Smoke in the Glass

by Chris Humphreys

  Moving gently so as not to wake the child, Atisha groped for the gourd on the floor beside the straw mattress. Their single oil lamp had long since guttered out and would not be lit again till the change of guard in the morning. Her hand found the smoothness, she lifted, unstoppered, drank. The llama milk was on the turn, souring, but she sighed and swallowed. She had no appetite, drank because she must to produce her own milk for Poum – who had as little appetite as her.

  The baby mewed as Atisha lay back down. ‘Hush. Hush, little one.’ She stroked the soft down that crowned her head, and the child, with a last mutter, settled. But Atisha couldn’t, just stared into the dark and thought on death.

  She knew she was exhausted, underfed, desperate. Yet her mind kept circling back and back to her choices, which had come down to two – wait and watch her child killed before her and die the moment after. Or kill her child herself and die the moment after. Out there, on the journey back to Toluc.

  Here, within the cell.

  Her thoughts no longer dwelt on necessity – she would not give her child to Tolucca and Intitepe to slay – but on means. Killing her child was easy. Killing herself was harder. She had no dagger. She had thought of fashioning a noose from the blanket Besema had given her – but in her searching of the cell she had found not a single point, on door or wall, to hang it from.

  She sighed, closed her eyes. Sleep, she commanded herself. Could not. She tucked the blanket tighter around them both, and shivered. Thick wool, it still was not thick enough for that freezing cell. Yet the blanket was not the only thing that Besema had given her. She’d also given her hope. With a word. ‘Believe,’ she’d said. Now, staring at the ceiling she couldn’t see, Atisha thought that cruelty – for a last hope taken away was the worst thing in the world.

  Her eyes closed – then shot open again. Noises came, loud enough to penetrate the thick wooden door. She sat up, jerking Poum awake, who immediately began to wail. Atisha thought of comforting her – but what comfort could she offer if the person who walked through the door wore a raven’s mask? She thought again on murder – but could not do it. While she was alive she would fight, because this she knew: chances to kill or die would come on the road back to Toluc.

  The door swung open. Torchlight dazzled her. For a moment all she could see were shapes at the door, one larger that had to be the male guard, one a little smaller, who could be Tolucca. Atisha stood, clutching her crying baby to her chest, as the man lurched forward then fell to his knees, and the woman spoke.

  ‘Did I not tell you to believe, daughter?’ said Besema.

  Another woman came in – tall, silver-haired Norvara. She held a bow, arrow notched, string drawn, and the guard peered around at her, his hands by his head, terror in his eyes.

  ‘Come swiftly,’ said Besema, moving the flaming brand she held to the side, offering a hand.

  ‘Are you getting me out of the city?’ Atisha said, stooping for the blanket and the gourd.

  ‘Yes.’ Besema’s eyes gleamed in the light of her torch. ‘But come. There is still much to do – and much danger in the doing of it.’

  It was at that moment that Poum, fully awake now, laughed.

  Shoving the whimpering guard to the floor, Norvara followed them out, bolting the door behind her. They climbed the circular stair, pausing before the door that led into the entrance hall.

  Atisha had fashioned her sling again, and now tucked a gurgling Poum into it then placed her on her back. ‘What can I do?’ she said. ‘Have you a weapon for me?’

  Besema handed her a stone dagger. ‘Stay here. Protect the child,’ she said. ‘Let us do the rest – for we have been planning this for years. We only needed a sign. You and Poum are that sign.’ She looked at Norvara. ‘Ready?’ On her nod, Besema put her hand to the door handle, slowly turned it, then pushed the door open.

  Lamplight glittered. The hall, the whole house, was quiet, the only noise the sound of snoring that came through the guard room’s open door on the far side. By the hall’s front door, the night guard sat, his head lolling against the chair back, eyes closed. Norvara crossed and stood two paces in front of him, the creak of her bowstring as she drew it back a loud noise in the near silence.

