‘Yes?’ Seeol responded.
‘Forgive me this intrusion, Great One,’ Ieane said with lowered eyes as she entered the room.
‘You is a great one, too.’ Seeol bobbed his head, appreciating the compliment.
‘King Harundor has asked if you’d like to attend the hanging this afternoon.’
‘Okay,’ Seeol replied, despite having no idea what a hanging was. ‘Will you help this book down?’ Seeol tapped his beak on a thick black book that looked similar to the one Seteal had been carrying around.
‘Certainly.’ Ieane pulled it out. Seeol flew over to his table and she followed, placing the book flat on its surface.
‘What is this?’ Seeol prodded the golden text with his toe.
‘You must know,’ Ieane gasped. ‘It is the Holy Tome.’
Seeol looked away. ‘I can’t read.’
‘You can’t read?’ Ieane seemed shocked.
‘Writing is a human thing,’ Seeol said defensively. ‘Nobody ever taught me.’
‘Of course,’ Ieane said apologetically.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ Ieane replied. ‘But if you wish to see the hanging, we really must make our way outside.’
‘Okay,’ Seeol replied. ‘We’ll read later!’
*
The door opened with a clunk. Briel awoke with a start. He thrust out his hand and gripped Fes’s arm. He used his feet to push himself back against the slippery wall. His chains clinked noisily and he cursed them silently. How had he slept? How had he slept knowing that today was the day?
He tried to plea for his wife’s salvation, but the sound that came out was unintelligible. Light poured into the dungeon and Briel’s eyes met Fes’s. Hers glinted big and round, full of fear. The guards surrounded them. Men grabbed their shoulders and prodded them onto hands and knees. Briel wasn’t used to using his legs. He stumbled and came to a stop when his head cracked against a wall. Blood oozed away from his scalp.
A woman screamed. Was it Fes? Cruel men laughed. A tunnel. Briel was in a tunnel, a sword pressed into his back. He stumbled forward, one hand over his wound, the other still maintaining contact with his wife. Bright light. Crowds were roaring, screaming, excited by the coming execution. The sun shone blisteringly bright in the eternal blue sky.
Fes fell on her face only to be kicked in the side. Briel grunted as he leapt toward her aggressors, but was dragged away up a short flight of stairs and onto the wooden gallows platform. A rope was tightened around his neck. The king of Jenjol watched, along with his royal cohort. There was a bird.
Fes wheezed as she was dragged up to the noose beside Briel. Their eyes met. They had no special powers, no mystical abilities. Still they saw into each other’s minds. There was no need for words. Words would’ve been deafeningly insufficient. Briel tore his eyes away, the pain of her death running deep. Across the crowd, Harundor jeered. There was the bird, perched on a golden glove. That bird . . . Briel knew that bird. Fes realised it sooner.
‘Seeol!’ The scream pierced the crowd as it erupted from Fes’s lips. Her voice failed on her second attempt, so Briel took up her post and cried his plea to the small owl. It didn’t matter why the creature was there. He was their only hope.
‘Seeol!’ Briel bellowed a second time.
The hangman stared out over the crowd as the king raised his hand. Seeol’s eyes locked on Briel’s, before moving down to the rope around his neck. The feathers atop his head flattened and the bird’s wings flared as he leapt into the air. The king’s hand plummeted, giving the command. The hangman’s fingers touched the lever. Seeol’s wings were a blur, his eyes wide in horror. The hangman began to push the lever. The gallows creaked. Seeol shrieked.
The elf owl dug his talons into the hangman’s arm and bit his finger. The man howled in pain and threw up his arms. He stumbled off-balance and fell backward, landing atop his head on the hard-packed earth below. There was a loud crack. Briel knew the man was dead.
‘Let them go!’ Seeol cried at the nearest guardsman.
The rope was removed and Briel stumbled into his wife’s arms. The crowd cried out their disappointment as the two stumbled down the steps and into the waiting arms of the guards.
‘Seeol,’ Briel began, only to cry out as a clenched fist met with his jaw and abruptly put an end to the likelihood of any further communication.
‘Don’t you speak to the Holy Spirit, Sa’Tanist!’
‘Let my friends go.’ Seeol scrabbled along Briel’s arm and wedged himself against the man’s neck. ‘They is staying with me now and we can read books.’
