The Shawl of Snowflakes, Chapter 3, Temur's Challenge

....somewhere in the heartless wastes

Eight days after Hallveig's meeting with Temur, the Frostmaiden's ambassadors had descended from the mountains, making their way to the tribe lands. True to her word, the High Priestess Hallveig led them in person. In the last years, she had forgotten just how completely Karesha’s will was interwoven with hers. Now she felt it, as sharply, as she did when she was two winters old, and spoke no word but Karesha’s. Ever since she had spied the  hunter, she felt it. Her dutiful hatred of his fire in the virginal snow had been  pushed aside by Karesha, for a greater passion, for a more immediate task. She was nigh consumed by the Frostmaiden's need. It was not enough for Hallveig to be the Forstmaiden's Eyes among the quire. Karesha, her nurturer, demanded that those who worshiped her out of fear and unwillingly would be brought to heel, to become hers in truth. The barbarian tribes were Hallveig's first task, and her own people – the first among them. On the tenth day, just after dusk, they came into view of the Chambui yurts. A torch, that spelled forth the northern lights, was set on a sledge, dragged by a quadruplet of huge almost mind numbed Vos warriors, clad in steel armour, flanked by the dozen priests of Karesha.

Hallveig stood by the torch; she was wearing the same robes that the rest of the priests – snow-white, blue-fringed– and the same boots made of the polar wolf's pelt, with fur turned outward. The only ornaments of her office were her blind orbs, and she needed no other to be marked. The Kareshan envoy was met by the Chambui Tribe with matching decorum. Upfront stood Chief Khaishan, in a heavy fur jerkin sewn with adamantine disks, deerskin leggings covered with beadwork. His sword belt, made of heavy gold and adamantine plates held a double-bladed war axe. At the chief's left shoulder stood the tribe's three Elders, and at his left – Khenbish, the Shaman in a mask of a silver beak and a ritual garment made entirely of black feathers, bones and slate ward stones. The warriors and women crowded behind, garbed in their best and sporting ornamented weapons, jewelry and beadwork. If Hallveig expected the tribe to cower before her, she did not show her disappointment when that did not happen. Her guard parted, affording her the fine view of the Chambui leaders. It was Khaishan, who spoke, but the words were far too careful to be a spur of the moment.

"Hail, the People of Karesha, and be welcomed by the Chambui Tribe. And greetings to you, Hallveig, blood of our blood." Hallveig remained silent, so the Chief had to go on when the pause turned to uneasy silence, interrupted only by the flapping of the banners. "We welcome you, blood of our blood, for it was revealed to us through our ancestors, that it was your own brother that you tried to take into bondage ten days past." Hallveig did not move, but her eyes glowed brighter at the revelation. Again, she did not speak, which Khenbish the Shaman considered a wise choice, for the woman now would hear it all before having to address the people, who stood in front of her in full force and whose fealty she sought for her Goddess.

"Hallveig, it pains me to announce that your mighty father Geser «Khan» and mother, Dagasi, are dead." A pause again, and this time, Hallveig inclined her head a touch. If she felt anything at all toward the man and the woman who had given her birth and then left her as an offering in the snow, it would not be love, Khenbish the Shaman thought. Yet, the respectful silence was cleverer, than any words of mourning or a retort. The Chief finally came to the point where his words placed the fate of his tribe into the gods' hands: "By the custom of our tribe, the children of the same mother and father are in the bondage from the day of birthing, the bondage stronger than any other tie. You, Hallveig, are a woman, and unwed. Your brother is a hunter with a yurt, a first-wife, three children of his loins who live, and one who is dead. 'Tis the Elders' decision that it is his place to take you to his yurt and treat with the respect due to his elder sister, until you wed and have your own yurt."

A faint expression of amusement appeared at Hallveig's lips. "I am the High Priestess of Karesha, and I do not abide by your rules," she pronounced, each word sharper than a dagger.

