by A J Dalton
‘Catch it from kissing a frog, did you?’ Big Harold asked blithely. ‘Couldn’t find a woman or boy to oblige you, eh?’
‘Easy!’ the pipe warned.
‘Enough, Slim!’ the eldest barked as mole-face’s hand twitched towards his weapon. ‘Draw that and you will have me to answer to. I won’t just have you up on a charge of insubordination either; I’ll rearrange your face so that not even a frog would take pity on you. Honestly, I feel like I spend more of my time nursemaiding you five than I do the kids! Enough, I say. I half wish the pagans would descend on us so you could get this out of your systems. You’d also learn a thing or two about the world and life at last.’
There were a few long moments of tense silence and then Slim overtly moved his hand away from the hilt of his sword. Shoulders dropped around the fire as the soldiers relaxed once more.
‘Tell us more about these precious rocks you could just pick up off the ground, Horse,’ the eldest ordered to re-establish normal conversation.
The heavy man who’d fed the strong and uncomplaining creatures nodded. ‘Everywhere it was, they say. Couldn’t walk but for tripping over it. Saviours and Saint Goza took most of it, of course, as spoils of war, which is only right and proper. But I did hear one thing’, his voice dropped so that they all leaned in, ‘about some temple to the rock god being lost and buried somewhere round here. It is guarded by great and monstrous statues, each made of a different fabulous stone. When the rock god was angered, his magic would bring these statues to life and they’d go out to wreak vengeance and destruction across the land.’
This time the silence was absolute, with only the occasional pop and crackle of wood from the fire.
‘And do you think this monster from the mine is one of these statues?’ Big Harold whispered.
The youngest gasped in fear.
‘Who knows?’ Horse nodded significantly. ‘But perhaps the monster’s listening even now as we speak.’
The youngest yelped and looked wildly around the clearing, his eyes sweeping over Freda but not seeing her.
The pipe chuckled. ‘Come now, don’t frighten the boy. Easy, lad. It’s just a bedtime story told by mothers to their children.’
‘Still, it’ll keep him awake tonight, which might not be a bad thing,’ the eldest observed. ‘With this thing on the loose, it’s best that we set a guard tonight. You’re up first, lad.’
The youngest nodded, licking his lips nervously as the men rose and began to make beds for themselves.
‘Don’t worry.’ Slim grinned. ‘As a mine guard, you’re lucky enough to have a weapon of sun-metal, lad. With that you can take on the rock god himself, eh? Otherwise, just scream, although you’d better make it loud if you want us to hear you over Big Harold’s snoring.’
‘I do not snore,’ Big Harold said evenly. ‘I sometimes breathe heavily though, because I’m having nightmares about you trying to kiss me, Slim. I have this terrible fear I’ll wake up covered in warts.’
‘Enough!’ the eldest said sternly. ‘Slim, you sleep over there, and Big Harold, you sleep way over there. Move! I won’t tell the two of you again.’ The eldest then approached the youngest and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘As Slim says, don’t hesitate to wake us at the first real sign of anything untoward. Do not go starting at every shadow or night owl though, for some of these will not thank you for waking them unnecessarily, and they’ll tease you about it for years to come. Remember, the rock god is long since gone, broken by the Saviours. Remember that they watch over us, lad. The holy Saint Goza knows all that goes on and will send help long before trouble can ever find us. Remain strong in your faith, lad, and all will be well. The worst that will happen is one of the kids will wet their sacking during the night. Be kind and find them fresh sacking, for it has happened to all of us in our time, eh?’
The youngest nodded and smiled, and then turned his back to the fire so that it would not ruin his night vision.
Freda moved deeper among the wooden pillars and settled down with her sacking. She thought she would stay awake for a long time, but all too soon she was asleep and dreaming: of being cast into a bottomless pit, of a rock god pinned deep beneath the earth by a long shaft of sun-metal and of a giant ball of sun-metal burning her until her skin had turned to powder and there was nothing left of her but dust.