‘As you say, Holy Spirit,’ the guard replied with discontent. He was clearly disappointed with Seeol’s orders and yet quite to Briel’s surprise, he obeyed them.
‘What’ve ye gotten ye self into, ye silly bird?’ Briel asked of the little owl perched on his shoulder.
‘Didn’t you knows?’ Seeol dug his toes in excitedly and puffed out his chest with pride. ‘I’m the Holy Spirit!’
*
His tent was the biggest. He was the most important. He was supposed to be the strongest. Lately he wasn’t so sure. Flies flew frantically about Far-a-mael’s head. It was irritating. A cockroach scampered across the floor and made a dive for his toe. He flicked the insect across the tent and turned his attention back to the book in front of him.
His eyes rolled over a small passage entitled, ‘Common Allergens.’ He could’ve spent time pawing through the pages, but Far-a-mael already had most of its contents memorised. There were very few allergies that he hadn’t suffered as a boy. Most had cleared up with age. Others--such as Far-a-mael’s intolerance to seafood--still plagued him to that day. It was his most frequent ailment that was quite unlike anything he’d before suffered.
After several months of becoming increasingly ill, it came as little surprise to Far-a-mael when he found a long-forgotten passage in the dusty old book. There he discovered an allergy that fit his most recent symptoms. He was allergic to resurrection. Those who suffered from the allergy rejected resurrection and while they still came back to life, their bodies went on behaving as though they were dead. As such, Far-a-mael was decomposing.
His pallid hands left wet patches on the table. His tent bore the odour of rotting flesh. There was a worm burrowing its way through Far-a-mael’s arm. That was proof enough of his fate, should he have required any further convincing. His body was slowly but certainly rejecting Ilgrin’s resurrection.
Far-a-mael was dying.
He didn’t fear death. He was, however, disappointed by it. Far-a-mael sought to die a warrior after slaying the last of the silts in the battlefields of Old World, not as a breathing corps lying in a puddle of his own bodily fluids.
The Elglair and the Setbranians were weaker now in number than they’d been before. The Jenjen had been stronger than anticipated and had made a serious dent in Far-a-mael’s hadoan. He just couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t continued their attack. Surely they’d have come out victorious. The question often plagued Far-a-mael’s thoughts. Why not finish them off? Why would they show mercy in their moment of conquest?
Far-a-mael exhaled slowly and put a hand to his neck as he’d come to do habitually. He traced a line over his throat where his head had once been detached. There were no scars. The resurrection had gone seamlessly. He occasionally still had dreams, but they were getting better. And Seeol. If Far-a-mael ever had the misfortune of confronting him, he’d be sure to put the bird out of his misery.
A glance at the tent opening told Far-a-mael that My-ro-adin--one of the gil’hadoans--was coming to see him. A slender line of shifting colours gave a taste of the gil’s gloomy aura, snaking its way through the tent before the man himself. Far-a-mael stood behind his desk and waited for the man to enter, taking the same path as the light that went before him.
‘May I speak with you?’
‘Take a seat.’ Far-a-mael thought it wise to sit down. Something had po
pped in one of his knees and now the entire leg seemed shorter. He could likewise feel liquid squirting internally, and was worried it’d cause swelling. The Ways dimmed down and for a moment portions of My-ro-adin’s aura became invisible. Such were the inconveniences that came with being somewhat dead. ‘Well? What do you want?’
‘King Harundor has sent a party of soldiers to speak with you.’ The man ran his eyes along Far-a-mael’s tinted green flesh. ‘They’ve refused to give details of their visit to anyone but you.’
‘You sent them away, yes?’
‘No, War Elder Far-a-mael.’ The man twitched nervously. ‘They have come as unarmed messengers.’
Far-a-mael glared at the man, but then changed his mind. ‘I suppose one may never have too much information.’ He sighed, sitting back in his chair. ‘Send them in, but before you go, have we heard anything back from Riverend?’
‘Not yet, War Elder,’ My-ro-adin answered.
‘And are the supply chains keeping up. The men have to eat! We won’t get far with a starved army.’
‘Of course,’ My-ro-adin replied hesitantly. ‘We’re travelling slowly enough for that reason.’ He put his nose in the air and went to leave with a defined loftiness about his aura. Men like My-ro-adin were not used to dealing with authority. He stopped at the exit and turned back slowly. The gil kept a straight face, but his aura betrayed him, swimming frantically and changing colours at a harried pace.