"Then," Chief Khaishan said, in a voice that carried, "You cannot claim your right of bondage on him. He is absolved of the battle-field oath given to a stranger, who does not venerate our custom." Khenbish the Shaman lifted his hands in the air, revealing a short rod, crowned by a figure of a black raven, the size of his fist. He thrust the rod upward three times and the carving enlarged each time, until it grew twice as big as a real raven, and on the fourth thrust, it took off. It flew up, not a solid form, but a shadow, a spirit of the tribal totem. The tribesmen parted, until Temur stood alone. The raven alighted on his shoulder and said in a nether voice, fit for his ghostly form: "So be it. Temur, Son of Geser «Khan», you are released from your oath."

Hallveig's face grew colder than the river-ice of her Mistress. "This man's allegiance belongs to Karesha, the Frostmaiden," she said gravely. "If that is Karesha’s will, we need a surer sign of it," Khaishan rejoined. The banners flew up into the sky, vertically. The Chief looked at it, frowning, and more than a few in the crowd behind him gasped. The raven, the totem bird of the Tribe, then took off Temur's shoulder and rose higher than Karesha’s snowflake – a black bird in the blacker sky. Comforted, the Chief smiled at Hallveig – a mighty warrior, soothing a helpless maid. The banners were once more long bands of silk, rippled by the wind.

Hallveig looked over her troops.

"We will die before we forsake our forefather's faith," Khenbish, the Shaman said quietly, "if you attack us. The contest of the gods should not be solved by slaughtering the quire."

Hallveig arched a brow: "So the Chambui Tribe harbors an oathbreaker and hesitates to join the battle to find glorious death? How… enlightened. Had the sons and daughters of the Chambui lost the last of their honor?"

The warriors shifted uneasily, but Khaishan replied calmly:

 "We honor our traditions, Hallveig, as we always did." "And does your traditions include any oath that is binding?" Hallveig taunted.

"Yes," Temur said, stepping forward. His heart pounded in his chest. He was instructed to wait for the Shaman's signal, but the moment was upon him, and he felt that the hearts of his people and their path to the Forefathers were at stake. He could abide no longer the weaving of the words.

"Hear me out, my mother's daughter, my father's seed. I was released from my word by the Elders. But here, with all the tribe standing in witness, I swear that if my sister wins a fight against me in the Circle of Challenges, where the spirits of our ancestors watch from the height of the totem polls, then I would hold my first vow true. But if you, Hallveig, should prove the weaker, I shall take it as a sign from all the gods, both old and new, that they wished you to be returned to your tribe. I will take you into my yurt as the custom dictates, and honor you as one of mine, till you wed and have your own yurt."

Great fear took a hold on him as the last word was out of his mouth. He had seen the priestess' power, and he had but a tactile defense against the cold magics of Karesha. And plans build on a dream.

"Do you accept?" He forced himself to ask. Despite her diminutive stature, the priestess seemed to be looking down at him. Yet, she did not respond immediately, weighing him, hoping to find a reason behind the mad request.

"I accept," she said with finality.

The Circle of Challenges was a sacred place, but on the night that became known thereafter as Temur's Challenge its aura of holiness was magnified three-fold. The Circle was thirty paces in diameter, paved with the special kind of slate that repelled the snow, leaving the Circle always bare, always dark underfoot, apart from where the golden-colored veins ran through the paving slate. The eastern part of the Circle was occupied by the tall totem poles: a snarling wolf, a bear raised on it hind legs, a snow worm uncoiling its deadly rings and other beasts - the totems of them whom the Black Chambui defeated in battle, and those of their allies. And above them all, on a pole of a giant pine, covered with carvings and painted symbols, soared the black raven.

Six monoliths of the same slate, every one as tall as Temur, bordered the Circle on each side of the poles. Opposite to the poles stood a giant gate of two more standing stones, and they were crowned with a horizontal slab. Four human men abreast could walk through the dolman, that was said to mark the grave of the First Chief of the Chambui Tribe, the great forefather Aruci himself. Hallveig's retainers chose to stand to the north of the poles, and the tribe reflexively crowded to the south. The People of the Chambui lit up two bonfires on their side. The orange light, cast by the burning wood, met the bluish glow of Karesha’s frozen cast of light.

