by A J Dalton
Azual frowned. Just what had gone wrong today? There was something nagging him. He threw his mind out across the thoughts of all the People to whom he was connected. There was a disruption somewhere; something wasn’t right. Where there were usually smooth and regular shapes and patterns in the web of the People’s thoughts, today there was a particular area of randomness. He looked closer and pursued the fragments of thought there. What a mess! He ended up following a number of loose strands and coming up against a few dead ends before he had it.
His one good eye flared in surprise. Godsend? Just what sort of trouble could have occurred in that miserable backwater? There’d been a death. That wasn’t out of the ordinary by any means … but as a result of magic! He sat bolt upright. Not since the days of conquest and settlement had there been any display of magic from the People. What could have triggered it now? What did it mean? Were there pagans involved? It wasn’t clear.
Wasting no time, he arranged the dead girl so she looked more at peace, sealed the final flask so that it was ready for transport to the Great Temple complex and ducked to exit the damp and draughty stone temple. How he was glad to be free of the rotting mausoleum of a building. Like most temples, it had been designed to make a statement to the People more than for the comfort of the Saint who resided there whenever he visited. Thus it had been built of giant stone blocks which spoke of the permanence of eternity; it had low entrances and a low roof so that worshippers would always keep their heads bowed; and it had large, unshuttered apertures so that it was open to the light and elements of the world. It was a home for higher beings who thought nothing of the cold, wind, and rain, for such elements were theirs to command. It was a place for those who had no need of rest or sleep, for they were so close to eternity.
He would have stayed elsewhere, anywhere, but that would have been to erode the community’s focus on the temple. In turn, that would have threatened the community’s devotion to the will of the Saviours, and thus the community’s very cohesion. Chaos would have ensued and then the Heroes would have been forced to put the People down. So staying in the temple was just one more sacrifice Azual had to make for the care of these troublesome cattle. Once they had fully served their purpose and he’d attained almost godlike power, he’d exterminate them to pay them back for all that he’d had to endure, every humiliation, every indignity, every injury.
But now there was some sort of trouble that demanded his attention. A young boy, was it? Hmm. Surely the magic he could drink from this one would be beyond anything he’d tasted before? Could it be that, at last, the power he needed to complete his transformation was within his grasp? The boy must be his at all costs! Drooling with anticipation and truly excited for the first time in who knew how long, Azual strode across from the temple to the Captain of his personal guard of fifty Heroes and hurriedly issued his orders: ‘Have several men collect the flasks and ride with them to Hyvan’s Cross. You and the others will mount up and ride hard for Godsend. I will go ahead of you.’
‘Yes, holy one!’ the Captain replied with a respectful bow of the head and set about repeating the orders to his underlings.
The Minister of Saviours’ Paradise dared to place himself in the Saint’s path with a low bow. ‘Holy one, the girl …’
Of course, the girl. ‘Is dead!’
The Minister’s eyes widened in distress. ‘I understand, holy one. I shall inform the parents. I will ensure that their grief does not overshadow tonight’s celebration of your visit to our community. Shall I tell the other children that they will be Drawn to the Saviours tomorrow?’
What was this fool’s name? In his distraction, he couldn’t remember and couldn’t be bothered with extracting it from the shapes of the thoughts around him. Minister Baxal, wasn’t it, or was that the one who’d died some years before? He resolved to pass an edict whereby all Ministers would bear the same name from now on. ‘I am leaving now. The others will wait. Out of my way.’
‘But—’
Saint Azual turned the full fury of his burning eye upon the simpering priest and, using his connection, the Saint squeezed the other’s mind. With a shriek, the retreating Minister tripped over his own heels and landed heavily.
Azual ignored him and moved with purpose in the direction of the gates. People threw themselves out of his path or fell on their faces in front of him. He trod on them as necessary and without a care. His destiny awaited him, and he moved towards it as a wolf would come for a deer.
His blood churned and his muscles twitched as the magic he’d recently drunk demanded release. He loosened his long limbs and began to flow across the ground at an ever-increasing speed. He was soon flying along the road to Godsend. Now let the hunt begin!
Looking back on it now, it was almost as if the gods had conspired against him, to see him exiled from his own people. What sort of life or meaning could there be when both gods and mortals turned their faces away? He did not know and was not sure he wanted to find out either. Maybe he’d be better off not moving from this exposed spot on the mountain – he could instead become a part of the stone itself, unmoving and unmoved. It endured, separated gods from mortals, and eternity from fragility, and yet was unanswerable to either. He would sit and slow his thoughts and breath to almost nothing, where there was no difference between one moment and the next, whether alive or dead. Except then his stomach would growl peevishly and ruin everything …
And it had been his damned stomach that had got him into trouble in the first place. He’d been about to head for home with the young mountain hare he’d managed to snag after a long day of otherwise fruitless hunting, when he’d suddenly spotted a deer straying above the snowline where he currently lay. As it had drifted back again for the better foraging, he’d begun to stalk it.