‘What is it?’ Far-a-mael grumbled.
‘The men have raised . . . concerns.’
‘Oh?’
‘They’re worried about your health.’ My-ro-adin stood proud, but could not maintain eye contact.
‘I am quite well,’ Far-a-mael barked, throwing down his fists on the table defensively. The sound was similar to that made by rotten fruit that splits on landing. A brown liquid of bodily origins sprayed up from the table and splattered the gil’hadoan’s face. The man flinched, but was too taken aback to wipe his face.
‘Get out,’ Far-a-mael hissed with narrowed eyes.
A short while later two tired-eyed Jenjen messengers entered Far-a-mael’s tent. They wore plain clothes and nervous expressions.
‘What have you to say for yourselves?’
‘You are War Elder Far-a-mael?’ one of the men enquired.
‘I am.’
‘I’m Mister Smin,’ the man said nervously. ‘This is Mister Hirrald. We have been sent by King Harundor in accordance with our guiding Holy Spirit--blessed be His name--to propose an alliance with the Elglair.’
‘You’re joking?’ Far-a-mael burst out laughing, only to stop when he felt one of his lungs sliding uncomfortably. ‘The Jenjen have never bothered to keep their hatred for the Elglair a secret. Why the torrid do you seek an alliance now?’
‘Maker walks among us in the form of His Holy Spirit,’ Mister Smin replied solemnly. ‘The Holy Spirit has directed us to form an alliance with you so that we may take over and destroy Old World together. We will not be strong enough if our quarrelling continues.’
‘Indeed.’ Far-a-mael stroked his beard, his spirits lifting. ‘Your king is proposing active involvement in this little war I’ve got planned?’
‘Such an alliance would only be withstanding as long as Old World remains a threat,’ Mister Smin clarified.
‘Give me a reason to trust you,’ Far-a-mael stated as he rose to his feet. ‘How can I trust Harundor?’
‘With all due respect,’ Mister Smin began, ‘we could have destroyed you when you attacked us. We did not.’
‘All the same.’ Far-a-mael frowned. ‘I wish to speak with the king himself. Tell him I’ve extended an invitation to dine with him at his palace next week.’
‘At his palace?’ Mister Hirrald asked nervously, speaking for the first time. ‘You cannot invite yourself into the king’s residence.’
‘Oh, well then.’ Far-a-mael sighed. ‘No alliance, I suppose.’
‘Don’t be so quick to make that decision.’ Mister Smin threw up his hands. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Someone will be sent to tell you a date and time.’
‘Good.’ Far-a-mael smiled. ‘I look forward to seeing him.’
CHAPTER NINE
DEMONS
Ilgrin sat on a branch some fifty strides above the earth with his feet dangling and his arm wrapped around the trunk. The view should’ve taken his breath away, but instead he stared at nothing. El-i-miir had told him to leave. Her face had been flushed, tears flowing freely. She said she’d wanted him to go to Old World alone. He just couldn’t figure out why she’d changed her mind.
El-i-miir had become increasingly distant over the preceding days and without her to talk to, not a lot was said by anyone. Seteal didn’t speak, preferring instead to stew in her own miseries. Ilgrin was left feeling rather alone. The women were specks by the road below. They’d built a fire and sat beside it in gloomy silence. They had a secret, but Ilgrin couldn’t begin to guess what it might be. Even Seteal had taken to avoiding eye contact. Perhaps he’d upset them somehow.
The three hadn’t travelled much over the last few days. Given their present situation, they’d been far too nervous to do so. The hadoan filled the landscape to the south and with Veret to the north, they’d managed to wedge themselves between two very formidable foes. They’d continued very cautiously in the hopes of edging their way around Far-a-mael’s army to continue south and reach Old World before him. But that suddenly meant nothing. Now that El-i-miir wanted Ilgrin to go alone, he could simply fly away whenever he saw fit. Nobody would be able to stop him.
Stretching his wings, Ilgrin leapt from the tree and flew low over the lightly wooded plains. He could really only risk flying at night, but even then didn’t dare remain airborne for very long. Ilgrin landed quietly, having decided to make his way back by foot.
It took at least half an hour before he was able to spot firelight flickering through the trees. It seemed he’d flown farther than he’d realised. The trees had increased in number, but every now and then he caught a glimpse of yellow light and knew that he was close. When he slid out through the tree-line, Ilgrin found himself in a small clearing with a fire at its centre. Immediately he recognised his mistake. He and the others had camped closer to the road.