Side by side, Temur and Hallveig walked under the dolman and stood uneasily in the mixing light of two sources. Temur was glad for the illumination – Hallveig's eyes were not so frightening now. His task felt easier, felt doable. He hefted his battle-axe. The Chief Khaishan lifted his warhorn to his lips, and blew out a clear note. Hallveig chanted softly, and Temur lunged at her. But his axe met a wall, as it connected on the woman's stunted body. He swung again, and, even preoccupied with her chant, Hallveig allowed herself an amused flicker of her moon-eyes. But this time his blow was not aimed at her head. It was aimed at something that was falling from the sky, something which a ghostly raven above let go off. Temur's axe cracked open a clay pot above Hallveig, and all of its content spilled on the top of her large head. In a fraction of a moment, the oily liquid coated the priestess and burst up

into flames.

"Temur," Khenbish had said, "Once the poultice touches the Eyes of Karesha, it would blind the goddess for a moment. It will dispel the magical defenses and rob the Priestess of her power. For one moment. Do not miss it, son of my son, or we are all lost."

Temur charged, dropping the midget woman to the ground and burying her under his weight, pressing her against the black stones. He must have kicked the air out of her lungs, for she gaped upon him, rasping through the burned lips. He threw the axe, and it clinked on the sacred slate, and the steel blade broke into two. No time to wonder. Temur pulled the hunting knife from his belt and jammed it into the priestess's right eye. He thought it would be much like plucking gemstones from their setting, which he had done many a time when they raided the outsider's towns. He was not expecting blood that sprayed from under his knife; and much less he expected the low, rumbling scream and the force wave that convulsed the body under him, almost throwing him off. He held on grimly and slashed the knife back and forth, destroying as much of the eye as he could.

Cold sweat poured into Temur's own eyes, chilling unpleasantly every inch of his body. The left eye's glow intensified and the priestess under him trashed with a redoubled effort, far stronger,than the tiny woman should have been capable of by rights. "Karesha looks with those eyes, Temur," Khenbish the Shaman had said, "Your sister is a blind-born." With a yell he pulled the knife that burned in his palm, free, but his hand was now held into place with - something – a sphere of light that opened itself around the priestess' head. Temur once had to lift a heavy boulder to free a man whose leg had been trapped underneath. He could only hold the boulder afloat for a short while, and his back was on fire for two weeks after that. It took him more effort than that to push his knife over the bridge of the woman's nose – the distance no more than the length of his thumb's nail. The sphere expanded, pushing him outward, lifting him, but his hand was still inside. He struggled for footing, his soft-soled boots slipping on the slate, and pushed with all his might.

The point of his blade scratched the eye's surface, and the sphere exploded around him, setting his brows and hair afire and crashing his teeth and nose. But he dug deeper with his knife, bent not on cleansing and purging, as Khenbish the Shaman had taught him, but simply on scrapping and scrapping with his knife in the bleeding socket. Thus occupied, Temur was unaware of the world around him.

One of the priests of Karesha, the youngest of them all, dropped to his knees and screamed, pressing his palms to his head. As on the cue the rest of the white-robed clergy went mad with pain as well, breaking into the run, leaving two behind, unmoving, dead. The guards were compelled to follow the priests in their flight

The warriors, tired of the long wait and the struggle of mighty powers, charged the remaining priests and guards fiercely and with joy. The sacred gold-veined slate tasted blood that night. And when the first of the Chambui’s fell, a ghostly figure stepped though the dolmen. The heather raven flew to the figure's wrist, and the two fought among their men, the Chief Aruci slashing with a shining axe, and the giant raven using its mighty beak and claws to rip his enemies.

It was the sacred place of the Chambui Tribe, and they were strong that night, stronger than ever before.