by Andy Sparrow
He spent some time sewing most of the coins and gems into hidden pouches in his cloak and jerkin, until the purse held only a modest coinage. He walked the deck again and gazed into the south. Somewhere, unimaginably distant, his wife and child walked without him. It would be so easy to abandon his mission, to journey to them, and live far from the vengeful whims of his master. But an oath was made, a solemn pledge on the lives of those that were most precious to him, and there was Valhad too. Would His Lordship take revenge if Torrin broke his pledge? He was a ruthless man, but Torrin did not think him cruel. No, His Lordship was not the greatest danger for Valhad. He remembered the scream he had heard in the Cloisters, a sound that haunted him still, and shuddered.
They came to Hirege and berthed at a quay under the cliff high walls of the fortress. The symbol of the Etoradom fluttered from flagpoles on the highest towers, while the town beneath made a token gesture of its own emblem on limp banners. This was the hinterland of empire, where tribes and kingdoms paid homage to the brooding presence in their midst, where overlord priests slyly guided the will of rightful rulers. Torrin watched from the deck as the ship was moored, leather pack slung from his shoulder, impatient to feel the flagstones of the quay beneath his feet. Deacon Gretal came beside him and seemed to be chewing something with a bitter taste. Finally he managed to force the words out.
“I feel that we may have misunderstood each other at our first meeting,” he said, speaking as if the words had barbs. “Lord Vagis informed me that our paths would run together for some time. That you were to be assisted in your journey.”
‘Lord Vagis,’ thought Torrin, ‘wants to make sure that I go east not south.’
“He instructed me to share provisions with you,” Gretal continued, “and to help you in any other way which you request. It would, of course, be useful to know where you are bound…”
‘You’d love to know, wouldn’t you, what my mission is? It maddens you that you that you have not been told, a priest of your high rank, and me, a mere heathen.’
“Perhaps, Deacon,” said Torrin, “you should tell me of your mission first?”
The Deacon’s face twitched in a way that caused Torrin some pleasure.
“I can tell you that we have cargo in the hold,” said Gretal, “and that it is our intention to trade this with certain tribes.”
Torrin chose that moment to jump nimbly from the balustrade onto the quay. He looked across at Gretal and then turned to walk away.
“We are expected in the castle,” said the Deacon, “you will accompany us.”
“No,” said Torrin. “I will stay here in the town. You will come to me when the preparations for travel are made.”
Torrin went ashore and walked the narrow streets. It was a busy, industrious place whose heart beat to the constant rhythm of the shipwright’s saw and hammer. A patrol of soldiers passed by, some local militia, whose commanding officer was accompanied by a soldier-priest of Etoradom. There were taunts as they passed by and the priest looked threateningly around before continuing his patrol. There was a temple too, built in the style of Etoradom, for those who had converted to the faith.
There were many obscene slogans daubed upon it and the symbol of Etoradom was defiled; the nation’s own flag painted across it boldly. He found an inn close by and bought food, wine and lodging with a single small coin. He talked a while with the landlord who told him the ways of these people and of their many small communities girdling the northern seas. He was told how the slow turning of the world took their towns and villages from night to day to night, of the tradition of the newly married moving westwards, filling the empty homes of sunrise.
Then the empire had come, two full turns of the world ago, and taken their lands into 'protection'. Since then, slowly, slowly, but never ceasing, the grip had tightened and their own churches had been torn down to be replaced with new temples. The castles had been built to overshadow all and house the new overlords; the 'advisors' to whom their own kings were summoned for 'guidance'. There was resistance; some fought back and ships of the empire had been set alight in the harbour. Then more ships came bringing the Brothers of Redemption and the populace was cleansed of such defiance. The young men might taunt the soldiers on patrol, or scribble slogans on the walls but overt acts of rebellion were a memory. A distant bell tolled from the fortress and, as in Etoradom, the sleeping time began. Torrin shuttered out the sunlight in his tiny room, thought again of his exchange with the priest, and allowed himself a little smile as he drifted into the most restful sleep he had known since leaving the Vasagi.
When the waking time came he went to the quay and found the ship being unloaded. Many boxes were piled upon carts under the watchful eye of Deacon Gretal, while a company of soldiers stood guard around. Torrin watched awhile, knowing the priest was bound to come to him eventually. When the loading was complete Gretal approached and spat out a few words as if they had a foul taste.
“We leave at the next time of waking. There is a steed for you in the castle.”
“I will find my own,” said Torrin, “and follow on soon enough. You will not move fast bearing such a load.”
“You are to travel with us. These are orders from your master.”
Torrin looked at the priest, at the reddening of his cheeks, the little vein that pulsed furiously on his forehead.
“I will see you on the road, priest.”
Torrin spent two more cycles in the town, and chose a good mount from stables recommended to him by the landlord. He packed his saddlebags with all the provisions that space allowed and ambled slowly up the winding road into the surrounding hills. He took a last look at the expanse of rippling blue that was the sea, and then kicked his horse on, into the east. There were a few farming communities scattered along the way and, as each was passed, the road became more indistinct. Recent hoof prints and cartwheel ruts testified that the priests were making slow progress and that reunion with Deacon Gretal would not be long delayed. There were pastures of lush grass by the roadside, where he dismounted and rested, dozing in a fragrant bed while his tethered horse ate greedily.