The sound of groaning and weight shifting against the door brought Jillan wide awake. For a second, he didn’t know where he was and he frowned as he made out a ceiling and walls in the thin light that crept in around a pair of heavy shutters. Then he knew and he was up on his feet, scrambling for his pack as he heard the sound of an iron key scraping in the lock. There was no time to string his bow, so he pulled two metal-tipped arrows from his quiver and held one in each fist. He stood braced and ready.
‘I’m coming for you, boy!’ grunted the fat innkeeper from behind the door. ‘You’ve had a meal and a room for the night, and now payment is due. You have no coin so I will have my payment in flesh. As long as you don’t resist, there’ll be no real discomfort. Are you ready for me, boy?’
Jillan tightened his grip on his arrows and anger began to stir within him. How dare this man imprison him and then try to extort favours from him! Jillan was no innocent or fool; he knew what the man wanted.
‘I will work in the stables to settle the bill, or cut wood for you, but I will be no bed-slave,’ he said in a voice as deep as he could with warning. ‘Try and force anything more from me and you will regret it, I promise you that!’
As the door swung open, the rage in Jillan rose and looked for release. The innkeeper entered the room, his trousers bulging conspicuously. He eyed Jillan lasciviously and fingered his palms. There was a flush of excitement and anticipation in his cheeks, and his moustache fluttered as his hot breath rose through it.
‘Well now, Irkarl, if that’s your name,’ Valor said slyly. ‘You’re a long way from home, eh? Run away, haven’t you? There are people looking for you, aren’t there, like those horsemen perhaps? Come over here now, and no one need ever know you were here, eh?’
He knows, whispered the taint inside Jillan. You will have to silence him. Use the magic. It’s the only way. You can feel it like a pressure in your hands. Just let it go!
‘Put down those arrows and take off that silly armour, boy. With its patterns, you look quite girlish.’ The innkeeper tittered and took a small step towards him, his meaty hands rising and beginning to reach out.
‘Don’t!’ Jillan growled, no longer recognising his own voice. No, come closer, the taint laughed.
Jillan saw red and power danced and crackled between his fingers. He could see the life energy moving sluggishly through Valor with each beat of the innkeeper’s overburdened heart. He drew that energy away from the man and Valor suddenly staggered and clutched at his chest.
‘No!’ the innkeeper wheezed, his small eyes closing in pain.
Then Jillan channelled all the power back at Valor and burst the man’s heart. The innkeeper’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He fell, smacked his head on the floor and stopped moving. The smell of his releasing bowels left no doubt that he was dead.
The taint laughed and cried in merriment. ‘Stop it!’ Jillan pleaded, feeling both nauseous and faint. The room felt and looked like it was on a slant. He bent to lift his pack and collapsed on the floor next to the innkeeper’s stinking body. The stench was all that kept him conscious as, with a shaking hand, Jillan grabbed his water bottle and managed to slosh some into his mouth and across his face. Gasping, he swallowed and then took another mouthful. After some minutes his vision began to clear, but he was still weak. From one of the pack’s outside pockets, he fumbled a piece of hard cheese out of the waxed paper in which it was wrapped and began to chew methodically.
Aren’t you forgetting something? the taint whispered.
‘What?’
The girl.
‘She hasn’t done anything wrong. Leave her alone!’
; Don’t be foolish. She probably knows as well. Either way, she’ll raise the alarm.
‘You will not hurt her!’
The taint harrumphed and said sulkily, I suppose if she were dead, the inn would be empty and the next people passing through would know something had happened anyway. It wouldn’t take much to put two and two together about this and Karl, would it? Besides, don’t they say the Saint always knows?
Jillan drew a sharp breath. The Saint! He would be coming. Jillan knew he had to get moving, for there was no knowing what the Saint had learned in Godsend. The region’s ruler could already be racing back this way.
He chewed more assiduously, until all the cheese was gone. Without looking at the dead innkeeper, he then got his feet under him and dragged his pack out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs. He peered down the stairs at the common room below: all seemed empty and quiet.
He tested the weight of the pack on his shoulders and found he could manage it. He tiptoed down and was just short of the door when he spied Ingrid in the side room. She sat in her nightgown hugging herself and rocking slightly. Her eyes were unseeing and she gave no sign that she was aware of his presence.
‘I-I’m sorry!’ Jillan mumbled, hurriedly drew back the bolt on the front door and moved to head out into the dawn.