The deer had led him a merry chase for hours. Several times he thought he’d had it cornered in a ravine, only to find that it had scaled an impossible, sheer rock face. He’d then had to spend an age finding a way around and back up to it. It was only when he’d sensed the weather beginning to close in and had admitted defeat that he’d turned round to find it waiting docilely for him. It was almost as if it now wanted to be caught.
Carrying the carcass back up the mountain was far harder work than he’d anticipated, and far slower too. He glanced anxiously up at the sky: it was a flat white without any depth and the wind was high. He could feel the temperature falling by the second. He’d spent his sixteen years of life here in the high mountains, and everything he knew told him that there was a cruel and terrible storm coming, the sort that reminded all men, women and children that they were not the most powerful things in this world, that they lived only so long as it pleased the gods, and that any right-minded person would be wise to pray to and bend to the will of those gods.
He prayed fervently under his breath as he deliberately planted one foot ahead of the other, and as the snow began to fall thick and fast. If he didn’t reach the high pass soon, he would probably be cut off from his tribe’s villages for weeks. Worse, if he found it impassable, he would be surrounded by snow as well as exhausted, so his chances of survival would be virtually nil.
You’re a fool, Aspin, he remonstrated with himself and dumped the deer on the ground. It’s not worth dying for. Now get moving! He leapt into the face of the storm, his short powerful legs propelling him upwards and his muscled arms pulling when his footing chanced to slip. Even among the mountain people, he was considered small for his age, but that meant he had good strength for his size and was one of the fastest when it came to scaling a rock field.
He rose quickly, fighting against himself as much as everything around him. The snow forced itself into his eyes and made him miss his steps and holds. It was only a matter of time before he broke an ankle or wrist, and then it would all be over. His lungs burned and he gasped for a clear breath, but fists of snow forced their way down his throat. He realised he was in the jaws of what some of the elders called a Wolf Winter, a sudden snap that arose
with so little warning that none could outrun it. The best that could be done was to hide yourself well and pray that it couldn’t find you.
Aspin now knew he would never reach the pass. He had to find shelter instead. Perhaps a cave … but there were none in this part of the range. Could he descend back beneath the snowline? The firs there might offer him some sort of cover, but never enough to protect him from the cold or exposure. There would certainly be no chance of a fire either.
With a sinking heart, he realised there was only one hope, although that word was the last he would have normally used about the crazy old man called Torpeth. Only the truly desperate, those harbouring evil desires or those who were similarly crazed, sought out that lunatic. Some of the elder tribe members referred to him as the holy man, saying he was touched by the gods, but the way the man harangued the tribe’s youth on festival days – about some payment or other being due, always some payment – Aspin thought of him as a demon more than anything else.
Torpeth had always lived well away from the rest of the tribe – some might consider him holy, but they didn’t need him worrying their goats, urinating on the main fire of the large tribal home or leaping out at them on a dark night. He was the only one on these particular mountain slopes – who else would be crazy enough to live in such close proximity to the territories of the blood-soaked lowlanders? But now he was the only one who might offer Aspin shelter and any hope of survival.
The wind howled around him, all but knocking him from his feet, tearing at him like a frenzied pack of wolves. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer in this storm and that he couldn’t afford to hesitate for even a moment. Life or death. Choose now, warrior. He ploughed forward and then broke left onto a rapidly disappearing goat-track along a ridge. The footing was treacherous and the wind was intent on hurling him from the top of the mountain, to be smashed on the rocks below, but he had the balance and sure-footedness of one of the mountain people and was not about to give up his life easily.
Head down and teeth gritted, he reached the end of the ridge and plunged down into a more sheltered gully, where he could at least draw an unencumbered breath or two. The wind above shrieked and snarled in frustration, hurling down snow at him and reducing visibility to little more than a few arm lengths. He made his way carefully along the gully, worried that at any moment he would stumble into a hidden chasm, and finally emerged onto the top of a large slope. He glimpsed the dark shape of a long, low turf-walled construction below and threw himself down the incline towards it.
As he slid, he was helpless to slow his momentum and smacked into the back wall of the house with bone-jarring force. Dizzily, he made his way round to the other side of the dwelling and pounded on the door.
The door creaked open several inches and a beady eye peered out at him from the darkness. ‘Took your time!’ whispered a voice with unidentifiable emotions running through it. ‘Left it any longer and you wouldn’t have survived at all. Then how would you have made me and the gods look, huh? Embarrassing it would have been. Last thing we need is the next chieftain doubting our holy and wise words just because you can’t be bothered to pick your feet up. Bit full of yourself, are you, huh? Wouldn’t be surprised. Often the way with warriors, particularly young ones. And now you’re letting the cold in! You must be crazy.’
With that, the door slammed shut in Aspin’s face. He rocked back on his heels, confused and at a loss for words. Crazy man! Aspin pounded on the wood again. Nothing. And again.
The beady eye ogled at him. ‘Go away!’
‘Let me in, Torpeth!’
‘Why should I?’
‘I’ll die otherwise. I’ll give you payment!’