  Besema went to the door, reached for the top bolt, looked around, took a deep breath – then flung the bolt down, bent and heaved the heavy door wide. It opened on a squeal of hinges. The guard sat upright, shook his head, stared. ‘Move and you die,’ said Norvara.

  ‘Poroco?’ came a voice from the guard room. ‘What’s—’

  The rush of ten women into the hall buried the rest of the question. They were all armed, some with a variety of blades from the field, sickles and axes, others with mallets, daggers or bows. Yutil was at the front and knew her task, leading half a dozen straight into the guard room. There were cries, the sound of blows. A few moments later two men carried a third out, laid him on the ground and joined the door guard with their hands behind their necks.

  ‘Now, Norvara.’ Besema gestured. ‘The bridge and the gatehouse. Go!’

  Through the open door, Atisha saw some more armed women waiting. Norvara had taken a step towards them, when a scream came from the balcony above: ‘What is happening here?’

  Someone spun, shot. An arrow drove into the wooden balustrade – right between the hands of Muna. She yelped, staggered back – and a bare-chested man who’d appeared with her took one look down, turned and ran. Women rushed up the stairs. Some went in pursuit of the man, others seized Muna, dragged her down, flung her between the guards. She was dressed in some kind of pink night gown and her hair was wild. ‘What?’ she blubbered. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Quiet!’ Besema ran to the bottom of the stairs, called up. ‘Have you got him?’

  A young woman appeared. ‘No. He got to the tower.’

  ‘The tower?’ She looked up. ‘Gods! The bell!’ And just as she said the word, the bell began to toll; frantically, accompanied by hoarse male shouting. Besema paled. ‘The bridge, Norvara! Now!’

  The women poured out of the hall, joined the others before it. Atisha followed. The woven-reed bridge was directly in front of the hall’s entrance and she could see, on its other side, men roused by the alarm and massing at the guard house – roughly the same number as the armed women. But the men were soldiers, trained to kill. And the first of them were already on the bridge.

  ‘Arrows!’ shouted Norvara, and the five women who had bows shot. Only one arrow hit, the man screaming, falling, as the others rushed past him. The bridge spanned the gorge. It was maybe fifty paces long. The men would be there in moments.

  In moments, Atisha thought, my brief hope will be gone.

  Unless …

  Her dream came back to her, as vivid as if she still slept. Intitepe was the Fire God. He claimed to be one with Toluc, the Fire Mountain, and between them, they sought to dissolve her child in flame. But she knew now that Intitepe was just a man, weak; more, a man terrified by an ancient prophecy; knew also that the mountain was just a volcano. Knew that flame was not their sole possession but a force to be used by any who could command it.

  Either side of the hall’s front door, two huge lamps burned day and night, in honour of the god. To supply their continuous need for fuel, pots of oil stood beneath them.

  Thought and action one, Atisha stooped, snatched up a pot, ran forward, raised it above her head – and hurled it hard into the bridge’s wooden stanchion. It smashed, and oil poured onto the reed bridge. Snatching the torch from Besema’s hand, Atisha leaned back then hurled it.

  Flame came, blue and low – until it suddenly shot high and the bridge exploded in red fire. One man tried to run through the shimmering wall – though whether it was the fire or the two arrows in his chest that killed him no one could know. No other followed – couldn’t, for the bridge swiftly fell, a mass of smoke and sparks and screams, into the gorge.<
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  ‘Child, are you mad?’ Norvara pointed forward. ‘You have cut us off from the world!’

  ‘I did not think, except to stop the soldiers …’

  She trailed off. Besema came and put her arm around her. ‘No. This is good. No one can come – and we are blessed on our mountain with enough food to last, oh, for ever! That should give us enough time to figure out what to do next.’

  Atisha laughed. ‘I thought you’d been planning this for years.’