‘Don’t be,’ Ingrid said absently. ‘Everything’s fine.’
Saint Azual wiped the blood from his face with his hands, not knowing if the blood was his or Samnir’s. He licked his fingers. A mixture. The Hero had put up a hell of a fight, even without a weapon made of sun-metal, and Azual’s confidence had been shaken. Surprisingly, some of the Heroes of Godsend had tried to intercede on the Saint’s behalf – clearly there was no love lost between Samnir and the others – but Azual had roared at them to get back.
Quick as thought, Samnir had lanced his spear forward at the Saint’s eye, but Azual had seen it coming and cloven through the spear’s haft. It may have reduced the Hero’s reach, but the soldier had managed to flip the loose end up off the floor with his foot and then had two shorter poles to use as weapons, which he did with terrible effect, twirling and slashing without let-up. Samnir had battered Azual back to the edge of the rampart, and the Saint had looked to be in real jeopardy. Then Azual had deliberately stepped forward and taken the spearhead deep in the arm just so that he could wrest the weapon from Samnir. Although the wound was deep and the blade had notched the bone, it would not be fatal to one who healed as quickly as the Saint.
Samnir had then been left with a single length of wood, which he used as a short staff to fend off Azual’s attacks almost casually. Every time the Saint swiped with his blazing sword, one end of the staff would deflect it at a shallow angle, and the other end of the staff would deliver a debilitating blow to Azual’s arms, legs or torso. The Saint had already been thwacked in the same place on the arm where the spear had struck, all but incapacitating it; in the ribs, making it hard to breathe; and on one of his thighs, slowing him down considerably. Now the staff came down on the top of the forearm of Azual’s hand which held his precious sword. The Saint only just managed to hang onto his weapon.
Azual retreated, knowing that if Samnir was forced to go on the offensive, the Saint would have a far better chance of meeting the staff head on – rather than obliquely – with the edge of his sun-metal blade. The staff wouldn’t last more than a few seconds. But the Hero refused to be drawn and instead rolled his shoulders and his head on his neck as if warming up for a sparring match. The man was mocking him again!
Azual realised that, unlike Samnir, he really hadn’t been putting enough time into his martial training in the last few years. He’d come to rely far too much on the fickle and corrupting magic he drew periodically from the People – see how it had betrayed and deserted him just when he most needed it. He should have known better than to trust too much in such tainted power. There was always a price to be paid. He just hoped he would not be paying the ultimate price in the next few moments.
Azual studied Samnir more closely. Weight balanced on feet spaced not too far apart, relaxed shoulders for fluidity and speed of movement, a vague and confident half-smile and a steely, unblinking, unforgiving gaze. Azual had to concede that, incredibly, he appeared to be outmatched by this man because the initial injuries the Saint had received had all but rendered his superior strength and height impotent. And Samnir was a veteran of campaigns against the behemoth barbarians in the east, and hadn’t he served as one of the elite guards of the Great Saviour himself? Yes. The man was more than familiar with the fighting styles and limitations of the Saints, not to mention the blessed Saviours themselves! Ageing he might be, but the Hero’s experience easily compensated for that.
Azual lowered his sword slightly. ‘It appears I underestimated you, Hero. You have taught me a valuable lesson.’ The Saint dared take his eyes off Samnir, although he watched him out of the corner of his eye. He moved his sword into the hand of his wounded arm so that he could close his free hand over the bleeding wound.
Samnir watched with shrewd eyes. ‘Why do you pause, Saint? Surely you are not going to tell me you have seen the error of your ways.’
‘Indeed, I am not.’ Azual smiled, letting blood gather in the now cupped hand over his wound. He summoned energy from his core and it slowly rose within him. It was reluctant to answer the call, for his core would be dangerously lessened by its use. If he drew too much, it would likely kill him. Even drawing a lesser amount, he risked losing himself, becoming insane with a need for life energy using any means necessary. He would then be a monster and a threat to all those around him. But the sacrifice had to be made, for he knew he could not afford to look weak in front of the men. The story would spread all too quickly; some of the things Samnir had said would get repeated, and then all the People would begin to see the Saints and perhaps even the Saviours themselves differently. The defiance would grow and grow. It had to be ended here and now, before it began to spread like a plague. Yes, the defiance and the plague in Godsend were the same thing. Perhaps he should raze the place to the ground before it was too late. No, Jillan had already escaped Godsend, and he was the source and focus of both problems. Azual could not afford to destroy the communities in his region too freely, as they were ultimately the source of his own strength. ‘No, but I am intrigued as to why you would help the boy. Why put aside your oaths and faith and throw away your life for a young murderer?’
