by Garth Nix
“You may withdraw, if you wish,” said Hereward, his voice strangely loud and dull at the same time, a consequence of shooting in enclosed spaces. “I do not wish to kill you, and you cannot hold your sword.”
Jessaye transferred her sword to her left hand and took a shuddering breath.
“I fight equally well with my left hand,” she said, assuming the guard position as best she could, though her right arm hung at her side, and blood dripped from her fingers to the floor.
She thrust immediately, perhaps hoping for surprise. Hereward ferociously beat her blade down, then stamped on it, forcing it from her grasp. He then raised the point of his sabre to her throat.
“No you don’t,” he said. “Very few people do. Go, while you still live.”
“I cannot,” whispered Jessaye. She shut her eyes. “I have failed in my duty. I shall die with my comrades. Strike quickly.”
Hereward raised his elbow and prepared to push the blade through the so-giving flesh, as he had done so many times before. But he did not, instead he lowered his sabre and backed away around the wall.
“Quickly, I beg you,” said Jessaye. She was shivering, the blood flowing faster down her arm.
“I cannot,” muttered Hereward. “Or rather I do not wish to. I have killed enough today.”
Jessaye opened her eyes and slowly turned to him, her face paper white, the scar no brighter than the petal of a pink rose. For the first time, she saw that the stone door was open, and she gasped and looked wildly around at the bodies that littered the floor.
“The priestess came forth? You have slain her?”
“No,” said Hereward. He continued to watch Jessaye and listen for others, as he bent and picked up his pistols. They were a present from his mother, and he had not lost them yet. “My companion has gone within.”
“But that . . . that is not possible! The barrier—”
“Mister Fitz knew of the barrier,” said Hereward wearily. He was beginning to feel the aftereffects of violent combat, and strongly desired to be away from the visible signs of it littered around him. “He crossed it without difficulty.”
“But only the priestess can pass,” said Jessaye wildly. She was shaking more than just shivering now, as shock set in, though she still stood upright. “A woman with child! No one and nothing else! It cannot be . . .”
Her eyes rolled back in her head, she twisted sideways and fell to the floor. Hereward watched her lie there for a few seconds while he attempted to regain the cold temper in which he fought, but it would not return. He hesitated, then wiped his sabre clean, sheathed it, then despite all better judgment, bent over Jessaye.
She whispered something and again, and he caught the god’s name, “Tanesh” and with it a sudden onslaught of cinnamon and cloves and ginger on his nose. He blinked, and in that blink, she turned and struck at him with a small dagger that had been concealed in her sleeve. Hereward had expected something, but not the god’s assistance, for the dagger was in her right hand, which he’d thought useless. He grabbed her wrist but could only slow rather than stop the blow. Jessaye struck true, the dagger entering the armhole of the cuirass, to bite deep into his chest.
Hereward left the dagger there and merely pushed Jessaye back. The smell of spices faded, and her arm was limp once more. She did not resist, but lay there quite still, only her eyes moving as she watched Hereward sit down next to her. He sighed heavily, a few flecks of blood already spraying out with his breath, evidence that her dagger was lodged in his lung though he already knew that from the pain that impaled him with every breath.
“There is no treasure below,” said Jessaye quietly. “Only the godlet, and his priestess.”
“We did not come for treasure,” said Hereward. He spat blood on the floor. “Indeed, I had thought we would winter here, in good employment. But your god is proscribed, and so . . .”
“Proscribed? I don’t . . . who . . .”
“By the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World,” said Hereward. “Not that anyone remembers that name. If we are remembered it is from the stories that tell of . . . god-slayers.”
“I know the stories,” whispered Jessaye. “And not just stories . . . we were taught to beware the god-slayers. But they are always women, barren women, with witch-scars on their faces. Not a man and a puppet. That is why the barrier . . . the barrier stops all but gravid women . . .”
Hereward paused to wipe a froth of blood from his mouth before he could answer.
“Fitz has been my companion since I was three years old. He was called Mistress Fitz then, as my nurse-bodyguard. When I turned ten, I wanted a male companion, and so I began to call him Mister Fitz. But whether called Mistress or Master, I believe Fitz is nurturing an offshoot of his spiritual essence in some form of pouch upon his person. In time he will make a body for it to inhabit. The process takes several hundred years.”
“But you . . .”
Jessaye’s whisper was almost too quiet to hear.
“I am a mistake . . . the witches of Har are not barren, that is just a useful tale. But they do only bear daughters . . . save the once. I am the only son of a witch born these thousand years. My mother is one of the Mysterious Three who rule the witches, last remnant of the Council. Fitz was made by that Council, long ago, as a weapon made to fight malignant gods. The more recent unwanted child became a weapon too, puppet and boy flung out to do our duty in the world. A duty that has carried me here . . . to my great regret.”