‘Not so crazy after all then. In, quickly!’
Aspin squeezed through the small gap he was permitted and entered near darkness. A small fire crackled in a hearth at the other end of the room and he wasted no time heading for it. His teeth chattered and his hands were shaking as if he had the palsy. Shadows near the fire shifted and he suddenly realised there was someone ahead of him.
‘So, come to challenge me, have you?’ growled Braggar, the chief’s brawny and cruel-eyed son. ‘Torpeth said a challenger would come, although I found it hard to believe any would dare stand against me.’
Aspin was already shaking his head in denial. ‘Nay, chief’s son, I bring no challenge. All agree you will be the next leader of our tribe.’
Torpeth was suddenly at Aspin’s shoulder. ‘Ah, but you promised the gods payment, son of the snow! You bring a challenge in with you whether you know it or not. During the weeks of snow ahead, Braggar will abide here and learn the tribe’s secrets so that he may one day rule. Son of the snow, you have insisted on abiding here, so you will also learn these secrets. You will be a challenge to Braggar’s rule whether you will it or not. You have made your choice, warrior.’
‘B-but I didn’t know! I had no choice.’
Torpeth tutted. ‘There is always a choice. You may leave if you wish. That will mean your death, of course, but the choice is yours.’
Aspin frowned at both of them and then shrugged. ‘Then it appears I must be a challenger.’
‘You will regret that!’ Braggar promised darkly.
Torpeth giggled and pushed Aspin closer to the fire.
The days that followed blurred one into the other, for there was little to distinguish them. There was little light in the place, whether it was night or day; they ate from the same giant pile of pine nuts for every meal, and they did and said very little of significance.
Aspin would always awake to find himself lying closer to Braggar and Torpeth than was comfortable, but there was as little heat as light in the place, so it was not surprising their bodies would look to share warmth. Unfortunately, Torpeth snored loudly and smelt so bad that he would often keep Aspin awake. On one occasion Aspin had been determined to shake the holy man and push him away, but the lunatic’s wide and rolling eyes had scared him off.
Once Torpeth was up, he would insist the other two keep perfectly silent – he called it making observances to the gods. If either Braggar or Aspin moved too noisily or even breathed too heavily, he would scream in outrage. He would froth at the mouth and pull handfuls of matted hair from his head or beard. Then he would invariably start to cry, snot running freely from his nose, begging for forgiveness from the roof, the chimney and the cellar. He’d attacked Braggar once, his movements so fast that they’d blurred and Braggar had been unable to defend himself. Just as it had looked like the chief’s son would collapse, Torpeth had become distracted, stopped and started talking nonsense to the air. Another time the holy man had thrown himself into the fire on his back and begun to writhe around like a dog scratching its back: they’d had to drag him free by the heels and then pull him out the door into the snow.
After they’d made their observances to the gods, Torpeth would stare at each of them as if for the first time and mutter to himself. He’d absently scratch at his armpits or crotch, and then pick his nose. Aspin was sure the holy man had fleas. Then Torpeth would ask them the same inane questions as he did every day – what were their names, who were their parents, what was their favourite colour and so forth.
In the afternoon Torpeth would wonder out loud if they needed more firewood, and Braggar and Aspin would argue for the privilege of going to collect it from the covered store at the side of the house. They were both eager to leave the claustrophobic and smoky home of the unpredictable holy man whenever they could. They weren’t just revolted by him, they were also scared of his violent passions. Whichever of them it was who was left alone with Torpeth while the other got firewood, they would try to stay at the other end of the room and avoid eye contact.
In the evening Torpeth would gather them round the small fire and tell them some crazed tale or other. He would add a strange evil-smelling fuel to the flames – Aspin suspected it was dung or something like that – the smoke from which made them choke but also experience the occasional hallucinat
ion. Braggar’s eyes would become overly dilated; he’d sweat profusely, and his face would take on a haunted look. He would request the tale of the naked warrior again and again.
‘There was a man,’ Torpeth whispered and whistled through his brown teeth, ‘who was faithful to the old gods of our people. He spent his days watching the sky to read the whim of Wayfar of the Warring Winds, bathing to know the course of Akwar of the Wandering Waters and working the earth to understand the ways of Gar of the Still Stone. Where the sun bespoke the earth, the warrior saw himself directed by Sinisar of the Shining Path, saw himself instructed to bring those lit by the sun to the worship of the old gods. And so he waged war across the world wherever the sun touched.
‘Much was the suffering, but finally all people bowed down as the warrior demanded and commanded. The people were united but they did not prosper as the warrior had hoped, for Wayfar remained warlike, Akwar still wandered, and Gar was unmoved.
‘The warrior realised the people simply bent the knee rather than embracing the old gods with their hearts and minds. Therefore, the warrior continued his war on all people touched by the sun, punishing them for their lack of faith.
‘So great was the suffering, and so little did the people have left to lose, they decided to throw off the warrior’s rule and put aside the old gods, even though it cost them many a life. The gods became angrier than ever before and sent storms, droughts, plague and famine against the people.