Samnir hesitated, as Azual knew he would, for he had asked the question at the heart of things: he had found Samnir’s sacred heart and spoken directly to it. No individual could deny their sacred heart. ‘I-I …’ the Hero stammered, wrong-footed. ‘The boy was innocent.’
‘He murdered … Karl. Did you not know?’
‘It was an accident. Jillan was bullied by Praxis. The other students turned on Jillan, no doubt, because of it.’
‘Such mitigating circumstances would have been taken into account when I came to hear the trial, if you’d but done your duty and held the boy in lieu of my authority. But no, you blasphemously took it upon yourself to usurp me as the Saviours-appointed judge of this region. In so doing, you have both condemned yourself and put the boy at greater risk. Yes, Samnir, do you really think that a boy so young will survive the wilds alone? Or is it more likely that he will be taken by the pagans or some other Chaos creature? Even if he survives, you have made him a fugitive guilty of refusing to submit to the law of the Saviours. Do you not see what you have done, and how the all-knowing and all-powerful Saviours find a way to punish the likes of you and the boy regardless? The Empire of the Saviours is all-encompassing and eternal, such that those who are tainted and guilty inevitably condemn and punish themselves by their very own actions. People are victims of themselves, Hero.’ Azual trickled power from his core into the handful of blood that he held. The blood began to quicken and move, alive to his will.
A few of the nearby Heroes were nodding as they listened. One fell to his knees and bega
n to pray. Samnir’s eyes flicked towards them but hardened as they returned to the Saint. ‘Fine rhetoric, holy one, and always persuasive to fanatics, the weak of mind and those who have never known any different, but you forget I have seen—’
Yet Azual was not about to let Samnir infect those present with any more of this plague of defiance. He threw his blood into the air in one swift motion and blew the mist towards Samnir. Realising what was happening, the Hero roared and lunged forward, blinking against the blood entering his eyes and expelling breath through mouth and nose so that it could not immediately enter his airways.
Azual staggered back, teetering on the edge of the rampart. One of his knees buckled – the life energy lost from his core already taking its toll – but that chanced to save him from a vicious swipe from the Hero’s staff. He only had to survive the assault for a few moments more. His thoughts began to muddle and it took the last of his wherewithal to command the blood landing on Samnir’s skin and getting inside his body to intermingle with the Hero’s own blood and disrupt his life energy.
Samnir smashed his staff down on the Saint’s shoulder and prepared to heave the other’s huge frame off the rampart and down to the cobbles far below. But here the Hero lost control of his body and mind. He fell on top of the Saint, losing his grip on the world around him.
The watching Heroes bounded up the stairs and dragged Samnir off their beloved Saint. Azual was too groggy and delirious to refuse their help. ‘The sun-metal tube in my tunic!’ he croaked. ‘Quickly!’
They obeyed him without hesitation.
‘Roll his sleeve up!’
Azual plunged the thin hollow tube of sun-metal into one of Samnir’s veins and moaned with relief and desire as blood arced through the air. The sun-metal would keep the puncture open and the blood running as long as he needed. He let it rain into his mouth, as if he were drinking one of the fine wines of the east, and swallowed so desperately that any would have thought he’d been wandering the parched eastern deserts for weeks. The magic in Azual’s blood latched onto the taint and life energy in Samnir and began to drain it from him. Within seconds, Azual was feeling stronger and more like his old self, yet he continued the purge, drinking more and more, until an ecstasy of power washed through him and there was only just enough left in Samnir to keep him alive. For the Hero must live: to suffer the waking nightmare and punishment of being trapped and helpless in a body no longer under his control and to provide the Saint with whatever information he possessed.