No answer came to this bubbling, blood-infused speech. Hereward looked across at Jessaye and saw that her chest no longer rose and fell, and that there was a dark puddle beneath her that was still spreading, a tide of blood advancing toward him.
He touched the hilt of the dagger in his side, and coughed, and the pain of both things was almost too much to bear; but he only screamed a little, and made it worse by standing up and staggering to the wall to place his back against it. There were still two guards somewhere, and Fitz was surprisingly vulnerable if he was surprised. Or he might be wounded too, from the struggle with the god.
Minutes or perhaps a longer time passed, and Hereward’s mind wandered and, in wandering, left his body too long. It slid down the wall to the ground and his blood began to mingle with that of Jessaye, and the others who lay on the floor of a god’s antechamber turned slaughterhouse.
Then there was pain again, and Hereward’s mind jolted back into his body, in time to make his mouth whimper and his eyes blink at a light that was a colour he didn’t know, and there was Mister Fitz leaning over him and the dagger wasn’t in his side anymore and there was no bloody froth upon his lips. There was still pain. Constant, piercing pain, coming in waves and never subsiding. It stayed with him, uppermost in his thoughts, even as he became dimly aware that he was upright and walking, his legs moving under a direction not his own.
Except that very soon he was lying down again, and Fitz was cross.
“You have to get back up, Hereward.”
“I’m tired, Fitzie . . . can’t I rest for a little longer?”
“No. Get up.”
“Are we going home?”
“No, Hereward. You know we can’t go home. We must go onward.”
“Onward? Where?”
“Never mind now. Keep walking. Do you see our mounts?”
“Yes . . . but we will never . . . never make it out the gate . . .”
“We will, Hereward . . . leave it to me. Here, I will help you up. Are you steady enough?”
“I will . . . stay on. Fitz . . .”
“Yes, Hereward.”
“Don’t . . . don’t kill them all.”
If Fitz answered, Hereward didn’t hear, as he faded out of the world for a few seconds. When the world nauseatingly shivered back into sight and hearing, the puppet was nowhere in sight and the two battlemounts were already loping toward the gate, though the leading steed had no rider.
They did not pause at the wall. Though it was past midnight, the
gate was open, and the guards who might have barred the way were nowhere to be seen, though there were strange splashes of colour upon the earth where they might have stood. There were no guards beyond the gate, on the earthwork bastion either, the only sign of their prior existence a half-melted belt buckle still red with heat.
To Hereward’s dim eyes, the city’s defences might as well be deserted, and nothing prevented the battlemounts continuing to lope, out into the warm autumn night.
The leading battlemount finally slowed and stopped a mile beyond the town, at the corner of a lemon grove, its hundreds of trees so laden with yellow fruit they scented the air with a sharp, clean tang that helped bring Hereward closer to full consciousness. Even so, he lacked the strength to shorten the chain of his own mount, but it stopped by its companion without urging.
Fitz swung down from the outlying branch of a lemon tree, onto his saddle, without spilling any of the fruit piled high in his upturned hat.
“We will ride on in a moment. But when we can, I shall make a lemon salve and a soothing drink.”
Hereward nodded, finding himself unable to speak. Despite Fitz’s repairing sorceries, the wound in his side was still very painful, and he was weak from loss of blood, but neither thing choked his voice. He was made quiet by a cold melancholy that held him tight, coupled with a feeling of terrible loss, the loss of some future, never-to-be happiness that had gone forever.
“I suppose we must head for Fort Yarz,” mused Fitz. “It is the closest likely place for employment. There is always some trouble there, though I believe the Gebrak tribes have been largely quiet this past year.”
Hereward tried to speak again, and at last found a croak that had some resemblance to a voice.
“No. I am tired of war. Find us somewhere peaceful, where I can rest.”
Fitz hopped across to perch on the neck of Hereward’s mount and faced the knight, his blue eyes brighter than the moonlight.
“I will try, Hereward. But as you ruminated earlier, the world is as it is, and we are what we were made to be. Even should we find somewhere that seems at peace, I suspect it will not stay so, should we remain. Remember Jeminero.”
“Aye.” Hereward sighed. He straightened up just a little and took up the chains, as Fitz jumped to his own saddle. “I remember.”
“Fort Yarz?” asked Fitz.
Hereward nodded, and slapped the chain, urging his battlemount forward. As it stretched into its stride, the lemons began to fall from the trees in the orchard, playing the soft drumbeat of a funerary march, the first sign of the passing from the world of the god of Shûme.
Illustrated by Jessica Douglas
FB2 document info
Document ID: 444701e1-197a-4d39-8616-8b3b30754699
Document version: 1.1
Document creation date: 11 July 2010
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1.1 — converting from html to fb2, correcting — mtvietnam (2010)
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