnly lit the funeral pyre, tilted his head to the sky, and imitated his father's war cry to aid his spirit's journey.

The burning brand ignited the oil-soaked wood.

Yellow-orange flames rapidly took hold, gathering in strength and intensity, spreading and leaping. Superheated tree sap hissed and expanded. Wood snapped the crackled. Tiny explosions erupted, growing in size and duration. The pyre rained a shower of sparks upon Tarn, engulfing him in a prism of vacillating lights.

The crowded villagers gasped and retreated from the flames, holding hands and forearms before their faces to ward off the intense waves of heat.

Talena started forward to pull Tarn out of harm's way, but the heat was too great and drove her back. Waves of furnace-hot air singed her fair hair and snatched her breath away. Still, she struggled forward a second time. The shaman grasped her by the arm and pointed to the fire.

In a loud voice for all to hear, he said, "Observe, the fire cradles the lad in her bosom, but does not burn. Behold the Firelach and sing its praise."

Feeling a mixture of awe and concern race through her emotions, Talena watched Tarn clutching the torch in a white-knuckled grip.

Leaping orange death and torrential rainfall of sparks danced over his small figure, licking his body without consuming his flesh. Sullen despair permeated Tarn. His face remained expressionless and his eyes dry, as if he looked beyond the roaring pyre, oblivious to the searing danger all around him.

Although he felt like crying, a greater need to honour his father held his grief in check.

A hand clasped Tarn's shoulder. When he turned, his mother and father stood beside him, surrounded by a soft aura of golden light. A glittering golden tie bound Connor's long blond hair, and a thick golden torque decorated with a large red ruby rested upon his brow. All of his father's wounds were healed, and he wore armour that shone resplendent silver and gold tones―a Lord of Battle in all his glory. Jayleen, Tarn's mother, wore an elegant, pure-white gown, the Atlantean symbol embroidered with gold thread above her left breast, her right breast bared.

Gold dust sprinkled on her face and shoulders and her breasts twinkled and shone radiantly. Unruffled by heat or flames, her curly-brown tresses fell in waves about her tapered neck and shoulders. Her feet, garbed in soft leather sandals and gold trim, seemed to float just above the ground. A radiant, loving smile reserved only for Tarn, graced her gentle mouth.

"Mother! Father!" Tarn cried, tears spilling out of his eyes at last as he hugged himself to his mother's waist.

"Hush now, little one. Weep no longer. This is not a time of sadness, but celebration and joy. Thee must not grieve for our return. Thy father and I will always be close to thy heart if thee search for us there. When you have committed many great and wondrous deeds, you may join us. But that will not be for many, many years, little one. We of Atlantis owe a debt to Kalen. Once honoured, we will be reunited," soothed his mother, bending down to hug him close to her bosom. "Be brave and true, son."

Connor laid his hand on Tarn's other shoulder and said, "Thee have followed my wishes well. I am proud of thee. Forsake not thy vow to me. Retrieve Kalen's sword and with it the Song of Steel scroll. Serve Atlantis as I served White Steppe. Atlantis must not be condemned to the past."

Blinking back unbidden tears, Tarn nodded affirmation, unspoken words caught in his throat. Jayleen stepped one pace backward, lifted Tarn's chin in a soft hand, and bestowed a final, parting farewell. Joining hands, his parents turned and walked skyward on a burning stairway, vanishing as they rode the embers up into the heavens. Although Tarn wished for their return, he understood they now existed only in his heart as his mother had said. They were going to a new home in Valhalla, and if Tarn wanted to ever join them, he must, like his father, earn his seat among Valhalla's honoured.

Talena's firm hand fell upon his shoulder, gently turning him around saying, "Come, lad, I gained permission from the headman to return to my clan with thee as my son, if that is what you wish."

"It is not. This be my father's village and it is here I will dwell. I wish to grow into a warrior the same way he did."

Brave blue eyes implored the headman to grant his request. The headman, like everybody else present, had viewed the spectacle. It was not a common occurrence for the dead to bequeath a final farewell, to sing the Firelach. There were clan legends that told of the Gods granting the last audience, but no one in this clan had ever witnessed it before tonight.

"Connor be a son of White Steppe," began the shaman, lifting his voice, reciting clan law. "Dead in battle, his blood will no be abandoned. Long will we sing of his bravery. So, too, be Tarn our son. As our son, he will be fed and cared for until he reaches adulthood when he, in turn, will feed and care for others. Let any who would gainsay tradition step forward and state their reasons."

The headman nodded agreement, as did every other villager within hearing. No villager stepped forward. The law was the law. No son or daughter of White Steppe would ever be abandoned.

The headman told Talena, "The boy's claim be valid, supported by law, gainsaid by none. The choice is Tarn's to make. He is the son of Connor, member of the White Steppe clan." Then less formally, in a soft voice, he added, "Ye be as stubborn and bold as thy da, Tarn. Let us see if thee grow up to be as brave."

After ruffling Tarn's hair, he and the shaman departed. One by one the other villagers touched Tarn's shoulder or his head welcoming him.

Talena stood silently watching the progression pass by. When all had gone, she laid an arm across his shoulders and joined him watching the pyre burn to a bed of hot coals. Hours passed and still, Tarn did not move except to lean against Talena's hip.

When dawn's early light began to lighten the sky, Talena hugged him to her breast and said a tear-filled goodbye, surprised how attached she had become.

"Come and visit me when you grow older. My Village is not more than a week's quick travel."

"I will."

"Tarn," called the headman walking in his direction. "Come with me. Ye be living in Marta's hut. She's a widow with no man or sons. Marta be needful of a young hunter and warrior now that her husband died in battle, and her sons fell to sickness."

With a nod, Tarn solemnly followed the headman.

They stopped by a hut where a middle-aged woman stood with her arms crossed around her young daughter's shoulders.

"Marta, this be Tarn, son of Connor. He has come to us from Atlantis. Thee have no male in thy hut. Will ye accept Tarn under thy care?" asked the headman in ritual fashion.

"Aye," Marta answered in like ceremonial response.

"I extend Tarn the safety of the hut from this day forth. To be raised and fed and clothed in childhood as my own, to be protected and fed by him in manhood. Tarn shall be of this hut from his day forth."

"Tarn, do ye accept this charge and agree to these terms?"

"Aye."

The ritual question and response complete, the headman departed. Ere Marta spoke, her daughter stepped forward. The girl, older than Tarn by several years, stood above his height and smiled brightly.

"Hello, Tarn. My name is Shaurii, and thee are now my brother."

Tarn's serious expression never altered when he replied, "My family is dead. I am the last Atlantean."

Shaurii stared at him without understanding. Did not the headman and mother just make Tarn her brother? Ere either child spoke again, Marta stepped between them and turned Shaurii toward the hut by the shoulders.

"Come inside children. There's been enough talk for one night," then to Tarn, she added, "Come, lad, I'll show thee where ye sleep. There will be time later this morning for chatter."

Following Shaurii into the hut, Tarn missed Marta's sympathetic and worried look.

There was something unnatural about the way Tarn accepted his plight. Perhaps the appearance of his deceased parents left him addled. As it should have. As it would have to most people four times his age. As it had to the majority of the villagers. Already Marta had heard whispers dangerously close to claiming magic followed the boy. First, the Firelach, and then the appearance of Connor and Jayleen. Fear of magic struck deep within the Asgard soul. The power of the Gods was one thing, but magic was another event entirely. Magic users were shunned and banished. Not being a person to worry about events beyond her ability to change, Marta resolved to deal with Tarn and the others in the following weeks and months.