He awoke well rested and resumed his journey but did not travel long before encountering the convoy of carts and riders on the way ahead. They were making slow progress over the rough terrain, the tethered beasts labouring and straining to pull the heavy loads. Deacon Gretal sat upon the lead vehicle, impassive while the driver whipped the struggling animals in a bid to urge them up a short gradient. Torrin drew alongside, eyes met coldly, but no words of greeting were exchanged.
“Perhaps, Deacon,” said Torrin, “if you took your weight from the cart the animals would manage. It is not right to treat the beasts so cruelly.”
Gretal snorted contemptuously.
“And God said to Karos I give to you the beasts of the land to feed and clothe and serve you in many ways but they shall not know of heaven for that gift is not bestowed to them.”
“So then,” said Torrin, “it is better to whip these animals to death than for a deacon to muddy his feet.”
He kicked his mount on, and rode ahead of the convoy.
He came to a high place and saw the world stretching away across plain and forest towards distant mountains. He dismounted and laid his maps before him in a mosaic line across the ground. The mountains that he saw, which seemed so distant, bordered the edge of the first map but another ten sheets lay edge to edge. Twelve moons to make the journey, His Lordship had not been over-generous with this allocation of time. He could hear the sound of the carts, of cracking whips, of harsh voices shouting and drawing nearer. His urge was to gallop away and leave the priests to their own purposes, but they were well provisioned, and he had a curiosity as to their intentions. For a time at least he would journey with them.
A moon passed. The convoy was crossing a wide plain under a torrent of driving rain. Torrin had ridden ahead, scouting the land, finding the best route. He came to hillock top and saw before him, a sight that made his heart
beat faster, that reached in and twisted the pit of his stomach. Scattered across the expanse of grassland was a great herd of huge grazing beasts. He could see the shaggy coats, the spiral horns and could smell their musky scent upon the air. They were barak, less thick of coat and shorter of horn, but barak all the same. Then he saw the distant, darting figures. There were men with spears and arrows running between the beasts, scattering them in a thunder of hooves. Eagerly, and with a sense of homecoming, he rode to meet them.
They were much like the Vasagi, welcoming of strangers, sharing all that they had. The rains cleared for a while and he enjoyed their hospitality at the campfire. Many tales were told of the hunt, their journey, their ways and customs. They were peaceful, he was told, but were often harassed by a tribe called the Zeris. There were sometimes skirmishes, but spears and arrows usually saw the raiders off. When Torrin returned to the convoy he told the priests nothing of his encounter. He led them far from the tribe in a wide skirting arc across the plain. The hunters were good people, better to let them live their lives without contamination.
The mountains drew closer and Deacon Gretal studied his maps with care. He brought the convoy to a halt and drew the priests around in council. Torrin watched and listened as Gretal gave his briefing.
“We are close to our destination,” he told them. “Upon the mountain yonder are mines which have lain fallow since this land came from darkness. Those amongst you skilled in excavations will inspect the workings and make preparations for new work. First though, before this is done, we will seek the tribe called Zeris. They will be urged to enter our service, and to be blessed within the Holy Church. They will be armed. They will provide workers for the task ahead.”
Torrin thought of the hunters who fought off the Zeris with spears and bows; how could they protect themselves from warriors heavy in mail, wielding steel blades and crossbows? Were they destined to be the slaves condemned to labour in darkness? His journey was pressing, but he felt compelled to stay a while longer with the priests and see how this scheme of the empire unfolded.
The Zeris were located. They were much like the Ummakil, predatory and aggressive, gaining status in their tribe through acts of murderous cruelty. First the priests gave them trinkets, then delicious sweetmeats, and then the preaching began. They were told how God, the one true God, greater than all the deities they had worshipped, had chosen them for His great work. They would be rewarded with fine clothes, with new weapons, with power over the tribes around them. And now at last, they were told, their long journey would be ended, that they could stay in houses of stone, that slaves and servants would feed and cater to their every need.
The cases of mail, blades and crossbows were broken open and the contents greedily snatched up. The Zeris's great enthusiasm for the new weapons was soon explained. There was another tribe, the Harat, who came from the south and competed with them for game and booty on the plain. With every turn of the world these rivals met, fought and parted to their separate ways beyond the mountains. Every third generation fought this battle, saw it drawing closer, as their migration led them to this place.
The Zeris, newly armed, left the camp chanting and waving their gleaming weapons in the air. They went ahead of the priests, towards the mountain, seeking their enemies, the Harat. The convoy followed, moving more slowly than the Zeris could run across the rough terrain.
A wisp of smoke curled above the horizon and Torrin rode forward to find its source. He passed many dead barak, shot with crossbow bolts and hacked with swords; very little meat had been taken. The smoke drew nearer and Torrin saw that it was the remains of a hunter's camp. The tents were ripped and smouldering; bodies lay strewn all around. These were surely not the Harat but some other tribe, another small community that shared the bounty of the barak herd. Torrin dismounted and walked amongst the dead, the severed bodies of young and old, the skewered infants and the women raped before the final sword thrust.