Four men sat around the fire warming their hands, but they were not the kind of men Ilgrin was accustomed to seeing. He stared at their arching wings and couldn’t help but gasp in recognition of his own kind.
‘Maker,’ a silt facing his direction gasped in astonishment. ‘It’s him!’
A gunshot pierced the night and tree bark erupted into a sea of splinters beside Ilgrin’s head. He was running . . . running until he found a place where the woods thinned enough to fly. Bullets whistled through the air, shots ringing to drown out the whoosh of beating wings. Three silts flew above the trees and several more pursued from behind.
A woman screamed. El-i-miir was running through the woods. A silt bore down on her. Ilgrin twisted his wings painfully in alteration of his flight path. He snatched at branches and swung around them, leaping between trees and diving through the air. The silt below raked forward his feet to reveal footwear bearing sharp metal talons. Ilgrin was under no illusions as to what the talons were intended for: tearing human flesh.
Ilgrin had the wind knocked out of his lungs when he slammed bodily into El-i-miir’s pursuer. The two hit the earth and tumbled through the dirt until they hit a tree. There was no time. Ilgrin pushed the stranger away and threw an arm around El-i-miir’s waist, to drag her feverishly into the air. He ignored his complaining muscles and doubled his efforts, spotted an exit and shot through an opening in the canopy.
‘Where’s Seteal?’
‘I don’t know,’ El-i-miir choked out. ‘They’re gaining on us, Ilgrin!’ she cried.
‘I know,’ Ilgrin murmured, risking a glance over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me!’ he shouted as he opened his toes and allowed El-i-miir to plummet screaming into the stream below. ‘What!?’ I
lgrin shouted back at his attackers. ‘It’s me you want!’
‘Get the girl!’ one the silts shouted and another immediately swooped toward the earth.
‘No,’ Ilgrin gasped, but it was too late. A man much larger and stronger than Ilgrin wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed just hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. A pistol was put to Ilgrin’s head as the silt swooped down, dragging him along by his throat. They reached the earth to find El-i-miir had been pinned down, sopping wet and terrified.
‘Watch this,’ El-i-miir said breathily to Ilgrin’s captor. The silt who had been holding her down stepped back, his eyes staring at nothing.
‘Caleb?’ another of the silt’s enquired. ‘Are you okay?’ Caleb said nothing. He calmly raised a pistol to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. Ilgrin gasped in horror and leapt back as the body hit the earth.
‘It’s the woman!’ the silt who’d spoken earlier said nervously. ‘She’s an affiliate.’
‘Kill her,’ the large silt ordered. ‘Quickly!’
‘No.’ Ilgrin leapt forward, only to be dragged back by his throat. El-i-miir grunted and her eyes closed as she was struck in the back of the head. A silt kneelt over Caleb, hands placed flat against his chest. Bits of scull and brains tumbled across the earth and leapt back into place. His scull crunched and shimmied into a smooth surface. Skin slid across muscle and fresh hair sprouted. Then that dirty black mist with which Ilgrin was so familiar drifted away from Caleb’s flesh as he came back to life.
‘What do you want from me?’ Ilgrin snapped, unable to tear his eyes from El-i-miir’s dead or unconscious form. If the former were true, he would not hesitate to resurrect her. To torrid with the consequences.
‘Under order of his Highness the Devil you are hereby placed under arrest for informal execution this night,’ Caleb removed his sword from its scabbard.
‘Ilgrin!’ Seteal’s voice pierced the night as she hurried between the trees. ‘Get down.’ The woman hit the ground, abandoning her lifeless body to roll to a stop at Caleb’s feet.
‘That was anticlimactic.’ Caleb nudged Seteal with his toe.
Ilgrin swallowed nervously as an eerie silence fell upon the woods. Night birds didn’t sing. Crickets didn’t chirp. The trees didn’t rustle. Ilgrin didn’t need to be told twice. He hit the ground and squeezed El-i-miir’s hand. A wave of hot wind poured through the trees in the form of a deafening explosion. Ilgrin clung to a root and grabbed Seteal’s leg in his toes when her body rolled toward him. The silts clung to trees and branches, but soon lost their grip.
The Inner Circle: Holy Spirit Page 9