  Besema nodded. ‘We were going to capture all the guards, seize the city, get you to the coast, hide you in the villages there. Now—’

  They both gazed into the conflagration. The smoke that rose was too thick to pierce with sight but above the crackle they could clearly hear the shouts of angry men.

  ‘Now I ask you to believe something else, daughter,’ Besema continued softly, turning to her. ‘That this will be the spark that sets the whole country ablaze – and burns tyranny to ash.’

  Atisha swallowed. Her fury had passed and fear returned. ‘Brave words. But when Intitepe comes, as he will?’

  ‘He will find us resolute.’ Besema nodded, to the women who’d seized the hall, to others coming from all parts of the city. ‘Nearly all the women in the city will rise with us. Beyond this gorge,’ she gestured ahead, ‘perhaps most of the women in the land.’ She smiled, squeezed Atisha to her. ‘For everywhere, women have had enough of men ruling them, don’t you think?’

  The first person to emerge from the hut was a fisherman. He came fast, and made it only half a dozen paces before falling to his knees and vomiting. Staggering up, he vanished into the darkness, in the direction of the rebels’ camp.

  The second person to emerge from the hut was the huntress.

  ‘Well, Gistrane?’ The monk looked up from the glass globe, raising his black eyes to her. ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘Of course … eventually. Then all at once. It was hard for our friend there,’ Gistrane nodded to where the vomiting man had gone, ‘to translate all, so swiftly did she talk. And since my grasp of the language is only fair, I had to have him slowly repeat many things.’

  She squatted, throwing her long, tightly coiled hair over her shoulder, before stretching her hands to warm them at the firepit’s flames. ‘Mother and baby are in the south. In a place they call the City of Women.’ She smiled. ‘When I thought my sisters and I were the only ones in the world to have one of those.’

  ‘How far south?’ The horse lord had a stick and poked the embers. Sparks rose.

  ‘She was a little unclear as to distance. Forgivable, as she was a little … distracted.’ She shrugged. ‘From their capital, Toluc, which is two days’ march south of here, you can walk to the City of Women in three weeks. Runners in relays do it in one. If we move between run and walk – twelve days from here?’

  ‘Or five if I ride. Maybe I should do that?’

  ‘No, Korshak. We go together, always. Our holy leader commanded—’

  ‘Your leader, monk!’ The horse lord hawked, spat into the fire, then turned to the black-eyed man. ‘I am commanded by no one but my king.’

  ‘It was agreed then,’ replied the monk calmly. ‘We stay together, till we find the One. All our respective … skills have been deemed useful for that. Together we are strong.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Korshak grunted, but chose not to argue further. He pointed to the globe. ‘And have you talked with your leader lately?’

  ‘No. I glimpsed him, but lost him before he could speak. The distance is huge and the storms,’ he shrugged, ‘will pass. But I will talk to my brother who is with the seafarer. Tell him to take the ship south. When we know the land we can guide him closer.’ He looked out into the camp where the rebels, men and women, sprawled. ‘Will any follow us? It might still be useful to have an army.’

  Korshak snorted. ‘This rabble? No. There are scores less of them each day. They are scurrying back to their villages with what they’ve pillaged. When they’ve finished the last of that foul brew they call liquor, the rest will be gone too.’ He nodded to the hut. ‘Did she tell you anything else?’

  ‘Some things.’ The huntress picked up a brand, wrapped in oiled wool, one they’d use to light a room, and shoved it into the fire. ‘She is Intitepe’s daughter. One hundred and fifty years old. Oh, and he’s headed south as well. To this city. Apparently he wants the child as much as we do.’

  ‘He has heard the prophecy? There is light in this land too?’

  ‘No, monk. His prophecy is different. It brings life to us. To him it brings death. His death. So he seeks to kill it first. Kill the One.’

  ‘Praise the One,’ intoned the monk.

  ‘Praise him. Praise her,’ said the huntress.