The carts rumbled toward him and halted. He looked at Deacon Gretal and then he stooped and lifted a dead child into his arms. He thrust the small body onto the Deacon’s lap.
“Here, Deacon, take this token of your work.”
Gretal chanted a verse of the Text over the corpse before he replied.
“It would seem,” he said, “that the Zeris require further teaching in the ways of God. I pray for these people, heathen though they be, that God will reward them for their sacrifice.”
The bodies were left unburied and the journey resumed. The ground was marshy and they lagged even further behind the Zeris. After two cycles of travelling and sleeping they ascended onto a plateau that marked a change in the terrain. The rocky bones of the world extruded into fins and fingers around them and the trees were sparsely scattered. The land rose gently ahead to break into clusters of distant craggy hills from which the mountain ridges pushed skywards jaggedly. The sun, behind them now in this realm of the east, cast a shadowless light upon the vista before them, revealing stark unscalable rockiness.
Torrin, riding ahead, saw in the distance tiny figures inert upon the ground and guessed that another scene of slaughter would soon be revealed. Were these then the Harat, lying dismembered on the path ahead, already picked at by the carrion birds? They drew slowly nearer until he could look down upon the first body and was surprised by what he saw. The corpse was in pieces, rent apart as if by giant hands; there was no sign of arrow or sword slash. The head had rolled away, he took a few more paces and he looked into the glassy half-open eyes and at the helmet still fixed upon it; the helmet that bore the emblem of the triangle within the circle.
These were not the Harat but the Zeris, and the new weapons were still held in their dead hands. Most of the bodies were in a similar condition, strewn in scattered segments, ripped into hideous bloody offal. Those more intact seemed to be punctured in many places, Torrin dismounted and probed a wound with blooded fingers until a shard of jagged metal was pulled from the body.
Deacon Gretal stepped down from his cart and walked, disbelieving, amongst the dead. He managed to collect himself and spoke to Torrin with only a suggestion of doubt in his voice.
“These men have obviously been set upon by beasts. There are many hunting animals we know of which can do such things. It is regrettable, but it must not be allowed to deflect us from our mission.” He turned to the priests, one of whom was retching uncontrollably, and continued.
“Collect together the weapons. We will take another option that has been considered. We will find the Harat, and bring them into our service.”
Torrin looked again at the bodies, which showed no wound of tooth or claw, which had been consumed only by the pecking carrion birds. He felt the shard of metal in his clenched hand, but he said nothing.
Smoke rose in the distance from the summit of a dome shaped hill. Torrin knew only of one reason to set a fire in such a high place and that was as a signal, or perhaps a lure. Seeing the plume, Deacon Gretal judged that the Harat were close at hand and ordered the convoy towards its source.
As they drew nearer a single figure could be seen upon the rocky crest of the hill, a person waiting, summoning them towards him. Torrin had taken it upon himself to scout ahead for most of the journey, but now, with caution in his heart, he hung back behind the last wagon. The hill was steep and rose into a rocky tor from which the solitary figure looked down upon them. They were close enough to see his detail now. This was not a hunter dressed in skins but a cloaked man standing, arms folded, with an air of menace. The carts could approach no nearer and the creaking wheels became still. Deacon Gretal rose from his seat and called up to the watcher above.
“Are you of the Harat? For we bring gifts of friendship and alliance.”
“You seek the Harat?” The voice that replied was like a deadly blade smeared with honey. “Well, you shall find them soon enough.”
“Are you of that tribe?” asked the deacon, the tiniest uncertainty in his voice.
“Me, priest? No, I am li
ke you, from somewhere more distant.”
He let the cloak slip from his shoulders to reveal a leather jacket studded with silver. Torrin recognised at once what he had seen in the city square of distant Hityil, the uniform of the soldiers of Nejital.
“So, priest, what brings you to this place?” taunted the officer of Nejital, “could it be a mine of precious metals that Etoradom will use to bribe and buy armies and spread its grip upon the world? We thought you might be here sooner; so unlike you to delay. But then we hear your Emperor has become a little strange and you are busy torturing and burning your own kind.”
The little vein pulsed on the deacon's face.
“Heathen!” he shouted angrily, “May you be cursed for your blasphemy against His Supreme Holiness. You have no right…”
A sneering laugh brought the Deacon to stammering silence.
“You should have come to the Harat first, they are very obliging and hard working. Already the excavations here are proving most fruitful. Would you like to meet them?”
Several figures rose into their line of sight around the fire, standing proudly in uniforms of leather and silver.
“I will give you more advice, priest. Don't murder your cleverest people because they cast doubt upon your precious Text, but do what we do; give them tools and workshops. It’s remarkable what they can create; see this now…”
He lifted a small metal ball from somewhere by his feet and then took an ember from the fire. Torrin tugged gently on the reins and backed his horse slowly away while watching the gloating figures on the rock above. He knew that they were being toyed with, that some attack was imminent, but he could not yet guess what form it would take.