  But the horse lord didn’t add his voice. He was staring at the hut. ‘Immortal, eh? Hmm.’ He sucked air between his teeth, dropped his stick, then stood. ‘I’ve always wanted to fuck an immortal.’

  ‘You are an animal. Like all horse lords.’ She shook her head. ‘It was only because we’d cut the balls off so many of you that you stopped trying to rape us.’

  Korshak leaned down to spit into the fire. ‘We would never have stopped. But we’d had all the pretty ones. Only you uglies were left.’

  Gistrane rose to a squat, and reached to the knife at her belt. ‘Is that so?’ she said softly.

  ‘Stop it, both of you,’ the monk barked. ‘We know why you stopped killing each other. Why we all stopped killing each other.’

  They turned to him. Korshak spoke the words he should have spoken before. ‘Praise the One,’ he said.

  ‘Praise him. Praise her,’ the others replied.

  Korshak looked once, long and deliberately, at Gistrane’s hand, still on her knife. Then he looked again at the hut and licked his lips. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘we’re a long way from home now.’

  As he went to move around the firepit, Gistrane lifted the torch from the fire, the flames upon it fierce now. ‘So we are. Yet for all that she is my enemy, she is still a sister, and a warrior. And for her reluctant aid I promised her an easy death.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Korshak, moving.

  Too late. Gistrane rose, turned and shoved her brand into the thatched roof of the hut, and then into its reed walls. The horse lord bellowed, stepped closer. But there was little he could do, the hut caught so quickly. Screams came from within it, cut off when the roof collapsed. All – reed, wood, flesh – was swiftly consumed.

  Korshak, glaring at the huntress, muttered curses. She smiled back. The monk stood, put his globe and stoppered vial into his carry-sack, then ran his tongue along his blackened teeth. ‘South,’ he said.

  10

  Monster

  They had been hearing the single horn for a while, its low call growing louder with every river bend they rounded. Now as the serpent-prowed ship pushed through the drooping fronds of willows on either bank, it was as if a leather door-hanging had been moved aside, admitting the full roar of horn and people and, more shockingly, revealing the vastness of the gathering ahead.

  ‘They have answered your call,’ said Freya, peering forward. One hand rested on the carved snake, the other on the man beside her.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Hovard, shuddering, ‘but will I have an answer for them?’

  She looked at him. ‘I was waiting,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For you to admit that you felt even the smallest doubt.’

  He turned to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  She smiled. ‘My heart, from the moment you accepted Luck’s visions and then his plans, through the time you dispatched us all with our white ash sticks to issue the summons, to when you and I met again at Petr the Red’s camp and during every minute of our voyage here, you have displayed nothing but an utter and complete certainty. It is unnatural.’

  His lips twitched.
‘Why should I be natural? I am a god, after all.’

  ‘You are.’ She let go of the prow, put her arms around him, pulled him close. ‘You are my god. And, my god, my husband, I have known you for three hundred years. So I can clearly see the uncertainty you mask so well. Tell me of it now, before it is too late.’

  ‘Too late?’

  She jerked her head towards the bustle they were fast approaching, the noise getting louder with every pull of the excited crews’ oars, their destination at last in sight. ‘Before we land, and certainty will be all you will be allowed to display.’

  Hovard took a deep breath. ‘It was so much clearer in Askaug. Luck told us what he saw in the smoke within the globe, pure, black-eyed evil. And I have learned over the years to trust my younger brother god’s visions. We all have.’ He exhaled and stared ahead again across the serpent’s scaly wooden neck. ‘But why should they believe me, all those gods and mortals? Fighting each other is all they have ever known. How can I get them to change their entire way of life with … words?’

  ‘Because you will make them good words.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Stromvar believes you. Acted on your bidding. And the world knows him to be the fiercest believer in nothing but himself.’

  ‘One god. Who was there. Who saw what we had found, what Luck had revealed.’

  ‘He carries weight. His reputation is such that people will follow him.’